Sugarplum Dead (19 page)

“T
HANKS
, I
NGRID
. I
F
you'll take care of everything at the store…No. Nobody knows what happened.” Annie reached out to stroke Dorothy L. as she rolled on her back on the kitchen counter next to the phone. “Apparently Happy was killed around midnight. No suspects yet.” Except her father, but Annie wasn't going to put that into words. Of course, Rachel was convinced that Emory Swanson killed her mother. Annie rubbed behind Dorothy L.'s ears. Emory Swanson…“Listen, Ingrid, see what you and Duane can find out about Emory Swanson. There's a suggestion Happy Laurance knew something that would keep him from getting big bucks from Marguerite Dumaney…. Right. I'll check with you later.”

Annie hung up the phone and scooped up the purring white cat. “Nobody knows more people than Ingrid and Duane.” Ingrid not only worked at the bookstore, she and her husband, a retired newspaper editor, managed Nightingale Courts, a complex of rental cabins on the Sound. Annie nuzzled Dorothy L. “From little acorns…” she murmured. Who knew what might happen if a rumor swirled around the island that the murdered woman and Swanson were at odds?

Annie glanced around the kitchen, at the breakfast dishes still unwashed. Carrying Dorothy L. over her shoulder, she wandered to the kitchen table and picked up the rest of her sweet roll. Breakfast seemed eons ago. But she knew she was dallying. She didn't really want to do
what had to be done. Would Rachel be furious? Oh yes, of course, if she learned of Annie's efforts.

Rachel. Pudge. They both mattered to her. She didn't want to choose between them. But she would not protect one at the expense of the other.

Frowning, Annie picked up the memo pad beside the phone and found a pen. She wrote fast, ripped off the sheet and propped it beside the phone.

 

It was only two blocks from the Broward's Rock Police Station to Parotti's Bar and Grill. Max walked fast. Pudge in jail. Garrett on his way back to the Dumaney house. At the pay phone in front of Parotti's, Max plunked in the coins. He tried home. No answer. He left a message, then dialed Annie's cell phone. No answer.

“Damn.” Max looked across the street. The island's one taxi was parked in front of the ferry boatdock. Its owner, Joe Bob Kelly, sat on the pier, legs dangling, holding a fishing pole. A good day for black drum or flounder. So, one problem solved. He could get a ride home and get his car. But Garrett was on his way to the Dumaney house. Max yanked up the phone, dropped his coins and called information. He was taking a lot on himself, but he felt there was no time to lose. If only Judge (ret.) Halladay was home. And if only Max could persuade him to take on a client, who needed help now. The operator came on the line. Max added fifty cents for the number to be dialed. A gruff voice answered and Max spoke urgently. “Judge Halladay…”

 

Two cars were at the pumps at Parotti's Gas'N'Go. Annie waited until both drivers had paid before stepping inside the convenience store. Sleigh bells jingled as the door closed.

Mike's eyes were startled, then eager. He came around the counter, hurried toward her. “Is Rachel all right? I can't get through to her. I called as soon as I got her message. But I had to come here after school.”

Annie studied him, large dark eyes, regular features, dimpled chin. He was boy-next-door handsome. “She called you?”

“This morning. But I'd already left. I didn't pick up the message until I got here.” He clenched his hands. “She was crying and she said somebody'd killed her mom and everything was awful, but I should wait to hear from her. I've been trying to get somebody to take over for me, but it's Christmas. Everybody's busy. I get off at five. I'll go over.” He rubbed his face. “I guess I can't go to the house. Could you ask her to meet me at the gazebo?”

Annie said offhandedly, “Is that where you met last night? Before you went up to Rachel's room?”

He blinked in surprise. “Did she tell you? I thought—” He broke off.

“That she wanted you not to tell anyone?” Annie was sure that had been part of Rachel's message to Mike. “But”—and she kept her voice matter-of-fact—“we need to figure out if you saw anything last night that could help.”

“Last night?” He sounded puzzled. “Why…?” He stared at her. “Was that when it happened?” His voice was hushed.

“Yes. So it's important to know whether you saw anyone around the house. Or if a boat came up to the dock or if there was a strange car parked near the drive.” Or if, still angry, you stopped by Happy's room when you left the house last night. But that was a question that belonged to Chief Garrett.

Mike frowned, jammed his hands into his jeans pock
ets. “I was on my bike. I came on the bike trails and the golf cart path. I was never near the front of the house.”

“Why don't you tell me what happened from the time you arrived.” Come into my parlor…“You might remember something that would help.”

