Sugarplum Dead old, page 7
Ben Parotti was lurking near a potted palm, another of the new improvements. Max waved at him. "Here's Ben, Annie. Let's order."
Annie managed a smile. "Hi, Ben."
Today Parotti wore a Jack Nicklaus green sport coat and pale yellow trousers. "We have two specials, fish chowder with corn fritters and oyster pie with a spinach salad and a raspberry vinaigrette. And apricot tea."
"Oh, I don't know," Annie said blankly. She waved her hand. "Anything."
Parotti shot her a shocked look. He put his hand to his mouth, muttered to Max, "Missus under the weather? I'll do her a double special fried oyster sandwich."
Max nodded. "Fried oyster sandwich for Annie. I'll take the chowder. Two apricot teas."
Parotti looked at her anxiously. "I'll bring a double order of fritters," and he hurried away.
Annie stared at the table. "It was decent of him to come and tell you about Swanson." She took a deep breath. "Okay. He said he had to tell you about Dr. Swanson. Look what I've got here." She opened her purse, pulled out a sheaf of papers. She pushed them across the table. "There's something wrong about Swanson. The longest he's ever stayed in one place was five years. That was in Nashville. He moves to a town and sets up a foundation and puts out fancy brochures with all this guff about the Golden Road and Emanations of Light and Seeing Our Way and then the first thing you know, wham, the foundation shuts down, he moves to a new town, starts over again."
Max scanned the thick sheaf of papers. "You're right And a different name every time. In Nashville, the New Vision. In New Orleans, Points of Light. In Laguna, Shimmering Spirit. In Seattle, the Golden Road. But there's nothing here to indicate any trouble with the law or with his credit. No bankruptcies. In fact, it looks like his credit's pretty choice." He raised an eyebrow. "How did you get all this financial stuff?"
Just for an instant, the old Annie looked at him, laughter in her eyes. "My lips are sealed." Then the laughter fled. "Laurel shouldn't be involved with this."
"I agree." That was true enough, Max thought. But his real concern wasn't Laurel. His real concern was Annie. And whether it was wise or foolish, he wanted her to see Pudge, to be around him long enough to sense what kind of man he was. Once again, Max chose his words with care. "Pudge's ex-sister-in-law is Marguerite Dumaney—"
Annie's eyes widened at the mention of the legendary actress.
"—and apparently she's deeply involved with this crystal stuff. Dumaney's convinced she's connected with her dead husband. This has upset everybody in the family. So Pudge has hired me to find out what I can aboil Swanson." Max stared into cool gray eyes.
"I see." She spoke evenly, but she no longer looked a him.
"Annie—" He reached across the table.
Parotti clomped across the wooden floor. "Here you go, Annie, the double deluxe fried oyster sandwich. I made the tartar sauce fresh this morning myself."
Annie smiled. "Thank you, Ben. Nobody in the world makes a better sandwich."
Chowder sloshed over the brim of Max's bowl as Parotti kept his eyes on Annie.
Waiting until Parotti turned away, Max unobtrusively sopped up the spillage.
Annie munched on her sandwich, closed her eyes, "Hmm. The best!"
Max waited until he was halfway through the chowder, Annie's color was better and she no longer looked like a soldier staring up a gun barrel.
"So"—and he kept his voice casual—"Pudge thinks it would help if we met Swanson on a social basis."
Annie was suddenly still. She put the remnant of sandwich on the plate.
"Marguerite Dumaney's celebrating her birthday tomorrow night. Pudge will wangle us an invitation. He said Swanson will be there and we can meet him. Swanson won't have any idea Laurel's my mother."
Annie sipped the tea, then said precisely, "That sounds like an excellent plan. You can talk to Swanson and that should help you decide how to approach Laurel. Here,' you'd better keep the stuff I got on him." She swept together the printout sheets and held them out to him, a woman obviously pleased to discharge any and all responsibility. And further effort.
Max was afraid he understood only too well. He stared into suddenly dark and remote gray eyes. "You and I—" "No, Max. I'm not going."
Annie unpacked books like mad. Only ten days until Christmas. This was her best holiday season yet. As always, there were customers with odd but fun requests, including the homesick Left Coaster who wanted books set in northern California. Annie obliged with titles by Elizabeth Atwood Taylor, Susan Dunlap, Janet LaPierre, Janet Dawson, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Shelley Singer, Marcia Muller and Linda Grant.
