* * *
Sunday morning, Lucy went into the big walk-in closet and got out her walking shoes. She couldn’t bear it. She had to leave the house or she’d go stark raving mad. She was beginning to regret the agreement she’d made with Puckett, which was harebrained at best. The man was a moron. She took off her robe and was pulling on her sweats when Burt stuck his head in. “So, how about Sunday brunch? I thought you could rustle up some bacon, eggs, and toast.”
“I was just going for a walk.”
“Come on. Indulge me. It’ll be just like the old days. I’ll walk with you afterward. How’s that for a deal?”
She shoved her feet down into her running shoes and laced them, then followed him down the stairs. His proposal was the first nice thing he’d come up with in recent memory. Eggs must be safe. Surely, Puckett hadn’t used osmosis to get poison through the shells. She didn’t give him credit for the imagination it would take to inject a dose into the hermetically sealed package of bacon they’d had for a month. She made a pot of coffee. She poured Burt a glass of orange juice while he sanitized his hands and downed his echinacea. For once, his fussiness seemed more eccentric than annoying. She had quirks that probably annoyed him no end. She cooked his bacon, eggs, and toast. She opened a jar of his favorite strawberry jam and spooned it into a dish.
She put his plate in front of him, and then sat across the table watching as he read the Sunday paper and wolfed down his meal without saying a word. He was still in his robe and pajamas. He didn’t shave on Sundays so he was disheveled—unusual for him.
He looked up, noticing for the first time she wasn’t joining him. “You’re not having anything?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Something wrong with you? You’ve hardly touched a bite since you’ve been home.”
“I haven’t been feeling well. My digestion’s off. I’ll fix something for myself later on.”
He wiped his mouth and crumpled the paper napkin as he pushed his plate aside. “You picked up a bug. I hear some parasites can live in your guts for life. I warned you about that. You better have the doc run some tests.”
Lucy took his dirty dishes and put them in the sink. She ran water, but she couldn’t bring herself to add detergent, which might be the agent Puckett had selected to deliver the you-know-what. On second thought, she added detergent. No danger there. Puckett must have known Burt had never washed a dish in his life. Behind her, she heard him snicker. She assumed he was reading the funnies, but when she turned she saw him looking at her with barely suppressed mirth. She turned off the water. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” he said solemnly, and then cracked up again. “No, wait. This is rich. This is killing me. Maybe it’s time to end your misery.”
“Misery?”
It took him a minute to compose himself. Finally, he took out a handkerchief and mopped his eyes. “Whew. I didn’t mean to lose it there. I just couldn’t help myself. This past Friday, I ran into a pal of yours, who said to tell you hello.”
“Oh? And who was that?”
“A fellow named Puckett. He says the two of you had a meeting before you left town.” Burt was making an effort to keep a straight face.
Lucy frowned. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.” She leaned her backside against the counter and crossed her arms, keeping her distance from him. “How do you know him?”
“He was referred by one of the other attorneys in the firm. I said I needed a little job done and his name came up.”
“What sort of job?”
Burt left her hanging for a moment while a smile played across his lips. “Let’s put our cards on the table for a change, okay? Just this once.”
“Fine. Go ahead. I’m fascinated.” In truth, she felt a touch of uneasiness settle in her gut.
“I knew you were up to something so I paid this guy Puckett five thousand bucks to steal your purse and hand it over to me. You might have noticed the cash withdrawal when you were snooping in my desk.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I was curious why you were so engrossed in that journal of yours. Every time I turned around, you were scribbling away.”
“That’s how I’m able to stay organized. You know how I am.”
“Come on, Luce. I read it from beginning to end. You were planning to have me iced. Puckett spilled the beans about the deal you made.”
“Burt, I’d never heard of this Puckett fellow until you mentioned him just now.”
“Get off it. The cat is officially out of the bag. He left the key under the doormat like he said he would. When you got home from the cruise, you thought I was dead. I watched you creep around the house with me ten steps behind. You should have seen the look on your face when you turned around and spotted me. You screamed like you’d seen a ghost.”
Lucy smiled politely. The joke was always on her. She wanted to protest, but she couldn’t see the point.
“You want to know how I survived?” He began to laugh again, so tickled with himself he started to snort. “The guy’s an actor. He does improv. There isn’t any poison. That was all bullshit.” On he went, chortling to himself while she stared, her smile fading. “Sorry, but I got such a kick out of watching you this past week. You were so worried about poison you wouldn’t sit down on the toilet seat. You had to squat to pee.”
Lucy faltered. “An actor?”
“Get a clue. With all that phony lingo, you didn’t pick up on it? Nobody talks that way. I told him to play it straight, but he insisted. Guess he fooled you anyway, huh.”
“Oh, Burt. It’s not funny.”
“You know what your problem is? You have no sense of humor. God, you’re gullible. It really cracks me up. Hook, line, and sinker, you swallowed every bit of it.”
She turned back to the sink and washed his plate. Her hands shook badly and as she moved the plate to the draining rack, it slipped out of her hand and shattered on the floor.
