When Secrets Die (20 page)

“Don't get up, Emma. I have it on good authority that you're sick.”

She did look sick. Pale and exhausted, but whether it was illness or general stress was hard to tell.

“Don't be silly, I'm fine. I just put on a pot of coffee, it should be ready. Let me get you a cup.”

I sat in a blond cherry rocking chair right across from her, and she pulled her feet out from under the dog, who had barked once when I came through the door, but now just wagged a tail.

I got back up just for a second to pet the dog, who grinned widely and licked the back of my wrist, then began to snuffle my hand more closely.

I pulled away and sat back down. “She smells my cat.”

I wondered why people always feel the need to explain what animals find interesting. Maynard would inspect me closely over this dog smell when I got home, and if Joel was there, I'd probably explain the dog smell to him. If he wasn't there, I would no doubt explain it to Maynard himself, who would already know.

“Everybody want coffee?” Amaryllis said, and headed without permission back to what I presumed was the kitchen.

Emma was already on her feet. “No, Amaryllis, I'll get it.”

But she was ignored, and she shrugged and rolled her eyes and sat back down.

“You okay over there?” I asked.

She waved a hand. “No biggie. Just sick last night, and it always wipes me out the next day. I don't know what it is. I think I have an ulcer or something.”

She looked like she had an ulcer or something.

She smoothed the loose white shirt over her jeans. She had no makeup on, and her hair was pinned on top of her head with some kind of comb. She was barefooted, and her toenails were painted a sort of khaki beige, an interesting color, and she wore a silver toe ring. I liked the way it looked. It made me want to go out and get a toe ring of my own. I was always last to get in on these sorts of trends.

“Where's the cream?” Amaryllis said, her voice high-pitched, and raised to be heard all over the house. There was a loud sound of cabinets slamming.

Emma grimaced, and I got the feeling she did not like the other woman wandering through her kitchen.

“Excuse me,” she said, and headed toward the noises.

I looked at the dog, who looked back at me.

Amaryllis appeared back in the living room, looking a bit startled to see me in the rocking chair, which let me know that was where she had been sitting. She turned to glare at the dog.

“Down.”

The dog panted but smiled at her; definitely friendly.

“Down.”
Amaryllis Burton shrugged and looked back at me. “If one is going to keep pets, they should be disciplined, don't you think?”

I wondered if she was asking me. I decided not to have an opinion. She coughed a little, so I put the cigarillo out in an ashtray that was thick with ashes and two cigar butts. I wondered who'd been smoking with Emma.

Amaryllis sat on the edge of the couch not occupied by the dog, which I found odd, since there was a chair free. I committed the social breach of staring at Amaryllis Burton, since she was staring at me. It felt a little childish, and I could hear myself explaining,
But she did it first
.

She had an oddly self-aware quality, and faint little baby-blond hair that was long and wispy around her square and solid face. There was a thickness about her that had nothing to do with the extra forty pounds she carried.

Note to self, Lena. You are really a bitch
.

Her eyes were ever so slightly crossed, either from a physical deformity or a personal habit of self-focus. Her nose seemed prone to run; no doubt she had allergies. She wore a beige ribbed sweater, short-sleeved and stretched just a bit shapeless, as if it were a personal favorite she wore more than she ought. It gave her a sort of bland look, a fashion statement that said “vanilla yogurt,” fat-free with aspartame and lots of nasty unnatural toxic additives.

Her hair was long, and she wore it in a thick braid that hung to her waist, and she had bangs neatly cut across her forehead. I tend not to trust women with bangs.

Her arms were covered in fine blond hair and there was a large mole on her left elbow. Much bigger than the ones on her neck and face.

“So you're the detective,” she said, squinting her eyes and letting her voice go ever so baby soft.

I was only vaguely aware that there was music playing, turned way down. It sounded like Etta James, but it was hard to tell, because the volume was so low.