If Annie had odd and uncomfortable moments—and she did—she assured herself that married couples didn't always go in tandem. Tonight Max could manage on his own. After all, it was his mother.
And her father.
The unexpected thought shocked her. She folded her lips in a tight line and bent to shelve a raft of Lillian Jackson Braun paperbacks.
Agatha materialized from beneath the Whitmani fern. The elegant black cat slithered between Annie and the shelf.
Annie looked at Agatha. "No. Huh-uh. You're smart, sure. But no way."
Agatha stared at her with opaque golden eyes, rubbed her whiskers against The Cat Who Saw Stars, flicked her tail and moved down the aisle toward the coffee bar.
The bell at the front door of Death on Demand gave its familiar, cheerful peal, followed by Ingrid's soft murmur of inquiry. Annie picked up six more books, trying to remember the order of publication, then paused as an angry young voice rasped, "No, you can't help me. I want to see her" The emphasis on the pronoun was startlingly hostile. "Annie."
Annie was on her feet and starting up the aisle when a teenage girl came flying toward her, skidding to a stop only steps away.
They stared at each other.
The girl—she couldn't be more than fifteen—planted her feet apart, slapped thin hands on hips hidden beneath a floppy oversize shirt and a huge unzipped canvas duck jacket that sagged down her shoulders and dangled near her knees. Ragged bell-bottom jeans splayed over black sports sneakers that added at least two inches to her height. Despite the voluminous clothes, she looked like a Dickens waif, her wrists smaller than the span of a thumb, her eyes huge in a bony face still seeking its adult shape. She poked her narrow head forward, a tangle of dark curls framing blazing brown eyes, angular cheekbones and trembling lips.
Annie had a sudden memory of Agatha as a kitten, a frightened stray, eyes glittering, stiff-legged, tiny mouth agape in a furious hiss. Annie lifted her hand.
"So here you are." The girl's high voice quavered. "All stuck up and happy. Wearing a Christmas sweater. Just like you hadn't ruined Christmas for me and Pudge." Those big dark eyes glared. "You don't care, do you? Did you know I used to dream about you and write letters to you? My big sister, that's what I thought you would be. Pudge told me all about you when I was little. He said he'd looked for you everywhere, and he knew we would be crazy about each other, that you'd be a great big sister to me. And now—"
"Wait a minute." Annie's face felt hot. "Who are you?"
The girl jammed her hands in the big slanted pockets of the grimy red coat. "Nobody to you, I guess. I'm just Rachel. But I hate you. You've made Pudge cry," and she whirled and ran toward the front door. *
Max slammed the front door. "Hi, gorgeous."
Annie, stretched out on a white wicker couch with flowered cushions, listened from the terrace room and knew he was scooping up Dorothy L., their rollicking white cat who adored him.
"Max?" Annie sat up, looked toward the front hall.
His face surprised and pleased, Max appeared in the doorway, Dorothy L. riding on his shoulder. "I didn't expect you to be here. I thought you were working tonight."
"Ingrid and Duane are handling the store." Annie looked at the mantel, at the clock now chiming the hour. "What time's your dinner?"
"Seven."
There was a moment of silence.
Max's gaze was hopeful, then slowly the light in his dark blue eyes faded. "Well, I need to shave. See you later."
Annie listened as his steps crossed the entrance hall and the swift thud as he hurried upstairs.
Pushing up from the couch, she stood uncertainly for a moment, then whirled toward the terrace. Grabbing a jacket from the row of hooks, she yanked open the door. Once outside, she shivered and pulled on the nylon jacket. Head down, hands in her pockets, she plunged down the path toward the lagoon. But not even the cool misty air could sweep away the turmoil in her mind, dampen the memory of those big, dark, angry eyes, such forlorn, young, aching eyes.
Annie clattered onto the pier, stopped at the end, hands tight on the railing. It was too dark to see and no moon tonight. Fog wreathed the trees, rose in miasmic swaths from the cold dark water of the lagoon.
"I don't owe her anything." Annie wanted to sound tough. But she heard the sadness beneath the veneer. "Oh damn, damn, damn." Why did Rachel remind her so
much of herself at that age? Why did it hurt so much? Okay, all right. So it was no fun to see a kid in pain. Didn't everybody have to grow up, learn that dreams are just dreams? Annie wasn't anybody's big sister. Just like she hadn't been her father's daughter. That kid— Rachel—she'd had Pudge for a father. That was more than Annie had ever had.
