Laced with Poison (30 page)

“I heard a story,” Emma began. “From Jessica—she used to be the administrator here.”
Emma didn’t know if Rose knew that Jessica was dead, and she didn’t want to upset
her. Not now, when she was so close to getting the information she needed. “She told
us about a woman named Cat whose baby was stillborn. And another woman who was having
her ninth or tenth child.”

Rose closed her eyes. “I told her that story.” She smiled at Emma. “It was a terribly
stormy night. Not like the blizzards they get up north, of course, but enough to cause
plenty of accidents when you’re not used to it. Cars were sliding off the road everywhere.
The ambulance came and went, I don’t know how many times, and the emergency room staff
were run off their feet. They needed all the doctors they could get their hands on,
so I was left alone on the labor and delivery floor.”

She gestured toward the glass of water, and Emma hastened to bring it to her. She
took a long sip.

“Fortunately the storm didn’t bring the babies out the way
they normally do, and I only had two patients that night.” She ran her tongue over
her lips. “There was Danny Brown’s wife, Rachel. He’s a farmer, and they already had
a huge brood of children they could barely afford to keep clothed and fed. People
always said the kids didn’t get their first pair of shoes until one of the older ones
grew out of theirs. I do know things were rough for them.” She smiled at Emma. “A
lot of people had it rough. They did their best.” She sighed. “But I do know Rachel
did not want another baby.”

“And the other woman?”

“That was a completely different story. Cat’s family had plenty of money, and they
were ready to welcome this long-awaited baby with loving arms. He, because it did
turn out to be a boy, would inherit a considerable fortune. Quite a contrast to hand-me-down
shoes.” Rose smiled ruefully.

“What happened?” Emma asked, even though she already knew the story from Jessica.
She wanted to hear it in Rose’s own words.

“Cat’s baby was stillborn,” Rose said succinctly. “He looked perfect—a solid seven
pounds with well-formed features and a thatch of dark hair—but no matter what we did,
we couldn’t get him to breathe.” She wiped at the tear that was sliding down the side
of her face. “Fortunately, Cat had been heavily drugged, her labor was long and troublesome,
and she wasn’t aware of what was going on.” Rose motioned for the water glass again.

After taking a sip she continued. “Rachel had given birth moments earlier to a very
healthy boy who started to cry even before he was completely out. I’d been going back
and forth between the two of them all night. The doctor had been called back down
to the emergency room, and I was left to clean up. It was then that I had the idea.”

Emma nodded encouragingly.

“What if we switched the babies? Why should Rachel take home a baby she didn’t want,
and Cat be sent home with empty arms? Rachel had had hardly any anesthesia so I was
able to talk to her right away. She agreed. We would give her baby boy to Cat.” She
stopped to lick her lips again. “Cat would never know. I made up a new identification
bracelet for Rachel’s son, but when I was removing his, it broke and the beads scattered
all over the floor. I was frantic. I didn’t know when the doctors would come back
or when Cat would awake. I had just finished when she began to stir.” Rose closed
her eyes as if picturing the scene. “I’ll never forget placing that baby in Cat’s
arms. I knew in that moment that I’d done the right thing.”

“So you never told her what happened?”

“No. Only Rachel and I knew the truth, and we’d sworn each other to secrecy.”

She must have seen the look on Emma’s face. “I know, you’re wondering why I told Jessica
the story.” She shrugged. “I’d carried it with me for so long. Cat is dead, and so
is Rachel. I didn’t see any harm in it.”

No harm
, Emma thought. But Jessica had possibly been murdered because of it.

“What was Cat’s real name?” Emma bit her lip, sitting on the edge of her seat.

“Time for your pills.” A nurse bustled into the room, and Emma nearly swore out loud.

The woman took a small, pleated white paper cup from her tray and tipped the contents
into Rose’s outstretched hand. Rose dutifully swallowed the pills. Emma thought the
nurse would leave, but she picked up one of Rose’s frail wrists and held her finger
over Rose’s pulse while she
glanced at the watch on her other hand. She gently laid Rose’s hand back down on the
blanket and patted it.

