Sugarplum Dead (29 page)

K
ATE
R
UTLEDGE WALKED
into the small storeroom. Max closed the door behind her. Suddenly it was quiet. Annie and Pudge stared at the slim woman with the squarish face, perfectly waved shining brown hair, soft yellow cashmere sweater and brown wool slacks. She might have been any attractive late-thirties Christmas shopper except for the blazing anger in her eyes and the sharp lines in a face gray with shock and fatigue.

She leaned back against the door, stared at them. “I hope you're all satisfied now. You've accomplished your goal, haven't you, getting an innocent man arrested.”

Max gave her glare for glare. “Miss Rutledge, the evidence—”

“Listen to me.” She pushed away from the door. “You think Emory killed Happy Laurance and Alice Schiller? That's right, isn't it? The two of them? That Alice Schiller pretended to be Marguerite and he killed her because she accused him of killing Happy?”

“That's right.” Max folded his arms.

She whirled toward Pudge. “You were there in the house. When was your wife killed?”

Pudge looked toward Annie.

“Around midnight.” Annie remembered so clearly Dr. Burford's crisp declaration.

“Then listen to me.” Kate's voice shook. “Emory was with me. He came to my house about ten. He didn't leave until the next morning, just before seven. He was with me all night. All night!” Tears burned in those hot eyes. “I told the police. They won't listen. They think I'm lying. But I'm not. Damn you to hell, he was with me.”

Max's dark blue eyes were skeptical. “He wasn't with you Saturday night. He was in the gazebo. He brought a gun. The bullet from that gun killed Alice Schiller. His fingerprints are on the gun. Tracks from his car are in the lane next to the Dumaney house.”

Kate shuddered. “He was there. But he didn't kill her. He had no reason to kill her because he didn't kill Happy Laurance. He told me what happened at the gazebo and he told the police. They don't believe him. Yes, he ran away. You would have run, too. He knew they would come after him.” She swung toward Pudge. “They arrested you first. I don't know why. You claimed you didn't kill your wife. How would you feel if nobody believed you? How would you feel if you were still in jail, waiting to be charged with murder?”

Annie reached out, held tight to Max's arm. Of course, Kate Rutledge would lie for Emory Swanson. But what if she was telling the truth?

Pudge's genial face creased. “I'd be scared. I was scared.” His voice was low.

Kate held out trembling hands. “The police aren't going to help Emory. But you can help him. If you will.”

“Why should we help him?” Max bit off the words, his disdain clear. “A man who takes advantage of those in grief. A man who stays in a town just long enough to milk money out of vulnerable women.”

“Because someone else killed those women.” For an instant, Kate pressed her hands hard against her face. Then she looked at them, despair warring with anger. “You don't care. You'll let the real murderer go free.”

Pudge stepped forward. “No. We won't do that.” He looked at Annie, appeal in his eyes.

Annie tangled her fingers in her hair. Didn't Pudge see what he was doing? What if they convinced Garrett that Swanson had not killed Happy? Even if Garrett charged Swanson with Alice's death, it would reopen the investigation into Happy's murder and put Pudge and Rachel right back in the center of the bull's-eye. Dammit, didn't Pudge see that? Two murders and two murderers?

But surely Garrett would dismiss that possibility. All along it had seemed obvious that Alice, masquerading as Marguerite, was killed because she threatened Happy's murderer. In fact, they knew without any doubt that Alice believed Swanson guilty of Happy's murder. Alice had told Annie there might be a way to trap Swanson. Alice engaged in a complex subterfuge that resulted in her death. How could the killer be anyone other than Swanson?

Yet Annie felt cold inside. If Swanson didn't kill Happy, he didn't kill Alice. She stared at the angry, frightened woman demanding justice for Swanson. Why should they believe her? Because of her unconcealed rage? She didn't approach them with a smooth, calculated alibi. Kate Rutledge attacked them.

Perhaps Kate saw the uncertainty in Annie's eyes. “I don't know what you can do.” Her face was suddenly empty and bleak. “Maybe no one can do anything. But will you talk to Emory? Will you listen to him?”

