Sugarplum Dead (8 page)

Unfamiliar names and old emotions swirled around Annie like no-see-ums on a summer day, impossible to escape, uncomfortable to experience.

“—and I always thought Ellen died of a broken heart. Of course, everyone had warned her not to marry Claude. She was just a girl. Seventeen, I think. And she met him at a dinner party at her own house. Her father was an actor and Claude was going to produce his next film. Claude and Ellen ran way and got married not even a month later. Oh, her parents were so upset. Claude was that kind of man, you know, so attractive to women and always ruthless.” Happy shivered. “That's where families have a responsibility. To make sure impressionable young
girls don't get carried away by their—well, children know so much about sex these days. It's just dreadful what they see on television, and some of them having babies when they are just thirteen or fourteen…”

Annie blinked. A swarm of no-see-ums would seem controlled and directed in contrast to Happy.

Happy's round face looked suddenly mulish and determined. “…I simply won't let Rachel ruin her life. I won't do it.”

“Rachel?” Annie looked toward the Christmas-bright arbor.

Rachel glared out of the shadow, her frown a sad contrast to the holiday's lights.

“Even Marguerite is right sometimes.” Happy followed this obscure pronouncement with a decided head shake. “It's not that working-class people aren't perfectly wonderful. Of course they are. But Mike's too old for Rachel. Why, he's nineteen! And if he were truly nice, he wouldn't take advantage of a girl who is really still just a baby, now, would he?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I am so upset. And to have Rachel be so ugly—I don't know what's gotten into her. And Pudge. Well, he isn't actually her father, though you'd think he was to hear him talk. Now, I'm sorry, Annie, but you might as well know that Pudge has quite a temper. However, I told him and I told Rachel, I will not permit this to continue…”

Not actually her father
…

Nor Annie's.

Annie didn't want to think about Rachel and Pudge and Rachel's apparently unwise romance with a boy named Mike. She looked toward Max, seeking rescue, but he was deep in conversation with Wayne Ladson,
who stood with his hands in his pockets, talking to Max while watching his stepmother and Dr. Swanson.

From the sanctuary of the indoor arbor, Rachel's dour gaze focused unwaveringly on her mother. Pudge talked earnestly with Joan, who had a slight flush on her pale face and looked more relaxed. Alice checked the time on her wristwatch. Terry continued to eye Annie with interest. Donna stood with her arms folded, her hard face petulant, her eyes intent on Marguerite and Emory Swanson. The aging actress and her attentive companion continued to look up at the portrait. Marguerite's hands reached out as if in appeal.

Annie sipped her ginger ale and peered down the long room. “Is she talking to the portrait?”

Happy's face drooped. “I'm afraid so, yes, I'm afraid so. That is, Marguerite claims she's talking to Claude and she's very insistent. Absolutely insists they are speaking to reach other. Just as if he were…here.” Happy smoothed back a tendril of hair. “Oh, it's such a worry. At first I was glad she'd met Dr. Swanson. She seemed so excited. And then”—Happy's voice skittered higher—“I found out that he encourages her in the wildest, the most extraordinary ideas. Marguerite believes that she and Claude—that Claude comes—Oh, I don't know whether she claims actually to see him, but she talks about the crystal path and how easy it is to travel and all it needs is effort and, of course, guidance. That's where he”—the pronoun was sharp and Happy's face tightened in a scowl as she pointed toward Swanson—“comes in. He's the guide. That's what he says, that he is simply the guide, that each person experiences the reality of an expanded universe in an individual manner. I think that's just so much nonsense…”

Annie agreed, but Marguerite Dumaney was definitely
animated, her haggard face uplifted. She was engaged in a passionate conversation, but not with the man who stood so protectively at her side. A conversation, by definition, requires at least two persons. A conversation is an exchange of speech. Yet Emory Swanson, his silvered head bent, was silent, his lips closed while Marguerite talked and listened, talked and listened, head tilting coquettishly, lips stretching in an adoring smile. Annie's spine crinkled the way it did when she read a Douglas Clegg horror novel.

