Sugarplum Dead (26 page)

Alice paced to the French door, looked toward the charred rubble. “Swanson's a clever devil. Damn him.” Her voice was coldly angry.

Annie had a swift memory of Emory Swanson's uneasy face at the séance in the theater. Was he clever? Oh yes, she'd certainly agree to that. Was he audacious enough to take the enormous risk of setting the shed on fire and entering the main house? If he had murdered Happy, perhaps he'd had no choice.

Annie joined Alice at the window. “Garrett thinks the search of Happy's room was nothing more than an effort by Rachel to throw suspicion on Swanson.”

Alice's head jerked toward Annie. “That's dreadful.
Why doesn't he see what happened? It seems so clear. Swanson set the fire. He must have. Perhaps he had an idea where the papers might be in Happy's room. If he found them, there was no need for an extensive search. That's the answer: he found the papers.” She lifted thin, elegant hands, pressed them hard against her cheeks. “What can we do? We have to do something!” As her hands fell, her dark eyes implored Annie.

Annie couldn't meet her gaze. What was there to do? She had a gut-deep sense that forces far beyond their control had been unleashed with the inevitability of an avalanche or cresting floodwaters. “I don't know what we can do. If the papers are gone, I'm afraid we'll never find out what Happy knew. Now”—and her tone was disdainful—“if that had really been Claude last night, he could have announced the name of the murderer. I don't suppose that's occurred to Marguerite?”

“Marguerite is a fool.” Alice's voice was cool, her face remote. “No, I don't think that's occurred to her. But I don't know what's she's thinking.” Alice's face creased in a puzzled frown. “She's behaving very unlike herself. She's lying there in bed, staring at the wall, and she won't answer me when I speak to her. I don't know if she's beginning to have some misgivings about Swanson. I've told her and told her he's a fake. If only I had proof. But”—Alice touched her lips with her fingers, stared out into the garden—“perhaps there might be a way….” Her eyes suddenly lit.

“What?” Annie asked eagerly.

Alice shook her head. “I'm not sure. I'll have to think about it.” She turned away and walked swiftly out of the room.

Annie stared after her. Something had occurred to Alice, Annie was sure of that. Well, time would tell.

But they didn't have much time.

A
NNIE BANGED THROUGH
the kitchen door, her face eager.

Max grinned and pushed back from the breakfast room table.

Annie loved the loving light in his eyes, the curve of his mouth. She came into his arms.

“Hey, I missed you last night.” He held her tight against him. “Everything go okay?”

“As well as it could.” She gave him a hug, stepped away. “Rachel's okay. I left her eating breakfast. She's going to ride her bike to the beach.” Annie thought the odds were good that Mike would be waiting for her. Mmm. Max had fixed blackberry spice muffins. (The secret, he always insisted, was to use blackberry jam,
not preserves
.) She put two on a plate and poured a full mug of coffee. When she was seated, she spread whipped sweet cream butter on a muffin and took a bite and a little indistinctly told him of the night before at Dumaney house. “…but the séance fell apart when Claude Ladson spoke.” Max gave an appreciative nod at the likely use of a long-ago tape. “Swanson was uneasy even before the séance started. He couldn't wait to leave after we heard Claude's voice. I stayed with Rachel for a while after
ward, then I went to my room. I don't know when I've ever been that tired. But I didn't get much sleep because of the fire and the break-in.”

“Fire!” He looked at her sharply.

She grinned. “Not to worry. Somebody set the toolshed on fire and Happy's room was searched. Sort of.” She explained.

Max listened, shaking his head when she concluded with Garrett's warning. “Monday.” He shoved a hand through his tousled hair. “I'd better talk to Judge Halladay.”

Annie pushed away the plate, leaving a half-eaten muffin, the savor gone. She'd tried not to think about the future, but they had to think and plan and hope and struggle. If they didn't…“Max, I'm scared for Rachel.”

“Hang on.” He tried to sound reassuring. “If it comes to a trial, Judge Halladay can get a lot of mileage out of Happy's talk with Wayne and her trip to the library. If we can't find the papers, we've got to increase the pressure on Swanson. Now, you're meeting Laurel at his place at two…”

 

Max spent a restless hour in his car, fitfully reading, until a sleek black Mercedes turned into Kate Rutledge's drive. The garage door slid up, the car drove in, the door came down. Max swung out of his car, strode to the front porch, pushed the bell. He wondered if she would answer the door. She couldn't have missed seeing his red Ferrari parked in front of her house. He glanced through the open blinds into an austere room with two blue sofas and gray walls.

