Sugarplum Dead (23 page)

In his office, Max glanced at Annie's picture on the corner of his Italian Renaissance desk, steady gray eyes and kissable lips, short blond hair and guileless smile. He looked into the eyes of the photograph, but in his heart he saw Annie and remembered how she'd fought for him when he was a suspect in the disappearance of a beautiful young client. No matter how damaging the circumstances, her faith in him had never faltered. His Annie, stalwart, vulnerable and loyal. And he remembered another face sagging in fatigue as Garrett pounded with question after question. Yes, it was clear that Pudge hadn't told all he knew about Happy Laurance's death, but Max was willing to wager his world that Pudge was innocent.

Max slipped into his chair, punched on his computer.
The kitchen smelled good, the rich odor of roasting beef, the scent of cheese and greens and cinnamon. And it was spotless. Max would approve.

The dark-haired woman at the sink whirled at the sound of the door. Dishwater dripped from her hands. She gave a tiny sigh of relief when she recognized Annie. “Rachel's hunting for you, miss.” She pointed to a door next to the pantry. “She just went upstairs.”

“Thank you. I'll catch her in a minute. Sookie…” She smiled into startled eyes. “Do you mind? That's what Rachel calls you and I can tell she likes you a lot. I'm Annie.”

Sookie's plump face eased into a smile. “Miss Rachel is a good girl.” Her voice was as thick and soft as honey, but her gaze was combative.

Annie understood. She answered with a firm, “Yes, Rachel is a good girl.”

They looked at each other with understanding.

“Sookie, did you see Mrs. Laurance yesterday? Did you talk to her?”

The cook reached for a dish towel, dried her hands. Her face furrowed in thought. “She was at lunch. I didn't pay much mind, but nobody was talking. Except Miss Marguerite. She was telling a story about Mr. Claude. Miss Happy left right at the end of lunch and she came through the kitchen. She didn't stop and tell me how much she liked her food like she usually did. She looked”—a considering pause—“determined, like a woman who's made up her mind and set on her course. She had her purse with her and in a minute I heard her car.”

Annie glanced toward the windows that overlooked a drive. “How did you know it was her car?”

“Miss Happy always raced the motor, then took off
with a squeal. Oh yes”—her head nodded—“I always knew when Miss Happy was on her way. That must have been close to one-thirty. She came back about three. I heard a car door slam, then she burst into the kitchen. She darted over there”—a worn hand pointed—“to the scissor drawer. She yanked it open, poked around. She picked up a roll of duct tape and dropped it into her purse.”

Duct tape. Annie walked across the kitchen, opened the drawer. Two pairs of scissors, tacks, assorted kinds of tape, everyday tools including a clawhammer. But no duct tape. She looked toward Sookie. “Was she carrying anything else? A sack? Any papers?”

“I didn't see any. But her purse was big.” Those broad hands spread more than a foot apart. “One of those big floppy leather bags.”

Annie would ask Garrett if they'd found Happy's purse and whether it contained the duct tape. She walked over, looked out the window. The doors to a four-bay garage were closed. Four cars were parked in a graveled area midway between the garage and a toolshed. Annie pointed at a bright yellow sedan. “Is that her car?” Yellow was a color Happy would pick.

Sookie nodded. She hesitated, then pointed at a row of hooks by the back door. “The third hook,” was all she said.

“Thanks.” Annie took a step toward the back door, then changed her mind. “I'll be down in a minute. I'm going to look for Rachel. If she comes here, ask her to wait for me.” She opened the door to the back interior stairs.

 

The printer whooshed out sheets. Max waited, leaning back in his chair. Private eyes used to skulk down back alleys. Now they sat in front of computer monitors and
clicked their mouses. It was hard to achieve that old-time swagger when most information came from the tap of a finger instead of the point of a gun. That hoary standby—the stranger in town—was as passé as 1920s slang. Everybody had an electronic trail now. He had taken less than an hour to put together a pretty complete dossier. He picked up the sheets:

Max dropped the sheets on his desk. The correlation between the lives of Swanson and Rutledge was clear. A clever accountant could very likely expose her earnings as money siphoned from Swanson's foundations through dummy companies. Clearly they knew one another. They ran a nice little operation, where she nosed around a city's affluent and grieving women, whom she skillfully directed to Swanson for succor at, of course, a hefty price. Was this information worth murder?

