Sugarplum Dead (11 page)

Max's eyes narrowed. He could envision a more concrete reason for Swanson's suggestion, a disinclination to have his conversations recorded. Removing a conversation to an unplanned, outdoor locale made any kind of recording very unlikely. Max might be overly suspicious, but he didn't think so.

“You respond to nature.” Swanson's tone deepened. He spoke as if pronouncing a benediction.

Laurel refreshed her own cup, put down the teapot. “I respond,” she said softly, “to you, to your leadership, to the grand vistas you can open for me. I have heard so many wonderful things about your evenings at the foundation. I would be so honored to be a part of them.”

“The way is open to those who come with pure hearts.
I believe”—he looked deep into Laurel's eyes—“that you are worthy.”

“Oh, when may I come?” Laurel clasped her hands together. “I need so desperately to speak with Buddy.”

He bent his head, as if in deep thought. “I must concentrate upon you, upon your needs. I will call when I feel the moment is right. And you must continue to make progress on the road.” He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. “I will leave this with you. I will know when you are ready.”

Laurel gasped in delight and held up the pink prism, catching the rays of sun. “For me? Oh, Emory, what a great gift.” Laurel held the prism to her lips.

He rose and bowed. “I will leave you now. Think. Meditate. Soon you will take your first steps on the Golden Path.” His handclasp was firm, lingering, then, with a final smile, he hurried down the gazebo steps.

Laurel, the prism cradled to her cheek, slowly turned and moved gracefully across the gazebo to stare out across the marsh.

Max watched his mother, disturbed and uneasy. He almost started for the gazebo; then, frowning, he turned back, sliding on the brown needles. He reached the stand of bamboo in time to see Swanson come out of the gazebo path.

Max would have traded the pleasure of throwing Swanson into the murky marsh for a camera. If only he could have photographed Swanson's bold, predatory face, the satisfied gleam in his eyes, the arrogant smirk. The unguarded expression fled the moment Swanson sighted Max's car. Swanson slowed. He looked right and left, his gaze searching.

Max remained hidden in the pines. Let the bastard worry a little.

Swanson climbed into the Mercedes, his face smooth
ing out. Once again, a smug smile curved his mouth. His glance at Max's sports car was dismissive, as much as to say that it didn't matter, that Laurel was safely in his orbit.

Max stared at the dust swirling from the Mercedes' departure. “Pal”—Max's tone was conversational—“I am going to trash your ass. Count on it.” Max's eyes glinted. If there was anything to ESP, Swanson should be feeling a prickle down his spine right this minute. If he wasn't getting a preview of trouble, Max had every intention of telling him to his face just as soon as he had a chance. But right now, Laurel came first. Max swung around and took the direct path to the gazebo, his feet crunching on the oyster shells.

Laurel still gazed toward the marsh. And she still held the crystal to her cheek.

“Mother.” Max knew his tone was sharp, but, honestly, he was disappointed. He'd always been confident that Laurel's disregard for convention was simply a way of having fun, a pursuit he and his mother prized. He'd always insisted to Annie that Laurel was shrewd as hell beneath that dithery, amused exterior. For her to succumb to the unctuous suavity of a curly-haired, honey tongued, self-invented guru surprised and dismayed Max.

Laurel swept about. Her denim jacket sported red candy-cane buttons to match her long red skirt. She looked rather like an expensive Christmas figurine. Her blue eyes lit. Her shell-pink lips curved in delight. “Max. How lovely. I was just thinking about you. Oh, Max, look what I have,” and she ran toward him, pattering down the gazebo steps, hand outstretched with the pink crystal.

She ran up to him and stood on tiptoe and murmured, her lips barely moving, the crystal held up to shield her
face, “Quarrel with me. Loudly. Then stomp away. Midnight. Your terrace.”

Max saw the urgency in her eyes before she whirled away, her skirt flaring. “Mother, what's that pink thing?” He remembered to frown.

She faced him, held the crystal up to catch the sunlight. “See how it sparkles? This is my gateway to the Golden Path. You just missed Dr. Swanson. Max, he feels that I am ready to become a part of the efforts of his foundation to reach out to the next world.”

Max folded his arms. “Mother, for God's sake, the man's either a fool or a crook.”

“Max”—her eyes widened in distress—“I can't permit you to say such dreadful things. Although”—and her smile was gentle—“Emory has warned me that the world hounds those who seek truth.”

Max took two steps, stood close to his mother. “Mother, this is nonsense. Buddy would be the first to hoot at the idea of taking a Golden Path to talk to him. And I don't intend to let Swanson take advantage of you.”

“Max, don't make me choose. Oh, please, don't make me choose,” and she bolted past him on the path and ran toward her patio.

