Sugarplum Dead (20 page)

Annie's heart ached for Rachel, but she didn't have Alice's apparently gut-level conviction of Rachel's innocence. And not simply because of the hockey stick. Because of Pudge. Had he run with the weapon because he foresaw the police response to a bloodied field hockey stick? Or did he run because he believed Rachel killed her mother in a moment of irrational anger and he wanted to protect her? If Annie knew the answer to those questions, she could be
certain. Those answers would never come. Whatever Pudge believed, he would insist Rachel was innocent.

“Someone killed Happy.” Max's voice was combative.

Nearby a barred owl hooted eight times, beginning his winter afternoon courtship song. The hoots were uncannily precise. In the shadows of the maze, the air was almost cold. Annie shivered and pushed away a memory of Rachel, her face puffed with anger. No, not Rachel. Not Rachel. But not Pudge, either. Right now, it looked odds on that one of them—if not both—soon would be charged with Happy's murder. There were no other suspects. Marguerite? She was the rich one, not Happy. Wayne Ladson? Donna Farrell? Terry Ladson? They had no connection to Happy. Her death couldn't benefit them in any way. Joan Ladson? She was a vacationing librarian who hadn't seen Happy in several years. Now, if Wayne's head had been bashed in…But it was Happy who died and only Rachel and Pudge appeared to have motives. And, of course, Mike, who claimed he'd not even glanced toward Happy's door last night. Annie almost spoke and didn't. What good would it do to throw Mike into the mix? The police might well charge both him and Rachel. Both might be innocent. Or guilty.

Annie clasped her hands tightly together. “The trouble is that there are no other suspects. None.”

Max's eyes were bright and sharp. “What about Swanson? Rachel thinks he did it. What about him?”

“Dr. Swanson?” There was an odd tone in Alice's voice. “Rachel thinks he killed Happy?”

Annie quickly explained. “…and Happy told Rachel she had papers that could keep Swanson from getting Marguerite's money for his foundation.”

“What kind of papers would endanger Dr. Swanson's cause?” Alice looked puzzled.

“I have no idea,” Annie admitted. “It seems impossible. I didn't get the impression Happy had any contact with the man other than here at the house. Maybe Happy learned something from someone in town.”

“Gossip doesn't translate to papers,” Max pointed out.

Alice paced in front of the marble bench. “Swanson. I don't like him. He's a bad man.” The simple words evoked a dark and dangerous image. “I've warned and warned Marguerite against him, but she won't listen. She thinks he's wonderful. In fact”—and her finely boned face was tight with disgust—“she wants to have a séance tonight to see what we can find out about Happy's murder. I've been trying to talk her out of it. But maybe it's not such a bad idea.”

“What good would that do?” Annie didn't try to keep the dismay from her voice. A séance! That would be terrible for Rachel.

“It would bring Swanson here.” Alice was excited, determined. “If he killed Happy, it's the last place he'll want to come.” She clapped her hands together. “I'll talk to Marguerite and let her think she's persuaded me.”

“Swanson.” Max didn't sound convinced. “How would Happy know anything that could block his plans with Marguerite?”

Annie understood his skepticism. Swanson was a slick customer, that was certain. There seemed little likelihood that Happy could have found concrete evidence of misdoing serious enough to thwart his plans to milk funds from Marguerite. But if she had…money is always a lovely motive for murder.

“Money.” Annie's tone was thoughtful. “Maybe Rachel's instinct is right. Maybe that's what we're dealing with.” She looked at Alice. “How rich is Marguerite?”

Alice smoothed back the fiery auburn hair. “Very. At least ten million. And since the Dow has gone so high, oh, she's very rich. Claude left everything to her, which certainly wasn't fair to his children. But it's always been understood that the greater portion of the estate would go to Claude's children. I don't blame them for being upset. Swanson has no right to that money. And they all need it. It will be dreadful if Swanson isn't stopped.”

A murder charge would stop him. But Annie saw all kinds of difficulties. How did Swanson get into the house? Mike thought there had been light near the maze. Could it have been Swanson with a flashlight? But how did Swanson have access to Rachel's raincoat and hockey stick? That might depend upon how well Swanson knew the house and when the crime was planned.

