Deader Homes and Gardens Part 6

"How about the house? Did you speak with your lawyer this morning?"

Terry tasted his lemonade, grimaced, and added another shot of vodka. "That was my plan when I drove into Farberville this morning. Well, I also wanted to get a copy of the New York Times from that little news store on Thurber Street, and maybe some fresh bagels. I was stricken to discover that the bakery next to the pool hall had gone out of business. Roberta and Juniper were veritable artistes in the culinary world. Did you ever try their cream puffs filled with caramel mousse? To die for."

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Did you make it to your lawyer's office?" If he hadn't, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from making a suggestion about what he could do with the cream puffs. It would not be to die for.

"I did," he said. He took a drink of the much diluted lemonade. "Her name's Link Cranberry. Isn't that cla.s.sic? She must have suffered in the schoolyard. 'Cranberry, strawberry, gooseberry pie, here comes Link with a tear in her eye.'" He noticed that I wasn't appreciating his drollness. "She said that I shouldn't sell the house until the Hollows' lawsuit is finalized. I can, however, lease it with the stipulation that the lease might be terminated."

"What did she say about the probable outcome of the lawsuit?"

"It's baseless, but the chancery judge is a die-hard conservative. If he's antigay, he may side with the Hollows out of spite. They'll all swear that Winston was not of sound mind, and that I forced him to sign the deed. Our friends will all swear that Winston was perfectly sane at the time. Who's he going to believe-a family that's been here since the nineteenth century or a bunch of f.a.ggots? The fact that Winston and I were legally married may annoy the judge all the more."

I had a feeling that his dire prediction might be right. The presence of Farber College added an element of liberal ambience, but it was only a teaspoon of water in a dark sea of social conservatism. "Green" was not an ecological movement; it was the color of money. "So Ms. Cranberry is not optimistic?"

Terry smiled. "I have unlimited financial resources to fight them, and for Winston's sake, I will. He wanted me to have the house if something happened to him. Murder may not have crossed his mind, but it should have." He drained his drink. "d.a.m.n, I forgot to pick up tonic water this morning. My official summer drink is vodka and tonic, with a squeeze of lime juice."

"I'll bring you a case of tonic water and dozens of limes after I've signed the lease," I said. "We agree to the stipulation. Do you have a pen?"

"Ms. Cranberry has to be in court this afternoon, but she'll draw it up first thing Monday morning. I can drop by your house and-" He broke off abruptly and put both hands on the edge of the island. "Something's wrong. I think I'm going to-" He concluded the sentence by vomiting on his hands. He tried to straighten up, but his arms began to twitch spasmodically. He vomited again.

With all due respect to Florence Nightingale, I have an aversion to sickness. I went to the sink and dampened a dish towel. "Here," I said as I averted my eyes. Had it been possible, I would have averted my nose as well.

Terry waved me back as he continued to retch. He lost his grip and slithered to the floor, moaning piteously. "I need help," he rasped.

I'd left my cell phone in my car. "Be right back," I said, then ran out the front door. I called nine-one-one, did my best to describe his symptoms, and gave directions.

"Is he on any medications?" the dispatcher asked.

"I have no idea! Just send an ambulance!"

"Does the victim have insurance? I'll need the name of the provider and the number of his policy."

My response was less than polite. Clutching the phone, I hurried back inside and crouched next to Terry. "An ambulance is on the way. Do you want some water?" I felt as useful as a flat tire on a rainy night. He was doubled up in a tight ball, his legs speckled with vomited debris. His moans were protracted. I put my hand on his back to keep him from banging his head on the low cabinet. I glanced up and saw Inez and Jordan in the doorway that led from the terrace. Their faces were white, their mouths open. Behind them, Moses's face hovered like an unsightly helium balloon.

"I've called for an ambulance," I said firmly, as if I were in control of some minor complication. "You'd better wait outside. Everything's going to be okay."

I didn't fool anyone, including myself.

6.

Paramedics stormed the house and surrounded Terry, who was alarmingly still. They were followed by a pair of uniformed policemen. Neither of the paramedics fell into Jordan's category of "hunk," but they were efficient and fast. I stood and watched as Terry was put on a gurney and taken to the ambulance parked outside. I followed to ask about Terry's diagnosis, but a police officer, who appeared to be Caron's age, stopped me in the entry hall.

"I need information about the patient, ma'am," he said.

