Sugarplum Dead (5 page)

“…know that you are most likely very busy. Why, if the crowds cheered for you here, I can imagine the shouts that must ring among the clouds.” A faint frown marred that beautiful face. “Can shouts ring among clouds? One might think there would be a damping effect. Well”—a small laugh—“no matter. I'm sure there are sound engineers who have studied this problem in depth. If, indeed, it is a problem. But I am sure”—there was a burst of confidence in her husky voice—“that race you must. Why, what would heaven be if we could not pursue the activities which afforded us the most joy in our earthly realm?” Laurel smoothed a tendril of golden hair stirred by the wind.

Annie thought of five husbands and earthly joy.

“Each heart must follow its proclivities. So”—Laurel patted the steering wheel—“I know you are racing. And therefore”—a sunny smile—“I'm sure that you know Buddy. Oh, how Buddy loves to race!” She clasped her hands together. “Dear Go-Dog—I hope you won't mind my addressing you so familiarly, but I feel as if we are confreres, I have ventured so often to this quiet glen—please”—and now her tone was brisk—“tell Buddy that I truly must speak with him.” There was the slightest hint of impatience. “I know he's busy, too.” Her eyes widened. “Oh dear, I hope you aren't competitors. But no, no, I would not have been led here were that the case and truly I have to thank Providence for this opportunity.” She beamed at the marble steering wheel. “I awoke one night with the clearest picture in my mind—stock cars, a great smash-up—oh, that was such a shame, Go-Dog, and you were in the lead—and a white marble steering wheel. It led me right to you. And I must depend upon your good offices because dear Buddy is buried in Milan and I truly haven't time to go there. I need his advice. I have decided to liquidate a great amount of stock—oh, those particulars are neither here nor there—and use it for the good of mankind. Now, there are those who might have difficulty seeing Buddy as a financial adviser. But”—she leaned closer to the stone—“once I was getting ready to sell my Microsoft stock and do you know what happened? Buddy's little red Porsche simply zoomed into my room late one night and he jumped out. He looked dashing in his racing goggles and soft leather hat and white silk muffler—fringed silk—and he said firmly,
‘Ne vends pas ces stocks, ma chérie.'”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, Buddy was Italian, but he also spoke French when—well, at some of our more special
moments. Of course, I held on to that stock and you know how well it's done. So I won't listen to anyone but Buddy. Now, it may be that I shan't have to bother you again.” A soft laugh. “Although I hope I've not been a bother. Do you know, I think you and I should have got on famously had we met at an earlier time.” A pause. “When you were alive. Because I feel so drawn to this lovely spot.” One coral-tipped hand was flung wide. “However, it may be that I am being led. I received the loveliest call from a Friend. That's a Friend of the Library, Go-Dog. In any event, she's told me about the most marvelous place to reach out to the Other Side—the Evermore Foundation. She said its president—Dr. Swanson—is simply wonderful! The kindest man, and he is able to put you in touch with everyone! Well, not exactly everyone. No frivolous or mean-spirited contacts are permitted. Don't you think that's lovely? To keep the plane of connection at a very high level? But I wanted you to be the first to know because you may be responsible for that call.” She wagged a pink-tipped finger playfully. “Of course, if I don't speak with Buddy, I will hurry right back to you. Good-bye for now, Go-Dog.” Laurel gave the steering wheel a final soft pat.

Annie plunged down the slope, skidding a little on the pine needles.

Laurel reached out to keep her from falling. “Annie, my dear. What a pleasant surprise.”

Annie looked deep into bright blue eyes. Crazed blue eyes? “Laurel…” Despite Annie's firm intention to sound casual and unconcerned, she sounded like a Budweiser lizard spotting a frog. “You can't talk to dead people.”

Laurel's laugh was as light and sweet as distant wind chimes. The gaze she bent on Annie expressed chagrin,
disappointment and just a soupçon of embarrassment. “My dear, I would have expected better of you.” Clearly the embarrassment was on Annie's behalf. A delicate sigh. “But we all do what we can do. I'm sure you mean well.”

“Laurel.” Annie looked deep into those eyes, searching for even a hint of humor. Laurel had evidenced other odd enthusiasms through the years, wedding customs and saints and ghosts and Shakespeare, but she had not sought counsel from the dead. Especially not financial counsel.

Laurel's eyes met Annie's, her gaze kindly, interested and utterly serious. She clasped her hands to her heart. “Annie, you will excuse me, I know, but I feel compelled to continue my quest. I know that if I can talk to Buddy, everything will be all right.” Her lower lip trembled. “You see, I have felt quite frightened and it came to me—things do, you know—that everything would be all right if only I could talk to Buddy.”