“Goddamn it!” She leaned her hands on the counter. “Jesus, Burt. You should have told me before.”
“Well, you don’t have to get mad. It was a prank, okay?”
She returned to the breakfast table and sat down. “There’s something I have to confess.”
“Great. I’m all ears.”
Lucy put a trembling hand against her lips, then placed it palm down on the table. “You know how particular I am, how I hate to delegate...”
“Jesus, you’re telling me? You’re a pain in the ass.”
“I wasn’t sure I could trust Puckett so I came up with a backup plan...”
“What’s wrong with electrocution? Drop a radio in the bathtub. I liked that.”
She leaned forward, clasping his hands in hers. “Don’t make jokes. We’re in serious trouble here. I thought you were having an affair.”
“Nah. The bimbo? I dropped her.”
Lucy studied his face with a worried gaze. “But you told Laird you wanted to rewrite your will.”
“Yours, too. It’s been ten years since we signed those things. You think our financial situation hasn’t changed?”
“Why didn’t you tell me? You should have said something at the time.”
“Gee, sorry. I didn’t realize it was such a big deal.”
Lucy sank to her knees beside him. “Listen. You have to trust me. We need to get you to a hospital...”
“What for?”
“You need medical attention.”
“No, I don’t. Are you kidding?”
She shook her head, her voice barely audible. “When I was in Goa the last day on shore, we took a tour of a castor bean processing plant. There’s a poison called ricin that’s made from the leftover waste. I bought some on the street.”
“Ricin? Perfect. I never heard of it.”
“I’d never heard of it eithe
r so I did a bit of research as soon as I got home. Do you remember that Bulgarian journalist who died in London after he was jabbed in the leg by an umbrella tip?”
“Sure. He turned out to be a spy, offed by the other side.”
“Ricin was what killed him. A puncture wound is just one way of delivering a fatal dose. You can also dissolve it in liquid or add it to food. If the ricin’s inhaled, it takes longer, maybe twelve hours or so before the symptoms appear. After that, it’s quick.”
He rolled his hand to hurry her along, as though she were telling a joke and he was impatient for the punch line.
“I’m sorry. Honestly. I planned on leaving the house early, but then you insisted on breakfast and I realized I’d made a mistake. If we can get to the ER, you still have a chance.”
He reared back in disbelief. “I can’t go anywhere. I’m in my robe.”
“You’re not hearing me. I’m trying to help you.”
Burt studied her, picking up the word she’d used a couple of sentences before. “What do you mean, if it’s inhaled? What’s that got to do with it?”
“Don’t you remember? Last night you asked if the pollen count was high. I said yes and you went straight to the medicine cabinet and took your inhaler out. You sniffed five or six times. I could hear you from the bedroom, even with the TV on.”
He tried to laugh, and then stopped. “Seriously. You put poison in my inhaler?”
Lucy wouldn’t meet his gaze. “How was I supposed to know you and Puckett were in cahoots? He said he’d take care of it. I was only being thorough in case he didn’t follow through.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Shit. You’re an idiot. I knew you wouldn’t take my word for it so I got on the internet and printed out the information from the CDC.” She got up and crossed to the planning center, where she took a folded paper from her Day-timer. She flattened it on the table and pushed it over to him.
“You’re lying. I feel fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Let’s hope. This doesn’t really specify how much poison you have to use so maybe you’re okay.”
Burt’s face began to flush as his eyes traced the lines of print. It was clear her message had sunk home as he was now short of breath. “For god’s sake, quit yammering and dial 9-1-1.”
“I can get you to the ER quicker if we take my car. You can read that on the way.”
She went to the hall closet and pulled out a coat that she handed him as she passed him. She grabbed her handbag and her car keys and opened the door to the garage.
“I hope you know what you’re talking about. I go traipsing in there when nothing’s wrong, I’ll look like an idiot.”
“Oh, believe me. There’s something wrong with you.”
She activated the garage door and slipped into her Mercedes on the driver’s side. Burt paused to close the kitchen door behind him. He’d pulled the coat on over his pajamas and he was buttoning it in haste. She started the car, revving the engine in frustration. “Jesus, would you get in!”
He let himself into the car on the passenger side, the information from the CDC in hand. Perspiration had appeared on his face like a fine mist. He lifted one shoulder, using his coat sleeve to dab at the sheen. His fingers made damp spots on the paper. He glanced down at it. “Symptom number two—excessive sweating.” His look full of pleading. “But why would you do this to me?”
Lucy eased through the traffic light at the intersection, and then hit the freeway on-ramp and floored it. “You set this in motion. It wasn’t me. Laird told me you were going to change your will. This was all I could think to do. It’s only two more exits.”
“What if I don’t make it? You’ll end up in jail. They’ll run a toxicology report. Don’t you know they test for shit like this?”
Lucy changed lanes abruptly, causing Burt to brace himself against the dashboard. He yelped as the vehicle next to them swerved just in time. “Christ! Slow down. You’re going to kill us. Not that you’d care.”
“Would you stop blaming me? I told you I didn’t meant to do it.”
“Suppose you never told me. Suppose I just died. How’d you expect to get away with it?”
