When Secrets Die (31 page)

“She's been gone since the day before yesterday. In the morning,” Franklin said.

“Why did you wait to call me?” It had slipped right out. So much for self-control. I knew from Emma Marsden's face that I had just added another layer of guilt to the weight on her shoulders.

They both started to talk, but Franklin pulled back and let Emma tell it.

“We had a big fight. I was driving her to school because she hates to take the bus. And she jumped out of the car and ran away.”

“What did you fight about?”

“It was stupid, nothing big. I wouldn't let her have one of her friends spend the night, and she just blew up. Got totally hysterical, and I … I pulled to the side of the road so she and I could talk sensibly, and she jumped out of the car and ran away.”

I waited.

Emma looked down at the table. “I pulled over to the side of the road because my little girl was beating me up.”

Marcus took her hand. Emma cried silently and the morning light trickled into the kitchen.

“My daughter has been gone two days. She hasn't called. None of her friends know where she is, or if they do, they won't tell me.” Emma held her arms out.

There were bruises on her arms, finger marks on her skin the blue black of ripe Concord grapes. She lifted her chin so I could see the scratches on her neck that had bled and scabbed over, and the muscle area in her upper arm looked like the sky before a thunderstorm. Blaine had evidently driven her fist in hard, over and over. I noticed Emma winced when she moved.

She wore no makeup, and her face was round and pale, the way your face looks when you have cried yourself out and haven't slept. She was wearing comfort clothes—an old pair of Levi's, quite loose, and a French blue T-shirt that was worn soft but not quite threadbare. Her feet were bundled in clean white socks, thick and soft.

Emma put her arms back down. She seemed to me like a bird that has flown into a window and lies stunned and bewildered on the pavement below. We sat quietly. A breeze ruffled through the open window, making the blinds sway and clack. Emma held a cup of hot coffee in a bright yellow ceramic mug. She did not drink the coffee; she simply held the cup.

None of us spoke of the litany of horrors that can befall an angry and foolish teenage girl out on her own, but the knowledge was heavy around us, like a fog.

Emma hiccuped and then laughed. “I'm sitting here wondering how many calories you burn when you cry.”

Franklin shook his head at us, but Emma and I both laughed, and I grinned at her, because only another woman could possibly understand the thought.

“Emma, you have to make a police report. For your own protection, if nothing else.” The only way to deal with the police was to work within expected parameters. Too many people were arrested because they didn't act like they were supposed to act. And once the police think you're guilty of something, you might as well be. Behavior outside of the norm, like having sex in a car on the anniversary of your son's death, had already gotten Emma in enough trouble.

“I did already; Marcus took me.” Emma squeezed his hand but looked at me. “But won't that get her in trouble? Won't it cause her to have a record?”

“Emma, there are so many kids that run away, your problem will be getting police attention, not fending it off.”

Marcus was nodding. “That's what I told her.”

Emma folded her arms and began rocking gently in her chair. “Do you know what it's like to be talked down to by a little girl with a blond ponytail in a police uniform? To have her tell you that any teenager who beats on her own mother has problems? That if I don't get it under control now, she'll kill me one day? Blaine? This policewoman wasn't even old enough to
have
a child, much less tell me about mine. And you know what? They weren't the least bit worried about Blaine. They were worried about
me
. They took pictures of my bruises. They wanted to know if I wanted to swear out a warrant for her arrest.”

I looked over Emma's head at Marcus Franklin. He was watching me. He shook his head slightly, but I didn't need him to tell me that now wasn't the time to tell Emma Marsden that the little girl in uniform had been right. Franklin, who had no doubt done his share of autopsies in the ebb and flow of family discord, seemed to be walking into the life of Emma and Blaine Marsden with his eyes open. But here he was, right there in the kitchen when Emma needed him. I liked that.

Emma blew her nose on a napkin. Her voice took on the tone of a mother making excuses for her child. “We've had a pretty tough couple of years, you know? You can't explain something like this to someone who doesn't have children.”

