by Meg London
“You were a nurse.” It was more statement than question.
Rose nodded, her hair swishing back and forth against the pillowcase. “For fifty years. At the Henry County Hospital—the old one before they redid everything.” She closed her eyes for a minute. “Everything is so different now.” She plucked at the bedcovers with her bony fingers.
Emma waited quietly.
“I loved helping the babies come into the world. So much joy and happiness.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “But there was sadness, too. And babies who weren’t wanted or who were a burden.”
“I heard a story,” Emma began. “From Jessica—she used to be the administrator here.” Emma didn’t know if Rose knew that Jessica was dead, and she didn’t want to upset her. Not now, when she was so close to getting the information she needed. “She told us about a woman named Cat whose baby was stillborn. And another woman who was having her ninth or tenth child.”
Rose closed her eyes. “I told her that story.” She smiled at Emma. “It was a terribly stormy night. Not like the blizzards they get up north, of course, but enough to cause plenty of accidents when you’re not used to it. Cars were sliding off the road everywhere. The ambulance came and went, I don’t know how many times, and the emergency room staff were run off their feet. They needed all the doctors they could get their hands on, so I was left alone on the labor and delivery floor.”
She gestured toward the glass of water, and Emma hastened to bring it to her. She took a long sip.
“Fortunately the storm didn’t bring the babies out the way they normally do, and I only had two patients that night.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “There was Danny Brown’s wife, Rachel. He’s a farmer, and they already had a huge brood of children they could barely afford to keep clothed and fed. People always said the kids didn’t get their first pair of shoes until one of the older ones grew out of theirs. I do know things were rough for them.” She smiled at Emma. “A lot of people had it rough. They did their best.” She sighed. “But I do know Rachel did not want another baby.”
“And the other woman?”
“That was a completely different story. Cat’s family had plenty of money, and they were ready to welcome this long-awaited baby with loving arms. He, because it did turn out to be a boy, would inherit a considerable fortune. Quite a contrast to hand-me-down shoes.” Rose smiled ruefully.
“What happened?” Emma asked, even though she already knew the story from Jessica. She wanted to hear it in Rose’s own words.
“Cat’s baby was stillborn,” Rose said succinctly. “He looked perfect—a solid seven pounds with well-formed features and a thatch of dark hair—but no matter what we did, we couldn’t get him to breathe.” She wiped at the tear that was sliding down the side of her face. “Fortunately, Cat had been heavily drugged, her labor was long and troublesome, and she wasn’t aware of what was going on.” Rose motioned for the water glass again.
After taking a sip she continued. “Rachel had given birth moments earlier to a very healthy boy who started to cry even before he was completely out. I’d been going back and forth between the two of them all night. The doctor had been called back down to the emergency room, and I was left to clean up. It was then that I had the idea.”
Emma nodded encouragingly.
“What if we switched the babies? Why should Rachel take home a baby she didn’t want, and Cat be sent home with empty arms? Rachel had had hardly any anesthesia so I was able to talk to her right away. She agreed. We would give her baby boy to Cat.” She stopped to lick her lips again. “Cat would never know. I made up a new identification bracelet for Rachel’s son, but when I was removing his, it broke and the beads scattered all over the floor. I was frantic. I didn’t know when the doctors would come back or when Cat would awake. I had just finished when she began to stir.” Rose closed her eyes as if picturing the scene. “I’ll never forget placing that baby in Cat’s arms. I knew in that moment that I’d done the right thing.”
“So you never told her what happened?”
“No. Only Rachel and I knew the truth, and we’d sworn each other to secrecy.”
She must have seen the look on Emma’s face. “I know, you’re wondering why I told Jessica the story.” She shrugged. “I’d carried it with me for so long. Cat is dead, and so is Rachel. I didn’t see any harm in it.”
No harm, Emma thought. But Jessica had possibly been murdered because of it.
“What was Cat’s real name?” Emma bit her lip, sitting on the edge of her seat.
“Time for your pills.” A nurse bustled into the room, and Emma nearly swore out loud.
