Sugarplum Dead (6 page)

Edith folded her arms, leaned against the filing cabinet. “Open the brochure.”

Obediently, Annie unfolded the heavy paper. Faint ivory streaks in the mauve background gave the brochure a marbled appearance. The first inside panel announced:

 

THE CRYSTAL PATH

 

Edith said impatiently, “Don't read that guff. Look at his picture!”

Annie's gaze slid over the second panel, where the text alternated with artistic photographs of three crystals, a yellow one in the shape of a lotus, a green one in the shape of an elephant tusk and a brilliant white one in the shape of a globe. In order, they were named Serenity, Perception and One World.

Annie moved on to the third panel and looked into the forthright gaze of Emory Swanson, Ph.D. Dark brown eyes crinkled in good humor. A slight smile softened ruggedly handsome features, a bold forehead, jutting nose, blunt chin. His silver hair was a thick tangle of close-cropped curls. He sat behind a desk, one strong hand gently cupped around an oblong white crystal. Books filled the shelves behind him. Every color in the photograph exuded warmth, from the beautifully tailored brown tweed sport coat with the merest hint of a red stripe to the ruddy mahogany of the desk to the bright book jackets.

“Wow,” Edith murmured. “Isn't he the best-looking thing you've seen since Ezio Pinza?”

Annie wrinkled her nose. “If you like that type.”

Edith clapped her hands to her head, stared at the ceiling. “Jeez Louise!” she exclaimed. Edith was a mystery reader on a par with Henny Brawley and this exclamation was a favorite of Gar Anthony Haywood's ex-cop sleuth Joe Loudermilk. Edith flounced her hands. “How about Jeff Chandler?”

Annie grinned. “Better. He played lots of private eye roles.”

“You have,” Edith intoned, “no taste. You'd take Jeff Chandler over Ezio Pinza? That's like preferring Victor Mature to Cary Grant.”

Annie ignored that gibe. Her eyes studied the compelling face in the photograph. The longer she looked, the more worried she felt. Swanson's straightforward gaze came from heavy-lidded eyes that had a secretive air, and the lips, despite their gentle smile, were sensuous and utterly confident.

She had a swift memory of Laurel, with her troubled eyes and slumping shoulders.

“So what's this about crystals?” Annie pointed at the pictures of the shining glass shapes.

Edith's eyes were sardonic. “Oh well, of course, Swanson doesn't do anything so passé as a crystal ball. I mean, shades of Madame Who-sis in a turban. No, ma'am. He's New Century. And that is crystal on a cost level with Lalique or Tiffany. He brought that yellow one, the flower”—she pointed at the lotus—“and placed it where the sun was slanting in from a window and it blazed like diamonds. And he has this deep voice that makes you feel like you're in a tent with Ronald Colman.” A sigh. “Okay, with a guy you'd like to be in a tent with.” She peered at Annie. “Pierce Brosnan? Brad Pitt? Leonardo di Caprio? Oh, he's probably too young.”

Annie glared.

Edith grinned in utter satisfaction. “Anyway, when Swanson spoke”—Edith tilted her head and her face scrunched in thought—“you felt like you were being wrapped in layers of cashmere warmed in the sun. He stared deep into the crystal and his voice got lower and lower and he described time stretching backward and forward, a golden highway, and the ineffable joy of slipping
from earthly ties to walk in light and peace and listen to those who have gone before and will come after.”

“And?” Annie prompted.

Edith's dark eyes crackled with a vivid, skeptical intelligence. “Sweetie, I enjoyed wrapping up in his cashmere voice, but I last took a ride on a turnip truck when I was about six and was invited on a snipe hunt and left holding the bag. Nevermore, saith both I and the raven.”

Annie frowned at the handsome photograph. “I've never heard of him. The Chandler house belonged to the Rossiters the last I heard.” Hugh Rossiter was a computer consultant and his wife was a golfer.

“They got a divorce a couple of years ago. She moved to Arizona and he's in California.” Edith plopped in a swivel chair and grabbed the computer mouse and began to click. “Let me see…” She peered at the screen, typed, clicked, typed, clicked. “Okay, sweet baby,” she crooned to the screen. Images flashed. “Voilà, Annie.” A dark brow quirked. “My, a travelin' man, all right.”

Annie pointed at the screen. “Will you print it out for me, Edith?”

 

At the stop sign on Sand Dollar Road, Annie hesitated for an instant. Should she turn right and get back to the store? Or…She flicked on her signal, turned left, drove a hundred yards and turned left again on Red-Tailed Hawk. She drove slowly, seeking the winding private road to the Chandler house. It was right along here. Yes. She turned left again on a rutted, bumpy, dusty road. Annie wasn't impressed. If the Evermore Foundation was so damn well connected, you'd think they could pave the road.

