When Secrets Die

by Lynn S. Hightower

  Franklin was not against knowledge. Knowledge was power. Knowledge would help him protect Emma and Blaine, would let him puzzle out what had actually happened to Emma’s dead son, and would let him build an arsenal with which to annihilate the attentions of the Commonwealth Attorney’s Office, Child Protective Services, and the accusing finger of Dr. Theodore Tundridge.

  He took a bite of steak and egg. The omelet was about the size of a deflated football, and it tasted wonderful.

  Tundridge had been very cooperative. Franklin had made it clear that he was not asking for Ned Marsden’s medical records for any official investigation. Of course, Franklin had sort of buried this request by asking for the records of all children who had died of liver failure or complications in the last ten years. Tundridge, in the spirit of one researcher to another researcher not in direct competition for funds or fame, had been happy to comply, assuming that Franklin had been compiling some kind of mortality trends or records. Franklin had not said one way or another, but had agreed to credit Tundridge for his work should there be any publications involved.

  This sort of cooperation was generous in an age when most researchers guarded their results and patented their work. Tundridge really did come across as a man who was genuinely concerned about liver function in children, and he had been rather excited by Franklin’s interest, no doubt envisioning the gateway to lucrative government grants.

  Still. A doctor who had provided bad medical care to a patient would not be so willing to fork over the information, even in the good-old-boy, dog-eat-dog world of medical research. Which meant that Tundridge did not think he had anything to hide.

  It begged the question of his little basement laboratory, and the tissues and body parts he’d preserved in formalin with only the vaguest consent from his patients. Tundridge, if Franklin read him correctly, was dedicated to his work, and arrogant enough to think he had the right to do whatever he deemed reasonable to get results.

  Dangerous thinking, and utterly common.

  And he’d missed the cause of death.

  Ned Marsden had died of aflatoxicosis—poisoning due to the ingestion of aflatoxins, presumably in contaminated food. Aflatoxins were the metabolites of the fungus Aspergillus flavus, resulting in mycotoxins produced by fungi. Toxic mold, in other words.

  Aflatoxins were not uncommon—found in corn, beans, nuts. A problem for farmers, who had to take care that their livestock feed did not get contaminated and moldy and therefore become toxic to their animals. There were various tests one could perform with black lights, or by sending samples off to labs. Pretty simple really, and most farmers could test on their own. The problem was the sample. Stored corn, for instance—you get a sample from one spot, and it comes up clean, only to find that dead center is a literal hive of toxicity.

  There were lesions on little Ned’s tiny liver, and from his medical records and blood work, done over a period of six months, it looked like the child had been exposed several times. Emma had given him the food diaries she’d kept, but he had yet to go through them. He’d do that this afternoon. Thank God she’d kept them. Either advertently or inadvertently, the child had been exposed to toxins, which had gradually weakened his liver and overwhelmed his immune system—he was such a little guy, after all. The last exposure had swamped the boat and taken him under.

  Franklin thought about how he would give this news to Emma, and to Blaine, because he knew, just from the time he had spent with his two girls, that although there was a great deal of tension between them, there was a great deal of love too. They were closer than they realized. And they had both loved Ned very much, and suffered over his illness and his death. Blaine already knew too much to be left out of the information flow. She would know something was up, and possibly imagine worse things from secret whispered conversations than she would from actually facing the facts.

  He had a high opinion of Blaine. He had to remind himself sometimes that he’d never been a parent, because he had a great deal of confidence when dealing with her. There had been a definite rapport after that first dinner. Blaine was highly intelligent and deep in her heart very kind, but she masked it sometimes just like Franklin did. He knew it was crucial to let her keep that mask up, and always assumed the best regarding her behavior. And in truth, though Blaine was very hard on Emma, she was almost always very good to him. He loved taking her bowling, the way she concentrated and never got mad when she wasn’t good at something. He loved her very offbeat sense of humor, and he loved the way she had let him right into the family, so that when the three of them were together, he never felt like an outsider. To a man who had been an outsider all of his life, it was a pretty amazing feeling.

