Sugarplum Dead (27 page)

Annie struggled to her feet, clutching the red velvet bag. “Fresh from Santa's workshop.” She wished her voice sounded less like a croak.

Swanson started to rise.

Laurel's hand shot out, gripped his arm. “No, dear Emory, Annie won't join us. She”—and her wink was roguish—“is my very own Christmas elf. Here, let me pour you a cup of tea. No, you first.” With incredible speed, Laurel poured the steaming tea and thrust the cup and saucer at him. “No better way of showing my heartfelt gratitude than to afford you a Christmas surprise. Dear Annie will hide a small memento, and who knows when you shall find it. I hope this will be a thrill. Ah, the days of youth and the incredible expectancy….”

Annie hurried across the wooden floor of the entry hall and into the library. She darted the length of the room to the oversize Louis XV oak desk. Several folders were stacked on one corner, an in box, a speaker phone, a tall crystal vase with fresh daffodils. But she didn't see…

Was that a footstep? Oh God, had Swanson pulled away from Laurel? Surely Laurel would hold him somehow. Sit on his lap, nibble on his ear…Annie plumped the red velvet bag on the corner of the desk and pulled out the top box with its gay red-and-white-striped paper and red bow sparkling with gold flecks. She burrowed beneath other boxes, grabbed the hard plastic of a picture frame, tugged it to the top, all the while searching. Not on the desk. He must have moved it. Relief swept her when
she spotted the ornate plastic frame holding Laurel's photograph on a wooden console behind the desk. Swiftly Annie moved around the desk, picked up that frame, replaced it with the identical frame and picture from the velvet bag. She stuffed the retrieved frame to the bottom of the velvet bag. Holding the candy-striped box, she moved quickly away from the desk, seeking a hiding place. She tucked it beneath the fronds of a Whitmani fern in a green pottery jardiniere next to a long Empire sofa.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Annie composed herself, hoping she looked like a successful Christmas elf. She was halfway across the room when Swanson and Laurel appeared. Annie tried to swing the gift bag casually even though she was so aware of the purloined frame it might as well have emitted beeps.

Laurel clapped her hands. “Annie, you won't believe this!”

Annie thought she would.

“Dear Emory is simply as determined as a six-year-old boy.” Admiration overcame a hint of petulance. “He insists he gets to open his present now. This minute! But I insist”—her tone was arch—“that he must find it. Now, you can tell him whether he's warm or cold.” With a trill of cheery laughter, Laurel settled on the edge of the desk, crossed her legs, showing a length of silk hose.

Swanson paced down the room, his eyes sweeping every surface. He went first to his desk, yanked open drawers.

“Cold.” Annie's tone was far from arch. Dear God, if they could just get out of here. What if Swanson grabbed the velvet bag? She resisted the impulse to clasp it to her chest.

Swanson paced behind his desk, slid open the doors to the console.

Annie edged toward the front hallway. “Cold.”

Some of the tension eased out of Swanson's face. He looked around the room, took a step toward the windows and the Empire sofa.

“Warmer.” Annie backed closer to the hall.

Another step.

“Warmer, warmer…oh”—he was nearing the sofa—“you're getting hot.” She willed:
Look in the damn fern, buddy, look now.

Swanson glanced at the sofa and at the fern. He took two steps, pulled apart the fronds, lifted up the box. “Well…” He turned, managed a tight smile. “Very nice of you, Laurel.”

Laurel leaned forward in anticipation.

Swanson jerked at the box, ripped off the paper and lifted the lid. He stared into the box.

Laurel slipped from the desk and hurried to him. She lifted out the big gray shell with rugged peaks. “I thought this was simply perfect for you, Emory. A knobbed whelk. Of course, it is empty.” She sighed. “Poor dear snail. But”—a bright smile—“he leaves behind such a lovely reminder. And now I know you will often think of me.” She whirled and carried the whelk to the console and placed it lovingly next to her photograph. She picked up the frame. “So dear of you, Emory—”

Annie could have strangled her. Without a qualm. Why did she have to focus his attention on that damn frame?

“—to keep my picture so near.” Laurel placed it by the whelk, turned and sped toward Annie. “Ah, but now we must be off. There are many presents yet to deliver.”

All the way to the front door, Annie found it hard to breathe. Laurel chattered. It seemed to Annie that Lau
rel's farewell to Swanson was interminable. Finally they walked down the steps and to the car. Annie slipped into the passenger seat and shut the door, locking it.

As the car started and Laurel gave one final farewell wave toward the unsmiling Swanson, Annie almost spoke, then subsided. She didn't say a word when Laurel idled her car next to Annie's. She got out, swung the door, but at the last minute poked her head inside. “Laurel, why a whelk?”

