ANNIE 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 important 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:
Possible suspects in the murder of Happy Laurance:
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?
Annie had a penchant for tossing odd objects in her trunk. Residing therein at the moment were a carefully boxed porcelain cake server, a catnip-scented Christmas stocking, a pair of airline tickets to Bermuda (Wouldn’t Max be surprised!), a manuscript (The Katydid Killer) thrust on her by a hopeful writer despite Annie’s protestations that she merely sold books, she didn’t publish them—
A shriek erupted in the jungle.
Annie stuffed the notepad in her sweater pocket and bolted toward the rock path between the big rubber trees.
As Max chopped up a slice of cooked tenderloin steak and dropped the bits into Dorothy L.’s plastic bowl, he studied Annie’s note. Of course, he’d seen her since she’d written it, but they’d had little chance to talk. Her directions were clear: Check with Ingrid. She’s going to round up all the gossip about Swanson. If the papers exist, there has to be a basis for them. Oh Max, I’m so worried.
Dorothy L. ate and purred appreciatively.
He reached down and stroked her lustrous fur. If Annie was worried then, she must surely be discouraged now. The discovery of Rachel’s field hockey stick made it very likely that the teenager’s arrest was imminent.
Max glanced at the clock. It was almost four in the afternoon and he hadn’t had lunch, which accounted for the slight throbbing in his head. He swiftly fixed a thick sandwich of tenderloin with horseradish and mustard. He poured a glass of milk and ate standing at the counter, his face furrowed.
Four o’clock on Friday afternoon. Pudge was in jail. Although Max didn’t think the police chief worried overly about community pressure, certainly the quick arrest would defuse fear on the island. It would also give Garrett time to put together his case and decide when to arrest Rachel. Max felt certain it was a matter of when, not whether.
Max gobbled the last bite, took his glass to the sink to rinse. Garrett might not feel pressure. Max did. Annie was counting on him to figure out what Happy Laurance could possibly have known that led to murder.
Unfortunately, Max wasn’t sure he believed Rachel. Or, if Rachel was telling the truth about the conversation with her mother, Max wasn’t at all sure whether the papers had any connection to Happy’s murder. Dammit, they needed to know a lot more about Happy’s frame of mind the last few days. Something more than the fact that she’d quarreled with both Pudge and Rachel. There had to be something more than that! Well, as Rachel had pointed out and as Annie and Max knew from the dinner at the Dumaney house, Happy certainly was upset about Marguerite’s plan to funnel a vast amount of money to Emory Swanson and his Golden Path.
Max strode swiftly toward the door. At the moment, he had no idea how Happy might have discovered information detrimental to Swanson.
As the Ferrari zoomed up the dusty road, Max thought about motives and fervently hoped that Marguerite’s money truly was the reason for Happy’s murder. If it wasn’t, the list of suspects narrowed to Rachel, Pudge and Mike.
The parrot cackled, “Gotcha. Gotcha.” His dark eyes glittered. Annie wondered if it was anthropomorphic to attribute malice to a bird.
Joan lifted a shaking hand. “That odious creature. He pecked me!” She gingerly felt her scalp. “I don’t think it broke the skin.”
“I’ll look,” Annie offered. She skirted far enough from the parrot’s perch to escape attack and stood on tiptoe, parting Joan’s wispy graying hair. “No. It’s okay.”
Joan glared at the bird. “I’ve always loathed him. Wayne thinks he’s funny. Sometimes he says the most disgusting things.”
As if on cue, the bird rattled words like pellets: “Fatoldbitch, fatoldbitch.”
Joan’s face flamed.
Annie said hurriedly, “They say parrots are simply programmed, that phrases recur on a pattern.” She’d made it up on the spot, but she was pleased to see that some of the anger eased out of Joan’s plump face.
“Well, I suppose they can’t help what people have taught them. Anyway”—she looked critically at her hands and frowned—“I need to wash up. Everything’s really in an advanced state of rot. There’s entirely too much water standing in all the pots. I can’t imagine who’s in charge. I’ll speak to Alice. But I don’t think Happy would put papers in here. Let’s try the terrace room.”
Annie followed Joan to the bar.
As Joan washed her hands, she looked critically around. “Not too many possibilities in here. After all, anyone could look through the magazines or open the drawers. Although…” She moved along the back wall, easing framed pictures far enough out to peer behind them. “Something thin could be taped…But there’s nothing here.” She worked from one side of the room to the other, checking under chairs, beneath plant stands.