Lucy’s tone was reluctant. “Ricin’s unusual. I knew it wouldn’t show up on a routine screening panel. Anyway, why would it even occur to them? With your history of hypertension, I figured it would look like a heart attack.”
“Jesus, Luce. What else do I have to look forward to?” His gaze dropped back to the page. “After the heavy sweating and the respiratory distress, the victim develops a blue cast to the skin.” He tilted the rearview mirror so he could see himself. “I’m not blue. Do I look blue to you?”
She glanced at him quickly. “Not that much, really. You’re not in pain?”
“No.”
“Good. That’s a good sign. I think we’re okay. When we get there, I’ll tell them...well, I don’t know what I’ll tell them, but I’ll make sure you get the antidote.”
“What a pal.” He placed a hand against his shoulder and massaged his arm. His breathing was heavy and had a raspy sound. “I don’t know how to say this but something’s going on. Feels like I got an elephant sitting on my chest.”
“Burt, I’m so sorry. I know it was horrible, but you really gave me no choice.” She looked at him. Sweat trickled down his face, soaking his shirt collar. Two wide half-moons of dampness had appeared underneath his arms.
He began to pack his pockets. “Where’s my cell phone? I’ll call and tell ’em that we’re on our way.”
“Your cell phone? Puckett said I should put it on vibrate and throw it in the trash.”
He was gasping. He swallowed hard, his gaze turning inward as he struggled with the urge to heave. He used his handkerchief to mop his face. He leaned heavily against the car door, his breathing labored. “Pull over here, I’m going to be sick.”
“Hang on. Just hang on. We’re almost there.”
“Open the window...”
She fumbled for the window control on her side and lowered the window, as grateful as he was for the chilly stream of fresh air.
“Luce...” He held out his left hand.
She reached across the front seat, grabbed his hand, and then quickly released it. “You’re all clammy,” she said with distaste. Burt was fading before her very eyes.
By the time she pulled into the receiving area at the ER, he was breathing his last. She parked under the ER overhang, prepared, in a moment, to honk her horn, summoning help.
Burt was slumped against the car door. Lucy watched the light drain out of his face.
“Burt?”
Burt was beyond hearing. He gasped once in agony, and then ceased to breathe.
She glanced up as the doors swung open, and a doctor and two orderlies emerged at a dead run. She leaned closer. “Hey, Burt? Talk about gullible—try this on for size. You can’t buy ricin in Goa or anywhere else. You did it to yourself, you freakin’ hypochondriac.”
By the time the orderlies snatched open the car door, she was sobbing inconsolably.
* * *
TEN YEARS ON
BY LAURIE R. KING
April 1925, Sussex
A turbaned Sikh with a full beard is an impressive sight, particularly when the gentleman in question takes up most of one’s doorway.
“Sat sri a—” I caught myself: Why give a friendly greeting to an invader? “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what do you want?”
Looking back, I was probably more abrupt than he’d been expecting. I was also considerably more female and far less burdened by years. But then, he wasn’t what I’d expected to find in my doorway at that hour, either. And considering my degree of irritability that particular day, when an anniversary hadn’t gone exactly as I had intended, he was fortunate I hadn’t greeted him with a bucket of thrown water. Or a s
hotgun.
My morning’s vexation, already present when I first opened my eyes, had been compounded by my belated discovery of an article in the previous day’s paper. I’d spent the day driving down from Oxford via London, reaching Sussex too bleary-eyed for newsprint. By the time I saw the offending story, the sun was up and it was too late to make my escape.
It was a familiar problem, set off every time a paper, local or national, let drop a suggestion of where Sherlock Holmes was to be found. Would-be clients emerged from the crevices like wood lice on a wet day. And the case in the article had involved an aristocratic family, which only made matters worse.
The first fist on the door caught me spreading butter on my breakfast toast. At the second, I was dripping onto the bath mat. My impatience at this, the day’s third intruder, might have made a lesser man take a step back, but the Sikhs are a race of warriors, and this one was not about to be driven off by an apparently unarmed English female, not without a fight. “Madam, I have come in search of the detective.”
“You and half of Sussex.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You want a detective? Well, you’ve found one. What can I do for you?”
The dark eyes studied me with care, as if to confirm that despite my short hair and trousers, I was not in fact a male of the species. I waited for his expression to become patronising, or simply confused. Instead, he surprised me by plunging his hand into the canvas messenger pouch slung over his shoulder and pulling out a folded piece of paper, which he held out for me to take.
It was a rough hand-drawn map: the dip and curve of coastline, a squiggle of river, the line of the coastal road from Seaford to Eastbourne, a loop of lesser road around Beachy Head, and an X for our small villa.
No names, no words on the page.
“Yes, that’s us. But my husband isn’t home. Neither is the housekeeper, who’s gone up to Lewes for the day, so I get to answer the door. And because I didn’t know that accursed article was coming out, I didn’t even keep my farm manager here to wield the dogs. Oh Lord.” I’d just spotted another pair of figures past his sturdy shoulders, turning down the drive from the road.
Deadly Anniversaries Page 3