It might well be. Swanson was close to gaining control of Marguerite Dumaney's fortune. The revelation that he and Kate Rutledge had moved from city to city fleecing the vulnerable might be enough to disillusion Marguerite. Maybe Swanson wasn't willing to take that chance.

Right now Swanson and Rutledge must feel very secure. The word would be all over the island about Pudge's arrest and Rachel's hockey stick. Maybe it would be interesting if the covert partners heard the snuffle of a hound at their heels. Max reached for the telephone.

A
NNIE HEARD A
thump above her head as she walked in the second-floor hallway past Marguerite's closed doors. She stopped, looked up. Another thump. She tried to picture the area and realized she had no idea what existed on the third floor on this side of the house.

She was halfway up the main stairs to the third floor when she hesitated. She was simply assuming the noise had been made by Rachel continuing her search. But making assumptions in a house where murder had occurred might be hazardous to her health. Turning, Annie ran lightly down the steps to Rachel's door. She knocked and, when there was no answer, opened the door. “Rachel?” The room was empty. Annie looked around, took two steps and picked up a metal softball bat.

She clutched the bat and moved cautiously up the stairs. On the third floor, she looked down a hall that ended at a closed door. She stepped quietly to the door, turned the knob with her left hand, holding the bat in her right.

A line of unshaded bulbs dangled from the ceiling. The huge area was unfinished and crammed with furniture, stacks of boxes, luggage and trunks. Somewhere to Annie's right there was a thud and scraping sound.

Annie stood in the doorway. “Rachel?”

Rachel's dark head popped out into the central aisle. She gestured vigorously. “Annie, come look.”

The storage area was huge, encompassing almost half of the third floor. Annie passed a stuffed elk head, a wooden cigar-store Indian, a church pew and a breakfront.

Rachel, her face smudged with dust, a cobweb dangling from one shoulder, crouched in front of a big leather trunk. A mass of papers and books were spread haphazardly around her. She looked up, started to speak, stopped and stared at the bat in Annie's hand.

“Oh.” Annie propped it against a stack of boxes. “I heard noise up here. You shouldn't be here by yourself.”

Rachel's glance was just this side of patronizing. “Annie, Dr. Swanson couldn't be here in the daytime.”

Annie wished she was as certain as Rachel that Emory Swanson was the murderer. Instead, she had a sudden clear memory of the kindness in Terry Ladson's voice when he observed that no one was crossways with Happy except her daughter. Annie steeled herself against that disquieting memory.

Rachel sneezed. “It's so dusty. That's how I found the trunk.”

Annie knelt beside her. “What is all this?”

“Mom's stuff from when she was a kid.” Rachel's voice wobbled. She took a deep breath. “I didn't know this was up here. I thought maybe Mom might have decided to put the papers somewhere in the attic. I came in and I almost gave up, just looking at all the stuff everywhere. Then I saw the footprints in the dust. I followed them here. It was scuffed in front of this trunk. I opened it and I saw pretty soon it all belonged to Mom, her scrapbooks and diaries and letters and school programs. I took
everything out and looked to see if there were any papers about Dr. Swanson.” She heaved a tired sigh. “I didn't find anything. Will you help me, Annie? We can look again.”

They sorted through the pile of keepsakes, but there was no vagrant sheet of paper, no fresh envelope, no unmarked file among the yellowed papers. Rachel looked forlorn. “When I saw the footprints in the dust, I thought for sure the papers would be in here.”

Annie stared at the scrapbooks and diaries and papers on the floor. She felt vaguely unsatisfied. Maybe Happy had indeed hidden something in the trunk and maybe she or someone else had removed it. It was unlikely they would ever know. “We'd better put everything back.”

They worked in silence. Rachel shoved papers in haphazardly. Annie picked up a diary, one of about a dozen. The covers told the story of a girl changing and growing. Annie sorted through, found the first diary—1959—and smiled at the raised pink umbrella on the red plastic cover. The later diaries had smooth floral cloth covers. Without conscious thought, Annie, as befitted a bookseller, arranged them in order. She put the books in the trunk one at a time, 1959, 1960, 1962…Annie stopped, checked the remainder of the stack: 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966, 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970. She glanced at the floor, then into the trunk. “Rachel, have you seen the diary for 1961?”

