ANNIE HEARD A thump above her head as she walked in the second-floor hallway past Marguerite’s closed doors. She stopped, looked up. Another thump. She tried to picture the area and realized she had no idea what existed on the third floor on this side of the house.
She was halfway up the main stairs to the third floor when she hesitated. She was simply assuming the noise had been made by Rachel continuing her search. But making assumptions in a house where murder had occurred might be hazardous to her health. Turning, Annie ran lightly down the steps to Rachel’s door. She knocked and, when there was no answer, opened the door. “Rachel?” The room was empty. Annie looked around, took two steps and picked up a metal softball bat.
She clutched the bat and moved cautiously up the stairs. On the third floor, she looked down a hall that ended at a closed door. She stepped quietly to the door, turned the knob with her left hand, holding the bat in her right.
A line of unshaded bulbs dangled from the ceiling. The huge area was unfinished and crammed with furniture, stacks of boxes, luggage and trunks. Somewhere to Annie’s right there was a thud and scraping sound.
Annie stood in the doorway. “Rachel?”
Rachel’s dark head popped out into the central aisle. She gestured vigorously. “Annie, come look.”
The storage area was huge, encompassing almost half of the third floor. Annie passed a stuffed elk head, a wooden cigar-store Indian, a church pew and a breakfront.
Rachel, her face smudged with dust, a cobweb dangling from one shoulder, crouched in front of a big leather trunk. A mass of papers and books were spread haphazardly around her. She looked up, started to speak, stopped and stared at the bat in Annie’s hand.
“Oh.” Annie propped it against a stack of boxes. “I heard noise up here. You shouldn’t be here by yourself.”
Rachel’s glance was just this side of patronizing. “Annie, Dr. Swanson couldn’t be here in the daytime.”
Annie wished she was as certain as Rachel that Emory Swanson was the murderer. Instead, she had a sudden clear memory of the kindness in Terry Ladson’s voice when he observed that no one was crossways with Happy except her daughter. Annie steeled herself against that disquieting memory.
Rachel sneezed. “It’s so dusty. That’s how I found the trunk.”
Annie knelt beside her. “What is all this?”
“Mom’s stuff from when she was a kid.” Rachel’s voice wobbled. She took a deep breath. “I didn’t know this was up here. I thought maybe Mom might have decided to put the papers somewhere in the attic. I came in and I almost gave up, just looking at all the stuff everywhere. Then I saw the footprints in the dust. I followed them here. It was scuffed in front of this trunk. I opened it and I saw pretty soon it all belonged to Mom, her scrapbooks and diaries and letters and school programs. I took everything out and looked to see if there were any papers about Dr. Swanson.” She heaved a tired sigh. “I didn’t find anything. Will you help me, Annie? We can look again.”
They sorted through the pile of keepsakes, but there was no vagrant sheet of paper, no fresh envelope, no unmarked file among the yellowed papers. Rachel looked forlorn. “When I saw the footprints in the dust, I thought for sure the papers would be in here.”
Annie stared at the scrapbooks and diaries and papers on the floor. She felt vaguely unsatisfied. Maybe Happy had indeed hidden something in the trunk and maybe she or someone else had removed it. It was unlikely they would ever know. “We’d better put everything back.”
They worked in silence. Rachel shoved papers in haphazardly. Annie picked up a diary, one of about a dozen. The covers told the story of a girl changing and growing. Annie sorted through, found the first diary—1959—and smiled at the raised pink umbrella on the red plastic cover. The later diaries had smooth floral cloth covers. Without conscious thought, Annie, as befitted a bookseller, arranged them in order. She put the books in the trunk one at a time, 1959, 1960, 1962…Annie stopped, checked the remainder of the stack: 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966, 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970. She glanced at the floor, then into the trunk. “Rachel, have you seen the diary for 1961?”
Rachel rubbed her nose. “I don’t think so.” She bent over the trunk.
Annie rechecked the stack. Finally, after sifting through every item in the trunk, she was certain. Happy’s diary for 1961 was not there.
