by Lea Wait
—From sampler by Sarah Abbot, born March 6, 1806 in Concord, New Hampshire, and stitched in Bethel, Maine, where her family had moved, in 1823. Sarah married Timothy Capen, a farmer, had four children, and died in 1874.
Luke removed the trap, checked to see that the eggs were hard-boiled, and nodded to the rest of us.
“Ready!”
Abbie handed him a plate. He served Ted first; then he and Abbie filled the other plates.
The champagne had been in several large coolers, on ice. It was fantastic, even in plastic glasses. (“Dad never allows real glasses on the beach. If one broke, we’d be cutting our feet for years,” Abbie explained as she poured us each full cups.)
About ten minutes before we guessed the lobsters would be ready, Ted had put two pounds of butter in a paella dish on top of the tarp. By the time the lobsters and shellfish were ready to be eaten, the butter had melted. We passed the dish around, dipping our lobster claws and mussels and clams in it.
Maybe working for the food made it taste better, but everything was delicious. Even the end-of-season corn wasn’t bad. I’ll admit I put my onion and potato to the side. I planned to have a second lobster before eating my vegetables.
After all, despite the news about Ted’s health, it was a party.
Everyone seemed to feel the same way.
“I wish Harold had been able to be here,” Luke said as he broke the large claw off his lobster. “I don’t think he’s ever been to a real lobster bake.”
“On Long Island they call them clam bakes,” Michael said, slurping his champagne a bit as he tried to balance his cup and his plate.
“Doesn’t make sense. Lobsters are the stars of the meal.” Luke nodded. “But I agree. I’ve been to clam bakes on Fire Island. None as good as this, though. Maine lobsters are still the best.”
Silas and Abbie didn’t say much. But the pile of shells next to them was growing.
“Happy?” I asked Patrick.
“Happy,” he agreed. “Can’t imagine a better place, or meal, or”—he looked at me—“better company.”
The night was magical.
Some of us were starting on our second lobsters when Ted stood, spilling his plate of food onto the beach. Another toast? But he wasn’t holding his glass. He tried to say something, but he sputtered. He couldn’t talk.
We all stopped. What was wrong? He pointed at his lips, and throat. Then his face and one of his arms started twitching. Jeremy and Abbie jumped up. Abbie put her arm around her father, and Jeremy held his arm.
“Are you choking? Do you need something to drink?”
Ted kept trying to talk, but only gurgles came out of his mouth.
“Who has a phone? Call nine-one-one,” I said, remembering I’d left my phone in my car. Who’d want to be interrupted at a lobster bake?
Luckily no one else had worried about that. Almost everyone pulled out a phone. Luke got through first. “Emergency at Ted Lawrence’s home, at The Point. My father can’t talk.” He looked over at Ted. “I think he can breathe. Maybe he’s having a stroke. We’re down at the beach, but we’ll try to get him up to the house.”
Lobsters and champagne were forgotten. With Luke on one side and Abbie on the other, half carrying their father and leading the way, we all headed up the rough path toward the house. By the time we got there Ted was having trouble breathing and could barely stand.
“Is he allergic to anything?” the ambulance attendant asked as soon as the EMTs arrived.
“Not that I know of,” said Luke. “But he has lung cancer.”
“We need to get him to the hospital,” was all I heard anyone say as they strapped Ted onto a stretcher and slid him into the ambulance.
We could still hear the sirens when Sarah said, “We need to follow them. Who’s had the least to drink?”
Patrick and I were nominated as drivers. I hoped no cop would stop us for a Breathalyzer test. Abbie and Silas ended up in my car.
“Do you think the old man’s gonna make it?” Silas asked Abbie.
“I don’t know. We don’t even know what happened. He was sitting eating his dinner, and everything seemed fine. And then . . .”
“If he dies now, before he changes his will, we’ll still be okay,” Silas added.
“He was going to leave the pictures and money to me, not ‘us,’” Abbie snapped. “Don’t even think about that at a time like this.”