The woman took a small, pleated white paper cup from her tray and tipped the contents into Rose’s outstretched hand. Rose dutifully swallowed the pills. Emma thought the nurse would leave, but she picked up one of Rose’s frail wrists and held her finger over Rose’s pulse while she glanced at the watch on her other hand. She gently laid Rose’s hand back down on the blanket and patted it.
“Did you pick out some good books?” she asked in a cheerful voice, motioning toward Emma’s book cart.
Emma and Rose exchanged a look.
“I’m still trying to decide,” Rose said.
The nurse nodded briskly and headed toward the door. “If you need anything…” she called over her shoulder.
Finally she was gone. Emma and Rose listened to her progress down the hallway.
“I’m afraid I’ve been a terrible bore,” Rose said, her fingers plucking at the sheets again.
Emma shook her head. “Not at all. It’s a fascinating story. But you haven’t told me Cat’s real name.”
“Oh dear.” Rose turned her head this way and that on her pillow. “It’s not really my story to tell. But I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.” She gave Emma a pleading look. “Cat was short for Constance. Constance Porter.”
EMMA’S mind was reeling as she left Sunny Days. What she’d learned meant that Alfred Porter, Marjorie’s husband, wasn’t really a Porter after all. He was the son of Danny and Rachel Brown. And that meant he wasn’t the legitimate heir to the Porter fortune; his younger brother, Wyatt, was.
Would that be enough to motivate Marjorie to murder? Emma thought it would. Marjorie was extremely proud of her own background and that of her husband. Knowing that she was actually married to the son of a poor farmer might have been more than she could bear. Combined with the fact that the money would now go to Wyatt and not be passed on to her precious son, Peyton. Murdering Jessica and attempting to smother Rose was a desperate ploy to keep the story from spreading any further and the mysterious “Cat” from being identified as her mother-in-law, Constance Porter. Then when she realized Gladys Smit had seen her go out to the garden, she had to get rid of her as well.
Emma sat behind the wheel of the Bug, uncertain what to do next. Should she go to Detective Walker with the information? Would he believe her? He hadn’t shown much interest in her theories before. Perhaps she’d go home first and call Arabella and see what she thought.
Emma pulled out of the parking lot of Sunny Days and headed back to her apartment over Sweet Nothings. She remembered that her refrigerator was almost bare, so she stopped at Kroger’s to pick up a few things. By the time she got home, she couldn’t wait to call Arabella and tell her what she’d discovered.
Emma’s phone was ringing as Emma walked up the stairs to her apartment. She dumped her grocery bags down on the steps and retrieved her cell from her purse.
“Hello?”
It was Arabella.
“You won’t believe who stopped by.”
“Who?” Emma said as she fished her apartment keys out of her handbag.
“Marjorie Porter. She wants us to do another trunk show for her. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Emma froze with her hand halfway to the doorknob. “Marjorie’s there now?”
Emma tried to take a breath, but it stuck in her throat. Her aunt was alone with a vicious killer. Marjorie had kille
d two people already and had almost killed Rose. Emma didn’t doubt she would do it again.
“Why don’t I come over and we’ll all talk about it?” She tried to keep the fear out of her voice.
“Are you okay, honey? You sound sort of funny.”
“It’s probably because I’m standing in the stairwell.”
There was an extended silence that suggested Arabella didn’t believe her.
“Can you come, or are you busy?”
“I’ll be right there. I have to put my groceries away.”
“Wonderful. See you soon.” Arabella clicked off.
Emma’s hands were shaking as she opened her door. She shoved the entire bag of groceries into the refrigerator—she didn’t want to waste the time putting everything away. She had to get to Arabella’s before anything happened. She would call Detective Walker on her way over.
* * *
ARABELLA and Marjorie were sitting in Arabella’s living room, calmly drinking sweet tea, when Emma arrived, Pierre curled up contentedly at Arabella’s feet. She wondered for a moment if she’d been mistaken. Maybe Marjorie wasn’t the killer after all, and she was here at Arabella’s for a legitimate purpose. She looked so proper with her legs crossed at the ankle and tucked to the side and one of Arabella’s lacy napkins perched on her lap. Marjorie was a Porter and a Davenport, and the mayor’s wife. Was it really possible she was also a killer?
