by Dana Cameron
“What did you give her?” I shouted. “What did you put in my sister’s drinks?”
“I thought you’d get at least one of them,” she said in between heavy breaths. “But if she got one, and that slowed you down….”
The drinks were meant for me?
Perry seized on my hesitation. “Do you really want to be here with me, when your sister’s back there…?”
“Tell me what was in the drinks!” The gun felt so heavy in my hand. It was larger than the one that Meg had showed me how to use, but the principles were essentially the same. I could see Perry watching my shaking hand, the barrel of the gun jerking but still pointed at her. “You tell me now, or I pull the trigger.”
She hesitated.
“Tell me!” There was no mistaking the hysteria in my voice or the conviction either. Perry’s eyes never left the gun.
“It’s in the bag.”
Not taking my eyes off her, not dropping the pistol, I groped with my left hand for the flashlight and set it upright, then rummaged through her purse. I found the can of lighter fluid, and put it aside. I rummaged around until I could ascertain that there wasn’t another weapon in the bag. My fingers curled around a plastic pharmacy bottle and I pulled it out. I risked a quick look: 60 mg codeine and 300 mg acetaminophen. There were the little warning stickers plastered all over the label; the one with the stylized martini glass caught my eye and almost made my knees buckle.
“Is this it?”
She shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Good,” I said, thinking hard. “Now take off your shoes.”
Perry had the audacity to be shocked by my demand. “What?”
“Do it now!”
I picked one up and threw it as hard as I could into the tangle of briars and trees to the right of me, then did the same with the other, only aiming in the opposite direction. I stuffed the pills and the can of lighter fluid into the purse and gave a last look at Perry. I wanted to slap her, I wanted to choke her, I wanted to hurt her, badly, but I had to keep my head. Bucky needed me now.
“You had better start praying my sister doesn’t die.”
I picked up the bag, backed away a few steps, and began to run back toward the Chandler House.
Chapter 22
I COULDN’T EVEN CATCH ENOUGH BREATH TO SPEAK when I got back. The ambulance had arrived, Brian was waiting there, and so was Detective Bader in addition to two more police cars. I thrust the brown plastic bottle into the hands of one of the EMTs. “She…will she be…?”
“We’re going to the hospital right now. Do you want to come with us?”
“Yes! No—Perry! I can’t!” I turned to Brian. “You go…I have to—please!”
He took one look at me and got in the ambulance without a word. I saw him take Bucky’s hand as the door shut and the ambulance took off.
I leaned over, hands on my knees and tried to catch my breath. Perry’s bag slid down my arm and landed heavily on the gravel; I was glad I’d put the safety on the gun before I stuffed it back into the bag midflight. I didn’t want to arrive amid a collection of cops brandishing a large pistol.
Detective Bader came over to me. “What happened?”
“Perry’s by the Mather House. That’s where…Aden’s files are, I think. She was going to go through them, destroy them, maybe.”
“Is she still there? Is she armed?” Bader gestured to other uniformed officers.
“She won’t have gotten far. I took…her shoes.” I took another deep breath. “I took one gun from her. I don’t know whether she’s got another. I don’t think so.”
“Where’s the weapon you took?”
I nodded at the bag by my feet. “In there. Uh…my fingerprints will be on it.”
Bader looked grim. “I…didn’t hear a shot.”
“I didn’t need to fire it.”
He didn’t say anything about my choice of words, just gave instructions to the other officers, and they headed into the woods. I started to feel where I was hurting, but all I cared about was whether the ambulance would be fast enough.
“You’re bleeding,” Bader said. “You should get that looked at.”
“Yeah, I will,” I said. I wiped at my chin and could feel the warm trickle of blood smear the back of my hand. It looked almost black in the dim light of the parking lot.
“If she’d caught you a little lower,” he said, “It could have been a lot more serious. You’ll need to get a tetanus shot. Maybe stitches.”
“It hurts like hell, but I don’t think I’ll need stitches. And I get tetanus boosters every five years; for archaeologists it’s just like getting an oil change.” I listened hard but could no longer hear the ambulance’s siren.