Rachel came to the trunk hoping to find the papers her mother had planned to put in the safe place. She and Annie found nothing regarding Dr. Swanson. They could be sure of only one fact. A diary was missing. Had that diary been gone for years? Or had Happy—or someone else—slipped into the storage area, gone to the trunk and lifted out a young girl’s scribbles?
Frustrated, Annie riffled through the 1962 diary. The writing was overlarge, somewhat unformed. “How old was your mom, Rachel?”
Rachel’s hands tightened on a scrapbook. “Her birthday was July 9. She would have been 50.”
Happy began keeping a diary when she was ten. Perhaps a little precocious but…Annie opened the 1962 diary to July 3:
I came in second in the butterfly. Julie beat me. She has a crush on Paul. I wish Paul would talk to me. Uncle Charles was on the phone talking to that lady who lives next door. Mama almost heard him, but he changed what he was saying and pretended it was a business call. I saw him sneak out of the house last night. Daddy’s going to take me sailing tomorrow. Marguerite’s mad because Daddy won’t let her go to that premiere. Daddy said she’s too young. I’ll bet she goes anyway. Mama said it will be all right. I wish I could go to camp like Julie. She leaves tomorrow. I won’t have anyone to hang around with until…
Annie shut the diary. The missing volume would have been when Happy was a year younger. Clearly no one would have any interest in the musings of a twelve-year-old. That volume had probably been missing for years. She and Rachel were wasting their time. Maybe Happy intended to hide her papers in the trunk and changed her mind.
“Come on.” Annie was brisk. “Let’s put this stuff back. Then we’ll take a look at your mom’s car.”
Max dialed. Unlike their home phone, the Confidential Commissions phone number showed up as Unavailable on caller IDs. It would be interesting to see if Kate Rutledge answered. He and Annie always ignored Unavailable calls, Annie singing as she waltzed past the phone, “I’m Unavailable, that’s what I am…”
“Hello.” Kate Rutledge’s voice was smooth and self-possessed.
“Miss Rutledge.” Max had spent a year abroad at Oxford during his college days and he was enough of a natural mimic that he had no trouble with a British accent. He also raised the pitch of his voice just slightly. “I’m calling from the Tourist Board. We make an effort to follow up on visitors to the island. You visited Bermuda during September and stayed at the Southampton Princess. Were your accommodations satisfactory?”
“Very satisfactory.”
“Did you choose the American Plan or the European Plan?”
“The American Plan.”
“And your traveling companion, Dr. Swanson—”
She interrupted immediately. “I had no traveling companion.”
“No? That isn’t the information I have here.”
“Who is this?” Her tone was sharp.
Max kept his voice high and accented, but the tone changed. “An interested party, Miss Rutledge. I’ll be back in touch.”
He hung up. Too bad he wasn’t standing beside Kate Rutledge. He was willing to bet she was dialing the Evermore Foundation right this minute.
Happy’s car was unlocked. Rachel stood stiffly by the driver’s door, staring at the front seat. Rolls of Christmas paper poked out of a plastic grocery sack. Annie peeked into a Belk’s sack: two sweaters and a pair of Guess jeans. She shielded the contents from Rachel’s eyes, but Rachel was gazing forlornly at the Christmas paper. Annie made herself a promise. She’d wrap these gifts for Rachel and put her mom’s name on the cards. She made sure there was nothing more in the sack, folded it shut. She began to scoot out of the seat. “I don’t think—” Then she saw a scrap of paper on the floor.
Annie bent over, picked up the scrap, which turned out to be a cash receipt for fifty cents. The date was yesterday. The time, two-twenty-four P.M. The place, the Lucy Kincaid Memorial Library.
Annie felt a surge of triumph. Here was the first confirmation of the elaborate theory built on Happy’s conversation with Wayne. She backed out of the car and turned to Rachel, ready to share the discovery.
But Rachel was looking toward the back door. Alice Schiller hurried down the steps. “Rachel, Annie.”
Rachel backed up against the car. “I don’t want to talk to Aunt Rita again. I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Annie wasn’t sure whether Rachel meant her mother’s murder or the plan for the funeral. But clearly, the girl was upset. Annie took a step forward, tucking the receipt in her skirt pocket.
