"I guess the thing woke me up," she said, allowing the man to take her pulse. "That was when I realized I felt bad."
"Let's try a little of this, Mrs. Edmond." The female paramedic drew a clear plastic mask down over Marcy's nose and mouth. "It's just oxygen," she explained.
"Ma'am?" A fireman loomed behind Marcy. "Do you have something in the house that runs on natural gas? Heating system, maybe?"
She shook her head, pulling back the mask so he could hear her. "An electric heat pump runs the air conditioner."
"Gas stove?"
She nodded. She was feeling better already. Much better. Her head was clearer, and it wasn't pounding the way it had been. She pulled the mask down again. "Gas stove and also the fireplace. It has a pilot, I think. I haven't been burning it, though. Not in the middle of the summer."
"We'll check it out, ma'am."
The paramedic closed his hand over Marcy's and eased the oxygen mask down again. "Just give this a couple of minutes and you'll be feeling better."
"We need to get her away from the house," the male paramedic said. "You feel as if you can walk? If not—"
"No. No, I'm much better," Marcy said, her voice muffled by the oxygen mask.
Carrying their equipment, the paramedics walked her to their truck. An ambulance crew had arrived, and two men ran up the driveway with a stretcher.
"I'm not going anywhere," Marcy said, pulling the oxygen mask off. She sat down on the bumper of her sister's car in the driveway.
Marcy heard another siren, and a police car came tearing into her neighborhood.
"You really should be transported to the hospital, Mrs. Edmond. A doctor should have a look at you. Carbon monoxide poisoning is serious, ma'am. The carbon monoxide combines with the hemoglobin, the oxygen-carrying protein of blood, and deprives the tissues of oxygen."
"I said, no," Marcy repeated. She handed the oxygen mask to one of the paramedics. "The last time I rode in one of those things, I slept for six months." She didn't mean to sound superstitious, but there was no way she was getting in that ambulance.
"She's not going?" one of the men with the stretcher asked.
"Refusing medical care," the female paramedic said.
"I'll go see my family doctor on Monday."
The police car had pulled in across the street, and Claire hurried up the driveway. There were firemen everywhere, walking across Marcy's lawn, going in and out of the house.
"Marcy?" Claire crouched in front of her. "Twice in one night," she teased. "What's up?"
Marcy closed her eyes for a second and then opened them. "I don't know. It's so weird. Ben installed this carbon monoxide detector, and it went off. I must have fallen asleep in the living room."
Claire glanced in the direction of the house. "Is Phoebe still here?"
"No. She left a while ago. She went to her new apartment." She lifted one hand, realizing she was still slightly muddled. "I don't even know where it is. She was a little vague."
"The kids?" Claire kept eye contact; her voice had a calming effect in the midst of all the confusion. "They're not home, right?"
"With Jake."
"You want to call him?" The police chief pulled a cell phone from her pocket.
"Thanks. That would be great." Marcy punched the numbers and waited. Jake didn't pick up. He must have had his phone off during the movie. "What time is it?" she asked.
Claire stood up. "Ten."
Marcy offered her back her phone.
"No, you keep it." Claire patted Marcy's hand. "Keep trying while I talk to the firemen and see what's going on."
While Claire was gone, the paramedics took Marcy's pulse and blood pressure again. They had her sign several forms, including one that said she was refusing the recommended medical treatment. By the time Claire came back down the driveway, Marcy had tried Jake two more times, unsuccessfully, and the paramedics were pulling out.
"How are you feeling?" Claire asked.
Marcy got up off the bumper of her sister's car. "Much better. Fine." She brushed the blond hair from her eyes. "Was there really carbon monoxide in the house?"
"Sure was. Your son probably saved your life." Claire glanced at the house and then at Marcy again. "Has Jake been doing some work in the basement?"
Marcy shook her head, still feeling fuzzy. "No. Not that I'm aware of. He's been gone, remember."
"What about the door from the basement outside? Do you normally keep it locked?"
