Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 (15 page)

When Betsy carried the big plant, wrapped again in its green paper, to the front door of the elderly boarding house where Irene lived, she was waiting in the parlor. Betsy, looking through the half-glassed front door, could also see four other roomers sitting on the two couches and three easy chairs that filled the room. But they all waited while the owner, a very old woman, answered the door.

“Why, Betsy Devonshire, how nice of you to come in person!” she said in her creaky voice. “Do come in! Irene, you have a caller, and look, she's brought you something!” This was said in a patently false voice. Obviously, Irene had told everyone about her gift.

So Betsy made a little ceremony of it, putting it on an end table and carefully unwrapping it. She said, “Irene is such a talented needlepointer that her work is an advertisement for us. I thought it would be nice to reward her loyalty and applaud her talent, so I am bringing her this little gift.”

As the “little gift” was unwrapped, it spread like a red and green avalanche. The man sitting on the end of the couch beside the table had to scoot over to keep it from draping across his lap.

“Oh, my, that is just
gorgeous!”
said the landlady. “I've never seen one so large or beautiful! I just hope Irene will let it stay down here at least for tonight, so we all can enjoy it.”

“Yes, of course,” said Irene, and it was a pleasure watching her be magnanimous. Her cheeks were pink and her little dark eyes glowed as she raked in the smiles. She said to Betsy, “Will you come up to my room for a bit? There's something I want to tell you.”

“Of course.”

Irene's room was about what Betsy expected: small and inexpensively furnished. Except for the Dazor light, of course, and the magnificent needlepoint cover on the bed. Every possible surface was covered with needlepoint or with needlepoint supplies, but there was a ruthless order to everything and not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere.

Irene sat on the bed and Betsy took the only chair, which had a petit point cushion.

“I hear someone cut the brake line on your car,” said Irene.

“Yes,” nodded Betsy. Unlike most native plants, the Excelsior grapevine did not go dormant in winter.

“Have you thought that it might have something to do with that tapestry they found in Trinity?”

“How could an old tapestry make somebody want to commit murder?”

“Well, I've always said it was suspicious how Lucy Abrams died on the same day her husband had that stroke,” said Irene. Which was probably untrue, as Betsy had never heard anything of the sort from her, or anyone else, either. “And then this tapestry, which she was working on just before she died, got put right out of sight. Now it turns up, and someone tries to murder you. I think there's a connection.”

“But I'm not the one who found it,” protested Betsy.

Irene leaned forward, eyes shining. “No, but you're the one with a talent for discovering murderers, aren't you?”

G
odwin expected to find Betsy already in the shop when he arrived the next day, Friday, at about ten minutes to ten. But he had to unlock the door and turn the lights on himself. Shelly arrived a few minutes later and, seeing Betsy was not there, said, “She's probably still in bed. I thought she was pushing it, staying till five yesterday.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Godwin. “Still, she didn't look tired when she left for Irene's place. I was hoping to get the morning off. I've got some errands to run. If I have to stay all day, I can't work this evening. Two eleven-hour days in a row is too much.”

“Well, I'll see who's willing to work this evening,” said Shelly, going to the big desk that served as a checkout counter. “Where's the list?”

“Top drawer on the left. Do you have the opening-up money?”

“I thought Betsy gave it to you.”

“She must have taken it upstairs. Maybe we should call her.”

“Okay, after I get someone to work this evening. Or would you rather have this afternoon off, and come back this evening?”

Godwin shrugged. “Stores are less crowded during the day, but it would be hard to come back here once I get into full shopping mode. On the other hand, fighting crowds after an eight-hour day isn't fun, either. Since either choice is vile, get who you can when you can.”

Shelly was still talking to the first part-timer when Sophie came trotting out from between the box shelves that marked off an area in the back of the shop. “Wait a second, I think Betsy's here,” said Shelly.

And she was. She paused in the opening, blinking blearily and looking truly ill.

“Oh, my God, what happened to you?” exclaimed Shelly. “ 'Scuse me, I'll call you back,” she said and hung up.