All I could give him was Terry's last name and hometown. I described what had happened before the gastric attack. The officer eyed the vodka bottle on the floor. "So you both were drinking," he said as if accusing us of rampant alcoholism, "while the girls were in the vicinity of the swimming pool. Did you plan to drive home in your condition?"

"I can handle lemonade on the rocks," I said, "and the girls are hardly toddlers. You might want to take a sample of the vodka."

"Name and address, ma'am?"

"Claire Malloy, and my address is on record at the PD."

"You've been arrested in the past?" His hand shifted closer to his gun, prepared to react if I admitted that I'd robbed convenience stores and gunned down grannies on the street-and battered young policemen with liquor bottles.

The second officer, J. Bingsley, put his hand on the younger officer's arm. "Ms. Malloy is married to Deputy Chief Rosen. He'll vouch for her." He looked at me. "Do you think the vodka is responsible for the victim's condition?"

I shrugged. "He seemed fine when we came inside to talk. I have no idea what he ate or drank earlier, but his symptoms began after he'd ingested several ounces of the vodka. I drank the lemonade and I'm okay."

"Is he a friend?"

"I only met him in person yesterday. He came here from Key West to negotiate a lease for the property. My husband"-I pointedly did not add emphasis-"and I are hoping to buy it after a lawsuit is settled."

After Bingsley sent his partner outside to question Inez and Jordan, he went into the living room and made a call. Although I tried my best, I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I did catch my name-and I was pretty sure I heard a pained sigh from dear Jorgeson, who'd most likely planned to be sitting with his wife in their rose garden by late afternoon. I felt a pang of guilt for ruining his evening, but in no way was I responsible. "A policeman's lot is not a happy one," as Gilbert opined to Sullivan.

I went out to the terrace to escape the stench. Officer Teenager towered over Inez and Jordan, barking questions at them. I presumed Jordan had enough sense to refrain from mouthing off or bragging about her rap sheet. Moses had disappeared.

"I've called for the crime squad," Bingsley said as he came outside. "This is likely to be nothing more than food poisoning, but the scene has to be secured until the ER confirms the cause. If you prefer to leave, it's not a problem. Lieutenant Jorgeson went so far as to suggest that you do so." He eyed his partner. "Threadgill's a rookie. You'll have to forgive him, Ms. Malloy."

"For not knowing that I'm married to Deputy Chief Rosen, and therefore to be treated with deference? I am simply a witness and should be subjected to whatever it is to which witnesses should be subjected." I politely overlooked his bemused expression and continued. "I think you'd better test the vodka, but food poisoning is a possibility. He had breakfast in town a couple of hours ago. How long will it take to get lab results?"

"It depends on the backlog. Samples have to be sent to the state lab, in which case it may be weeks. Do you have a reason for thinking that the vodka was poisoned?"

I sat down to weigh the two scenarios. Food poisoning was not unknown in the cafes and restaurants in Farberville. Then again, Terry was not the golden child of Hollow Valley. I hadn't met Charles and Felicia, although from all reports thus far, I wasn't eager to do so. They had disapproved of Winston and Terry's lifestyle in all aspects, from their h.o.m.os.e.xuality to their consumption of alcohol. Ethan had made it clear that he thought Terry was conniving and manipulative. Almost everything I'd been told about Winston, Terry, the notorious housewarming party, and Winston's death had been contradicted by another source. I was trying to formulate a reply to Officer Bingsley when my cell phone rang.

I gaped at it as if it had stung me. "I'd better take this."

"What the h.e.l.l is going on?" demanded Deputy Chief Peter Rosen.

"This is what you get for not taking my calls earlier," I said, "but no, you were so busy with your silly meetings that you ignored my frantic efforts to keep you informed. I'd like to think you'll do better in the future."

"What the h.e.l.l is going on?" Peter repeated, spitting out each word. "Who was taken to the ER? Why are you at what might be a crime scene?"

I grimaced at Officer Bingsley, who must have overheard Peter's strident voice. "I'm fine, dear. I told you last night that I was coming to the house to talk to Terry about the lease, remember?" I went on to describe the events that had occurred prior to the call. "A very nice police officer named Bingsley is here with me now, discussing the possibility of food poisoning. It may turn out to be that it was something in the vodka..." I abruptly realized how close I'd been to having a nip in my lemonade. Had I done so, two gurneys would have been required. I might be in the ER, having my stomach pumped. It was a procedure not to be confused with recreation.