“If Swanson killed Happy, we should be able to prove it.” Annie wished she felt as confident as she sounded. “We have to catch Happy's killer. Whoever it is.” Annie was clear about that. She wasn't going to see Pudge sacrifice himself.

Almost as if he'd read her thoughts, Max grabbed her hand. “Listen, Annie, Pudge wants you to stay here tonight with Rachel. He's worried about her. I promised him you would.”

Annie gave him a startled glance. “How can I manage that?”

Alice waved her hand. “I'll tell Marguerite the girl asked for you. It will be fine. There's a guest room on the third floor right across from Rachel. You'll be next to Joan.”

Would it be fine to stay in a house where death had walked? But Max had promised for her and it was pitiful to imagine Rachel alone. Only Alice seemed to care about her. “All right, I'll stay. That will give me a chance
to look around for Happy's papers. Maybe she hid them somewhere other than her room.”

“Papers about Swanson…” Alice's lips spread in a pleased smile. “Everyone in the house—except for Marguerite—would be delighted to see Swanson in trouble. Let's organize a general search.”

The police would carefully check Happy's room. If Swanson had murdered Happy, the odds were very good that he had found the papers. But it wouldn't hurt to search the house. It was clear from Alice's firm expression that a search was going to happen. Annie looked at her curiously. How had she ever considered this woman to be nothing more than a pale reflection of Marguerite? “How will Marguerite respond to that?”

“I'll see to Marguerite. Her practice before a séance is to withdraw and meditate. She'll never know. It won't be hard. She's hurting, you know.” Alice's voice was somber. “Everyone sees her as selfish and cold, but she's always counted on Happy. There will be a huge void in her life. I don't know if the reality has set in yet. When it does…” Alice's face was suddenly bleak. And angry. “It shouldn't have happened. God knows it shouldn't have happened. It's all Swanson's fault.” Her eyes were hard. “He's going to pay. One way or another.”

A
NNIE GLANCED DOWN
the hall when she reached the second floor. The crossed bands of yellow tape were stark against Happy's white door. Annie frowned. Surely Garrett would search the room soon for Happy's papers even though he was deeply suspicious of both Rachel and Pudge. Maybe Judge Halladay could light a fire under Garrett, make sure the papers were sought. If the papers were there, there was a good chance they would be found. If they weren't there…A cold wave of fear, insidious as seeping poison, washed through her mind. If there weren't any papers…

Annie hurried up the next flight. It was very quiet on the third floor. Her knock on Rachel's door seemed almost thunderous.

There was a muffled call. “Who's there?”

“Annie. Will you let me in, please?”

There was a rattle and the door swung in. Rachel gestured conspiratorially. Annie was glad to see that her color was better. In fact, her eyes glittered with energy and her jaw had a pugnacious set. “Annie, the judge told me not to let anybody in. He didn't mean you.” Rachel slammed the door, tugged at Annie. “I've been waiting for you. I knew you'd come—”

The total confidence in her voice made Annie's heart ache.

“—and we'd get to work. The judge said I wasn't to worry, that obviously somebody wanted to make it look
like me. I told him about Dr. Swanson. The judge said the police would figure it all out.” Obviously, Rachel perceived the judge's arrogant confidence in his own ability to protect a client as a statement of exoneration. That was all right. It was far better that she not be aware of her peril. And maybe, before Garrett made a move—and he would be very cautious about charging a minor—Happy's murder would be solved.

“I wrote down everything about yesterday.” Rachel grabbed up a spiral notebook and thrust it at Annie. “I don't think there's anything useful about Mom and him except what she told me when we talked in the gazebo.”

Annie looked at the notebook. …
everything about yesterday.
Annie's hand tightened on the notebook. “Did you write about your mom slapping you?” Garrett must not learn about that ugly incident on the day that Happy died.

Rachel's eyes filled with tears. “Mom didn't mean it. She hugged me in the gazebo. It was only 'cause I hurt her feelings.”

Annie flipped open the notebook. She found the paragraph:

I didn't mean to make Mom mad but she was all wrong about me and Mike and Aunt Rita lied! She acted like she'd paid Mike not to see me but she'd told him I was going to get a fancy car not to see him and it was all just a lie. She's the meanest old woman in the world and poor Mom always made excuses for her and said it was because Marguerite was beautiful and she'd never learned that sometimes you can't have your way. But Mom got all upset because she thought Pudge and Annie were going behind her back and then I said she didn't love me and she slapped me and I ran away. But she didn't mean it. Last night she told me she was sorry and everything would be all…

Annie tore out the page. She ripped the sheet into tiny pieces, walked to the bathroom and flushed the paper away.

