RACHEL LOOKED BACK one more time at the two new graves, sisters buried side by side. Mounds of flowers still covered the humped gray dirt on each. But Rachel had found a place for the red-and-white-striped cane made of carnations. “Mom loved candy canes.”
Annie slipped her arm around Rachel’s shoulders. They followed the dusty gray path to the road where the car was parked. The cemetery was quiet, late on this afternoon before Christmas Eve. As they got into the car, Rachel said softly, “I’m glad it wasn’t Aunt Rita. She and Mom loved each other even if they fussed a lot.”
Dust rose behind the Volvo. Annie drove slowly through the thick shadows. “I’m glad, too.”
Rachel’s hands locked tightly together. “How did you know it was Alice?”
Annie slowed for a big-antlered deer. He certainly had the right of way as far as she was concerned. On the main road, she picked up speed. “I almost didn’t,” she said ruefully. “If I hadn’t figured that out, Alice would have gotten away with two murders. Even with your mom’s papers, there was no proof. But once anyone questioned ‘Marguerite’s’ identity, Alice was done.”
Rachel was impatient. “How did you know?”
“I looked into her eyes.” Annie would never forget that moment. “She was so sure of herself, so confident, so utterly composed. Yet, only a few days before, Marguerite had been so distraught by her sister’s death that she insisted Swanson come and hold a séance that very night. Would a murderer who believed in contacting the dead arrange to contact her victim? I don’t think so. The next day Marguerite remained in her room. Why? Because she was grieving. Yet at that moment near the gazebo, she looked at me, unmoved by the accusation that she’d murdered her sister. And Marguerite never lost faith in Swanson. The only suggestion that Marguerite was suspicious of him came from Alice. Alice told me she had a plan. I’ll say she did. She knew about Marguerite’s first marriage and she knew it had never been dissolved. She knew the money belonged to the Ladsons. Alice didn’t want that money to be taken away, so she killed your mom, trying to make it look as though you were guilty. Then she had a brilliant idea. Entice Swanson to the garden, have him bring a gun, get that gun, excuse herself with a promise to return. In the meantime, she’d arranged for Marguerite to come down to meet Swanson. The minute Marguerite arrived, Alice shot her, tossed the gun into the shrubs and hurried back to the house. She was already dressed as Marguerite. She simply waited for the body to be discovered. Now she was sure of the money and finally she was the star, the star she’d always wanted to be.”
Rachel shivered. “She was evil.”
Who was Alice? Annie knew they would never be certain. She was a beautiful woman, an accomplished actress. She’d been tempted and had succumbed. Was she prompted by fear of losing the only home she’d known for much of her life? Had jealousy festered within her since she was young and Marguerite was the star and she only the pale imitation? Was she frightened, angry, jealous or simply an opportunist? “She was formidable.” Annie shot a quick glance at Rachel. “But that doesn’t matter now. What matters now is the future. Hey, did we remember the popcorn balls?”
Rachel craned to look in the backseat. “There they are. Annie, can I hand out the popcorn balls?” Her eyes brightened; the tension eased in her hands.
“Sure. But don’t let Agatha get one. The last time we had an open house, somebody dropped one and it stuck to her tail. I’ve never seen a madder cat.”
Rachel giggled.
Annie drove a little faster. They were almost to the harbor. “And one time, we had a whole tray of shrimp and…”
“Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” boomed from the CD player. The tip of Ingrid’s Santa Claus hat hung dangerously near the punch bowl as she added another half gallon of lime sherbet. The second bowl glistened with the rich yellow of egg nog. Trifle filled the third bowl.
Max carried a tray of raspberry brownies. “So who says raspberry brownies aren’t Christmas cookies?” Annie had demanded pugnaciously. She reached for a brownie and was rewarded with both her favorite sweet and a rollicking smile from the world’s most handsome husband. Rachel darted in and out of clumps of revelers, holding up a plastic bowl filled with popcorn balls. Pudge was working the cash desk. Laurel spooned dollops of whipped cream onto steaming mugs of cocoa and dealt graciously with a coterie of male admirers, her faithful beau Howard, new stalwart Fred Jeffries, pink-faced Pete Garrett, the club golf pro, penguin-shaped Mayor Cosgrove, and a jaunty Terry Ladson.
Familiar faces were everywhere. The doyenne of Chastain, Miss Dora Brevard, was deep in conversation with Emma Clyde, creator of world-famous sleuth Marigold Rembrandt. Annie wondered what they were discussing. She slipped around a group debating—and the level of discourse might be described as heated—the primacy of Agatha Christie or Raymond Chandler.
Miss Dora, dark eyes glittering in her parchment face, exuded satisfaction. “Dear Laurel got the goods”—her word choice reflected a fondness for Erle Stanley Gardner novels—“on Dr. Swanson. There’s no doubt about it. The Evermore Foundation is closed, monies have been returned to those fleeced and Swanson and his lady have departed from the island.”
“Good show.” Emma shrugged her large shoulders, and her red-and-green-striped caftan rippled like Christmas candy. Her piercing blue eyes swung toward Annie. “Oh, there you are. I know you don’t think it’s fair—”
Footsteps marched smartly down the central aisle toward the coffee bar. Henny Brawley called out, “Hello, hello, hello, I didn’t know whether I’d ever get out of Pittsburgh except by dog sled, but here I am. I couldn’t miss the Christmas party.”
Annie hurried up to give her a hug. Certainly no Christmas party would be the same without Henny. Before she could say a word, Henny glanced up at the watercolors over the fireplace.
Emma, her square face utterly determined, snapped, “Without Lawful—”
Henny was not to be bested. She rattled off the titles, “Without Lawful Authority by Manning Coles, Green for Danger—”
A male voice overrode both Emma’s deep growl and Henny’s light tone.
“—by Christianna Brand, The Clock Strikes Twelve by Patricia Wentworth, Man Running by Selwyn Jepson, and The Franchise Affair by Josephine Tey.”
Pete Garrett’s face turned from pink to red when he realized he was the focus of bemused fascination by Miss Dora, Emma, Henny, and Annie.
Emma, known for her forthrightness, made it clear. “How could you possibly know those books? They are all by British authors and were published in the 1940s.”
“Before you were born!” Henny added darkly.
“We used to spend Christmas with my grandmother.” He grinned. “My granddad brought home a war bride from England. But”—he was magnanimous in victory—“I’d say we had a three-way tie.”
Three faces turned expectantly toward Annie.
Three free books?
Oh hey, it was Christmas!