Sugarplum Dead (24 page)

Max took a bite of the garlic mashed potatoes. “That
makes some sense. We know—or think we know—that Happy wanted a listing from the vital statistics section in a newspaper. That limits it to a birth, a death, a marriage license, a divorce filed, a divorce granted.”

Annie finished, regretfully, her portion of oyster casserole. She drank her iced tea (apricot-flavored). “Does Ben have those funny beers? You know, orange and petunia and whatnot?”

Max looked horrified and clutched his bottle of Beck's. “Surely not.”

Annie grinned. “I wasn't suggesting he add them to the menu. It's just that everything's changed so much since he got married.”

Max gazed across the packed room. “Not down deep. He always had great food. Nothing ever really changes, Annie. Ben was a spiffy guy waiting to happen.”

Annie felt a sudden chill. Max's lighthearted comment could be viewed as either wonderful or awful. “Nothing ever really changes…” She repeated the words slowly. If you stripped a heart to its core, discarded the externals, the bedrock would be bared. That's what they needed to do, look past the externals, discover the heart willing to do evil.

If only the choices weren't so limited: Swanson, Rachel, Mike, Pudge…

Max reached across the table, grabbed her hand. “Hey, we'll get there, Annie.” He frowned. “I wish there was a reason for me to go to that séance tonight. But we're lucky you can go.”

Annie didn't feel lucky. She hated the thought. Trafficking with the supernatural was wrong. She knew that, knew it with her heart and her mind and deep in her bones. At least Rachel would not be there. She took comfort in that and in her certainty that Swanson was a fake, that whatever happened would be created. But still…

Max gave her hand a squeeze, picked up his beer bottle. “Here's to the vanquishment of our foes.” He downed the rest of his beer, planted his elbows on the table. “Pay particular attention to Swanson. See if he's rattled.” His grin was part mischievous kid, part combative antagonist. “It's too bad we can't see Kate Rutledge right now. I'll bet she damn sure is rattled. First the phone call, then the letter tucked in her front screen.”

Annie looked at him sharply. “Her front screen! What if she saw you?”

His blue eyes gleamed. “She saw an elderly man with a beard wearing a cap and a cape.”

“No. Not a beard.” Annie looked at him skeptically.

He reached in his pocket, pulled out a shaggy white beard. “Confidential Commissions is prepared for every eventuality.”

Her eyes widened.

He laughed. “Not really. I went by the five-and-dime and bought a Santa Claus costume.” He looked abruptly serious. “I had no intention of being recognized. Now she'll be on a lookout for a hunched-over old man with a white beard and a British accent. I hope she's worried as hell.”

Annie glimpsed a Max she didn't know—a tough, unrelenting, determined foe. “Why do you dislike her so much?”

He looked at Annie gravely. “She's slick, attractive, like glossy china. Sure of herself. Arrogant. But underneath the attractive sheen, she was disdainful of Laurel yesterday, amused that she was distressed. That tells me she despises people who are vulnerable. Maybe it's time she got a little of her own back.”

But when Ben brought their check and they rose to go, Max bent down. “Annie, you don't have to go.”

She waited until they were outside, then she stepped into his arms. He held her tight. She took a deep breath, then stepped away. The Christmas lights wrapped around the lamp poles sparkled, spangling the parked cars with red and green.

Max grabbed her hand. “I didn't realize you were so upset about going to the séance. You don't have—”

“Yes. I do.” She squeezed his hand. She said lightly, “A woman has to do what a woman has to do.” She stood on tiptoe, kissed him, turned away. He didn't call her back though she knew he was watching as she walked to her car. Max understood. Yes, she hated what lay ahead. She was scared and upset and unsure, but Pudge and Rachel needed her help and that was all that mattered.

She slipped into her car. The séance would start in twenty minutes.

T
HE CANDLELIGHT WAVERED
as Emory Swanson closed the door. Shadows rippled across the stage, disappeared in the heavy folds of the curtain. A candle the color of rich cream sat on a gold-leafed pottery tray in the center of the small stage. It was a huge candle, a foot tall, perhaps eight inches in circumference. A faint coil of white smoke rose, swirled to nothing. The heavy scent of gardenia overlay the stale stuffiness of the small theater. In the fitful light of the candle, every face was shadowed, dimly seen. The scrape of Swanson's chair as he took his place between Marguerite and Wayne was startling in the thick quiet. Clasping hands, eight of them sat in a circle around the burning candle. Eight of them, waiting.