  Emma had asked him, several days ago, if he was looking to have children of his own someday. He had answered immediately and honestly without even stopping to think. He had told her that any man who had two females in his life like Emma and Blaine would hardly need anything more. It had taken her aback, his honesty, and the way he’d made it clear how he was feeling about the two of them, but she had recovered quickly, and laughed at him, and said, “What about Wally?” And he’d squeezed her hand and said, “Wally, too. But we might have to get a cat.”

  He hadn’t seen Blaine eavesdropping, so either she had been, because he knew she did sometimes, or Emma had told her what he’d said, because after that night she had started dropping hints about getting a kitten. He thought he might like to surprise her with one. Put it in a little basket with a bow and bring it home to her. He could just see the smile on her face. It gave him such a feeling, to know that he could put a smile on that little girl’s face, he, Franklin, who had never been married and never been a father.

  He wouldn’t be putting a smile on her face tonight. But in the long run, it was for the best, and he’d make sure to use the knowledge to protect them. The thought of anyone else taking the smile off the face of either Emma or Blaine stirred a slow but enveloping anger, and an urge to protect that he had never known he had.

  LENA

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I had just lit a small cigarillo when I stood on Emma Marsden’s porch and rang the bell. Nothing happened. I didn’t hear it ring either, and decided it probably wasn’t working, so I knocked. There was a turquoise Nova in the driveway, kind of junky and banged-up. It had a vanity license plate that read “LPN.” The promised Amaryllis Burton from the Tundridge Children’s Clinic, I presumed.

  The front door was opened with a kind of slow deliberation that left me tapping my foot, and it wasn’t Emma Marsden at the door. The woman who stood behind the glass gave me a toothy smile that was sharklike. She looked past me into the driveway, and the smile went one-sided.

  “So you’re the lady detective.”

  I can think of almost no greeting more likely to piss me off. If I blew smoke in her face, it could easily pass as an accident.

  “I guess you better come in,” she said, as I walked past her and into the house. “You’ll have to excuse me for answering the door, but Emma isn’t feeling all that well.”

  There was a smugness behind the words. An implication that she and Emma were very close and that like any intimate of the family, she had the run of the house, whereas I was merely a guest, and one who was as welcome as Christmas decorations the day after Halloween.

  Emma herself was curled up on the couch, with a large golden retriever taking up three-quarters of the cushion space, head on her feet, kind of holding her down. She tried to shove the dog off her feet, which looked about as easy as moving a hippo with a nudge, and I shook my head.

  “Don’t get up, Emma. I have it on good authority that you’re sick.”

  She did look sick. Pale and exhausted, but whether it was illness or general stress was hard to tell.

  “Don’t be silly, I’m fine. I just put on a pot of coffee, it should be ready. Let me get you a cup.”

  I sat in a blond cherry rocking chair right across from her, and she pulled her feet out from under the d
og, who had barked once when I came through the door, but now just wagged a tail.

  I got back up just for a second to pet the dog, who grinned widely and licked the back of my wrist, then began to snuffle my hand more closely.

  I pulled away and sat back down. “She smells my cat.”

  I wondered why people always feel the need to explain what animals find interesting. Maynard would inspect me closely over this dog smell when I got home, and if Joel was there, I’d probably explain the dog smell to him. If he wasn’t there, I would no doubt explain it to Maynard himself, who would already know.

  “Everybody want coffee?” Amaryllis said, and headed without permission back to what I presumed was the kitchen.

  Emma was already on her feet. “No, Amaryllis, I’ll get it.”

  But she was ignored, and she shrugged and rolled her eyes and sat back down.

  “You okay over there?” I asked.

  She waved a hand. “No biggie. Just sick last night, and it always wipes me out the next day. I don’t know what it is. I think I have an ulcer or something.”