Laurel frightened! Annie couldn't have been more shocked had Go-Dog suddenly materialized beside them. She stared at her mother-in-law and saw uncertainty and despair in her eyes and bowed shoulders in the elegant jacket and an aura of frailness and confusion.

Laurel pressed one hand to her lips, then she looked past Annie.

It was painful to Annie to see the effort it took for Laurel to lift her face and manage a smile.

But Laurel was almost her old insouciant self when she called out, “Gertrude, what a pleasure to see you.” Laurel clapped her hands together. “Why, Annie, look who's here! It's Gertrude.”

Annie looked over her shoulder.

Gertrude Parker's long, horsey face sported a strained
smile and she had the decency to avert her eyes from Annie.

Annie stared at her frostily. Clearly Gertrude had crept up to hear Laurel's soliloquy, intending to bring an eyewitness report to as many islanders as she could reach by phone and E-mail before the ten o'clock news.

“Hello, Laurel, Annie.” Gertrude's voice was a high whinny. Her eyes glistened with interest. She came even with Annie, stepped past to look avidly at Go-Dog's grave.

Laurel gazed around the clearing. “Isn't this cheerful! So many of us converging right here!” Laurel looked beyond Gertrude and Annie toward the pines. “Are you with Gertrude?” Then she blinked. “Oh my. Oh, Annie.”

Annie didn't look around again. She knew who stood behind her. Worry about Laurel was swept away by a furious spurt of anger. How dare he follow her! And wouldn't this be a choice item for Gertrude's gossip mill? What would she emphasize, Laurel's tête-à-têtes with Johnny Go-Dog Davis or the intriguing appearance of Annie Laurance Darling's father? Annie could imagine Gertrude's unctuous tone:
Well, my dear, I am not one to gossip, but I was out tending to some graves, oh you know, I just feel it is my duty at Christmastime, and I happened to overhear Laurel Roethke, you know, she's Max Darling's mother, and she was talking, that's the only way I can put it, she was simply having a conversation with Go-Dog Davis. And to cap it off, here came Annie Darling and she looked like she was worried to death.
(A little giggle.)
And then, you won't believe this, but this man came up behind us…

Annie was damned if she was going to give Gertrude anything to crow about. She said briskly, “Laurel, my”—
it took enormous effort—“father's visiting and, of course, he's eager to meet you.”

Annie had to hand it to Laurel. No one would imagine there was anything peculiar either in the circumstances of this meeting or in the locale. Laurel bestowed a charming smile on Pudge Laurance. “Such a pleasure. We have so much in common, don't we? Our dear children have truly made a love match and isn't that simply the greatest achievement of all?” As Laurel burbled, she somehow maneuvered Gertrude—surely she didn't actually push her—toward the path and they were walking out of the cemetery.

Annie knew that Laurel, with her uncanny ability to pick up on nuances, perceived Annie's turmoil and she was deflecting Gertrude just as surely as a magician whips a red scarf to conceal the hidden ace. Gertrude kept attempting to turn and look back at Annie and her father, but Laurel firmly grasped her arm and moved them ahead at a rapid rate. And, of course, Annie thought sourly, she was also avoiding a grilling by Annie.

Annie allowed herself to lag back. She didn't intend to talk to her unwelcome companion, but she was not eager to end up by the gate to face Gertrude's scrutiny. She walked slowly and stared down at the dusty gray path.

“There's something rotten going on.” Pudge Laurance reached out and gripped Annie's arm.

She swung to face him, yanking her arm free. She realized abruptly that he wasn't looking at her. He had stopped, too, but his eyes followed the women on the path as they curved around a clump of pines and out of sight. His pleasant face was somber, his gaze worried. He tugged at his mustache.

“What do you mean?” Why should he care about gossip? Besides, no man would likely pick up on Laurel's
artful handling of Gertrude and the reason why. As for Laurel—and no doubt he, too, had overheard that disturbing soliloquy—why should he care what Laurel did?

He bent his head, deep in thought, fingers still tugging at his mustache.

In the silence, Annie studied the man who meant both too much and too little to her. He might have been any island visitor, a blue polo shirt and white crew-neck sweater, khaki slacks, running shoes, but his intelligent features were too bleak for a man on a holiday. He looked up, and his eyes demanded her attention.

“This Dr. Swanson she talked about—”

So he had overheard Laurel.

“—he's the guy Happy says is taking advantage of her sister. He…”

Annie folded her arms, held them tightly against her. She shut out his voice. What was it he had said that first day—“Annie, I've looked for you for a long, long time?” Had she ever, even for an instant, believed that he had come to the island seeking her?

