New Year's Eve Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy was horrified. “Convulsions?”

  “Rare, but something we have to watch for.”

  “Can I stay with her?”

  “Absolutely, Mrs….” He paused to check the chart. “Mrs. Stone. But it’s not necessary. This is one of the world’s premier medical facilities. We have excellent nurses here and…” he checked the chart again, “Elizabeth will get the best of care. I suggest you go down to the cafeteria and get yourself something to eat while we transfer Elizabeth to intensive care.”

  “Intensive care?”

  “One of the nurses can give you directions,” he said, on his way out the door.

  Shattered, Lucy sat back down in the chair and pulled her cell phone out of her purse with shaking hands.

  Bill answered on the third ring. Lucy clung to his hearty voice like a lifeline.

  “Elizabeth’s sick. Really sick. The doctor says it’s a brown recluse spider bite.”

  “What?”

  “In the cellar, maybe when she went down on Christmas Day to get the skis.”

  “She got bit? How come she never said anything? Is it serious?”

  “They’re putting her in intensive care.” Lucy had trouble with those last two words and started to cry.

  “Take it easy, Lucy.” Bill’s voice was strong. “She’ll be fine.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of course you are. Let me talk to her.”

  Lucy looked at Elizabeth, who was out like a light.

  “She’s sleeping. That’s all she does.”

  “Oh.” Bill paused, absorbing this information. “Well, it’s probably for the best.”

  Lucy was distracted by the arrival of an orderly.

  “They’re going to move her now. I better go.”

  “Keep me posted,” said Bill.

  Lucy couldn’t bring herself to leave Elizabeth and accompanied her on the trip to the intensive care unit. Elizabeth was unaware of the move and slept through it, not even flinching when an IV needle was inserted in her arm.

  “You look like you need a break,” the nurse told Lucy, as she tucked a blanket around Elizabeth. “There’s a cafeteria in the basement.”

  “I’m fine,” insisted Lucy.

  “Go. Get something to eat. She’ll be here when you get back. I promise.”

  “I couldn’t eat.”

  The nurse looked at her steadily. “This could be a long haul. You need to keep your strength up. And some food will help with that headache.”

  “I don’t have—” began Lucy, realizing that she did indeed have a headache. A real killer. “Okay.”

  Lucy felt very small in the elevator, as if worry had somehow shrunk her. She also felt fragile and wished Bill were there to take her in his arms and let her rest her head on his broad chest. He wasn’t, though, and the nurse was right, she had to keep up her strength. Maybe eating would help with this hollow feeling, as if a strong breeze could blow her over.

  She took a tray and shuffled through the line, taking a tuna sandwich, chips, and a cup of tea. She surprised herself by eating it all and went back for a piece of peach pie and more tea. No wonder she was hungry, she realized with a shock. According to the clock on the wall it was long past lunchtime. She’d already been in the hospital for hours, and it promised to be a long day. She was on her way to the lobby to see if there was a gift shop where she could buy something to read, something distracting, when she was surprised to recognize Lance coming toward her in the hallway.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, giving him a hug.

  “I’m helping a professor of mine with a research project—this place is affiliated with Columbia, you know. What are you doing here?”

  “Elizabeth is sick from a spider bite.”

  Lance cocked his head, looking doubtful. “That’s crazy.”

  “She’s in intensive care.”

  His attitude suddenly vanished. “That’s terrible. Can I see her?”

  “I’m not sure what the rules are,” said Lucy. “There’s no point right now. She’s sleeping.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow.” His eyebrows met over his classic Roman nose. “Do you know what kind of spider?”

  “The doctor said a brown something or other.”

  “A brown recluse?”

  Lucy suspected Lance may have shared the doctor’s interest in bugs. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Sure, I’ve heard of it.” He looked surprised that she hadn’t. “But I’ll do some research and brush up on the facts. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “That would be great,” said Lucy, who felt completely at sea. “I’d really appreciate that.”