I could not put my finger on exactly what it was about Amaryllis Burton that irritated me so much, but the look she gave me, the smile suspiciously sweet, said she sensed my animosity and returned it in full. I got the sudden impression that she was jealous—that Emma Marsden was
her
friend and
her
personal project, and I was poaching on claimed territory.

This sort of person annoys the ever-living shit out of me.

“Has Emma told you everything? Because someone like you, someone who has never had a child to love or given birth, you can't really come along and understand, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” I said. “I don't know what you mean.”

My answer puzzled her.

Emma walked in holding a bright, hand-painted tray that read “SALSA!” and made me think she threw fun parties. There were coffee cups on the tray, and a little pewter pitcher with cream, and a sugar bowl, red enamel.

“Well, this is very fancy,” Amaryllis said. I couldn't tell from her tone of voice whether or not she approved.

I took the coffee and loaded it down with cream, grateful that it wasn't the powdered stuff that I hate. Amaryllis took a cup and gave her shark smile.

“Usually I drink tea. No, no sugar, I don't take refined sugar, so bad for you.”

“Smoke?” I asked, opening my little packet of Al Capone rum-dipped slims.

Her eyes went wide. “I have allergies,” she told me.

“No doubt,” I said, but I did put the cigarillos away.

I saw that Emma was trying not to grin. She set the tray down on an antique table that looked like it cost thousands, though she was as casual about it as most people were about plastic. If she thought it odd that Amaryllis was perched uneasily in her place by the dog, she didn't show it. She was gracious in a way that reminded me of my older sister, who used to entertain in her modest little starter home as if she was in one of the drawing rooms of the Biltmore. Like my sister, Emma had the knack of making people feel at home and genuinely welcome. If she served beer in bottles, nobody would mind, whereas if I did it, my ex-husband made comments.

Emma sat down in a ladder-backed chair with an embroidered cushion that looked scuffed and worn enough to be an actual antique. Wally immediately jumped down from the couch and settled at her feet, jogging Amaryllis's arm with her tail and sloshing coffee into the woman's lap.

“Well, really now, Wally,” Amaryllis said, with a small hostile laugh.

Emma handed her a napkin. “Sorry, Amaryllis. She's a very bad dog.”

“She's not so bad,” Amaryllis said, then glanced over at me, as if she had suddenly remembered her earlier comments on badly disciplined pets.

I decided not to smile or be friendly. This woman and I were already off on the wrong foot anyway.

Amaryllis looked sadly at Emma. “I've been trying to explain to the lady detective here what it's like to lose a child.”

Emma frowned. “I'm sorry, I should have introduced you. Lena, this is Amaryllis Burton, from the clinic. Amaryllis, this is Lena Padget. Like I told you on the phone, Lena asked if you could talk to us a little about the clinic, and the staff, just so we get an idea what we're up against.”

“I appreciate your time,” I said.

Amaryllis Burton put her coffee cup on the floor, still full of coffee, and placed her hands in her lap. “It's okay. I worked a double shift yesterday, just so I could take some time today.”

I raised an eyebrow. We were meeting at three o'clock on her suggestion, as I understood it, but maybe Emma had set the time.

“Amaryllis, I'm sorry,” Emma said. “We could have met after work. I didn't even think.”

“Oh, no, that's okay. I want to help, Emma.” Amaryllis looked across at me. “When you've been through the kind of things that Emma and I have been through, well … you learn how important it is to be a good friend.” She looked over at Emma and smiled. “Sometimes it's the only way to survive. There's nothing I wouldn't do for Emma.”

It was odd, watching this exchange. Emma just smiled, grateful and a little uncomfortable, and seemed to be totally oblivious to the notion I had that Amaryllis Burton disliked her with studied intensity. Which didn't make sense, on the surface, but on the other hand, maybe Amaryllis was loyal to Dr. Tundridge and had something of an agenda.

“You worked a double shift yesterday?” I said. Because I hadn't seen her at the clinic, and I wondered what hours she'd worked.

“Seven to seven. Makes for a long day. I usually do ten to three.”

“I see.” I hadn't noticed her. Maybe she was tucked away in a back office. “What exactly do you do, there at the clinic?”

