Sugarplum Dead (28 page)

Marguerite's eyes blazed. “She's wrong, she's…” A deep breath. “Oh God, Alice was wrong. Not Emory. I can't bear it if it's Emory.”

Annie felt sympathy war with disgust as she stared at the elegant, still haggardly beautiful woman, beautiful despite the ravage of tears. Perhaps her beauty was indestructible because every thought was directed within. Everyone and everything served as an extension of herself. Marguerite obviously had not realized that if murder
did not come from without, it must have come from within the Dumaney house. Would she rather see Emory Swanson as the murderer of Happy and the woman he believed to be Marguerite or would she rather look for the eyes of a killer in the faces of her family?

Marguerite's face suddenly crumpled. Her eyes shut tight. She cried like a child, tears flooding, breath catching. “Happy…Alice…I need them. Oh God, I need them.” She sagged against Wayne.

Marguerite's anguish seared through Annie. Everyone who mattered the most to Marguerite was now dead: her sister, Alice, her husband. Was it any wonder that she clung to her faith in Emory Swanson? If she lost that faith, she would lose everything.

Wayne jerked his head at Terry. “Come on. Let's get her inside.”

The two men, supporting Marguerite between them, moved slowly up the oyster-shell path. The only sound was the crunch of footsteps and the harsh gasp of Marguerite's sobs.

A
N UNEASY QUIET
lay over the Dumaney house. Joan and Donna were upstairs with Marguerite. Wayne and Terry stood at the french door of the terrace room, staring grimly out into the floodlit garden. Annie held her cell phone, but decided against calling Max. Let him rest. There was nothing he could do to help right now. Dr. Burford came and went, taking time to see Marguerite. Rachel snuggled beneath an afghan on a sofa near the indoor garden and fell asleep.

“What the
hell
did Alice think she was doing?” Wayne spoke softly as they watched the crime unit continue its slow and painstaking exploration.

“She told me she had a plan.” Annie rubbed eyes grainy with fatigue. “But I don't understand why she tried to trap Swanson by herself.”

Wayne moved his shoulders, trying to loosen tight muscles. “What kind of plan?”

Terry held up a pot of freshly brewed coffee. “Anybody join me?”

Annie hurried to the bar, took a mug for herself, carried one to Wayne. She smelled the steaming, strong coffee, waited for it to cool a bit. “We can figure out part of it.” Although Annie still had trouble believing that
Alice—careful, calm, intelligent Alice—had faced Swanson by herself, her death made that conclusion inevitable. “We know that she was pretending to be Marguerite. That's obvious from the kimono and the makeup. There could only be one reason. Swanson wouldn't come if Alice called him, but he would come for Marguerite. Alice must have called Swanson, pretended to be Marguerite and asked him—told him—to meet her in the gazebo. We don't know what she said. Did she accuse him of murdering Happy? Or did she profess to be puzzled and uneasy because her sister had told her about some papers concerning him? Whatever she said, Swanson came, and, believing Alice to be Marguerite, he shot her.”

Terry dumped three teaspoons of sugar in his coffee. “Wasn't that killing the golden goose?”

Wayne gave a short laugh. “If he'd killed Happy and thought Marguerite knew it and could tell the cops, he'd sure as hell chop the little goose's neck. First things first. Rita's money wouldn't help him if he was convicted of murder.”

Terry stirred his coffee. “Alice was nobody's fool. If she thought the man killed Happy, why did she try to handle him by herself?”

There was no answer to that. The body lying near the gazebo was proof of a plan gone awry.

The door to the terrace room opened. Chief Garrett stepped inside.

Annie took a deep gulp of coffee.

He started with her, of course. “You called 911 at”—he checked his notes—“one-oh-six, reported hearing a gunshot. What time did you hear the shot?”

Annie figured out loud. “I heard the shot, then the birds cried. I got up and went to the window—I think I saw someone—”

“Who, for God's sake?' Wayne demanded. “You didn't say anything about seeing anybody.”

Annie held up her hand. “It was dark. I looked down in the garden and I thought there was movement.”

“Where?” Garrett snapped.

Annie pointed to her left. “That way. Away from the gazebo.”

Wayne swung back to the window, peered out. “There's a path there. It leads to a dirt lane that runs between this house and the next one.”

Garrett made quick notes. “Okay. You saw somebody. You think. But I still want to know when you heard the shot.”

“Maybe three minutes before I called, maybe four.” She nodded. “So it must have been just about one o'clock.”

“What took so long?” Garrett's eyes were suspicious.

She remembered how grateful she'd been for the soft yellow lights in the wall sconces. “I went across the hall and knocked on Rachel's door.”

Wayne frowned.