The road curved around a bamboo thicket. Annie braked and stopped in front of a huge metal gate attached to stone pillars. On either side of the pillars stretched a
tall spiked iron fence. A small intercom was attached to the left pillar.

Annie stared. The last time she'd been to the Chandler house, there was no gate, no fence, definitely no intercom. Dr. Swanson might like to talk about travel on a golden road, but apparently he had strong feelings about anybody using
his
road. In the thin sunlight, the house looked brooding and withdrawn, the front piazza in deep shadow.

What would happen if she went up and poked a button on the intercom? What if she said she was interested in learning about Evermore? Could it do any harm?

Ignoring little bumps of presentiment that were probably a product of Max's oft-stated advice to THINK before she acted, Annie was out of the car and within reach of the intercom when a deep-throated growl erupted to her left.

Startled, she swung toward the fence, then, flailing, stumbled back, hands automatically lifted in defense.

Two Dobermans lunged toward the gold-tipped spikes, saliva drooling from dark lips agape in throat-deep snarls. Over the frenzied growls, a cold voice demanded from the intercom: “State your business.”

The dogs barked and jumped, jumped and barked.

Annie backed toward her car, tried to still her trembling hands. She ignored the repeated request and flung herself behind the wheel. As she drove away, fast, she wondered a great deal about the peace and harmony espoused by Dr. Emory Swanson.

M
AX PAUSED OUTSIDE
the heavy wooden door of Parotti's Bar and Grill. Parotti's was an island institution, an all-day café and tavern and fish bait store just opposite the ferry landing, all owned and operated by Ben Parotti. Ben ran the ferry when he damn well pleased and his bar and grill provided the best fried catfish and hush puppies on the island, as well as bait, charter fishing trips and beer on tap. Annie loved Parotti's, especially the fried oyster sandwiches. Thankfully, Ben still offered succulent down-home food even after his recent marriage and a wife who had added quiche and lemonade to the menu and fresh flowers in vases to the old scarred round wooden tables.

Marriage did change some things. Scrawny, pint-size Ben no longer scuffed around in long underwear tops and stained corduroys held up by a knotted cord from an old flannel bathrobe. In fact, the last time they'd been over for lunch, Annie had murmured to Max that Ben looked like a Broadway dancer in his spiffy double-breasted blue blazer and white ducks, an opinion which would probably have sent Ben posthaste to the nearest secondhand store for an old outfit.

But Ben was a prime example of the miracle of mar
riage, the willingness to take into account a partner's hopes and desires and fears.

Max took a deep breath and shoved open the door. Ever since the call from Pudge Laurance, he'd expected to hear from Annie. He'd called Death on Demand, home and her cell phone. She'd fled the cemetery, angry and upset. But when she finally called a few minutes ago, she'd not even mentioned seeing her father. She'd just said, “Max, I know it's late. But I haven't had lunch yet. Can you meet me at Parotti's?”

Of course he could.

He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, then walked swiftly across the wooden floor.

Annie waved from a booth not far from the line of coolers filled with squid, chicken necks and chunks of fish which added a pungency to air laden with the odors of old grease and beer. She stood and waited for him, eyes huge in a pale face, hands clenched.

He pulled her close, held her tight, smelled for an instant the freshness of her hair, the delicate scent of her favorite Estée Lauder powder, and wished for wisdom.

Annie stepped back and looked up at him, then slipped into the booth. She didn't say anything, but her eyes were wary.

Max took his place opposite her and felt that an abyss stretched between them instead of an old plank table carved with lovers' initials.

“You've seen him.” She spoke calmly, but her voice was cool and remote.

Max looked at a face both familiar and unfamiliar. Yes, this was his Annie, sun-streaked hair, gray eyes, eminently kissable mouth, but he didn't recognize this carefully composed, grave mask which hid her thoughts. Was she angry? Grieving? Despairing?

Max hesitated, uncertain what he should say. Annie would never forget his words. And what right did he have to push her toward the father who had abandoned her? All right, so he liked Pudge. Obviously, he didn't really know the man, but Pudge had warmth and charm and, dammit, he was Annie's father.

Sudden anger glinted in Annie's eyes. “So he raced from the cemetery to you. If he calls you again, tell him what I said, Max. Tell him I said it's twenty-five damn years too late.”

Max would have jumped from an airplane, scaled a mountain, swum a wave-crested river to erase the tears from her eyes. He spoke slowly. “He called me. I told him exactly that, Annie.”

Those shiny eyes watched him.

“He said you were the only reason he came to the island, the only reason he's staying on the island.”

She listened intently.

Ben Parotti stood a few feet past their booth, out of Annie's vision, and his worried eyes darted back and forth between them.

