by Nancy Martin
"Okay," I said.
"Why don't you go home tonight, pack a few things, get your life organized? Come back tomorrow afternoon, and we'll find you a bed upstairs."
"Okay."
"Get a decent night's sleep tonight." She summoned a smile. "My patients tell me they don't get much rest in the hospital."
"Thanks, Rachel," I said.
Her beeper began to squeak, but she held my hand a little longer. "Try not to worry, Nora. We'll do what we can, I promise."
Rachel went upstairs to her other, luckier patient, and I got myself dressed. It took another half hour to go through the discharge procedure, after which I felt as if I'd run a marathon in high heels. I longed for my bed. I found Emma pacing in the hall.
"Bad news?" she asked upon seeing my face.
I told her what my doctor had said and that I was to return the following day.
"That's good, right? I mean, that you haven't lost the kid yet."
"That's as good as it gets."
But Emma wasn't really listening. She nodded, but said, "Tell me about the cupcakes Libby ate."
"Why? Is she okay?"
"She's going to be fine." Emma pulled me to some seats in the waiting room. "The doctors are pumping her stomach. They think she was poisoned, all right."
"Oh, God. By the cupcakes?"
"Either that or the four cans of Diet Coke she drank or the nine rice cakes she ate this afternoon, but somehow I don't think those did it. What about you? You're sure you didn't eat any of the cake?"
"Heavens, no."
"Are there any left somewhere?"
"Yes, they're in a box on my kitchen table."
Emma jerked her head in the direction of the exam rooms. "The docs want to test them. I'll go back to the farm and—"
My brain began to function again. "Wait, I think there's part of a cupcake in Libby's coat pocket. It's in the back of the minivan."
While Emma went out to the parking lot to retrieve Libby's coat, I sat in the waiting room and thought about Verbena. Had she deliberately taken poisoned cupcakes to ChaCha to stop her from revealing something to the police? And if so, how did she imagine she could get away with such a crime?
Emma came back with a wadded-up tissue wrapped around an oozing chunk of uneaten cupcake. We looked at the lumpy mess, and Emma said, "Sit tight. I'll take this to the docs."
When she returned ten minutes later, she had a young resident in tow—the same young man who'd asked me questions about my pregnancy. He wore a long white coat with a latex glove dangling from the breast pocket and a stethoscope draped around his neck. He had introduced himself as "Tad," but his name tag read dr. singh. He carefully avoided looking at Emma's patent leather boots.
"Your sister has certainly suffered a mild poisoning," he told us as if he dealt with tainted cupcakes on a daily basis. "She has experienced a digestive disturbance that's annoying and a little scary, but not life threatening."
"What's the cause?"
"If I had to guess by the quick onset and amount of vomiting along with her current state of lethargy, I'd say it was probably something as simple as a small amount of ipecac syrup. To tell the truth, I recognize the signs because we see it a lot in bulimic teenagers."
"Libby's not bulimic."
"I didn't think so." Tad accidentally allowed his gaze to stray to Emma's collar, but he said, "People used to keep that stuff in their medicine cabinets in case of household poisoning. Nowadays, we don't recommend its use in the home, but families haven't disposed of the stuff. There's a lot of it around. It's harmless, but unpleasant."
"How soon will Libby be okay?"
"She'll be back to normal by morning. She would have recovered on her own, but we've made her more comfortable. In other words, she's going to sleep it off."
"Thank you," I said.
"We'll send the cake to a lab for assessment. In the meantime, we're required to contact the police about this matter. I know you're not feeling well yourself," he said to me, "but can you answer a few more questions for us?"
I didn't hold back. If Verbena was going around poisoning my sister, I wanted her stopped right away. I told Dr. Singh about seeing Verbena deliver the cupcakes to ChaCha Reynolds at Cupcakes earlier that day.
The doctor took notes. "Okay," he said at last, rereading his scribbled writing. "We'll keep your sister overnight. I expect she'll be just fine in the morning. Meanwhile, you should definitely go home."
"I'll take her," Emma said.
"Okay," Tad said slowly. "But it looks like you were headed someplace a lot more exciting."
"I dunno." She leaned closer and gave his latex glove a snap with her forefinger. "Looks like you have it worse."
In one of the exam rooms, Libby was snoring and barely woke when we said good-bye. Emma whisked me out of the hospital and tucked me into bed an hour later.
"You're late for work," I mumbled.
"Maybe they'll fire me," she joked from the doorway. "And maybe I'll have to start working for Pointy Fitch instead. Either way, I'll get to use the whip, right?"
In the morning, I awoke in a fog and fumbled the bedside clock off the table to discover I had slept for nearly twelve hours. I sat up and found a thermos of tea on the table along with a bowl of popcorn and a note from Emma saying she had gone to pick up Libby at the hospital and would return before noon.
Her last line read, Stay in bed!
I went into the bathroom, surprised not to be feeling as nauseated as I'd been on previous mornings. But I wondered if that was a good sign. A few minutes later, with my face washed and my teeth brushed, I climbed back into bed and opened the thermos of tea Emma had made for me. I was sipping my first cup of tea when the phone rang again.
It was Emma.