Annie perched on a barstool. “Did you talk to Happy yesterday?”
Joan crouched in front of a sofa, ran her hand underneath. “No. But she’s been”—she paused, frowned—“it’s so hard to believe she’s dead! I got here on Tuesday night and she wasn’t herself. Now, you know Happy—”
But Annie didn’t, hadn’t and now never would. She’d met Happy that one night, been greeted with kindness, then the next day been caught up in Happy’s anger with Rachel.
“—always determined to look on the bright side. So damn chirpy. A June Cleaver clone. And she’d had enough happen in her life to know better! Divorced three times. But she wasn’t loose.” Joan pulled herself stiffly to her feet and scrutinized the hangings at the French door. “Not like that sister of hers.”
“Marguerite?” Annie was surprised at the animosity in Joan’s voice. “I thought Marguerite was just married once, to Claude Ladson.”
Joan’s face swung toward her, her eyes hot, her mouth twisted. “She took another woman’s husband! Claude was a married man with three children, but Marguerite had to have him, no matter what. Wayne told me it broke his mother’s heart to lose Claude. He always felt it killed her. Of course, now no one believes that people die of broken hearts. But I think they can. I’ve never understood why Wayne was always nice to Marguerite. Of course, they’ve all been nice to Marguerite since Claude left everything to her.” Her round face reddened in anger. “That was a crime. He should have left his money to his children. Look what’s happening now! All the money going to that horrible man! My children have a right to their share of their grandfather’s estate. Oh, I wish we knew what Happy had found out. Where can those papers be?” Her eyes swept hungrily over the room.
Annie studied the driven, angry woman, fascinated and a little appalled to find so much passion beneath such an ordinary exterior, a mop of wispy graying hair, slightly bulging eyes, plump cheeks, lips with only a faint dash of pink. “Did you talk to Happy about Swanson?”
Joan peered behind a bookcase. “No. Though I suppose that’s what she was nattering on about, complaining that she didn’t know what to do, that everything was so difficult, that she wished people would just do what they were supposed to do.” Joan pursed her lips. “I saw her slap Rachel, you know. I haven’t told the police.”
Annie didn’t ask Joan’s intentions. Instead, she said briskly, “Did anything disturb your sleep last night? Around midnight?”
Joan Ladson’s face was still, her stare measuring and thoughtful. “Midnight?” She turned away, peered inside a thin-necked vase. “No. Nothing at all. I slept very well.”
“Max, will you take these special orders back to the office?” Ingrid pushed her glasses high on her nose. Her usually well-coiffed hair straggled beneath the Santa hat and her eyes were distracted. “Duane’s there. Tell him to get on the computer and try to get the books, though you’d think people would know better than to wait until a week before Christmas to order! But they don’t. He can bring you up to date on everything we’ve found out. I can’t leave the desk.” She turned to face a customer holding up a book. “Oh yes, ma’am, that’s Parnell Hall’s new series about the crossword puzzle lady. Yes, it’s very clever….”
Max slipped away. This time last week Annie would have been ecstatic at the holiday bustle in Death on Demand. She would still be pleased, but at this moment the success of the store had to be far from her mind. The center aisle was crowded and chatter rose from the coffee bar. Max pushed the door to the storeroom.
An irascible voice ordered, “Keep out. Don’t you see the damn—Oh hi, Max. You’d think people who purport to read could see the goddam sign on the door. ‘Keep Out.’ That’s what the goddam sign says, and I’ve been shooing them out of here like chickens running amuck.” Duane Webb heaved his stocky body up from his chair and pumped Max’s hand. Duane’s moon-shaped face, topped by a skimpy wreath of graying hair, had the stolidity of a grizzled goat, but his bright, light eyes shone with a hard, inquisitive, combative intelligence. He gestured at the stool next to the computer table. “Max, I’ve turned over every rock on the island. Your man’s too damn clever.”
Max’s heart sank. He shut the door and realized he’d been counting on Ingrid and Duane. Especially Duane. Twenty years as a city editor had robbed him of all illusions, but created a mind that could sift cesspools and come up with facts nobody could contest. Duane was a much smarter investigator than Happy Laurance, and that made Rachel’s story of hidden papers suspect. How could Happy have discovered material dangerous to Swanson if Duane Webb was stumped?
“Except”—Duane’s thin lips spread in a sharklike smile—“not quite clever enough.” He swung toward the computer, clicked a half dozen times on the mouse. “Take a look at this….”