  She looked like she had an ulcer or something.

  She smoothed the loose white shirt over her jeans. She had no makeup on, and her hair was pinned on top of her head with some kind of comb. She was barefooted, and her toenails were painted a sort of khaki beige, an interesting color, and she wore a silver toe ring. I liked the way it looked. It made me want to go out and get a toe ring of my own. I was always last to get in on these sorts of trends.

  “Where’s the cream?” Amaryllis said, her voice high-pitched, and raised to be heard all over the house. There was a loud sound of cabinets slamming.

  Emma grimaced, and I got the feeling she did not like the other woman wandering through her kitchen.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and headed toward the noises.

  I looked at the dog, who looked back at me.

  Amaryllis appeared back in the living room, looking a bit startled to see me in the rocking chair, which let me know that was where she had been sitting. She turned to glare at the dog.

  “Down.”

  The dog panted but smiled at her; definitely friendly.

  “Down.” Amaryllis Burton shrugged and looked back at me. “If one is going to keep pets, they should be disciplined, don’t you think?”

  I wondered if she was asking me. I decided not to have an opinion. She coughed a little, so I put the cigarillo out in an ashtray that was thick with ashes and two cigar butts. I wondered who’d been smoking with Emma.

  Amaryllis sat on the edge of the couch not occupied by the dog, which I found odd, since there was a chair free. I committed the social breach of staring at Amaryllis Burton, since she was staring at me. It felt a little childish, and I could hear myself explaining, But she did it first.

  She had an oddly self-aware quality, and faint little baby-blond hair that was long and wispy around her square and solid face. There was a thickness about her that had nothing to do with the extra forty pounds she carried.

  Note to self, Lena. You are really a bitch.

  Her eyes were ever so slightly crossed, either from a physical deformity or a personal habit of self-focus. Her nose seemed prone to run; no doubt she had allergies. She wore a beige ribbed sweater, short-sleeved and stretched just a bit shapeless, as if it were a personal favorite she wore more than she ought. It gave her a sort of bland look, a fashion statement that said “vanilla yogurt,” fat-free with aspartame and lots of nasty unnatural toxic additives.

  Her hair was long, and she wore it in a thick braid that hung to her waist, and she had bangs neatly cut across her forehead. I tend not to trust women with bangs.

  Her arms were covered in fine blond hair and there was a large mole on her left elbow. Much bigger than the ones on her neck and face.

  “So you’re the detective,” she said, squinting her eyes and letting her voice go ever so baby soft.

  I was only vaguely aware that there was music playing, turned way down. It sounded like Etta James, but it was hard to tell, because the volume was so low.

  I could not put my finger on exactly what it was about Amaryllis Burton that irritated me so much, but the look she gave me, the smile suspiciously sweet, said she sensed my animosity and returned it in full. I got the sudden impression that she was jealous—that Emma Marsden was her friend and her personal project, and I was poaching on claimed territory.

  This sort of person annoys the ever-living shit out of me.

  “Has Emma told you everything? Because someone like you, someone who has never had a child to love or given birth, you can’t really come along and understand, if you know what I mean.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  My answer puzzled her.

  Emma walked in holding a bright, hand-painted tray that read “SALSA!” and made me think she threw fun parties. There were coffee cups on the tray, and a little pewter pitcher with cream, and a sugar bowl, red enamel.

  “Well, this is very fancy,” Amaryllis said. I couldn’t tell from her tone of voice whether or not she approved.

  I took the coffee and loaded it down with cream, grateful that it wasn’t the powdered stuff that I hate. Amaryllis took a cup and gave her shark smile.

  “Usually I drink tea. No, no sugar, I don’t take refined sugar, so bad for you.”

  “Smoke?” I asked, opening my little packet of Al Capone rum-dipped slims.

  Her eyes went wide. “I have allergies,” she told me.

  “No doubt,” I said, but I did put the cigarillos away.