  When she returned to the intensive care unit she found Elizabeth was still asleep, but when she pressed her lips to the girl’s forehead she discovered her fever had dropped. Reassured, Lucy settled down in a fake leather recliner and opened the latest edition of Jolie magazine, which she’d bought in the gift shop.

  It was kind of funny, she thought, as she flipped through the pages of ads. Here she’d had this makeover thanks to Jolie, but she’d never actually read the magazine. It was Elizabeth who devoured each month’s issue and added it to the growing pile in her room. Lucy had never bothered to read it, assuming it was geared to younger women. She didn’t read magazines much, anyway, preferring novels and newspapers, and if this particular issue of Jolie was representative of the genre, she figured she’d made the right choice. She could hardly believe what she was reading, beginning with a feature article by Nadine defending the use of animals for testing cosmetics.

  Lucy’s younger girls had spent the last few summers at Friends of Animals day camp so she knew this was a hot issue. Sara particularly enjoyed horrifying her mother with descriptions of rabbits subjected to eye make-up and piglets forced to eat lipstick ingredients. Trying to joke that at least the test animals would look good went over like a lead balloon. “It’s torture, Mom,” Sara informed her. “Remember, this is the stuff they’re testing. It’s not safe, like the stuff you buy.”

  After reading Nadine’s article, Lucy found herself agreeing with Sara. Although she argued her case forcefully, Lucy couldn’t agree that testing cosmetics was equally important as testing potentially life-saving drugs, for example. She could rationalize the need for the latter, but not the former. No rabbit needed to suffer for longer, thicker lashes.

  Depressed, Lucy turned eagerly to the photo spreads. Having seen Pablo at work she was sure they would be visually interesting. Plus, with her newfound interest in fashion she might get some ideas for a new spring outfit. But when she turned to the spring fashion forecast she was shocked to discover it pictured designer cruisewear modeled in a Caribbean shantytown. Gorgeous models with gleaming skin lounged in scanty outfits on tilting porches amidst piles of garbage and debris. A chicken scratched in the foreground of one picture; a stooped, skinny man in an oversized shirt lurked in the background of another. Reading the commentary offended Lucy’s soul: the outfits cost thousands of dollars.

  Lucy was fuming about the injustice of a culture that afforded some fortunate people thousand-dollar swimsuits while others couldn’t afford the necessities of life when she turned the page and saw the filthy, wrinkled face of a homeless woman sporting a diamond tiara and ropes of pearls. She got the concept, all right. The woman’s face expressed human dignity, but the addition of the jewels was demeaning and insulting. Disgusted, Lucy tossed the magazine across the room where it landed with a thud in the wastebasket.

  Elizabeth twitched in her bed but didn’t wake up, so Lucy reached for the remote to turn on the TV that hung from the ceiling. She was flipping through the channels when the door opened and Nancy Glass appeared, wrapped in a tan Burberry coat. Even Lucy recognized the famous plaid lining.

  “How’s the patient?” she asked, taking Lucy’s hand and squeezing it.

  Lucy turned off the TV. “They think she’ll be all right.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when th
ey told me she was in intensive care.” Nancy’s eyes were huge.

  “Me, either.”

  “You poor thing. How are you holding up?”

  “I’ve been better,” admitted Lucy. “But at least I know she’s getting good care.”

  “Excellent care. People come here from all over the world. They’ve developed all kinds of advanced treatments.”

  “Thanks for telling me that,” said Lucy. “I guess they can handle a little spider bite.”

  “Is that what she has?”

  “That’s what they say.” Lucy was looking around the room for another chair, but there was only the single recliner. “Sit if you want,” said Lucy. “I’ve been sitting for hours.”

  “No, I’m only here for a minute.” Nancy stepped close to the bed and gave Elizabeth’s hand a little pat. “You know, maybe we should have her write a first-person account for the magazine. When she gets better, of course. I know Pablo’s planning to use some exotic bugs for his next jewelry spread.”

  “Well, that’s a better choice than homeless people.” Lucy felt like biting her tongue the minute she said it, but Nancy wasn’t offended.

  “You didn’t like that?” she asked, smiling.

  “Not much. I didn’t like the shantytown, either.”

