Laced with Poison

by Meg London

  Just as Arabella’s head was about to slide off the chair, Emma stopped. She was running out of time. Smoke was thick in the air, and the flames were no longer contained in the kitchen but were racing down the hall toward the parlor, licking at Arabella’s floral wallpaper. Pierre was standing by the door barking furiously. She had to hurry. The drug Marjorie had given her was starting to wear off, but she was still as limp as an overcooked piece of spaghetti.

  She gave Arabella’s feet a final tug, quickly putting one hand under her aunt’s head as she slid off the chair and onto the cushion Emma had placed there. Emma managed to struggle to her feet. She gave a glance at Marjorie, who was still out cold, sprawled in the path of the onrushing flames. If she were able, she’d come back and get her, but Arabella was her first priority.

  Emma once again grabbed Arabella by the ankles and yanked. It was hardly a dignified position, but her aunt was in no condition to complain. Emma managed to get her to the front door just as an enormous explosion sounded and the kitchen windows were blown out by the heat and fire. She got Arabella onto the porch and collapsed beside her. She gave a momentary thought to Marjorie trapped inside with the flames, but the little energy she’d been able to muster had deserted her.

  Emma breathed in the fresh air, vaguely conscious of the sound of sirens in the distance. Pierre stood over her, alternately licking her face and yowling at the sounds of the approaching fire trucks and police cars.

  Emma tried to get back on her feet, but it was too difficult. She let her head drop back against the porch floor and gave in to the slumber that washed over her.

  WHEN Emma awoke she had no idea where she was. She looked around, but her surroundings were completely unfamiliar.

  “Where am I?” Her throat was parched from the smoke, and her lips felt thick and chapped.

  “We’re taking you to the Henry County Medical Center to have you looked over. You breathed in quite a bit of smoke.” The paramedic smiled down at Emma.

  Emma struggled to sit up. “Aunt Arabella. How is my aunt? I have to go to her.”

  The paramedic placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and eased her back against the gurney. “Your aunt is fine. They took her ahead of you, and she should be at the hospital by now. Her vitals were good and steady, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  Emma moved her head restlessly on the pillow. “What about Pierre?”

  The paramedic raised his eyebrows.

  “My aunt’s dog. She’d die if anything happened to him.”

  “The French bulldog? A very nice young man by the name of Brian came by. He said he’d take care of the dog. I hope that’s okay?”

  “Yes, that’s fine.” It was so like Brian to show up when he was needed. The thought helped to still some of the shaking that had seized hold of her, and she lay back against the pillows and tried to relax. Everything was going to be okay.

  Arabella’s house! Memory was flooding back, and Emma recalled the flames inching their way out of the kitchen and down the hall.

  “My aunt’s house!”

  Once again the paramedic urged her to lay back and relax. “The firemen are working on it now. She will definitely need a new kitchen, but I heard the chief say they would be able to save the rest of the structure. A few more minutes and the fire would have been in the timbers. They got there in the nick of time.”

  The ambulance pulled into the emergency bay at the Henry County Medical Center, and Emma was whisked out and into the emergency room. Doctors and nurses hovered over her, taking vitals, drawing blood and performing various other tests.

  “You’re very lucky.” A young doctor with unkempt dark hair looked at Emma over the top of his clipboard. “You’ve survived without any significant damage.” He leaned forward and examined a cut on Emma’s arm. “Just a scrape. I’ll have the nurse clean it and put a bandage on it.”

  “What about my aunt?” Emma started to swing her legs over the side of the bed.

  “Whoa.” The doctor put out a hand. “Not so fast. I gather your aunt is the woman who was brought in right ahead of you? I’ll check.”

  He stuck his head out of the cubicle and conferred with someone in the cubicle opposite.

  “Your aunt said to tell you she’s fine.” He gave Emma a big grin.

  She sank back against the pillows in relief. As long as Arabella was okay, nothing else mattered.