  I saw that Emma was trying not to grin. She set the tray down on an antique table that looked like it cost thousands, though she was as casual about it as most people were about plastic. If she thought it odd that Amaryllis was perched uneasily in her place by the dog, she didn’t show it. She was gracious in a way that reminded me of my older sister, who used to entertain in her modest little starter home as if she was in one of the drawing rooms of the Biltmore. Like my sister, Emma had the knack of making people feel at home and genuinely welcome. If she served beer in bottles, nobody would mind, whereas if I did it, my ex-husband made comments.

  Emma sat down in a ladder-backed chair with an embroidered cushion that looked scuffed and worn enough to be an actual antique. Wally immediately jumped down from the couch and settled at her feet, jogging Amaryllis’s arm with her tail and sloshing coffee into the woman’s lap.

  “Well, really now, Wally,” Amaryllis said, with a small hostile laugh.

  Emma handed her a napkin. “Sorry, Amaryllis. She’s a very bad dog.”

  “She’s not so bad,” Amaryllis said, then glanced over at me, as if she had suddenly remembered her earlier comments on badly disciplined pets.

  I decided not to smile or be friendly. This woman and I were already off on the wrong foot anyway.

  Amaryllis looked sadly at Emma. “I’ve been trying to explain to the lady detective here what it’s like to lose a child.”

  Emma frowned. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced you. Lena, this is Amaryllis Burton, from the clinic. Amaryllis, this is Lena Padget. Like I told you on the phone, Lena asked if you could talk to us a little about the clinic, and the staff, just so we get an idea what we’re up against.”

  “I appreciate your time,” I said.

  Amaryllis Burton put her coffee cup on the floor, still full of coffee, and placed her hands in her lap. “It’s okay. I worked a double shift yesterday, just so I could take some time today.”

  I raised an eyebrow. We were meeting at three o’clock on her suggestion, as I understood it, but maybe Emma had set the time.

  “Amaryllis, I’m sorry,” Emma said. “We could have met after work. I didn’t even think.”

  “Oh, no, that’s okay. I want to help, Emma.” Amaryllis looked across at me. “When you’ve been through the kind of things that Emma and I have been through, well … you learn how important it is to be a good friend.” She looked over at Emma
and smiled. “Sometimes it’s the only way to survive. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Emma.”

  It was odd, watching this exchange. Emma just smiled, grateful and a little uncomfortable, and seemed to be totally oblivious to the notion I had that Amaryllis Burton disliked her with studied intensity. Which didn’t make sense, on the surface, but on the other hand, maybe Amaryllis was loyal to Dr. Tundridge and had something of an agenda.

  “You worked a double shift yesterday?” I said. Because I hadn’t seen her at the clinic, and I wondered what hours she’d worked.

  “Seven to seven. Makes for a long day. I usually do ten to three.”

  “I see.” I hadn’t noticed her. Maybe she was tucked away in a back office. “What exactly do you do, there at the clinic?”

  “Me?” She pressed a hand to her bosom.

  “She does just about everything,” Emma said. “Answers the phones, puts together the gift baskets, counsels patients—”

  “I’m an LPN,” Amaryllis Burton said stiffly.

  “I didn’t know that,” Emma said. “I didn’t realize you were part of the nursing staff.”

  “I got away from the clinical side of nursing when I had my son,” Amaryllis said. She looked at me. “I had had miscarriages. So when my son was born, I knew just how precious he was, and I didn’t want to work then. I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. I suppose you think that’s boring.”

  I didn’t answer, and she didn’t notice.

  “My son died of liver disease, just like Emma’s little Ned. Dr. Tundridge treated him. It just devastated me … well, it’s nothing someone like you could understand. But this sort of thing, this kind of deep, deep tragedy, it changes a woman. A mother. And I wanted … I just went into a deep, deep decline—”

  I blinked, but stayed quiet, wondering if she’d actually said “decline.” Kind of like the old southern relatives of mine who “took to their beds.”