  “I know. Talk about bad taste!” Nancy shrugged. “That’s our Camilla. She thinks controversy sells.”

  Lucy managed a small smile. “That’s what my editor at home thinks, too.”

  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be true, in Jolie’s case, anyway.” Nancy’s eyes had fallen on the crumpled issue in the wastebasket and she grimaced. “A lot of people agree with you—circulation is dropping, and the magazine is losing money.”

  “I heard that. Not a good time to lose a key editor. How’s everybody coping?”

  “You mean about Nadine?” Nancy was checking her manicure.

  “Everyone must be reeling in shock, no?”

  “It could be worse. Nadine was a master at delegating responsibility. Phyllis knows exactly what needs to be done and how to do it.”

  “That’s fortunate.”

  “Yeah. The magazine will be fine.” She was looking at her reflection in the mirror above the sink and tweaking her hairdo. “The one I feel bad for is her husband.”

  “Arnold?” Lucy remembered his hand on her bottom at the AIDS ball.

  “He’s a lovely man. So sensitive. I’m sure he’s devastated.”

  “You never know how somebody’s going to react to a death in the family,” said Lucy, surprised at Nancy’s obvious sincerity given her own experience with Arnold. “Grief takes everyone differently.”

  “Well, I’m going to do everything I can to help him through this difficult time,” said Nancy, tightening the belt on her coat.

  “Well, thanks for coming by,” said Lucy. “I really appreciate it.”

  “That’s me. A regular Miss Goody Two-Shoes,” said Nancy, clicking out the door on her stilettos.

  Lucy wasn’t sure that was exactly the term she’d use to describe Nancy, but you never knew. Just because a woman was glamorous and fashionable and successful didn’t mean she wasn’t nice underneath. You couldn’t tell a book, or a magazine, by its cover. She retrieved Jolie from the wastebasket, flipped through a few pages, and shoved it aside. What she needed was something distracting, something silly. Maybe the Three Stooges. At home you could find the Stooges at any hour on some cable channel or other. Lucy knew; the trio had gotten her through many a sleepless night.

  But when she switched on the TV there was no sign of Larry, Curly, and Moe. There was, however, a serious young female newscaster in a navy blue suit reporting that the medical examiner was investigating the death of magazine editor Nadine Nelson, now deemed suspicious.

  Chapter Nine

  EASY SELF-DEFENSE STRATEGIES ANYONE CAN LEARN

  It was supposed to be a vacation but the flight had been terrible. The trouble started at check-in, when the clerk had actually been Moe from the Three Stooges. He was also the pilot, and Larry and Curly were the flight attendants. A couple of passengers got squirted with seltzer water but nobody got drinks, or peanuts, because Larry and Curly were too busy bopping each other on the head and tossing the refreshments around the cabin.

  When the plane landed they had to get off by sliding down the emergency chute, and Lucy had to take off her heels, spike heels, before they’d let her slide down. That’s why she was running barefoot, trying to catch up with Bill and Elizabeth who were far in the distance on the wide, empty street lined with ramshackle shop fronts. It was eerily quiet, like the set of a cheesy Western movie just before the climactic shoot-out, and people stared at her from the windows and doors but no one spoke.

  Suddenly, she was on a beach, a classic Caribbean beach with palm trees, white sand, and turquoise water. She was tired of running so she stretched out in a handy hammock and watched Bill and Elizabeth frolicking in the waves. Then Elizabeth shrieked with delight and plucked something from the water. Waving it, she ran up the beach to show it to Lucy.

  It was a shell, a beautiful striated nautilus shell with a pearly lining. But while they were exclaiming over its beauty, something black and evil crawled out of the center. Lucy tried to snatch the shell away from Elizabeth, but before she could grab it the spider hopped onto Elizabeth’s hand. Lucy tried to brush it away but paused when she noticed it had a head like a woman. It was a spider with a woman’s head, with Camilla’s head. She wanted to ask Camilla what had happened, why had she turned into a spider, but before she had a chance, the Camilla spider sank two gleaming white vampire fangs into Elizabeth’s hand.

