With that thought in mind, Maggie stood up and began gathering her things. "The milk I left out in the car is probably close to freezing by now so I'd better go before a cap pops. Promise to at least think about coming over?"
"I will."
They hugged, and Maggie left after extracting a second promise that Elizabeth would call if she needed her.
Out in her car, Maggie sat quietly and thought. Making up her mind, she put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. She didn't know what good it would do, but she was at least going to try. She headed for the sheriff's office.
<><><>
John didn't look particularly happy to see her when Maggie walked in, but he greeted her politely. His deputy had ushered Maggie into John's office without questioning her on her need to see him, and Maggie wondered if that would get him a chewing out later or not. John looked harried, and Maggie realized she'd better be quick and to the point.
"I hear you're looking at Paul now in the murder investigation," she said.
John rubbed his face and folded his hands on the desk. "I'm not even going to ask where you heard that," he said.
Maggie shrugged. "It's a small town, John. People talk, rumors fly. I just want to know if that means you're not looking at Elizabeth anymore."
"There were two murders, you know. So far we have a suspect for each."
"But...." Maggie swallowed what she was going to say, knowing it would do little good. "Will you at least tell me this? I can probably get it from Elizabeth's lawyer anyway, but you can save me the trouble. What was in the bottle you found in Elizabeth's cupboard. Was it poison?"
John nodded, his face stone-like. "Oleander. An extract from the plant. The same thing that killed Jack Warwick."
It was Maggie's turn to nod now. No real surprise there. The question that still remained, as far as she was concerned, was exactly how that bottle ended up at Elizabeth's.
John's phone buzzed, and he answered it quickly, told someone he'd just be a minute, and hung up. "Did Dyna come with you?" he asked, getting to his feet.
"Dyna's gone to visit a friend in New Jersey for a couple days," Maggie said, remaining seated. "She stopped in at Atlantic City and happened to run into a few people who knew Alexander."
John sighed heavily. "Why don't you join her there. I hear it's an interesting place." He was moving toward the door, broadly signaling that the visit was ended.
"I find Cedar Hill pretty interesting. Sometimes I hear very curious things." John looked close to the end of his patience, so Maggie stood up slowly saying, "For instance, I heard a tale of the night Alexander drove into a snow bank and staggered the rest of the way home drunk. It was the night of Brenda Morgan's accident."
"Yes, I remember that. Her blood alcohol tested pretty high, and we briefly considered that she had been out drinking with Alexander. But we were able to track his movements that night and could place him far from town, and not with her, that entire night."
"Where had he been?" Maggie asked.
At that moment the door opened, and John's deputy leaned his head in, murmuring something inaudible to Maggie. John turned to her and said, "You can ask Karin for that information, if you like. But I don't think she'd appreciate the reminder, at this time, of her husband's foolishness. Now if you'll excuse me...." John held the door open for Maggie who had no choice but to exit through it.
She thanked him for his time and left, pondering some of the things he had said. He seemed to be treating the two murders as unconnected, which disturbed Maggie. She was convinced they had been committed by the same person. But how was she going to prove it?
She climbed into her car and shook her milk to see if it was still liquid. There was a definitely slushy sound to it. It was time to get it home.
With her mind running over the many things she had heard that day, Maggie pulled into the cabin's garage. She carried her groceries into the cabin, kicked off her boots in the foyer, and unpacked the bag. As she moved about the small kitchen automatically, her thoughts only partially on what she was doing, she suddenly felt a cold wetness seeping through her socks from the kitchen floor and looked down in surprise. Melted snow had puddled there.
But she hadn't walked into the kitchen with her boots, had she? Had snow dripped off her jeans? Or from her jacket? She didn't know. Maggie felt an uneasiness she couldn't explain but shrugged it off and grabbed a paper towel to mop up the water. She warned herself to keep her mind on one thing at a time, before she started walking into doors.
Or worse.