Max dropped one hand where Annie couldn't see and wiggled his fingers and Ben slipped away.

“But he said he had to call me. Because of Laurel. Pudge said—”

“Pudge?” Annie's voice was strange. “Is that what he's called? His name is Patrick.”

Once again Max knew this was dangerous territory and how galling it must be for Annie to realize that Max knew her father's nickname while she did not. “Annie, listen. You trust me, don't you?” He reached across the table, gripped her hands. “I know you're upset. I know you can't be expected to simply dismiss the past, but I hope you will give him a chance. Just give him a chance.”

She squeezed his hands, pulled hers free and brushed back a tangle of blond hair. “Max, don't push me.” She pressed her fingers against her cheeks. When they dropped, her gaze was determined and somehow fiercely impersonal. “He doesn't matter right now.” Speaking fast, she described Laurel in the cemetery, concluding, “…she's frightened and she truly believes everything will be all right if she can talk to Buddy. Maybe that wouldn't hurt anything, but she's vulnerable, Max, and she's going to go to this foundation—”

“I know. Evermore Foundation, run by a Dr. Swanson. Pudge told me a great deal about Swanson.” His voice was grave.

Annie's eyes flashed. “Oh yes. Pudge's ex-wife. The reason he's here.”

Max decided the less said about Pudge's ex-wife, the better.

Ben Parotti was lurking near a potted palm, another of the new improvements. Max waved at him. “Here's Ben, Annie. Let's order.”

Annie managed a smile. “Hi, Ben.”

Today Parotti wore a Jack Nicklaus green sport coat and pale yellow trousers. “We have two specials, fish chowder with corn fritters and oyster pie with a spinach salad and a raspberry vinaigrette. And apricot tea.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Annie said blankly. She waved her hand. “Anything.”

Parotti shot her a shocked look. He put his hand to his mouth, muttered to Max, “Missus under the weather? I'll do her a double special fried oyster sandwich.”

Max nodded. “Fried oyster sandwich for Annie. I'll take the chowder. Two apricot teas.”

Parotti looked at her anxiously. “I'll bring a double order of fritters,” and he hurried away.

Annie stared at the table. “It was decent of him to come and tell you about Swanson.” She took a deep breath. “Okay. He said he had to tell you about Dr. Swanson. Look what I've got here.” She opened her purse, pulled out a sheaf of papers. She pushed them across the table. “There's something wrong about Swanson. The longest he's ever stayed in one place was five years. That was in Nashville. He moves to a town and sets up a foundation and puts out fancy brochures with all this guff about the Golden Road and Emanations of Light and Seeing Our Way and then the first thing you know, wham, the foundation shuts down, he moves to a new town, starts over again.”

Max scanned the thick sheaf of papers. “You're right. And a different name every time. In Nashville, the New Vision. In New Orleans, Points of Light. In Laguna, Shimmering Spirit. In Seattle, the Golden Road. But there's nothing here to indicate any trouble with the law or with his credit. No bankruptcies. In fact, it looks like his credit's pretty choice.” He raised an eyebrow. “How did you get all this financial stuff?”

Just for an instant, the old Annie looked at him, laughter in her eyes. “My lips are sealed.” Then the laughter fled. “Laurel shouldn't be involved with this.”

“I agree.” That was true enough, Max thought. But his real concern wasn't Laurel. His real concern was Annie. And whether it was wise or foolish, he wanted her to see Pudge, to be around him long enough to sense what kind of man he was. Once again, Max chose his words with care. “Pudge's ex-sister-in-law is Marguerite Dumaney—”

Annie's eyes widened at the mention of the legendary actress.

“—and apparently she's deeply involved with this crystal stuff. Dumaney's convinced she's connected with her dead husband. This has upset everybody in the fam
ily. So Pudge has hired me to find out what I can about Swanson.” Max stared into cool gray eyes.

“I see.” She spoke evenly, but she no longer looked at him.

“Annie—” He reached across the table.

Parotti clomped across the wooden floor. “Here you go, Annie, the double deluxe fried oyster sandwich. I made the tartar sauce fresh this morning myself.”

Annie smiled. “Thank you, Ben. Nobody in the world makes a better sandwich.”

Chowder sloshed over the brim of Max's bowl as Parotti kept his eyes on Annie.

Waiting until Parotti turned away, Max unobtrusively sopped up the spillage.

Annie munched on her sandwich, closed her eyes. “Hmm. The best!”

Max waited until he was halfway through the chowder. Annie's color was better and she no longer looked like a soldier staring up a gun barrel.

“So”—and he kept his voice casual—“Pudge thinks it would help if we met Swanson on a social basis.”

Annie was suddenly still. She put the remnant of sandwich on the plate.