They were both sitting in the backseat. In the mirror I saw her elbow him and point at me.
Patrick and I wouldn’t be affected by Ted’s will, either his current one or the one he planned to write. But everyone else at the dinner tonight would be.
For Sarah’s sake, I hoped he’d be all right. At least well enough to change his beneficiaries in the way he’d planned.
He had his own reasons for leaving her his father’s paintings, and he hadn’t cut his children out. If they sold The Point, they’d each end up with a large amount of money. This house, in this location, with its history, would sell for millions.
But so might most of Robert Lawrence’s paintings.
Abbie and Silas were silent the rest of the way to Haven Harbor Hospital. I was glad. I didn’t want to hear any more about the will.
Ted was still alive. He was the important person right now, not his children, or Sarah, or Jeremy, who’d kept to himself for most of the day, but clearly hadn’t been happy.
Death should be a time for cherishing, I thought. Remembering. Not anticipating gain after death.
But, of course, I’d never been in their position. I’d only been ten when Mama disappeared. Gram might have been concerned about money then, but she wouldn’t have worried about missing out on a fortune. She would have worried about not having enough money to buy food and support me.
I pulled into the hospital parking lot in back of Patrick’s car, and my passengers jumped out and headed for the emergency room entrance. I hung back a bit. After all, I wasn’t a relative or even a close friend.
Patrick must have felt the same way. He came over and put his arms around me as we silently shared the horror of a beautiful day turned frightening.
“What do you think happened?” I said.
“I don’t know. He could have had a stroke. He kept pointing at his mouth and throat.”
“The EMT guy asked about allergies. A bad allergy could cause some of those symptoms, right?”
“Anaphylactic shock, like from a bee sting? Maybe. A friend of mine used to carry epinephrine, to inject if he were stung. He told me once when we were out camping, in case he got stung and couldn’t get the pen out in time. He said he’d have trouble breathing, and swallowing, and probably collapse.”
“That sounds like what happened to Ted,” I thought out loud.
“There were no bees on that beach, Angie.”
“Maybe he was allergic to something else.”
“Champagne? Lobster? Mussels? I’ll bet he’s had all those things hundreds of times before tonight.”
We started walking toward the emergency room entrance.
“But never when he had lung cancer. Maybe he’s on some medication, and had an interaction. Or . . .”
“Or maybe we should leave the diagnosis up to the doctors.” Patrick pushed the metal plate that opened the door automatically. “We got him here as soon as we could.”
I nodded. But had it been soon enough?
Chapter Twenty-one
“’Tis education forms
The common mind
Just as the twig is bent
The tree’s inclined.”
—Stitched by Nancy Dearborn Thomas, who was born in Brunswick, Maine, about 1816. She dated her sampler in Bath (where her family had moved) May 19, 1826. Nancy also stitched a family register. She died shortly after completing this work.
Everyone was clustered in the emergency waiting room. Sarah looked up as Patrick and I came in. “Where’ve you been?”
“In the parking lot. We thought the doctors wou
ld only want to talk to immediate family members.”
“Family.” Sarah’s eyes filled with tears. This was not the way she’d envisioned this weekend, although right now Ted’s children seemed to be accepting her presence.
“What do they say?”
“Not a lot. It’s too early. They’re focusing on allergies. They asked exactly what he’d eaten in the past six hours.”
“What everyone else ate, I assume,” I said.
“Which is what we told them. I think they’re focusing on allergies because none of the rest of us are sick.”
I nodded.
“Do they have a prognosis?” asked Patrick.
Sarah shrugged. “No one’s said anything. But I don’t think it sounds good. Luckily Jeremy knew who Ted’s oncologist in Portland was, so they’re checking with him to find out what meds Ted was taking. One of them might have caused this.” She paused. “Or interacted with the wine or champagne he was drinking. He might have been taking pain meds. I noticed he wasn’t drinking as much as some of the rest of us.”