CHAPTER 23
Maggie turned over in bed. She pulled the comforter close to her head, feeling cold. In a moment she pushed it off, feeling too hot. The room was pitch dark. She wondered what time it was, but the effort of lifting her head the few inches necessary to see her travel clock on the end table seemed enormous. She felt awful.
She remembered feeling odd sometime around midnight. No, even earlier than that. There had been a queasiness as she had worked at her laptop. But it came and went, and she presumed it would eventually go away altogether. Instead, it had gradually worsened. Maggie threw back the covers and made a mad dash for the bathroom, heaving.
When she returned to the bedroom it was on rubbery legs. She felt the room spin and collapsed onto the bed. Her head pounded. Was it the flu? She had had the flu before and this felt worse. Much worse.
Her face itched. She raised one limp hand and scratched at it. Then her waist itched. Her leg. Her back. Soon Maggie was scratching uncontrollably. Until it began to hurt. She felt a wetness on her fingers and crawled over to switch on the bedside lamp. Her fingertips were red. She had scratched until she drew blood.
What was happening!
Maggie thought back to all she had eaten lately. Dinner was a pasta dish she had brought back from Leslie's. She had sampled the same dish the night before when she and Leslie had raided the party leftovers. Surely it couldn't have gone bad in the short time it sat in the cabin's refrigerator, could it?
Lunch had been Regina's casserole that she had shared with Elizabeth. Was Elizabeth sick? Should she call her?
She pulled herself to a sitting position. Dizziness rocked her and she put her head on her knees until it passed. The phone on the end table was an old Princess model. She grabbed at the receiver, putting it to her ear. No dial tone. The whirling in Maggie's head heightened her confusion and she struggled to clear it enough to think. Could Ali have pulled the jack out of the wall? She leaned to the back of the end table, pulling it out a few inches. The jack was firmly in place. But the phone was dead. Her stomach churning, Maggie thought of her cell phone. It was in her purse, downstairs, but she hadn’t been able to use it since she’d arrived. There was, however, the other land-line phone down there Could she get to it? She'd have to try.
After waiting for a wave of nausea and wooziness to pass, she stood, shakily, then staggered to the door. Maggie leaned against the door frame, breathing hard. Nearly every part of her was urging her to go back to the bed, collapse onto it, give up. But her brain told her no, don't do it! It would be so easy, but she must resist. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and she couldn't give in to it. She had to move.
Maggie eased the door open, bracing her weight on it and stepped into the hall. She flicked on the hall light, then grabbed onto the wrought-iron railing for support, following it to the staircase. Sinking to a sitting position, she eased herself down, step by step, the only way to keep from losing her balance and tumbling headfirst. Halfway down she had to stop as her head swam and eyes blurred. When it passed she continued on down.
Maggie made her way to the end table that held a lamp and phone. She nearly tipped the lamp over as she bumped into its shade, then fumbled for the switch and turned it on. Leaning heavily on the table, she reached for the phone and put the receiver to her ear. No dial tone.
Maggie sank onto the sofa. What was going on? She dragged herself forward. Her purse was on the kitchen counter with her cell phone. I
t was her last chance. If the cell didn’t work, she didn’t know what she’d do. She pushed herself up and staggered to the counter, fumbled through the purse until she found the phone. With the last vestiges of hope, she pressed the ‘on’ button, waited as it powered up and stared at the display, willing the icons to appear and tell her she had network connection. Nothing. She dropped it onto the counter and sank onto one of the stools.
The itching she had managed to ignore as she struggled down the steps flared up again. She rubbed at her skin, trying desperately to avoid scratching with her nails, and groaned. Tears sprang to her eyes. She felt so bad, so very, very bad. And she needed help. How could she get it?
The itching gradually receded, only to be replaced by severe pain in her head. Maggie leaned back against the cushion. She closed her eyes and saw flashes of light behind her eyelids. This was not the flu, she realized. And she didn't think it was spoiled food. The itching seemed to point to an allergic reaction, but not along with the other symptoms she was having.