“…and I told him so.” Happy tugged at the neck of her pearl-encrusted pink sweater as if the collar choked her.

Annie realized she'd missed a spate of invective. It wasn't hard to catch up. “I'm sorry. What did you tell Swanson?” Perhaps it was as chilling to watch Emory Swanson as Marguerite. His pleasant expression and relaxed stance were so at variance with a normal response to a conversation that simply could not be occurring. Did he hear Claude speaking? Surely not. But if he didn't, his acceptance of Marguerite's behavior was unconscionable. Annie decided she would ask him at her first opportunity.

“I told Dr. Swanson he'd better be careful. If he keeps up this nonsense, there's no telling what Marguerite may do. Why, she was talking at one point about selling everything and using the money to go to the desert and build a huge monument of Claude's face. Now, Claude loved himself better than anybody else, except maybe Ellen, but even he would think that was a waste. Claude was…” A tiny flush mounted in her plump cheeks. “Well, I don't want to be vulgar, but Claude was definitely a natural man and he just immersed himself in food and drink and sex. Why, Claude would think a stone face
in the desert was silly. And Marguerite”—Happy's voice was suddenly firm—“has family responsibilities. And that reminds me”—she fluttered her hands—“I'd better see to dinner. Marguerite likes for everyone to be seated by eight.” She squeezed Annie's elbow. “Perhaps we can talk some more after dinner. About you and Pudge. Dear Pudge. He is simply the sweetest man and I want you to know that, even though I am simply furious with him right this minute,” and she turned and pattered away.

As Happy scurried around the arbor, heading for an archway flanked by palms, Rachel glowered.

Obviously, Rachel and Pudge were in Happy's doghouse. Annie glanced toward her father. Pudge slumped alone on a cobalt sofa, his face weary, gently stroking a calico cat curled in his lap. Annie tried to control the glad little quiver in her heart that Pudge liked cats, too. But liking cats wasn't enough. She forced herself to look away. The conversational groups had shifted. Max was moving toward Emory Swanson. Wayne Ladson intercepted Marguerite as she drifted dreamily toward him. Alice stood beside a huge gong next to the palm-framed archway. Mistletoe dangled from the center of the arch. A few feet away, Terry's face no longer looked genial. He looked, in fact, like a man who'd like to fashion a particularly unpleasant end for the charming Dr. Swanson. Donna flashed her brother a warning glance. Joan looked everywhere in the room except toward her ex-husband.

Annie's nose wrinkled in distaste. It appeared their hostess intended to spend the evening chatting with her dead husband. Annie would have walked out the door except this was why Max had come, to see the crystal man in action. Annie didn't want to have a damn thing to do with Marguerite Dumaney and her peculiar beliefs.

Annie looked again toward her father. Her gaze slipped
across the shadowy indoor arbor. Rachel huddled beneath the arch of greenery, withdrawn, sullen, miserable. Annie hesitated. Obviously, Pudge and Rachel had made Happy mad. Was it any business of Annie's if Rachel and her mom had a fight? None, of course.

Annie looked toward Rachel. Rachel's lips quivered. Annie stared into sad, angry eyes and walked toward the twinkling Christmas lights of the arbor.

M
AX PAUSED IN
his casual progress toward the evening's lion, Emory Swanson, to watch Annie. Annie, the rescuer. He'd seen her reach out to others so many times, to people who were hurting, to animals that were abandoned. Now she was responding to the pain in a troubled teenager's face. He glanced toward Pudge. Their eyes met. Pudge looked proud.

All right. Rachel was in good hands. Now it was time to get to work. Max intercepted Swanson near the wet bar. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Swanson. I've heard so much about you. Ms. Dumaney believes you are definitely a wizard.”

Was there the tiniest flicker in Swanson's attentive brown eyes? He had never, of course, heard Marguerite mention Max's name. “Call me Emory, please.” His deep voice oozed bonhomie. “Marguerite has remarkable psychic gifts. I suppose you are an old friend of hers?”