“Happy?” Annie's voice was harsh. “Who's Happy?”

Pudge Laurance shoved a hand through his hair. A lock dangled forward and he looked boyish—boyish and uncertain. He swallowed. “Happy's my ex-wife and her sister is—”

Annie didn't wait to hear. She broke into a run, the dust scuffing beneath her feet. She never wanted to hear about this wife or any wife. Ex-wife. That would be expected, wouldn't it, of a man who wasn't there for anyone, not for Annie's mother or Annie or this Happy, whoever she was. Annie felt the hot rush of tears. He hadn't come to the island to look for her. She should have known that right from the first. She happened to be living where he came
to see an ex-wife. That was right in character, wasn't it? His arrival had nothing to do with Annie.

As she burst through the gate, veered toward her car, she saw Laurel's outstretched hand, heard her soft, “Oh,” and she saw, too, the avid delight in Gertrude's face. Ignoring them both as well as the shout from behind her, Annie slammed into the Volvo, twisted the ignition, pumped the gas and jolted the Volvo back far enough from the blue Morris to swing around and gun toward the dim tunnel beneath the live oaks.

A
LIGHT FLASHED
on his phone. Max pushed back his Christmas list—wouldn't Annie be pleased with the elegant parchment map of St. Mary Mead?—and punched on the speaker phone.

“Max Darling.” He scanned the rest of his list:

A treasure box tied with a red ribbon with contents that should amaze her.

A yellow cashmere sweater.

A box of Godiva raspberry truffles.

A little book with quotes from Jane Austen's novels.

A handwritten promise…

“Max, Pudge Laurance.” The speaker phone magnified the despair in Pudge's voice. “I've blown it. I should have waited and let you talk to her. Now, God, I don't think she'll ever listen to me. But I was just trying to tell her about that guy your mom's involved with.”

Max pushed back the list, sat up straight. “My mother?”

“Yeah. Listen…”

Max listened. When Pudge finished, Max chuckled. “Sounds like Laurel, all right. Listen, Pudge, I guess every family has some”—Max paused, drew a huge question mark, festooned it with headstones—“unusual mem
bers.” Max knew that was not very explicit, but if Pudge hung around long enough, he would surely get used to Laurel. Although it was odd that Annie, who had coped with enthusiasms ranging from wedding customs to old-fashioned hand fans adorned with quotes from Shakespeare, should be so concerned about Laurel's efforts to communicate with Buddy. “I'll talk to Annie about it,” Max said reassuringly. “Maybe she's overreacting because she's upset about seeing you.” Sure, that could be the case. Max drew a cat with its fur standing on end. Annie reacted to her father like a cat sighting a Doberman. And good old Pudge was a cocker spaniel if he'd ever met one. “You know, Pudge, you shouldn't have sprung it on Annie that you'd married again. At least not at this point.”

“But she asked me…” Pudge's voice trailed away. “I was trying to explain because I thought Annie should know about this Swanson guy. But she didn't give me a chance to finish. And Max, I'm afraid it's more serious than you think. Everybody's furious over here.” There was a thoughtful pause. “Except Happy. Of course, she can't ever act mad, it's not in her job description.” His tone was dry.

“Job description?” Max added a bow to the cat's collar. Not that anyone would ever collar Annie.

“Oh, Happy's such a—well, I shouldn't be critical. She means well. God, does she mean well! But being around her is like existing in an alternative universe. Happy absolutely refuses to admit that it isn't the best of all possible worlds even when something's really bugging her. And something is driving her nuts or she wouldn't have asked me to come here. But that isn't the reason I came. I came because I thought old Ambrose might finally tell me where Judy and Annie were living. I didn't know
about Judy. Dammit”—now he was indignant—“if Judy hadn't written me off, I could have kept in touch with Annie. And I would have. Max, do you think Annie will ever believe me?”

Max didn't have an answer. Annie was hurt and she'd been hurt for a long, long time. “Let's take it one step at a time, Pudge.”

“I'm almost ready to get the hell out. This mess over here is enough to push everybody over the edge. Then they'll all be nuts like Marguerite. She's convinced this Swanson dude has a pipeline to Eternity and she's been shoveling money at him. Happy moans about it, but something more is worrying her. I can't put my finger on it, but she acts damn odd when we start talking about her sister and the rest of the family. As for Marguerite, everybody glares at her and the old hag is having the time of her life. She's planning a dinner in Swanson's honor. Even Happy looks glum. If it weren't for Annie, I wouldn't spend another night here. Well, Annie and Rachel. Rachel's a good kid.”

“Who's Rachel?” But Max's tone was absent. An idea began to form.