  Emma had barely settled back in bed when another thought struck. “What about Marjorie?” She twisted the sheet between her hands. “She was in the house with us. She fell and hit her head.”

  The doctor frowned. “I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to check with the police when you get out.” He tapped Emma on the shoulder. “Now, I’ll get a nurse to see to that gash on your arm.”

  No sooner had the doctor exited than the cubicle curtain was swept aside again and Detective Walker poked his head inside.

  “Okay if I come in?”

  Emma pulled the sheet up to her chin. “Sure.”

  Walker perched on the edge of the plastic chair and pulled a notebook from his pocket. He shook his head at Emma. “I thought you told me you were done detecting?”

  “I…I…”

  “It’s a good thing you called me and left that message. Although at first, everyone thought it was some kind of joke.”

  “I was really shaken up…I…”

  Walker held up a hand. “Perfectly understandable. Fortunately we were still able to get there in time.” He glanced around the emergency room cubicle. “We’re trying to put some facts together on the fire at your aunt’s house.” He glanced at his feet and cleared his throat delicately. “Marjorie Porter was found dead in Arabella’s parlor. There was a large wound in the side of her head.”

  Poor Marjorie, Emma thought for a fleeting moment before remembering that Marjorie had murdered two people in cold blood.

  Emma explained, somewhat incoherently, she was sure, about Marjorie, the murders, the pot of oil on the stove and subsequent fire. Walker’s face was bland throughout her recital, but she could sense his incredulity.

  He snapped his notebook shut. “All this will have to be looked into, of course.”

  “Of course.” Emma went limp. She may have solved the murders to her satisfaction, but not, obviously, to Detective Walker’s.

  A nurse bustled in with discharge papers. “Doctor says you’re fine to go.” She handed Emma a sheaf of computer-generated pages. “Here are some things you need to look for after you get home.”

  Emma promised to read them over carefully.

  “Can I give you a lift?” Walker asked hopefully.

  “Thanks, but I’ve already called a friend.”

  Walker nodded and slipped out the door.

  As soon as Emma was dressed, she headed to Arabella’s cubicle, where they were getting ready to move her to a room.

  “It’s only a precaution,” the doctor said, tucking his clipboard under his arm. “We’d like to keep her under observation for twenty-four hours, then she’ll be released.”

  Arabella insisted she’d be fine, and Emma gratefully headed toward the hospital exit. The events of the evening were beginning to take their toll, and she ached from head to toe. Her throat was still raspy, and her chest felt tight, the way it does when you’re coming down with bronchitis. She thought perhaps a hot bath would help.

  Emma had called Sylvia before leaving the emergency room, and she was waiting in her ancient Cadillac outside the front portico of the hospital. Emma got in, buckled up securely and mentally made the sign of the cross as Sylvia eased off the brake and pulled away from the curb.

  “I talked to Eloise Montgomery,” Sylvia said as she pulled onto the street. “She used to work at the Toggery before she retired and moved to Sunny Days. She’s willing to help out at the store while your aunt is out of commission.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Emma leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes as Sylvia missed sideswiping a
parked car.

  “She’s coming in tomorrow so you can take a day off and rest up. Quite the adventure you had.” Sylvia sounded slightly wistful. Emma was glad Sylvia hadn’t been there as well. She wouldn’t have wanted to have to drag both of them out of Arabella’s burning house.

  Sylvia dropped Emma off in front of Sweet Nothings. As Sylvia pulled away, Emma waved good-bye and then gratefully climbed the stairs to her apartment. Her clothes reeked of smoke, and she dropped them straight into the hamper while she ran a hot bath and added a glug of scented bubble bath.

  Emma groaned as she sank into the warm, deep water. She put her head back and allowed her eyes to close. When she woke, the water was barely lukewarm. She shivered slightly as she wrapped up in her robe and put on her slippers.

  She was opening the refrigerator when she heard scratching on her door. She stopped and listened. It sounded like a dog. Before she could move, the bell rang.

  Emma glanced at the clock. Nearly ten o’clock.