Emma edged onto the sofa, eyeing Marjorie warily. Marjorie gave Emma a smile and patted her hand.
“So glad you could come. Arabella and I have been having the most wonderful chat, haven’t we?” She smiled at Arabella.
Emma glanced at her aunt. Something was wrong. She looked slightly dazed. Was she that in awe of having Marjorie Porter in her own parlor?
“Let me pour you some tea.” Marjorie grabbed the pitcher, which was closest to her, and filled a glass for Emma. “Your aunt does make the most delicious sweet tea.”
Emma accepted the glass and took a long swallow. Her throat was parched.
“There’s cake if you’d like.” Marjorie pointed at an angel food cake sitting on a porcelain platter.
“Thanks.” Emma hadn’t eaten dinner yet, and she was hungry.
“Marjorie made the cake, and it’s absolutely lovely.”
Pierre lifted his head and gave a sniff but put it down again. He knew Arabella wasn’t going to feed him table scraps.
Emma looked up sharply. Was Arabella slurring her words? Something was dreadfully wrong. Had she had a stroke?
“We’ve been discussing the idea of another trunk show,” Marjorie said, sipping her tea delicately.
Emma tried to concentrate on Marjorie’s words, but Marjorie was fading in and out like a radio station with bad reception. What was happening to her?
“More tea?” Marjorie held the pitcher over Emma’s glass.
Emma drank the refill greedily. Maybe the tea would revive her. She put her glass down and glanced at Arabella. Her eyes were closed, and her chin was resting on her chest. She was obviously fast asleep. Emma knew that work and the scare with Francis had taken its toll, but she’d never known Arabella to fall asleep in company before.
Her own eyes were getting heavy as well. The living room was slightly stuffy. Was that making them all sleepy? She glanced at Marjorie, who looked as perky as ever. She was vaguely aware of Marjorie getting up and going into the kitchen. Perhaps she was putting the tea and cake away? Emma fought the urge to lean her head back and drift to sleep. She couldn’t imagine what had come over her and Arabella. She remembered some of the things she’d read about carbon monoxide poisoning and wondered if that was what was happening. But surely Marjorie would be affected, too.
Marjorie! Emma forced her eyes open and struggled to straighten up. This was no ordinary tea party. Marjorie was a murderer, no matter how good her manners, and Emma was now quite certain she had come here to drug her and Arabella. But why?
Marjorie came back out from the kitchen with her purse over her arm. She looked at Emma and smiled—a smile that chilled Emma to the bones.
“Feeling a little sleepy, are you?”
Emma opened her mouth but the words wouldn’t form.
“I’ve drugged your tea, and your aunt’s as well. I saved Constance’s pain pills when we cleaned out her house after she died. Thought they might come in handy someday. It was easy enough to grind them up. I added them to the tea after I’d poured my own glass.”
“Why?” Emma managed to mumble, although her tongue felt as thick as one of the porterhouse steaks in the window of the Meat Mart.
“I was at Sunny Days for a board meeting, and I noticed your car there. Missy Fanning told me you were taking around the book cart. I checked each of the floors until I found you up on four talking to Rosalind Newell. I knew then that you were going to learn the whole story.” She fiddled with the clasp on her handbag. “I imagined you would tell your aunt the news as soon as possible. Maybe you’d already called her from your car. I couldn’t take any chances.”
“So what are you going to—”
“What am I going to do?” Marjorie gave that chilling smile again. “There’s a pan of oil sitting on a burner on Arabella’s stove. It will look as if she was about to fry some chicken and got distracted.” Marjorie glanced at her watch. “In ten or fifteen minutes the oil will begin to smoke, then it will catch fire. The fire will spread and…” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t think I have to fill in the details for you, do I?”
She brushed at some invisible lint on her dress and straightened her belt. “Arabella is fast asleep, and you will be, too, soon. I wouldn’t worry too much—you’ll be overcome by the smoke long before the fire reaches the parlor.” She glanced at the gold and diamond wristwatch on her arm again. “And now I really must be going.”
