Poison to Purge Melancholy (32 page)

“Seek me out?” I echoed, stunned.

“He’d been acquainted with a Mr. Virgil Ivey, the patron of Edward Dunbar, the dance master. And though Mr. Tyler hadn’t been on familiar terms with Mr. Dunbar, he knew that his only son was named John, not Benjamin.”

A half dozen lies came to me, in my defense, but I could not voice one of them to her face. Yet before any word at all could leave my tongue, the common room door opened and there stood Elizabeth, wearing her best shortgown, her hair held up prettily by comb and lace. “Polly—”

“I was about to bank the fire, Mother,” the girl said in haste. “Pardon me, sir?”

I stepped into the hall to make room for her to pass, saying, “I fear I was blocking her progress, madam,” as I bowed low and elegantly, turning my calf as forward as I dared without losing my balance.

Elizabeth read the gesture as I presumed she would, smiling, her daughter forgotten as her eyes met my own. She returned a slow curtsy, so beguiling I could envision her bare knees parting as they bent beneath her skirts. “Your dinner, sir, grows cold.”

When Hugh and I
left Polly’s room, Glad was just calling everyone in to the last course.

The dining room seemed dimmer this time, with an odd sideways glow emanating from the kitchen. The regular lights in that room were off, and I saw an orange extension cord snaking its way out of the dining room and through the pantry. The sideboard lamp had been moved, I surmised.

“What happened to the kitchen lights?” Miss Maggie asked.

“I’m down to four fuses,” Evelyn explained, “so I’m saving them in case the stove or refrigerator go off again. Sorry, everyone. I’ll have someone from Maintenance in first thing tomorrow. I promise.”

“I don’t like it,” Miss Maggie muttered at my side, sending me a silent, worried question with her eyebrows.

I shrugged, though I was certain that prolific blowing of fuses was yet another phantom warning. I did a fast headcount, relieved to find everyone present, until I realized we were sitting down with thirteen once more. I shook off the tingles on my neck hair, reminding myself how Montellas tend to see omens in everything. Self-spooking was in my blood.

“Quickly”—Glad waved us to our seats—“before the ices melt.” The “ices” were in the center of the table on a double-tiered silver tray. Ten small glass bowls each cradled a scoop of red or green sherbet garnished with a cherry and a mint leaf.

Circling this centerpiece, glittering in the candlelight, were parfait glasses, each layered in three shades of either yellow, orange, or red. Saucers of candied fruit, chocolates, and mints made an outer diamond. The table ends were anchored by sugar cookies and more ratafia, chocolate brown this time.

Even the card table sported a mini-arrangement of two parfaits, three sherbets, fruits, and mints. Over on the sideboard, the coffeemaker had been set up, along with an electric percolator, and a large ceramic teapot.

Delia claimed a place at the smaller table before Horse had a chance, telling him, “You sit with Magnolia. She prefers single men as dinner companions.” Everyone laughed, to gloss over the tension. Delia’s tone implied that if she sat next to her husband, she’d lose her appetite. Rich didn’t meet her gaze.

“I apologize,” Glad announced, “that we don’t have enough syllabubs.” She gestured to the parfaits. “We thought we’d have eleven for dinner, you see, and—”

“We hadn’t more than twelve tall glasses, at any rate,” Evelyn added.

Rich cleared his throat. “I was unexpected.” He threw the barest glimpse over his shoulder at the card table, implying that his wife was to blame. “So I won’t take one.”

“Neither will I,” Delia said, not to be outdone.

“No need, Delia. Sachi and I can share,” Acey volunteered, wanting to annoy Rich.

“Thanks, but I shouldn’t have more alcohol anyway, since I never got a chance to eat dinner.” She glared at her husband’s back, indicating this was his fault.

“I’ve made some without wine,” Evelyn said. “The red ones have port in them, and the yellow are mead, but the orange ones are made with sweet cider.”

We settled into passing and munching as Evelyn and Glad poured coffee and tea. I opted for a cider syllabub, thinking to keep my head clear. At some point I had to bring up the subject of Dr. Weisel’s poisoning. Not great dinner conversation, and the cook in me couldn’t ruin a meal. I assured myself that, while everyone was seated around the table, nothing else could happen.