“Marguerite's family has a long connection with mine,” Max said smoothly. After all, Pudge was his family in a real sense and Pudge went back a long way with Happy. And if Max's claim gave him some legitimacy with Swanson, well, so much the better. Max gestured vaguely toward Wayne. “Wayne and I couldn't help noticing Marguerite's conversation with Claude. Now”—Max tried to appear both earnest and slightly credulous—“how in the world did she manage that? Or is it all in her head? After all, we didn't hear Claude's voice.”

Swanson teetered back on his heels and gave Max a condescending smile. “No, of course not. Only Marguerite hears Claude.”

“So you don't?” Max fought down a burning desire to jam his thumbs in his mouth and give a Bronx cheer.

Swanson's limpid gaze never wavered. “That's not to be expected.” His tone was patient. “The connection is between Marguerite and Claude. I have simply been able to help Marguerite focus so that she achieves her goal of communication.”

“But this connection”—Max raised an eyebrow—“could all be in her mind.”

“Not at all.” Swanson folded his arms and smiled pleasantly, with only a hint of smugness. “Marguerite can be sure that this connection is now, at this moment, and for the future because Claude has informed her of his wishes.”

“Wishes?” Max stared into amused eyes.

“Oh yes. Claude apparently has strong feelings about the path Marguerite should follow. I think”—and now Swanson's amusement was scarcely masked—“that the family will be most interested.”

 

Annie ducked inside the arbor. “Hiding out?” She sniffed. Honeysuckle. She reached up, touched a strand. Yes, it was real and it was blooming. But nothing could be too surprising in a huge mishmash of a house guarded by a fire-breathing dragon in a mock cave and a spouting whale beached in a fountain.

“Yeah. What's it to you?” Rachel's voice was sullen, but her dark eyes were pools of misery. As Annie stepped nearer, a thin hand yanked loose a strand of honeysuckle, crushed it. The sweet scent hung in the air.

They stood so close, Annie could hear Rachel's shal
low breathing. The small space pulsed with emotion. Rachel seethed with anger, resentment, bewilderment, hostility.

Annie hesitated. Was Rachel simply a teenage mess? It would be easy to dismiss her volatility as the turmoil engendered by raging hormones and unfinished personality. But Annie thought it was more than that. This girl was consumed by anger, anger made even more painful to observe because of her obvious vulnerability. Whatever was wrong, Rachel was near an explosion.

“Trouble with your mom?” The very words carried Annie back a decade, to whispered confidences among friends as girls bewailed their mothers, their obtuseness, their jealousy, their small-mindedness. Even then Annie had known she was an exception. She and her mother rarely disagreed. Annie never knew whether it was because there were only the two of them or whether they enjoyed a special gift.

Rachel gripped a spoke of the huge wagon wheel that formed one side of the arbor. Her curly dark hair hung down in her face. “I hate her. I
hate
her. She's awful. She treats me like I'm a stupid kid. That's how they all treat me.” Her voice rose. Tears welled in her eyes. “I hate this house. I hate—”

The deep tone of a gong reverberated.

Annie opened her purse, pulled out some tissue. “Here. Come on, Rachel. It's time for dinner.”

“I don't want any dinner.” Rachel swiped at her face, jammed the tissue in the pocket of navy silk slacks that flapped around pencil-thin legs. The sleeves of the bright red wool cardigan hung almost to her skinny knuckles. This was the Dickens waif in dress clothes and her appearance was perhaps even more forlorn than in the oversize grunge of the afternoon. Rachel's eyes
gleamed. “If I don't show up, it will piss off Aunt Marguerite and that will put Mother into a spin. She's like a cat on hot rocks about Aunt Marguerite. Who cares what the old hag does with her money? Of course, they all care a lot. They're greedy pigs. Mother tries to act like she doesn't care about the money, that she's just worried—”

“Annie.” Max's warm hand touched her shoulder.