“Then the doctors don’t think it was a stroke?” All I could think of were Ted’s slurred words.
“No one’s mentioned a stroke.” Sarah looked as though she might collapse. “I don’t know what they’re thinking. I’m just so scared.”
I took her arm and helped her over to an uncomfortable orange plastic chair that seemed to be the only seating in the waiting room.
“I think all of us could use some caffeine. Why don’t I find the hospital cafeteria and get coffee?” Before anyone could comment, Patrick left.
“We’re probably all a little high,” said Sarah. “I felt relaxed and happy on the beach. Right now I feel as though we’re in a nightmare.”
Before I could say anything else, Dr. Karen Mercer came into the waiting room. I recognized her from the last time I’d been here, only a month before. That time I’d been with Dave Percy. He was now healing well. I hoped whatever had happened to Ted, we’d be able to say the same about him a month from now.
“All of you were with Mr. Lawrence today?” Dr. Mercer said, looking around the room.
Maybe it was a slow night. No one was waiting for any other patients.
“We were,” said Luke, playing the role of eldest son. “We were all with him when he became ill, and one or more of us were with him all day. And for the past twenty-four hours,” he added.
“Good. And none of you feel nauseated? Faint? Have trouble breathing? Feel as though you can’t control some part of your body?”
Silas put a hand on his stomach.
“I don’t mean have you had too much to eat or drink,” Dr. Mercer added.
I almost smiled. We’d probably all had too much to eat, and some had had considerably too much to drink.
“You were having a lobster bake this afternoon,” she said, looking at her pad of notes. “Right?”
Several people nodded.
“You had wine and champagne to drink. Lobsters, clams, mussels, onions, and potatoes to eat. Am I right?”
“Corn, too,” added Abbie.
“Of course. And Mr. Lawrence has eaten all of those things in the past with no ill effects?”
“That’s right,” said Luke.
“Is everyone who was at the lobster bake here now?”
“Patrick West just went to get coffee for us,” I put in. “Everyone else is here.”
“Good. Because I want you all to stay here at least a couple of hours. We don’t know for sure what caused Mr. Lawrence to collapse, but I want to make sure none of you get sick.”
“What’s wrong with Dad?” Abbie said. “Don’t you know yet?”
“We’re pretty sure,” said Dr. Mercer. “We think he may have been poisoned by something he ate or drank, or by a combination of drugs and alcohol. We’re investigating all possibilities and treating him the best ways we can.”
“If it was something he ate or drank, why aren’t we all sick?” I asked.
“That’s the key question,” said Dr. Mercer. “Unfortunately, right now I don’t have a good answer for you. But I may soon. So relax, everyone, and get as comfortable as you can.”
“Can we see Dad?” asked Michael.
“He’s unconscious right now,” said Dr. Mercer. “I’d prefer that you all stay out here.”
Where the hospital can keep an eye on us, I thought to myself.
Poison? It didn’t make sense.
I suddenly thought of Trixi. She’d need food. I’d been so involved with digging out my stone wall this morning, I’d fed her, but hadn’t given her any extra before I’d left.
The stone wall. I’d found a bone under the stone wall.
This morning seemed so long ago.
I picked up my phone and called Gram. Several of my companions were also calling people. It might be a long night.
Ted’s fireworks wouldn’t be needed. We’d had our own version.
Chapter Twenty-two
“How blest the Maid whom circling Years improve
Her God the object of her warmest love
Whose useful hours successive as they glide
The book, the needle, and the pen divide.”
—Verse stitched in Eliot, Maine, by Mary Elizabeth Wentworth, born December 10, 1824, who completed it on her eleventh birthday. By 1850 she was living and teaching in Roxbury, Massachusetts. In the late 1850s she married a Baptist minister twenty-four years older than she was. Their children were born in Maryland and Kansas. By 1870 they’d moved to Red Bank, New Jersey, where Mary again taught, before they moved to Ossining, New York, where her husband worked at the prison (Sing Sing) and Mary opened her own school, the Cedar Glen Seminary for Young Ladies. It offered instruction in “all the substantial and ornamental branches.”