Godwin hurried to take Betsy by the arm. “Here, sit down.” He led her back between the shelves to a pair of little upholstered chairs on either side of a small table.

Betsy sank gratefully into a chair. Her hair was sketchily combed, her clothing was an old pair of jeans, a faded cotton sweater, and bedroom slippers. Her complexion was pale, except under her eyes, where it was dark gray.

Godwin said, “If you feel as bad as you look, you shouldn't be down here.”

“I
told
Godwin it was too soon for you to come back to work!” said Shelly, coming to look with concern at Betsy. “You obviously wore yourself out yesterday.”

“No, I was still feeling pretty good right up to when I went to bed last night,” said Betsy. “But I woke up sick in the middle of the night, and I've been getting sicker and sicker. I'm so sick now I'm scared to be up there alone.”

Godwin said, “Then we're glad you came down. What do you think, Shelly, a delayed reaction to frostbite or whatever she got from spending the night in the cold? Or maybe to the drugs they gave her at the hospital?”

Betsy said, “No, I think it's something I ate.” As if saying that reminded her, she rose and made a wobbly dash for the bathroom in the storage room. When she came back, she looked, if that were possible, even worse.

“I'm calling your doctor,” declared Shelly, starting for the phone. Then she stopped and turned back. “Who is he?”

Betsy sighed. “Melody McQueen. Isn't that the silliest name? I've only seen her once, but I like her. Well, maybe twice; I think she came to the hospital. Don't call her. I'm too sick to go to the doctor's office. Do doctors in Minnesota make house calls?”

Godwin said, “I don't think so. Call her anyway, Shelly. Her phone number's on the Rolodex.” He felt Betsy's forehead, which was cool and clammy. “If this is food poisoning, it's the worst case I've ever seen. What was it you ate?”

“Cashew chicken salad with red grapes, my favorite. There were two cartons of it in the refrigerator, they came with the hot dishes. I don't see how it could have gone bad so quickly. I came back from taking that poinsettia to Irene—you should have seen her, Godwin, she was so
proud
that we gave her a gift, it nearly made me cry. And you know, she said the oddest thing—” Betsy got a sudden, inward look, and leaned forward a little. “Cramps,” she muttered. “There's nothing left in there, but my body still keeps trying to shove it out.”

Godwin reached for her hand. It was alarmingly cold. He chaffed it gently between his own for a bit. “Have you got her doctor yet?” he called to Shelly.

“I'm on hold for her,” replied Shelly.

“Change places with me, I want to talk to her,” said Godwin.

Shelly came to sit with Betsy. “Have you had food poisoning before?” she asked.

“Yes, years and years ago. I think it was fish that time, not ch-chicken salad ...” She fell silent, swallowing ominously.

Godwin called, “Betsy, Dr. McQueen wants to talk to you!”

Shelly helped her to the phone.

“Yes?” said Betsy. Between pauses of various lengths, she continued, “Yes. About ten last night. Yes. No. No. Do you really think—yes, all right. Yes, I will.” Betsy hung up. “Since I can't keep even fluids down, she says I should go back to the hospital.”

“I'll drive you,” said Shelly.

“All right. But first go up to my apartment and get both cartons of that salad. She wants to see what kind of bug it has.” Betsy reached into the desk drawer, got the spare key to her apartment, handed it to Shelly. “Bring my purse, too, will you? They're going to ask for that darn medical insurance number.”

“That wonderful medical insurance number,” corrected Godwin firmly. “I'm glad you listened to me when I told you not to cancel your medical insurance.”

As Godwin was helping Betsy up and into Shelly's big purple SUV, she stopped and said over her shoulder, “Call Jill when you think she's up, will you, Goddy? Tell her I want to talk to her.”

 

Jill joined Betsy in the emergency room an hour later, where she was still waiting for treatment.

“There's two heart attacks and a hand shredded by a snow blower ahead of me,” said Betsy. “They say this is the usual result of a bad snowstorm.”

