I turned to look at Mrs. Furlong. She was glaring at her husband. “This is all your fault,” she said to him.
So much for a pleasant, relaxed brunch. Luisa rushed into the house in search of a phone. I couldn’t imagine that it would be easy to find an ace criminal lawyer up in this remote corner of the Adirondacks, but if anyone could track one down, it was Luisa. Thank goodness one of us had seen fit to get some legal training, although it was really too bad that Luisa had chosen to concentrate on obscure areas of international corporate law rather than defending shy young women whose only crimes were falsely confessing to murders they didn’t commit.
“We need to talk,” Jacob said to his wife, in a tone that terrified me. I was glad that I wasn’t on the receiving end of it.
“Of course,” answered Lily, as if he’d offered a stroll in the garden. “Would you children mind cleaning up the dishes? I hate the idea of everything sitting out in this weather—we have a terrible problem with ants if we’re not careful.” Jacob gave her a look that was as terrifying as the tone of his voice had been, then grasped her firmly by the elbow and shunted her in the direction of the library. Even on the porch, we could hear the force with which he slammed the door to the room.
Hilary, for once, showed some restraint. She didn’t say a word about how handsome O’Donnell had looked on this particular morning. “What are we going to do?” she demanded of us all instead.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we have to do something.”
Nobody disagreed with that. But nobody had any brilliant ideas, either. Silently, we began clearing the remains of the meal. I kept thinking about Emma’s bright, expectant expression that long-ago night when we had made our pact. We had failed her completely, and the consequences were far more horrifying than we ever could have imagined. The gravity of the situation made me dizzy; I felt as if I might faint, and this was hardly the time to be playing damsel in distress when there really was another damsel in far more distress.
I began stacking plates, but Jane intervened after one slipped from my hand and crashed into shards on the wide oak boards of the porch. “You know, Rach, if Emma’s going to be down at the police station, we should bring her some things. Some clothes, and a toothbrush. Why don’t you go take care of that?”
I acquiesced and trudged up the stairs. Tears of frustration and anger welled up in my eyes. Who was Emma protecting? And why had that person just let her do it? Surely we all cared too much about her to let her take the blame for a murder she didn’t commit? My thoughts felt blurry and unfocused as I did yet another mental scan through the possible suspects. It wasn’t Peter, and it wasn’t Emma. It couldn’t be Jane or Sean. And Luisa and Hilary had accounted for their movements.
I paused at the top of the stairs. Could it be Matthew? I had dismissed him so easily before, but he did have the motive and the means. And that cryptic argument he and Emma had had the previous afternoon—what was that all about? I would have thought he loved Emma too much to let her confess to his crime, but perhaps he felt betrayed? After all, she’d been going to marry Richard.
I played with this thought halfheartedly, knowing even as I did that it was ludicrous. I tried to remember the exact words of Matthew’s and Emma’s argument as I took a small satchel from Emma’s closet and began searching her drawers for appropriate clothing. I couldn’t imagine that they’d actually make her wear one of those ugly prison jumpsuits, so I piled in her Irish fisherman’s sweater, a pair of jeans and some flannel pajamas. Underwear would be important. You could never have too much clean underwear, particularly not in jail. I found her lingerie drawer and rummaged through it for something appropriately utilitarian and instead came up with a sheaf of papers. Why would Emma hide papers in her underwear drawer? Everybody knew that was the first place people searched when you had something to hide.
I held the papers in my hand, trying not to look, while I had a quick debate with myself. I knew that it was none of my business, but part of me hoped that maybe I could use the papers to help her—maybe they would yield up some part of the puzzle.
I tried to focus on the top page. My vision was strangely hazy, but I could make out the words—it was a prenuptial agreement between Emma Furlong and Richard Mallory. I was still trying to absorb this when another wave of dizziness overcame me. Peter came in just in time to see me sink to the floor, the papers in my hand.
“Rachel—are you okay?” He rushed to kneel beside me.