“Marguerite Dumaney's celebrating her birthday tomorrow night. Pudge will wangle us an invitation. He said Swanson will be there and we can meet him. Swanson won't have any idea Laurel's my mother.”

Annie sipped the tea, then said precisely, “That sounds like an excellent plan. You can talk to Swanson and that should help you decide how to approach Laurel. Here, you'd better keep the stuff I got on him.” She swept together the printout sheets and held them out to him, a woman obviously pleased to discharge any and all responsibility. And further effort.

Max was afraid he understood only too well. He stared into suddenly dark and remote gray eyes. “You and I—”

“No, Max. I'm not going.”

 

Annie unpacked books like mad. Only ten days until Christmas. This was her best holiday season yet. As always, there were customers with odd but fun requests, including the homesick Left Coaster who wanted books set in northern California. Annie obliged with titles by Elizabeth Atwood Taylor, Susan Dunlap, Janet LaPierre, Janet Dawson, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Shelley Singer, Marcia Muller and Linda Grant.

If Annie had odd and uncomfortable moments—and she did—she assured herself that married couples didn't always go in tandem. Tonight Max could manage on his own. After all, it was his mother.

And her father.

The unexpected thought shocked her. She folded her lips in a tight line and bent to shelve a raft of Lillian Jackson Braun paperbacks.

Agatha materialized from beneath the Whitmani fern. The elegant black cat slithered between Annie and the shelf.

Annie looked at Agatha. “No. Huh-uh. You're smart, sure. But no way.”

Agatha stared at her with opaque golden eyes, rubbed her whiskers against
The Cat Who Saw Stars
, flicked her tail and moved down the aisle toward the coffee bar.

The bell at the front door of Death on Demand gave its familiar, cheerful peal, followed by Ingrid's soft murmur of inquiry. Annie picked up six more books, trying to remember the order of publication, then paused as an angry young voice rasped, “No, you can't help me. I want to see
her.
” The emphasis on the pronoun was startlingly hostile. “Annie.”

Annie was on her feet and starting up the aisle when a teenage girl came flying toward her, skidding to a stop only steps away.

They stared at each other.

The girl—she couldn't be more than fifteen—planted her feet apart, slapped thin hands on hips hidden beneath a floppy oversize shirt and a huge unzipped canvas duck jacket that sagged down her shoulders and dangled near her knees. Ragged bell-bottom jeans splayed over black sports sneakers that added at least two inches to her height. Despite the voluminous clothes, she looked like a Dickens waif, her wrists smaller than the span of a thumb, her eyes huge in a bony face still seeking its adult shape. She poked her narrow head forward, a tangle of dark curls framing blazing brown eyes, angular cheekbones and trembling lips.

Annie had a sudden memory of Agatha as a kitten, a frightened stray, eyes glittering, stiff-legged, tiny mouth agape in a furious hiss. Annie lifted her hand.

“So here you are.” The girl's high voice quavered. “All stuck up and happy. Wearing a Christmas sweater. Just like you hadn't ruined Christmas for me and Pudge.” Those big dark eyes glared. “You don't care, do you? Did you know I used to dream about you and write letters to you? My big sister, that's what I thought you would be. Pudge told me all about you when I was little. He said he'd looked for you everywhere, and he knew we would be crazy about each other, that you'd be a great big sister to me. And now—”

“Wait a minute.” Annie's face felt hot. “Who are you?”

The girl jammed her hands in the big slanted pockets of the grimy red coat. “Nobody to you, I guess. I'm just Rachel. But I hate you. You've made Pudge cry,” and she whirled and ran toward the front door.

 

Max slammed the front door. “Hi, gorgeous.”

Annie, stretched out on a white wicker couch with flowered cushions, listened from the terrace room and knew he was scooping up Dorothy L., their rollicking white cat who adored him.

“Max?” Annie sat up, looked toward the front hall.

His face surprised and pleased, Max appeared in the doorway, Dorothy L. riding on his shoulder. “I didn't expect you to be here. I thought you were working tonight.”

“Ingrid and Duane are handling the store.” Annie looked at the mantel, at the clock now chiming the hour. “What time's your dinner?”

“Seven.”

There was a moment of silence.

Max's gaze was hopeful, then slowly the light in his dark blue eyes faded. “Well, I need to shave. See you later.”

Annie listened as his steps crossed the entrance hall and the swift thud as he hurried upstairs.

Pushing up from the couch, she stood uncertainly for a moment, then whirled toward the terrace. Grabbing a jacket from the row of hooks, she yanked open the door. Once outside, she shivered and pulled on the nylon jacket. Head down, hands in her pockets, she plunged down the path toward the lagoon. But not even the cool misty air could sweep away the turmoil in her mind, dampen the memory of those big, dark, angry eyes, such forlorn, young, aching eyes.