Free Sugarplum Dead by Carolyn Hart Page A

. But she was opening it as she knocked. “Like I said, everybody’s Christmas shopping. Until the holidays are over, it’ll be quieter up here than Tombstone with Wyatt Earp in town. Come on back here.”
    Annie joined her at the second of two gray filing cabinets against the back wall.
    Edith rummaged in the top drawer. “Here we are.” She thrust a folder at Annie. “Every meeting in the history of the Friends is documented since its inception in 1936.”
    Annie forbore to reply, Huzzah. She flipped open the green folder and found the minutes of the meeting called to order at 10 A.M . October 12, a transcript of the guest lecture, presented by Emory Swanson, Ph.D., entitled “Manifestations of Psychic Phenomena in the Modern Era,” and a brochure.
    Edith leaned over Annie’s shoulder, tapped the brochure. “He handed them out. You know, Laurel’s on the Library Board. I’ll bet she was at the meeting.” Edith slid the minutes out of the folder and rustled through the stapled sheets. “Yeah. Here’s her name on the attendance sheet.”
    But Annie was studying the substantial brochure, printed on exceedingly heavy, pale mauve stock. The outer panel featured a pen and ink drawing of a brick plantation house. Beneath it, gold letters in light gothic script trumpeted:
    Â 
    CHANDLER HOUSE
    EVERMORE FOUNDATION
    BROWARD’S ROCK ISLAND, S.C.
    Â 
    â€œI’ve heard the esteemed doctor has quite a fancy layout. He must have asked the real estate agent to lead him to the spookiest house on the island. Or maybe”—Edith’s tone was skeptical—“he spotted it in a crystal. Hey, that may be the coming answer for information junkies. Who needs the Net? No more interminable delays while one phone line squabbles with another or five thousand teenage boys absorb every circuit to check out—Well, we’ve been having some discussions here about where the boys go on the Net. But here’s a glitch-free way to connect to our future. Simply grab a crystal, peer deep within and You Will Be Led. Or something like that. Anyway, that’s the old Chandler place. You know it, don’t you?”
    Annie did. The Chandler house, built in 1832, was one of the more remarkable extant plantation homes in all of South Carolina. Two stories and an encircling piazza were supported by seven brick arches on each side. The house overlooked the marsh and was surrounded by pines and live oaks, buffering it from the nearest homes. Annie and Max had attended a New Year’s Eve dance there several years ago on a stormy night with wind howling around the house. Despite blazing logs in four huge fireplaces, cold drafts eddied through the ballroom. They had danced out of the ballroom into a broad hallway and ended up beneath a sprig of mistletoe and not a breath of cold touched them.
    Edith folded her arms, leaned against the filing cabinet. “Open the brochure.”
    Obediently, Annie unfolded the heavy paper. Faint ivory streaks in the mauve background gave the brochure a marbled appearance. The first inside panel announced:
    Â 
    THE CRYSTAL PATH
    Â 
    Amidst the clamor of earthly life, sensitive natures can easily become alienated, overcome—
    Edith said impatiently, “Don’t read that guff. Look at his picture!”
    Annie’s gaze slid over the second panel, where the text alternated with artistic photographs of three crystals, a yellow one in the shape of a lotus, a green one in the shape of an elephant tusk and a brilliant white one in the shape of a globe. In order, they were named Serenity, Perception and One World.
    Annie moved on to the third panel and looked into the forthright gaze of Emory Swanson, Ph.D. Dark brown eyes crinkled in good humor. A slight smile softened ruggedly handsome features, a bold forehead, jutting nose, blunt chin. His silver hair was a thick tangle of close-cropped curls. He sat behind a desk, one