The door swung open. Kate stood in the entrance hall, red-and-gray-striped walls, a gray stone floor. Brown hair curved back in waves from her forehead, emphasizing the
strength of her face, wide-spaced eyes, long nose, square chin. She stared at him unsmilingly and said nothing. A heavy gold link necklace glistened against the moss green of her sweater. The green was repeated in the minute check of her wool skirt.

“Did you know,” he asked conversationally, “that a coconspirator in a murder case can also receive the death penalty?”

She drew her breath in sharply. Her hazel eyes flared. “Are you mad?”

“You've worked with Swanson for years. I can prove it. If you cooperate with the police now—”

“Mr. Darling, I have no need of cooperating with the police. Not now. Not ever. The fact that I may have known Dr. Swanson before he moved here is none of your business. In fact, Mr. Darling, if you don't stop harassing me, I will get in touch with the police myself.” The door slammed in his face.

 

Annie checked her watch. Almost two. She should have called, checked with Laurel. However, Max certainly could be counted on to relay messages accurately. Laurel had specifically asked that Annie be at the gate to the Evermore Foundation at two o'clock.

Annie opened the car door, slipped out. She'd parked deep in the shade of a live oak. She shivered in the dim coolness beneath the glossy-leaved low branches and wished she'd worn a jacket, not just her rust-colored cardigan. Annie walked out to the dusty gray road, acorns crunching underfoot. She paced as she waited, impatient to be accomplishing something to protect Rachel and free Pudge.

A rustle sounded behind her.

Annie whirled, remembering the dogs who'd leapt at the fence. She could see the fence just beyond the tree.

A raccoon swiped up a handful of acorns, then stopped, his dark eyes peering at her. Suddenly he lowered his head, flattened his ears, bared his teeth and growled, the fur rising on his neck and shoulders. Annie's heart thudded. The raccoon stood between her and the car. But—her breath eased out—those dark eyes stared away from Annie. In the cool gloom, she saw another raccoon, almost a mirror image, head lowered, ears flattened, teeth bared, fur rising and heard the guttural growl. “Oh fellows,” Annie murmured, “she's probably already made a date with someone else.” The growls, deep and malignant, continued for a moment more, then the first raccoon sidled away, disappearing behind a clump of yaupon holly. By the time Annie looked back, the second suitor had also disappeared.

Laurel's Morris Minor eased to a stop in front of the gate. The window slid down and pink-tipped fingers gestured energetically.

Annie hurried across the road.

“Hop right in, dear child.” The throaty voice brimmed with good cheer and utter confidence. Laurel looked as jaunty as one of Santa's elves in a bright red wool suit with a Christmas tree brooch, tiny emeralds and rubies glittering against silver branches.

Annie gritted her teeth, but did as directed. Dear child. How would Laurel like to be called dear aged one? The thought was so appealing, Annie smiled as she slipped into the sumptuous comfort of the soft cream leather seat.

Laurel smiled in return. “I knew I could count on you, Annie.” Laurel tapped her horn. The huge gates began to open.

Annie said hurriedly, “Better roll up the window. Or we'll have a Doberman riding with us.”

“Oh,” Laurel said carelessly, “Emory always puts the dogs up when there is company. I told him”—Laurel's tone was waggish—“even the hardiest of spirits might find Brutus and Cassius dispiriting.”

Annie tried not to grin, did and was rewarded by an approving glance from blue eyes which, at the moment, did not look the least bit spacey. But Annie surreptitiously pushed her own button to make sure the window was up.

The dusty gray road looped around a stand of pines. The Chandler house nestled in a clearing surrounded by pines and live oaks. There were no cars parked in the front turnaround. This same view would have greeted long-ago travelers in a wagon, jolted by the long journey from Charleston, the red bricks heavily mortared, the columns of the piazza shining white.

Annie craned to see if a car might be parked on one side. “Do you suppose he's there?”

“Of course. He's expecting us.” There was a slight pause. “That is, he's expecting me. But that will be all right.” Laurel parked near the twin stairways to the front piazza. She reached over and patted Annie's hand reassuringly.

Annie's skin prickled. Why should she need reassurance? She stared at Laurel. “Wait a minute, Laurel. What's going on?”

Laurel beamed. “Annie, it will be so easy.” She reached into the backseat, pulled over a red velvet sack. “Here's what I want you to do…”

 

Max dropped the ball on the indoor putting green and picked up his putter. He bent his knees, kept his eyes down, his head still. He made a short, compact swing.
The ball curved on the undulating surface, made a slow arc and rolled into the cup.

Max stared. “I'll be damned.” He walked slowly across the green, bent down and retrieved the ball. He'd not really been thinking about the putt. He was still puzzling over his dismissal by Kate Rutledge. She had threatened to go to the police. That was not the response of a guilty woman.