Laurel's deep blue eyes, dark as ink, were thoughtful. “The perfect gift is often so hard to find.” Her voice was cool. “An empty shell…”

 

Max pulled four chicken breasts from the refrigerator. “Wish I could have seen you skulking around the man's library.” He grinned.

“Oh yeah, laugh. How funny would it have been if Swanson had found the twin to Laurel's picture? I would damn sure have been holding the bag, right?” Annie glared.

Max reached over, ruffled her hair. “Aw, come on, Annie. You have to hand it to Ma. She's in a class by herself.”

Annie thought that wasn't quite accurate. She was in a class with Raffles, Miss Melville, Bulldog Drummond and Pam North. Especially Pam North.

Max picked up the broiler pan. “After all, she's got the goods.”

“We hope.” Laurel was even now listening to tapes of Swanson's phone conversations which had occurred since Laurel presented him with the framed picture Wednesday evening.

Annie leaned against the kitchen counter, hands deep
in her skirt pockets. “Max, what if there's nothing incriminating on those tapes?”

“We keep digging.” He studied the spice cabinet.

“Not too much rosemary,” Annie warned. “Max, what should we say tonight?”

He looked at her soberly. “Nothing.”

“Rachel has no idea—”

“That's good. There's no point in scaring her. We're doing everything we can, Annie. I spent the afternoon digging up information about the Ladson family. And on Happy. I even ran a check on the cook. Ma's listening to Swanson's tape. So tonight we'll have a good dinner and we'll talk about Christmas. Why don't you get out the stuff to make divinity?”

So they were going to have a happy Christmas evening. Annie loved making divinity for her friends. Tonight Rachel and Mike could help. It would be fun. King's X on murder. A fine plan—if she didn't picture Pudge sitting in a narrow cell or think about Monday.

A
NNIE SHIVERED, WATCHED
the patterns of moonlight and cloud against the dark screen. She'd pushed the guest-room windows up, welcoming the familiar scent of the marsh, but sleep didn't come. This second night at the Dumaney house was no more comfortable than the first. Though surely there would not be a fire tonight. Don't borrow trouble, her mother always warned, but trouble was as close as a shadow and could not be forgotten. Was Rachel sleeping? After all, this was her home. But no one at the Dumaney house had seemed to notice or care that Rachel was out until almost nine. Of course, Annie had called and left a message for Alice that they were having dinner and would be in later. Still, when they came up the stairs, no one popped out to greet them. Rachel's aunt was either unthinking or uncaring. Whichever, this was not the place for Rachel to stay. Perhaps, when Annie returned home, she could invite Rachel to come and stay. If Rachel was still free….

Annie folded her arms behind her head. Max wouldn't mind. In fact, tonight he'd enjoyed the kids. Maybe all of them had worked at it, but the evening had been fun. They'd popped popcorn and made popcorn balls as well as the divinity. Mike had eaten five popcorn balls.

She wished Chief Garrett had been at their house tonight. If he'd seen Rachel and Mike…Annie moved restlessly. If Garrett ever learned that Rachel and Mike had been in the garden the night Happy was murdered—

The single popping sound was sharp and distinct.

Annie pushed up on her elbow, listening. Fireworks? Car exhaust? Gunshot? Her ears sorted sounds of night, the
qwawk
of night herons, the throaty murmur of mourning doves, the rattle of magnolia leaves, the sough of tall pines. Then came an unmistakable
killdee, killdee,
the shrill scream of the killdeer when alarmed.

Annie flung back the covers and raced to the window. She peered out into the garden. The piercing scream of the birds continued. Was that a shadow darting across the back of the garden? Annie blinked and it was gone. In a moment, the cry of the killdeer subsided.

That popping sound…Annie grabbed her robe, slipped into her house shoes. It took only a moment to plunge across the dimly lit hall—Annie was grateful for the yellow gleam from wall sconces—and tap on Rachel's door. “Rachel, it's me, Annie.”

The door opened and a sleepy Rachel, eyes blinking, looked at her uncertainly. “What's wrong, Annie?”

“I don't know.” But, in her heart, she did. She knew the crack of a gun. She might be wrong. She hoped she was wrong. But something scared the killdeers and Annie intended to find out what was responsible. Or who. “It's okay. Go back to sleep. I thought I heard a noise.”

Rachel yawned, nodded and started to close the door.

“Lock it,” Annie ordered.

She didn't move away until she heard the click of the lock. Just for an instant, she hesitated; then, with a decisive nod, she turned back to her room. Inside, she closed the door and turned on the light. She checked the clock—
five minutes after one o'clock in the morning—and reached for her cell phone.

 

“What the hell…?” Wayne Ladson peered at her groggily, his hair tousled, his beard matted. He held a comforter to his bare chest.