He grunted. “What happened back there?”
I told him about my idea that Aden wasn’t led into the woods, but was going somewhere deliberately, and then talking to Fee.
“Everyone I was worried about was right there,” I continued. “And then when Bucky got ill, and I heard that Perry had taken off, I realized that she might be heading for the Mather House, to see if Aden’s files were there. She had his keys, she was trying to get in when I found her.”
“Found her?” Bader had a frown on his face.
My shoulder still ached, and I wondered if I’d done anything permanent to it. Maybe I shouldn’t have dismissed his offer of medical attention quite so abruptly.
“All I cared about was finding out what she’d given Bucky. I thought it might be her painkillers, but I had to be sure—wait! There’s a mortar and pestle in the kitchen display in the back of the house! She crushed them there and then put them into the glasses of punch. I was just glad that Lovell was there when Bucky collapsed. I could barely think straight.”
By this time, Bader’s radio crackled something I couldn’t make out. He responded, then turned to me. “They got her. Picked her up in the basement, no shoes, flashlight, piles of folders around her. Blood on her feet, on the papers. She was trying to tear them up.”
“I think she was planning to burn that batch too, same as in his home office. That’s why I took the lighter fluid away from her.” I fidgeted, wishing he would just hurry up and finish with me.
“Good girl.”
“You know,” I said irritably, “I know you mean that as a compliment, and I appreciate that, but to some people, ‘good girl’ sounds like you’re talking to a dog or a child. It’s patronizing.”
Detective Bader didn’t say anything, just sort of sucked his teeth. Then I guess he saw that my mind wasn’t really on Perry Taylor or feminism. “Sorry. I’ll keep it in mind. How about I take you to the hospital?”
“Yes, please.” The wave of relief that rushed over me was almost big enough to surf on. “Can we…hurry?”
We got into the car and, as if in apology, I told him about the company that Aden had put in his and Fee’s names. “That’s when I began to realize that it was the Mather House and not the areas I was working on that was the important part. That was just coincidence.”
“Another coincidence was that Perry was never run down by a drunk driver or someone who had a grudge against the Stone Harbor Historical Society.” The blue light on his dash flashed and bathed his face in its weird strobing glow.
“I know,” I said. “I heard.”
He glanced over at me, but didn’t ask how I knew. “Thing was, she had to set up a payment plan with the hospital because she had no insurance.”
I nodded. “So she was the one who was siphoning off the money from the historic site accounts.” I recalled what Mary Ann Spencer had told me about Perry’s degree in business. “Everyone was talking about how little money everyone else had. And the tourists usually pay cash for their tickets and souvenirs.”
“I think that’s what we’ll find out. I wonder if she’ll also confess to the vandalism at the Tapley House; those incidents seem to have dropped off about the time that Justin Fisher was killed.”
“He probably caught her coming out of th
e Chandler House when she shouldn’t have. He just got in her way.” As I said the words, I realized that I had also gotten in her way, and she’d tried to poison Bucky to slow me down when I’d inadvertently told her where Aden’s files were. “Can’t we go any faster?”
Detective Bader didn’t answer, but we sped up, and soon the hospital was in sight.
Chapter 23
BUCKY LOOKED LIKE GRAY DEATH BY THE TIME WE were able to take her home late the next day. I knew she would be better when I told her that I’d called Ma and Dad and Beebee, and that they’d be down for a visit the following weekend. Separate days, of course.
“You can’t not tell your parents your sister’s been poisoned,” I argued. “It isn’t right.”
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” Bucky muttered. She stroked Quasi absently; he bore it tolerantly and then she scooped him up and cuddled him, nuzzling into the back of his head. He took that too, for nearly thirty seconds, before he strained to get away, pushing at her chest with all four feet, and then jumping off her. He slithered under the bed to repair his dignity. “Or, better yet, you could just tell them that I’m in a coma or something. No visitors.”
“Bucky.”
“I know, I know. But don’t say anything if I play up needing long naps and lots of quiet.”