Rachel rubbed her nose. “I don't think so.” She bent over the trunk.

Annie rechecked the stack. Finally, after sifting through every item in the trunk, she was certain. Happy's diary for 1961 was not there.

Rachel came to the trunk hoping to find the papers her mother had planned to put in the safe place. She and
Annie found nothing regarding Dr. Swanson. They could be sure of only one fact. A diary was missing. Had that diary been gone for years? Or had Happy—or someone else—slipped into the storage area, gone to the trunk and lifted out a young girl's scribbles?

Frustrated, Annie riffled through the 1962 diary. The writing was overlarge, somewhat unformed. “How old was your mom, Rachel?”

Rachel's hands tightened on a scrapbook. “Her birthday was July 9. She would have been 50.”

Happy began keeping a diary when she was ten. Perhaps a little precocious but…Annie opened the 1962 diary to July 3:

Annie shut the diary. The missing volume would have been when Happy was a year younger. Clearly no one would have any interest in the musings of a twelve-year-old. That volume had probably been missing for years. She and Rachel were wasting their time. Maybe Happy intended to hide her papers in the trunk and changed her mind.

“Come on.” Annie was brisk. “Let's put this stuff back. Then we'll take a look at your mom's car.”

 

Max dialed. Unlike their home phone, the Confidential Commissions phone number showed up as Unavailable on caller IDs. It would be interesting to see if Kate Rutledge answered. He and Annie always ignored Unavailable calls, Annie singing as she waltzed past the phone, “I'm Unavailable, that's what I am…”

“Hello.” Kate Rutledge's voice was smooth and self-possessed.

“Miss Rutledge.” Max had spent a year abroad at Oxford during his college days and he was enough of a natural mimic that he had no trouble with a British accent. He also raised the pitch of his voice just slightly. “I'm calling from the Tourist Board. We make an effort to follow up on visitors to the island. You visited Bermuda during September and stayed at the Southampton Princess. Were your accommodations satisfactory?”

“Very satisfactory.”

“Did you choose the American Plan or the European Plan?”

“The American Plan.”

“And your traveling companion, Dr. Swanson—”

She interrupted immediately. “I had no traveling companion.”

“No? That isn't the information I have here.”

“Who is this?” Her tone was sharp.

Max kept his voice high and accented, but the tone changed. “An interested party, Miss Rutledge. I'll be back in touch.”

He hung up. Too bad he wasn't standing beside Kate Rutledge. He was willing to bet she was dialing the Evermore Foundation right this minute.

 

Happy's car was unlocked. Rachel stood stiffly by the driver's door, staring at the front seat. Rolls of Christmas paper poked out of a plastic grocery sack. Annie peeked into a Belk's sack: two sweaters and a pair of Guess jeans. She shielded the contents from Rachel's eyes, but Rachel was gazing forlornly at the Christmas paper. Annie made herself a promise. She'd wrap these gifts for Rachel and put her mom's name on the cards. She made sure there was nothing more in the sack, folded it shut. She began to scoot out of the seat. “I don't think—” Then she saw a scrap of paper on the floor.

Annie bent over, picked up the scrap, which turned out to be a cash receipt for fifty cents. The date was yesterday. The time, two-twenty-four
P.M
. The place, the Lucy Kincaid Memorial Library.

Annie felt a surge of triumph. Here was the first confirmation of the elaborate theory built on Happy's conversation with Wayne. She backed out of the car and turned to Rachel, ready to share the discovery.

But Rachel was looking toward the back door. Alice Schiller hurried down the steps. “Rachel, Annie.”

Rachel backed up against the car. “I don't want to talk to Aunt Rita again. I don't want to. I don't want to talk about it.”

Annie wasn't sure whether Rachel meant her mother's murder or the plan for the funeral. But clearly, the girl was upset. Annie took a step forward, tucking the receipt in her skirt pocket.

In the late afternoon sun, Alice's face looked weary. One eyelid flickered in a tic. “I'm glad I found you. I suppose you know there's been no luck in the search for the papers. Wayne says maybe there weren't any papers.”

“Mom said there were.” Rachel's voice rose.