“Did you pick out some good books?” she asked in a cheerful voice, motioning toward
Emma’s book cart.

Emma and Rose exchanged a look.

“I’m still trying to decide,” Rose said.

The nurse nodded briskly and headed toward the door. “If you need anything…” she called
over her shoulder.

Finally she was gone. Emma and Rose listened to her progress down the hallway.

“I’m afraid I’ve been a terrible bore,” Rose said, her fingers plucking at the sheets
again.

Emma shook her head. “Not at all. It’s a fascinating story. But you haven’t told me
Cat’s real name.”

“Oh dear.” Rose turned her head this way and that on her pillow. “It’s not really
my story to tell. But I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.” She gave Emma a pleading
look. “Cat was short for Constance. Constance Porter.”

EMMA’S mind was reeling as she left Sunny Days. What she’d learned meant that Alfred
Porter, Marjorie’s husband, wasn’t really a Porter after all. He was the son of Danny
and Rachel Brown. And that meant he wasn’t the legitimate heir to the Porter fortune;
his younger brother, Wyatt, was.

Would that be enough to motivate Marjorie to murder? Emma thought it would. Marjorie
was extremely proud of her own background and that of her husband. Knowing that she
was actually married to the son of a poor farmer might have been more than she could
bear. Combined with the fact that the money would now go to Wyatt and not be passed
on to her precious son, Peyton. Murdering Jessica and attempting to smother Rose was
a desperate ploy to keep the story from spreading any further and the mysterious “Cat”
from being identified as her mother-in-law, Constance
Porter. Then when she realized Gladys Smit had seen her go out to the garden, she
had to get rid of her as well.

Emma sat behind the wheel of the Bug, uncertain what to do next. Should she go to
Detective Walker with the information? Would he believe her? He hadn’t shown much
interest in her theories before. Perhaps she’d go home first and call Arabella and
see what she thought.

Emma pulled out of the parking lot of Sunny Days and headed back to her apartment
over Sweet Nothings. She remembered that her refrigerator was almost bare, so she
stopped at Kroger’s to pick up a few things. By the time she got home, she couldn’t
wait to call Arabella and tell her what she’d discovered.

Emma’s phone was ringing as Emma walked up the stairs to her apartment. She dumped
her grocery bags down on the steps and retrieved her cell from her purse.

“Hello?”

It was Arabella.

“You won’t believe who stopped by.”

“Who?” Emma said as she fished her apartment keys out of her handbag.

“Marjorie Porter. She wants us to do another trunk show for her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Emma froze with her hand halfway to the doorknob. “Marjorie’s there now?”

Emma tried to take a breath, but it stuck in her throat. Her aunt was alone with a
vicious killer. Marjorie had killed two people already and had almost killed Rose.
Emma didn’t doubt she would do it again.

“Why don’t I come over and we’ll all talk about it?” She tried to keep the fear out
of her voice.

“Are you okay, honey? You sound sort of funny.”

“It’s probably because I’m standing in the stairwell.”

There was an extended silence that suggested Arabella didn’t believe her.

“Can you come, or are you busy?”

“I’ll be right there. I have to put my groceries away.”

“Wonderful. See you soon.” Arabella clicked off.

Emma’s hands were shaking as she opened her door. She shoved the entire bag of groceries
into the refrigerator—she didn’t want to waste the time putting everything away. She
had to get to Arabella’s before anything happened. She would call Detective Walker
on her way over.

*   *   *

ARABELLA and Marjorie were sitting in Arabella’s living room, calmly drinking sweet
tea, when Emma arrived, Pierre curled up contentedly at Arabella’s feet. She wondered
for a moment if she’d been mistaken. Maybe Marjorie wasn’t the killer after all, and
she was here at Arabella’s for a legitimate purpose. She looked so proper with her
legs crossed at the ankle and tucked to the side and one of Arabella’s lacy napkins
perched on her lap. Marjorie was a Porter and a Davenport, and the mayor’s wife. Was
it really possible she was also a killer?