"Of course." Marcy rested a hand on her hip, trying to think. "It wasn't locked? I haven't been down there in a few days, but the kids know it stays locked."
Claire shook her head. "I'm going to check with McCormick in the morning. He's already gone off shift, but I could have sworn he said he checked it when we were here earlier, and it was locked."
Marcy met Claire's gaze, wondering if the police chief was thinking what she was thinking. Did this have to do with her prowler?
"Listen, I need to ask you something personal," Claire said.
"Okay."
"You and Jake, how are you getting along these days?"
Marcy smiled, suddenly feeling almost shy. "Well."
"Yeah?"
Marcy crossed her arms over her chest. It was getting late, cooler out. "With Phoebe out of the house and in her own place, we were thinking about giving it another try. Jake says he's willing to go to marriage counseling."
"That's great."
"Why do you ask?" Marcy studied Claire's face, then glanced over her shoulder and back at her. "What did the firemen find?"
The police chief didn't answer.
"Claire?"
Claire frowned. "We don't know anything for sure yet, but there was definitely a level of carbon monoxide in the kitchen and the family room and—" She hesitated, then met Marcy's gaze. "It looks like the exhaust on the gas system has been tampered with."
Chapter 12
"Tampered with?" Marcy murmured, thinking maybe she hadn't heard Claire correctly.
"They think so: a gas leak and carbon monoxide build-up. But as I said, we'll need to get someone else in there to be sure." Claire rubbed her temples. "This is beyond what our local volunteer fire guys usually do, but they suspect someone deliberately altered the exhaust system so that carbon monoxide was released into the house."
"You mean intentionally?" Marcy tried to consider the possibility, knowing it couldn't be true. This kind of stuff happened on TV. In novels, not in real life. Not in her life. "It couldn't have been done accidentally, like bumping into something or—"
Claire studied her with a penetrating gaze. "They think it was intentional. You're sure Jake hasn't done any—"
"Claire," Marcy said firmly. "Jake would never do anything to harm the kids or me. You have to know that."
The police chief nodded, obviously deep in thought.
Marcy turned to watch the house for a moment. The firefighters had gone through every room and opened the blinds and windows so that light spilled into the darkness from every room. She looked back at Claire suddenly. "You think someone came into the house through the basement? The man I saw in the window? Could he have come back?"
"It's possible."
Marcy sat on the bumper of Phoebe's yellow sports car again and dialed Jake. Still no answer. She tried his place too. Nothing. "I can't imagine the movie ran this long," she said, trying not to worry.
"You think they went out to eat afterward?"
Marcy frowned. "They were supposed to buy their tickets in advance, then have dinner, then go to the movie. What time is it now?"
Claire glanced at her wristwatch. "Ten-fifty."
"It's not like Jake to be out so late with the kids. Ben has a baseball game in the morning. He's cranky if he doesn't get enough sleep. Jake's cranky if he doesn't get enough sleep."
One of the neighbors walked up the driveway, barefooted in a white tank T-shirt and wrinkled work pants. Up to this point, the firefighters had blocked the way, keeping onlookers back. "You
okay, Marcy?" His name was Al Nelson; he owned a small plumbing and heating company in town and lived across the street and down one house to the left.
"I'm fine. Just a little problem with the gas line or something." Marcy didn't want to go into any details.
"Kids okay?"
"With Jake." She smiled. "Thanks for checking on me, but you might as well go to bed." She looked beyond him to a couple of other neighbors gathered at the end of the driveway in various stages of dress and undress. Mrs. Murphy was wearing a zebra-striped housecoat; pretty racy for a Hungarian woman in her seventies. "Everyone might as well go to bed."
"Not staying here, are you?" Al thrust his hands into the pockets of his olive work pants. "You know you're welcome to stay at our place."
Marcy glanced at Claire. She hadn't thought about where she was going to sleep tonight, but obviously it wasn't going to be here. She imagined the house would have to be inspected by someone from the gas company before they were allowed to go back in. "Jake's coming to get me."
"Glad you're okay." Al turned away. "Give a holler if you need anything. 'Night."
