Sugarplum Dead (25 page)

Annie recalled the words that had hung in the big room:
you have to give love to get…
Claude Ladson saw the lack in his daughter, but his words so many years ago could not open a closed heart. No, Donna didn't understand passion or love or heartbreak or despair. But her tears mourned her lack.

Donna bent across the desk, popped open the recorder, picked up the tape. She replaced it in the cabinet, closed the drawer.

Annie gestured toward the theater next door. “Who did it, do you think?”

“Oh hell, that's pretty obvious. I wouldn't put anything past Swanson, but he wouldn't choose that tape. No, my
clever big brother probably found that little phrase in a tape to Terry. Terry was always in hot water with Dad: girls, drugs, money, you name it.” Her thin lips curved in a cold smile. “Of course, Wayne may clever himself into deep shit with Marguerite. But I don't intend to tell her. And why should you? You're not in Swanson's camp, are you?”

 

Back in the guest bedroom, Annie turned off the cell phone, dropped it in her purse. She yawned and started toward the twin bed. She didn't know what to do, if anything. No, she wasn't in Swanson's camp. She wasn't in anybody's camp except Pudge and Rachel's. Did Annie owe any responsibility to Marguerite Dumaney? Marguerite was a driven, lonely, vulnerable woman whose foolish quest to communicate with the dead had resulted in death. That was a fair enough judgment, wasn't it? Wasn't Happy's murder a direct result of Marguerite's threat to divert her fortune from its rightful heirs? Happy was determined to prevent Swanson from getting the money and so she died. That couldn't be clearer. She had papers she'd intended to show to Swanson.

If Rachel was telling the truth…

Annie shivered. They had only Rachel's word for the papers. Was Rachel clever enough to have created a motive for her mother's murder?

The papers. If only they could find the papers. Annie reached the bed, sank thankfully onto it. She was tired, so tired. Tomorrow she'd talk to Max. The thought curved her lips in a smile. She sank onto the bed, turned off the bedside lamp. What an awful, long, frightening day. She stared into the darkness and saw the odd glow at the windows overlooking the garden. She lay stiffly for just an instant, her eyes wide. She was throwing back the comforter when a siren wailed.

F
LAMES SPIKED AGAINST
the velvet black of the sky, shooting up in yellow and red bursts. A muffled boom signaled the explosion of a gasoline tin. Helmeted men in heavy yellow fire gear maneuvered thick hoses. One hose wetted down the garage roof, another sprayed the side of the house, a third arched into the fire. Water hissed, turned to steam. The smell of dank smoke mixed with the stench of gasoline. Despite the swirling sparks, Wayne and Terry each ducked into a parked car, drove them into the garden, since the drive was blocked by fire trucks, then ran back to move the other cars. Annie was glad she'd left her Volvo in front of the house.

The firemen had no need to order the occupants of the house to stay back. They'd arrived on the terrace in ones and twos, everyone there by the time the fire trucks arrived, summoned by a next-door neighbor. No one showed any interest in getting nearer to the blaze engulfing the toolshed. Wayne and Terry, both breathing hard, crunched up the oyster-shell path to the terrace to join the silent band. Another muffled boom and one wall of the toolshed sagged in, disappearing in a flare of flame.

The terrace lights shone down upon the watchers. Everyone was in a state of disarray. For once, Marguerite
Dumaney was not the star. She was simply one more bedraggled figure in the crowd on the upper terrace, her hair hidden beneath a green silk cap and her jade dressing gown misbuttoned. Alice wore an orange cardigan over her navy wool gown. Wayne crossed his arms over his bare chest and shivered. Faded jeans hung low on his hips. A wisp of Spanish moss clung to Terry's tartan plaid pajama top. Donna's rose negligee peeped from beneath a cream silk raincoat. Joan might have been poised for a swift walk in her green sweatshirt and sweatpants, the athletic picture marred only by pink hair rollers. An oversize white turtleneck hung almost as long as Rachel's nightshirt.

Marguerite clung to Alice. “I don't understand.” Her voice was low and thin without its customary husky richness. “Who did this?” In the sharp glare from the spotlights on the terrace, her haggard face was bereft of beauty, her eyes bright with fear. “Tonight Claude said no. And now this….”

Alice snapped, “Don't be a fool, Rita. Can't you smell the gasoline? Someone set the shed on fire.”

“Why?” Marguerite's voice rose.

Donna stalked to the end of the terrace, her silk raincoat swishing, and stopped beside Wayne. “No point in looking for the papers out here, was there?”

“Papers in a toolshed?” Wayne's growl was a combination of defensiveness and derision. “Where any gardener could find them? That would be stupid.”

Joan joined them. “Happy
was
stupid. And she was not only stupid, she must have given the murderer an idea where she put the papers.”

Rachel bolted across the terrace. “Don't you say that! Mom wasn't stupid. Who are you to talk about my mom?”

