Healing Waters

by Nancy Rue

  “People seldom do. More than likely, someone else did it for him. Someone who had access to him or something he ingested. Unfortunately, any food you had on the plane was destroyed in the fire.”

  More rustling paper.

  “I have a warrant to search the premises for any household products containing cyanide—rat poison, for instance, or a pesticide you would use to kill ants.”

  “We don’t have anything like that here.”

  “I don’t imagine you do a lot of pest control, Ms. Cabot, so I’m not sure you’d know that.”

  “Are you accusing my gardener?”

  “We’re not accusing anyone.”

  I could imagine Agent Schmacker’s eyes dropping at the corners.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying what I’ve been saying to you, Ms. Cabot. Your plane crash was not accidental, and we need to find out why. I don’t think I can do that without your help.”

  Sonia didn’t answer.

  “Ms. Cabot, are you all right?”

  I could hear Schmacker’s alarm.

  “What’s going on?” I called up to her. I looked around wildly for a way to get to the upper deck and again found none.

  “It’s okay, Lucia,” Sonia said, though she was clearly less than okay. “I think it’s just too hot out here.”

  Ya think? Burn patients can’t handle heat.

  “Get her inside,” I barked at Agent Schmacker. “Now.”

  I bolted for the inside door, tore up another set of stairs, and found myself in a kitchen. Francesca, Georgia, and three other women in various stages of anorexia looked up from counters covered in casseroles.

  “Well, hey, Lucia,” somebody said.

  “How do I get to the deck?” I said, and then ignored the answer as I careened across the floor toward the sound of voices—Deidre Schmacker’s and Sonia’s and more.

  When I reached them, a tall, long-limbed man was carrying Sonia across a palatial living room, with Roxanne on one side and Marnie on the other. Deidre Schmacker led the way, cell phone in hand.

  “Should I call 911?” she said to me.

  “No!” Sonia said from the tall man’s arms. “Sully, you can put me down.”

  “So you can fall on your face?”

  The man winced briefly at his own faux pas and hitched Sonia up tighter. “Are you in charge here?” he said to me.

  “Yes, she is,” Marnie said.

  “Then where do you want this?”

  The man—Sully, Sonia had called him—smiled a wide, almost sloppy grin. Brown eyes seemed to be trying to sparkle at me.

  “In her bedroom,” I said, “wherever that is.”

  “Does this place have a navigation system?” he said.

  Marnie giggled, and Roxanne laughed—louder than she needed to, in my opinion—and Sonia pointed a weak arm to the left.

  “You don’t need an ambulance, then?” Deidre Schmacker said to me.

  I shook my head as I followed the mob. “And if you don’t need Sonia any more today . . .”

  “No, but we will be searching—”

  “I heard,” I said.

  She nodded. “I’ll call her. We’re not done.”

  I was about to be. I left Agent Schmacker to find her own way to the cyanide and bolted after Sonia.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sully carried a protesting Sonia to a hospital bed that looked grossly out of place amid the heavy gold décor of the suite little Miss Thing led them to.

  The girl, whom Sonia referred to as Marnie, looked so exhausted, she probably talked incessantly just to keep herself awake. Dark circles under her eyes and two vertical lines that dug into the skin between her brows made her look, up close, like a stressed-out thirty-year-old, though she couldn’t have been more than twenty-two.

  In spite of her nonstop directions, however, he was sure the woman in black he’d seen on their arrival was the one heading up this operation.

  Sully stopped beside the bed. “This where you want it?” he said to her.

  Woman in Black nodded.

  “Just put me on the chaise longue,” Sonia said.

  Sully grinned and deposited her on the bed. “I’m not arguing with the Boss Lady.” He put out his hand to the woman. “Sullivan Crisp,” he said.

  The palm she put into his, with obvious reluctance, was damp, and she pulled it away as quickly as manners would allow. Blue, very blue, eyes failed to meet his as she said in a low, husky voice, “I’m Lucia Coffey.”