Peter was still ranting. I handed my phone to Officer Bingsley and walked toward the apple orchard, my arms wrapped around my shoulders, shivering. Food poisoning was more probable than sabotage. Terry hadn't offered me a pastry from his morning foray, or anything else that might contain E. coli or botulism. A surge of nausea overwhelmed. In spite of my efforts to control my stomach, I vomited, barely missing my feet. When the nausea pa.s.sed, I sat down under a tree and a.s.sured myself that panic was the impetus, not something in the lemonade. As loath as I am to admit that I am not always unruffled, I was frightened. The apple trees began to resemble those in The Wizard of Oz. I certainly could use a bit of courage that I could not acquire by tapping my ruby slippers together three times. I was wearing sandals.

Eventually, Officer Bingsley found me. "Are you ill, Ms. Malloy? Should I get the paramedics back here?"

I put out my hand and allowed him to help me up. "Delayed shock is all. Did Deputy Chief Rosen say anything of significance?"

"Mostly what he would do to me if I didn't escort you away from the scene in the next ten seconds," he said grimly. He gave me back my cell phone. "Do you want me to drive you and the girls home? Officer Threadgill can drive your vehicle."

"I'm quite capable of driving myself and one of the girls back to town. The other one lives nearby." I veered around a certain patch of gra.s.s as we went back to the terrace. Inez and Jordan were putting on their shoes under the belligerent supervision of Officer Threadgill. "Inez," I said, "we're leaving now. Jordan, you'd better go hide under Aunt Margaret Louise's bed. Ethan's looking for you."

I told Officer Bingsley that I would smooth things over with my husband, then beckoned Inez to follow me around the house to my car. Her face lowered, Jordan took off in the direction of the meadow. Officer Threadgill's rigid posture slumped as his prime suspects escaped from what might have been an interminable interrogation. When Inez and I arrived in the front yard, we were faced by an impromptu gathering of the property owners' a.s.sociation. Nattie, Ethan, Pandora b.u.t.terfly, and two unfamiliar people hovered in a clump, all looking worried.

"Claire," Nattie said, "what on earth happened? I saw an ambulance leaving when I turned off the highway. Are you all right?"

Ethan stepped forward. "Did Terry come back? Why didn't you tell me when we were talking about him?"

"You knew Terry was here?" Nattie asked accusingly, staring at me. "Did he say something about Winston? Is that why you've been asking me all these questions?"

"Of course not," I said. I felt as though I should apologize for eating cinnamon rolls under false pretenses. At the same time, I wondered if she'd been quite so truthful with me. Moses had told me that she lied.

"How lovely," Pandora said dreamily as she began to dance. She was wearing a richly embroidered kimono and stained ballet slippers. "Do you see the mockingbirds on the eave?"

Too many questions, I thought, resisting the urge to climb into my car, lock the doors, and drive off at a speed more suitable to an oval track. "Everything is under control. Terry flew in yesterday and stayed here last night. We were chatting when he became ill. It's most likely a case of food poisoning. When he recovers, the police will find out where he ate this morning and take it from there."

"He's going to recover?" Nattie asked.

"I'm sure he will." I squeezed Inez's shoulder to rea.s.sure her. I needed someone to squeeze my shoulder in the same manner. "He's young and healthy. He may be back by this evening."

A man with short, peppery hair and a hard look said, "His kind have despicable diseases because of promiscuity and illegal drugs. First Winston, and now this ... this viper. He deserves to suffer for his sins."

I cleverly deduced that this was Charles Finnelly, spokesperson for the moral minority of Hollow Valley. His wife, Felicia, looked as though she'd been munching green persimmons. Her lips were so tight that they were scarcely visible. "No one deserves to suffer," I said, although I doubted that he cared about my opinion. At least he didn't keep his wife barefoot and pregnant. Not that he could, since she was in her fifties and probably wore a flannel gown and a platinum chast.i.ty belt to bed.

Nattie ignored the exchange and said, "Have you seen Jordan, Claire? Ethan said that she never showed up at the nursery this morning. Is she involved?"

I was not about to squeal on my Mohawked prodigy. "I saw her earlier and she was okay." Inez started to say something, but I increased the intensity of my grip on her shoulder until she gulped. "We need to go. The police will lock up the house before they leave."

"They needn't bother," trilled Madame b.u.t.terfly, who was now flapping her arms. "Oh, look at this dear little yellow b.u.t.terfly! Catch her, Ethan, so I can release her in my garden."