In the late afternoon sun, Alice’s face looked weary. One eyelid flickered in a tic. “I’m glad I found you. I suppose you know there’s been no luck in the search for the papers. Wayne says maybe there weren’t any papers.”
“Mom said there were.” Rachel’s voice rose.
“It’s all right.” Alice reached out, patted Rachel’s thin shoulder. “Perhaps your mother meant she had information that only she understood. I know we were all hoping to find something. Now, we’re going to have an early light dinner.” She looked at Annie. “Of course, we hope you will eat with us.”
Annie had already made up her mind. “Thanks, no. I need to run home and get some things for tonight and see my husband.” And make one other stop on the way. Her fingers touched the receipt in her pocket.
Alice smoothed back a strand of dark red hair. “Will you be back in time for the séance?”
Rachel raised her hands as if to ward off a blow. “I can’t do that.”
Alice slipped an arm around her thin shoulders. “Of course not. I’ve already told Marguerite that Annie will represent you. It’s quite all right, Rachel.”
Rachel grabbed Annie’s arm. “You’ll watch him, won’t you? Annie, make him give himself away.”
As she drove, Annie called home. No answer. She checked her watch and left a message. “I’m stopping by the library, but I’ll be home in a few minutes to pick up some clothes. Let’s have dinner at Parotti’s. I’ll meet you there at six. I’ve got lots to tell you.”
Max dug a pair of golf gloves out of his bag. He picked up the sheet of paper from the printer, reread the message:
HAPPY LAURANCE KNEW. SO DO I.
He folded the sheet (one carefully eased out from the middle of a new package of paper) and placed it in a file folder. He picked up the telephone directory, found Kate Rutledge’s address. Hmm. She lived not far from Laurel in a house on Marsh Hawk Lagoon. A bike trail ran conveniently near that lagoon.
Edith Cummings yanked at her curly black hair. Her bright dark eyes were pools of concentration. “I know. Oh God, I can almost see it.” She whirled away from the bank of computers (all three of them) and paced across the hardwood floor to the Information Desk. Her face sagged like a lugubrious bloodhound. “Yesterday. We had a rush of users. Old Man Fulton was here and he’s a case. Wants to stay on the damn machine all day. I keep telling him it’s a max of thirty minutes per customer as long as anybody’s waiting. It’s after school, there are always about six high school boys lurking near him and I know what the hell they’re all looking at, but life’s short and I am not their mother. Or Old Man Fulton’s, either. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Happy Laurance. She came in about two and had to wait, but she asked me to show her how to call up newspaper archives. I went through it a couple of times and I got her started.” Edith’s face scrunched. “What was it? What the hell was it?” Suddenly her eyes flew open, her hands splatted together. “I got it, I got it! The Reno Gazette-Journal.”
Annie stared at her blankly.
The supreme satisfaction eased out of Edith’s gamine face. “So what’s the problem?”
“The Reno Gazette-Journal,” Annie repeated slowly. “As in Nevada?”
“You got it.”
“I don’t suppose you know what year…”
“Annie”—Edith’s tone was dangerously pleasant—“I deal with hundreds of questions every day. Be grateful for what you got.”
On Friday nights at Parotti’s every seat was taken. The jukebox (a real one, circa 1950) flashed red and green. Old songs (“Night and Day,” “The Chattanooga Choo Choo,” “Sentimental Journey”) could scarcely be heard above the blare of conversation, the chink of dishes, and the scrape of chairs on the hardwood floor. Since Ben’s marriage, the sweet-scented wood shavings were used only near the bait coolers. Fortunately, the smell of the latter was almost overborne by barbecue smoke and beer on tap. Their booth was the last in the line before the swinging doors to the kitchen, adding the clang of pans and shouted orders to the general noise.
“Nevada?” Max speared a clam fritter, dipped it in the red sauce. “I don’t get it.”
Annie took a spoonful of the succulent baked oyster casserole. Honestly, what did Ben’s wife put in this dish? Was that a hint of Parmesan cheese? “I don’t, either. I mean, what’s Reno? Gambling. Golf. Shows.”
Max chewed. “A long time ago that’s where people went to get divorced. Before divorce got easy everywhere.”
