MAX WAS ALMOST to the door when the telephone rang. He turned, hurried to the kitchen and scooped up the cordless. Maybe it was Annie…“Oh hi, Ma. Thanks for calling me back. Listen.” He pulled out a kitchen chair. “Tell me about this Kate Rutledge. What do you know about her? How did you meet her? Is she thick with Emory Swanson?”
There was a considering pause. “She’s been active with the Friends—”
Sometimes Max wondered if every woman on the island belonged to the Friends of the Library.
“—and we worked together on the garden committee. She’s quite knowledgeable about azaleas. She’s not one of those women who say much about themselves. I know very little about her even though she is extremely active in island organizations. It was only after Miss Dora asked for my help that I became aware of a curious fact.”
Max picked up on the nuance in his mother’s voice. Maybe, just maybe…“What, Ma?”
“Kate Rutledge cultivates women who have suffered a death in the family in recent years.”
“But—” Max broke off. Sure, he knew how that could be done. Back issues of the local news carried obituaries. Deaths of the prominent (which could also translate to the well-heeled) would also be reported in the news columns.
“I didn’t make that connection until I decided to lay a little groundwork for my effort to contact the Swanson group. At various gatherings, I told people that I was simply beside myself with the need to communicate with Buddy. It won’t surprise you that the word was soon out all over town. It was then”—Laurel’s voice was triumphant—“that dear Kate in a most cautious manner began to sound me out. After I’d confessed to a desperate need to contact Buddy, Kate told me a very touching story”—Laurel’s husky voice was dry—“of how she had been able to contact her late husband. Of course, I pounced on that and begged her to tell me who could help me. She told me it had been her great good fortune to learn from others here on the island about Dr. Emory Swanson, who had permitted her to attend some of his seminars on the Golden Path.”
“She learned from others?” Max was puzzled.
Laurel’s throaty chuckle rolled over the line. “Dear Max. Of course that’s what she said. But as soon as I was able to attend some of the gatherings, I made it a point to visit later with others I saw there. In every case—and I was so tactful, Max, you would have been proud—”
Max did not question his mother’s ability to disguise the point of any conversation in which she engaged. It was, to be truthful, very difficult ever to ascertain Laurel’s objective, either in speech or action. Annie had gone so far as to insist that Laurel’s thought patterns resembled the records of an earthquake on a seismograph.
“—of my obfuscation. I did so well!”
Max thought Laurel’s simple pride was charming. He smiled.
“In any event, I discovered that all the other women had been led to Swanson by Kate Rutledge. I think that’s significant, don’t you?”
“I see.” Max understood. Kate Rutledge was the shill. If true, it could be considered reprehensible. But was a relationship between Kate Rutledge and Emory Swanson reason enough for murder? “Okay, Ma. Thanks.”
She heard the disappointment in his voice. “Max, I’m sure Swanson and Kate are working together.”
“I agree. But I don’t see Swanson murdering Happy Laurance to keep that relationship secret. He and Rutledge could brazen it out, insist she was simply so convinced of Swanson’s great gifts she was eager to help others. Who could prove otherwise? Most of the women who go to the foundation are probably so impressed by him, they’d jump to his defense. Including Marguerite Dumaney.”
Laurel always knew how to have the last word. She trilled, “You of little faith. Dear Maxwell. Evil will out. Well, if not evil, then surely chicanery. Tell Annie I’m counting on her. I’ll meet her at the gate to the Evermore Foundation tomorrow at two o’clock.”
“But Ma—” Max listened to the buzz of the empty line.
Annie stood at the landing on the second floor. The hallways were empty. She hadn’t expected to find Wayne Ladson here. He had made the point that Happy’s papers were surely not hidden in someone else’s room, so it was unlikely that he would be in any of the bedrooms. Terry thought his brother was upstairs. That left the third and fourth floors. She looked toward Marguerite’s suite and wondered if Rachel was still there with her aunt and Father Cooley and Alice. There was an easy way to find out. Rachel hadn’t come downstairs. Annie wouldn’t have missed her. Annie hurried to the third floor, tried Rachel’s door. It opened to quiet. “Rachel?” No answer.
It took only a moment more to check the unoccupied guest rooms. Annie had the third floor to herself. She looked speculatively at the stairs. The small theater and the rooms devoted to Claude Ladson’s memorabilia—or the shrine, as his daughter described it—were on the fourth floor. Annie couldn’t imagine why Happy would choose either as a hiding place. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. Wayne Ladson must be up there somewhere.
She made no effort to step softly, but her climb up the carpeted treads was noiseless. She stood undecided on the landing. The doors to both the theater and the room next to it were closed. She took a step toward the theater, not really wanting to enter the stale-aired room with its oppressive ornate decoration and heavy velvet curtains and faint scent of candles.