“I won’t. But you could even be home by then, tomorrow, if you want.”
“No, I’m good here. I’ll be out of bed tomorrow, I think. I can’t stand lying around anymore, which is saying something. And you won’t have to wait on me anymore, either. I’m sorry you’ll be shorthanded on the site, though.”
I picked up an empty orange juice glass. “It won’t be too bad. You going to make a habit of it? Helping me out every summer, I mean?”
She made a face. “Nope. Once is enough. I couldn’t do what you do. I’m not patient enough.”
“But you’re patient enough to sew an animal’s insides back together.”
“That’s different. Maybe I’ll come down and talk to you while you get dinner going.”
“Good. You up to peeling a few spuds?”
Bucky pretended to be faint. “Pass the smelling salts, I feel another attack of the vapors coming on!”
“I’ll give you the vapors. Need a hand getting up?”
“No, I’m good.”
I watched her get out of bed and make her way downstairs, then felt something at once soft and solid hit my ankle. I looked down to see what of Bucky’s crap was in my way and saw Quasi bang his head against my ankle again. I was too stunned to do anything, and before I could stoop to try to pat him, he slunk down the stairs like smoke following a draft. However grudgingly, however probationary, for some reason, he had accepted me into his pride.
Even better and far less surprising than that, things between me and Brian were back to normal too. It felt so good that I didn’t acknowledge to myself what I knew deep down in my heart of hearts: We were better now only because the threat of danger was now gone. Our mutual relief was so great and so welcome that I put off worrying what might happen should the issue ever come up again.
I picked up the empty sandwich plate, thinking about relationships, how complicated and how necessary they were, and how much hard work they required.
“You know, you really should get your hair cut short,” Bucky called up to me as she descended the stairs.
I followed her downstairs and decided that it was more than time for me to give Bucky the advice she’d come for but not yet actually asked to hear. “Great. Fine. So long as we’re talking makeovers, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give short hair a chance if you give Joel a chance. A real chance. You up for a little psychology?”
She rolled her eyes. “A very little. My gratitude doesn’t stretch as far as it used to.”
“I’ll say. Okay, I think that keeping people, including a decent guy, at arm’s length—through hiding out in books or focusing on animals or being cantankerous—won’t keep you from getting hurt. Maybe it has something to do with Ma and Dad divorcing.”
She paused on the steps. The Chin was nowhere to be seen. “I’ve been hiding out in books and animals since before they split.”
“Yeah, well, just be sure you’re not just letting some little stuff get in the way of what could be a pretty good thing, okay?”
Bucky shrugged. “Hey, it’s no skin off my ass. If Joel turns out to be a real freak, well, I can just dump him again.” She continued into the kitchen. “Your hair will take a couple of years to grow back, at least.”
“Fine. So is that a deal?”
“I s’ pose so.”
“Good. Because guess who else I invited to dinner on Friday night?”
“Joel.” She exhaled heavily and leaned against the banister, but didn’t really look mad or disappointed. In fact, she was almost smiling. “You’re such a bossy bitch,” she said. But affectionately.
I nodded. “Rhymes with control freak.”
Later that weekend, while Brian was out to pick up some ice cream for the invalid, I was being blackmailed over the phone.
“You can either get down here now, and give this newbie the glowing recommendation that I deserve, or you can forget working with me. Ever.”
I sighed, not in the mood for any of it; I’d had enough of blackmail for a good long time, even the tame stuff that Nolan tried. He meant it all the same. “Just put her on the phone. That way I don’t have to get off my ass.”
“Put her on the phone? That’s rich. That’s pretty good. No, I think we both know that there’s nothing quite as reassuring as a face to face, and from what I’ve seen of you lately, your ass could use a little time off the chair.”
That was a lie and we both know it, but there was no way he was going to tell me how well I’d done, even if he was asking me to do him a favor.
“You can tell the newbie just how I saved your bacon. You’ll like that, you’ll sound tough.”
