by Linda Lovely
“Think we’re better off saying goodnight in your Prius than my truck,” he hinted. I didn’t argue. His kisses were too seductive, and I suspected that sooner or later the truck’s intervening gear shift was bound to injure one of us.
When I finally pulled away, my clothes were askew but still attached to my body. Like me, they were holding on by a thread. Paint had a knack for making seams want to unravel.
Cashew woke as I tiptoed to my room. Her unblinking gaze accused me of abandonment. I’d been gone for hours, which I assumed had to equate to months in dog years. Never mind that Eva petted Cashew and snuck her extra treats during even my shortest absences. When I climbed in bed, Cashew hopped on the quilt to join me. She never could hold a grudge.
“Sleep fast,” I told her. “Dawn’s right around the corner.”
Which is exactly how it seemed when my alarm trilled at five a.m. Shivering, I rolled out of bed. The Arctic wave that had descended on South Carolina hadn’t waved goodbye. I pulled on wool socks, jeans, and a sweatshirt. Barely seemed enough clothes to dart to the bathroom. I’d add a wool cap, gloves, and a heavy jacket before venturing outside.
Eva greeted me as I exited the bathroom. “Figured you could use a cup of coffee before the chores. What time did you get home anyway? I got up to pee at one a.m. and Cashew was still in her doggie bed. Knew you weren’t home.”
“Thanks for the coffee.” An involuntary full-body shiver-quiver gripped me as my fingers wrapped around the steaming hot mug. “Paint and I went to Greenville and visited one of his old college friends. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all later.”
“You meeting Dr. Swihart today?”
I nodded. “Her office at eleven. No place to park nearby so I’ll leave my car at my folks’ house and walk. Gives me a chance to check on Mom.”
I didn’t bother to knock, just yoo-hooed before I turned the knob. Good, my parents had started locking their front door. I fished out my key and walked inside. Dad taught a Friday morning class, and Mom usually left for her office by seven a.m. Though it was now ten thirty, I figured Mom’s bout of food poisoning might have encouraged a late departure.
My yoo-hoo was a courtesy. Didn’t want to startle her.
“Come in,” Mom called. “We’re in the kitchen.”
We? Was Dad home, too?
The kitchen table hosted Mom, Ursula, and Amber. If I’d noticed Ursula’s rental on the street, I’d have made a more polite entry than my here-I-come barge-in.
“Sorry to interrupt. Figured Mom would be home alone. Just popped in to say hi or, if no one was here, leave a note. I parked out front. Impossible to find a spot on campus so I figured I’d leave the car here and hoof it to Dr. Swihart’s office.”
Amber stood. “Mind if I come along? Call it professional curiosity. Iris told us the professor’s trying to pinpoint why one luncheon guest died while the others had moderate or no symptoms.”
“Sure, you’re welcome to join the party,” I replied. “Maybe you’ll have some suggestions of your own once we hear what she’s discovered. But we need to leave pronto. It’ll take at least ten minutes to walk to her office, and I have the impression Dr. Swihart penciled me into a small window between classes.”
Mom waved her hand. “Go on. It’ll be noon when you get back. I have plenty of options in the refrigerator. You two can fill us in over lunch.”
Amber and I set off at a brisk pace. “I am curious about the professor’s theories,” she began, “but I also wanted a chance for us to talk in private.”
She turned toward me, head cocked. Was she looking for my reaction?
“Ursula told you she planned to finally spill the beans and let me know Lawrence Toomey was my biological father, right?”
I nodded. “I figured Ursula broke the news during your garden outing.” Why did it feel like I was treading on quicksand?
Amber managed a fleeting smile. “Actually it wasn’t news—though I pretended it was. I solved the last half of my parental mystery two months ago. Sent my DNA to a private lab that analyzes it and gives you a genealogical history. You know, 50 percent Irish, 30 percent German, etc. I then entered my DNA in another database that looks for matches with distant—or not-so-distant—relatives who’ve also signed into the database. That’s how I learned Ruth Toomey was my half-sister.”