Max rose and walked to his desk, bouncing the ball in his hand. He flung himself into his red leather chair, leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Okay, Kate Rutledge wasn't scared. Either she had nothing to be scared about or she didn't know she should be scared. Or, to look at it another way, if Swanson had killed Happy to keep a marriage quiet (or for any other reason), Kate Rutledge didn't know about it.

Max pushed the button, and the chair came upright. He flipped the ball over the desk and heard it thunk on the green. He pulled out a legal pad, grabbed a pen and stared at the paper. Maybe it was time to look hard at what they knew. He scrawled:

Max tapped his pen on the desk. Dammit, everything came back to Swanson. No one else appeared to have a reason to want Happy Laurance dead. Sweet, indecisive, worried, loving Happy. If she had been at odds with anyone else, someone would have spoken of it. Happy's only disagreement in her last days had been with Swanson. And, of course, with Rachel and Mike and Pudge.

Max looked at the clock. Two o'clock. They had less than forty-eight hours to save Rachel.

 

Laurel bustled inside as the door opened. Annie followed, wishing she were on a pirate ship on the Yangtze or a stagecoach rattling into Dodge City, anyplace where she might feel more comfortable than standing on the lovely heart-pine floor of the entrance hall to the Chandler
house, her hands sweaty at the thought of Laurel's plan.

Emory Swanson's welcoming smile slid away when he spotted Annie. Hostility glittered in his heavy-lidded dark eyes. He suddenly didn't look quite so handsome, his blunt features tight and strained. Although his salt-and-pepper tweed jacket, bright red tie and gray wool slacks were perfect for a country gentleman greeting guests, there was no amiability in the elegant Georgian hall and Scrooge would have felt right at home despite the Scotch pine with its red and green tartan bows.

Laurel beamed at their unresponsive host. “Emory, you are so sweet to have me this afternoon. And you promised a Chandler house tea, a gastronomic delight to be treasured forever. Which”—her voice was suddenly soft—“surely reminds us all that earthly joys must be appreciated at the moment because”—a light laugh—“even though we may transcend the here and now and reach into the Great Beyond, we know there won't be any coconut cream pie there.” Her regret was evident.
“Carpe diem.”
Laurel slipped an arm through Swanson's and gently nudged him toward the drawing room.

His choice was to be churlish or to yield.

He yielded. Annie, clutching a bulging red velvet sack, followed them into the elegant drawing room with rose silk hangings at the enormous windows, an Aubusson rug with a rose and green pattern, and rose-and-white-satin Louis XV chairs and divan. Tea was set on the low rosewood table in front of the divan.

Laurel sank gracefully onto the divan. “Emory, do please sit beside me.” She waved a hand toward a Hepplewhite chair. “And dear Annie. Oh Emory, I knew you would be so pleased that my sweet daughter-in-law was able to come with me. Without her, my visit could not succeed!”

Annie sat stiffly on the edge of the chair.

As Swanson's head swiveled toward Annie, his expression indicating the kind of delight he might take in the arrival of a black mamba, out of his view Laurel made a circle with her index finger, then a U within the imaginary circle.

Annie forced a smile.

Laurel gave a tiny head shake, but her face was glowing when Swanson looked toward her. “I am simply having a glorious Christmas season and feeling quite elfin. Annie is my cheerful assistant, helping me deliver Christmas presents and in a minute”—Laurel clapped her hands in anticipation—“while you and I enjoy our repast and I know that you and I are here and you cannot therefore be there—”

Swanson looked bewildered.

Annie didn't blame him. She might not be bewildered, but she was damn bothered. If only she had Laurel's élan, her ability to dare an outrageous performance while looking bewitchingly lovely, golden hair perfectly coiffed, ocean-blue eyes sparkling, patrician features regally confident. Instead, Annie's stomach ached, her hands sweated and her face felt as stiff as the meringue on one of the lemon tea tarts on the silver tray. She was sitting only a few feet from a man who may have killed Rachel's mother. Annie stared at his bold forehead, jutting nose and blunt chin, at the lines indented by his thin mouth, a cruel mouth, a merciless mouth. If he killed Happy and if he decided Annie and Laurel were a threat…

“—then dear Annie shall take the utmost pleasure in secreting”—Laurel's smile was beatific—“oh, you may think this is a most childlike enthusiasm on my part, but I know you will indulge me, dear Emory. I feel so confident of your kindness toward me since you have made it
possible for Buddy—” She gave a little gasp and pressed fingers lightly against her shell-pink lips. “Now I mustn't say more, that is our secret. But I am compelled to demonstrate my gratitude and I could think of no better way.” She inclined her head toward Annie. “Do take wing, my dear, trip on elfin feet….”