Sugarplum Dead (10 page)

A
NNIE LOOPED A
garland of red and green tinsel over the glossy black feathers of the stuffed raven who overlooked the cash desk of Death on Demand. “Cheers, Edgar.”

Ingrid said, “Hey, it takes years off his age. Hand
some
.” A Santa Claus hat perched on Ingrid's iron-gray curls.

As Annie started down the central aisle, she grinned at Ingrid. “Everything looks nice, doesn't it?” Now the store was fully decorated, tinsel garlands crisscrossing the coffee bar area, a Santa's List of Stocking Stuffers attached to the end of every row of shelves, and two trees decorated with candy canes and foil-wrapped chocolate Christmas bells, one by the entrance, the other in the cozy reading area. A customer donating a book to the children's library at The Haven picked a piece of candy. In its place, Annie hung a cane or bell made of paper and inscribed with the donor's name.

Annie sighed happily. “People are nice, Agatha.” So far the count was up to thirty-six books for The Haven, including lots of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries.

From the front of the store, Ingrid called out, “Depends upon which books you choose. Have you read the latest Dennis Lehane?”

“Not in this lifetime,” Annie responded. Annie's taste ran more to genteel crime and happy (as much as possible) endings.

Agatha batted at a foil-wrapped bell.

Annie reached down, avoided a whipping paw, stroked Agatha's sleek fur and listened for the phone. Or maybe Max would come down the boardwalk and tell her in person. She paced back toward the coffee bar, poured a mug. She glanced at the title of a book lying on the coffee bar,
Death at Wentwater Court
. If reading choices reflected psychological yearning, then, yes, truth to tell, she'd rather be in England in the roaring twenties with Carola Dunn's vibrant heroine Daisy Dalrymple than restlessly awaiting information she wasn't sure how to use or whether to use. And beneath that uncertainty ran a twin stream of worry. She'd called Laurel several times this morning and had no response from her. Of course, Laurel could simply be out. She could also be avoiding calls from Annie or Max. In between those calls, Annie had looked up the number to Marguerite Dumaney's house. Several times, she almost dialed, but her hand dropped, her face furrowed with indecision. Last night she had felt close to her father. This morning, she realized again that he might be a parent to Rachel, but he wasn't a parent to Annie.

As for Rachel, maybe Annie should keep her nose out. Why should she think there was even a chance that Mike wasn't a louse? Annie's jaw set. For a lot of reasons. Because Annie credited Rachel with good taste. (All right, Rachel was in Pudge's corner and maybe Annie should think about that, but not right now.) Because when it came to bad character, Annie was sure Marguerite Dumaney was in a class by herself. Because, as all mystery lovers know, things often are not what they seem; maybe in this instance, a poor young man hadn't preferred money to a casual dalliance with a young girl.

What if it turned out to be true as hell? What if Mike—and Annie had never met him, couldn't even guess at his
intentions, honorable or dishonorable, or at his affections, sincere or fake—didn't care a rap about Rachel?

If so, that was truth, and truth had to be faced. But Annie liked to prove things for herself.

The phone rang. “For you,” Ingrid called. “Max.”

Annie snatched up the receiver. She listened and made notes. “Mike Hernandez. Parotti's Gas'N'Go? Okay. Thanks, Max.” Before he could hang up, she added hurriedly, “I've called Laurel a couple of times and left messages. I haven't heard a word.”

 

Max pushed aside the legal pad with its notes about Mike Hernandez. Everything he'd learned seemed to indicate Mike was a nice guy. No trouble in school. Hard worker. Ambitious. Maybe too hard a worker? But he used the money he earned to help his family and to go to school.

Max shoved back his chair, reached for his putter. He dropped a ball on the indoor putting green, Annie's thoughtful gift to him. Max bent his knees slightly, addressed the ball, stroked. The ball headed right for the hole, then veered past. He took three steps, tapped in. Sweet of Annie, especially since she worried about his tendency to prefer fun over industry.

Fun. Yes, he valued fun more than effort. Although he was willing to put effort into fun. The most fun of all was Annie, with her serious gray eyes and laughing lips. Sweet, serious Annie. Max bent, picked up the ball, walked slowly to the edge of the green, dropped it. But he simply stood with his putter, his eyes abstracted. Annie and Pudge. Laurel and the smarmy Emory Swanson. What could he do about Annie and Pudge? About Laurel and the crystal man?