“Yes. I just felt a bit dizzy. Anyhow, I don’t know if I want to talk to you right now.” I was still angry with him. If only he’d kept his mouth shut, the police would have nothing to tie Richard’s death to Emma.
“Well, I need to talk to you,” he said in a low, urgent voice.
“Why?” I asked. I sounded weak, not angry, the way I’d meant to. “Unless you see a way out of this trap you created for Emma, I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.”
“Trust me, if I’d known how this would all play out, I would never have said anything to the police about having seen her that night. If I could take it back, I would. You know I would.”
“You can’t take it back,” I said, forlorn. “Poor Emma.”
“But I think I may have figured out something else. It came to me at lunch, actually, right before the police showed up.”
“What came to you? Oh—” Another wave of dizziness washed over me, and my stomach churned. Peter’s face swam before me, but instead of one nice pair of eyes, he suddenly seemed to have six. There was a ringing in my ears.
“Rachel? What is it?”
“I don’t feel very well,” I admitted, leaning against the dresser.
“You look awful,” he said. “Green.”
“Thank you. You have six eyes.”
“Well, your eyes look weird. Your pupils are enormous.” I felt the warm touch of his hand on my forehead. “And you’re all clammy. You should lie down.”
I could barely move, but he lifted me easily and deposited me gently on one of the twin beds. I groaned as a pain shot through my stomach.
“What is it? What hurts?”
I gestured toward my abdomen. “I don’t get it. I felt fine before. Maybe it was something I ate.”
“You didn’t eat anything that anybody else hadn’t eaten. We were all taking food off the same platters. Maybe you’re having an allergic reaction?”
“I’m not allergic to anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Just bee stings. And live jazz.”
“This isn’t good. Maybe somebody slipped you something, Rachel. Put something in your drink.”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t realize you were such a drama queen.”
“I’m not being silly. Somebody tried to kill you last night and didn’t succeed. This could be another attempt.”
He did sort of make sense, even in my nauseated, befuddled state. I tried to answer him but another stabbing pain in my stomach took my breath away.
“That’s it. I’m getting Matthew.”
“No!”
“You need a doctor.”
My teeth were clenched against the pain. “Not Matthew,” I gasped. “He’s the one who gave me my drink. And I think he’s the murderer.”
“Okay. Now you’re being silly. Do you have any evidence against him? Did you see or hear anything?”
“He gave me the drink,” I repeated.
“Besides, I think I know who the murderer really is.”
“You think it’s Emma.”
“No, I don’t. Not anymore. And it’s not Matthew, either.”
The ringing in my ears was getting louder and louder. Peter now had more eyes than I could count and while I could see all five of his mouths moving, I could barely hear him. A cloud of black began sliding across my vision.
“Oh, God. You can’t fall asleep.” Peter’s voice was faint but urgent. “Rachel? Rachel?”
CHAPTER 31
Ali McGraw thought that love meant nev
er having to say you’re sorry, but I soon learned she was mistaken. True love was offering to stick your own finger down someone else’s throat to make her throw up. Ryan O’Neal would never have had that much imagination.
Fortunately, Peter didn’t have to make good on his offer. But he did hold my hair back while I puked a seemingly endless torrent of blueberry pancakes and mimosa. After what felt like an eternity, I was down to dry heaves, and after another eternity the spasms finally stopped. My knees trembled as Peter helped me up from the cool tile floor of the bathroom and over to the sink, where I brushed my teeth and splashed cold water on my face. Yet another charming story for the grandkids.
He guided me back to the bed, and we were embarking on another argument about whether he was going to get Matthew when Luisa came in.
“Did you find a lawyer?” I asked.
She nodded. “The best guy in Albany is on his way. He should be here in a couple of hours. How’re you doing at getting Emma’s things together?”
“Um, I haven’t made much progress.” I saw her nostrils give a delicate quiver as she sniffed the stale air of the room.