“Rachel Van Meer, Happy's daughter by her second marriage.” Pudge's voice softened. “She was a little kid when Happy and I got married.” He drew his breath in irritably. “That's another thing. Happy and I have been going 'round and 'round—Well, anyway that doesn't matter to you. But I think you better check out this Swanson. Your mom was talking about money…”

Max wasn't worried about money. Laurel's assets were pretty well tied up in trusts. His dad may have been a workaholic, but he obviously had a good line on his wife. Max drew a stack of greenbacks wrapped in chains.

“Wait, wait a minute.” Max pressed his fingers against
his temple. “Hey Pudge, I've got an idea! What do you think about this?”

 

A pier extended into the harbor. Annie had it to herself. The wind off the water was cold despite the thin sunlight. She stood with her parka zipped, gloved hands on the railing, staring out at a distant buoy bobbing in the swells. A flock of herring gulls, their summer white now dusky and streaked, sailed overhead, angling out toward a fishing trawler. Annie shivered. But it wasn't the wind chill that made her feel sheathed in ice like a polar explorer trudging across a harsh and terrible whiteness.

Why, after all these years, should it hurt so much that her father had not sought her, that he had come to the island to see his ex-wife? So Annie was an afterthought. So what else was new?

Annie blinked against tears. Okay, all right, she was a big girl now. She had Max. The sudden thought broke through the sheath of ice. Warmth pulsed through her. Max. Okay, she wasn't going to let her father's appearance ruin the holidays for her or for Max. They were going to have a bang-up Christmas, full of good cheer, good humor—

Laurel. There could be no pursuit of Christmas pleasure if somebody was taking advantage of Laurel.

Annie swung around, walked hurriedly, her shoes echoing on the wooden planking. When she reached the boardwalk fronting the shops, her footsteps slowed. She stopped outside the plate-glass window of Max's office. Max and Barb could easily round up information on Dr. Swanson. It was either appalling or wonderful, depending upon your attitude, what could be learned on the Internet within the space of a few minutes merely by clicking a mouse. Orwell's Big Brother would have loved
cyberspace. With the day coming when a life history will be embedded in a disk on a plastic card, anonymity will be no more. But a computer search could wait. She picked up speed. First she needed to find out whether there was indeed something sinister about the man or whether the problem was the state of Laurel's mind. Annie still believed that the old-fashioned art called conversation offered nuances and shades of meaning a computer screen could never deliver.

Annie passed the windows to Death on Demand. She felt a pang of guilt, leaving Ingrid to deal with the Christmas crowd, but Ingrid could call on her husband for help if hordes of shoppers arrived. However, though business picked up nicely during the Christmas season, throngs were unlikely.

As Annie drove the Volvo out of the harbor parking lot, she punched a familiar number on her cell phone, knowing success would probably commit her to another couple of casseroles.

Pamela Potts answered on the first ring. “Hello, Annie.”

Annie felt an instant of surprise. Obviously, Pamela even recognized Annie's wireless number on her caller ID. Caller ID and the myriad of modern technological gadgetry continued to diminish some of the standbys in older mysteries, such as the anonymous phone call, the unidentified bloodstains, the mysterious stranger. As for the winsome heroine trapped at midnight in the old cemetery, all she had to do now was whip out her cell phone.

Annie turned left from Sand Dollar Road onto the dusty, gray winding road that led to the Lucy Bannister Kinkaid Memorial Library and reference librarian Edith Cummings, who, in a very different fashion from Pamela Potts, knew everything worth knowing on the island of Broward's Rock.

Clutching her cell phone, Annie bluntly asked, “Pamela, do you know Dr. Swanson?” It was not necessary to be indirect with Pamela. It would never occur to Pamela to wonder why a question had been asked.

“Oh, Annie.” Pamela's voice might have quavered with the same unease had Annie presented her with a box of tarantulas.

Annie braked for a half dozen deer trotting across the road. “You don't like him?” There was a pulsing pause. Annie curved around the front of the three-story Greek Revival mansion that housed the library and pulled into a parking spot next to a line of palmetto palms. “Pamela?” Annie switched off the motor.

“Some things are wrong.” The words came slowly. “God warns us not to deal with black magic or the occult—”

 

Annie could picture Pamela, her blue eyes wide and serious, her hand tightly gripping the receiver.

“—things which are not of this world. Annie, that's what Dr. Swanson does. That's why, even though I am a member of the Library Board, I got up and left in the middle of the lecture he gave there.”

Annie knew there could have been no more brave or telling act on Pamela's part.

“Annie, don't have anything to do with him. Please.” A gasp. “Is Laurel involved with Dr. Swanson? Oh, Annie, you must save her!” A ragged breath. “Forgive me if I have said too much.” She hung up.