 

Chief Garrett pointed down the hall to the third door. Billy Cameron, big and imposing, dwarfed the little
metal folding chair. He scrambled to his feet, nodded hello, his face impassive, his eyes warm.

Max lifted his hand. Annie smiled. “Hi, Billy.”

Garrett was as crisp as a new twenty, his round face smooth-shaven, his eyes bright, his khaki uniform board-starched. He looked at them curiously. “Prisoners have a right to visitors upon proper application.” Proper application had consisted of Max signing an identity sheet and stating that he and Annie were there at Swanson's request. “You can have half an hour. Knock twice when you want out.”

Billy unlocked the door and they walked into a small, square room with no windows, lime-green walls, a plain wooden table, green cement floor. As the door clicked shut behind them, Emory Swanson looked up. He was no longer handsome, his heavy, sharp features sullen and frightened. His manacled hands lay on the table. The too-small orange jail jump-suit pulled across his chest.

Max's shoes grated on the cement. He pulled out a chair for Annie, another for himself. They faced Swanson. “Kate Rutledge asked us to come.”

Swanson lifted his hands, used his knuckles to rub against his chin and, Annie realized, to hide lips that trembled. “Yeah. Kate knows I didn't do it. I was with her the night Marguerite's sister was killed.” He didn't bluster. He spoke in a weary, hopeless voice.

Annie wished she were not in this room. Despite the newness of the jail, this room had already held within its walls emotions and secrets Annie had no desire ever to know. This afternoon a man who had exuded confidence stared at them like a fox in a trap, a grievously wounded animal.

Swanson shifted in his chair, as if he could find ease from the chains. The clank beneath the table indicated his ankles were chained, too. “Somebody set me up for this.”

“You were with Kate Thursday night?” Max spoke quietly.

“We're married.” Swanson's voice was dull. “She helps me. She goes to a new town first, gets established. When I get there, she's gotten to know the women—” He broke off.

“Credulous women?” Max's voice was hard.

Swanson's head lifted. “Hell, man, they're rich. And lonely. I make them feel better. I give them their money's worth. They want to talk to somebody who's died. I hold their hands and we look into a crystal and pretty soon they're happy as can be, talking their hearts out. What harm does it do?”

“You scam away their money.” Annie's tone was derisive.

Swanson shrugged. “I just take some of it…”

Annie thought about Miss Dora's friend who had given away everything she had.

“…and it's their money. Sure, some of their greedy relatives don't like it, but a lot of them are sitting around waiting for the moneybags to die. Why should I care what happens to them?” He looked at them defiantly, a riverboat gambler caught with extra cards and contemptuous of the marks. “I'll tell you for sure, I never hurt anybody. Never. You can check every place I've ever lived. I never hurt anybody. And I'm in some wills. You know that? This whole thing”—he looked down at the manacles—“is crazy. They say I killed Marguerite's sister and somehow Alice knew it and dressed up like Marguerite and accused me and I shot her. That's crazy.”

Wondering if she was succumbing to Swanson's most clever scam yet, Annie asked warily, “What happened at the gazebo?”

Swanson flung his arms onto the table and the chains
clattered. “I should have known better than to go there. The setup was nuts, even for Marguerite. But she was always difficult and I knew I had to keep on top of things with her or the whole thing would be ruined. Somebody was trying to screw things up for me. It started at the dinner when she told the parasites they weren't going to cash in when she died. They looked like scalded cats, mad as hell, ready to bite and scratch, but not sure which way to jump. Somebody pulled that stunt with the gardenia. Marguerite was thrilled, sure the gardenia came from Claude. I had to be very careful what I said. Anyway, I thought everything was fine, but then her sister got killed. Marguerite was really upset. She was scared. She called me a half dozen times that day and insisted we try to get in touch with Happy that night. And that voice…” Swanson's eyebrows rose. “That was strange. It must have sounded like her husband—”

“From some old tapes,” Annie explained.