Maggie thought, trying hard to focus over the pounding in her head. Her heart beat rapidly, and her chest rose and fell as her lungs gasped for air, trying to keep up with it. This wasn't an ordinary illness. She knew that. Her body was telling her that. But could she believe what else it was trying to tell her? Was it possible? Had she been poisoned?
The thought overwhelmed her. Maggie sat, immobile, her mind racing to find other explanations, something it could cope with. She remembered the puddle on the kitchen floor she had stepped into that afternoon. It hadn't been from her own boots. Had someone been in the cabin while she was out, poisoning the food in her refrigerator? Her hands began to shake and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead.
Nothing else made sense. She had to face it. But what had she been poisoned with? It wasn't the same thing that had been given to Jack Warwick. It wasn't Oleander. If it had been, she knew she would be dead by now. But what was it and how fast acting was it? How much time did she have to live?
Maggie clenched her hands to stillness, then wiped away the sweat. She needed to think rationally, not panic. She began to assess the situation. First: she was still conscious. Dizziness constantly threatened her, but so far she had been able to fight it back. Second: her eyes still focused. Third: she was still fairly mobile.
She had no idea how much longer these assets would last. She needed to act now. While she could. Drag herself to her car, which was locked in the garage, and drive into town. Could she do it? She had to. It could mean life or death to her.
She pulled herself off the sofa and staggered to the kitchen counter. Her keys, thankfully, sat at the end of it where she usually left them. There was no point trying to dress. What she had on, sweat pants and long-sleeved tee, would have to do. Somehow she managed to get her bare feet into her boots and pull on her jacket. She rested on one of the high stools for a minute, gathering her strength, then went to the door and pulled it open.
Maggie took one step out onto the side landing when she heard a loud crack, and something zinged into the wooden railing, sending splinters flying. She pulled herself back inside quickly. Someone had shot at her!
The shock of that sent her staggering into the foyer wall. Someone was out there, with a rifle. Had been waiting for her to try to leave the cabin. Planned to keep her inside, to die by poison. Or to shoot her if she tried to leave!
No, it couldn't be. Maggie couldn't believe it. It had to be her muddled head tricking her. Or maybe not. She had to be sure.
Maggie stumbled to the kitchen and scrambled through the kitchen drawers. She found a long spoon and stuck it into her knit cap. Pulling the door open again, which spilled light onto the landing, she poked the hat out. Another crack sounded as a bullet zinged past, this time hitting nothing. Someone was out there, keeping her hostage, waiting for her to die.
Now she had two choices: death by poison or death by a bullet. Which one did she want? She sank onto a stool, and leaned her head onto the kitchen counter. Within seconds she popped it up. Neither! She wasn't going to give up. She was going to survive this. Maggie managed a grim laugh. Or die trying.
Her mind raced, searching for answers, coming up only with questions. First question: who was out there?
Just a few hours ago, Maggie had struggled with much the same problem: who was the murderer? She had listed names, listed motives and opportunities, and come up with nothing. Or nothing that had totally convinced her. Now, however, she had one more thing, one terrible thing, to add to her knowledge of this person. This killer had become so fearful of what she had been doing, how close she was getting, and had become desperate enough to come after her in this manner. That clinched it for Maggie. Now she was sure she knew who it was.
But what was she going to do about it?
Ideas bounced around the pain in her head, too often losing their way in the muddle the poison was making of her brains. She grappled to hold onto them, trying desperately to think clearly. She had few options, she knew. With no weapons to fight back with, she had only her wits left. She had to think. She had to get out of this alive.
Maggie dragged herself off the kitchen stool. Stumbling back to the door, she shot the deadbolt, then opened the small utility closet next to the foyer, She found the circuit breaker box Dyna had shown her that first day and opened the metal cover, pulling the main breaker. The cabin immediately plunged into darkness.