“Me?” She pressed a hand to her bosom.

“She does just about everything,” Emma said. “Answers the phones, puts together the gift baskets, counsels patients—”

“I'm an LPN,” Amaryllis Burton said stiffly.

“I didn't know that,” Emma said. “I didn't realize you were part of the nursing staff.”

“I got away from the clinical side of nursing when I had my son,” Amaryllis said. She looked at me. “I had had miscarriages. So when my son was born, I knew just how precious he was, and I didn't want to work then. I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. I suppose you think that's boring.”

I didn't answer, and she didn't notice.

“My son died of liver disease, just like Emma's little Ned. Dr. Tundridge treated him. It just devastated me … well, it's nothing someone like you could understand. But this sort of thing, this kind of deep, deep tragedy, it changes a woman. A mother. And I wanted … I just went into a deep, deep decline—”

I blinked, but stayed quiet, wondering if she'd actually said “decline.” Kind of like the old southern relatives of mine who “took to their beds.”

“It took me a long time to come out of it. A long time.” She closed her eyes, and we observed a moment of silence. “But then, slowly, very slowly, I started to get back into things. I knew I would never be the same again, that there would always be a … a shadow. You should have known me then. Before the tragedy. I was such a happy person. Always laughing, always kind of singing, and doing creative things. But after my son died, and I came out of those dark, dark days—it's something I can't really describe to someone like you.”

I literally bit my tongue.

“I realized, then, that I have a purpose. I started working at the clinic. Volunteering at first, but then Ted said to tell the accountants to put me on the payroll for heaven's sake, I was doing more work than anybody there. I started up with the gift baskets. I don't know if you're aware, but Ted … Dr. Tundridge, I mean, has a charity clinic for people without health insurance.”

“People like me,” Emma said.

Amaryllis gave her a quick look.

“Just kidding,” Emma said. “But I always get the gift baskets.”

Amaryllis shook a finger at her. “That's because you're one of
my
friends, you know that.”

Emma nodded and looked over at me. “They give them out every couple of months. Amaryllis decorates the baskets, and puts in all kinds of stuff, like homemade jams and jellies and my personal favorite, homemade peanut butter. Cookies sometimes, and those bourbon balls she makes … to die for. I'm surprised you got Dr. Tundridge to go for it.”

“It was a project I took to his wife, actually, Syd. She's great, Emma, have you ever met her?”

“No, I've never seen her.”

Amaryllis looked back over at me, one hand on her knee. “Syd and I have become very close, working on the baskets like we do. She's got four children to look after, and so she usually leaves most of the details to me, but she likes being in on the planning and everything. Sometimes I think she feels a little left out of things, you know, because she's a stay-at-home mom. So doing the baskets is a way for her to be involved, and it's a special thing for our patients, and it's something she can talk about at the staff meetings and parties. Sometimes she calls me just to keep up on what's going on at the clinic, because Ted, you know, when he gets home … I guess he just doesn't want to talk about work. Ted always tells me he likes to leave the office at the office, although he stays on call, which is unusual these days. So many doctors now just leave a message to call nine-one-one.”

“You like working for him?”

She pressed her hands against her thighs and glanced over at Emma, who was watching her. “To tell you the truth, I'm having my doubts, after finding out what happened between him and Emma. I'll be the first person to tell you what a good mother she is. Believe me, I've been a pediatric nurse, and I know the difference. I have known of cases … I can understand where Ted is coming from, but he is so wrong about Emma. I'm hoping we can work something out here, which is why I'm willing to do anything I can, even if it costs me my job. Especially after finding out about what was going on down in the path lab, down in the basement.”

“What do you know about that?” I asked.

“Well, I mean, we all knew about the lab, but most of the time it's locked up, only Dr.… only Ted goes down there. It's mainly for storage, I thought. I had no idea he kept things that were sort of against people's will. It's really pretty horrifying. If that happened to my son. Like it did to Emma. I think I'd have just died on the spot. Emma, I don't know where you get your strength.”