Sugarplum Dead by Carolyn Hart

signal, turned left, drove a hundred yards and turned left again on Red-Tailed Hawk. She drove slowly, seeking the winding private road to the Chandler house. It was right along here. Yes. She turned left again on a rutted, bumpy, dusty road. Annie wasn’t impressed. If the Evermore Foundation was so damn well connected, you’d think they could pave the road.
    The road curved around a bamboo thicket. Annie braked and stopped in front of a huge metal gate attached to stone pillars. On either side of the pillars stretched atall spiked iron fence. A small intercom was attached to the left pillar.
    Annie stared. The last time she’d been to the Chandler house, there was no gate, no fence, definitely no intercom. Dr. Swanson might like to talk about travel on a golden road, but apparently he had strong feelings about anybody using his road. In the thin sunlight, the house looked brooding and withdrawn, the front piazza in deep shadow.
    What would happen if she went up and poked a button on the intercom? What if she said she was interested in learning about Evermore? Could it do any harm?
    Ignoring little bumps of presentiment that were probably a product of Max’s oft-stated advice to THINK before she acted, Annie was out of the car and within reach of the intercom when a deep-throated growl erupted to her left.
    Startled, she swung toward the fence, then, flailing, stumbled back, hands automatically lifted in defense.
    Two Dobermans lunged toward the gold-tipped spikes, saliva drooling from dark lips agape in throat-deep snarls. Over the frenzied growls, a cold voice demanded from the intercom: “State your business.”
    The dogs barked and jumped, jumped and barked.
    Annie backed toward her car, tried to still her trembling hands. She ignored the repeated request and flung herself behind the wheel. As she drove away, fast, she wondered a great deal about the peace and harmony espoused by Dr. Emory Swanson.

Five
    M AX PAUSED OUTSIDE the heavy wooden door of Parotti’s Bar and Grill. Parotti’s was an island institution, an all-day café and tavern and fish bait store just opposite the ferry landing, all owned and operated by Ben Parotti. Ben ran the ferry when he damn well pleased and his bar and grill provided the best fried catfish and hush puppies on the island, as well as bait, charter fishing trips and beer on tap. Annie loved Parotti’s, especially the fried oyster sandwiches. Thankfully, Ben still offered succulent down-home food even after his recent marriage and a wife who had added quiche and lemonade to the menu and fresh flowers in vases to the old scarred round wooden tables.
    Marriage did change some things. Scrawny, pint-size Ben no longer scuffed around in long underwear tops and stained corduroys held up by a knotted cord from an old flannel bathrobe. In fact, the last time they’d been over for lunch, Annie had murmured to Max that Ben looked like a Broadway dancer in his spiffy double-breasted blue blazer and white ducks, an opinion which would probably have sent Ben posthaste to the nearest secondhand store for an old outfit.
    But Ben was a prime example of the miracle of marriage, the willingness to take into account a partner’s hopes and desires and fears.
    Max took a deep breath and shoved open the door. Ever since the call from Pudge Laurance, he’d expected to hear from Annie. He’d called Death on Demand, home and her cell phone. She’d fled the cemetery, angry and upset. But when she finally called a few minutes ago, she’d not even mentioned seeing her father. She’d just said, “Max, I know it’s late. But I haven’t had lunch yet. Can you meet me at Parotti’s?”
    Of course he could.
    He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, then walked swiftly across the wooden floor.
    Annie waved from a booth not far from the line of coolers filled with squid, chicken necks and chunks of fish which added a