Sugarplum Dead (18 page)

Max looked toward an archway into the huge reception area. “We can go through there to the main hall, can't we?”

“Sure.” But Rachel had taken only a couple of steps when Chief Garrett strode purposefully through the far end of the reception area.

“He's going to the terrace room,” Rachel whispered.
“Come this way. We can go through the jungle.” Rachel darted up a path between huge banana plants.

Annie followed, squinting in the dimness. A shrill scream sounded near her shoulder. Annie jerked her head and looked into currant-dark eyes. Cobalt blue and crimson feathers bristled as the parrot flapped its wings. The bird made no effort to fly. A tether was hooked on one orange leg.

“Shh, Godfrey.” Rachel waved her hand at him. “We're almost there,” she whispered to Annie and Max. She moved ahead. Moisture clung to ferns and fronds. The smell of dirt mingled with the heavy scent of sweet blossoms. They reached the north end of the terrace room just as Chief Garrett came through the archway from the reception room.

Donna whirled from a window to glare at Garrett. Her fox-sharp face looked old and raddled. “Officer, I demand to be released from this absurd detention. I have no idea what happened this morning, but I am definitely not involved. I am willing to give a statement, but I refuse to be treated like a common criminal.”

Terry came to his feet. “My sister damn well has a point, man. What's going on here? I haven't even had breakfast.”

Alice sped toward Garrett. “Miss Dumaney must be seen to. I must go to her.”

Joan brushed a hand through her wispy gray hair. “I have no experience in police matters, but it does appear that this investigation lacks direction.”

Only Wayne remained calm, slouched on a wicker divan, arms folded behind his head, feet crossed. He watched with cool detachment.

Garrett ignored them. He walked directly to the bar, where Pudge sat on a red leather-topped stool, his elbow
propped on the bar, his chin in his hand. In the mirror, his face looked old, deep lines splaying from sunken eyes and tight lips.

“Mr. Laurance.” Garrett was staring into the mirror. “I'm taking you into custody. I'll ask you to come with me.” Garrett jerked his head toward the archway.

Pudge blinked in surprise. “Me? Why? I've told you everything I know.”

Max squeezed Annie's arm. “I'd better go with them and get in touch with Johnny Joe.”

Garrett was brisk. “Interfering with an investigation, tampering with evidence, giving false information. That's enough for a start, Mr. Laurance. When you are represented by counsel, we will have a formal interrogation. Come this way.”

Pudge called out, “Rachel—”

“That's enough,” Garrett said sharply.

Pudge ignored Garrett. “Annie, take care of Rachel.”

“Let's go, Mr. Laurance.” Once again Garrett's hand rested on his holster.

Pudge shrugged and turned to leave.

Fear swept Annie, making it hard to breathe. Pudge didn't know about the bloody raincoat found in his suitcase. That was why Garrett was taking him into custody. There was simply too much involving Pudge: the missing weapon, his flight in the rowboat, his quarrels with Happy, his confession. The police would test his clothes and find traces of Happy's blood on his slacks. There was fact after damning fact.

In Pudge's defense, what could be said? He was trying to protect Rachel so he grabbed up a bloody poker and ran with it. As for the quarrels with Happy, would he admit they were on Rachel's behalf? Annie was afraid he wouldn't. If he refused to explain, the police would draw
their own conclusions. As for his confession, he'd admitted it was false, and obviously—at least to Annie—he'd had no idea that Happy's death occurred hours before he entered her room. That, in the eyes of the police, could be seen as a clever bluff.

Garrett paused in the archway. “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret the inconvenience to the household. I will appreciate your further cooperation. Each of you will be interviewed as soon as possible by Officer Cameron. Until then, it will be necessary for everyone to remain here.”

 

Annie carried the tray down the crushed-oyster-shell path. It was such a relief to be out of the house with its strained silences and restless occupants. After Billy Cameron completed the interviews, the members of the Ladson family wandered aimlessly, avoiding solitude. Marguerite, finally attended by Alice, remained sequestered in her quarters.

Rachel waited on the sunny gazebo steps, chin on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs. It was one of the island's sparkling December days, the temperature right at sixty, the chalk-blue sky crisp as freshly starched oxford cloth.

Annie dropped down beside Rachel, put the tray between them. The wooden step held a faint warmth from the thin sunshine. Annie unwrapped ham sandwiches, opened a two-sided plastic container with apple slices and wedges of Gouda.

Rachel didn't look at the food.

Annie understood, but Rachel needed to eat. Annie unwrapped two big dill pickles and unsnapped a cup filled to the brim with yogurt-covered raisins. Annie rattled the raisins. “The cook said you love these. She said you like mustard, not mayonnaise, on your sandwich, and rye
bread. And spicy chips. She fixed a thermos of hot chocolate.” Annie held out a blue plastic plate and a napkin. “Here, Rachel, she went to a lot of effort.”