I hustled Inez into the car, called a generic good-bye, and drove down the gravel driveway to the blacktop road. It took several minutes before I felt calm enough to say, "How did you and Jordan get along?"

"Okay, I guess," Inez said. "There are kids like that at school, but they're kind of invisible. They don't join any clubs or partic.i.p.ate in cla.s.s. They go to all that effort to be unique, but they look like clones. Anyway, Jordan was kind of nasty at first. After a while, she relaxed, and we went up the hillside to look for ginseng."

"The two of you must have had a good time. You were carrying on like a pair of drunks. Terry, too." I glanced at her and caught the blush on her cheeks. It was possible that the hormonal inundation had caught up with her at last. "He's handsome, isn't he?" I inquired delicately.

"He told us all these really wild stories about the theater people in New York. I thought I'd die laughing. Not that I did, of course." She began to giggle. "There are bars in Greenwich Village that put on beauty pageants for men who dress up like famous actresses. I kept picturing my father in a blond wig and an evening gown, wobbling across a stage in high heels." Her giggles grew so loud that I wanted to put my hand over her mouth. "And my brother in a bikini! He's so scrawny that he'd have to glue it on!"

It didn't sound as though she were infatuated with Terry, I thought with relief. Although she must have been aware of alternative s.e.xual orientations, I wasn't sure that she'd actually encountered any openly gay guys. Farberville High School's closet doors were locked with dead bolts. The lesbians and gays who came into the Book Depot were no more disposed to discuss their s.e.xual activity than anyone else was. If for no other reason than to distract myself, I said, "Terry's gay, you know."

Inez stopped giggling to stare at me. "What difference does that make, Ms. Malloy?"

"None at all," I said. It was unfortunate (and inexcusable) that some of the Hollows did not concur. I let her ramble on about Broadway's wits and warts while I tried not to worry about Terry or dwell on what might turn out to be my closest call to date. I'd had some doozies over the last few years, but I'd never doubted that I could find a way to save my flawless skin.

I dropped off Inez at the library and went home. After a shower and a change of clothing, I called Jorgeson. "How's Terry Kennedy?" I asked.

"The man who had to be taken by ambulance to the emergency room? Officers Bingsley and Threadgill haven't reported yet, Ms. Malloy. As far as I know, they're still at the scene."

"Would you be so kind as to call the hospital? They're obsessed with privacy, and I'm not the man's sister. Well, I could claim to be his next of kin, but that would be a lie. I'd hate to upset Peter even more." I fluttered my eyelashes for the benefit of an unseen audience. "You know how he can be, Jorgeson."

"I'll call the hospital and then call you back."

"You're such a dear." I hung up and went into the kitchen to pour myself a small gla.s.s of Scotch. I jammed the bottle back in the cabinet and filled the teakettle, wondering how long it would be before I would be able to enjoy a c.o.c.ktail. Days, weeks, months-as long as it took for the medical lab to determine that Terry had been stricken with food poisoning from a botulistic bagel or a salmonella-laden custard tart. I was spooning sugar in my tea when Jorgeson finally bestirred himself to call.

"Well?" I said by way of greeting.

"He lapsed into a coma in the ER and is hooked up to a ventilator and monitoring machines in the ICU. No diagnosis, but the prognosis is not good," he said. "The lab hasn't come up with anything yet. For now, they're a.s.suming it's a case of food poisoning. We're searching his car for a receipt from one of the local eateries."

"He was in Key West yesterday. Maybe he ate something tainted before he left."

He sighed. "That's very helpful, Ms. Malloy. I'll ask the PD if they've had any cases down there. If you'll excuse me-"

"One more thing," I said, not at all ready to excuse him. "Has the Maxwell County sheriff found out any more about Angela?"

"The only airplane that uses the landing strip is locked in a metal shed. The owner is at his daughter's house, recovering from the flu. He has the only key, and there are no indications that anyone tampered with the padlock. Angela's car has been towed in to be examined in more detail. As for now, I'm dealing with two convenience store robberies and an escalating brawl on fraternity row. If I get any updates about Kennedy or Angela Delmond, you'll be the first to know." He had enough sense not to ask to be excused a second time.

I took the phone out to the balcony and called Peter. He listened to my recitation of the recent events, attempting to interrupt, until I'd covered everything that I felt was of consequence.

"I want you to stay away from Hollow Valley until this is cleared up," he began officiously. "I realize that you're focused on the house, but you'll have to wait until I get back tomorrow. This is not the time for meddling, however civic minded you like to think you are."