“I'm sorry to bother you.” Annie felt the beginnings of embarrassment. But, dammit, she was sure that had been a gunshot. Almost sure. “I don't want to disturb Miss Dumaney, but I need for someone in the family to come downstairs with me and wait for the police.”

“Police? My God, what's happened?” His voice was sharp.

“I heard a gunshot. In the garden.”

His eyes were suspicious. “What were you doing in the garden this time of night?” His eyes noted her orange cardigan and khaki slacks.

“I wasn't in the garden. I was in my room, and I heard a shot. I called the police and got dressed.” She didn't mention her quick check of Rachel's room.

He rubbed his beard. “Wait a minute.” The door slammed.

Annie buttoned her cardigan. It was going to be chilly outside.

The door swung open. Wayne had pulled on a navy sweatshirt and sweatpants and running shoes. He hadn't taken time to comb his hair or smooth his beard. “Okay. What's going on?” He moved toward the stairs, moved fast.

Annie hurried to keep up. “…and I'm sure it was a shot.”

“One shot?” He thudded down the stairs.

Annie was right behind him. “Yes.”

At the foot of the steps, he turned toward the reception room.

Annie stopped. “I said we'd wait at the front door.”

“Please yourself.” He sounded irritated. “I'm going to turn on the garden lights. You can send the cops back there.”

Annie called after him, “But if someone has a gun—”

He looked over his shoulder. “You heard one shot. If it was a shot. Which I think is damned unlikely. I'm going to check out the garden. If the cop comes while I'm out there, fine. If not, I'm getting the hell back to bed and you can explain it to him.”

Annie hesitated, then followed. She'd talked to Billy Cameron and he would likely come to the garden when he saw the lights. If there had been a gunshot, there was no reason to think the person with the gun was still in the garden. Annie began to feel more and more uncomfortable. Maybe she should simply have come downstairs and looked before calling the police and rousing Wayne. The house was silent with the deep quiet of late night—no light, no movement, no sound. There was no hint that any member of the household had been outside. So what difference did that sharp pop make?

Wayne flipped up a bank of switches when they reached the terrace room. He unbolted the door and stepped out onto the brightly lit veranda. The entire garden was thrown into sharp relief by bright spotlights high in the live oaks. A single light near the dock marked the bow of Terry's boat.

Wayne walked to the railing of the veranda, surveyed the garden.

Annie joined him. The only movement was the gentle sway of the pines in the offshore breeze as the cool air from the land rushed seaward to replace the warmer air rising off the water.

“Nobody's out there.” Wayne glared at her.

On Terry's boat, light glowed suddenly in the cabin. Had the lights in the garden awakened him?

“Something startled the killdeers.” Annie tried not to sound defensive.

“Before the ‘shot'?” His tone put quote marks around the word. “Or after?”

She didn't have to think about it. That loud pop, her rush to the window. “After.”

A dark figure moved on the deck of the cruiser, came over the side, dropped to the dock.

“If there was a shot, you'd think Terry would have heard it.” Hands on his hips, he watched his brother stride up the dock.

Annie felt her face flush. Wayne didn't have to be sarcastic. She turned, hurried down the veranda steps and walked swiftly on the curving oyster-shell path. After a moment, she heard a crunch behind her. She was no longer concerned about safety. No intruder would lurk in this lit enclave. In fact, she realized this was probably going to be a pointless exercise, but she wanted to look down near the dock. It seemed to her that the sound of the frightened birds had been deep in the garden. Was there a gate to an adjoining property? Perhaps Terry had heard something. It wouldn't hurt to ask. She walked fast, pausing only to decide which way to veer when she reached the maze. The maze, in fact, formed an impassable barrier between the upper and lower terraces. Paths curved to each side, the south arm leading to the gazebo, the north to the arbor.

A muffled shout sounded past the maze. “Hey,” Terry's voice rose in a shout, “Wayne, hurry! Christ, come here!”

Wayne lunged past Annie, his shoes crunching the shells. Annie ran after him, but he was already beside his
brother at the foot of the gazebo steps when she came around the maze.

Terry grabbed his brother's arm. “She's dead, isn't she?” Terry's voice shook. In the stark light beneath the live oak, his face was gray beneath the sunburn. He wore an undershirt and faded dungarees.

Annie heard their voices, but they seemed far away. She stared at the crumpled figure lying at the foot of the gazebo steps. Yes, Marguerite Dumaney was dead. The bullet had apparently struck her midchest, knocking her onto her back. She lay with her arms flung wide. The front of her green silk robe was terrible with the bright stain of blood. The crimson of her lips made a vivid splotch against the stark white of her face. In death there was no hint of the power she had exuded in life. Despite the deep sockets of her eyes and the jut of her cheekbones, her features lacked sharpness and her face was no longer beautiful. The once-lovely red hair made a ghastly frame for the dead face.

Wayne took a deep breath and turned toward the house.