Rachel sat up straight and took the plate and napkin. “Sookie's nice.” She poured a mound of the white candied fruit beside the sandwich.

“Sookie?” Annie took a big bite of her sandwich. She was ravenous. Breakfast seemed several eons past.

Absently, Rachel popped a half dozen of the raisins in her mouth. “Sue Kay. But Pam calls her Sookie. Pam's her daughter. She's a cheerleader and a merit scholar. On the weekends, she works in the kitchen at Parotti's. She wants to be a chef. A famous chef. She's going to go to a culinary school.”

Annie leaned back against the step, enjoying the sun and the warmth, the food and the faint touches of color in Rachel's face. Annie wished they could keep on talking about Sookie and Pam and cooking school. The easy conversation built a cocoon of normalcy and Rachel slowly began to eat.

By the time Annie poured them each a cup of hot chocolate, Rachel had finished her sandwich and was rolling out the last few raisins on her palm.

Rachel broke the spell. She neatly folded her napkin, placed it and the plate on the tray. She pushed against her temple as if her head ached. “Annie, when will Pudge come home?”

The onshore breeze was freshening. The glossy leaves in a nearby magnolia rattled like hurried footsteps. Spanish moss in the live oaks swayed. In the inlet, Terry's big cabin cruiser rose and fell. Far out in the channel, three motorboats spaced about twenty yards apart moved slowly in apparent concert. One paused and a man in back pulled up a net, scanned the contents, tossed it back again.

At the Dumaney dock, the rowboat was gone but Annie and Max's motorboat was still tied to the dock. Annie realized Max must have ridden with Pudge and that she could take the boat home and get a car. She realized, too, that the missing rowboat had likely been taken by the police for examination. Would there be traces of Happy's blood in the boat? Quite possibly, and that would be another fact lined up against Pudge.

“Annie?” Rachel's tone was puzzled. “Pudge'll be home pretty soon, won't he?”

“That depends.” Annie tried to sound reassuring. “Captain Garrett will want to know where Pudge threw that stuff away.” And more, much more.

“Oh.” Rachel looked puzzled. “But that's not the main thing. When will he arrest that man?”

Annie didn't have any trouble following Rachel's thoughts. No wonder Rachel appeared relaxed. She thought the murder was solved when she told Garrett about Swanson, and she obviously had no idea of Pudge's real situation.

“Annie.” Rachel leaned forward, frowning. “What's wrong?”

“Rachel, I'm sure Chief Garrett will find out what he can about Dr. Swanson.” Annie put her napkin and plate on the tray. “He'll check to see if Swanson has an alibi—”

Rachel burst out, “He won't. He can't. He killed Mom.”

“—but the police have to have proof.” Yes, there would have to be proof and an explanation for the raincoat and some kind of link established between Happy Laurance and Emory Swanson.

“Wait a minute.” Rachel's tone was hot. She jumped to her feet. “Do you mean the police still think it was
Pudge? Because he threw that stuff away and that raincoat was in his room?”

Rachel was just a kid, a kid who'd lost her mother in a shocking, brutal way, but she was too smart to lie to. Annie didn't try. “I'm afraid so, honey.” She lifted the tray and stood. “Don't worry, Rachel. Max is with Pudge. And I'm going to see what I can find out. Will you be okay if I leave for a while?” Annie looked doubtfully toward the house.

Rachel looked surprised. “Sure.” Her voice was patient, as one explaining the obvious. “That man's not here.”

Annie hesitated. Although it would be a swell solution for everyone at the Dumaney house, Annie had no real belief in Emory Swanson as a stealthy, slicker-garbed murderer. Pudge had told Annie to take care of Rachel. Obviously, he thought someone at the Dumaney house had killed Happy. Was it foolish to go away and leave Rachel alone? “I don't know,” Annie said doubtfully.

Rachel stared out at the boats. “I guess they have to keep looking. But that's not what matters. We've got to find the papers. I've got to figure out where Mom put them.”

“You're sure—” Annie began.

Rachel nodded vehemently. “Mom said she had papers that would keep him from getting Aunt Rita's money.” Her forehead crinkled. “Mom must have known something really bad about him.”

Annie didn't doubt there might be bad things to know about Emory Swanson, who had prospered by bilking the credulous. But how could Happy Laurance have obtained that kind of information? She didn't seem the kind of person to hire a private detective. A careful study of her checkbook might answer that question. Annie wondered
if Chief Garrett had taken any of Happy's personal papers with him.

Annie looked up at the house, the huge house with so many rooms and so many places papers could be kept. Or hidden. “Where did your mom keep her checkbook, things like that?”

Rachel said uncertainly, “I think in the desk in the library. I'll go see.” She was poised to rush up the path.