"Right now I am not the least bit civic minded," I protested. "I simply want the house, and I'm not going to let anyone stop me."

"What if I tell you to stay away from Hollow Valley?"

If ever a situation required tact, this was it. Besides, it would be cruel to allow him to worry. "There's not much I can do until we find out what caused Terry's attack. Jorgeson's quite sure it's food poisoning. I can't see myself snooping through garbage bins behind cafes, picking through rotten produce. Do you think we should rent a storage locker? I trip over a box every time I walk into the kitchen. We can pack up our winter clothes and-"

"Stay away from Hollow Valley." He launched into a very sweet lecture on how much I meant to him and how horribly he would suffer if something bad happened to me. When he ran out of hyperbole, I steered him into a romantic discussion involving his first night at home.

I was relieved when the conversation ended. I made a mental note to read some romance novels to increase my competency in verbal pa.s.sion, then poured another cup of tea and sat down on the sofa with a notebook. The time had come to sort out the Hollows from octogenarian Moses to wee Weevil. Since I had limited knowledge of the lineage, it took only a couple of minutes. I sketched a map of Hollow Valley, with the blacktop road, the driveways, the residents, and the nursery. There were three houses: the Finnellys', Ethan and Pandora b.u.t.terfly's, and Terry's-which had been Winston's but was going to be mine. Aunt Margaret Louise lived in the mill, and Nattie and Moses lived in the Old Tavern. If Hollow hermits lived in caves on the mountain behind the nursery, no one had mentioned them.

The housewarming party would have been great entertainment for a disinterested observer. I smiled as I pictured Felicia and Charles in the dining room, overcome with self-righteousness as they viewed the debauchery. Oh, the horrors! Nattie thought that Terry was nice; Ethan thought that Terry was a con man. I knew that Terry could be charming, but also emotional. As for Winston, he had been either deeply depressed or eager to samba in Rio. He'd fished, or he hadn't. He'd slipped, jumped, or been propelled into the stream.

The whole business was a puddle of deception deep enough to provide a haven for catfish. I had only twenty-four hours to snoop around before Deputy Chief Rosen arrived home from Atlanta.

Before I could choose a course of action, Jorgeson called. He had checked with the hospital and reported that Terry's condition remained unchanged. I wished him success with the riotous Zetas, Thetas, and Betas. He failed to appreciate my witticism. There was no point in going to the hospital unless I was prepared to lie through my teeth, and even if I crept through a crack in the walls of the sterilized citadel, it would accomplish nothing as long as Terry was in a coma. The lab would not welcome my subtle hints that they step away from the vending machines and run the necessary tests to determine the cause of Terry's symptoms.

It was the middle of the afternoon. Surely the courthouse judges had stashed their gavels and retired their robes in order to enjoy the weekend. It was likely that Terry's attorney was back in her office, finishing the week's backlog of files to be filed and writs to be written. Her name was impossible to forget. I looked up her office address in the primordial telephone directory, grabbed my purse, and drove to a yellow-brick house within walking distance of the courthouse. What had been the living room was now a reception room. The desk was clear, and the receptionist was gone for the day. I prowled down a hallway until I found a door with the name CRANBERRY painted on the gla.s.s. The light was on, and I heard a voice. I tapped once and then went inside.

Link Cranberry was not what I'd expected, although in all honesty I had no expectations. It could not have been more than two or three years since she earned her law degree. She had black hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, and she wore enormous black-framed gla.s.ses. Her lips were scarlet. When she stood up, she was not as tall as the coat rack behind her desk. To compensate for her diminutive stature, she'd perfected a menacing glare.

"The office is closed," she said icily, the telephone receiver in her hand. It would have been far more impressive if she hadn't sounded like a squeaky, petulant child. "Call Monday and make an appointment."

"I don't know if you've heard what's happed to Terry Kennedy. He's at the hospital."

"Oh, s.h.i.t," she said. She ended the telephone call with a few terse words. "I met with him only this morning. Was he in an accident?" She sank into her chair. "Are his injuries that severe? Is he in intensive care?"

"He's in a coma," I said, then told her what little I knew. "If it's food poisoning, it may not be fatal. Healthy people usually survive."

Ms. Cranberry rubbed her face and neck as she a.s.similated the information. "He's such a great guy. I should do something, but what? Does the hospital have the name of his next of kin? I may have it in a file somewhere." She took several deep breaths. "Give me a minute to find the file, okay? It should be in this stack."