Annie clicked off her cell phone. As she walked to the back steps of the library, unease swirled within her. Annie knew a sophisticated listener might smile with quiet amusement, but Annie knew, too, that Pamela, earnest, kind, literal and serious, represented basic goodness. And basic goodness was not a laughing matter.

 

“Mmm, sexy.” Edith Cummings, a reference librarian with enthusiastic appetites, winked at Annie. “Laurel may be interested in more than his crystals.”

“Crystals?” Annie pictured chandeliers glittering at a winter ball.

Edith placed her hands on the Information Desk counter and leaned forward, dark eyes gleaming. “Emory Swanson.” She emphasized each syllable. “His name's a mouthful, but I'd pick him for Bachelor of the Year anytime. He spoke to the Friends a couple of months ago and I'll have to hand it to the man—he gave a spiel any medicine man would envy while managing to look like a banker. You know, inspire confidence.” She smoothed back a strand of wiry black hair. “And lust. But not for money.”

Annie had a confused image of a sloe-eyed Harrison Ford in pinstripes. “What does he look like?”

Edith glanced around the Lucy Kinkaid Memorial Library. “Everybody's Christmas shopping,” she observed. “Except me and thee, and I'm only here because I'm a working stiff.” Edith reached beneath the counter and lifted up the
SECTION CLOSED
sign. Plopping it next to the computer terminal, she pointed a thumb toward the stairs. “C'mon. You're a library patron. I can help you find the materials you're seeking even if it requires deserting my post and relinquishing the pleasure of addressing the serious inquiries that I receive this time of year. Such as, ‘Do you have “Jingle Bells” available in Icelandic?' or ‘What kind of buttons does Santa Claus have on his jacket?'” She bustled out from behind the counter.

Annie followed her up the stairs, Edith bounding eagerly ahead. Annie hadn't been upstairs since last summer and some momentous meetings involved in planning
a Fourth of July celebration that culminated in fireworks and murder.

Edith was already tapping on the third door to the right of the stairs. Gold lettering on the panel read:
FRIENDS OF
THE LIBRARY
. But she was opening it as she knocked. “Like I said, everybody's Christmas shopping. Until the holidays are over, it'll be quieter up here than Tombstone with Wyatt Earp in town. Come on back here.”

Annie joined her at the second of two gray filing cabinets against the back wall.

Edith rummaged in the top drawer. “Here we are.” She thrust a folder at Annie. “Every meeting in the history of the Friends is documented since its inception in 1936.”

Annie forbore to reply,
Huzzah.
She flipped open the green folder and found the minutes of the meeting called to order at 10
A.M
. October 12, a transcript of the guest lecture, presented by Emory Swanson, Ph.D., entitled “Manifestations of Psychic Phenomena in the Modern Era,” and a brochure.

Edith leaned over Annie's shoulder, tapped the brochure. “He handed them out. You know, Laurel's on the Library Board. I'll bet she was at the meeting.” Edith slid the minutes out of the folder and rustled through the stapled sheets. “Yeah. Here's her name on the attendance sheet.”

But Annie was studying the substantial brochure, printed on exceedingly heavy, pale mauve stock. The outer panel featured a pen and ink drawing of a brick plantation house. Beneath it, gold letters in light gothic script trumpeted:

 

CHANDLER HOUSE

EVERMORE FOUNDATION

BROWARD'S ROCK ISLAND, S.C.

 

“I've heard the esteemed doctor has quite a fancy layout. He must have asked the real estate agent to lead him to the spookiest house on the island. Or maybe”—Edith's tone was skeptical—“he spotted it in a crystal. Hey, that may be the coming answer for information junkies. Who needs the Net? No more interminable delays while one phone line squabbles with another or five thousand teenage boys absorb every circuit to check out—Well, we've been having some discussions here about where the boys go on the Net. But here's a glitch-free way to connect to our future. Simply grab a crystal, peer deep within and You Will Be Led. Or something like that. Anyway, that's the old Chandler place. You know it, don't you?”

Annie did. The Chandler house, built in 1832, was one of the more remarkable extant plantation homes in all of South Carolina. Two stories and an encircling piazza were supported by seven brick arches on each side. The house overlooked the marsh and was surrounded by pines and live oaks, buffering it from the nearest homes. Annie and Max had attended a New Year's Eve dance there several years ago on a stormy night with wind howling around the house. Despite blazing logs in four huge fireplaces, cold drafts eddied through the ballroom. They had danced out of the ballroom into a broad hallway and ended up beneath a sprig of mistletoe and not a breath of cold touched them.