Sugarplum Dead by Carolyn Hart Read Free Book Online Page A

yarn attacked by Agatha?
    A black nose poked over the edge of the box.
    Oh. Right. Agatha had no doubt helped with the dismantling last Christmas, which might have encouraged a dump-it-in-fast mentality. A black paw patted the end of the strand. Annie reached for another strand. Maybe she could work with this one while Agatha investigated the first.
    â€œGosh, Henny, the actual building?” Mary Roberts Rinehart, once the grande dame of American mystery writers, had entered nursing school in late August of 1893 at the tender age of sixteen. It was there that she met a handsome young surgeon, Dr. Stanley Marshall Rinehart, who tutored her in German (an excuse to meet) and later would become her husband.
    â€œYes. I even walked down the halls. But I don’t know where the smallpox ward was. In Christmas 1895 when she was quarantined with a rowdy group of patients, she and Stanley sang Christmas carols to quiet them down. You know, they both had excellent singing voices. Oh, Annie”—a sigh of pure happiness—“I am having so much fun. Except—”
    Annie pushed the stepstool behind the coffee bar, climbed, and carefully clipped the strand to the edge of the mug shelves.
    â€œâ€”I’m snowed in. Eight inches and it’s still falling. So I decided to make a few calls.”
    Annie reached the end of one strand, leaned perilously sideways to snag another from the box. Agatha crouched to jump for the dangling end. Annie slipped loose a bracelet of bells and tossed it over Agatha’s head. The cat turned in midjump. Annie was applauding her own quick-wittedness and missed most of Henny’s sentence. “…wondered if you’d spoken with her.”
    â€œHenny, you’re the first person I’ve talked to this morning. Except for Max.” The second strand clipped into place nicely. Annie reached for the third strand.
    â€œI hope Max isn’t too worried,” Henny said quietly. “I’m afraid Laurel truly needs psychiatric help.”
    The strand slithered from Annie’s hands, caromed off the counter, clattered to the floor, one end landing in Agatha’s water bowl.
    â€œYou talked to Laurel?” Annie sat down on the ladder.
    â€œWell, you know how it is to talk to Laurel.” Henny sighed. “Annie, she is trying to communicate with that race car driver. You know, her third husband. Or maybe he was her second. And he’s dead. When I asked why, she would only say, ‘I must. I must,’ and then she skittered off, oh, you know how she does, and she chattered about crystals and gamma rays and auras—”
    â€œHenny, you remember that woman—I don’t recall her name, Ophelia something or other, and she lived at Nightingale Courts—”
    â€œOf course I remember,” Henny interrupted crisply. “That’s when Ingrid disappeared. Right after your wedding.”
    That frightening disappearance had been solved with the help of Henny and Laurel. “You remember how Laurel wandered around murmuring about the boundaries ofthe mind and how we should open ourselves up to cosmic fields—”
    â€œThis time it’s different.” Henny spoke with finality, and Henny was not an alarmist. She was smart, empathetic, clever, a world-class mystery reader, and Laurel’s good friend. “I’m sorry, Annie. I’ll bet Max won’t admit there’s a problem”—Henny knew both of them very well indeed—“and I know it’s Christmas and you’re busy as you can be, but Laurel needs help.” There was a pause, then she added, her tone puzzled, “I tried Miss Dora first. She stays in touch with Laurel. But, Annie, it was the oddest thing. Miss Dora was evasive.”
    Annie stared at the phone. This pronouncement was almost more shocking than Henny’s concern for Laurel. Miss Dora Brevard, the doyenne of Chastain, South Carolina, was direct, to the point and