Max started after her, then paused as he saw a woman walk swiftly toward Laurel.

“My dear, I felt strongly drawn to you. I came at once.” She was a slim, attractive brunette with hazel eyes and a squarish face.

“Kate, the crystal must have brought you here! Kate”—and now Laurel's smile was social and gracious—“have you met my son, Max? Max, this is Kate Rutledge. She's one of my new friends. I feel that I was led to her. Truly”—a bright smile—“good fortune.”

Max looked from Laurel to Kate Rutledge. He was seized with an instinctive and violent dislike for the smiling woman who held out a long, graceful hand. Her voice was smooth and pleasant, her face well bred and intelligent, her gaze interested and vivid. Yet he sensed a mocking pleasure, a delight in his obvious discomfort.

“Led?” He had no trouble sounding explosive. He felt explosive. He stared at Kate Rutledge. “Are you one of Swanson's stooges?”

She drew back. “Laurel, perhaps another time. I didn't know you were engaged.”

“Oh, Kate, I'm not. Definitely I'm not.” Laurel slipped an arm through Kate's. “Come, we'll go inside.”

Max caught up with them. “Laurel, we need to talk.”

“Max”—she lifted her chin high—“I'm afraid there is nothing more to be said.”

As the door closed behind Laurel and her guest, Max shouted, “I'll be back. There's plenty to be said.”

P
ARKING OUT OF
sight of the big house, Annie hurried up the drive. This would not be a good time to encounter the reclusive actress. Annie could see no tactful way of explaining her call. Annie decided she would airily explain she had dropped in to see her stepsister, just a family call, and Marguerite Dumaney or any of the others could take that response any way they wished.

She was pleased that a row of willows screened the mock cave from the front of the house. The dragon head, sans fire, poked out peaceably from the rocky lair, reminding Annie of her favorite hole on the island's miniature golf course.

A thin figure burst from the shadows beside the fake cave. Rachel pelted down the drive, skidding to a stop in front of Annie. “Pudge told me. Did you really see Mike?” A thin hand grasped Annie's arm.

“I really did.” Annie took Rachel's hand in hers, pulled them to a bench near the willows.

As they sat down, Rachel turned to face Annie. “Tell me what he said. Tell me every word.” Rachel's eyes shone.

Annie talked fast, describing Mike's face and the sound
of his voice and the way he looked. Annie turned two thumbs up as she concluded, “and he burned the money.”

Rachel clapped her hands together. “Yes, he would. That's what he would do.” Her smile was pleased and proud. For a moment. Abruptly, the smile slid away, leaving her face composed but stern. She looked so young and so implacable. “They lied to us.” Her eyes darkened. “If it hadn't been for you…” Her voice trailed away.

“I agree that”—Annie picked her words carefully, for this was dangerous ground—“it's important to remember that you have to believe in yourself. Trust yourself. But Rachel, you will have to talk to your mother, get things straight with her before you can see Mike. You have to understand that your mother wants to protect you.”

“From Mike? That makes me so mad.” Her voice cracked. “She doesn't have any right!”

Annie knew that Happy had every right. And it was possible that Marguerite had misled Happy, too. “Wait, Rachel. Don't quarrel with your mother. That's never the way to persuade anyone of anything. Let Pudge talk to your mother first.”

“Oh, Annie.” Rachel's face drooped. “She and Pudge aren't even speaking. He's going away. You'll talk to him, won't you? Please ask him to stay. I need him.”

Annie tensed. Ask Pudge to stay? Oh no, that she couldn't do. That she could never do. She avoided Rachel's eyes, staring at the slick green plastic neck of the dragon. “They aren't speaking?”

Rachel pressed thin hands against her cheeks. “He slammed out of her room, and he rushed down the stairs. His face…” She shivered. “I've never seen Pudge look like that.” She grabbed Annie's hand. “He'll stay if you talk to him. Or maybe he could come to your house.” She
jumped up from the bench. “Annie, thank you for everything. I'm going to—”

Running footsteps slapped against concrete.

Rachel's head jerked toward the sidewalk that curved around the willows. Annie pushed up from the bench.

Happy, her eyes brilliant with anger, her round face flushed, plunged into view, her gaze sweeping from Rachel to Annie. She stopped a few feet away, tried to catch her breath. “I saw you leave the house, slipping out.” Her curls quivered as she glared at Annie. “You came from that boy, didn't you? You and Pudge, mixing in where you don't belong. Rachel's my daughter and I know what's best for her.”

“Mother, Aunt Marguerite lied. She lied.” Rachel's passionate cry hung in the quiet air.