Hilary strode in. “Where’s Emma’s bag—Yuck! It reeks in here. What’s going on—are you coming down with adult-onset bulimia, Rach?” She crossed to the window and threw it open.
“I was a little sick, just now,” I admitted as Jane and Sean came in. “Oh, good. We’re having a party. But you all missed getting to see me puke.”
“Nothing we haven’t seen before,” said Sean.
“You were sick?” asked Jane.
“Somebody tried to poison her,” interjected Peter. “And she won’t let me get Matthew because now she’s decided he’s the murderer.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Luisa. “Matthew’s no more a murderer than I am.”
“But he’s the one who gave me my drink,” I protested.
Sean sat down on the bed next to me and began taking my pulse.
“I think that blow to her head messed her up more than we realized,” said Hilary. “Geez, Rach. When did you get so paranoid?”
“Her pulse seems fine, but we really should get Matthew,” reported Sean.
“No. We’re not getting Matthew. Isn’t anyone listening to me?”
“Come on, Rach. Are you really trying to tell us that you think Matthew killed Richard, attacked you and just now tried to poison you? Matthew Weir? Dr. Matthew Weir? The guy we’ve all known since we were practically children?” Jane sounded exasperated; she was using her rational-person-talking-to-a-hopeless-at-algebra-student voice, as if I were insisting that the quadratic formula wasn’t whatever it actually was or that i was a real number, not an imaginary one.
“Well, no, not when you say it like that,” I said, feeling sheepish. “It’s just that we know none of us did it, and I can’t really believe that Emma did it. And Matthew’s the one who gave me my mimosa. That’s the only thing that could have made me sick. Breakfast was family-style, remember? We all served ourselves from the same platters. Whatever it was had to be in the mimosa.”
“Whatever what was?” asked Matthew, appearing in the doorway.
“Great,” cried Hilary. “You’re just in time. Rachel’s trying to explain to us how you tried to poison her this morning. Oh, and how you tried to kill her last night, too. And let’s not forget about how you killed Richard.”
“Christ, is everyone in this house insane?” Matthew sounded even more exasperated than Jane. “And what’s this about Rachel being poisoned?” He crossed over to the bed where I was perched and began conferring with Sean about my pulse.
“You gave me the drink. And then I got really sick. And if it was food poisoning, then everyone else would be sick, too,” I explained, trying not to flinch while Matthew pulled up on the top of first one eyelid and then the other and peered into my eyes.
“Wow, your pupils are dilated. I’ve seen junkies with more iris than you’re showing. Would somebody go get my medical bag? It’s in my room in the pool house. I want to give her some syrup of ipecac and make sure there’s nothing left in her system.”
“I’ll go,” volunteered Sean.
“There’s nothing left in my system. Ask Peter.”
“I’d be pretty surprised if there was,” Peter chipped in.
“It sure smells like she puked her guts out,” contributed Hilary, turning to see if she could open the window still wider and fanning the air with her hand.
“Well, we’re going to make sure,” said Matthew. “I don’t think it’s food poisoning or a stomach virus or anything like that. Not with the way her eyes look. No, if I had to guess, I would say it’s definitely something toxic.”
“The same thing that was given to Richard?” asked Luisa.
“It’s impossible to know without more information—blood tests, stuff like that. We can take some of her blood here and then send it into town to be tested.”
“God, haven’t I been through enough already? Now you want my blood? You know how I feel about needles.”
“Well, do you know how I feel when you accuse me of being a murderer?” Matthew’s reply was unusually sharp.
“Nice bedside manner you’ve got here, Doc.”
“Seriously, Rach. Do you really think I could kill anyone? I mean, it’s bad enough that you’d think I could kill Richard, but that you’d think that I’d try to kill you?” He looked at me, his eyes hurt behind his glasses.