Rachel stood in the doorway. “But Mom said she was sorry.”

Annie folded the other sheets, tucked them in the pocket of her skirt. “Rachel, if anybody ever asks—like the police—you and your mom and I were talking and”—
quick, quick,
she tried to think,
what could they say because it was always so hard to avoid truth
—“and I tried to explain what had happened about Mike, but she got mad and told me to leave and that made you mad and you turned and ran away.”

“Shouldn't I tell the truth?” Rachel's tone was puzzled.

“Not this time, honey. And it's mostly true. We just don't have to tell everything. Besides, your mom was sorry and she wouldn't want anyone to know she'd slapped you.”

“You mean it would make Mom look bad? Oh, I don't want that. The police might not understand. Mom just couldn't handle trouble. She never could. And then”—Rachel's voice was suddenly hard—“she decided she had to stop that man no matter how awful it was—and he killed her. Annie, we've got to find those papers.”

“I want to talk to you about that. Max and I told Alice about the papers and she thinks we should ask everybody to help search. Everybody except your aunt. Do you feel up to telling the others?”

“Like a big treasure hunt,” Rachel breathed. Her eyes glistened.

Annie realized the search for the papers gave Rachel a focus, helped her to vent her misery and fear. Moreover, a search would give Annie a chance to talk to the others. Maybe someone else had spoken with Happy about the
papers. Maybe there was a connection between Happy and Swanson, if only they could find it.

 

That morning when they'd gathered in the terrace room, fear and uneasiness had made faces careful and eyes wary. Now everyone seemed relaxed and comfortable. Rachel perched on the edge of the barstool. “…Mom said there was no way she was going to let Dr. Swanson get Aunt Rita's money. Mom said she had papers that would stop it and she was going to put them in a safe place.”

Her audience listened intently. Wayne Ladson stroked his Vandyke as he lounged in a green wicker chair. Terry Ladson clapped his hands together, his sunburned face pleased. Donna Farrell, sitting beside him on a chintz sofa, toyed with a dangling silver earring and looked speculatively toward the mass of ferns. “You could hide an army in here. As for the reception room…” Her narrow shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.

Joan Ladson stood by herself near the garden door. “Well”—her tone was earnest, her face faintly pink—“this makes more sense than anything else we've heard. Nobody would kill Happy because she was Happy,” she said obscurely. “I mean, not for herself. There had to be another reason, and now we know what it is.”

Alice Schiller cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice was as colorless as usual, but her words were decisive. “I think you all agree that Rachel's talk with Happy may lead to solving this terrible crime. I propose that we conduct a thorough search—”

“Of this huge house?” Donna's voice was shrill. “Alice, that's absurd.”

Wayne pushed up from his chair and stood, hands in his pockets. “One of your problems in life”—he eyed his
sister with disdain—“is the inability to think critically.” He held up his fist, popped up a finger with each pronouncement. “To begin, we can cut the search to a manageable proposition. A: Happy obviously would not hide anything in a room occupied by someone else. That excludes most of the second and third floors. B: She would not have hidden papers in her own room, reasoning that would be the first place anyone would look. C:—”

“Oh, now wait a minute, Wayne. Why would Happy think anybody would look through her things?” Terry raised an eyebrow. “She wasn't a CIA agent.”

“You flunk, too, Terry.” Wayne's tone was biting. “Obviously, if Happy had papers dangerous to Swanson, they accomplished nothing unless she threatened to use them. Ergo, dear brother, if that was Happy's plan, she would put the papers, as she told Rachel, in a ‘safe place,' and, equally obvious to the meanest intellect, her room would be a poor place to hide anything. Especially”—and now his drawl was coldly analytical—“if she had invited Swason to come to her room last night to talk. Now, Terry, if you intended to force someone to forgo a fortune and you had papers that made your threat possible and you were going to meet with that person, would you have those papers close at hand where they could be found or taken from you?”

The red in Terry's face did not come solely from his sunburn. He shrugged. “Hell, who knows what a woman will do? Especially one as dippy as Happy.”