Annie wondered if Laurel had dissolved some unions there, decided it might not be politic to ask. “So who’s divorced? Besides Happy.” Certainly Happy should know where her own marriages had ended, and what would her marital history have to do with Emory Swanson? Annie put down her fork with a bang. “Marriage! Maybe Emory and Kate got married in Reno!” It was also an easy place to get married, everywhere from a casino to a roadside chapel.
Max took a bite of the garlic mashed potatoes. “That makes some sense. We know—or think we know—that Happy wanted a listing from the vital statistics section in a newspaper. That limits it to a birth, a death, a marriage license, a divorce filed, a divorce granted.”
Annie finished, regretfully, her portion of oyster casserole. She drank her iced tea (apricot-flavored). “Does Ben have those funny beers? You know, orange and petunia and whatnot?”
Max looked horrified and clutched his bottle of Beck’s. “Surely not.”
Annie grinned. “I wasn’t suggesting he add them to the menu. It’s just that everything’s changed so much since he got married.”
Max gazed across the packed room. “Not down deep. He always had great food. Nothing ever really changes, Annie. Ben was a spiffy guy waiting to happen.”
Annie felt a sudden chill. Max’s lighthearted comment could be viewed as either wonderful or awful. “Nothing ever really changes…” She repeated the words slowly. If you stripped a heart to its core, discarded the externals, the bedrock would be bared. That’s what they needed to do, look past the externals, discover the heart willing to do evil.
If only the choices weren’t so limited: Swanson, Rachel, Mike, Pudge…
Max reached across the table, grabbed her hand. “Hey, we’ll get there, Annie.” He frowned. “I wish there was a reason for me to go to that séance tonight. But we’re lucky you can go.”
Annie didn’t feel lucky. She hated the thought. Trafficking with the supernatural was wrong. She knew that, knew it with her heart and her mind and deep in her bones. At least Rachel would not be there. She took comfort in that and in her certainty that Swanson was a fake, that whatever happened would be created. But still…
Max gave her hand a squeeze, picked up his beer bottle. “Here’s to the vanquishment of our foes.” He downed the rest of his beer, planted his elbows on the table. “Pay particular attention to Swanson. See if he’s rattled.” His grin was part mischievous kid, part combative antagonist. “It’s too bad we can’t see Kate Rutledge right now. I’ll bet she damn sure is rattled. First the phone call, then the letter tucked in her front screen.”
Annie looked at him sharply. “Her front screen! What if she saw you?”
His blue eyes gleamed. “She saw an elderly man with a beard wearing a cap and a cape.”
“No. Not a beard.” Annie looked at him skeptically.
He reached in his pocket, pulled out a shaggy white beard. “Confidential Commissions is prepared for every eventuality.”
Her eyes widened.
He laughed. “Not really. I went by the five-and-dime and bought a Santa Claus costume.” He looked abruptly serious. “I had no intention of being recognized. Now she’ll be on a lookout for a hunched-over old man with a white beard and a British accent. I hope she’s worried as hell.”
Annie glimpsed a Max she didn’t know—a tough, unrelenting, determined foe. “Why do you dislike her so much?”
He looked at Annie gravely. “She’s slick, attractive, like glossy china. Sure of herself. Arrogant. But underneath the attractive sheen, she was disdainful of Laurel yesterday, amused that she was distressed. That tells me she despises people who are vulnerable. Maybe it’s time she got a little of her own back.”
But when Ben brought their check and they rose to go, Max bent down. “Annie, you don’t have to go.”
She waited until they were outside, then she stepped into his arms. He held her tight. She took a deep breath, then stepped away. The Christmas lights wrapped around the lamp poles sparkled, spangling the parked cars with red and green.
Max grabbed her hand. “I didn’t realize you were so upset about going to the séance. You don’t have—”
“Yes. I do.” She squeezed his hand. She said lightly, “A woman has to do what a woman has to do.” She stood on tiptoe, kissed him, turned away. He didn’t call her back though she knew he was watching as she walked to her car. Max understood. Yes, she hated what lay ahead. She was scared and upset and unsure, but Pudge and Rachel needed her help and that was all that mattered.
She slipped into her car. The séance would start in twenty minutes.