“I’m so sorry, Matthew. There’s no excuse for it, really. It was just that you seemed to be the only option left. If you didn’t do it, that only leaves Emma, and I just couldn’t…” I couldn’t finish my sentence, and I couldn’t look at his sad face any longer. I turned my gaze away. Not only did I feel physically awful, mentally I felt as low and dirty as a sewer rat. I was fighting back tears.
Sean rushed in with the big black doctor’s bag, and Matthew busied himself rummaging through it. He pulled out a bottle full of nasty dark stuff, a vial, and a big, extralong and sharp-looking syringe. “Which do you want first? The blood test or the syrup of ipecac?”
I squirmed. “I’m feeling much better, really.”
“Blood test it is, then. But don’t worry, I’ve got some lollypops in here and I’ll give you one when I’m finished. As long as you’re a big girl and don’t cry.”
“Here. You can squeeze my hand,” offered Peter. He was really seeing more than I preferred to reveal at the start of a new relationship.
“Hmmph.”
“I can’t watch this,” said Luisa.
“Me, neither,” confessed Jane.
“Let’s go get some more coffee,” suggested Hilary.
“Good idea,” said Sean. “We’ll be back in a minute.”
“Cowards,” I called after their departing backs. “Will you at least bring me a Diet Coke?”
“Sounds like somebody’s recovering nicely,” I heard Jane say.
Matthew donned a pair of latex gloves, and then pushed up the sleeve of my sweater and tied a piece of latex tightly around my upper arm. I tried not to watch while he uncapped the syringe and told me to make a fist. I felt cool wetness as he swabbed my inner elbow.
“Ouch!”
“I haven’t even done anything yet.”
“Just practicing,” I was starting to say when I felt the jab of the needle. “Oof.”
“Okay. Unclench your fist now. This will just take another minute.”
“Sadist.”
I squeezed Peter’s hand and stared fixedly at the assortment of items on Emma’s night table—a clock, some battered paperbacks, a framed snapshot of Emma with her mother.
“All done,” Matthew said. I felt him taping a bandage over the spot where he’d pricked me.
“Good. That means she can let go of my hand before she breaks any bones,” said Peter, trying to disentangle his fingers from my death grip.
“I just figured it out,” I announced.
“No use trying to distract me, Rach. You’re still getti
ng the syrup of ipecac.”
“I’m not trying to distract you. I know who did it.”
Matthew sighed.
“It wasn’t Emma,” I said. A statement, not a question.
“No, of course not,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“It was Lily, wasn’t it?”
Matthew nodded, and I realized he’d known all along.
CHAPTER 32
It was nice to have an answer, but that didn’t mean I was particularly happy with it. Even though I was eager to prove that Emma wasn’t a murderer, I wasn’t eager to pin the evil deed on her mother, either. Lily wasn’t the most sympathetic of women, what with her capricious whims and antiquated snobbery, and I couldn’t relate to how her mind worked, but I knew how much Emma loved her. I wondered if Emma realized who, precisely, she’d been covering for when she gave her false confession. I had a feeling that she did. And now I understood the argument Emma and Matthew had had the previous day, and exactly the moral quandary with which she’d been struggling.
I checked my memory for anything that would have given Lily away. Her behavior had been somewhat erratic. The display at lunch the previous day had been fairly stunning, and Emma herself had said that her mother seemed to be “losing it,” and not for the first time. Perhaps she had more than her husband’s affairs on her mind. And she didn’t seem to have any qualms about dispensing her husband’s prescription-strength tranquilizers to others with a free hand. If half of one was strong enough to knock Emma out for hours on end, surely five or six combined with some Scotch could knock Richard out permanently? Could Lily have given Richard a drink infused with a lethal dose of the same tranquilizers she’d been dispensing to Emma? Could she have watched as he lost consciousness forever? A chill went through me, even as the facts started to fit themselves together.
“I thought so,” said Peter, breaking the silence that had fallen after Matthew spoke.
“What do you mean, you thought so? And why didn’t you tell me?”
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