Annie looked around with a smile. “I know. Time for dinner. Rachel and I are just coming. Rachel, this is Max,” and she took that bony arm and gently tugged, turning Rachel toward the palm-framed archway.

As they walked, the girl between them, Annie managed not to grin. Yes, Rachel was a bundle of burgeoning hormones; witness her immediate fascination with Max. Annie applauded Rachel's good taste. After all, Max definitely was the handsomest man in the room—oh, all right, Swanson was a close second—but tall and well-built Max was by far the sexiest with his rumpled blond hair, vivid blue eyes and expressive mouth. And Max, bless his kind heart, had immediately noticed Rachel's red-rimmed eyes and drooping face and was ladling out the Darling charm by the bucket.

Annie and Max stepped inside the archway. They both came to a full stop, eyes wide.

Rachel stood with her hands on her hips and watched them. “Honestly, you look like you just spotted an extraterrestrial with a boom box. My friends can't believe it, either.” Her small mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. “Mike said we could make a fortune if we had tours at twenty bucks a head and charged an extra five to see the dining room.”

So it was a dining room. Annie slipped her arm
through Max's, pulled him along. After all, they could look when they were seated.

Rachel chattered and led them toward the table. “…half the length of a football field. See, the far end is a jungle. It has sprinklers and heat machines and everything and it's really a rain forest. Can't you smell it?” Rachel wrinkled up her nose.

Annie could. The dark, rich scent of dirt and vegetation and moisture cloyed the air.

“We had a couple of monkeys, but they got into a fight and Harry pushed Sally off the bridge. Do you see the bridge?” Rachel pointed up at a rope bridge that stretched from a clump of trees in the rain forest the length of the room to a landing that jutted from a spiral staircase that rose to the ceiling. Faux Christmas stockings, decorated with elves and deer and snowmen, hung every few feet from the bridge.

“The staircase opens into the tower.” Rachel's tone was matter-of-fact. “Watch your step.”

Rachel spoke in time to prevent Annie from plunging into an indoor pond. Actually, it was more than a pond. Perhaps canal was a better description. The four-foot span of water circled an island that held a jade-green glass table. Arched bridges spanned the water at twelve, three, six and nine o'clock.

Alice Schiller waited on the island. “This way, please.”

In a moment, they were all seated at the circular table, Emory Swanson to Marguerite's right, Terry Ladson to her left, Wayne Ladson opposite Marguerite. Donna Ladson Farrell, Max and Joan Ladson sat between Swanson and Wayne. Happy, Rachel, Annie and Pudge sat between Terry and Wayne. An immense green candle served as the centerpiece, with Christmas balls heaped around the
base. The sweet scent of pine mingled with the heavier odor of water.

A stocky manservant moved deftly around the table.

Annie declined wine. She turned determinedly toward Rachel. “Is the rest of the house this unusual?”

But Rachel was leaning toward her mother. She hissed in a voice Annie could barely hear, “I don't care what you say. If you won't let me see him, I'll run away. You can't be so mean.”

Happy's plump hand gripped her daughter's thin arm. “Rachel, hush.” Her tone was soft, too, but implacable. “This isn't the time or place—”

Rachel pulled her arm free, knocking over a silver goblet of ice water. She pushed back her chair, came awkwardly to her feet, like a stumbling colt. Her angular face flamed. “Don't look at me. Leave me alone.” She turned and ran, clambering across the bridge, her steps clattering on the stone floor of the huge room.

Annie quickly set the goblet upright and unobtrusively patted her soggily cold skirt and ached for Rachel, diminished and furious, running from humiliation, certain that everyone was laughing at her.

Pudge quickly handed Annie his napkin. “Here,” he said softly. “Poor kid.”