Annie stepped toward Happy. “Let me explain—”

Happy clapped her hands over her ears. “I don't want to hear a word. Not a word. Everything's gone from bad to worse since Pudge came, and now you're causing trouble, too. Everything's so upsetting.” Tears spilled down her plump face. “I hate ugliness. Everything's dreadful now. Quarrels. And meanness. And I'm so frightened for Marguerite. She wants to give all the money to that dreadful man and she doesn't understand how they're all so angry. That kind of anger is dangerous. And now this trouble with Rachel on top of everything else. You just go home. Leave us alone. You don't belong here.” Happy pointed toward the street.

Rachel grabbed Annie's arm. “I don't want her to leave. She's my sister. She's more of a sister to me than you are a mother. All you ever do is try to keep me from being happy. You don't care about me. You never have.”

Happy took a step forward. Her plump hand whipped
through the air. The sound of the slap mingled with Annie's shocked gasp and Happy's sob.

Rachel shuddered. She touched the cheek with its irregular reddening splotch. She backed away, one step, two. “I hate you. I hate you!” She whirled away and ran up the drive.

 

“Max”—it was a pathetic wail—“I don't know what to wear!” Annie stood in the middle of her walk-in closet and stared indecisively at the row of dresses, slacks and tops. She held a pair of white wool slacks and a red Christmas sweater in one hand and a short black dress in the other.

Max leaned against the doorjamb, eyes bright, lips curving in a merry smile. “I kind of like what you have on now.”

Annie flicked a glance at the full-length mirror and her reflection, attired in shell-pink bra and matching bikini panties. She grinned. “You would.” Their eyes met in the mirror and Annie loved what she saw. But—“Max, be serious. What should I wear?”

“I am serious,” he murmured. He pushed away from the door and planted a kiss on her shoulder. “Mmm.”

“Max.” She wriggled free. “I have to decide.”

He settled for a swift pat on her fanny and resumed his admiring stance in the doorway. “How about that pink outfit?” He walked to the far end of the rack and lifted up a hanger.

She studied the Battenberg lace jacket and the shell with a star lace inset and the silk slacks. “That's more for spring.”

“Hey, it's eternal spring here. Usually.” Even the Low Country could dive to the forties in winter. “You look wonderful in pink.” He slipped the clothes free and handed her
the blouse. “Not that it makes any difference. Pudge already thinks you hung the moon. You could wear a voodoo mask and a black cape and Pudge would be enchanted.”

Annie clutched the blouse and stared at Max, her face doubtful. “Would he?” She whirled around abruptly, began to pull on the shell. Her words were muffled. “This is silly. It doesn't matter. Besides, he probably won't come.” Her head emerged and she smoothed her honey-blond hair, determinedly not looking at Max. She slipped into the slacks. “Come on, let's go check dinner. Although we'll probably end up eating by ourselves.” She was already in the jacket and stepping into silver flats and hurrying past Max. She waited for him at the foot of the steps, but her bright smile didn't hide the uncertainty in her eyes.

“He'll come.” Max's tone was easy, confident. He turned to the stove and lifted a lid.

Annie leaned against the doorjamb, admiring Max's swift, economical movements, his concentration as he checked the meat, started work on the salad. She relaxed, pushing away her uneasiness over spending an evening with her newfound father, to savor this moment, the kitchen bright and cheerful with its white cabinets and copper-bottom pans hanging at the central workstation and blue-and-white-tiled floor that always made her think of a huge wave cresting and breaking. Her smile was soft as she watched Max, handsome face intent, thick blond hair tousled, a dish towel dangling over his shoulder, hot pad at the ready.

As he turned to pull down the oven door, he caught her glance and winked, a sexy, funny, happy wink. “What wine, do you think? Cabernet or…?”

“Cabernet. I'll open it.” She hummed as she opened the wine, made a last check in the dining room. She stood
in the doorway. She had enjoyed setting the table. The china was the Holly Ribbons pattern from Royal Worcester, perfect for the holidays. She smiled as she lit the rose candles in cut-glass holders.

Holidays. All those Christmases without a father…Annie looked at the grandfather clock in the corner and felt cold and lost. It was a quarter after seven. Was Pudge fashionably late? Or was he not coming?

At seven-thirty, she opened the French door and stepped out on the terrace.

“Annie?”

She ignored Max's call, walked across the terrace and stared out into the darkness. She knew the lagoon was there, but there were no lights and no moon. Her hands clenched. Why had she set herself up for this? She knew her father wasn't reliable. God, how well she knew. Max had good intentions, of course he did, but he didn't understand about Pudge Laurance. Silly damn name. Silly man. But she wouldn't be caught like this again. Never again.

The terrace door squeaked.