“Papers?” Marguerite flung up her head. Her voice was once again piercing. “What papers?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Mom said—”

Alice broke in, loud and definite. “Happy told Rachel she had some important papers hidden. We wondered if that might have something to do with her murder. We've been looking for the papers.”

Marguerite tossed her head. “That's silly. Happy was just dramatizing herself. What kind of important papers could she have?”

“If there were any papers in that shed, we'll never know about them,” Terry drawled.

The fire was damping down now, just a glow of embers marking the location of the shed. The firemen began reeling in their hoses.

Wayne shivered. “Standing out here isn't going to help us find out who or what started that fire. I, for one, am going back to bed.” He turned and strode toward the back door. The others, after a moment's pause, followed. Terry watched them go, then turned to the path leading down to the dock.

Rachel clung to Annie's arm. “The fire proves that Mom had some papers, doesn't it?”

Annie's eyes smarted from smoke and fatigue. “I guess so.” She wasn't certain of anything, though there had to be a reason that the shed was set on fire. An accidental blaze seemed unlikely and Annie, too, had smelled gasoline. But, if the murderer knew the papers were in the shed, why set it on fire? Why not simply search it?

Annie and Rachel were the last ones in the terrace room. Alice waited. “I'll lock up,” she said wearily. The whirling lights from the fire truck cast alternating bands of black and red in the room. “Perhaps I'd better stay until the firemen are finished. They may wish to speak—”

A muffled scream rose, then broke off.

Alice's head jerked up. “My God, that's Marguerite!” She bolted toward the reception area.

Annie and Rachel were close behind Alice when she reached the bottom of the stairs to the second floor. From above came the sound of voices. Joan was clattering down the steps, her eyes wild, her mouth working. “I've got to call the police.”

Wayne shouted down the stairs after her. “Wait, Joan. Let's stick together.” He thudded down after her. Over his shoulder, he called, “Terry, you and Donna stay with Marguerite. Don't touch anything.”

Alice grabbed Wayne's arm. “What's happened? Where's Marguerite?”

“She's all right. Scared as hell. Somebody's been in the house. The door to Happy's room is open and everything's thrown around. We need to call the cops. You better come with us. We'll have to search the house.” He caught up with his ex-wife, took her arm.

Joan shot him a look of surprise. For an unguarded moment, her heart was in her eyes. Wayne stopped short, slid his arm around her shoulders. “It's okay.” His voice was gentle, without its usual veneer of disdain.

Alice hurried up the stairs.

Annie squeezed Rachel's hand. “Go on down with Wayne and Joan. I'll see what's happened.” Rachel should not look again into that blood-spattered room.

Rachel clung to Annie. “Mom's door open—Annie, what if Swanson set the shed on fire and waited until we all came out? Then he could get into the house and look for those papers, couldn't he?”

Oh yes, certainly Dr. Emory Swanson could have done that.

Yes, if the fire was set to make it possible to search Happy's room for her papers, obviously the only person
who would benefit by finding those papers was Emory Swanson.

“Oh, Annie.” Rachel's voice trembled. “This will prove he's guilty.”

Annie wished that were so. She wished she didn't have a cold and harrowing sense that the fire and search were part of a malignant design that began with Happy's death and was far from complete.

 

Even though her night's sleep had been broken and disjointed, Annie woke early. She heard the faraway slam of a car door. The windows were gray with the first light of day. She threw back the covers and walked on bare feet across the cold floor to the near window. She looked across the garden to the burned-out shed and the stocky figure standing there with folded arms. Annie dressed quickly, grateful for her lamb's-wool sweater and wool slacks. She checked on Rachel and was glad to see her deep in sleep, only a few dark curls peeking out from beneath a comforter.

Downstairs, Annie found breakfast set out buffet-style on the bar in the terrace room. No one else was in the room. Annie poured two steaming mugs of coffee and carried them with her. She unlocked the back door and stepped out into a chilly morning. The sun was just up and the thin rays sliced like layers of gold through the mist rising from the water and the garden, gilded the tops of the live oaks and magnolias, glistened on the moist roof of the summerhouse, threw a deep shadow from the maze.

The sour smell of charred wood overlay the pungency of the salt marsh. Annie hurried toward the blackened remnants of the shed. Slowly circling the ruin, Chief Garrett studied the ground.

Annie wasn't surprised to see him. The young chief took his duties seriously. He would want to search for clues in daylight.

He looked up as she neared. His round face was heavy with fatigue, his blue eyes somber. “Morning, Annie.” His voice was hoarse.

“Did you get any sleep?” Flashlights had winked in the shrubbery long after the police search of the house had ended.

Garrett rubbed his temple. “Some.” He swung toward the ruin. “Set with gasoline.” He looked up at the house. “Anybody could have done it.”