“It's all right.” Alice reached out, patted Rachel's thin shoulder. “Perhaps your mother meant she had information that only she understood. I know we were all hoping to find something. Now, we're going to have an early light dinner.” She looked at Annie. “Of course, we hope you will eat with us.”

Annie had already made up her mind. “Thanks, no. I need to run home and get some things for tonight and see my husband.” And make one other stop on the way. Her fingers touched the receipt in her pocket.

Alice smoothed back a strand of dark red hair. “Will you be back in time for the séance?”

Rachel raised her hands as if to ward off a blow. “I can't do that.”

Alice slipped an arm around her thin shoulders. “Of course not. I've already told Marguerite that Annie will represent you. It's quite all right, Rachel.”

Rachel grabbed Annie's arm. “You'll watch him, won't you? Annie, make him give himself away.”

 

As she drove, Annie called home. No answer. She checked her watch and left a message. “I'm stopping by the library, but I'll be home in a few minutes to pick up some clothes. Let's have dinner at Parotti's. I'll meet you there at six. I've got lots to tell you.”

 

Max dug a pair of golf gloves out of his bag. He picked up the sheet of paper from the printer, reread the message:

 

HAPPY LAURANCE KNEW
.
SO DO I
.

 

He folded the sheet (one carefully eased out from the middle of a new package of paper) and placed it in a file
folder. He picked up the telephone directory, found Kate Rutledge's address. Hmm. She lived not far from Laurel in a house on Marsh Hawk Lagoon. A bike trail ran conveniently near that lagoon.

 

Edith Cummings yanked at her curly black hair. Her bright dark eyes were pools of concentration. “I know. Oh God, I can almost see it.” She whirled away from the bank of computers (all three of them) and paced across the hardwood floor to the Information Desk. Her face sagged like a lugubrious bloodhound. “Yesterday. We had a rush of users. Old Man Fulton was here and he's a case. Wants to stay on the damn machine all day. I keep telling him it's a max of thirty minutes per customer as long as anybody's waiting. It's after school, there are always about six high school boys lurking near him and I know what the hell they're all looking at, but life's short and I am not their mother. Or Old Man Fulton's, either. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Happy Laurance. She came in about two and had to wait, but she asked me to show her how to call up newspaper archives. I went through it a couple of times and I got her started.” Edith's face scrunched. “What was it? What the hell was it?” Suddenly her eyes flew open, her hands splatted together. “I got it, I got it! The
Reno Gazette-Journal.
”

Annie stared at her blankly.

The supreme satisfaction eased out of Edith's gamine face. “So what's the problem?”

“The
Reno Gazette-Journal
,” Annie repeated slowly. “As in Nevada?”

“You got it.”

“I don't suppose you know what year…”

“Annie”—Edith's tone was dangerously pleasant—“I
deal with hundreds of questions every day. Be grateful for what you got.”

 

On Friday nights at Parotti's every seat was taken. The jukebox (a real one, circa 1950) flashed red and green. Old songs (“Night and Day,” “The Chattanooga Choo Choo,” “Sentimental Journey”) could scarcely be heard above the blare of conversation, the chink of dishes, and the scrape of chairs on the hardwood floor. Since Ben's marriage, the sweet-scented wood shavings were used only near the bait coolers. Fortunately, the smell of the latter was almost overborne by barbecue smoke and beer on tap. Their booth was the last in the line before the swinging doors to the kitchen, adding the clang of pans and shouted orders to the general noise.

“Nevada?” Max speared a clam fritter, dipped it in the red sauce. “I don't get it.”

Annie took a spoonful of the succulent baked oyster casserole. Honestly, what did Ben's wife put in this dish? Was that a hint of Parmesan cheese? “I don't, either. I mean, what's Reno? Gambling. Golf. Shows.”

Max chewed. “A long time ago that's where people went to get divorced. Before divorce got easy everywhere.”

Annie wondered if Laurel had dissolved some unions there, decided it might not be politic to ask. “So who's divorced? Besides Happy.” Certainly Happy should know where her own marriages had ended, and what would her marital history have to do with Emory Swanson? Annie put down her fork with a bang. “Marriage! Maybe Emory and Kate got married in Reno!” It was also an easy place to get married, everywhere from a casino to a roadside chapel.