Sugarplum Dead (17 page)

Pudge gestured at his door. “Search away. You won't find anything.” He spoke with utter confidence.

Billy spoke quietly into his handheld radio.

“We'll wait.” Garrett's head jutted forward. “And we'll look, Mr. Laurance. Don't worry about that. And you're going to be in jail until you decide to tell the truth.”

Rachel tugged at Annie's arm. “I don't understand. What's going on? Why did Pudge say he…” she couldn't say the words. “Why?” She stared at Pudge, her eyes wide and frightened.

Annie picked her words carefully. She spoke quite clearly and distinctly. “I think he saw something in your
mother's room that worried him. I think he was afraid the police might—”

“Annie!” Pudge cried out. “No.”

Annie whirled to face Pudge, still holding to Rachel. “Look at Rachel, Pudge, look at her. She loved her mother. She didn't do this.”

Pudge lifted his hands in a plea to Annie, his face sagging in despair.

For a sickening twist of time, Annie wondered if she'd gambled and lost. She'd felt certain Rachel was innocent, that the shaken, miserable girl she'd consoled could not possibly be a murderer. But Pudge had been here in the house; he'd seen their quarrels; he knew Rachel far better than Annie did. And Pudge had run with a weapon, he'd run hours after Happy died, but, unless he killed her, he had no way of knowing how much earlier she had died. Should he have noted the darkening of the bloodstains, the rigidity of the body? He wasn't a man accustomed to violent death. He'd entered a room, found Happy brutally dead…and seen what?

Just for an instant, shock moved in Garrett's eyes, then he stared at Rachel.

Rachel understood, too. “You mean…” Her face creased into disbelief; then, slowly, it softened. “Pudge—you lied for me? Oh, Pudge, I didn't hurt Mom. I was so mad at her, but I wouldn't hurt her. Pudge”—Rachel's eyes glowed—“you lied for me.”

Garrett took it all in and Annie knew he would root and dig until he knew everything that had happened, until he learned about Rachel and Mike and Marguerite and Happy and Pudge, every quarrel, every threat, every burst of anger. As for now, his eyes studied Rachel with steely objectivity. Kids kill. It happens, sadly, too often in a world where violence is celebrated in graphic detail as
entertainment, and children grow up watching murder and cruelty on an everyday basis. Want to be a man? Make my day, blow somebody away. Pissed? Buy an AK-47, it isn't hard to do, and you've got a superb hunting weapon if your quarry is human.

Garrett's suspicious gaze swung to Pudge. Pudge was still high on Garrett's suspect list because Pudge could be dissembling, knowing that a confession to murder at a time long past the crime would be taken as a sign of innocence. “You heard the girl. So tell me about the weapon, Mr. Laurance.”

Pudge still hesitated, remembered horror in his eyes. “I…” he swallowed, shook his head.

Rachel darted to him, clutched his arm. “It's all right, Pudge. Tell them.”

Pudge looked into her pleading eyes. “Rachel, I'm sorry. I should have known better.”

Rachel stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek.

His arm around Rachel, Pudge looked shamefaced at Garrett. “I guess I was a damn fool. But if you'd seen…” He took a deep breath. “I went to Happy's room and opened the door.” His eyes darkened with remembered horror. “I saw Happy. It was terrible. She was…” He glanced down at Rachel, stopped.

Rachel shuddered. “I know. Alice came up to my room and she tried to make me stay, but I ran down the stairs.” Rachel pressed her hands against her face.

“Don't,” Pudge urged. “Don't remember that. Think about your mom the way she was. Remember her smiling.”

Garrett didn't interfere. Instead, he waited and watched. Annie wished his face wasn't quite so hard and disbelieving.

Rachel dropped her hands. “You found Mom.” She
looked at Pudge. “Why did you run away?” Her voice was full of dread.

Pudge rubbed a hand hard against his eyes. “Just stupid. That's all. I was afraid…Anyway”—he lifted his head—“I saw the poker there on the floor and one of your sweaters was lying not far from the sofa. I saw the sweater and I guess my mind snapped. I grabbed it and the poker and wrapped them up in an afghan and ran. I guess I'm just a damn fool.” Pudge sounded sick at heart.

“Was the sweater stained?” Garrett's voice was sharp.

“No. Not at all.” Pudge shoved his hands through his hair. “It was dumb, but the minute I saw Rachel's sweater, I panicked. If I'd had time to think, I'd have known better. I didn't think Rachel hurt anyone. But—” he said miserably, “I thought the police might think so. Anyway, I grabbed the afghan, like I said, and wrapped it around the poker and the sweater and ran.”