"Is Rawlins with you?" she asked without preamble.
"G'morning, Em. No. Should he be?"
"He's not here, either." She sounded distracted.
"Where, exactly, are you?"
"At Libby's place. I just brought her home from the hospital."
"How's she feeling?"
"Ecstatic. She lost four pounds yesterday. Amazing how a little poison can cheer up a person. Thing is, Rawlins isn't here. The twins were in charge of the asylum last night until Delilah showed up."
I sat up straight. "Are all the kids okay?"
"Yeah, Delilah spent the night. They ordered a bunch of pizzas and had a pig-out. Apparently, a week on Libby's diet put those kids over the edge. But Rawlins is AWOL and doesn't answer his cell phone."
"Where was he supposed to be?"
"Here. Looking after the monsters. But he walked out early last night and hasn't been heard from since. Maybe it's just as well he's gone. Libby's ready to kill him right now." I could hear Libby shouting in the background. Emma said, "Any suggestions?"
I squeezed my eyes closed to remember the name of the girl Rawlins had told me he was dating. They were scheduled to attend the Spring Fling tonight. "Shawna Greenawalt," I said. "Try calling her. I think she lives in New Hope."
"Okay." Emma hesitated. Then, "Did you see the news this morning?"
"I just woke up."
"Then this is going to rev your engine. Verbena Barnstable confessed."
I fell back against my pillow. "To poisoning Libby?"
"No. The police went to talk to her about the poison, and she started yammering how she was so angry about Clover being fired that she killed Zell Orcutt in a fit of rage."
"Verbena killed Zell?" I echoed. I fumbled through the bedclothes for the TV remote. "Why?"
"She came right out and said she murdered her stepfather."
Which meant Delilah was in the clear, I thought at once. But common sense quickly replaced that thought. "Verbena killed him because he fired Clover? But he didn't do that—ChaCha did. Em, it doesn't make sense!"
"The police took her word for it. She's in custody."
"But—why did she try to poison ChaCha?"
"To stop ChaCha from talking to
the cops, she says. She told the detective she needed time to think, so she gave ChaCha cupcakes laced with ipecac."
What secret had Verbena wanted to keep from the police investigators? Had Verbena believed ChaCha knew who Clover's father was? And why did that matter?
I said, "Okay, where is Delilah?"
"She took Keesa and went home. I think the twins creeped her out. Look," Emma said, "we're a little more concerned about Rawlins at the moment. Once we figure out where he is, I'm coming over to take you to the hospital."
"Thanks, Em," I said, full of gratitude that she was coping with all of our troubles today.
"One more thing. I left the rest of those cupcakes in your kitchen. Don't throw them away yet. The police want the rest of them."
"Gotcha."
I watched the television, waiting for some information about Verbena, but the news channels were covering the disappearance of Little Carmine Pescara. When Michael's mug shot appeared on the screen, I clicked off the set, got out of bed and puttered wanly around the bedroom, packing an overnight bag for my hospital stay and trying to make myself believe Verbena had murdered her stepfather. The mental picture of Verbena with his dead body in the herb garden was something I couldn't get out of my mind. She hadn't acted like a woman who'd just shot a man with a bow and arrow. She had been . . . afraid?
I opened my laptop computer and went online to learn more about Verbena's confession, but the news hadn't changed since Emma heard the first sketchy details. I still couldn't imagine Verbena's motive. Did Zell's death make any difference to the secret of Clover's parentage?
Mumbling to myself, I went into the bathroom and packed some toiletries into a makeup bag.
"Fine," I said to my reflection in the mirror. "If the police have arrested Verbena, she must have done it."
I had my own problems to think about.
I climbed back into bed and opened my computer again. I e-mailed my editor with the news that I was going to be out of action for a few days.
I thought I had enough material to keep the society page of the Intelligencer going until my return, and I sent it all to Stan. Some tidbits I picked up at the Kingsley's preview, a few lines about the reality show party and a few items sent to me by readers who wanted promotional mention of their upcoming events. I assured Stan someone would be able to attend the museum party on Saturday night, the high point of the week's social calendar.
After a few minutes Stan shot back his response. Thanks, he wrote. There's plenty of junk to use. Don't worry about the museum thing. Get well soon.
Junk. I stared at the word. Clearly, the newspaper believed my work had no value whatsoever.
I groaned and fell back against the pillows.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine life without my job at the newspaper. Would a temp agency even consider hiring me? With my comprehensive knowledge of social etiquette, ballroom dancing, the art of the seating chart, exactly what employer would beat a hasty path to my door to hire me?
And what about health benefits? Could an unskilled woman with a baby on the way afford to pay for doctors and still eat or pay the electric bill every month?
I began to see the compelling logic of marrying a man with a steady job.
I found myself reviewing Richard's proposal. I gave him credit for offering to raise Michael's baby. But I couldn't imagine Richard truly accepting such a child.
Lying in bed—the site of the fiasco that had been making love with Richard—I wondered if I could stand a lifetime with a man who might choose his job over his family. I had no doubt now that he always would. Richard's ambition had been very clear to me last night. He didn't want a wife. He wanted someone who could help him reach the pinnacle of his profession.