  Emma pulled her robe tighter around her and peered through the peephole. It was Brian! She glanced toward her bedroom, but there was no time to change. She pulled open the door, knowing her face was turning pink.

  Brian didn’t seem fazed by her unusual attire. Nor was Pierre, who greeted Emma as if it had been months since they’d seen each other instead of mere hours. He danced around her one final time then dashed off to explore the rest of the apartment.

  “I stopped by the hospital, and they said you’d already been released. I needed to check on you with my own eyes.”

  Emma felt a warm glow at Brian’s words. She bent down and scratched Pierre who had returned from his explorations.

  “Pierre seemed so down in the dumps, I thought maybe he would be happier staying with you. I hope that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine.” Pierre had flipped onto his back, and Emma rubbed his rather round stomach. “I’ve got some cold lemonade if you’d like.”

  “Sounds great.” Brian made himself at home on the couch.

  Emma was glad to escape to the kitchen briefly to get control of herself. She glanced longingly toward her bedroom and the closet. If only she weren’t trapped in her ancient bathrobe! She carried the pitcher of cold lemonade and two glasses out to the living room where she set them on the coffee table. She took a seat next to Brian and poured them each a glass.

  “Delicious,” Brian declared after his first sip. He looked at Emma thoughtfully over the rim of his glass.

  “I wanted to tell you about my visit with Amy.” Brian put his glass down on the coffee table and swiveled toward Emma.

  “Oh,” Emma said in a very small voice.

  “We talked”—he scowled—“and I made sure she understood that it was over between us.” He looked down at his hands. “I told her there was someone else. I hope that’s the case.”

  Emma smiled, unable to say much of anything.

  Brian turned toward Emma “You smell delicious,” he said as he leaned closer.

  “Bubble bath,” Emma mumbled as he put his lips over hers.

  * * *

  SEVERAL days later, Emma opened the front door to Sweet Nothings and was surprised to see Arabella already there, behind the counter organizing stock with Sylvia.

  She hurried toward her aunt. “Aunt Arabella! Should you be back already?”

  Arabella waved a hand. “Oh, pooh. I’m absolutely fine, and I couldn’t stand to rest another single minute. You have no idea what horrors daytime television subjects one to.” She looked around Sweet Nothings and smiled. “I couldn’t wait to get back behind the counter.”

  Emma gave Arabella a hug. “I’m so glad you’re back. Sylvia and I missed you, didn’t we?”

  “We sure did.”

  Emma could have sworn she saw the glint of tears in Sylvia’s eyes.

  “What I really hated is having missed all the drama and gossip that must have been swirling around town while I was stuck at home watching stupid reality shows that couldn’t hold a candle to the real thing.” Arabella tucked her purse behind the counter.

  “Well, the Porter influence has helped to smooth things over, as you can guess, so things haven’t been quite as dramatic as they might have been.”

  Arabella snorted. “That and the fact that Alfred is mayor. Of course it was Marjorie everyone was afraid of, not her husband.”

  “But Detective Walker is still investigating,” Emma said. “Her car has been impounded, and there was a large dent in the right front fender. Marjorie had left it locked in the garage and was driving one of their other cars. Tests will most likely show she was the one who hit Gladys Smit that night. I don’t know if they will ever prove that she added the foxglove flower to Jessica’s cupcake, but they know she set that fire in your kitchen.”

  “My poor kitchen!”

  “How are you managing?”

  “So far okay, but I haven’t told you my exciting news.” Arabella blushed pinkly.

  “Oh?”

  “Francis has been temporarily assigned to an investigation in Paris. He’s rented a charming little cottage.” Arabella looked up at Emma, her eyes wide. “I will have my own room, dear. Don’t worry.”

  Emma laughed. “Of course you will.”

  Sylvia snorted and winked at Emma but didn’t say anything.

  “And my house should be fully repaired by the time his lease is up.” Arabella looked slightly sad at the thought. “I wonder what will happen to old man Porter’s money now that they know Alfred isn’t really a Porter.”