  “You’ve never met my sister, Sully?” Sonia said.

  Sister? He’d heard Sonia talk about recovering from the grief of her mother’s death and the pain of being estranged from her father, all of which she claimed God had healed her from in abundant ways, but he’d never heard her mention a sibling. Evidently the sister had caused Sonia no suffering worth mentioning.

  “We have to get you cooled down,” the mysterious sister said in a clipped Mid-Atlantic accent decidedly different from Sonia’s Southern drawl. “Marnie, could you get some water, please?”

  “I absolutely can. Do you want ice in it?”

  “No.”

  “You want a whole pitcher, or just a glass?”

  “Marnie, you’re about to get on my last nerve,” Sonia said.

  “I’ll get it, darlin’.” Roxanne smiled knowingly at Sully and brushed her hand across his arm in passing, as if they were old friends who shared inside information.

  “Hat off, shoes off,” Lucia said as she relieved Sonia of both.

  “If you’re going to start disrobing I’d better leave,” Sully said.

  “No, Sully, don’t be silly.” Sonia beckoned to him with the same arm Lucia tried to pull from a filmy sleeve. “You have to at least stay for supper.”

  Sully grinned. “That’s up to Lucia.”

  The woman-named-Lucia glanced at him, and Sully saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Just as quickly, she went back to pulling Sonia out of extraneous clothes and administering the fluids Roxanne finally showed up with and directing Marnie to the bag that held the medications.

  “I don’t need any pain meds,” Sonia said. “I’m fine. Sully, tell them I’m fine.”

  Marnie and Roxanne looked at him as if he were about to deliver a medical verdict. He caught Lucia pursing a bee-stung mouth as she took a pill container from Marnie and dumped two tablets into a paper cup.

  “Is she fine, Lucia?” Sully said.

  She met his eyes for the first time, and Sully caught his breath. Holy crow. She looked right into him, gaze bright with an intelligence she couldn’t hide, though she obviously tried to. A rose flush spread over her round face as she surveyed him. He wasn’t sure he avoided blushing himself. Sonia Cabot’s sister was even more beautiful than she was.

  “No,” Lucia said, “she isn’t fine. And if I don’t get some of this into her and get that face bathed . . .”

  “There’ll be no living with her,” Sully finished for her.

  “Now, I haven’t heard Sonia complain one time,” Roxanne said. “Bless her heart.”

  Sully sure would have been complaining. With the hat off, he could see the tangle of scars on Sonia’s nearly hairless scalp and the painful distortions of her face through the mask. Most disconcerting of all were her eyes. Though they moved constantly, they never blinked, and when she wasn’t talking or actively listening, they took on a glazed, blank stare, the way eyes must look when they were safely tucked behind eyelids. Sully fought back a nauseous rise of anxiety.

  Lucia put the pill cup in Sonia’s lap and said to Roxanne, “There are some straws in the bag.”

  “Marnie.” Sonia felt for what remained of her hair with her hands, which were a tender-looking pink.

  The girl turned from the window where she’d been peeking out from behind the heavy drapes. “There are two guys going into your garage, Sonia,” she said. “Do you want reporters in there?”

  “They aren’t reporters.” Lucia gave Marnie a sh
ut-up look.

  “Where I want reporters is in the Gathering Room,” Sonia said. “Go make sure it looks decent. Have Didi help you.”

  Roxanne said, “The living room would be bet—”

  “Stop. Just stop.” Lucia put up a hand, which brought the room to silence.

  Sully folded his arms and tried not to grin. He was really starting to like this woman.

  “Are you actually planning to talk to reporters right now?” Lucia said to her sister.

  “I’m going to hold a little press conference, yes.” Sonia’s voice took a sharp turn. “You don’t understand, sorella. I can’t let them go off with just footage of that young man yelling obscenities.”

  Or, Sully suspected, film of her without her protective hat and a child screaming in holy terror at the sight of her. The urge to grin faded.

  “I want to set the record straight.”

  “You’re in no shape to do that,” Lucia said.