For the first, he had an idea. Annie would never be rude to anyone in her own home. How about a dinner for
three, cooked, of course, by Chef Max? Steak béarnaise. Rice pilaf. Spinach salad with hot bacon dressing. Crème brulée.

For the second, maybe it was time for him to have a chat with Laurel. Annie insisted Laurel was truly at risk with her efforts to contact her late husband. Certainly, after observing him last night, Max agreed that Emory Swanson was a formidable personality. But Max had always been certain that Laurel had plenty of sense. Yes, she loved to dabble in the odd and unusual, but most of it was simply for fun. His lips quirked. Yeah, he and Ma liked to have a good time. However, Annie insisted Laurel's preoccupation with the dead was dangerously different.

Max leaned the putter against his desk and reached for the phone.

 

Parotti's Gas'N'Go was catty-corner from Parotti's Bar and Grill, which was, of course, across the street from the ferry which also belonged to Ben Parotti. The Gas'N'Go was one of two gas stations on the island. Ben's was the largest and it also offered bait and assorted groceries. Ben hiked the prices, but you had to expect to pay for convenience.

Annie filled her tank at a self-serve island. The front door jangled as she pulled it open.

A young man knelt by the canned goods section, rapidly shelving soups and vegetables. He pushed to his feet and hurried behind the cash register. “Yes, ma'am.” He glanced at the computer screen. “That will be twelve dollars, please.” He was medium height and slender with dark curly hair, wide-spaced brown eyes and a dimpled chin. Yes, Annie could imagine that at fifteen she would have been enchanted, too. As she opened her billfold, she
glanced swiftly at him. His downcast eyes didn't see her. His face was somber, his lips a thin line of unhappiness.

She placed the bills on the counter. “Mike…”

He glanced up, startled. He automatically sorted the money into the till, pushed the register shut and stared at her. “You're Rachel's sister. What do you want?”

Rachel's sister. That's what Rachel must have told him. Rachel must have described Annie, her words tying gossamer threads of belonging. If Annie had ever doubted Rachel's need, she never would again.

“Yes. I wanted to talk to you.” Annie wanted him to be the person Rachel had believed him to be. Annie wanted it as badly as she'd ever wanted anything.

His black brows creased in a hostile frown. “How come? Did they send you to get the money back?” His eyes blazed.

Annie felt a sick acceptance. Oh, damn everything. Damn Marguerite and her silly sister and this handsome, cruel boy. “How could you do this to Rachel?” Annie burst out. “How could you treat her this way? She loves—”

“Money,” he interrupted bitterly. “A fancy car. They promised her a fancy car and she agreed never to see me again. Then that old bitch tucked a hundred-dollar bill in my shirt pocket…”

Annie could well imagine the scene. Marguerite Dumaney staged it, as she staged everything in her life.

“…and told me to use it for school, that I'd have plenty of time to study and ‘better myself' without Rachel chasing after me.” He slammed both hands down on the glass counter. “Don't laugh at me, damn you.”

Annie reached out, grabbed his wrist. “Oh, Mike, no, I'm not laughing, or yes, maybe I am laughing because they aren't going to get away with it. Rachel didn't trade you for a car. That's all a lie. She thinks you've dumped
her for no reason. Probably they've told her by now that you took money and promised not to see her again, but we can fix it.”

His eyes, dark and huge, clung to Annie's. “Rachel didn't?”

Annie grinned at him. “Rachel didn't. We'll take the money back—”

His eyes widened. His lips parted. “Back? I burned it.”

Annie stared at him. What was it Max had told her? Mike had three jobs and went to night classes to pick up college credits. What did a hundred dollars mean to him? How many hours did he have to work to earn a hundred dollars? She squeezed his arm. “Good for you.”

 

Max leaned against his desk. He smiled as he clicked off the phone. First goal met: Pudge would be their dinner guest tonight. Now for Laurel. Max punched the numbers, listened, frowned. “Ma, Max. Give me a ring when you get in.” He clicked off the phone, dropped it on the desk and strode across the room. He wasn't a believer in ESP, but he had a picture of the phone ringing and his mother's head tilted to listen.

 

Annie moved her car away from the gas pump, but didn't pull into the street. She picked up her cell phone.

