Free Sugarplum Dead by Carolyn Hart Page B

strong hand gently cupped around an oblong white crystal. Books filled the shelves behind him. Every color in the photograph exuded warmth, from the beautifully tailored brown tweed sport coat with the merest hint of a red stripe to the ruddy mahogany of the desk to the bright book jackets.
    â€œWow,” Edith murmured. “Isn’t he the best-looking thing you’ve seen since Ezio Pinza?”
    Annie wrinkled her nose. “If you like that type.”
    Edith clapped her hands to her head, stared at the ceiling. “Jeez Louise!” she exclaimed. Edith was a mystery reader on a par with Henny Brawley and this exclamation was a favorite of Gar Anthony Haywood’s ex-cop sleuth Joe Loudermilk. Edith flounced her hands. “How about Jeff Chandler?”
    Annie grinned. “Better. He played lots of private eye roles.”
    â€œYou have,” Edith intoned, “no taste. You’d take Jeff Chandler over Ezio Pinza? That’s like preferring Victor Mature to Cary Grant.”
    Annie ignored that gibe. Her eyes studied the compelling face in the photograph. The longer she looked, the more worried she felt. Swanson’s straightforward gaze came from heavy-lidded eyes that had a secretive air, and the lips, despite their gentle smile, were sensuous and utterly confident.
    She had a swift memory of Laurel, with her troubled eyes and slumping shoulders.
    â€œSo what’s this about crystals?” Annie pointed at the pictures of the shining glass shapes.
    Edith’s eyes were sardonic. “Oh well, of course, Swanson doesn’t do anything so passé as a crystal ball. I mean, shades of Madame Who-sis in a turban. No, ma’am. He’s New Century. And that is crystal on a cost level with Lalique or Tiffany. He brought that yellow one, the flower”—she pointed at the lotus—“and placed it where the sun was slanting in from a window and it blazed like diamonds. And he has this deep voice that makes you feel like you’re in a tent with Ronald Colman.” A sigh. “Okay, with a guy you’d like to be in a tent with.” She peered at Annie. “Pierce Brosnan? Brad Pitt? Leonardo di Caprio? Oh, he’s probably too young.”
    Annie glared.
    Edith grinned in utter satisfaction. “Anyway, when Swanson spoke”—Edith tilted her head and her face scrunched in thought—“you felt like you were being wrapped in layers of cashmere warmed in the sun. He stared deep into the crystal and his voice got lower and lower and he described time stretching backward and forward, a golden highway, and the ineffable joy of slippingfrom earthly ties to walk in light and peace and listen to those who have gone before and will come after.”
    â€œAnd?” Annie prompted.
    Edith’s dark eyes crackled with a vivid, skeptical intelligence. “Sweetie, I enjoyed wrapping up in his cashmere voice, but I last took a ride on a turnip truck when I was about six and was invited on a snipe hunt and left holding the bag. Nevermore, saith both I and the raven.”
    Annie frowned at the handsome photograph. “I’ve never heard of him. The Chandler house belonged to the Rossiters the last I heard.” Hugh Rossiter was a computer consultant and his wife was a golfer.
    â€œThey got a divorce a couple of years ago. She moved to Arizona and he’s in California.” Edith plopped in a swivel chair and grabbed the computer mouse and began to click. “Let me see…” She peered at the screen, typed, clicked, typed, clicked. “Okay, sweet baby,” she crooned to the screen. Images flashed. “Voilà, Annie.” A dark brow quirked. “My, a travelin’ man, all right.”
    Annie pointed at the screen. “Will you print it out for me, Edith?”
    Â 
    At the stop sign on Sand Dollar Road, Annie hesitated for an instant. Should she turn right and get back to the store? Or…She flicked on her