Interest flickered in his eyes, then faded. “Whatever. I knew somebody was really gunning for me. She called Saturday afternoon. She was talking really soft and hurried and she told me she was terrified, that someone was trying to kill her and she needed a gun. She wanted me to bring a gun to her Saturday night.”

“How did she know you had a gun?” Max had pulled a small notebook from his pocket.

“I don't think she did.” He lifted his shoulders in disgust. “She was always unreasonable. I suppose she thought I'd go out and buy one. As it happens, I had a gun. At this point I was just trying to settle her down. She was hysterical. Anyway”—he heaved a tired sigh—“I agreed to bring the gun at twelve-forty-five and meet her in the gazebo.”

“Why was the gun loaded?” Max demanded.

Swanson hunched over the table. “Jesus, I thought about it. I almost unloaded it. But she knew how to shoot a gun. Some of those damn movies she made. I was afraid she'd check and then she'd be furious. God, I wish I'd taken those bullets out.”

Annie and Max simply looked at him.

He jerked his head. “Look, I know it sounds crazy. And I guess I was crazy. But, God, it was so much money….”

So much money. Enough to kill twice? What price an alibi from Kate Rutledge?

“No.” The word came from deep in his throat with an explosive force. “No, dammit. I did not shoot her.” He leaned forward, glaring at them. “She said to come to the gazebo at twelve-forty-five. I did and she wasn't there. Of course she wasn't. She was never on time in her life.”

Annie felt a chill. No, but she—actually Alice Schiller—had been on time for her death.

“I paced around in front of the gazebo. I guess I'd been there about five minutes or so, and here she came, running down the path. She stopped, looked back, then rushed up to me. She said, ‘Emory, thank God you've come. I was right. I'm in danger. Do you have the gun?' She held out a soft bag. I pulled the gun out of my pocket and dropped it in the bag. She said, ‘I'm going to have to—' Then she stopped and looked out into the garden. ‘Was that a noise? I'd better see. Wait for me. I'll be right back,' and she dashed off before I could say a word. I almost left, but I thought what the hell, I'd gone to this much trouble. In a couple of minutes, I saw a flashlight bobbing. She was almost to me. Only a few feet away. She called out, ‘Emory—'A shot rang out. I threw myself on the ground. I heard some noise in the shrubbery and then it was absolutely quiet. I got up and looked toward the flashlight and I could just see a dark shape there. I ran
over and dropped down beside her. I picked up her wrist. There wasn't any pulse. I grabbed the flashlight and looked for the bag she'd carried, but there was no bag—no bag and no gun. I used the flashlight to check out the ground around her, but I knew I had to get out of there.”

“There wasn't any flashlight there when we found her,” Annie said.

“I took it with me. I ran like hell to get to my car.” He rubbed his cheek and metal jangled. “I threw the damn thing in the lagoon when I got home. What difference does it make?”

Swanson was right. Producing the flashlight did nothing to prove or disprove his story.

Annie's eyes were sharp. “They arrested you at the airport in Savannah.”

Swanson slumped in his chair. “I knew they'd be after me. I've got some money—” He broke off. Yes, no doubt he did have money available in another country, perhaps under another name.

They sat in silence. What an absurd story. No wonder Garrett didn't believe Swanson. Annie studied the big man slumped in the chair, deflated and defeated.

Max looked down at his notebook, pushed it close enough for Annie to read:

Annie could imagine the circuit solicitor's attitude if Chief Garrett presented this summary to him.
Hogwash
was a sanitized version of the likely response. Because it was much more likely that Alice called Swanson, pretending to be Marguerite, and that she threatened him, something on the order of,
I need help to escape these terrible visions. I keep seeing you attacking my sister.
Swanson would talk fast, as fast as he'd ever talked in his life, to convince her that she was simply overwrought but that he would come very late and they would have a private session in the gazebo and he would be able to banish these phantasms from her mind. He came with a gun, not because Alice asked him to bring one, but because he intended to commit murder.