“Gram? I need a favor.”
“What is it, Angel? And where have you been all day? I tried to call you a couple of times earlier and you didn’t pick up. Tom and I wondered if you could usher tomorrow at church. One of our regular ushers is sick, and everyone else seems to be busy.”
“I can’t, Gram. Remember—I was going out to The Point. But now I’m in the emergency room. No! Nothing’s wrong with me! But Ted Lawrence collapsed at the lobster bake late this afternoon.”
“How is he?”
“Not good. He’s unconscious. And Gram, the worst part is the doctor says he may have been poisoned.”
“Poisoned!”
“Since we all ate the same food today, we have to stay here to make sure we’re okay.”
“How do you feel, Angel?”
“I’m fine. And so are the others—Sarah’s here, and Patrick, and Ted’s children.” I lowered my voice. “And Jeremy, who works for Ted at the gallery. Just one big happy family.”
“Have you called Dave?”
“Dave? Why should I call Dave?”
“Because if it’s a poison, he might know what it was,” said Gram. “Couldn’t hurt to ask.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t even thought of that. I’ll call him. No one else in town has a poison garden. And Gram? The reason I called? Would you go over to my house and feed Trixi? I don’t know how long I’ll be here tonight.”
“Not to worry, dear. I’ll take a little walk and give her some dinner. Don’t you worry. As long as she has food and a cozy place to sleep she’ll be fine. But do call Dave.”
“I will. Right away.”
“And when you can, let me know how Ted is. And the rest of you, if anyone else is sick.”
“I think we’ll be fine, Gram. But I’ll let you know.”
Patrick handed us each cups of bitter coffee as I finished the call. If that wouldn’t sober everyone up, nothing would.
“Any news?”
“We’ll be stuck here a while. They suspect Ted was poisoned, maybe something he ate, so we’re all guinea pigs. They’re waiting to see whether any of the rest of us get sick.”
Patrick frowned. “That’s not a good sign. But what could have been p
oisoned? We were eating fresh seafood and vegetables and excellent champagne.”
I shrugged. “Gram had a good idea. She suggested I call Dave.”
“Dave? Oh—that friend of yours with the poison garden. I’ve never met him.”
“Well, you may tonight.” I put down my coffee and called Dave. “It’s Angie. I’m at the emergency room. Dr. Mercer says Ted Lawrence may have been poisoned, and she’s holding everyone who was at a lobster bake with him this afternoon captive. Sarah’s here, too,” I added, since both Dave and Sarah were Mainely Needlepointers and worked with Gram and me. “I thought you might have some suggestions.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Short but sweet.
“Why does Dave have a poison garden?” Patrick asked. “That sounds a little . . . morbid.”
“Unusual, anyway,” I agreed. “Dave teaches high school biology, and he wants all his students to be aware of poisonous plants, and how to avoid them. So his garden is like a big science project.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
I shook my head. “The garden’s fenced in and locked, and most people in town know about it. His students think it’s pretty cool.” And he’s helped me solve a couple of murders, I thought.
We all sat, although not patiently. Luke tried to call Harold, but Harold was at the theater. It was Saturday night, and the show must go on. In the meantime Luke paced, making the rest of us nervous. Michael fell asleep. Silas and Abbie sat together, but didn’t talk, or even look at each other. Jeremy followed Patrick’s example. After we’d all finished our coffees he brought another tray of cups.
If I drank any more of that awful stuff I’d be showing symptoms of nausea.
Abbie redid her makeup, and Silas thumbed through an old issue of Sports Illustrated that was in the waiting room. Patrick and I just sat.
What was there to say?
Dave arrived a half later. I introduced him to Patrick; they’d heard about each other, and I could feel the testosterone rising as they looked each other over. Normally I’d find that amusing. Tonight I was too tired and stressed.