“One of my sweaters….” Rachel looked puzzled. “What color was it?”

Pudge was still for just an instant too long.

Pete Garrett gave him a hard, thoughtful stare.

Rachel blinked uncertainly.

“Blue,” Pudge said finally.

“But I—”

“I'm not exactly sure.” Pudge spoke fast. “It doesn't matter. I—”

“It does matter, Mr. Laurance.” Garrett swung toward Rachel. “I'll ask you to check your clothes. See if there's a sweater missing.”

Rachel simply nodded.

Annie was sure there was no missing sweater. Whatever Pudge saw, it wasn't Rachel's sweater. She was sure of it, and so was Pete Garrett.

Pudge lifted his head, his face stubborn. “Whatever. I
don't remember the color exactly. Anyway, I thought it was Rachel's. Maybe I was mistaken.” He sounded relieved, as if facing the memory lessened its impact.

“Maybe you were.” Garrett's tone was icy. He looked at Rachel. “We want to find out who killed your mother.” The words were gentle, but Garrett's eyes were coolly observant.

Rachel's pale face was determined. “Well then, let me tell you who did it.”

“W
AIT A MINUTE
.”
Garrett's eyes scoured Rachel's face. He held up his hand. “Who's your closest relative? I want a responsible adult present when I talk to you.”

Garrett didn't intend to be cruel, but Annie saw the spasm on Rachel's face as she grappled with the pain of her loss and with the terror of being alone, her mother gone and no one there to whom she belonged.

Pudge saw it, too. “It's all right, Rachel. I'm here. I won't leave you.”

Garrett was impatient. “Isn't Mrs. Dumaney her aunt? I'll ask her—”

“No.” Rachel's voice rose in a panicked squeak. “Not Aunt Marguerite. I hate her. I hate her!”

The police chief's eyes narrowed. He stared at that young tear-swollen face, distorted in anger.

Rachel spoke feverishly. “I can't tell you if Aunt Rita's there. She won't let me. Please, you've got to listen. Let Annie come with us. She's my sister. She's a grown-up.”

Annie felt the bright burn of tears. She's a grown-up. As if Annie were one of those magical older beings with power. That's how children saw the world, themselves and grown-ups. If only Annie had power, she'd use it for Rachel. But power comes to those who seek it.

Annie said briskly, “Max and I'll go with you. After all, Pete, Rachel is my sister and neither Max nor I were here this morning.”

Garrett's mouth folded into a tight line. He had to feel
hamstrung and beleaguered, his investigation impeded, imperiled and delayed. But he would want very much indeed to hear what Rachel had to say.

“That will work. Annie and Max will come with us.” Rachel's tone was triumphant. “Come on. You need to see the theater.”

“Wait a minute.” Garrett looked at Billy. “Take Mr. Laurance downstairs with the others. Check with Pirelli about the search warrant. We'll be…” He looked at Rachel.

“In Uncle Claude's theater.” She started up the stairs.

Pudge pointed up the stairs. “There's a small theater on the fourth floor. There's also a museum with Claude's movies and scripts and all kinds of memorabilia.”

Annie and Max hurried up the stairs after Rachel and Garrett, one flight of steps, then another. At the top, Annie felt a little winded. So this was the fourth floor. Rachel hurried to an oak door, pulled it open. She flipped on the lights. The sixteen-seat theater was a miniature of the art deco film houses that flourished before World War II, ornate plaster-of-paris wreaths on the ceiling, a red velvet curtain, a small crystal chandelier, a glistening hardwood stage.

“Here's where Aunt Rita and that man come all the time.” Rachel shivered. “She spends a lot of time up here watching those old movies. When that man comes, they turn down the lights and put candles on the stage and wait for Uncle Claude.” Rachel's voice was high and quavery.

Annie looked around the small, musty room, so enclosed and far from light and life. Rachel's words evoked a scene of darkness and malignancy.

Rachel leaned forward, nodding earnestly. “He killed
Mom because she knew something that was going to keep Aunt Rita from giving him all her money.”

Garrett pulled a notebook from his pocket. “What man?”

“Dr. Swanson.” Rachel looked toward Annie and Max, who were bunched in the doorway. “They know all about it. They were at Aunt Rita's birthday party Wednesday night. That's when she said she was going to give her money to him. Everybody's been furious.” When no one spoke, Rachel added impatiently, “Don't you see? Aunt Rita wants to give her money to Dr. Swanson because she thinks he has some kind of magic that lets her talk to Uncle Claude.”

“Black magic,” Annie murmured. That was as good a name as any for trifling with the supernatural. Rachel went right past Swanson's New Age euphemism, the Golden Path.