“I’ve already called the police,” Emma managed to blurt out.
“Really? Why don’t I believe you?”
Emma tried to get up from her chair to stop Marjorie, but her limbs felt liquid and useless. She watched, helplessly, as Marjorie slid out the front door and closed it behind her. Arabella was still sound asleep. Emma tried to call to her, but her voice came out barely louder than a whisper. Hardly loud enough to wake someone who had been drugged. She strained to hear any outside noises. Surely the police would be here any minute. She’d tried to explain it all to the receptionist—Walker had been in a meeting and not in his office—but she’d been so frantic she was afraid she’d sounded terribly garbled. She hoped the receptionist hadn’t put her down as some kook looking for attention.
She could smell the oil on the stove now. It was getting hotter by the second. Pierre was on his feet, his nose in the air, sniffing furiously. Any minute and the pan would explode into flames. A deep sob caught in Emma’s throat. She had to do something. But first she had to shut her eyes—just for a moment. They were so heavy, and she was so tired.
Emma had no idea how much time had passed, but a cool breeze fanning her face woke her. Her eyes flew open as awareness of what had happened flooded back like the tide coming in. She could clearly smell the hot oil along with billows of smoke accompanied by the crackle of flames. She tried to move, but her limbs felt weighted down. She looked up and was surprised to see Marjorie whisk past her.
“I got halfway down the block when I remembered I’d forgotten this.” She held up the prescription bottle she’d retrieved from between Arabella’s sofa cushions. “Mustn’t leave any evidence behind for the police to find. This way the police will think Arabella had become a bit dotty, you know”—she tapped the side of her head—“and left a pan of oil on the burner, and sadly, the two of you were overcome with smoke before you could do anything.”
The thought that Arabella might be posthumously accused of carelessness roused Emma to a new level of anger. She managed to throw off her lethargy long enough to get to her feet and lurch toward Marjorie.
The air was thick with smoke, and Emma could see the or
ange glow of flames licking at the walls of the kitchen. In her drugged state, she was no match for Marjorie, but she had to try.
She swung at the older woman, but Marjorie sidestepped Emma’s punch easily enough. Pierre barked furiously and nipped at Marjorie’s ankles, but she dodged him, too.
Marjorie sighed. “You really should make it easier on yourself. Sit back down, let the drugs lull you to sleep and you’ll never know what happened.” She motioned toward Arabella, who had slid down in her chair and was sleeping soundly. “Like your aunt.” She tucked the medicine bottle into her purse. “And now, I really must be going.” Marjorie started toward the door.
Emma knew she had only a few seconds to act. She lunged at Marjorie, but the drugs had made her clumsy, and she fell heavily on top of the other woman.
Marjorie made a sound like ouf as the air was knocked out of her body by Emma’s weight. She went down heavily, striking her head on the edge of the marble mantel on her way.
Emma rolled to her side and struggled to her hands and knees. There was a sizeable gash in Marjorie’s head, her eyes were closed and she wasn’t moving. By now the room was filling with smoke, and Emma had to stay close to the ground to breathe. Adrenaline had chased away some of the effects of the drugs, and she was able to crawl to the chair where Arabella still sat, dozing peacefully, unaware of what was going on.
Emma tried waking her, but Marjorie’s potion had had more of an effect on her elderly aunt. Emma looked over her shoulder toward the kitchen where the bright orange glow had intensified, and she could see flames shooting into the hallway. It was now or never.
Emma grabbed Arabella by the ankles and pulled. She hoped that alone would wake her aunt, but it had no effect. Very gently, she pulled her aunt down until her back and head were on the seat of the chair, and her legs were sprawled indecently in front of her. Emma was stumped as to how to get her off the chair completely without banging her head. She looked around the room. Pillows! She dragged herself to the sofa and pulled one of the cushions off. Maneuvering it over to Arabella’s chair seemed like the most difficult task she had ever faced—on par with a triathlon. She managed to place the pillow at the base of the chair, then she grabbed Arabella’s ankles again and began to pull.
