Sugarplum Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

stretched, flowed through the air to land on the heart-pine floor and then she was gone, slithering into a favorite nesting spot beneath the Whitmani fern. The fern’s raffia basket had a lopsided bulge in front, courtesy of Agatha. Agatha always disappeared when a stranger entered the store.
    Well, Ingrid would take care of everything.
    Annie didn’t bother to retrieve her red jacket from the storeroom. Max’s office was only a few steps along the boardwalk that curved around the harbor. She would likely find him immersed in Golf Digest or the Atlantic Monthly or the New York Times . The fact that he was able to keep abreast of all current affairs simply underscored, in Annie’s view, the paucity of demands on his time. Maxalways retorted that anyone in the service industry had to remain informed. He considered himself a member of the service industry in view of his rather unusual business—Confidential Commissions—which offered help to anyone with a problem. Confidential Commissions wasn’t, of course, a private detective agency. “Confidential Commissions,” Max would say earnestly, “strives to assist individuals who are perplexed, bewildered, bedeviled.”
    Okay, bub, Annie thought, have I got a candidate for you. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she was halfway up the central corridor before Ingrid’s call stopped her; stopped her, in part, because of the peculiar, choked sound of Ingrid’s voice.
    Annie looked toward the cash desk, at Ingrid, with her eyes wide, her jaw slack, one thin hand outstretched protectively toward Annie.
    Forever after, Annie would retain an indelible imprint of her surroundings, the True Crime books to her right, the Christie collection to her left. Edgar, the sleek black stuffed raven, looked down with glassy eyes. A cardboard display case in front of the children’s mystery section held an assortment of George Edward Stanley paperbacks.
    And she would always remember her first glimpse of the stocky middle-aged man and his familiar, oh so familiar rounded face with hopeful gray eyes, mist-dampened sandy hair, broad mouth, sandy mustache flecked with gray, and spatter of freckles. He wore a yellow crew neck sweater over a tattersall shirt, chino slacks, tasseled loafers.
    The bookstore receded, the brightly jacketed books and Ingrid’s shocked face and the heart-pine floors blurring. She saw only the man standing a few feet from her. She stared into eyes that mirrored her own, at featuresthat were a masculine version of her own. She saw the flutter of sandy lashes.
    That was the way she blinked when shocked or upset.
    He tried to speak, struggled for breath as she struggled.
    â€œAnnie?” A clear tenor voice.
    She simply stood there. And waited.
    He stepped forward, reached out.
    She held up her hands, palms forward.
    â€œAnnie”—there was wonder and hope and delight in his voice—“I’m your dad.”

Two
    S HE TOOK A step backward.
    â€œGod, Annie.” A smile crinkled the too-familiar, too-strange face, a smile that found a ready home. This was a face accustomed to smiling. “You’re so beautiful. You were a beautiful little girl. And now…” Those damnably familiar, yet strange gray eyes filled with admiration.
    Her sandy hair, her gray eyes. And yes, her smile. She felt utter confusion.
    He held out both hands, strong hands. “I’ve looked for you for a long time, Annie.” His smile was eager, sweet, engaging.
    Sudden anger flamed through Annie’s icy calm. “Have you?” Her voice was thin and tight and uneven.
    Ingrid came around the cash desk. Annie felt Ingrid’s hand on her arm, but the touch seemed far away.
    He took a step forward. “Annie, I wrote and wrote. But the letters came back Addressee Unknown. I—”
    â€œI don’t care.” She spaced the words like barriers at a closed road. She remembered in a jumble all the