The sleigh bells jangled. Mike looked past her. His face lightened. “Hey, Jimmy, listen, man, could you take over here for me for a few minutes? Just long enough so I can”—he looked through the plate glass—“check this lady's car for her?”

Jimmy was stork-tall with arms that dangled to his knees and a long face that looked patient and equable. “Sure, Mike.”

“Thanks, Jimmy. I'll be right back.”

Annie followed Mike outside.

“Why don't you pop the hood,” he suggested.

Annie slid into the driver's seat, pulled the lever.

Mike lifted the hood and she joined him.

Crows cawed, hopping along the road. Annie spoke over their raucous cries. “What time did you get to the house last night?”

“I didn't get off work until ten. I went home for a sandwich, then I rode my bike over.” He unscrewed the oil cap. “It was probably around eleven.”

“Was Rachel waiting at the gazebo?”

Mike used the dipstick, replaced the cap. “Yes. We sat there for a few minutes, but it was pretty cold, so we decided to go up to her room.” He avoided Annie's eyes.

Annie wasn't interested in romantic interludes. She said briskly, “Before you went in the house, did you see anyone in the garden?”

Mike rubbed his face. “It was real dark last night. No moonlight. We didn't see anyone, but I thought I saw a light near the maze. Maybe it was just headlights in the lane.
Rachel said nobody'd be coming out of the house this late. We ducked down on the floor of the gazebo.” He frowned. “I was almost sure I saw a light, but I didn't hear a car. Maybe it had stopped. Anyway, we waited a few minutes, then we went up to the house. Rachel said nobody would come to her room. So we snuck up on the grass. We didn't walk on the path because the shells make too much noise. When we got in the house, I thought I heard somebody ahead of us in that big room. We listened, but nothing happened, so we hurried through that room and up the stairs.”

“Was everything quiet on the second floor?” The floor where Happy died. The door to her room was not more than twenty feet from the stairs. Annie watched his face and wondered at the odd light in his dark eyes.

“Yeah.” He spoke in a whisper. “Rachel pointed at her mom's room and told me to be quiet. There was a light under her door. She said her mom must still be up. We tiptoed up the stairs.”

So Mike knew which room belonged to Happy.

“Did you hear any noises when you were in Rachel's room?” The house was huge and well built. But how could a woman be battered to death and no one hear any sound of struggle or call for help? If the first blow was unexpected and brutal enough, Happy might have fallen without a cry. The only sound would have been the weapon striking bone and flesh. Annie did not want to imagine that sound.

Mike's shoulders hunched. “Nothing. We didn't hear a thing. We had on some music.”

“Did Rachel come downstairs with you when you left?”

He shook his head. “No. I know my way out.”

Annie guessed this wasn't the first evening he'd ridden his bike through the darkness and met Rachel in the
gazebo and crept up the stairs to her room. But that could also be a question for Chief Garrett.

“How about Happy's room? Was there still a light under the door?”

Mike jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I don't know. I didn't look.”

A young man stealing down a staircase after an illicit visit to a girl's room would surely check the door to her mother's room. If for no other reason, to be sure the door remained shut. What if that door had opened?

There were other questions that could be asked, but not now and not by Annie. What had he worn last night? Could he produce those clothes? “When you got outside, did you see anyone? Hear anything?”

He shook his head. “I ducked off the path and ran down to the gazebo. I'd left my bike there. I got on it and rode home. I didn't see anybody.”

 

Judge Halladay lifted grizzled silver brows. “Most irregular.” He made no move to open the car door. “No mother or father.” His big shoulders heaved impatiently and he lifted a massive hand. “All right. I remember. I'm not in my dotage. Stepfather's in jail. The girl's your wife's younger sister. So you're the brother-in-law.” His cold brown eyes scanned Max. “I've seen you at the club.” The judge was a scratch golfer. “You're pretty good. Well, let's get on with it. No need to sit here all day.” He opened the car door, pulled himself out. He'd topped six feet five inches in his youth. Now he bent forward, moved like an old but still powerful bear, wisps of white hair falling over a broad, mottled forehead, small wire glasses perched on a bulbous nose, a wiry beard fluffing from his heavy jaws.

Max hurried to keep up. The judge was irascible and unpredictable, but if he committed to a client, he was un
stoppable. The judge ignored the whale fountain and the dragon's head poking out of the fake cave. Max thought that after half a lifetime on the bench, nothing surprised him. Or amused him.

This afternoon the glass bubbles on the front door were dark. Max pulled the silver chain.

The judge looked at the curving drive with brooding eyes. “Police chief's car,” he observed.

“Yes. That's why I hurried. He's here to talk to Rachel. I hope we're in time.” Max impatiently jerked the chain again.