  A shriek of protest from the aged recliner chair woke Lucy, and she found herself sitting bolt upright, panting and sweating, in a hospital room. Elizabeth was in the bed, sound asleep.

  It was a dream, she realized—only a dream, and there was nothing to be afraid of. She gave her head a shake, clearing her mind of the image of spidery Camilla, and got up to check on Elizabeth. She found the girl was sleeping easily, her forehead was cool, and the bite on her hand was improving: the wound itself was healing and the swelling had gone down.

  Reassured that Elizabeth was on the road to recovery, Lucy went out to the nurse’s station where she asked for a toothbrush and the nearest ladies’ room. When she got back a middle-aged man in pale green scrubs was examining Elizabeth, who was awake and responsive. Lucy gave her a big smile and a thumbs up.

  “I’m Dr. Marchetti,” he said, shaking Lucy’s hand. “I must say I’m quite impressed by your daughter’s response to the medication. Antibiotics don’t usually have this dramatic an effect on spider bites.”

  “I’m not convinced it is a spider bite,” said Lucy.

  The doctor narrowed his eyes. “No? Why not?”

  “Well, we live in Maine, for one thing. It’s pretty cold there this time of year and you don’t see many bugs. Not any, really. Not even fleas on the dog.”

  “And I don’t remember getting bitten,” volunteered Elizabeth. “I hate spiders so I’m sure I would have noticed one on my hand.”

  “Maybe she got bitten here,” suggested the doctor as he consulted Elizabeth’s file.

  “I haven’t seen a single bug here, either, but she was exposed to the flu.” Lucy remembered the newscast. “Or what I thought was the flu. Considering the way people zip around on airplanes these days, it could be some bizarre jungle thing like monkey pox or malaria. They’re investigating.”

  “Who’s investigating what?”

  “Nadine Nelson’s death,” said Lucy, so eager to inform the doctor of this development that she failed to notice Elizabeth’s shocked expression. “It was on the TV. They said the medical examiner was investigating.”

  “And your daughter had contact with this woman? This Nadine Nelson?”

  “Oh, yes, we both did. On Monday, at Jolie magazine. It was a contest, you see, for mother–daughter winter makeovers….”

  Dr. Marchetti was
n’t listening. He was out the door.

  Elizabeth was white faced. “She died?”

  Lucy wished she’d asked to speak to the doctor privately; she’d forgotten that Nadine’s death would be shocking news to Elizabeth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have realized you couldn’t know. You were really out of things.”

  “Do I have what she had? Am I going to die?”

  Lucy gave her a hug. “Do you feel like you’re dying?”

  “No,” admitted Elizabeth. “I feel much better.”

  “Trust your body,” advised Lucy. “They don’t know what it is but the medicine is working and you’re much improved. You heard the doctor.”

  “What if I take turn for the worse?” She flopped her head over, like a rag doll, then sat up. “Actually, I think I might be dying of starvation.”

  Lucy opened the door and stuck her head in the hallway to see if there was any sign that dinner was imminent. There wasn’t.

  “I’m hungry, too,” she said. “I think I’ll go down to the cafeteria and get some provisions.”

  Remembering hospital protocol she checked at the nurse’s station to make sure Elizabeth could eat and, after getting the okay, headed straight for the cafeteria. She was putting two containers of yogurt on her tray when her cell phone rang. It was Lance.

  “How’s Elizabeth?” he asked, without even saying hello.

  “Much improved. She’s sitting up and wants something to eat.”

  “That’s great! But I think I should warn you that brown recluse spider bites are very slow to heal. She could be in the hospital for quite a while.”

  “That’s funny,” said Lucy, adding a couple of pieces of fruit. “It’s already much smaller.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. The doctor was amazed. Said antibiotics don’t usually work like that on spider bites.”

  Lance didn’t reply and Lucy took the silence to mean he was thinking. She took advantage of it to fill two paper cups with coffee, then got in line to pay the cashier.

  “You know, my research also pulled up anthrax,” he finally said.