“Anyway,” Rachel said huskily, “Mom was really upset. Everybody was.”

Except for Swanson, of course. Everyone else at that dinner had indeed been upset, including Happy Laurance. That was why, when Vince called, Annie had immediately assumed the victim was Marguerite Dumaney. Instead, Marguerite's charming, good-humored sister lay dead. Annie still felt astonished. Happy, a murder victim?

Garrett looked toward Annie and Max.

Annie said quickly, “Rachel's right. Marguerite made it clear. Apparently there's a lot of money. She inherited from her father plus she was married to Claude Ladson, a movie producer. He left his fortune to her, not to his children.”

“His children?” Garrett looked puzzled.

“Marguerite's stepchildren,” Max explained. “Wayne Ladson, Terry Ladson, Mrs. Farrell.”

Annie nodded. “They were going to be out in the cold. Along with Happy Laurance.”

“Will be out in the cold,” Max amended. “I doubt that Marguerite has changed her mind.”

“Mom wasn't going to let it happen.” Rachel sounded utterly positive. “That's what I'm trying to tell you. Mom was real upset. I tried to talk to her about—” She broke off, her eyes sliding away from Garrett.

Annie understood. Rachel didn't want to tell Garrett about her quarrel with her mother and her fight to be free to see Mike.

“You tried to talk to her?” Garrett said quickly. “When?”

“Last night. After dinner. She was in the gazebo.” Rachel clung to the back of a seat. “She told me to go away, that she'd deal with me later, that she had to think what to do. I asked her what she was talking about, she looked so worried and upset. She said, ‘It's Aunt Rita. I've got to stop that man from taking all her money. I can do it. I'm not going to let him get away with it. It's robbery, that's all it is. He's a thief. Well, I know what to do. I'm going to talk to him and when I finish, he'll know it's no use. I can do that. I've got papers to prove it and I'm going to put them in a safe place. Or I could…'Then she shook her head and looked even more upset. ‘Oh, I don't know which way to go. If I go to him, Marguerite will never forgive me. But I have to decide.' She nodded her head very hard. ‘I will decide tonight.' She hugged me and said she was sorry about…”—Rachel's eyes slid toward Annie—“about the afternoon—”

Annie remembered the swift movement of Happy's arm and Rachel's red cheek.

“—and she told me to run on, that we'd talk tomorrow. She said she'd made up her mind, that it wasn't fair to Wayne and Terry and Donna for Marguerite to throw
away all of Claude's money. She hugged me and said everything would be all right tomorrow.” Rachel's thin face was drawn by misery and anger. “That man did it. He killed Mom.”

Annie tried to picture a confrontation between Happy and Dr. Swanson, Happy threatening him. Would he attack her unless he knew where the papers were? Happy had told Rachel she was going to put them in a safe place. Would Happy have brought them out at such a meeting? Surely not. Happy's room, from Annie's brief glance, showed no traces of a search.

“You've got to find the papers.” Rachel's eyes burned with intensity.

“There will be a careful search of your mother's belongings. Let me get this straight….” As Garrett sorted out the relationships and the money and who Swanson was and where he could be found, Annie considered the possibilities. Did Happy call Swanson, threaten him? Was the call, if it was made, sufficient to alarm him into deciding to kill Happy? But how did he get into the house?

“…lots and lots of money—”

Annie interrupted Rachel. “How would Swanson get inside the house?”

Rachel waved that away. “Maybe Aunt Rita gave him a key. Or maybe Mother let him in.”

“At midnight?” Annie asked.

“Midnight?” Rachel's voice was thin. “Was that when—” She broke off, stared at the floor.

Garrett looked at her sharply. “Where were you at midnight?”

Rachel blinked. Her pale face was blank. “Midnight? I was in bed.”

Garrett said nothing, simply waited. His manner re
mained courteous, but his bright blue eyes were skeptical.

The silence expanded. Annie tried to keep her own face blank, but she was afraid that Rachel was lying.

Rachel's eyes moved uneasily around the room, but she wasn't looking at them. She was figuring and thinking—and scared.

“I see.” Garrett's tone was neutral. His eyes dropped to his notes. “About the sweater Mr. Laurance saw…do you have a blue sweater?”

“No.” She sounded puzzled. “Maybe it was someone else's sweater.”

Garrett closed his notebook. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Laurance—”

“Van Meer,” Rachel interrupted. “I'm Rachel Van Meer. Pudge is my stepfather.”

Garrett opened his notebook, wrote swiftly. “We will take a formal statement later.”

He was turning to go when brisk steps sounded in the hallway.

Billy Cameron poked his head inside. “Captain, we got the search warrant and started on the Laurance room. You'd better come.”

