Sugarplum Dead by Carolyn Hart Page A

acanthus leaves, scrolls, ribbons,flowers and scallop shells. Heavy maroon velvet hangings draped twelve-foot-tall windows. But the eye was drawn immediately to the far end of the room and the older woman in crimson silk who lounged in a Louis XV armchair on a low dais. The entire wall behind her was covered by an eighteenth century Flemish tapestry. A spotlight in the ceiling, not harsh but soft and silvery, played down over her, emphasizing the rich auburn of her hair, the blazing dark eyes, hollowed cheeks and bloodred lips, the fiery dress and an outflung hand, the long tapering fingers brilliant with glittering diamonds and rubies. Flocked Christmas trees strung with blue lights sat at either end of the dais, but they were small and didn’t detract from that lounging figure. The bejeweled hand made an imperious gesture.
    A thin voice beside Annie said quietly, “She wants to meet you.”
    Annie glanced into Alice Schiller’s dark eyes, noting that her auburn hair was flecked with silver. But those deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks and full lips…Annie glanced at the dais, then looked in surprise at the woman beside her.
    Pale lips, bare of color, stretched in an ironic smile. “Yes, we still look alike. When we were young, I could fool everyone. Even her husband.” A shrug. “But that was a long time ago. And looks matter more to Marguerite. She says I’m a dowdy old fool without an ounce of style. But that’s all right. Style belongs to her. Come, it’s best not to keep Marguerite waiting.”
    The long room looked curiously empty despite the assorted chairs and sofas. Like courtiers subservient to a queen, the other guests stood near the dais, watching as Annie and Max and their guide neared. There was easily enough space in the room for a party of fifty. Perhaps thegrandeur and immensity of the room contributed to the sense of sparse occupancy, gave the handful of people standing near the dais the forlorn appearance of shipwrecked survivors on an uninhabited atoll, uneasy at their present state, wary of their future.
    As they grew nearer, Annie was even more aware of their hostess’s gift for drama. Marguerite Dumaney’s presence made those near her bloodless and negligible. Her attendants were within range to be summoned, yet not quite close enough for conversation.
    Annie managed a meaningless social smile. She knew Pudge and Rachel, of course, and she’d seen the brochure with the photograph of Emory Swanson. The others she tried to identify from Max’s description. The lanky man with longish gray hair and quizzical eyes and a sleek goatee must be Wayne Ladson, the stepson who lived here. The chunky red-faced man who rocked back on his heels like he was standing on a boat had to be Wayne’s brother Terry. Annie took one swift look at an elegantly dressed woman with a sour face; a dowdy, plump woman who stood very stiff and still; and an effervescent blonde with a sweet smile, and tabbed them as Donna, Joan, and Happy.
    As she and Max stopped in front of the dais, Annie was acutely aware of Marguerite’s entourage. Her father appeared blonder than she remembered, in a bright green silk blazer. There he was, so familiar and so alien, her face, her honey-streaked hair, her gray eyes. But she didn’t know him and she never would. Not if she could help it. Pudge stared at her anxiously. Behind him loomed a ten-foot stone jaguar. The oversize sculpture made him look small.
    Wayne Ladson’s tweed jacket hung from thin, stoopedshoulders. He nodded toward them, his sensitive face formal but not unfriendly.
    Terry Ladson’s eyes lit with appreciation as Annie neared. Sensual lips curved in a slow smile. Annie knew his type, always on the prowl, with a preference for married women.
    Donna Ladson Farrell’s gaze passed over Annie and Max without interest. She cupped her cheek in her hand, quite consciously posed to afford the best view of her