The museum door opened. Wayne stepped out. He wasn’t looking toward her. His gaze was fastened on the door to the theater. His eyes glistened and his lips were drawn back in a wolfish grin. Annie thought he would have made a perfect illustration for Mr. Hyde stealing out of Dr. Jekyll’s house for a night of evil.
She drew her breath in sharply.
His head jerked toward her. His eyes flared. With an effort, he managed a normal smile and looked once again like a slightly untidy professor. “Hello there. You startled me.”
“Sorry.” She took a step back.
He closed the door to the museum. “I have to hand it to Donna. Maybe there isn’t a way to search this house. If Happy stuck her papers in there”—he pointed toward the door—“we’ll never find them.”
His tone was so normal and reasonable, Annie managed to speak in a reasonably easy tone herself. “You haven’t found anything?”
“No luck.” He tugged at his beard, frowned. “I’m afraid there may not be anything to find. Happy…well, there’s no telling what she was talking about. Or what she might have thought important. But I guess we should check out the theater.”
He opened the door to the theater, turned on the lights.
Annie stood in the doorway, picked up the scent of candles—gardenia—and felt a wash of revulsion. The dark red velvet curtains reminded her forcibly of the dried blood in Happy’s room.
Wayne took two strides, stood on the steps to the small stage. He reached behind the curtains, pulled. Slowly they parted. “Don’t see how anything could be attached to the curtains.” Nonetheless, he shook the heavy material, peered up at the exposed steel girders. “I don’t picture Happy lugging a ladder up here. She’d have to bring it all the way from the garages. And it would take a ladder to hide anything up there.” He gazed at the small auditorium. Moving swiftly, he flipped up the seats, checking to see if anything had been taped beneath. He finished, turned to her, lifted his hands. “Nothing here.”
Annie was glad to get out into the hall. As Wayne closed the door, she said, “Did Happy tell you about the papers?” He shook his head as they started downstairs.
“I thought Happy talked with you before lunch.” The conversation between Wayne and Happy had apparently been intense enough to capture Donna’s attention.
“Lunch…” he said vaguely. “Oh, that. She just wanted to know how to do some research and do it fast. I told her about the Internet. I wasn’t about ready to take her over to school and show her. I told her to try the library.”
They were almost to the ground floor. “What kind of research?”
“She didn’t exactly say. Murmured something about public records. I told her most of the states don’t have all their records on-line, but if it was a birth, death, divorce, marriage, the local newspaper probably carried it. If she knew the approximate date, she could check the newspapers for that week and print it out.”
Public records. “Did she mention a state?”
They stopped at the base of the stairs. Terry spotted them from the library and pushed up from the sofa. “Rachel’s hunting for you, Annie.”
Wayne looked at his brother. “I see you were getting a little rest. How hard did you search?”
“Bro, I am not in your classroom.” Terry yawned.
“That’s your loss,” Wayne snapped.
Annie persisted. “Wayne, please, exactly what did Happy say?”
Terry folded his arms and stared at Wayne. “If Happy told you about the papers, why in the hell didn’t you say so earlier?”
Wayne rolled his eyes. “Happy did not tell me about any papers.” His tone was studiously patient. “Yesterday she came up to me in the garden and, you know Happy, she was breathless and a little confused and very excited and she said…” He squeezed his eyes. “As closely as I can remember, she said, ‘Wayne, I need your help. You know how to look things up, don’t you?’ which was Happy’s dim understanding of what historians do. I replied, ‘What do you want to look up, Happy?’ She looked all around, like a silent film heroine searching for the evil Count Casimir, and whispered, ‘Records.’ She paused and with great effort she added, ‘Vital Statistics.’ See, that proves even Happy must have read a newspaper once.”
Annie continued to look at him pleasantly, but she didn’t like his mocking tone. Happy had struggled with knowledge that ended with her death. She might have been foolish, but she had also been brave.
Annie said thoughtfully, “So you explained how to use the computers at the library to look up newspaper archives?” Newspaper archives. “She didn’t say what newspaper?”
Wayne gave a long-suffering sigh. “She didn’t say. I didn’t ask. It was not a fascinating conversational exchange.”
Terry punched his brother on the shoulder. “And you were busy brushing her off as fast as you could. Who knows? If you weren’t such an intellectual snob, we might have a lead to her murderer.”
Wayne glowered. “That’s a stretch.”