She let her eyes adjust to the darkness for a moment, then, using the faint moonlight coming through the glass doors as well as her memory of cabin layout, found her way back to the circular stairway. A groan welled up from deep inside as she grasped the railing. She felt as though she were at the foot of Mount Everest. But she had to do it. Step by step, inch by inch, Maggie pulled herself up the wrought-iron staircase, abdominal pains now stabbing along with the pain reeling through her head. Her body temperature alternated between feverish and chilled, never staying at one point long enough for her to decide to throw off her jacket or zip it up. When she finally neared the top, she sat, resting her head and shoulders on the last step, gathering her strength.
The urge to sleep wrapped around her like a warm blanket, but Maggie fought it, pulling herself up by the final step. She staggered into her room, aiming for the window that faced Hadley Road and the woods beyond.
She unlocked the sash and, grunting with effort, pulled it upwards. Freezing air rushed at her, shocking her flagging senses to the alertness she needed. She sank to the floor at one side of the open window, kneeling, and took a deep breath, calling out with all the strength she could muster.
"Dan Morgan! I know you're out there!"
CHAPTER 24
Silence greeted Maggie. The absolute silence of a winter night. Maggie waited, her eyes straining to see something, anything, through the dark from the edge of the window. She turned to see the battery-powered travel clock beside the bed, the only thing in the cabin that was lit: 5:42.
Maggie thought back to when she had eaten the pasta dish. Dan must have chosen that as the most likely thing for her to eat. Or maybe he dosed everything, she didn't know. But she had worked at her laptop for several hours, not hungry after sharing Regina's casserole with Elizabeth. She remembered hoping the phone would ring with a call from Dyna. Had the line been cut by then, she wondered, since no call had come?
Keeping busy, Maggie hadn't thought of food until at least nine or ten o'clock, much later than normal for her. Had Dan expected her to be ill much sooner? How long had he been waiting out there in the cold woods, ready to force her back into the cabin?
Maggie knew now he had somehow got into the cabin yesterday, perhaps while she was at John's. Dan had left his tracks in the kitchen - the melted snow she had stepped in later and shrugged off. A major error. Talking to Annette, however, had been her first error. Unable to keep anything to herself, Annette must have passed on their conversation to Vickie, who was on her way to the restaurant to deliver the parsley, and Vickie probably told Dan what sh
e had just heard.
Why hadn't Maggie put the pieces together sooner? They had all been there, she realized now. Dyna had told her about Jack's 'womanizing" among his own employees. His hotel was named the Turtle-wick after its co-owners. Dan Morgan's restaurant in Atlantic City, Vickie told her, was the Terrapin.
Maggie would have kicked herself if she had the strength. Every Marylander knew the University of Maryland's mascot was the terrapin. A turtle. The Turtle-wick hotel would of course have a restaurant called the Terrapin. And Dan's wife helped him run it and probably was one of Jack Warwick's conquests.
Dan waited a long time to get his revenge on Jack. Maggie thought he might not even have planned it until Jack suddenly showed up in Cedar Hill. By then Brenda Morgan was dead. By Vickie's account, she had been a non-drinker, but she was killed in a high blood alcohol-related car accident. Was it an accident, or had Dan arranged it by somehow getting her drunk and putting her behind the wheel?
Maggie knew she might never know, but had Alexander known? Had he seen something on that night after his own car plowed into a snow bank and he staggered drunkenly the rest of the way home? Had he actually seen something, or had Dan only feared he had seen, and remembered, something, and therefore had to be eliminated?
Unable to forgive his wife, who, coming with Dan to Cedar Hill obviously thought she had been forgiven, Dan must have kept his anger simmering until he found the perfect time to kill her - an icy night when the bad roads, plus her intoxication, would be blamed. He might even have gotten away with it until Jack Warwick appeared, stirring up Dan's fury once more. Jack likely had no idea who Dan was, since Dan's work kept him out of sight in the kitchen most of the time. But Dan knew who Jack was, and he got his revenge.
Was making a play for Leslie part of Dan's revenge? Would that revenge have been all the sweeter if he could end up with Jack's wife and possibly his money? If so, Maggie had unknowingly thrown a wrench into that plan. Was that another reason Dan wanted her dead?
A Taste of Death (Maggie Olenski Series) Page 17