  Sully looked around the room.

  Marnie looked dumbfounded.

  Roxanne bordered on disgust.

  Sonia herself paused only for an instant before she said, “You take care of me physically, sorella. God’s taking care of the rest. Now, Roxanne, what do you think about dimming the lights, and I’ll sit this way.”

  She positioned herself at an angle away from them.

  Sully bit back the words that would tell her that no matter how she sat, the television audience would see that Sonia Cabot was a frightening distortion of her former self.

  Lucia picked up the untouched pill cup. “Then you have to take these.”

  “After the interview. They make me weird. And don’t say it, sorella.” Sonia gave her a disfigured smile. “I know you think I’ve always been weird.”

  Her attempt at sisterly camaraderie appeared to be wasted on Lucia. She set the cup on the table beside the bed, and Sully watched as she visibly accomplished a self-conscious stillness.

  Roxanne and Marnie and Sonia continued their planning as if Lucia had disappeared.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?” Sully said to her.

  “Talk her out of this,” Lucia said, and then looked astonished that she’d answered him.

  They both watched Roxanne and Marnie scurry from the room like first graders, each wanting to be first in line.

  “What are you two whispering about over there?” Sonia said. She tried the smile and gave it up. “Have you seen Egan, Lucia? I want him to make sure those reporters don’t see the FBI people poking around.” She looked at Sully. “Forget anything you may have heard about that.”

  He hadn’t heard anything but vague allusions.

  “Could you go find Egan for me?” she said. “And you are staying for supper. Are you in a hotel right now?” She glanced at her watch. “How much time do we have?”

  Sully felt an instinctive stirring of unease. Lucia was right: Sonia was fraying at the edges. He didn’t care how “delivered” she was from physical pain; one small tug on the wrong string by a reporter could unravel her emotionally.

  “We have to at least bathe your face,” Lucia said. She glanced over her shoulder at Sully.

  “I’ll go find Egan, give him the 411,” Sully said.

  “What about—”

  “Yes, I’ll stay for supper.”

  “And check out of your hotel. I’ll tell DiDi to make sure the guesthouse is in order.”

  “Will it get you to hush up for seven seconds?” Sully said.

  “It just might.”

  “Good luck,” he heard Lucia mutter.

  Sully gave her a grim nod. It was going to take far more than luck to deal with Sonia Cabot.

  But he didn’t have to be the one to deal with her. He told himself that as he found the front door and headed through the breezeway toward the detached garage. Still, he couldn’t in good conscience leave without at least putting a few recommendations for therapists into Lucia’s hands, and impressing on her that her sister could use some professional help.

  Sully grunted under his breath as he strode across the driveway. Lucia wouldn’t need convincing. She obviously had a medical background and a degree of influence on Sonia, but even she was probably no match for the famous Cabot stubbornness.

  He might have to stay a couple of days, if Porphyria could live without the Buick for that long.

  Sully had almost reached the garage when the woman in the gray suit appeared, hand up. It took him a second to see she palmed a badge.

  “Special Agent Deidre Schmacker,” she said. “And you are?”

  He identified himself, while attempting a peek behind her. She stepped out into the sunlight, made Sully take a step back, and slid on her sunglasses, all in one smooth move.

  “You don’t work for Mrs. Cabot, do you, Mr. Crisp?”

  “Just a friend.”

  “Close friend?”

  Sully was fascinated. This woman was interrogating him with a look on her face she could have worn to ask after his health. Not only that, but the silver earrings weighing down her lobes were clearly the faces of Chinese pugs. He wanted to ask to see that badge again.

  “Sonia and I are friends, yes,” he said. “We both work in ministry, but mine isn’t connected with hers.”

  “Have you visited her here recently?”

  “This is my first time.” Sully fished his own sunglasses out of his polo pocket and stuck them on, as much to hide the mirth in his eyes as to shield himself from the blinding light.

  “Do you know anyone on her staff?”

  “I just met her assistant today. I’ve met Egan Ladd, but I don’t know him personally.”