Marguerite hunched forward, eyes protruding above jutting cheekbones. Her breath rasped in her throat. With sickening regularity, a tremor swept her.

So close their shoulders touched, Alice's brooding face watched Marguerite. She seemed to absorb some of that recurring tremor, using her own thin body to bolster the woman beside her. The two women were so similar yet so different: Marguerite's richly red hair long and swaying, Alice's pulled back in a sleek bun; Marguerite scarcely in
control, Alice coldly calm; Marguerite's eyes alive with pain, Alice's gaze intent and measuring.

Swanson darted a swift glance at Marguerite, his hooded eyes grim.

Annie watched him intently. Tonight there was no trace of the smiling dinner guest. His heavy face was somber, wary. He didn't look like a man eager to trod the Golden Path.

Wayne cleared his throat, but didn't speak. He was accustomed to talking, being in charge, telling other people what to think. He gave a little shrug and crossed his feet, ostensibly relaxed. A shadow fell across one temple, giving his bearded face a leering countenance like a one-eyed pirate.

Terry pursed his mouth, puffing his red cheeks in disdain, but his eyes probed the dark shadows at the back of the stage. He moved restlessly in his seat.

Beside him, Joan gave a little squeal. “Oh, you scared me.”

Donna's thin, petulant face looked uneasy.

Annie felt a sheen of sweat on her face, a faint nausea gathering in her throat. Alice's hand was cool and limp. Donna's touch was hot and dry, like a desert insect in the summer. Annie wanted to jerk her hands away, pull free of this dark circle, dash through the door to air and freedom.

Donna murmured, “Take a deep breath.”

Annie nodded gratefully and shot Donna a look of surprise. She wouldn't have expected empathy from this tart-tongued, bitter woman. Annie had an overpowering awareness of the figures in that tight circle. Marguerite made an odd sound, midway between a moan and a sigh. Alice's shoulders tightened. Donna's hand trembled in Annie's grasp. Joan's short navy jacket trimmed with gold braid and long navy skirt were perfect for an afternoon tea, but her distended eyes and quivering mouth de
stroyed the illusion of normality. Terry's glare was both defiant and frightened. Wayne poked his head forward, like a man unsure of the path on a dark night.

“Peace.” Swanson's voice was deep. “We are ready.”

Annie would have liked to hoot and jeer, but there was a terrible gravity to Swanson's voice as if he saw more than they, as if they were ringed by presences. She stared at him, wondered that he didn't feel the force of her gaze. His head was bent, his eyes closed. He held up the hands clasping his. “Peace. We are ready. Peace…”

The words rolled over them, the cadence majestic. Annie felt buffeted by emotion, waves of pain and fear, anguish and hope, anger and satisfaction, swirling around her, intangible emanations from the tight, constrained circle. She sat still as stone. If only she could identify the source. Who was so terribly frightened? Someone in this room reeked of terror. Someone had killed and fear reverberated within that mind.

“…ready. Peace. We are—”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.” The voice was faint and muffled but distinctive, the tone sharp but lightly ironic. It was like hearing an echo, near yet far, of a commanding, quick, ebullient voice. There was a sudden, overpowering waft of gardenia, sweet and cloying. “There are definite limits to—”

Marguerite screamed. Her head jerked back, she stared wildly around the dim stage. “Claude, Claude, where are you? Claude—”

“Oh my God.” It was a keening wail. “That's Claude. Oh my God…” Joan pulled free, came to her feet. Her chair crashed to the stage. “I want out—”

“Hush.” Marguerite's cry was terrible. She rose, one hand tight against her chest, wavered unsteadily. “Claude is here. Claude—”

Annie watched Emory Swanson. She couldn't be certain, but there was an instant when his eyes flared in surprise before his face was wiped clean of all expression. Annie was willing to bet Claude was a hell of a shock to Dr. Crystal.

Wayne said sharply, “I don't like this.”