She needed to have it oiled. It was nice to fasten on a specific, solvable problem. Tomorrow she'd find the 3-In-One and oil the hinges. Too bad she couldn't oil Pudge Laurance out of her life. She shivered, cold in her lace jacket. She wrapped her arms across her front and listened to Max's footsteps on the flagstones, her mouth tight, her jaw set.

“Hey, it's cold out here. Annie, that was Pudge on the phone—”

She hadn't heard the phone ring. Well, at least her absentee father had the grace to make an excuse. That was more than he had done for twenty-five silent years. Why should she have expected things to be different now? But
she couldn't ignore the welling up of disappointment. Dammit, why did she care so much?

“—and he's on his way. He was awfully sorry, but there was a big dust-up with Rachel. He's coming as fast as he can.”

Annie swung toward Max. “Trouble with Rachel? Did he say what happened?”

“No. But it must have been a bad scene. Pudge sounded pretty grim.” Max grabbed her hand. “Come on. Hey, you're like ice. Let's go in.”

Max insisted on building a fire.

Annie held out her hands, welcoming the waft of heat. “Poor Rachel. I still can't believe her mother slapped her! Poor kid. I wish I'd grabbed her and brought her home with me. But I couldn't. I mean, there was her mother glaring at me, telling me to go away. I swear, how much are they going to lay on Rachel? And I don't know whether she's ever had a chance to talk with Mike. I called twice this afternoon, but each time I was told she wasn't available. I don't know what that was supposed to mean. I'd swear she was there. It was Alice who answered. She always seems to answer. She has a funny voice. I mean, she sounds so much like Marguerite Dumaney, but with all the vim missing.”

“Probably,” Max said dryly, “it means that Happy told Alice not to put you through to Rachel.” He moved to the wet bar. “A glass of wine?”

“I'll wait.” She moved even closer to the fire. So okay, December weather on a barrier island was a far cry from winter as Northerners know it and the mercury had touched sixty-four in the afternoon, but tonight it was in the low fifties and cold to a Southerner. She wondered abruptly what kind of winters Rachel was accustomed to. And Pudge? Where had he spent his winters? How odd to
know so little about people who were consuming her every thought. “I don't even know where Pudge has lived.”

The doorbell rang.

They went together to the front hall. As Max pulled open the heavy door with its spectacular inset of stained glass, Annie found it hard to breathe. But when Pudge stepped inside, with a quick handshake for Max and a gentle kiss on her cheek, Annie found it easy to slide her arm through his, welcoming the nubby feel of his tweed jacket. It seemed very natural to look up as she led him through the living room into the den and to assess his face, to see how pronounced were the lines around his gray eyes, how drawn his cheeks. He sat beside Annie on a jaunty peppermint-striped sofa. As soon as they settled, Dorothy L. jumped up beside Pudge, then plumped herself in his lap.

He looked down at the fluffy white cat and smiled, a genuinely welcoming, pleased smile.

Max's face was a study. “Hey, she's my cat!”

Dorothy L. didn't spare a glance at Max. She turned her round face up and, blue eyes glowing, began to knead on Pudge's jacket.

Annie reached out her hand. “Don't let her snag—”

“Oh, that's all right. I haven't had a cat in a long time.” He rubbed behind her ears. “Never in one place long enough.”

Max brought them each a glass of wine. He grinned at Pudge. “I want you to know that Dorothy L. is very particular in her friendships.”

“So damn particular,” Annie said dryly, “that I am generally invisible to her.”

Max attempted to look modest. “Obviously, she is par
tial to handsome and charming men. But who can blame her?”

It was a happy moment, but Annie knew it couldn't last, this little moment of peace with an elegant cat who had somehow known who most needed her love that night.

Pudge smiled down at Dorothy L. whose deep-throated purr was as cheering as the crackle of the fire and the lilt of a Schubert waltz. But despite the soft light from the Tiffany lamp, Pudge looked his age and more, his sandy hair and mustache liberally flecked with gray. He smoothed Dorothy L.'s gorgeous white fur, then looked at Annie, his face somber.

She spoke without thinking and it didn't seem odd to go directly to what mattered, to talk from her heart to his, even though this was only the fourth time they'd met since he arrived on the island. “What happened with Rachel?”

“I found her down at the dock, piling into a rowboat with her backpack and a sack of Chee•tos and a couple of power bars. She was trying to get the oars right and they were too heavy for her. If I hadn't seen her…” He sighed. “I was lugging my own suitcase. I couldn't wait to get out of there. It's a hell of a place. On the surface, everyone's polite. But you can feel poison. They're mad and scared and desperate. I don't know how Happy stands it. We never had any money, but we had a good time.” He took a sip of wine. “For a while.” He put down the glass, ran a hand through his sandy hair.