Annie gripped her arm. “Wait, Rachel. You and I can look together when I get back. Why don't you go up to your room and write down everything you can remember about yesterday and what your mom said and did. That would be the best help.”

Rachel thought it over. “Then we'll look together for the papers?”

Annie thought the possibility of finding Happy's “papers” was about as likely as Chief Garrett releasing Pudge.

“That's what we'll do.” Annie turned to go.

Rachel called after her, “What are you going to do? Check up on that man?”

“I'll see what I can find out.” Annie waved and hurried toward the dock. There was no way she would tell Rachel her true plan.

M
AX DELIBERATELY CHOSE
a chair in the corner of the conference room. He sat very quietly, knowing he was there on sufferance. Johnny Joe Jenkins made no objection because Pudge had insisted that Max be permitted to remain while Garrett interrogated him. Garrett didn't care as long as he got answers and as long as those answers were captured on tape. Bright spotlights beamed from either side of the videocam stand.

The bright lights illuminated every line, every crease in Pudge's face, every gray strand in his blond hair and mustache. Whether from the harsh lighting or fatigue, Pudge's skin looked as pasty and shiny as bread dough. Even though the room was cool, tiny beads of sweat clung to his forehead. He sat stiffly on a yellow oak straight chair, his body still, his gray eyes alert and wary. Beside him, Johnny Joe Jenkins folded his arms, his strong face impassive. Across the narrow conference table, a loose-leaf notebook open before him, sat Garrett.

Max listened as Garrett punched on the videocam and repeated the Miranda warning. “Mr. Laurance, I'd like to get a little background here. Give me your name, residence and relationship to the deceased.”

“Patrick Laurance, most recently living in Puerto Vallarta, former husband.” He seemed to relax a little against the chair back.

“You arrived here when? And for what purpose?”

“Last weekend. On Saturday. Happy invited me to
spend Christmas with them. But I actually came because I wanted to find my daughter.” He looked toward Max for an instant. “When Happy called, she was upset. She wasn't really specific about the problem, but it was something to do with her sister and this psychic business. I didn't see that I could help, but I was eager to visit the island, so I agreed to come.”

“Did Mrs. Laurance tell you she had papers containing information about Dr. Swanson that could discredit him?” Garrett's hand was poised over his notebook.

Pudge looked surprised. “Papers? No, she didn't say anything about papers. I don't remember exactly what she said, but she went on and on about how awful it was, that Swanson was a crook and he was taking advantage of Rita. Happy was really upset after the dinner Wednesday night when Rita said she was going to sign over everything to Swanson for some kind of Golden Path. I didn't quite get it, but Rita thinks she's communicating with her dead husband through this Swanson fellow. She's decided to give him money to create some kind of psychic foundation. As a matter of fact, the whole family was livid.”

“Did your former wife tell you what she intended to do about Dr. Swanson?”

“Do?” Pudge tugged at his mustache. “What could she do about it?”

“That's what I'm asking you, Mr. Laurance.”

Pudge ran his fingers through his hair. “I don't know.”

“What conversation did you have with Mrs. Laurance on Thursday?”

“I—I don't exactly remember.”

Garrett flipped through the pages. “I have an eyewitness who said, ‘Happy and Pudge were yelling at each other. I didn't hear a lot of it. I walked on, but she was
crying and he told her he'd had enough and he was getting out and he stormed up the stairs.'”

Johnny Joe Jenkins leaned close to Pudge, murmured in his ear.

Pudge shook his head.

The only sound in the windowless interior room was the whir of the videocam.

Pudge clamped his hands on the edge of the table.

“What were you quarreling about, Mr. Laurance?”

“It wasn't a quarrel. She was acting like an idiot. That's all. I told her so.”

“You went upstairs and packed?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn't leave. Why not?”

“I changed my mind.” Pudge's lips closed tight.

“Why?”

Pudge didn't answer.

“When did you next talk to Mrs. Laurance?”

“I didn't.”

“That was the last time you spoke with her?” Garrett's voice was heavy with disbelief.

“That's right. I didn't see her again until I found her body this morning.” Pudge's blank look splintered for an instant, his face creasing with pain and remembered horror.

“Tell me about this morning, Mr. Laurance.”

Pudge moved restively. “I've told you.”

“I'd like to hear it again, Mr. Laurance. Start from the first. What time did you get up?”

“Around seven-thirty. I shaved and showered—”

“You showered?”

“Yes.” Pudge's eyes darkened with anger.

Garrett made a note. “You dressed? Can you give me a list of the clothing you brought to the island?”

“I can. I sure as hell can. Two pairs of khakis—”

Max liked Pudge's combative tone. He got it, of course. Garrett was trying to make him account for his clothes. But if Pudge had killed his ex-wife, he would simply leave something out. Garrett would talk to others at the house, get a description of what Pudge had worn each day. If any outfit was missing, it would be indirect evidence against Pudge.