  “I imagine it will give the lawyers something to fight over for the next couple of decades.”

  “Yes, they’ll be the ones who really gain from it, I should imagine.”

  Emma opened the cash register and took out the old receipt tape, which was now showing a pink stripe down the center, and although it matched the décor at Sweet Nothings, it meant that the roll was about up.

  “I think it’s time for a change, don’t you?” Arabella was looking at one of the mannequins.

  “Maybe the pale green Olga,” Sylvia suggested. “We’ve had it in stock for quite a while. Maybe it’s time we gave it a push.”

  Arabella was rummaging in the armoire when Pierre levitated from his dog bed and attacked the front door furiously.

  “What on earth?” Arabella turned toward Emma.

  Emma shrugged. “Delivery, maybe?”

  “Not expecting anything, are we?” Sylvia pulled the tape measure from the drawer and hung it around her neck like a stethoscope.

  “Pierre, that’s enough,” Arabella scolded. “He seems more excited than alarmed.”

  A knock on the door sent Pierre into fresh fits of barking.

  Emma opened the door cautiously. “Yes?”

  Mr. Zimmerman from across the street was standing on the mat. He didn’t have his dachshund Bertha with him, but he was holding a cardboard box from which emanated tiny squeaks and squeals.

  “Bertha had her puppies.” His face softened. “I know what I said, but they’ve turned out to be adorable little things.”

  He put the box down on the floor, and Emma, Arabella and Sylvia crowded around. The seething mass of puppy bodies inside the box moved as one.

  “Small litter,” Zimmerman said. “She had three, and I’m keeping one. The one with the black-and-white ears.” He picked up one of the puppies by the scruff and held it up for them to see. “Looks like his daddy no matter what you think.”

  Pierre preened proudly.

  “He certainly does,” exclaimed Arabella, leveling a stern look at Pierre.

  “Any of you ladies want the other two? I’d hate to see them go to strangers.”

  Emma looked at the two remaining puppies while marveling at Zimmerman’s change of heart. Each puppy was a strange amalgamation of different parts from Pierre and Bertha that somehow had ended up creating an adorable combination.

  She lifted the female from the box and held her close. The puppy nuzzled Emma’s neck then burro
wed close and drifted off to sleep.

  Without thinking Emma burst out with, “I’ll take this one.”

  Zimmerman’s face lifted in a smile, completely transforming his normally dour countenance.

  “I kind of like this little guy.” Sylvia held the other puppy up to her face and rubbed her cheek on its soft, silken fur.

  “It’s settled, then.” Zimmerman eased the pup with the black-and-white ears back in the box.

  “Looks like we’ve got ourselves some puppies,” Sylvia said as the door closed behind Zimmerman.

  “And Pierre is a father.” Arabella gave the dog a slightly softer look.

  There was another knock on the door.

  “What now?” Arabella said.

  Emma opened the door to find Brian standing there.

  “I just stopped by on my way to the hardware store to see how you ladies are—” He glanced at the puppies cavorting around while Pierre watched complacently from his dog bed. “Good heavens, what do you have here?”

  Emma laughed and explained about Pierre’s romantic exploits.

  “Which one is yours?”

  Emma picked up the female pup. “This one.”

  “She’s beautiful. Pierre, you rascal.” Brian shook a playful finger at the French bulldog. He stroked the puppy’s soft fur gently. “What are you going to name her?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve always loved the name Grace.”

  Brian cocked his head to one side and regarded the puppy. “I don’t know.” He looked at Emma and smiled and the dimple in his right cheek deepened. “What if we have a daughter someday and want to call her Grace? Maybe we should save that name?”

  Emma felt heat flame into her face. “Oh…yes…maybe…you’re right,” she mumbled incoherently before Brian stopped her by putting his lips over hers.

  Emma was too wrapped up to notice that Sylvia and Arabella had discreetly slipped from the room.

  She relaxed in Brian’s arms as the puppy licked the end of her nose. The future was suddenly looking very bright.