She said quickly, “I didn't mention it when I came for you. I didn't think it mattered. But I thought it was a shot and I wanted to be sure Rachel was all right.”

Rachel shivered. “You didn't tell me about a shot. I would have come with you.” Her eyes were huge. “I'm glad I didn't. Poor Alice.”

Garrett glanced toward the garden, still starkly lit. “You and Mr. Ladson got down there when? Five minutes later?”

Annie shook her head. “More like ten. After I made the call, I went and woke up Wayne. He dressed. We came downstairs. It was probably—”

Terry interrupted. “It was twelve after one when the
garden lights came on. I came out to see what was going on.”

Garrett looked at Annie and Wayne. “You didn't see anyone when the lights came on?”

Wayne stared out into the garden. “No. There was nobody in the garden. No one at all.”

“There was plenty of time for the murderer to get away.” Annie locked eyes with Garrett. “My father's in jail.” She didn't go on to say he couldn't have been shooting Marguerite in the garden. She didn't need to say it. “When are you going to let him out?”

Garrett wasn't going to be stampeded. “The investigation isn't complete.” But he had to know that Alice died because she confronted Happy's murderer. “As soon as—”

The terrace door was flung open. Lou Pirelli, out of breath and excited, yelled, “Chief, we found the gun!”

 

Annie snapped shut her overnight bag. She glanced around the room. She'd not forgotten anything. How wonderful to know that in only a few minutes she would be home. And not alone.

The door opened and Rachel stepped inside, a stuffed backpack dangling from one thin shoulder. Her eyes uncertain, she said diffidently, “Annie, are you sure it will be okay with Max?”

“I talked to him a little while ago.” Annie's ear still tingled. Max was not happy that she'd found a body and not called him. But, as she'd pointed out, what good would it have done for neither of them to get any sleep? Her ear tingled, but her heart glowed. His tone was sharp because he pictured her walking out into a garden when death waited, and he hated that. He'd been forced to admit that she'd not been foolish, first calling the police and seeking
out Wayne. And he'd agreed at once that she should bring Rachel with her. “He said to tell you Dorothy L. is thrilled. She thinks we're pretty boring. He'll have hot chocolate ready for us.”

Tears glistened in Rachel's dark eyes. “I went down the hall. I thought maybe I had to tell Aunt Rita, but she's still asleep. Joan said she was sure it was all right.”

Nobody cared where Rachel went. Both of them knew it.

Annie grabbed her suitcase. “Let's go.”

 

“It's tilting to the left. No,” Annie urged, “a little more this way.”

On his hands and knees, Max steadied the trunk of the pine in the metal base, screwed a support prong tighter. “How's that?”

Dorothy L. crouched and arched through the air to land on his back.

“Ouch.” Max bent forward, but the cat merely dug her claws deeper.

“Annie, do something!” Max reached back.

Delighted, Dorothy L. used one paw to swipe at his groping hand.

Rachel teetered forward on her toes and laughed. “Annie, she thinks Max is a bridge. I'll bet she climbs to the top of the tree. Look!” She giggled.

Annie laughed, too. She hoped trimming the Christmas tree might be the first glimmer of happiness in Rachel's dark and difficult days. Tomorrow would be very hard. Happy's funeral was set at ten. But for now…Annie hurried to Max and loosened Dorothy L.'s claws, scooping up the fluffy white cat.

Max dramatically rolled onto his back, hands and feet in the air, growling, “Does Dorothy L. want to spend
Christmas at the store? Agatha will turn her into a rag doll cat.”

Rachel's eyes were round. “Doesn't Agatha like Dorothy L.?”

Max sat up and waved a hand toward Rachel. “Come close and you shall hear the piteous tale of—”

The phone rang.

Annie was laughing as she hurried to the kitchen. Max loved to tell the story of Dorothy L.'s arrival at Death on Demand, a helpless foundling in need of a home, and her reception by pampered, mistress-of-the-manor Agatha. Agatha's heartbreak had reminded Annie that even a cat can be jealous. The story had ended happily, with Agatha living at the store and Dorothy L. at home.

“…Agatha wouldn't eat. She bit Annie. She hissed. She…”

“Hello.” As Annie picked up the phone, she checked caller ID.
The Island Gazette
. For a moment, her chest tightened. On Sunday afternoon? Oh, of course. Vince was at the office, covering the murder of Alice Schiller, which would surely dominate page one tomorrow. But she gripped the receiver tightly.

“Annie.” This time Vince's voice was robust. He wasn't calling to tell her the police had an APB out for her father. “Hey, I've got news.”

Annie started breathing again.

“Things are breaking fast on the Schiller murder. Here's what we know: Death was instantaneous, single gunshot wound to the chest, burst the aorta, .22-caliber pistol, clear fingerprints on the grip belonging to…” A dramatic pause.