Happy's plump face tightened into a stiff mask. “I'm sorry. Rachel's not been feeling well. I hope you will excuse—”

Marguerite Dumaney's drawl overbore her sister's hurried words. “Of course she feels well, Happy. The child is simply having a marvelous”—the word stretched and stretched—“time. Actually, a fine performance. One I might almost envy. I can't wait to behold the scene when she discovers that her Romeo prefers money to her. It cost very little to put paid to that budding romance. Per
haps we can all convene here tomorrow night for an encore. Now let us—”

Annie knew she was coming into the drama during Act II, but it wasn't hard to understand. There was a boy and Rachel cared about him and—for what reason?—Marguerite offered him money to stay away from the girl. And he took the money. Annie hated the thought. What would this betrayal do to a girl just beginning to look for love?

Just for an instant, Annie's eyes locked with Marguerite's. The actress arched a brow in amusement and her voice never faltered.

“—enjoy our dinner, for I will have a much more exciting announcement when we conclude. I have found truth.” Her eyes burned with a zealot's conviction. “I asked each of you here to help me celebrate my birthday. But the true celebration will be in the liberation of our spirits from the terrible weight of possessions. Everything I have, everything here”—one hand swept in a slow arc—“shall be dedicated to finding truth. We shall take the Golden Path.”

Her words fell into strained silence. Happy's plump face sagged. She pleated her dinner napkin and stared at her sister in dismay. Terry Ladson's red face was suddenly hard and wary. Pudge muttered, “Not to be upstaged…” Wayne fingered his beard, his face carefully expressionless, his eyes cold. Donna's sharp features were suddenly pinched and frightened. Alice's face echoed Marguerite's dramatic beauty, but instead of Marguerite's complacent self-absorption, Alice looked bleak, her features sunken and drawn. Joan took a deep, trembling breath.

Emory Swanson, however, looked pleased. Exceed
ingly pleased. He sat at ease in his chair, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

“But”—and Marguerite's gaiety was in stark contrast to the dark resistance surrounding her—“we must all be patient until after dinner. Now, Emory”—and she turned to her right—“tell me again about the golden crystal. That's the one I…”

Conversation creaked into being, jerky and disjointed. As Annie picked at her salad, desperately aware of Pudge to her left and Rachel's empty space to her right, she heard snatches:

Emory Swanson's reassuring balm, “…know that you yourself hold the keys to many kingdoms and…”

Max's dear voice, a solid spar in a sea of unpleasantness, “…specialize in helping people with problems. No, I don't…”

Joan Ladson's slightly querulous tone, “…can't believe how much everything costs today. And I just have to get a new car…”

Alice Schiller's dry comment, “…has never been able to control herself so…”

Donna Farrell's harsh whisper, “…has she lost her mind?”

Wayne Ladson's exasperated mutter, “…had no idea she'd gotten in so deep until…”

Terry Ladson's puzzled query, “…what's all this about crystals?”

Happy Laurance's anxious flutter, “…Marguerite doesn't realize how upset…”

The words swirled and buzzed, disconnected and unimportant. Annie's being was concentrated on the physical presence of the man who sat next to her, on the well-formed hand that nervously turned his wineglass, on the sheen of his bright green jacket, on the face turned
toward her with its sandy mustache. She knew he looked at her even though she stared straight ahead.

“You were nice to Rachel.” His voice was a musical tenor.

The manservant whisked away salad plates.

Annie picked up her roll, tore off a portion, buttered it. “It's hard to be her age.”

“She told me she came to see you.”

The dinner plates were served, sea bass with a bleu cheese sauce, stuffed artichokes and sautéed winter vegetables.

Annie slowly met his gaze. Before she could discipline her mind and her heart, the thought came tumbling through her sweet and clear as a fine white wine that he was nice with honest eyes and a kind mouth. Her face tightened. He hadn't been there for her. He had never been there for her. She didn't owe him a thing.

Pudge leaned closer. “Annie, did your mother ever tell you about the night we met?”

She stared into his eyes, feeling a jumble of conflicting emotions. Yes, she wanted to know. He could re-create a moment in time that she had never known. He could bring her mother to the table, young and eager and full of hope and the beginnings of love. But every word he spoke forged a link between them and Annie wanted no link. Not now. Not ever. He had proved he couldn't be trusted.