Wayne ignored him and continued, his tone pedantic but excited. “C: The hiding place cannot be where the papers might be discovered inadvertently. That excludes the kitchen, washroom, garages, housekeeping closets. D: We know that we are seeking a paper or packet of papers that concern Dr. Swanson. This is perhaps the most im
portant qualification, as it will make it easy to scan materials.”

Joan glared at her ex-husband. “You are so infuriating, Wayne. You're so supercilious. Didn't you hear what Rachel said? Happy was ‘going to put the papers in a safe place.' She
intended
to do so. She hadn't done it yet. So whatever papers she had were probably in her room and they've now been destroyed.”

Alice briefly pressed thin hands against her temples. “Happy's words can as easily be interpreted that she had already set up a meeting with her murderer, but that she fully intended to put the papers in a safe place before that meeting took place.”

Terry wrinkled his nose. “This is all so much bullshit. How could Happy have obtained any kind of papers that would compromise Swanson? I don't buy it.”

Rachel jounced on the barstool. “Mom said so. She meant it.”

Donna smoothed her skirt. “It can't do any harm to look. If we can find something about that man…” Her tone was venomous.

“We'll give it a hell of a try.” Wayne's gaze was steely.

If Emory Swanson was as psychic as he claimed, he should at this moment have been reeling from a bombardment of inimical thought waves. Every face in the room radiated hostility. Rachel's dark eyes burned with hatred. Alice Schiller looked cruelly triumphant. Terry grinned, an ugly, savoring grin. Joan nodded vehemently, her wispy hair wobbling. “We have to stop him.”

Wayne looked at each in turn. “We're agreed, then. Donna, you take the reception area. Joan, you check out the jungle room. Terry, look in the empty guest bedrooms. Alice—”

The triumphant glitter in Alice's eyes faded. She
looked uncertain. “Wayne, I will help, but it will have to be later. Marguerite needs me. She still isn't feeling well. I was up with her most of the night—”

Annie looked at Alice sharply. So far as Annie knew, Garrett had yet to reveal the likely time of the murder. The only people who knew were, of course, the police and Annie, who had overheard Burford's comments, and Rachel and Pudge and Max. That piece of information could be important. If Alice had been awake at midnight last night, perhaps she may have seen or heard something that would help. But this wasn't the moment to ask.

“—and now she's distraught over Happy's death. I must go up to her. And”—she took a deep breath—“I must warn you that Marguerite has summoned Dr. Swanson. There will be a séance tonight in the theater at eight o'clock.” Alice ignored the shocked cries. “There's no point in objecting. Marguerite's made up her mind. I would advise all of you to attend. It will give us an opportunity to observe Swanson's demeanor. And now”—her voice shook a little—“Rachel and I must go upstairs.” She reached out, took Rachel's hand. “Father Cooley is on his way to discuss plans for Happy's service.”

 

Annie lingered uncertainly near the coffee bar in the terrace room. She'd hated seeing the wash of pain over Rachel's face, but there was nothing Annie could do to help, and certainly she couldn't intrude in this somber family conclave. There was a moment of silence after Rachel's and Alice's departure, then the others scattered to their search sites, a tribute both to Wayne's generalship and to the relief of engaging in activity that could possibly foil Dr. Emory Swanson.

Until Rachel came downstairs, Annie was on her own. She debated going home long enough to pack an overnight bag, but that could wait until later. Instead, she looked vaguely around, realized her purse with a pen and small pad was in the trunk of her car. She stepped behind the bar, rummaged through some drawers and found a white notepad and a pencil.

Settling at the card table, she tapped the pencil on the table and then began to write:

Murder would presuppose escalation of Pudge and Happy's argument beyond any reasonable bounds. Or deep-seated anger festering since their divorce. Annie thought anyone should be able to tell that Pudge did not have a vindictive nature, but Garrett would be prejudiced by the reports of Pudge and Happy's quarrels.

Other suspects by reason of being in proximity to the crime scene:

The summing up left Annie depressed. Once again it seemed clear that the only real motives for the murder were confined to that first short list. The others in the house seemed not to have any reason to be angry with Happy. Annie was sure that was how the case would appear to Chief Garrett. That didn't mean there might not be reasons none of them knew about.

What did she need to find out?