Emma edged onto the sofa, eyeing Marjorie warily. Marjorie gave Emma a smile and patted
her hand.

“So glad you could come. Arabella and I have been having the most wonderful chat,
haven’t we?” She smiled at Arabella.

Emma glanced at her aunt. Something was wrong. She looked slightly dazed. Was she
that in awe of having Marjorie Porter in her own parlor?

“Let me pour you some tea.” Marjorie grabbed the pitcher, which was closest to her,
and filled a glass for Emma. “Your aunt does make the most delicious sweet tea.”

Emma accepted the glass and took a long swallow. Her throat was parched.

“There’s cake if you’d like.” Marjorie pointed at an angel food cake sitting on a
porcelain platter.

“Thanks.” Emma hadn’t eaten dinner yet, and she was hungry.

“Marjorie made the cake, and it’s absolutely lovely.”

Pierre lifted his head and gave a sniff but put it down again. He knew Arabella wasn’t
going to feed him table scraps.

Emma looked up sharply. Was Arabella slurring her words? Something was dreadfully
wrong. Had she had a stroke?

“We’ve been discussing the idea of another trunk show,” Marjorie said, sipping her
tea delicately.

Emma tried to concentrate on Marjorie’s words, but Marjorie was fading in and out
like a radio station with bad reception. What was happening to her?

“More tea?” Marjorie held the pitcher over Emma’s glass.

Emma drank the refill greedily. Maybe the tea would revive her. She put her glass
down and glanced at Arabella. Her eyes were closed, and her chin was resting on her
chest. She was obviously fast asleep. Emma knew that work and the scare with Francis
had taken its toll, but she’d never known Arabella to fall asleep in company before.

Her own eyes were getting heavy as well. The living room was slightly stuffy. Was
that making them all sleepy? She glanced at Marjorie, who looked as perky as ever.
She was vaguely aware of Marjorie getting up and going into the kitchen. Perhaps she
was putting the tea and cake away? Emma fought the urge to lean her head back and
drift to sleep. She couldn’t imagine what had come over her and Arabella. She remembered
some of the things she’d read
about carbon monoxide poisoning and wondered if that was what was happening. But surely
Marjorie would be affected, too.

Marjorie! Emma forced her eyes open and struggled to straighten up. This was no ordinary
tea party. Marjorie was a murderer, no matter how good her manners, and Emma was now
quite certain she had come here to drug her and Arabella. But why?

Marjorie came back out from the kitchen with her purse over her arm. She looked at
Emma and smiled—a smile that chilled Emma to the bones.

“Feeling a little sleepy, are you?”

Emma opened her mouth but the words wouldn’t form.

“I’ve drugged your tea, and your aunt’s as well. I saved Constance’s pain pills when
we cleaned out her house after she died. Thought they might come in handy someday.
It was easy enough to grind them up. I added them to the tea after I’d poured my own
glass.”

“Why?” Emma managed to mumble, although her tongue felt as thick as one of the porterhouse
steaks in the window of the Meat Mart.

“I was at Sunny Days for a board meeting, and I noticed your car there. Missy Fanning
told me you were taking around the book cart. I checked each of the floors until I
found you up on four talking to Rosalind Newell. I knew then that you were going to
learn the whole story.” She fiddled with the clasp on her handbag. “I imagined you
would tell your aunt the news as soon as possible. Maybe you’d already called her
from your car. I couldn’t take any chances.”

“So what are you going to—”

“What am I going to do?” Marjorie gave that chilling smile again. “There’s a pan of
oil sitting on a burner on
Arabella’s stove. It will look as if she was about to fry some chicken and got distracted.”
Marjorie glanced at her watch. “In ten or fifteen minutes the oil will begin to smoke,
then it will catch fire. The fire will spread and…” She shrugged her shoulders. “I
don’t think I have to fill in the details for you, do I?”