The waiting room was large but dimly lit, with four television sets hanging down from the ceiling, all tuned to the same soap opera. The dozen people in the room bent under the sound as if being beaten.

Jill sat down on the chrome and plastic chair beside Betsy. “What do you think you've got?” she asked.

Betsy pointed to the paper bag between her feet. “I came home around ten last night and I hadn't had any supper, so I ate some of this chicken salad, and I woke up a little after midnight, very sick.” She hesitated, then asked, “Can you, as a police officer, order them to test this salad for poison?”

Jill blinked and replied, “What kind of poison?”

“The kind that makes you lose everything you've eaten since the Fourth of July, makes your inside hurt like you've got ulcers, makes your fingers and toes tingle, and gives you a headache and chills.”

“Sounds like bad mayonnaise to me,” said Jill.

Betsy nodded. “It probably is. But Vern Miller says my brakes failed Monday night because someone deliberately cut the brake line.”

Jill searched Betsy's eyes. “Does Mike Malloy know about this?” she asked.

“Yes. He checked it out and says it does look as if the line was cut. I told him I haven't made anyone mad at me lately, so it was probably somebody after someone else's car. But I don't think someone mistook my refrigerator for someone else's.”

Jill touched Betsy on the arm. “You stay right here.” She went back to the treatment area and used the authority of her badge to get Betsy seen right away. Then, because she could not require a test for poison on her own authority, she took the paper sack to a phone and called Malloy.

“If I hadn't seen that brake line with my own eyes, I wouldn't do this, you know,” he said.

“I know. But she's really, really sick, Mike, bad enough that they're going to admit her. Besides, her doctor's having the food tested anyway, for botulism or
E. coli
or whatever.”

“What kind of poison is it supposed to be?”

“She doesn't know. You're the detective, what kind of poison appears to be serious food poisoning?”

“I'll call someone at the toxicology lab.”

Jill thanked him and hung up, then went to see how Betsy was doing. They'd started an IV line—she was seriously dehydrated—and were going to admit her under a preliminary diagnosis of food poisoning. Under the white sheet on the narrow gurney, Betsy in fact looked very sick. But as they wheeled her away, Jill heard her joke to the nurse's aide, “Can I have my old room back?” Which Jill considered to be a good sign.

 

It was toward evening when Dr. McQueen came into Betsy's room. She was a Viking princess, nearly six feet tall with very pale blond hair pulled back into a French twist and a cool, assured manner. She was wearing a pale blue jumper over a thin white wool sweater. With her was a nurse carrying a little tray with a green cloth over it. “We'll be treating you for arsenic poisoning,” said Dr. McQueen.

“Arsenic—Is that what it is?”

“Yes, and I congratulate you for recognizing the symptoms all by yourself. One of the two samples given the toxicology lab contained arsenic, and your urine sample also was positive.”

“Could it be accidental? I mean, I remember reading there's some kind of poison in nuts.”

Dr. McQueen replied, “Cyanide occurs naturally in peach pits and almonds. But you'd need to eat a bushel of almonds at one sitting to get sick. And in your case, the poison is arsenic, which is a mineral—an element, actually, almost but not quite a metal.” Dr. McQueen gestured at the nurse, who uncovered her tray and picked up a hypodermic that looked suitable for an elephant.

“If you will roll over, please,” said the nurse.

“Are—um, I mean, that's a really big needle,” said Betsy.

“The dose is large,” admitted Dr. McQueen, “and this is only the first in a series. Plus we have to go deep so you don't get site abscesses. The nurse will stay with you for a while after the injection, because there can be other reactions to Dimercaprol.”

“Like what?” asked Betsy, allowing herself to be rolled onto her side. “Ow, ow, ow!” she added.

“You may feel a burning sensation in your mouth and throat or experience muscle cramps, tingling extremities, tightness in the chest, or nausea. You'll probably get a headache fairly quickly and may feel a little dopey.”

“I already feel most of that,” said Betsy, rolling back over gingerly.

Dr. McQueen took Betsy's pulse, and the nurse sat down on a chair beside Betsy's bed.