  “Then you don’t know her gardener. Bryson Porter.”

  Sully shook his head.

  “Agent Schmacker.” A guy beckoned to her from the doorway.

  To Sully he looked more like a country singer than someone with the FBI. Boots. Pressed jeans. A wry expression.

  Of course, Agent Schmacker didn’t fit the stereotype either. Not with the sympathetic smile and the canine jewelry.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said to Sullivan, and made it clear with a nod that he was dismissed and should take advantage of that.

  Sully wandered back toward the house and pretended a sudden interest in the rosebushes bordering the driveway. What was this all about? Not that it was any of his business, but . . .

  “Am I under arrest?”

  Sully looked over his shoulder. The question was asked by a man about forty with a sunburned face turned redder with what Sully guessed was humiliation. Agent Schmacker and Agent Country Singer flanked him as they came out of the garage, followed by another guy carrying a bag.

  “We’re just taking you in to ask you some questions,” Agent Schmacker said soothingly.

  “What’s going on?”

  Sully swiveled his head back toward the house. Several of the people he’d seen earlier with microphones and cameras ran down the front steps with a stress-sweaty Egan Ladd in pursuit.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” one of the reporters said. “Are you with the FBI?”

  “I told you—it’s a routine investigation,” Egan called out.

  The group disregarded him and followed the agents and the now scarlet-faced man, who Sully assumed was Sonia’s gardener. He still had a wad of peat moss hanging from his left work boot as they ushered him into the backseat of a car with government plates.

  “Is there a criminal investigation into Sonia Cabot’s plane crash?” someone called out.

  “Mr. Ladd can give you an official statement.” Agent Schmacker closed the back door and opened the front. Agent Country Singer already had the engine running.

  “Who’s that you just arrested?” someone else said.

  “Stand back, please,” the agent said out the window.

  The tires crackled over pebbles the gardener hadn’t had a chance to sweep off and left Sully behind with the reporters. They were immediately back on Egan.

  “Who did they take
away?”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “Yes.”

  Heads turned to Sully, who put out his hands and beckoned them closer with his fingers. They moved in with their microphones.

  “He’s suspected of illegal use of coffee grounds on bareroot rosebushes. It’s a felony offense in some garden circles.”

  “Cute,” someone said.

  They turned back to Egan Ladd, who Sully hoped had taken the opportunity to compose himself. He still looked as if he were about to be hit by a train.

  “They’re questioning everyone on Ms. Cabot’s staff,” he said lamely. “As I explained, it’s protocol since 9/11 whenever there’s a plane crash.”

  “Who was that they took in?”

  “Sonia is waiting to give all of you an interview,” Egan spoke over them. ”But we would appreciate you limiting your questions to matters of her ministry. She doesn’t know any more about this investigation than I’ve already told you.”

  “I think I have everything I need,” one of them said.

  “Yeah, thanks for your time, Mr. Ladd.”

  The crowd thinned, leaving one young woman and a sweaty cameraman.

  “Come on in,” Egan said. “She’s waiting for you inside.”

  They shrugged at each other and followed Egan through the door. Sully felt a pang of hurt for Sonia. This was going to be a blow to that eroding ego. Maybe one blow too many.

  He sighed and went in after them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I stood in Sonia’s dining room and witnessed the famed Southern hospitality with bulging eyes.

  Francesca, Georgia, and a bevy of their clones brought in platter after casserole after Crock-Pot full of sour cream–soaked, white sauce–based, cheese-encrusted dishes that overflowed the Queen Anne table onto the matching buffet. As imaginative as I prided myself in being when it came to cooking, I had to admit I had never dreamed that certain things could be fried—olives, okra, pickles. Asparagus. Apparently nothing was sacred.

  It was almost five o’clock, and my stomach was so empty it was consuming itself, but once again I was confronted with a banquet and a whole cast of supermodels to watch me eat it. I turned to go in search of Sonia, ostensibly to make sure she ate something, and literally ran into Sullivan Crisp.