 

The Broward's Rock Police Department was in a pastel building with a great view of the small harbor. Annie jolted to a stop and slammed out of her car. She scanned the parking lot. It held one police cruiser and the small Honda that belonged to Mavis Cameron, Billy's wife and the station dispatcher and chief clerk.

Annie pushed in the door and smiled at Mavis. They'd met years ago when Mavis had fled to the island to escape an abusive marriage. She and Billy had since married.

Mavis looked up and her kind brown eyes were worried. She didn't smile.

Annie understood. “My dad's here?”

Mavis nodded. “He's talking to his lawyer.”

“How about Max?” Annie peered down the corridor. It was hard to miss Max's voice.

“He just left.” Mavis beckoned to Annie.

When she reached the counter, Mavis whispered, “He
went to get a lawyer for that girl. Annie, you'd better hurry back there.” She paused, bit her lip, then said unhappily, “That's all I can say.”

T
HE
V
OLVO SQUEALED
into the Dumaney drive. Annie jolted to a stop behind Max's crimson Ferrari and realized he'd reached home and retrieved his car. She slammed out of her car and ran up the wide, shallow steps. As she pulled the chain, she tried the knob. She was in no mood to wait.

The door was unlocked. As she stepped inside, Max hurried toward her down the hall. “Did you get my message?”

She shook her head. “No, what's happened?”

“Bad stuff.” His dark blue eyes were dark with worry. “Garrett's in there”—he jerked his head toward a closed door—“with Rachel. I brought Judge Halladay out to represent her. Thank God the old warhorse was curious. I guess he's bored and this is a little bit of entertainment. He's got about as much warmth as a swarm of piranhas, but he's a canny old devil and he'll protect Rachel.”

Annie took a step toward the door, chin high. “Is she in there by herself with the chief and the judge?”

Max grabbed her arm. “Better not. No. Her aunt's with her.”

Annie's eyes blazed. “Dammit, she doesn't like Marguerite.”

“Garrett insisted. He wouldn't let me stay. But at least Marguerite agreed to have the judge there for Rachel.”

The long, dark hallway was cold, but Annie knew the iciness that seeped through her was deeper than the chill of the hallway. Max hadn't rousted the judge out of his home and persuaded him to represent Rachel without good reason.

Or a bad reason.

“Max, why is Garrett questioning Rachel?” Garrett couldn't possibly know of Rachel and Mike's meeting.

“It doesn't look good. You see, they found the afghan that Pudge threw into the Sound—”

Footsteps clipped in the hallway. Alice Schiller, her face drawn and tired, walked swiftly toward them. She looked at each in turn. “What's going on? I saw the police car. Wayne said they asked to see Rachel. And I can't find Marguerite.”

Max pointed at the closed door. “The police chief is questioning Rachel. Marguerite's in there with them. Judge Halladay's here for Rachel.”

“Garrett's questioning Rachel?” Her voice was sharp.

Annie remembered that it was Alice who had thought of Rachel when no one else had, Alice who sent Annie up to be with the stricken girl.

“That's ridiculous.” Alice turned toward the door.

Max said quickly, “He won't let you in.”

Alice glared at him. “Why Rachel? That's absurd. I'll tell him so.”

He spread his hands. “Alice, you said you saw Pudge this morning carrying an afghan out of Happy's room.”

Her dark eyes turned accusingly to Annie. “I didn't tell anyone. I told you I wouldn't.”

“Pudge told the police himself. That's all right. But”—Max shook his head—“Pudge told them he found the
weapon, a poker, and wrapped it up in the afghan and threw it all in the Sound. They pulled the afghan up and brought it to the station. I was there. Billy Cameron put it on the table, the afghan sopping wet.” Max looked at Annie. “Pudge slumped down in his chair because he knew what they would find. When they unwrapped the afghan, it wasn't a poker. It was a field hockey stick. Rachel's field hockey stick.”

“Oh my God,” Alice moaned. She buried her face in her hands.

Annie stared at the older woman, the woman who cared about Rachel. Tentatively, she reached out to touch Alice's shoulder. Annie's fingers tingled with shock. Alice was not sobbing. Her body was rigid, stiff and hard with anger. She dropped her hands, looked at them with bright, hot eyes. “We've got to do something. Anyone could have gotten that stick. Anyone.”

Max stared at the closed door. “I wish we knew what was happening.”

“Oh, we can do that. Follow me and keep very quiet.” She took a half dozen steps and yanked open a door. She snapped on a light and stepped into a long, narrow coat closet. “Close the door behind you,” she whispered. She stopped at the cedar wall at the end of the closet. Reaching up, she pushed on a portion of the top left wall. Slowly, the wall began to move. She gestured for Annie and Max to step past her. The narrow passageway, just wide enough for one person, smelled musty.