Annie understood and wished she hadn't. Garrett didn't think an intruder had crept through the night, committed arson, then waited to get into the house as its occupants straggled out to watch the fire.

“Here, Pete.” She handed him a mug of coffee.

He hesitated for an instant, then nodded his thanks.

Annie lifted her mug, welcomed the dark, rich taste. “Happy's papers—”

He interrupted, not rudely but with weary finality. “What papers? Do you think if Happy Laurance—a non-stop talker, from what I've heard—had information damaging to Swanson, she would have kept it to herself? Why should she? To protect his reputation?”

It was the only time she'd ever heard Garrett be sarcastic.

He didn't wait for a response. “As for the search in her room”—his shrug was dismissive—“that was no search. Somebody dashed in there, tossed stuff on the floor, pulled out drawers, dumped cushions.” He nodded toward the house and the third floor. “Was the kid in her room when you came out to see about the fire?”

Annie didn't want to answer. How had Pete guessed?
That had been her first move, to check for Rachel, but Rachel wasn't in her room. Annie drank her coffee. “No.”

“Where do you suppose she was?” Blond eyebrows quirked over skeptical eyes.

Annie had no answer. Her hope was that once again Rachel was meeting Mike at the gazebo because it wasn't until later, when the second fire engine pulled up, that Rachel had pelted across the terrace to join the others.

Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. “The circuit solicitor's looked over what I've got.”

Annie gripped her coffee cup, wished its warmth could melt the ice sheathing her heart. Garrett was getting ready to make a move, and that was going to be bad for Rachel. The next step would be up to Brice Willard Posey, the circuit solicitor. Annie knew Posey. Once he made up his mind, he was as immovable as a monolith. And, in Annie's opinion, about as bright. If Posey decided to charge Rachel…

Annie blurted, “Pete, she's only fifteen. She couldn't have made up those papers. That's crazy.”

Garrett gingerly rotated his head. “Damn neck,” he muttered. “You don't think she's smart enough? Crafty enough? Cruel enough? You read the newspapers these days? Tell me about teenage killers and how they plan.”

Rachel was a good kid. But that's what they said in so many of the stories, shocked neighbors describing a killer as the boy next door and the accompanying yearbook photo giving no hint of evil.

“Not Rachel.” Annie's voice was harsh.

Garrett simply looked at her, a flash of pity in his cool blue eyes.

Annie drank down the rest of her coffee, but even the best coffee can't dispel fear. “Posey wants to charge her?”

Garrett massaged his neck. “If we don't have an open-and-shut case against somebody else, she'll be arrested Monday. And certified as an adult.”

 

Annie refilled her coffee mug. She ignored the buffet. Her stomach was a hard, cold knot. She paced back to the windows, peered down toward the burned-out shed. Garrett was gone. She pictured him driving back to the jail. He would settle in his office and read his notes, study the diagrams of the crime scene, riffle through the pictures, perhaps even run the videocam tape.

But she knew as much as Garrett. There was only one pointer to anyone other than Rachel and Pudge. That was Rachel's report of her mother's intent to hide papers that she was going to show to Swanson to keep him from taking Marguerite's money. Happy knew something she thought was important. She'd gone to the library and checked back issues of the
Reno Gazette-Journal
for vital statistics. That's as far as they were going to get until they knew what Happy was looking for or had a date. Annie felt a sudden surge of hope. Garrett kept emphasizing that they had only Rachel's word for the existence of the papers, but they had more than that—they had Happy's conversation with Wayne before lunch on Thursday and they had her trip to the library.

Annie finished the coffee. Okay, a conversation and the library. Neither was definitive, but both provided support for the existence of the papers and at the very least could provide Judge Halladay with arguments for the defense…Arguments for the defense. Rachel in custody. Rachel in an orange jail jumpsuit. Rachel terrified. Rachel convicted. Annie's stomach churned.

“What's wrong?” The voice was matter-of-fact but concerned.

Annie whirled to face Alice Schiller. It didn't seem to matter whether it was day or night, pajamas or slacks, Alice always appeared calm and self-possessed. Last night, she'd worn a navy wool gown. This morning, she wore a purple turtleneck and gray slacks. She moved with the same grace as Marguerite, but her face was bare of makeup, her auburn hair drawn into a tight bun. As she walked nearer, Annie saw the deeply indented lines splaying from her eyes and mouth and the dark shadows beneath her eyes.

“I saw you talking to the policeman.” Alice's gaze was direct and demanding.

Annie hesitated, then she remembered the older woman's concern for Rachel, her efforts to protect her. “They're going to arrest Rachel Monday.”

Just for an instant, sheer fury moved in Alice's dark eyes. “No.”

Annie turned her hands palms up. “The only evidence they have implicates Rachel. They don't believe the papers exist. They think Rachel made that up.” And, though Pudge meant well, his efforts to protect Rachel might well convince a jury of her guilt.