Terry dropped his bantering tone. “No, look at it straight, bro. The woman claims to have the goods on the man who’s going to rip off Marguerite and, need I add, thereby impoverish me, thee and the rest of the clan. If you’d only asked her what the hell she was looking for”—Terry held up a thumb and forefinger an inch apart—“we might be that close to foiling the bastard. But we are”—he raked Wayne with a measuring gaze—“who we are. Now, if she’d asked me”—he threw back his head and laughed—“hell, I’d have given her the bum’s rush, too. So I can’t fault you. But it’s tough to know we could have had the answer—and now we never will.”
Annie spoke without thinking. “We will.”
The brothers looked at her in surprise.
“We’ll figure it out. There has to be something about Swanson that Happy discovered. If she discovered it, so can we.” If only they knew what newspaper and where…
Terry drawled, “You and Rachel are soul mates whether you’re sisters or not.”
Annie looked around. “Where’s Rachel?”
“Oh, she blew through here a few minutes ago, looking for you. Asked me why I wasn’t searching. I told her I’d searched. She gave me a look that would have melted a glacier and stalked off.” Terry waved his hand toward the cavernous reception hall.
Wayne looked in the library. “Happy kept stuff in that desk, but I don’t think it would qualify as a safe place. Not even in Happy’s uncritical mind.”
Annie clenched her hands. One more crack about Happy and she was going to ask this arrogant know-it-all a few sharp questions, starting with: If you’re so damn smart, who murdered Happy? And why? Instead, Annie kept her voice even. “Maybe it would make sense to start at the other end. Do you know if she went to the library?”
“She may have.” Wayne tugged at his beard. “I’d guess she did. She was pretty intense. I had the feeling she was determined to get some information and get it quickly. But even if we track her to a particular computer at the library, it probably won’t be any help. All browsers contain a history file that keeps track of Web sites visited by a user, but libraries install software to automatically clear the history files every time a user quits the program, or at the least, clears it at the end of the day, to control the amount of hard disk space used. Maybe a librarian helped her and might remember.”
“I’ll check it out.” But that wasn’t first on Annie’s list.
Max unlocked the door to Confidential Commissions and flipped on the light, but he didn’t remove the CLOSED sign in the front window. His secretary, who had unfailing good humor and a soft touch with pastry, had left this morning on a Christmas cruise to the Caribbean. Truth to tell—and not a fact Max brought to Annie’s attention—the work level at Confidential Commissions dipped to zero when Barb was gone. But he couldn’t be expected to seek work during the Christmas season. After all, there were gifts to pursue. He was especially pleased with the authentic treasure map (tooled on worn leather) that purported to pinpoint the exact—oh, say within a meter or so—location of treasure discarded by conquistadores fleeing Tenochtitlan in 1520. Annie was going to love it. And he’d tracked down a rare signed photograph of Mary Roberts Rinehart atop a camel on a trip to Egypt. As Max closed the door, his pleasant thoughts slid away. He had a better gift in mind now: Pudge’s freedom. He would do what he had to do to make this present possible and to give Annie a Christmas she would never forget.
In his office, Max glanced at Annie’s picture on the corner of his Italian Renaissance desk, steady gray eyes and kissable lips, short blond hair and guileless smile. He looked into the eyes of the photograph, but in his heart he saw Annie and remembered how she’d fought for him when he was a suspect in the disappearance of a beautiful young client. No matter how damaging the circumstances, her faith in him had never faltered. His Annie, stalwart, vulnerable and loyal. And he remembered another face sagging in fatigue as Garrett pounded with question after question. Yes, it was clear that Pudge hadn’t told all he knew about Happy Laurance’s death, but Max was willing to wager his world that Pudge was innocent.
Max slipped into his chair, punched on his computer. The kitchen smelled good, the rich odor of roasting beef, the scent of cheese and greens and cinnamon. And it was spotless. Max would approve.
The dark-haired woman at the sink whirled at the sound of the door. Dishwater dripped from her hands. She gave a tiny sigh of relief when she recognized Annie. “Rachel’s hunting for you, miss.” She pointed to a door next to the pantry. “She just went upstairs.”
“Thank you. I’ll catch her in a minute. Sookie…” She smiled into startled eyes. “Do you mind? That’s what Rachel calls you and I can tell she likes you a lot. I’m Annie.”
Sookie’s plump face eased into a smile. “Miss Rachel is a good girl.” Her voice was as thick and soft as honey, but her gaze was combative.
Annie understood. She answered with a firm, “Yes, Rachel is a good girl.”
They looked at each other with understanding.
“Sookie, did you see Mrs. Laurance yesterday? Did you talk to her?”
The cook reached for a dish towel, dried her hands. Her face furrowed in thought. “She was at lunch. I didn’t pay much mind, but nobody was talking. Except Miss Marguerite. She was telling a story about Mr. Claude. Miss Happy left right at the end of lunch and she came through the kitchen. She didn’t stop and tell me how much she liked her food like she usually did. She looked”—a considering pause—“determined, like a woman who’s made up her mind and set on her course. She had her purse with her and in a minute I heard her car.”