My feet stuttered to a complete stop.
Great Gouda!
My mouth gaped open Amber had blindsided me. “Didn’t see that one coming. Did you contact your half-sister?”
“Yes.” Amber tugged her sweater jacket a little tighter. “I’m cautious. Guess it’s my profession. Didn’t want to leave digital crumbs for some hacker to track. I used another officer’s computer terminal to do my research on Ruth. Found out pretty quickly that her father—our father—was being considered for the Supreme Court.
“Ruth’s a physician’s assistant, engaged to a lawyer with grandiose political ambitions. After I managed to track down her cell phone number, I used a burner phone to contact her. We’ve talked a few times, but I’ve never met her in person.”
“Why all the cloak-and-dagger precautions?” I asked.
“Seemed prudent to be discreet what with Toomey’s nomination and her fiancé’s ambitions. I wanted to reassure Ruth I had no plans to make our relationship public.”
“Was she upset to learn she had a half sister?”
“Didn’t appear to be.” Amber shrugged. “Said she always wanted siblings. But Ruth begged me to keep our relationship secret. She didn’t voice concern about political fallout for her father. She was worried about her mother—Toomey’s wife. Ruth described Esther as emotionally fragile. Said she feared her mom would have a nervous breakdown or spiral deeper into a clinical depression if she learned her husband had fathered a bastard while she was pregnant. Ruth and I had both done the math. I was conceived a few months after the Toomey’s’ shotgun wedding.”
We stopped at a crosswalk. I was tongue-tied. Hadn’t a clue what to say.
“Which way?” Amber asked.
“Left.” We started walking again. “So Ruth believes Ursula and her father had an affair at law school?” I finally asked. “She has no idea it was date rape?”
I stole a glance at Amber. She stared straight ahead. Her stoic profile gave no hint of her emotions.
“I didn’t know Toomey took advantage of Ursula—basically raped her—until yesterday,” Amber said. “Still trying to wrap my mind around that bombshell. Don’t know whether it’s good or bad that my job has given me context. Every day I come in contact with bad men who’ve spawned good children. At least I don’t have some hang-up about being a bad seed.”
She paused. “Ursula’s definitely telling the truth. She confided in your mother right after it happened. I totally get why Ursula wants to prevent Toomey’s confirmation. He shouldn’t be a Supreme Court Justice. That would be wrong, very wrong. But announcing to the world why he’s unfit could ruin the lives of lots of innocent people. Have unintended consequences.”
“Would it be painful for you?”
She nodded. “It would hurt my adoptive parents as well as Ruth, her fiancé, and Mrs. Toomey. They’d all suffer even though they did nothing wrong.”
“So how did you leave things with Ursula?”
“For the sake of everyone it would impact, I told Ursula I’d prefer to avoid the publicity. But I gave my blessing on trying to use the facts of my birth to bluff Toomey. She hopes to meet him privately with your mother along as legal counsel. They’ll lay out irrefutable evidence of his infidelity—my DNA and date of birth. If he agrees to withdraw his name from nomination, Ursula will agree to keep the whole sordid mess secret.”
“Isn’t that blackmail?” I was shocked my mother was party to the plan. It seemed a close cousin to Harriett’s offer of silence in exchange for Matt Hill’s money.
&
nbsp; Amber frowned. “I guess you could view it that way. Imagine our mothers prefer to see it as a confidentiality agreement, an exchange of items of value. We’ve heard plenty lately about men asking women to sign confidentiality agreements.”
“Does Ursula think he’ll cave?”
“She’s not sure.” Amber placed a hand on my arm. “This morning Ursula and Iris are putting the finishing touches on a legal agreement that says the facts surrounding my conception will never be made public if Toomey withdraws.”
“What about Ruth?” I asked. “Would you ever tell her about the date rape?”
“I doubt it. I’d like to meet Ruth in person. Maybe I can convince her to talk to her father. Let him know she’s aware of his infidelity. Maybe she can exert some extra pressure on her father to withdraw for the family’s sake.”