As Garrett and Billy headed for the stairs, Rachel whispered, “What do they mean? Are they talking about Pudge's room?”

Annie felt her heart thud. She nodded and headed for the stairs. If Garrett saw them, he'd send them away. She looked over her shoulder, held a finger to her lips, moved softly down the steps, Rachel and Max behind her.

The second-floor hallway was empty. The door to Pudge's room was open. Easing across the hall, she peered inside.

There was nothing remarkable about the furnishings, a
guest room for a man, twin beds with brown and black plaid spreads and matching drapes, a plain mahogany dresser, television, bookcase, adjoining bath. The open closet door revealed a half dozen hangers with shirts and slacks. Annie's gaze stopped at the open suitcase on the bed.

Garrett bent close to the suitcase.

Billy concluded, “I came for you as soon as I opened it.”

“Get pictures, Billy. Tag the suitcase and the coat. Send it all to the lab.” Garrett stepped back from the bed, his eyes still on the open suitcase. “That's what the murderer wore.”

Bunched inside the suitcase was a yellow slicker, its surface mottled with dried blood, streaks and splotches of dark maroon.

Fingers clamped onto Annie's arm. “That's my raincoat. That's mine!”

Garrett jerked around at Rachel's piercing whisper. Irritation tightened the lines around his eyes and mouth until he looked at Rachel.

Rachel held on to Annie for support. She wavered on her feet, her face ashen.

“Get her out of here. Go back upstairs, all of you. Wait in that theater.” Garrett was on his way to the door.

Annie grabbed Rachel, turned her away. She and Max supported Rachel between them as they slowly climbed the steps. On the third floor, Rachel stopped. “I don't want to go up there. I hate that place.”

“We can wait in your room,” Annie said quickly. She glanced at Max, but his head was turned as he looked down the stairs and listened.

Rachel leaned against the wall. She sucked in deep breaths and her color improved. “How did he get my
raincoat?” She looked like a terrified colt, her eyes huge and staring. “My raincoat. It makes it look like I killed Mom.” Her voice shook.

Annie reached out, grabbed her hand.

Max turned from the stairwell, though he still had a listening look. “Where do you keep your raincoat?”

Some of the panic eased out of Rachel's eyes. “Downstairs, in a closet off the main entrance. Everybody keeps their coats and stuff there. Sure. Anybody could have gotten it. He could have snuck in there and got my slicker.”

Annie was having a hard time picturing Dr. Emory Swanson stealthily pilfering a raincoat, then slipping up the stairs to Happy's room. What did he say to Happy when he walked in on a chilly but dry December night carrying a bright yellow rain slicker? If he (or anyone else) brought the slicker, that argued premeditation. A poker grabbed up in haste suggested an argument ending in unplanned violence. But the bloody slicker had to be explained.

Was the sweater stained? Annie didn't like the question, but she couldn't ignore it. There had to be an urgent reason for Pudge to carry the sweater away. Was it really a sweater he was trying to hide? Was that a lie and had he grabbed up the raincoat? But if he ran with the poker and the afghan, why put the raincoat in his suitcase?

Clearly, Pudge had feared that Rachel was the murderer. Rachel could be guilty. There was no doubt that Rachel was distraught, but Rachel surely would be distraught if she'd argued with her mother and lost control and snatched up a poker and battered her to death. But if the killer wore the raincoat, the murder had to have been planned. Annie could understand a sudden fury, a loss of control, but she could not imagine Rachel as a careful, conniving, cold-blooded killer.

It seemed to Annie that everything hinged on the raincoat.

Or had Pudge told the truth and Rachel lied? Did she have a blue sweater? Could that be proved? Could she have worn the raincoat and this morning hidden it in Pudge's suitcase? But Rachel would never endanger Pudge. Would she?

Annie looked at Rachel, huddled against the wall, her face gray, her eyes pools of misery. Annie's heart ached. She reached out a hand, but before she could speak, Max moved swiftly toward Rachel.

“Is there another way downstairs?” He spoke softly. “Besides the main stairs? I want to see what Garrett's going to do.”

Rachel pointed down the long hallway. “There are back stairs that go down to the kitchen. Come on, I'll show you.”

As they passed closed doors, Rachel murmured, “That's Wayne's room. The first one on the right. The next one is a guest bedroom where Donna's staying. Those big double doors”—she pointed to her left—“are Aunt Rita's rooms. Alice is next to her.”

At the end of the hall, she opened a door to uncarpeted stairs. They clattered down into a service porch. Rachel opened the door into a long, bright kitchen that smelled of good strong coffee and fresh pastries. Rachel led them across the kitchen into a breakfast room.