My own feeling was that you could. But this time I kept my thoughts to myself.

Emma shoved the napkin into her jeans pocket. “God, I feel weird. Like I'm walking through water on the bottom of the ocean.”

“It's the sedative I gave you,” Marcus said. He glanced over at me. “I've gone over the medical records of Emma's son. I persuaded Dr. Tundridge to share some tissue samples, and I ran some of my own tests, put some skates on the results.”

“Lena, do you want some coffee?” Emma asked.

“That would be great.” I looked over at Franklin. “Go on.”

“There were definitive traces—”

“You take cream, don't you?” Emma asked me.

I stood up. “Emma, excuse us, just for one minute. Dr. Franklin?”

I headed into the living room, and he followed. We stood between the couches.

“Emma is—”

“I get it. Tell me what you know.”

“Ned Marsden was poisoned.”

I caught my breath. “What are you saying? That it was intentional?”

“I don't know that. His system was full of—”

“Put it in layman's terms, Dr. Franklin.”

“Okay. He was chock-full of mold toxins. The kind of toxins you find in nuts or grains. He had to be ingesting them continually. He had too many attacks spaced too far apart for it to be something isolated. Eventually his system weakened, was overloaded, and he died.”

“You said nuts? Does that include peanuts or not?”

“Peanuts are legumes, but yes, the mold could definitely start there.”

“Could it be grown there? On purpose? How hard would it be?”

“It's a problem farmers contend with all the time. And it would be pretty easy to contaminate peanuts.”

“How could you be sure they were contaminated?”

“There are simple tests that measure it. Farmers use them all the time. Their problem is volume—it's financially ruinous to throw out an entire barn full of grain when only a small segment is contaminated. But if you were
intentionally
contaminating a small sample, it would be very doable. But I'm telling you right now that Emma didn't do it.”

I put a hand on his arm. “No, of course she didn't. But I think I may know who did.”

“Peanut butter?”
Emma stood in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee. She looked at me, walked across the room, and handed me the cup. “Could it be in homemade peanut butter?” She looked at Franklin. “Amaryllis Burton gave us homemade peanut butter. Ned loved it, and I gave it to him. It was really good, and he liked it so much I saved it
all
for him. I ate the store-bought stuff. Blaine doesn't like peanut butter. But then, when Ned died, I started eating it. And I've been getting sick.”

Marcus Franklin nudged her to sit on the couch and he sat beside her. “When you say sick, Emma, what were your symptoms?”

“Pain, right here.” She pointed to her midsection. “And violent vomiting. It's like an attack. It lasts about three hours. The pain is incredible, and the vomiting is violent. Like nothing I've ever had before. I get chills—”

“Why didn't you say something?”

Emma looked over at me.

“She couldn't,” I said. “Of course she couldn't. She's been accused of Munchausen's. If she starts coming up with the same symptoms, then they're going to say she's poisoning
herself
now. And if they couldn't find out what was making Ned sick, there's not much chance they're going to figure out what's making Emma sick. Right?”

She nodded. Franklin sat beside her and put his arms around her. “What a nightmare.”

I perched on the arm of the recliner, too antsy to sit. “You got the peanut butter from Amaryllis Burton, right, Emma?”

She nodded. “But we had it tested. It turned out okay.”

I thought of the jars I had found in Amaryllis Burton's desk. Some labeled with a flower sticker. Some not.

“The jar you had tested was okay. That doesn't mean they all were,” I said.

Emma shook her head. “There's no way she could have poisoned it. She wouldn't do something like that. Her own son …”

We were all quiet.

“That's right,” I said. “Her own son. And not her only child to die.”

Emma caught her breath. “She had other children?”

“Yes. As it turns out. Two other children, both died as infants. That's a total of three dead children. I've done background on her, Emma. She's a licensed practical nurse, an LPN, but she does reception work for Tundridge, not nursing. She's worked in the pediatric wards of two hospitals that I know of, and been fired from both. Look, Emma, when I first started working this case, I didn't believe in Munchausen's. But now I'm not so sure. I'm thinking about Amaryllis Burton. It's been my experience that some people accuse other people of what they themselves are doing.”