“What is this?” Annie whispered.

Alice reached up, pulled a chain. Every ten feet or so, a single light bulb glowed in a socket on the low ceiling. In the harsh light, a brief smile flickered on her worn face. “You have to remember that this place was Claude's dream house. It's honeycombed with secret passageways.
Go straight ahead for about twenty feet. Step quietly.” Alice pulled the closet panel shut.

Annie didn't like the low ceiling, the constricting walls. This was not her idea of fun. The passageway was probably considered a top location by neighborhood rats and brown recluse spiders. She eased gingerly forward, sweat oozing on her palms.

“Here.” The whisper was as light as a spider touch.

Annie wanted to clutch Max's hand, but, hey, she was a big girl. He eased an arm around her shoulders. She gave him a tight smile.

Alice bent close to them. “Lights off now.” She pulled a chain and they stood in utter darkness. Annie's skin crawled. Black pressed against her eyes.

Slowly, a line of light appeared. Alice's hand preceded the light, opening a thin aperture, perhaps a quarter inch wide and a foot long, that provided a view of a narrow portion of the library. Chief Garrett sat on the near side of a long mahogany table. The back of his neck was red and his shoulders were rigid. Opposite him, facing the passageway, were Rachel and the judge. Rachel looked small in her oversize red-and-green striped T-shirt. She sat with her knees to her chin, her arms tightly clasped around her legs. Sullen anger boiled in her dark eyes. Her pale face was set and hard. Only the quiver of her lips revealed her fear.

Annie held tight to Max's arm to keep from erupting. She wanted to burst into that room, snatch Rachel away from Garrett.

The aperture cut off the judge's head and most of his body. An arm in a dark blue suit coat stretched on the table. The fingers of his ham-size hand splayed open, a ruby glowing in a thick gold ring. The body language proclaimed total confidence.

At the far right edge of the opening, the toe of a black
slipper tapped impatiently, the only evidence of Marguerite Dumaney's presence.

The view was constricted, but they could hear every word.

The judge's voice, deep and calm, was as overpowering and relentless as the Mississippi rolling to the delta. “My client has answered fully and with candor. There is no point in repeating questions.” Once upon a time, he would have said, “The bench won't tolerate browbeating of the witness.” The effect was the same.

Garrett bit off his words. “Yes, sir. I do have questions on a different topic.”

“Proceed.” A deep throat-clearing. The huge arm and hand remained relaxed.

Rachel's eyes flared. Her fingers laced together.

The black slipper stretched forward. Marguerite's silk-sheathed ankle was trim and attractive.

Garrett tapped his pen on the table. “Miss Van Meer, tell me a little about your school activities.”

“School?” Rachel stared at him.

“Yes. What games do you play?” He opened his briefcase, pulled out a sheaf of photographs.

“I don't know what you mean.” Rachel's fingers relaxed a little. “Video games?”

Garrett wasn't old, but he wasn't a kid. “No. Outside. Athletic games.”

“Oh, sports.” Her tone was easy. “Tennis. Soccer. Field hockey.”

“Do you have your own field hockey stick?”

The judge's arm moved as he leaned forward.

“Yes, I—”

“Just a moment, little lady. Chief, I'll ask you to lay some groundwork for your question.” The deep voice brooked no disagreement.

“All right, Judge. I have photographs here of a field hockey stick and I would like for Miss Van Meer to tell me if it belongs to her.”

“Surely you aren't asking this young lady to admit ownership of any item merely through study of a photograph!” The full tone was shocked, indicating a regrettable lapse in judgment on Garrett's part.

Garrett thrust the photographs toward Rachel.

Rachel reached out, picked up the pictures. She stared at the first, her brows drawn in a tight frown. “That could be my stick, but it's all dirty. Where did you get it?”

“Please look at the third photograph, the close-up of the handle, and the inked initials.” Now it was Garrett who sounded confident.

Rachel spread the pictures out, leaned over the third. “Why, that's—”

“A matter to be studied.” The deep voice rolled over hers. “My client will decline to—”

Rachel exploded, “Where did you get my stick? Why is it all messed up?”

“Your stepfather didn't find a poker in your mother's room. This is what he threw into the Sound. Now you tell me”—and Garrett's voice was as hard as a steel-toed boot—“where you last had this hockey stick.”

Rachel pushed back from the table, came to her feet. She looked down at the pictures and shuddered.