"Good night." Marcy returned her attention to Claire, who was looking at Phoebe's car.
"You said Phoebe left a while ago?" Claire asked.
"Less than hour after you and Patrolman McCormick left here." Marcy patted the bumper of the sports car. "She took my SUV. The dope realized, once she had all those boxes ready to go, that there was no way she was going to get them all in this tiny trunk. She's always doing things like that, always borrowing my car or my—"
"Where'd the boxes come from?"
"Where'd they come from? I guess she had most of them from the last time—" Marcy halted in mid-sentence. That wasn't what Claire meant. "Mostly from the basement," she said softly, rising off the bumper. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she shifted her gaze to meet Claire's.
Sinking feeling? More like free-falling.
The implication was too awful to even consider. The idea of a prowler, or even a serial killer stalking her was far more bearable. And yet...
"I want you to think carefully," Claire said. "Did you go into the basement with Phoebe tonight?"
"No," Marcy heard herself say in a small voice. Suddenly she felt as if she were sleepwalking. This all had to be a dream. Maybe everything since she woke up in the hospital was a dream. Maybe she was still lying there in a coma. It seemed just as feasible as what was happening now. "I offered to go down and help her out, but she... she said she could do it herself."
Tears filled Marcy's eyes as she thought about her discovery in her bank accounts earlier in the evening. She had intended to say nothing to anyone, to make no accusations until she talked to Jake. Until he looked at the accounts. But now...
"Claire." Marcy took a deep breath. "Phoebe doesn't know I suspect yet. I'm not even positive"—she went on quicker than before—"but I think she may have been stealing from us while I was in the coma."
Claire followed her with clear blue eyes. She was the epitome of the calm civil servant in the midst of what seemed like chaos. "What's led you to that conclusion?"
"I sat down to work on our bank accounts tonight. Nothing has been balanced since November. Jake said he hadn't had the time all these months, and I believe him. Our household finances were always my job and..." Marcy let her voice fade.
"What did you find?" Claire prodded.
"Money missing from our accounts." She went on before she lost her nerve. "Accounts my sister either had access to by means of the bank card Jake gave her months ago, or accounts she could easily access because I was stupid about my passwords." She pressed her lips together, afraid she was going to cry. But if she started now, she feared she would never stop. The more she said, the more she became convinced that her sister had done this awful thing. "I used my first pet's name, for heaven's sake."
"I hate to ask," Claire said, "but you're sure Jake didn't take the money? Maybe he just moved it, and in the confusion of the last month, he hasn't gotten a chance to tell you? Or..." She left other possibilities unspoken.
Marcy hugged herself, knowing what Claire was suggesting—maybe Jake had a gambling problem, another woman on the side. There were many reasons why a husband might remove money from a joint account without telling his wife. Any husband but Jake. "I'm telling you, it wasn't Jake. He wouldn't do that. Besides, the money was transferred more than once online before it was removed from the household account. Jake wouldn't be able to access our accounts online without the passwords. He doesn't know I had a Persian cat named Butterscotch when I was five!"
A crackly voice came over a radio Claire wore at her shoulder, and she excused herself and walked onto the lawn to stand in the dark. She answered in some police jargon and then stepped back into the circle of light cast from the security lamp over the garage.
"You don't think Phoebe would do something like this, do you?" Marcy asked. "Why would she?"
"Did your sister know you would be here alone tonight?"
"Yes." Miserable, Marcy looked away. She could already see the direction this conversation was going. Someone had taken money from the bank accounts assuming it wouldn't be missed if Marcy died or just never awoke from her coma. But then she did wake up, so that same someone tampered with the gas exhaust? She wasn't ready to even consider the possibility that it might have been her sister. "But what..."
Marcy raised her hand and let it fall to her side, searching for some other explanation. Any other explanation. "Could the man outside the window have anything to do with this? I know I saw a man. Phoebe was really pissed when I called you. Maybe she knew him? Maybe he was making her do this for some reason?"
"Did your sister try to prevent you from calling us?"