“Come on, Vince.” She was stern.

“Sorry. Couldn't resist. But you're not going to believe it. The fingerprints belong to Dr. Emory Swanson, the is
land's chief spirit seeker. Everybody's stunned because gossip had it that Marguerite Dumaney was eating out of his hand. Talk about a shock.”

Annie leaned against the kitchen counter. Yes, she was astounded. Not, as Vince expected, at the identity of the murderer, but shocked that Swanson's fingerprints were on the murder weapon. He was not a stupid man. How in the world had he made such an egregious mistake? She felt a flood of relief. With that kind of evidence, it might not be necessary for Laurel to give her tape to the police. That tape would require some difficult explanations. As for the tape, Laurel had reported to Annie and Max that it contained several cynical comments about “idiot women who believe they have a pipeline to the afterlife” and clearly reflected an intimate connection to Kate Rutledge. But, as Laurel put it, “Unfortunately, we simply picked the recorder up too soon. If we'd left it in place, we might have a record of his conversation with Alice.” A regretful sigh.

“Once they ID'd his prints, they traced the gun. Slick work,” Vince said admiringly. “Swanson bought the gun last year, presumably to pot at rabbits eating his spinach. His gun, his prints. Of course, by the time they picked him up, there was no trace of nitrate. He'd had plenty of time to wash his hands and, for that matter, his clothes. There's icing on the cake: The neighbor to the south was up with a toothache and saw lights turn into that road between his house and the Dumaney place. It was about a quarter to one and he told Garrett there was no reason for any car to be going down that stretch of lane. It's private property. He went outside to look and saw a Mercedes with a vanity plate, ‘EVERMORE.' To clinch it, Garrett matched tire prints—that's a dirt road—and it was definitely Swanson's car.”

Annie covered the mouthpiece and called out. “Max,
Rachel, come here. They've traced the gun to Swanson.” She dropped her hand. “Have they arrested him, Vince?” She reached down and punched on the speaker phone.

Max and Rachel skidded to a stop on either side of her.

Vince's voice boomed in the kitchen. “You bet. Took him into custody about an hour ago. At the Savannah airport. With a ticket to Atlanta, then on to Dallas and Mexico City. It's a hell of a story.”

Rachel pulled out a kitchen chair, sank into it as if her legs wouldn't hold her.

Annie reached out, gripped her hand.

“So you can take a little drive in a few minutes.”

Annie stared blankly at the speaker phone. “Drive?”

“I hear there's a guy who needs a lift home. Name of Pudge Laurance. Down at the—”

“Oh, Vince.” Sheer happiness lifted her voice. “Thank you. Thank you.” Annie punched off the phone and headed for the door, Max and Rachel right behind her.

 

Rachel stood next to Pudge in a corner of the terrace room. She looked small and forlorn in a navy dress with a white piqué collar. Pudge pulled at his tie and Annie guessed he rarely wore one. She reached them, carrying two filled plates. Max was behind her with their plates.

Marguerite had decided upon a graveside service for Happy. Although the day was sunny, the shadows of the pines had been dark and somber. Mercifully, the service was swift, and the funeral cars brought them quickly back to the house. Annie would have been happy never to walk into the huge, strange house again, but Rachel had to be there.

“Fried chicken,” Annie announced cheerfully. “I'll bet Sookie makes wonderful fried chicken. And mashed potatoes and gravy.”

Rachel managed a smile, though her face still looked pinched and her eyes were red with crying.

Marguerite, all in black, swept to the center of the room. “My cherished ones.” Her deep, husky voice reached every corner.

The jerky beginnings of conversations stopped. Everyone looked toward Marguerite. Every face appeared strained and tired. Who could wonder at that? They had been close to two violent deaths and this morning attended the funeral of a sweet woman they'd known well for many years.

Wayne slouched against the bar, his dark brows raised. His silvery hair and trim beard were neatly brushed, his narrow face sharply attentive. He looked at Marguerite with marked skepticism, as he might observe a politician or a cabaret singer or an economist.

Joan fluffed her wispy hair. Her dark green dress was too tight to be flattering.

Terry had pulled off his navy blazer, loosened his rep tie. He held a plate heaped with food.

High heels clicking, Donna swished toward a small sofa, her discontented face alert and wary.

Marguerite waited until there was no sound. She lifted her head and she was the Marguerite Dumaney they knew well, blazing eyes, hollowed cheeks, bloodred lips—haggard, yes, but still beautiful, beautiful and mesmerizing. Her perfectly cut black suit was as glossy as a raven's wing, the single strand of pearls at her throat emphasizing the midnight hue of the silk.