Terry's voice was high. “That sounded like Dad. My God, that was Dad!”

“Wait. Quiet, please!” Swanson's deep voice cut across the exclamations.

Wayne moved across the stage, down the steps and flipped on the chandelier. The bright white light was harsh on their eyes. “Let's check this out.” He glared at Swanson, stalked up the steps to the stage-left curtain and pulled it open, his eyes raking up and down.

Marguerite swung toward Swanson. She wore a dark purple dress, long and free-flowing. “Where is Claude?” Her voice was piteous. Tears furrowed her cheeks. She looked as gaunt and desperate as a mourning figure pacing a widow's walk.

Swanson was slow in answering. His hooded eyes went swiftly from face to face.

Annie felt a curious pleasure. Swanson didn't know who had rigged this performance. He was afraid to make any claim. And afraid not to. He couldn't be sure what might happen next. If he shouted fraud, even Marguerite might wonder why. She might also wonder how he could be so certain. Swanson's eyes were hard, but he bent toward Marguerite solicitously. “We can only walk the Golden Path in calmness and quiet. Any outburst drives—”

“Claude shamed us.” Marguerite spoke with a childlike wonder. “He said there were limits.” She pressed her hands against her cheeks, swayed. “I don't know what to do, where to turn. Alice, Alice!”

Alice took her arm, guided her toward the steps. “You must rest now, Marguerite.” In a flurry, the two women were gone.

Swanson's eyes glittered. The man was furious. Without a word, he strode off the stage and slammed through the door.

“That was Dad's voice.” Terry's red cheeks looked pasty.

“Don't be a fool,” Wayne growled.

Donna tossed her head. “I don't pretend to know what the hell this was all about, but it didn't look to me like swami was a happy man when he departed.” She stepped to the center of the circle of chairs, bent down, blew out the candle.

Joan smoothed her wispy hair. “A swami is a learned man, not a spiritualist.” But her eyes were still rounded. “I don't care what anyone says, that was Claude.”

“It might have been Dad's voice,” Donna said sharply, “but that doesn't mean he is lurking in this damned room like a ghost.”

Annie slipped past them and out the door, glad to escape the bickering voices. The Ladson family seemed in agreement that they had heard their father's voice. Certainly Marguerite was convinced. And distraught. Annie didn't envy Alice the task of calming Marguerite.

The minute Annie reached the third floor, Rachel's door opened. “Annie, I saw Marguerite and Alice go down. And that man. What happened?”

Rachel closed the door behind Annie and popped onto the red-and-black sofa with its geometric designs. She tucked her candy-striped nightdress beneath her knees and looked at Annie, eyes huge in a pallid face. Annie sank down beside her, grateful for the cheerful room and the scent of hot chocolate. No sweet smell of gardenia.

Annie took a deep breath. “It was silly. And awful. All at the same time. A big candle. Everybody sat in a circle and held hands. Nothing happened until a voice spoke, and everyone said it sounded like Claude.” She spread her hands. “That's all. Marguerite got upset and left. Swanson was mad. I don't think he had anything to do with the voice.”

A small hand clutched Annie's arm. “No one talked about Mom?”

Annie shook her head. “No.”

Rachel's taut body relaxed. She held tight to Annie's hand. “I'm glad.” Her voice reminded Annie of a distant wind, high and thin. “Mom's safe with God now. I want them to leave her alone.”

She leaned forward and Annie held her tight.

 

The twin bed felt strange, cold and unfriendly. Annie reached out, but Max wasn't there. She turned restlessly and came fully awake. She listened to the strange creaks of the unfamiliar house, watched the pale swath of moonlight spearing through the window. She was tempted to use her cell phone, call and hear Max's dear, familiar, sustaining voice. But what could she tell him? The séance was weird. So what else was new? Claude Ladson's voice had—somehow—been heard. Somebody made it happen—ventriloquism?—and Annie didn't believe Swanson was responsible. As for Swanson, he'd obviously not been happy to be at the Dumaney house, but, equally obviously, when Marguerite called he came. When he left, he'd looked grim. He had to be concerned whether Marguerite would take Claude's pronouncement as instructions to desist in her efforts to contact him. If Marguerite reached that conclusion, Swanson would look even grimmer. That, of course, had to be the hope of the person who staged
Claude's vocal performance. But Swanson would surely be in touch with Marguerite tomorrow. Annie was sure Swanson would convince Marguerite that Claude indeed was there and concerned with her welfare, that Claude opposed the violence that had occurred, that he was seeking vengeance for Happy. Or something on that order. Swanson wanted Marguerite's fortune and he was a clever man.