I tasted the top layer of my syllabub—whipped cream flavored with cider and cinnamon and way too much sugar for my taste. Ditto the liquid cider layer beneath. The third layer was more sugar that had sunk to the bottom. Probably the wine versions were better, but remembering yesterday’s black caps, also covered in sugar, I revised my image of America’s founding fathers to include diabetes and bad teeth.

As the word “teeth” entered my head, Miss Maggie let out an exclamation. The candlelight enhanced her expression of shocked, puzzled surprise as she ran her tongue over her lower incisors. Her eyes met mine, cognizance dawned, and she shifted in her seat, closer to Horse. Then she nodded to herself, grinning with delight, as if she’d proven a theory of quantum physics.

“Magnolia?” Horse ventured, voicing the concern of everyone in the room.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She smiled her assurance to all. “A problem with my bottom plate. One of the curses of getting old, you know, having teeth that chew on a delayed schedule.”

I could believe this if I were sitting across the table from my Great-Uncle Rocco, whose upper partial regularly fell out during family dinners. Of course, he used to carry around a bag of potato chips, swearing that gnawing on them worked better than Super Polygrip. But Magnolia Shelby? I’d lived with her two months before I realized she no longer had her own chompers.

“This reminds me,” Miss Maggie said, “of something I wanted to ask when we were talking about lead and mercury poisoning earlier. Is loose teeth one of the symptoms?”

Now I understood. When she moved closer to Horse, I was willing to bet she’d bumped her leg up against his, which made whatever sensation she’d felt in her mouth—loose teeth presumably—go away.

“In advanced cases,” Rich replied. “Your friend’s symptoms—had they progressed that far?”

“Oh, no. This was another case I recalled. Just wondered.” Miss Maggie beamed at me. She’d felt a symptom of an eighteenth-century poisoning victim and she couldn’t be more thrilled.

I, on the other hand, felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. Sure, like I told Hugh, when the symptoms hit me, I thought of them as memories, incapable of any real harm, other than possibly making me hurl in front of my future in-laws. With Miss Maggie, I couldn’t take chances. She was ninety-one, after all, and frailer than she’d ever admit. And experiencing
advanced
symptoms.

Fright governing my motor responses, I stood, the linen napkin on my lap falling to the hardwood floor. “I . . . I need to . . .” All eyes were on me, and I didn’t have a clue what to say. Start at the beginning, I told myself. “Last night, between dinner courses, I noticed Dr. Weisel. He looked like he had
agita—
that is, indigestion.”

Eloquence isn’t a skill I list on my resumé, but I took a deep breath and plunged on. “He went upstairs. When he came down, he had white goo on his nose, right where the top brim of a bottle would touch if he’d taken a swig of liquid antacid.”

“That explains the antacid found in his digestive tract,” Rich said impatiently. “So?”

“I think it also explains the protrip . . . protript . . .”

“Protriptyline,” all the doctors said in unison.

“Right, protriptyline,” I echoed, committing the word to my tongue muscles. “The drug was in the antacid. Specifically, in Horse’s Mylanta.”

“Mine?” Horse, with a mouthful of lime sherbet, voiced the question out of clenched lips, along with green drool.

“When was the last time you took a dose?” I asked him.

He swallowed his food. “A week ago tonight. Delia brought out this awesome mocha fudge cake when we all arrived at the shore house last Friday. Gave me heartburn for three hours, but it was worth it.”

I turned to Foot. “Did
you
eat any?”

He shook his head. “Too much caffeine. Besides, I can’t trust store-bought foods, not with my diet restrictions.”

“I had some,” Acey volunteered, “but I always take an
L. reuteri
supplement before I eat—it’s a probiotic that aids in the digestion of carbs and lactose. So I suffered no ill effects—”

“Neither did I,” Rich cut in, “and without benefit of Acey’s snake oil and voodoo. Simply a matter of eating slowly and in moderation, and—”

“And not hogging down three helpings like Horse,” Acey concluded.

“I only had two and a half,” Horse protested.