She paused. “I think if I told Ruth all the gory details it might tip her the other way. I can imagine how hard it might be for her to accept Ursula’s version of events. That doubt might make her protective of her dad and less likely to help.”
Amber reached over and wrapped a hand around my arm. “That’s why I wanted a word with you, Brie. I’d like you to act as my go-between and set up an in-person meeting.”
I was unable to stifle my nervous laugh.
“Why on earth do you need a go-between? You’ve been talking to Ruth on the phone. Just call her and tell her you’d like to meet.”
Amber shook her head. “Not an option. Ruth doesn’t answer her phone any more when I call on the burner, even though she’s answered that number before and knows it’s me.”
“What do you think’s changed?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe Ruth told her fiancé or her father about our conversations and they forbade further contact. That’s where you come in.”
“I’m a poor choice. I met Ruth one time. We nodded. Didn’t exchange so much as a hello. Ruth’s grandparents—Pastor and Jeannie Nickles—think I’m a goat-loving witch and, oh, yes, a murderer. They’re picketing Udderly Kidding Dairy because they believe I killed Harriett Quinn and possibly Karen Vincent, both members of their True Believer flock. I have serious doubts that Ruth would answer a call from me.”
“I agree. My bet is she’s blocking calls from all unknown numbers. That’s why you need to bump into her in person.” Amber grinned. “Maybe you’re not the ideal choice, but there’s no one else I can ask. Ruth lives in Greenville, not Ardon County or Clemson. You won’t have to run a True Believers’ gauntlet or knock on Lawrence Toomey’s door to arrange an ‘accidental’ encounter.”
She fished in her pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I’m giving you Ruth’s home and work addresses.”
I frowned. “If you know her schedule, why don’t you accidentally bump into Ruth? I still can’t see why you need me.”
“If people are around when I approach, she might suspect I’m pulling something—that a photographer or reporter was about to jump out of the bushes. Then there’s the fiancé. If he’s the one who demanded Ruth sever contact with me, she might be afraid of being seen together in public. In either case, she’s likely to run for the hills before I can explain why I want to talk.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Don’t you think you should tell Ursula and her legal counsel—my mother—that Ruth knows you’re half-sisters? Maybe they can suggest a better way to approach her.”
Experience had taught me that keeping secrets from loved ones only upped the odds of disaster. Mom was intimately involved in the situation. That made me even more reluctant to go on a secret mission that kept her in the dark.
Amber shook her head. “I promise we’ll tell Ursula and your mother as soon as I manage to meet Ruth.” She squeezed my hand. “Please. We’re only talking a delay of a day or two. I’m not sure Ursula can separate her loathing of Toomey from feelings about his legitimate daughter. Let me appeal to Ruth as a sister. We’ve both been dumped in the middle of this mess through no fault of our own. It’s the right approach. I’m positive.”
Negative was the word that best described my feelings. I’d hoped to keep contact with any members of the Toomey-Nickles clan to a zero. This outreach was akin to sticking my hand in a fire ant hill.
“All right, I’ll try.”
THIRTY-ONE
We didn’t speak again until Dr. Swihart answered my knock. “Come in. Door’s open.” I quickly introduced Detective Amber Royer as a friend of Judge Billings.
Dr. Swihart stayed seated in her office chair, a large swivel number that looked comfy enough for naps. In lieu of handshakes, she motioned us to two chairs across from her desk.
“Sit, sit, both of you. I only have time for a short synopsis of my research into drug overdoses and interactions. While there are hundreds, I narrowed the possibilities to ones that best fit your luncheon scenario.
“First I catalogued the symptoms experienced by non-fatal victims…”
I flinched at her choice of the term “victims” to describe my luncheon guests. The toxicologist must have noticed my reaction. She paused a second before relaunching her dissertation.
Dr. Swihart held up five fingers. “I had no symptoms, and Della’s were minimal.” She curled two fingers down. “Judge Billings, Bert Rider, and Iris Hooker suffered varying combinations of nausea, abdominal pain, tachycardia and hypophosphatemia.” She lowered the remaining three fingers on her hand.