“Nobody saved my bacon but me. And I am tough. I am one tough mutha.” I was sure that Nolan could hear my grin through the phone. “Fine, you win. I’ll be down there as soon as I can.”
“Sooner.” Then there was a click as he hung up.
I checked in on Bucky, telling her I wouldn’t be more than an hour. She was fine, however, didn’t look up from the stack of books she was reading, even to scoff at my suggestion of putting on the alarm while I was away. “What, is Perry going to stage a jailbreak?”
I stuck out my tongue, glad that she was feeling good enough to give me some sass, and hit the road. There was little traffic, and I got there earlier than I expected.
“Thanks for coming, Dr. Fielding.” As always, in his office and upon greeting, Nolan was the soul of politesse. If you could ignore the hard bands of muscles that seemed to cover every inch of him, from his earlobes down, I suspected, to his little toes, the odd scar here and there, and then imagine him in a suit instead of sweats, it would have been no problem to imagine him taking tea and making polite conversation. So long as he didn’t inadvertently crush the porcelain handle of the teacup into powder between his overdeveloped thumb and fingers.
“Nice haircut; very…whatshername? The X-Files…Agent Scully. Takes years off you.”
“Thanks. But I don’t see why I couldn’t have written you a letter or just let the other person call me,” I grumbled.
“As I’ve told you before, we get all sorts in here. Kids who want to be Jackie Chan, guys who want to think they’re hard, guys who are hard and need to keep that way, little old ladies who’ve decided they’ve been too scared for too long. I do my best to help all of them, according to their needs. Even smart-aleck archaeologists who get themselves in over their heads.”
“I did exactly what you taught me to do, even if it wasn’t textbook form. I made a decision, I didn’t overanalyze, I got in, I got out.” I was a little miffed; I suppose I had been hoping for a pat on the back, but with Nolan, it was more likely that any pat he’d give me would result in bruises.
“Getting yourself into the situation in the first place is not what I taught you to do.” He seemed to consider. “But I have five sisters, and if one of them, even one of the loud ones, was in the kind of trouble yours was in, I suspect I would have done the same thing. You get points for that, Fielding.”
Fielding. I felt as though he’d just pinned a medal on me.
“Maybe next time, you won’t take so damn long about it.”
“Maybe.” I restrained myself from making a face, knowing that any sarcasm on my part would result in a worse time of it when I came in for my next session. “Maybe there won’t be a next time.”
Nolan threw back his head and laughed, a noise that was like a jet breaking the sound barrier. “That’s a good one.”
I shrugged. It wasn’t all that likely.
“In any case, I’m here to make sure you get what you need. Just in case there is a next time.” He looked past my shoulder and nodded approval. “Here we are then, right on time. Good evening, Dr. Chang.”
I whipped my head around to see Brian standing behind me, wearing a new pair of sweat pants and new sneakers. “Brian! What are you—?”
“You mentioned that I’d never had a self-defense class. I figured, why should you have all the fun?”
“I wouldn’t call it fun,” I said, glancing hurriedly over at Nolan. He seemed to be preoccupied with papers on his desk. “Most of the time, I don’t even know what I’m doing. It’s pretty tough going.”
He took my hand. “Well, I can take it if you can.”
Acknowledgments
FIRST OFF, DIEGO, YOU’RE THE BEST, ALWAYS. I AM also tremendously grateful to the following people, who supported my efforts and read and commented on all or part of this manuscript: Beth Krueger, Ann Barbier, Pam Crane, Peter Morrison, Heather Stewart, my agent Kit Ward, and my editor at Avon, Sarah Durand. Every one of them gave me excellent advice. Detective John Bianchi of the Beverly Police Department was particularly helpful in answering my questions about procedure, and he directed me to several excellent resources, and Jerry Smith of Cabot Records, Beverly, helped me shop for a birthday present for Brian—although they pointed me in the right direction, if I’ve strayed off the path, it’s my own doing. And thanks to Kate Mattes of Kate’s Mystery Books in Cambridge, for her support of mystery writers everywhere over the past twenty years.