“Pat’s point is,” Hugh said loudly, “that the protriptyline pills must have been crushed and added to Horse’s antacid between when he took it last Friday and when Weisel took it yesterday.”

Horse shook his head. “The bottle’s been packed in my bag, in my apartment all week. If it happened last weekend, one of my siblings—Delia included—would be the guilty party, which I don’t believe. Not even Acey’s practical jokes are
that
nasty.”

“So you’re saying it happened here?” Hugh asked his brother. “Because if you eliminate family, only Miss Maggie, Evelyn, and Pat were here last night.”

“Wait, I feel a deduction coming on.” Acey stroked her chin with a look of pseudo-wisdom. “Pat knew Kevin before she met him here. Why would she want to poison him? Because he’s her GYN, of course. That’s reason enough. Heck, with a female judge, she’d get off scot-free.”

Horse was giving me a LAG once-over, no doubt remembering that the birth control pills gave me a dandy motive.

“Nonsense.” Glad put the coffeepot back in the maker. “Where would Pat or Magnolia or Ev get hold of a drug like that?”

“Ma’s right.” Acey had a rare frown on her lips. “Only a few of us in this room can write prescriptions.”

“Sachi works in a drugstore,” Horse mused.

Acey threw a mint at him. “She wasn’t here last night, lobotomy-brain.”

Glad sat down as Evelyn held her seat for her. “Good thing Williamsburg’s apothecary doesn’t stock antidepressants or you’d all be blaming Ev—”

Suddenly one of the electric candles in the front windows went out. Everyone jumped, but at least they shut up.

“The bulb must have died,” Evelyn said, standing. “I’ll fetch another—”

Glad touched his arm. “Get it later. We can eat by candlelight. Let’s hear what Pat has to say first.”

Evelyn resumed his seat. Glad nodded encouragement at me.

So, ignoring the slightly darker room, I turned to Foot. “Did you take any antacid last weekend?”

“Saturday night at bedtime and again Sunday, after lunch.”

“Horse took his dose Friday night, and you had your first one about twenty-four hours later.” I swung around to face the card table. “That means Acey probably switched the bottles during the day Saturday.”

Her eyes opened wide, then she slapped the table. “Busted. Wow. You’re better at this detective stuff than Scooby Doo.”

“You switched them?” Foot wrinkled up his nose. “I’ve been taking Horse’s antacid all week? After he drank out of the bottle. Oh, gross.” He sounded just like his niece.

Acey roared with laughter. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you and get that reaction. Serves you right for picking on me all last Saturday. And if you insist on using the same brand as Horse, well, then—”

“His bottle’s always so disgusting!” Foot looked like he might lose his dinner any moment.

“I cleaned it,” Acey explained, “including removing the hair he’d left in the cap. You never would have taken it then. See Horse? I told you I didn’t put anything
in
your bot—”

The other electric candle went out. We all stared at it a moment, as if that would make it come back on.

Evelyn shrugged in apology. “The bulbs were put in at the same time.” As if that explained anything.

I was wondering if a certain ghost had found a new hobby that was more fun than blowing fuses.

Glad cleared her throat, attracting everyone’s attention, including my own. “What you’re saying, Pat, is that the drug was in Francis’s antacid when Ann Carter switched bottles.”

I nodded. “I think it was meant for Foot, because of the medication he takes. He’d more likely have a fatal reaction to the protriptyline.”

“Ha! My bottle switching saved your damned life,” Acey told Foot. “What do you think of that?”

“I think you should shut up so I can listen to Pat,” her brother snapped.

Abruptly, I had everyone’s rapt attention. The room grew so silent, I could hear the candlewicks hissing as they burned. Problem was, the silence enhanced the eeriness of the shadows.

I hurried on. “The protriptyline
could
have been introduced last weekend, but who would have done it? Acey wouldn’t have switched bottles if she had. If Horse did it, then put the hair in his bottlecap to guard against mix-ups, the first thing he’d do when he saw the hair missing would be check the bottle contents. Oh, he might bring the bottle with him this weekend, to effect another switch, but he wouldn’t put his out on the bathroom windowsill. Too dangerous.”