“Yo?” came a call.

“Billy,” Annie shouted. “Oh, Billy, we're down here. At the gazebo. Hurry.”

Billy was big, but he could move. He careened around the maze, stumbled to a stop. “Don't move. Anyone.”

“It's too late for that.” Wayne hunched his shoulders. “For God's sake, we just found her.”

“I have to secure the crime scene.” Billy pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Have any of you touched anything?”

“Billy, it's all right.” Annie pointed at Wayne. “He and I came out to see if we could find anything. Wayne turned on the lights—”

“—and I saw them.” Terry swallowed. “Wish to hell
I'd turned over and gone back to sleep. But hell, it looked like Broadway, it was so bright. And that was strange as hell. And those damned birds had waked me up.”

Wayne glanced toward Annie.

Billy clicked on his phone, punched the number.

Annie took a step toward Terry. “Did you hear the shot?”

Terry's head swung toward the gazebo. “No. I didn't hear that.”

But the shot startled the birds and their cries awakened Terry.

“I have the scene under control, sir…. Yes, sir.” Billy clicked off the cell phone. “The chief requests that you remain here until he and the crime unit arrive. Please refrain from talking.”

Wayne smoothed his beard, almost spoke, shrugged. He wandered toward the maze, plopped onto a wooden bench. Terry hesitated, then joined his brother. The brothers avoided looking toward Marguerite's body. Annie stared speculatively at the gazebo. It was shocking to find Marguerite Dumaney dead, but astounding to find her dead by the gazebo. Annie didn't profess to be an expert on Marguerite Dumaney's habits, but the only time she'd ever seen the woman outdoors was when Marguerite arrived—dramatically—to publicly accuse Pudge of murder. Once they knew why Marguerite was at the gazebo, they'd be well on the track of discovering who killed her. But the reason seemed obvious. She must have come there to meet someone. That surely wouldn't include anyone in the house. Why come outside when there were many private nooks in which she could easily speak privately to anyone in the house? So not someone in the house. With a surge of relief, Annie realized that included Rachel. Moreover, after Annie had heard the shot, she'd
knocked on Rachel's door and roused her. Rachel could not be accused of this murder. Since Marguerite's death must hinge directly upon Happy's murder, Rachel was exonerated. And Pudge was in jail, so he was exonerated, too.

Although it wasn't long—perhaps fifteen minutes—it seemed forever before car doors slammed and Chief Garrett and Lou Pirelli, both dressed but unshaven, strode around the maze. Garrett ignored them all, walking straight to the steps of the gazebo. More doors slammed; the whirl of a police light flickered from the drive.

Perhaps it was the noise, perhaps the continuing blaze of lights in the garden at this too-late hour. The terrace room door was flung wide and a figure strode to the railing of the veranda.

“What is this?” The piercing voice cut through the night, the sharp yet husky, unforgettable voice.

Every face swung toward the starkly lit veranda.

She stood, dark red hair streaming to the shoulders of her scarlet kimono, haggard face imperious. “Who's there? What's going on? Answer me.” There was no mistaking the deep-set eyes, high cheekbones and scarlet lips, the features cold and haughty and demanding. Oyster shells rattled. Marguerite came down the path so quickly, the swish of her silk kimono sounded like the flutter of shuffled cards, shockingly loud in the silence that awaited her. She lifted an arm, pointed at Garrett. “My good man, I demand—” Then she saw that still figure. For an instant, she was frozen in motion. Slowly, her eyes widened, her cheeks went flaccid, her arm fell. “What…” She took a deep, sobbing breath and walked forward, one leaden step after another, her shaking hand outstretched.

Garrett stepped in front of her. “Ma'am, I'll have to ask you to stop here. No one can—”

Marguerite's head jerked up. Eyes glazed, mouth trembling, she swayed on her feet. Garrett turned toward Wayne. “She needs—”

Marguerite flung herself past Garrett before he could reach out. She flew to the gazebo, fell to her knees beside that still body. She pulled up a limp hand, clutched it to her face and began to moan, “Alice, Alice, Alice…”

Garrett was there in two big strides, pulling a sobbing Marguerite to her feet. He gripped her arms, snapping at Wayne. “Come here. Take her in the house.”

Marguerite resisted, her eyes wild, her body trembling. “Look at Alice! She's wearing one of my gowns. She has on makeup. She never wore makeup. Never.” Marguerite shuddered. “I see myself lying there. Someone tried to kill me! Oh my God.”

Garrett gave Marguerite a hard stare. “Why should”—he paused, dredging for the name—“Miss Schiller dress like you? Why should she come out here in the middle of the night?”

Marguerite pressed her hands against her cheeks. Her eyes widened. But she made no answer.

Annie stepped forward. “Ask Marguerite what Alice told her.”