The phone rang again.
"Sorry." Emma sounded more agitated than before. Her voice brought me back to reality with a snap. "We still can't find Rawlins.
The Greenawalt girl says she was supposed to see him last night, but he didn't show up. Libby's having a cow."
In the background, I could hear that Libby's rant had turned into a wail.
Emma said, "Do you know the license number of the car Rawlins is driving?"
"N-no, I don't." I cursed myself for being stupid enough to put the keys to a powerful vehicle into the hands of a boy who wasn't even out of high school yet. Images of a car crushed into oblivion crowded into my mind.
And I thought of Carmine Pescara. Missing. Presumed dead.
I said, "Michael would know the license number."
"Call him."
"Em, I—"
"I gotta go. Libby's crying again. Call me back," she said curtly, "as soon as you get the plate number." She hung up.
I didn't want to talk to Michael. But frightened for Rawlins, I dialed a few of Michael's many phone numbers. A surly voice I didn't recognize answered one of them, and I identified myself. "I'm looking for Michael," I said.
"Who?"
"Will you have him call me, please?" I decided not to say my name over the line. I added, "It's important."
The voice on the phone didn't respond. He hung up without another word.
Five minutes later, Michael telephoned. Whatever system of communication he had organized to protect himself from surveillance, it worked beautifully. Except when semihysterical ex-girlfriends called.
In a rush, I said, "I'm sorry. I know you don't want to talk on the phone. And this line is probably bugged, so—"
"It's okay." He sounded calm, even happy. As if he'd enjoyed his first cup of coffee and was considering splurging on a big breakfast. "What's up?"
"Rawlins is missing. It's not like him to disappear like this, but—"
Amused, Michael said, "He's a sixteen-year-old boy, Nora. Let the kid have one moment of teenage rebellion."
"He was supposed to be looking after his siblings while Libby went to the—it doesn't matter. He wouldn't just walk out without— anyway, now he doesn't answer his cell phone. Do you have the license number of the car he's driving?"
"Give me a minute," Michael said. "I'll call you back."
Less than sixty seconds later, he phoned again and read me the plate number. Then, still sounding calm, he said, "Have you called the cops?"
"Do you think we should?"
"They're the fastest way to track down a vehicle. You want me to organize a search party, too?"
"Michael. . ."
I was thankful for the reassurance in his voice and wondered for an instant what kind of catastrophe might terrify him the way my missing nephew did me.
He interpreted my silence as panic and said, "Take it easy. He's probably got a flat tire somewhere. Or he's with a girl and lost track of time. Some of my guys will poke around the neighborhood. Don't worry."
"Thank you." I could barely get the words out of my tight throat.
He said, "I'll come get you now. We'll look together."
"No, there's no need for that. Don't come. Emma's got things under control, and if we call the police—Michael? Michael?"
He'd hung up.
I threw myself out of bed and headed for my closet. With the receiver in hand, I punched in Libby's number and Emma answered. I gave her the license number, and she grunted her thanks before disconnecting.
I found a pair of jeans and a pullover sweater that would cover me up sufficiently, but it was too warm to wear as long as my heart was pounding so hard, so I slipped on a camisole and carried the sweater downstairs with me.
I had to clean all the evidence of my pregnancy out of the kitchen.
On the table alongside the box of cupcakes stood Libby's collection of maternity clothes, books and videos. Emma must have looked through the dubious collection because two books lay on the table. Please Your Pregnant Partner and Yo-gasm. Both covers left no doubt about the contents of the books. I stuffed them back into their boxes and shoved them onto the cellar landing.
I had time to eat a few handfuls of leftover popcorn before I heard Michael's car in the drive
way. Then I threw on the sweater and glanced around the kitchen to make sure I had hidden any clues about my pregnancy. All clear.
I met him on the back porch, prepared to make a stand.
Chapter Sixteen
He came up the flagstone walk in jeans, boots and a leather jacket too snug to conceal a bulletproof vest. The wind blew his hair. Judging by the dark smudges beneath his eyes, I guessed he hadn't gotten much sleep lately. No rest for the wicked.
He carried a bag from a local doughnut shop.
"You shouldn't have come," I said when he reached the bottom of the porch steps.
"Rawlins showed up?"
"Not yet."
He came up the steps, giving me a look. "If I had a bunch of crazy women looking for me, I'd probably hide, too. Let's go inside where it's warm. You're shivering."
"No, I don't think that's wise."
He held up the doughnuts. "What, you're on a diet?"
"It's just better if we stay out here."
He smiled wryly. "Afraid somebody will listen to all our secrets?"
Shaken, I said, "What?"
"Is Clark Kent here?"
"No, he's not."
He reached past me and opened the door. "Inside."
I couldn't stop myself from obeying.
"I'll make coffee." He followed me into the warmth of the kitchen. "And you can tell me what you know. Any clue where the kid might have gone last night?"
"His girlfriend said he was supposed to meet her, but he never arrived."
"A girlfriend," Michael said, closing the door. "That's progress."
"Rawlins isn't as innocent as you think."
"Oh yeah? He's jaywalking now?"
"He had a brief encounter with one of the Cupcake girls."