“But Amaryllis didn't accuse me. She believed in me. She was the only one on my side.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she was here—you met her. She comes over, she's kind, she brings me—”

“Homemade peanut butter. Poisoned homemade peanut butter.”

“Oh my God. I feel like Snow White.”

I looked over at Franklin. “Did Tundridge tell you why he suspected Emma of Munchausen's?”

Franklin shook his head. “We didn't get into it. I wanted him to share tissue samples, and that's tricky territory. I didn't want to say anything to spook him.”

“So the question is, does Amaryllis Burton work for Tundridge? Does he know the children are being poisoned?”

“Not a chance,” Franklin said.

“Why? Because he's a fellow doctor, and you don't want to believe it?”

Franklin frowned. “Maybe. But there's no way he's going to share samples with me if he's guilty.”

He had a point.

I stood up. “Franklin, run some tests on Emma. See what you can find in the way of toxins. Do you have any of that peanut butter left?”

Emma nodded. “Half a jar.”

“I've got two other jars I took from the clinic.”

“How—”

“Don't ask, because there's no way I'll tell you. One thing at a time, folks. Right now I need to find Blaine.”

“I don't understand why she hasn't called me,” Emma said.

Neither did I, but I kept my mouth shut.

“I'm scared for her. And I also want to beat the ever-living crap out of her.”

“Let's get her home first. Listen, Emma, do you have a picture of Blaine that I can have?”

“Sure. In the bedroom.”

“Go get it, will you?” I waited until Emma was out of earshot, then turned to Franklin.

“I know,” he said. “I've got feelers out, in case something bad turns up.”

“What do you think, Dr. Franklin, does Blaine do drugs? Was it that kind of thing? How well do you know Blaine?”

“I've been around her a lot lately. She's a great kid. I think the world of her. I do suspect she smokes pot, and I don't think Emma knows. But it's not like her to disappear and not call her mother. They're close, she and Emma. I've given her my cell and office numbers, and I've told her she can always call me. But we're still new, Emma and I. So I don't know if she'd feel awkward about calling me.”

Emma came in carrying a picture, which she handed me while looking at both me and Franklin. “What's going on?”

“Emma, is there any chance Blaine might have called Clayton?” I asked.

Emma shook her head no. “She didn't call him, I've already talked to him three times.”

“Okay. Tell me exactly where you were when she got out of the car. I need to know what she was wearing and what she had with her. Backpack, purse?”

“She didn't have anything. She left it all. And she was wearing a long skirt and platform shoes.”

“Not planned then. That's good.” Good and bad, I thought. Good she hadn't planned it, bad she hadn't shown up. “Emma, I want you to sit down and come up with a list of Blaine's friends.”

“I've already called all of them.”

“Call them again. Have Dr. Franklin call them. Talk to their parents. Kids hide each other, I've seen it a million times, and some of the parents let it slide. Pound away. Tell them that even if Blaine won't talk to you, you have to know if she's safe. You'll have to use your own judgment about when to get tough and bring up the cops, and when to be soft about it. You got a cell phone, Dr. Franklin?”

“Yes.”

“Write the number down for me, that's how we'll stay in touch. All other lines stay open in case Blaine decides to call.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

I found tire marks at the side of the road where Emma said Blaine had jumped out of the car. The tread was fresh, and it looked like the tires on a Wrangler. Not that I was sure, but sure enough. The ground was still muddy and soft, and I saw little footprints leading into the woods, the kind you would make in platform shoes, which Emma said her daughter had been wearing.

The ground in the woods was dry. I didn't find any strands of hair in any tree branches, but I spent some time roaming around, watching where I walked. I wanted to know if Blaine had ever even come out of the woods and back to the road. Likely, but I wanted to make sure.