There was a hot flick of jealousy at the thought. But it wasn't Rachel's fault. Rachel was just a kid, a kid wearing clothes too big for her because she hated being skinny, a kid who still had dreams.
Annie remembered another kid, who dreamed of sugarplums and waited for the father who never came.
The breeze rustled the winter-browned cattails, but Annie heard a light young voice: "... I hate you. . . . You've made Pudge cry."
Annie felt the tears on her cheeks. She yanked free a hand, swiped at her face, then turned and ran up the pier.
As the Ferarri zoomed down the drive, Max said gently, "Relax, Annie, relax."
"Who's going to be there? Besides my erstwhile father." She half turned to watch Max. In the light from the dash, his profile was endearingly familiar yet strange, as everything had seemed strange since a man she didn't remember had walked into Death on Demand and disrupted the world as she knew it. She had always ascribed Max's insouciance and refusal to be serious to a streak of laziness. How wrong she had been. What else didn't she know about her husband?
He flipped up one finger at a time. "Our hostess, Marguerite Dumaney, onetime leading lady, now reclusive grande dame. Reputed still to be hauntingly beautiful. A well-to-do woman, courtesy of her late husband, movie
mogul Claude Ladson. She also inherited money from her father and made buckets in Hollywood, but she has a great talent for extravagance. She's still flying high on the Ladson bucks. Marguerite's stepsons, Wayne and Terry, stepdaughter Donna, and Wayne's ex-wife, Joan. Wayne teaches history over at Chastain College. Terry has his own charter boat. Donna runs an antique store in West Hollywood. Joan's a librarian at a little college outside of Chicago."
"Lots of ex-wives around," Annie muttered. "How come all these people are here?"
"It's a holiday gathering, plus they're here specifically for Marguerite's birthday party tonight. Pudge said the household consists of Marguerite, her companion Alice Schiller, her sister Happy, Happy's daughter Rachel Van Meer, and Wayne Ladson. Visiting are Pudge, Donna Ladson Farrell, Terry Ladson, and Joan Ladson. That, according to Pudge, wraps up the Ladson family except for Wayne and Joan's daughters. One is in Europe, the other is very pregnant on the West Coast. Donna and Terry have both been married and divorced but no kids."
Annie raised an eyebrow. "I'd say the Ladson family has a little trouble with interpersonal relationships. So it's probably going to be one big happy family. Not. Oh well, birthday parties are usually fim." She ran her fingers through her hair, knew she was stressed. "So they're all here for a birthday bash. Do they like their stepmom that much?"
"Hrnm." Max's tone was cautious. "I didn't get that impression. More that Marguerite is the Big Daddy Warbucks and everybody pretty well taps when she says dance."
But Annie had lost interest in Marguerite Dumaney and her entourage. She squinted at Max. "How come her sister lives with her?" If Happy had been married to Annie's father and had a daughter Rachel's age, she was not young.
"Pudge didn't say, but I got the idea it might be moneyJ Or the lack of it. Happy's been married three times, eaclu one poorer than the last, and like the rest of the Ladsonr kids, she grew up rich but Marguerite got the money! when their father died." Max slowed and peered into the dark night. A raccoon loped across the road. "Apparently, Happy's always had a talent for deadbeats. I mean—" he began hastily.
Annie said sharply, "Including my father?"
"I didn't put that well. Pudge pays his bills. But he's never made a lot of money and neither did her other two husbands, so Happy ended up broke not long after she and Pudge split. Anyway, Happy will be at the party, as will Rachel, her daughter from her second marriage. Plus the Ladson siblings, Wayne, Terry and Donna. And Pudge. And Wayne's ex-wife, Joan. And us. Oh, and Marguerite's companion, Alice Schiller. They've been together since their Hollywood days when Alice was Marguerite's standin. She's always in attendance. And the crystal man, of course. Pudge says it will be easy to keep everybody straight. Marguerite's a star. Her companion is a pale imitation of the original. Happy is always happy Or trying damn hard to look happy. Rachel's the kid. Wayne has a short, neat beard. Terry's face has seen too much sun and been in too many bars. Donna might be pretty if her lips didn't have a permanent pout. Wayne's ex-wife looks sad or mad most of the time. Apparently, the crystal man is the only happy camper in the bunch."