Marcy tried to think back. "No, but... but she acted as if it would be a mistake. She said if I started doing wacky things like that, people would think I was nuts."
"What people?"
Marcy shrugged.
"All right." Claire reached out and patted Marcy's shoulder. "You try and call Jake again. I'm going to track down the fire chief and see what's up here, but Al's right. You can't stay here tonight."
Claire left Marcy in the driveway and disappeared into the house through the front door that remained open. Marcy watched her approach one of the firemen standing in the foyer with some kind of meter in his hand.
Her hand trembling slightly, Marcy dialed Jake's cell phone. It rang, and just as she thought the recorded message was about to come on, she heard Jake's voice. "Jake?" Tears welled in her eyes again.
"Marcy? Marcy, honey, what's wrong?" he said in her ear. "Are you okay?"
She bit back a sob. "I need you to come home."
"We're getting into the car now." His voice was filled with concern. "Ben, hop in. Come on, hurry up."
"I've been trying to get you for an hour." Marcy gripped the cell phone, refusing to let herself fall apart. "There was no answer at the condo, and your cell phone wasn't on. I knew the movie had to be over, so I couldn't understand—"
"We bumped into Phoebe at the mall. She took us out for ice cream to celebrate her new job. I just forgot to turn my phone back on until a few minutes ago."
A fresh well of emotion bubbled up inside Marcy. "Phoebe?" she said. Her sister had said nothing about stopping at the mall. She had said she was headed to her new apartment to settle in for the night. A new emotion gripped her. Fear. She was afraid for her family. What if Phoebe did have something to do with all this? "Is... is she with you now?"
"No. She went to her new place." He sounded confused, now frustrated. "Why? Marcy, what the hell is going on?"
Over the phone, she heard a car door slam and Jake start his engine.
"Honey, are you sure you're all right?" he repeated.
"Just come home. There are fire trucks and police cars in the driveway, but I'll explain when you get here."
"Fire trucks?"
Marcy hung up and, with both hands, wiped a
t the tears that ran down her cheeks.
* * *
Marcy was still sitting in the driveway on the bumper of Phoebe's car, waiting for Claire to come back with her report from the fire chief when Jake pulled in to the neighborhood. He slammed on the brakes in front of the house, parking catty-corner across the driveway like he was a stunt driver in some movie. Through the open window, she heard him bark for the kids to stay in the car. She met him halfway down the driveway.
"What's going on?" Jake pulled her into his arms, and she dropped her head to his shoulder thinking she had never felt anything quite so good.
"A problem with exhaust on the natural gas. I fell asleep in the family room. Ben's carbon monoxide detector went off." She lifted her head to look into his brown eyes. "He probably saved my life, Jake."
He pulled her hard against his chest, his voice filled with emotion. "Talk about a cat with nine lives."
She let him hold her a second longer and then made herself take a step back. "But there's more to it, Jake."
He hooked his thumb in the pocket of his shorts. "More?"
"Let me go talk to the kids for a minute, and then you and I need to speak with Chief Drummond. She's inside right now with the fire chief."
Jake just stood there in the driveway staring at their house with the windows and door thrown open and firemen wandering in and out as Marcy went down the driveway toward the car.
"Mom," Ben cried, thrusting his head out the open window of his father's car.
Katie threw open the door. "Mom, what's going on? Did the house catch on fire?"
Marcy draped one arm around her daughter and opened the front driver's side door to let Ben out. "You guys can't come in the house. None of us can tonight. I just need a hug, and then you have to get back in the car and wait for us." She pulled them against her, their slender, bony bodies feeling so good.
"But why are the firemen here? Did the house catch on fire?" Ben demanded, craning his neck to see. "I don't smell any smoke. You can usually smell it. People sometimes smell smoke before they even see the fire."
Marcy reluctantly released her children. "There was no fire, but there was possibly a gas leak and carbon monoxide buildup." She looked down at Ben in the light of the car's overhead dome. "Your detector went off."
She'll Never Tell Page 22