“Tachycardia…hypo whatever? What do those terms mean?” I interrupted.
“Fast heart rate and muscle dysfunction caused by low phosphorous.” Dr. Swihart pursed her lips and treated Amber and me to her best professorial glower. “Please hold your questions until I finish. That will save time and allow me to keep my train of thought.”
I meekly nodded. Her manner made me regress to lowly undergraduate peon.
“I searched for drugs that might cause these non-fatal symptoms if people overdosed. Then I narrowed that list based on how difficult it would be to lay one’s hands on the drugs.
“One likely culprit was theophylline, a drug used to treat respiratory diseases, including COPD and asthma. While it’s a prescription drug, it’s common and relatively easy to acquire. Someone could steal it from a medicine supply cabinet in almost any nursing home or hospital. Or it could be ordered by mail easily with a fake prescription.”
Dr. Swihart’s triumphant tone made me wonder if we were supposed to applaud.
She tapped a pencil on the fat leather-bound volume flopped open on her desk. “I then checked to see if an interaction between theophylline and some ordinary drug could prove fatal, the answer was absolutely.” She smiled. “Cimetidine is the main ingredient in a popular over-the-counter heartburn remedy. An overdose of theophylline combined with cimetidine can induce seizures and precipitous drops in blood pressure. The combination could easily have caused Harriett’s death.”
Unable to sit quietly any longer, Amber broke in. “Did you find evidence of theophylline in the urine or blood samples taken from Ursula and Iris?”
Dr. Swihart frowned. “I was getting to that. Theophylline was present in both samples. I’ve already informed the hospital and the police that I believe this combination is the proximate cause of the Quinn girl’s death.”
“How much theophylline would it take to kill someone and make the other luncheon guests sick?” I asked.
“Assuming it was stirred into your chocolate mousse, the poisoner would have needed to grind up enough pills to yield six or seven teaspoons. Probably a thirty-day pill supply would be adequate. A sweet dessert would hide the theophylline’s somewhat bitter taste.”
Amber’s teeth worried her lip as she thought. “Wish we knew if Harriett regularly took cimetidine.”
Dr. Swihart shifted in her chair. “Without the Quinn girl’s autopsy samples to test, I can’t prove Harriett ingested either of these drugs. Until independent lab tests are pe
rformed on samples from the Quinn girl, all I have is a theory of the crime.”
The professor just had to add that phrase—“theory of the crime”.
It was fact, not theory that Harriett died because she ate food I prepared. The fact that a combination of medicines may have caused her death didn’t take me off the suspect hook. The True Believers would insist I knew Harriett took an over-the-counter digestive aid. They’d say I intentionally stirred theophylline into the mousse to kill her.
Still the knowledge was helpful. Now if we could only deduce who her killer might be. Who had a burning desire to murder Harriett? How did the poisoner know she took cimetidine, and how had he or she accessed the prescription drug? The murderer also had to be savvy enough to mask the drug’s bitter taste. Otherwise Harriett might have taken one taste and put her spoon down.
My mind was whirring when Dr. Swihart stood. Meeting over.
“I can’t begin to thank you,” I said. “It’s a relief knowing Harriet didn’t die as a result of how I prepared the food.”
The professor raised an eyebrow. “If I were you, I’d look at suspects with some medical knowledge and access. I’m not sure someone without medical training would choose this murder methodology. As one of the luncheon guests I’m happy the killer was content to just make the rest of the people at Harriett’s table sick. He—or she—could have used arsenic or curare. That would have killed us all.”
As we walked back across campus, Amber proved eager to share her thoughts. “Heartburn isn’t exactly an uncommon complaint. And people often mention it when they’re out in public, trying to decide if it’s worth the risk to order that spicy entrée. I know. I take omeprazole, a proton-pump inhibitor, to control my reflux.”
Her admission surprised me. “Doesn’t reflux usually bother older folks?”
Amber shrugged. “In my case, it’s probably a hazard of the job. Stress, poor diet.” She smiled. “You do know us cops eat our weight in donuts.”