Was he also frightened?

Annie threw back her covers, paced to the window. Swanson was stymied, worried, irritated and uneasy. But not frightened. Yet, if their instinct was right, if Swanson and Kate Rutledge were married, if that's what Happy Laurance knew, then Max's approaches to Kate should have scared the hell out of both of them.

Footsteps sounded overhead.

Annie looked up at the ceiling and listened.

A light step, another.

Annie pulled on her robe, slipped into her slippers. She opened the door to the hall and listened. Had the person upstairs gone into the theater? Or into the memorabilia room? Annie darted to the dresser, opened her purse, pulled out her cell phone. It wasn't a weapon, but it was the next best thing. Moreover, she had no intention of being observed. She simply wanted to see who was on the fourth floor. Perhaps someone had an idea, a middle-of-the-night inspiration, about where Happy might have hidden her papers. Or how Claude Ladson's voice had sounded in the stuffy theater.

Wall sconces provided dim lighting in the hall and on the stairs. Clicking on the cell phone, Annie stepped into the hall, moved swiftly and lightly toward the stairs. She eased slowly up the steps, phone in hand. The fourth-floor landing was quiet. The doors to both the theater and
the museum were closed. Annie tiptoed to the theater, turned the knob. She inched open the door to darkness, smelled gardenia. She closed the door quietly, moved across the floor, turned the next handle.

She squinted against the thin line of light, her nose wrinkling at the musky smell of cigarette smoke. She stood frozen, clinging to the hard, solid doorknob, evidence of a real world, despite the sound of the voice, that light, ironic, ebullient voice:

“…want you to do your best, Donna. Remember that you have to give love to get—”

The voice cut off in midsentence.

Annie edged open the door.

Donna Farrell rested in an oversize green chair behind a massive desk. Her head drooped. She stared at the silent tape recorder. Tears brimmed in her eyes, spilled down surgically sleek cheeks. Sans makeup, her pointed features were fox-sharp and pitifully sad. She looked small in the padded leather chair, a chair meant for a big man. She pulled at the ribbons on the front of her rose negligee.

Annie pushed the door wide. “I heard noise up here.”

Donna's somber gaze touched Annie, moved back to the recorder. “I woke up and thought about it. That was Dad's voice in the theater.” She lifted a ringless hand, wiped away tears. “He was always too busy to write.” Aching blue eyes swung to another portrait of Claude Ladson. “But you know what, he cared about us. He really did. He sent cassettes when we were at camp or in school, even after we got married.” She pointed at the recorder. “After Dad died, Wayne and Marguerite put together the museum. Wayne asked Terry and me to send the cassettes from Dad. So”—she spread her hand—“I came up and looked. Here's the ghost.” She punched the button.

“…love. Marriage can be the—”

Her hand darted again to the recorder.

“Did Swanson know about the tapes?” Annie looked at the walnut cabinet behind the desk. The second drawer was pulled out, revealing rows of small tapes.

Donna smoothed her face with both hands. Her sharp features were composed. There was no trace of the tears except for the redness of her eyes. “Oh sure. I suspect he's been through everything in here.” Her hand waved around the huge room. “The better to provide Marguerite with tidbits from the Beyond.” Her face twisted. “How can Marguerite be such a fool?” Then, surprisingly, her face softened. “Poor Marguerite. It would have been so easy to hate her. She broke Mother's heart, killed her. But Mother should have been tougher. Can you imagine letting the loss of a man ruin your life?” Donna's tone was utterly puzzled. “I always had to admire Marguerite. By God, she was willing to do whatever in the world she had to do to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was Dad.” Donna sighed, pushed back the huge chair, rose. “I envy Marguerite. I can't imagine caring that much about anyone.”