Judge Halladay caught her arm. “It's all right, little lady, you don't have to answer any more questions at this time.”

Rachel ignored him. “My hockey stick.” Tears trickled down her face. She whirled and ran to the door, opened it and plunged into the hall.

There was silence in the library. The judge heaved to his feet. His blue suit coat gaped, exposing the Phi Beta
Kappa key dangling from his watch pocket. “I'll be conferring with my client.” For a big man, he moved swiftly.

Marguerite Dumaney's rich voice rose over his. “Judge, I am shocked at what has occurred here. I have no doubt of my niece's innocence. All girls and mothers have moments of stress. That is simply natural.” A red-brocaded arm came into view, hand outstretched, ruby-tipped nails glistening. “Chief Garrett, we are all suffering. I will ask you not to add to our troubles. Surely you can see that your suspicion of Rachel is absurd.”

Garrett was on his feet, too. Even from the back, he looked satisfied. “I haven't suggested that Rachel is a suspect in her mother's murder. I simply asked where she left her field hockey stick. But perhaps you can explain to me about Rachel's disagreement with her mother.”

Alice Schiller's hand moved and the pencil-thin view of the library disappeared. The lights in the narrow passageway blazed. She jerked her head. “Come on.”

Annie wanted to protest. What was Marguerite going to say? Didn't Alice understand how damaging this might be to Rachel? But the slender woman was already moving up the passageway and a call to stop her might be heard in the library.

When they reached the main hallway, Annie saw the judge lumbering up the main steps. He would find Rachel. But for now, something needed to be done about Marguerite. Annie said hotly, “We should have stayed. We don't know what Marguerite's told him.”

“I know.” Alice's tone was impatient. “Come on, let's go out to the garden.” She walked swiftly through the huge, untenanted reception room and out the door of the terrace room. “This way.” She led them down a path that veered away from the main ellipse and ended at the maze. “There are benches in the center.”

As they plunged between the tall walls of shrubbery, Annie wondered if Alice Schiller shared her mistress's talent for the dramatic. But at least the pungent scent of the evergreens was an improvement over the dead air of the secret passageway.

Alice stood by a marble bench. “We can't be seen from the house.”

Annie moved restively. “I wish we knew what Marguerite said about Rachel and Happy.”

Alice pivoted toward Annie, a hand outstretched. Her narrow, elegant face lifted, her dark eyes glowed. She was transformed from a prim-faced, negligible woman to an overpowering presence. “Poor, dear Rachel. A child struggling with the beginnings of passion. My sister was doing her best”—a freighted pause—“but youth can be so troubled. I know Rachel wishes she could call back, bury deep, those dreadful words of anger hurled at her mother. Yet you and I know”—a strand of auburn hair drooped over that compelling, still-lovely face as she bent close, her husky voice throbbing with sorrow—“that their quarrel can now never be ended.” She held the pose for an instant, then straightened up, her face once again prim. “That's what she said.” Alice's voice was once again thin and uninflected. “Or something on that order. Marguerite can't help herself.”

Max frowned. “Doesn't she know what kind of damage she's doing to Rachel?”

Alice's lips quirked in a bitter smile. “Marguerite neither knows nor cares. But you both seem to care.” Her level gaze was intense.

Annie didn't know how to answer. How could she explain the connection she felt to a girl she didn't know existed a week ago? How could she describe the emotions they'd experienced together since Rachel came storming
into Death on Demand seeking the big sister she'd never had? “Rachel and I…” Annie turned her hands palms up. “I remember how hard it is,” she said simply. “I remember. And she loves Pudge.” Annie didn't add,
So do I,
but the words lodged in her heart.

“Your father,” Alice said wearily, “is a damn fool. If he hadn't tried to get rid of the hockey stick, Rachel wouldn't be in this mess.”

Max was abrupt. “How do you think the cops would have responded if they'd found the stick in Happy's room?”

Alice stuck her hands deep in the pockets of her pleated navy skirt. She stared at the dusty ground.

“Who,” Max persisted, “would the police see as suspects? Especially as soon as they found out about Rachel's fight with her mother over Mike. As for Pudge, they may not know yet that he and Happy were wrangling over Rachel, but somebody will tell them—”

“Joan already has.” Alice's tone was dry. “Joan looks innocuous, but she always manages to be on the periphery if anything unpleasant is happening. I think it's because she leads such a dreadfully boring life. Especially since she and Wayne divorced.” She waved a hand impatiently. “None of that matters. What matters is that Rachel mustn't be accused of killing her mother. I know it didn't happen”—she spoke with utter assurance—“so we have to do something to protect her.” Her tone was fierce.