“—four sports shirts, two sweaters, a navy suit, black loafers”—Pudge pointed down to his shoes—“a sweatshirt, sweat pants, jogging shoes, two pairs of white socks, two pairs of black socks, four T-shirts, four pairs of boxer shorts, blue cotton pajamas. And that's all. You'll find every piece of it in my room.”

“In your suitcase?” Garrett watched him closely.

Pudge was completely relaxed. “Right. Take a look.”

“We have, Mr. Laurance. We found the yellow raincoat.”

Pudge was still relaxed. “I don't have a yellow raincoat. Or an umbrella.” His lips curved in a small smile. “I guess I'm of the old school. Men don't carry umbrellas. I figured out I wouldn't melt a long time ago.”

There was no answering smile from Garrett. But his eyes were puzzled.

Max felt like jumping to his feet and shouting hooray.

Garrett pushed back his chair. “I'll be right back.”

As the door clicked behind him, Pudge turned toward Max. “What's the big deal about a yellow raincoat?”

The soft hum of the videocam continued.

Johnny Joe looked at Max, too.

Max diverted them. “Johnny Joe, can you see about getting bail set?”

“Sure.” His mellifluous courtroom voice filled the small gray-walled room, added life and color. “As soon
as we get finished here, I'll pop over to see the judge.” He grinned approvingly at Pudge. “You're doing fine.”

The door squeaked open. Garrett stepped inside, carrying a blue soft-sided Pullman-size suitcase. His hands were encased in plastic gloves. A white tag dangled from one handle. He set the case on the table.

“Can you identify this suitcase, Mr. Laurance?”

Pudge craned his head. He pointed at a metal nameplate dangling from a leather strap. “Sure. See, there's my name. It's mine.”

Garrett stood beside the table. He leaned over and carefully unzipped the case. He lifted the lid.

Pudge jerked back from the table. His eyes widened. He stared at the crumpled yellow slicker with its dark maroon stains. “My God, that's awful.” He stared at the bloody plastic in horror. “That's not mine. I didn't put that in my suitcase. Somebody else did.”

“Who, Mr. Laurance?”

Pudge glared at Garrett. “How should I know? How the hell should I know? I never saw that in my life.”

Garrett folded his arms across his chest. “You don't recognize the raincoat?”

“No.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that this raincoat belongs to your stepdaughter?”

Pudge froze. The anger fell away as quickly as the sun sets in a tropical sea, there one instant, gone the next. “Who says so?”

“She does.”

Pudge said nothing.

Garrett bent forward. “Isn't it true, Mr. Laurance, that you found this raincoat, recognized it and took it from Mrs. Laurance's room?”

“No.” Pudge stared at the open suitcase.

“There was no sweater, was there, Mr. Laurance?”

“I saw a sweater. I thought it was Rachel's. I must have been wrong.”

“What did you take from that room, Mr. Laurance?'

Pudge rubbed his eyes. “The sweater.” His voice was stubborn. “And the poker. I wrapped them in an afghan.”

“You took a poker?”

“Yes.”

“What poker, Mr. Laurance?”

Pudge shook his head irritably. “There was a poker lying there. It was”—he swallowed—“covered with blood.”

“There is no poker missing from that fireplace.”

“Then somebody brought it from somewhere else.”

“We've checked all the fireplaces, Mr. Laurance. The fire tools at each fireplace are complete.”

Pudge stared straight ahead. “All I know is what I saw. I don't know anything about the poker or where it came from.”

“Or anything about this raincoat?” Garrett pointed at the opened suitcase.

“I've never seen that raincoat. Never.”

Garrett leaned over the table, closed the case, zipped it. He still wore the plastic gloves. He picked up the suitcase. “I'll be right back.”

The door closed behind him.

Pudge turned quickly to Max. “Is he telling the truth? Is that Rachel's raincoat?”

“She said it was. But she was as shocked as you are, Pudge.”

“I don't understand. I packed up Wednesday night and I was living out of my suitcase. I didn't unpack.”

Max nodded. Johnny Joe listened intently.

“This morning I got out my shaving kit. I left the case
open on one of the beds when I went down the hall to Happy's room. I don't see how that raincoat got in my suitcase. Or when. It sure wasn't in Happy's room this morning.”

Max punched a fist against his palm. “That means the raincoat was taken from the room after Happy was killed. It must have been hidden somewhere else. Sometime this morning, somebody put it in your suitcase. That gives us a couple of things to look for: the first hiding place for the raincoat and who had access to your room between the time you left in the boat and Garrett brought you upstairs.”

But Pudge was staring at the table, his face creased in thought.

That was when the door opened and Garrett walked inside. He wasn't alone. Billy Cameron followed, cradling a spread-out black garbage bag.

“Put it on the table, Billy.”