“Dumaney house.” The voice sounded familiar and yet not quite as Annie recalled Marguerite Dumaney's tone. She realized the speaker must be Alice Schiller. Of course, Marguerite would not answer the phone, probably hadn't answered a phone in years. After all, no star can be reached directly.

“May I speak to Mr. Laurance, please?” Mr. Laurance. Annie felt an odd sensation in her chest.

“One moment, please.” That so-familiar voice was brisk, neither pleasant nor unpleasant.

It was a lengthy wait. Annie wondered where Pudge was staying in the huge, strange house.

“Hello.” Her father's voice sounded grim.

“What's wrong?” She blurted the question instinctively, then felt her face flush. Whatever problems he had in that house, none of it was any of her business. Hurriedly, she added, “This is Annie. I want you to give a message to Rachel. Can you do that for me?” She had her voice under control now, firm and pleasant. She might have been talking to an acquaintance, politely requesting casual assistance.

His reply was equally formal. “Yes, I'll be glad to do that. Or I'll be glad to try.” A tired sigh wavered over the phone. “I can't promise success. Things are a little difficult here at the moment. Rachel's locked in her room. She's furious with Happy and Marguerite.”

“Well, she's going to be even madder.” Annie felt an instant's hesitation. Yes, she was going to throw gasoline on a fiery blaze with who knew what kind of resulting explosion. But further straining Rachel's relations with her aunt was a reasonable price to pay for reaffirming Rachel's confidence in herself. As for Rachel and her mother, maybe Pudge could help Rachel see that Marguerite was a master at manipulating her sister and may well have also lied to Happy about Mike and the money. “Marguerite pulled a fast one.” Annie quickly explained. “I promised Mike I'd tell Rachel.”

“I should have known,” Pudge said slowly. “I'm not surprised.”

“Please ask Rachel to meet me out in front of the house.” Annie remembered the fake cave with the dragon's head. “By that cave.”

 

Max braked the Ferrari to a stop next to a black Mercedes sedan parked alongside Laurel's blue Morris Minor. He hesitated. Obviously, Laurel had company. Max checked his watch. Almost eleven. He opened the door and, contrary to his usual practice, eased it quietly shut. Who was she seeing, that she was ignoring all calls from him and from Annie?

Max walked slowly past the Mercedes. The windows were up and the interior looked as spotless as a showroom model. As far as he was concerned, there was something unnatural about a car that gave no hint to the driver's interests, pursuits or occupation.

In his Ferrari, a golf bag poked up from the well behind the seats, the new
Golf Digest
was stuck in a side pocket and a couple of paperbacks lay on the floor of the passenger side, the latest by Jay Brandon and Michael McGarrity.

Laurel's pink stucco house always looked summery, even in the thin December sun. Max was halfway up the shallow front steps when he heard a soft murmur of voices. Max paused and looked to his left, toward the oyster shell path that curved behind bamboo leading to a gazebo with a superb view of the marsh. Max bent his head, listening hard. Again that soft murmur. Laurel had to be in the gazebo with her guest. Although the day was warm, December certainly wasn't a peak month for marsh watching. The dying cordgrass was a dingy brown instead of the bright yellow-green of summer, and the breeze off the water was cool and dank, with the smell of rotting vegetation.

Max ran lightly down the steps. He ignored the crushed oyster shell path, opting instead for a slippery approach through a grove of pines, coming up behind the
gazebo. He wormed through the pines, stopping when he could see the gazebo and hear the voices.

Laurel's denim jacket emphasized her silver-gold hair. She leaned forward, lifting a teapot, smiling tremulously at her guest. Her fine-boned face held a rapturous glow and her sapphire-blue eyes were as open and guileless as those of a child.

Emory Swanson held out his cup, his rugged features softened by a gentle smile.

Max's hands twitched. He would have liked nothing better than to march up the gazebo steps, grab Swanson by the lapels of his expensive blue blazer and toss him into the cold, dark marsh water.

“…I am astonished by your sensitivity, Emory.” Laurel's husky voice wavered. “How right you were to suggest that we merge our souls into nature as we seek to follow the Golden Path. Here”—Laurel swept her arm to indicate the magnificence of the marsh and the surging waters of the Sound—“we can be at one with the ebb and flow of the tides. Why, it is simply primeval.”