Max turned onto Sand Dollar Road, picked up speed.
Annie clasped her hands together, staring out the window into the winter dark and the huge pines briefly illuminated by the car lights. "The only reason I'm going is the girl. I don't want to talk to my father. Tell him that."
"Pretend it's just another party." Max sounded jovial,
but his glance toward her was searching. "That will make it easier."
"Just another party," she said bitterly. "Oh, sure. Given by a crazy, rich ex-actress for a man who thinks crystals are a path to another world. And what a swell guest list, a bunch of down-and-outers fawning over the rich relation. And featuring—oh, this is just a minor note—an emotional girl who wants me to be her big sister, a man who happens to be my father and a stepmother I've never met. Some party."
Max reached out, squeezed her hand.
She looked straight ahead. "You and"—she hesitated, then said, "Pudge . .. that's a damn silly name."
Max slowed, peered ahead. "Why aren't there any streetlights?" He turned into a bricked drive. A signpost announced: MARGUERITE DUMANEY.
It was an oft-voiced complaint since his arrival on the island. "A more natural environment," Annie replied absently. She continued briskly, "Okay. You and Pudge have talked this over."
"He said Happy's upset about tonight, but he can't get her to tell him why. I told him we'd try to talk to Swanson, see if we can find out what he's up to. I'll lead him on, then announce at some point that Laurel's my mother and see how he reacts."
"Happy." Annie shook her head. "That's even sillier than Pudge."
Max shot her a glance as he squeezed the Ferrari between a silver Bentley and Pudge's blue Ford. "We're here."
"Just another party ..." Annie murmured.
Six
ANNIE HAD ALWAYS enjoyed the flair for originality on Broward's Rock, unlike Hilton Head, where zoning laws determined everything from house color to yard decorations (one plantation prohibited children's treehouses). As she and Max walked up the wide shallow steps that rose in gradual tiers, she realized zoning laws might have a reasonable basis. This house—or should she call it a mansion or a castle or perhaps an architect's nightmare?—certainly qualified as individual. It rose at different points to four stories and the building materials included chrome, bronze, quartz, cedar, stucco, New England clapboard, tile and copper. Rooms jutted at odd angles and the whole was topped by a thirty-foot aluminum tower. A red banner wrapped around the tower was no doubt intended to look like a candy cane. It looked more like a spaceship in an alternate universe.
"I'd guess six," Annie whispered.
"Huh?" Max took her elbow and steered her around a fifteen-foot, barnacle-encrusted, upside down anchor leaning against a pile of rocks. Holly garlands dangled from the flukes.
"Six architects at least." She stopped, pointed to her right. "Max, look at that!"
A glistening glass whale spewed varicolored streams of water in the center of an enormous bricked fountain. Just past the fountain, huge boulders arched, creating a cave. Tongues of fire flickered within the cave mouth. Suddenly the fiery plumes billowed and a dragon's head emerged. A Christmas wreath bright with holly encircled the dragon's neck.
"Cool!" Max marveled. "Do you suppose Hot Breath's guarding a treasure chest?"
"With golden doubloons? Maybe." She moved swiftly ahead. "I guess you can take the girl out of the movie set, but you can't take the movie set out of the girl. Let's see what other wonders await us."
They walked on a cobbled bridge across a moat to a massive wooden door studded with glass bubbles pulsing with changing colors: orange, purple, rose, aqua, gold. Each bubble was encircled by a miniature Christmas wreath. Max pulled a silver chain and a bell pealed.
When the door opened—
Max smiled. "Mr. and Mrs. Darling."
—Annie was relieved to be welcomed by a slender older woman with a perfectly ordinary appearance. Dark red hair drawn sleekly back emphasized a bony face and intelligent eyes. A Christmas tree brooch was the only spot of color against a high-necked navy silk dress.
"I'm Alice Schiller. Please come this way." She led them down a two-story flagstone hall. Along the wall marched a row of miniature spruce trees decorated with shiny green bows.
Annie was a little disappointed at the dusky medieval tapestries. Surely an old set of armor or a moose head or flickering candles would have been more appropriate. Their shoes clicked on the stones and far ahead light