Annie glanced toward the windows that overlooked a drive. “How did you know it was her car?”
“Miss Happy always raced the motor, then took off with a squeal. Oh yes”—her head nodded—“I always knew when Miss Happy was on her way. That must have been close to one-thirty. She came back about three. I heard a car door slam, then she burst into the kitchen. She darted over there”—a worn hand pointed—“to the scissor drawer. She yanked it open, poked around. She picked up a roll of duct tape and dropped it into her purse.”
Duct tape. Annie walked across the kitchen, opened the drawer. Two pairs of scissors, tacks, assorted kinds of tape, everyday tools including a clawhammer. But no duct tape. She looked toward Sookie. “Was she carrying anything else? A sack? Any papers?”
“I didn’t see any. But her purse was big.” Those broad hands spread more than a foot apart. “One of those big floppy leather bags.”
Annie would ask Garrett if they’d found Happy’s purse and whether it contained the duct tape. She walked over, looked out the window. The doors to a four-bay garage were closed. Four cars were parked in a graveled area midway between the garage and a toolshed. Annie pointed at a bright yellow sedan. “Is that her car?” Yellow was a color Happy would pick.
Sookie nodded. She hesitated, then pointed at a row of hooks by the back door. “The third hook,” was all she said.
“Thanks.” Annie took a step toward the back door, then changed her mind. “I’ll be down in a minute. I’m going to look for Rachel. If she comes here, ask her to wait for me.” She opened the door to the back interior stairs.
The printer whooshed out sheets. Max waited, leaning back in his chair. Private eyes used to skulk down back alleys. Now they sat in front of computer monitors and clicked their mouses. It was hard to achieve that old-time swagger when most information came from the tap of a finger instead of the point of a gun. That hoary standby—the stranger in town—was as passé as 1920s slang. Everybody had an electronic trail now. He had taken less than an hour to put together a pretty complete dossier. He picked up the sheets:
Emory James Swanson, 42. Born in Kansas City, Missouri. Father Herman, an insurance salesman. Mother Louise, a homemaker. Only child. Four-point-plus grade average in high school. President of senior class. Active in drama. Voted Most Likely to Knock ’Em Dead in Hollywood. BA in sociology with honor University of Missouri, 1979. MA, University of Texas, 1981; Ph.D. in sociology, University of Southern California, 1984. Associated with the Friends of Being, a New Age compound, in San Francisco after completion of doctorate. Published three books with Shining Light, a New Age press: How to Hear with Your Heart, When Those Beyond Speak Your Name and The World Beyond Can Be Yours. Established the New Vision in Nashville in 1985, Points of Light in New Orleans in 1988, the Shimmering Spirit in Laguna in 1991, the Golden Road in Seattle in 1994, Evermore Foundation on Broward’s Rock in 1997. Swanson’s income before taxes for the past ten years averaged between five hundred thousand to seven hundred thousand dollars a year. Swanson operates the centers by himself, hiring new employees in each city. Swanson regularly speaks at library and book functions. He is single. No record of ever having married. He has no close friends and apparently devotes himself entirely to his work. He spends one week of every month in Bermuda.
Kate Eleanor Rutledge, 38. Born in Pasadena, California, second of three children. Father Jeffrey, a film editor. Mother Cara, a scriptwriter. Active in drama in high school. BFA, University of Southern California, 1983. Freelance scriptwriter, San Francisco, 1984; Nashville, 1985–87; New Orleans, 1988–90; Laguna, 1991–93; Seattle, 1994–96; Broward’s Rock, 1997 to present. Yearly income has averaged three hundred thousand dollars. In each city immediately joined women’s outreach groups and charities. Single. Travels to Bermuda every month.
Max dropped the sheets on his desk. The correlation between the lives of Swanson and Rutledge was clear. A clever accountant could very likely expose her earnings as money siphoned from Swanson’s foundations through dummy companies. Clearly they knew one another. They ran a nice little operation, where she nosed around a city’s affluent and grieving women, whom she skillfully directed to Swanson for succor at, of course, a hefty price. Was this information worth murder?
It might well be. Swanson was close to gaining control of Marguerite Dumaney’s fortune. The revelation that he and Kate Rutledge had moved from city to city fleecing the vulnerable might be enough to disillusion Marguerite. Maybe Swanson wasn’t willing to take that chance.
Right now Swanson and Rutledge must feel very secure. The word would be all over the island about Pudge’s arrest and Rachel’s hockey stick. Maybe it would be interesting if the covert partners heard the snuffle of a hound at their heels. Max reached for the telephone.