ANNIE PLACED THE silver in the dishwasher. “Thanks for having him come, Max.”
Dorothy L. finished her bowl of finely chopped steak, settled back and began to clean her face.
Max scrubbed the broiler. Over the hiss of hot water, he said firmly, “He’ll be back. And he had a good time. He needed it. I don’t envy him, going back to that house.”
Annie reached for the glistening grill and buffed it with the dish towel. On one level she admired Pudge for his determination to stick by Rachel. On another she resented his allegiance to a stepdaughter when he had never stuck by his own daughter. “It isn’t fair.” She spoke aloud.
“What?” Max looked up from spraying the sink.
Annie dropped the pan into the oven drawer. “I’m not being fair. I’m glad he wants to help Rachel.”
Max draped the dishcloth over the sink divider. He reached out and pulled her close, warm and safe in the circle of his arms. “I have good feelings about Pudge, Annie. And about us. And about the future. Everything’s going to be okay.” He laughed. “And whenever we start to feel like we’ve got troubles, we can think about Pudge’s ex-wife and her poisonous sister.”
“Speaking of troubles…” Annie glanced toward the clock. Five minutes to midnight. She admired her mother-in-law’s gift for the dramatic entrance. Laurel could likely have arrived at eleven, but no, there was a cachet about the stroke of midnight and Laurel was not one to miss her opportunities.
Max nodded. “I’ll make some decaf.”
Annie cut several squares of raspberry brownies. As she finished, there was a light knock on the French door to the terrace. The knob turned and Laurel stepped inside. Her dark cloak swirled. She flung back the hood. Her smooth golden hair hung in soft curls, framing her finely boned face. Her dark blue eyes darted a quick glance behind her. She pulled the door shut. “I do not believe I was followed.” She handed her cloak to Max, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “My dear, you were magnificent.” She sped to Annie and gave her a swift embrace. “I’m sure Maxwell told you how he and I staged a really most affecting quarrel this afternoon. It was simply superb the way he played up to my lead. Kate Rutledge heard it all. I’m sure word has traveled over the island.” She beamed at Annie, dropped into a chair and reached for a brownie.
“Probably all the way to the cemetery. I suspect Go-Dog is quite concerned.” Annie picked up a brownie, too. It wouldn’t be fair to say she was mad at Laurel, but Annie didn’t relish the fact that Laurel had made a spectacle of herself and worried Annie to pieces. Annie had intended to be cool, not to indicate by so much as the quiver of an eyelash that she personally had feared for her mother-in-law’s sanity. Instead, she blurted, “Dammit, Laurel, what are you up to?”
Laurel daintily finished her brownie. “I believe they call it entrapment in some circles.” She waved her hand. “Whatever.”
Max brought a steaming mug to his mother, another to Annie. He sat beside Annie on the peppermint-striped sofa. Dorothy L. immediately trotted across the back of the couch and jumped to his lap. “Okay, Ma. You’ve got everyone on the island talking about your trips to the cemetery. Now, what’s the deal about Swanson? And who’s Kate Rutledge?”
Laurel nodded in satisfaction. “They are my link to the Golden Path. You see, my visits with Go-Dog were quite a success.”
Annie almost choked on the hot coffee. She stared at her mother-in-law, who apparently thrived on midnight outings, her blue eyes dancing with pleasure, her pink lips curved in sheer satisfaction.
“Laurel, you did not talk to Go-Dog.” Annie realized her tone was strident, but it had been a long day with too much raw emotion, especially the ugly scene at the Dumaney house when Happy slapped Rachel and ordered Annie to leave. It hadn’t helped matters when Pudge was late to arrive and she thought that once again she’d hoped too much to see her father. And all through the day, she’d worried about Laurel.
“Annie, you are such a dear! So predictable. So earnest!” Laurel gazed at Annie in apparent admiration.
Max glanced at Annie, then said quickly, “Okay, Ma, okay. You’ve had fun. Everybody on the island thinks you’re nuts. But we know you’re not.” He avoided Annie’s skeptical gaze.
“Oh”—Laurel’s tone was light—“of course, I am a little crazy. That’s why Miss Dora thought of me. She called, you see. A friend of hers is in the toils…” Laurel frowned, cocked her head, murmured, “Coils…snare…web? Ah yes, the web of Emory Swanson.” Just for an instant, her sparkling blue eyes were speculative and sharply intelligent. “A most unscrupulous man, I’m afraid. In any event, Miss Dora is quite concerned. Her friend is apparently signing over all of her property to Swanson because he has reunited her with her dead husband. Now”—Laurel’s smile was gay and insouciant—“I have enough late husbands”—she looked fondly at Max—“to be quite aware that those who go before are always with us. That is not in question. But”—and her face was suddenly stern—“there is no need to clutch crystals and to sit in a darkened room with someone breathing heavily.” Distaste flickered in her eyes. “No, indeed.”
Annie looked at her blankly. Hadn’t Laurel delved into ESP and the supernatural when Ingrid Jones went missing right after Annie and Max’s wedding? “But you and Ophelia Baxter—”
Laurel flicked her hand, dismissing Ophelia. “Fun’s fun. Besides, Ophelia genuinely believes in ESP. She means well. I do not think”—and there was an unaccustomed severity to Laurel’s husky voice—“that Emory Swanson means well in the least. He is, in fact, a grasping, clever, unscrupulous man who takes advantage of vulnerable women. So, of course, I told Miss Dora I would take care of it.”
