Sugarplum Dead by Carolyn Hart Page B

exquisitely made-up face.
    Joan Ladson’s wispy gray hair needed a permanent. Her dress was nice quality but a decade old. Her hands were clasped tightly together, and she determinedly avoided looking toward her ex-husband.
    Happy Laurance—and how unsettling it was to share the name—half turned to watch Annie and Max walk near. Curly blond hair cupped a round, kindly face that managed, oddly, to combine distress and welcome. She blinked and the anxious lines around her eyes smoothed out. Drooping pink lips pressed together, then curved determinedly in a sweet smile. “Hello, Annie.” The words wafted in a conspiratorial whisper promising a warm welcome, after, of course, Annie and Max were presented to the queen.
    Emory Swanson’s hand rested lightly on the back of Marguerite’s chair with just a faint hint of possession. He was even handsomer live than in a photograph, his wiry silver hair tousled, his brown eyes bright with enthusiasm, his smile infectious. Annie suspected the smile was the product of careful practice. Without it, his face would have looked aggressive and challenging.
    But these were the bit players. They faded into the background as Annie looked into Marguerite Dumaney’s unforgettable face, black eyebrows arching over eyes thatglowed with intensity, a high-bridged nose, hollowed cheeks beneath gaunt cheekbones, skin smoothed by tinted powder, lips as scarlet as her dress. She slowly rose, her movements as graceful as a ballerina’s, and as studied.
    Alice Schiller stepped to one side. “Marguerite, here are Pudge’s daughter and son-in-law, Annie and Max Darling.”
    Marguerite stepped forward, long, slender hand outstretched, fingers heavy with rings. Rubies blazed, emeralds flashed, diamonds glittered. Vivid, talon-sharp nails echoed the color of her lips and dress. “My dears.”
    The throaty drawl evoked a fleeting memory, a darkened movie house, Annie all of seven or eight and a woman’s face huge on the screen. Annie was grateful for Max’s tight grip on her arm. He was an anchor in a world with undefined boundaries.
    â€œLife”—Marguerite paused just long enough for every face to turn toward her—“is family.” Her deep voice throbbed with emotion. Her dark eyes were pools of yearning.
    Annie could almost smell popcorn. But she couldn’t pull her eyes away from that haggard yet lovely face.
    Marguerite swept off the dais, cupped Annie’s face in smooth, cold hands.
    Annie fought away a shudder at the touch of those icy, dry hands.
    Marguerite leaned so near that a silky strand of hair brushed Annie’s cheek. “You. Your father. My sister. A rapprochement after years of separation. What higher calling can we have than to come together?” Marguerite dropped her hands, whirled toward Pudge and Happy. “Come.” She clapped a bony hand on Annie’s shoulder.
    Max’s grip tightened on her arm. He murmured softly, “Annie.”
    Annie’s face flamed. She almost exploded, and then she saw her father’s stricken face, eyes wide with dismay, mouth parted in anguish. Annie’s anger shriveled like a popped balloon. She stared into his eyes and knew her father hadn’t invited this trumped-up scene. He was as distraught as she. Why should they let this bizarre old woman yank at their emotions like a puppeteer with helpless marionettes?
    Annie ignored Marguerite’s tug. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dumaney. I’ve always been interested”—this was true—“in the history of old films. I believe you were one of my mother’s favorite actresses. Of course, that was a long time ago.”
    Marguerite froze, her head poked forward, her eyes drawn in a scowl, her bloodred lips pursed together.
    Pudge stroked his mustache, hiding a smile. Happy gave a tiny gasp. Rachel giggled. Wayne Ladson’s eyes gleamed. Terry Ladson mouthed,