Max stroked Dorothy L. and studied his mother. “Just like that?” he inquired. “You told Miss Dora you’d take care of it? Of Swanson and the women who have fallen for his spiel?”
Laurel clapped her hands in delight. “Maxwell, you put it so succinctly. His spiel, yes, indeed, just like one of those medicine men who used to wander from town to town. People were so gullible. Not that they’re any smarter today. There are all those stores with concoctions that promise to make you smarter, thinner, faster, pump you up or slow you down, drop your cholesterol, improve your sex life….” She paused, gave a tiny head shake. “Why, they promise everything. When you think of the billions those companies make, it can be no surprise that Emory Swanson, who is quite charming and attractive, should be successful in taking advantage of lonely widows. But I shall fix his little red wagon.”
Annie ate another brownie, simply for strength. “Okay, Laurel, let me get this straight. You’ve put on a charade that you’re desperate to contact Buddy…”
Laurel nodded brightly.
“…and you’ve convinced Swanson you’re fair game.”
“Is that why he gave you a crystal?” Max asked.
Laurel reached in her pocket, pulled out a triangular pink prism and held it where the light reflected in a shower of brightness. “My gateway to the Beyond. I shall devote myself to it publicly with great appreciation, and I shall cultivate Kate Rutledge, who seems always to be at the center of groups extolling the greatness of Emory Swanson. I am confident that soon I will be invited to a séance at Chandler house.” She reached into her other pocket. “And here is Emory’s ticket to trouble.” She held in her palm a circular plastic object about the size of an eighteenth century snuffbox or a woman’s small compact. The upper face of the pale gray plastic was grilled.
“A microphone?” Max guessed. He shook his head. “It’s too little.”
“A state-of-the-art tape recorder,” Laurel announced impressively, “which can run for a week. It is programed to desist recording from midnight to ten A.M. to conserve energy.” She bounced the small recorder on her palm. “What do you want to bet that within a week Emory Swanson in an unguarded moment will make a few statements that will shake the faith of even the truest believer?” Laurel relaxed back against the cushion. “All I have to do is get inside Chandler house. I am going to take a gift for Dr. Swanson, a photograph of myself”—was there just a bit of preening as she smoothed back a golden curl—“in a rather ornate frame with interlocking circles of plastic. This”—she held the small round recorder between thumb and forefinger—“fits very nicely within a circle. I shall insist that he keep my picture on his desk so that I may truly feel that we are in communion and that I am striving ever nearer the Golden Path.” She dropped the recorder into her pocket. “Since I shall make it clear that I am willing to shower gold upon his efforts, I do believe that picture frame will sit on his desk as requested. And oh, what an interesting story I think we shall learn.”
Max remembered Swanson’s smug confidence as he walked to his car outside Laurel’s garden. Slowly, he nodded. “Of course, you have to hope there’s someone in his confidence who—”
“That kind of man,” Laurel interrupted with finality, “always has an adoring woman at his beck and call. I did a little checking and I think it is quite significant that Kate Rutledge moved to the island about six months before Swanson arrived. By then she’d made herself quite familiar in island circles. She’s active in all the best women’s groups. She steers women toward him. Oh, quite tactfully and as if she scarcely knows him. The emphasis is always on the wonderful stories she’s heard from others. I just have the tiniest little suspicion that he and Kate know each rather well. It will be such fun to hear what Emory has to say when he thinks no one else can overhear.” Laurel popped to her feet. “Now I must fly.” She pulled on her cloak, tucked her hair beneath the hood. “I didn’t bring my car, of course. One can go everywhere on the bicycle paths.” She paused at the French door. “Remember, now, dear ones, We Are Estranged. Night-night.”
As the door clicked behind her, Annie grinned. “Having a hell of a good time, isn’t she? A lady Bulldog Drummond?”
Max didn’t grin in return. Frowning, he strode toward the French door. “Hey, I don’t like this. I’ll get the recorder from her. I’ll get it in that house somehow. I’ll find out if he has a burglar alarm”—most island homes didn’t—“and I’ll sneak into the house late one night and plant it in his office.”
Annie was right behind him. “Not that house, you won’t.”
Max stopped with his hand on the door. “It ought to be easy. There are some big live oaks near the house. I’ll bet I can get in on the second floor. Nobody’s awake at two in the morning. I’ll find out where his office is, scoot downstairs, plant the recorder and be out of there in five minutes.”
“No way, Max. I went by there after I talked to Edith at the library. There’s a big gate now and a huge fence. When I got out of the car, two snarling Dobermans tried to take the fence down to get at me.” Annie doubted that even canine-savvy Holly Winters, Susan Conant’s sleuth, would have an answer to those dogs.
Max opened the door, stepped onto the terrace. “She’s gone.” He turned back to Annie. “I don’t like this. If Swanson finds that microphone, he’ll know who brought it.”
They stepped back into the den. As Max locked the door, Annie shrugged. “Even if he finds the recorder, what can he do? He might be furious, but you can bet he won’t call the cops. He doesn’t want any scandal to touch him.”
Max checked the fire, made sure the screen was in place. In the glow of the embers, his face was somber. “It’s not the police I’m worried about. Swanson’s about to hit it big with Marguerite Dumaney. I don’t think he’ll stop at much to make sure the deal goes through. As for Kate Rutledge, I don’t know if Ma’s right about her being directly linked to Swanson, but the lady gives me bad vibes. Laurel may be up against more than she realizes.”