Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (15 page)

“What do you do?” J.X. asked.

“I sell company-certified pre-owned Mercedes-Benz cars.” The used-car salesman offered a big, bright smile. “How successful a writer are you?”

J.X.’s smile was considerably cooler.

“You’re wasting your time. He’s Ford tough,” I said.

Ricky laughed like that was the pinnacle of humor. Maybe around the dealer showroom it was. He said to Sara, “Can you get me a beer, babe?”

God. Why was no one trying to kill
him
?

Sara bestowed a smile that should have paralyzed Ricky as effectively as curare, and departed to get him a beer. Dinner was announced and the rest of us shuffled off to the dining room. Things immediately began to look up. Whatever Anna paid her kitchen staff, they were worth every penny.

Green salad with artichoke hearts was followed by chicken breasts crusted in pistachio nuts and shallots served over wild rice with a creamy white wine sauce. Once again there was a quantity of wine, both red and white. Conscious that I had enough physical aches and pains without adding a raging headache to my problems, I stuck to the chardonnay. The others opted for Beaujolais.

J.X. sat directly across from me. His eyes met mine periodically, a wry smile in their depths that inexplicably cheered me. Occasionally, his foot brushed mine. However weird this setup was, I wasn’t alone, and that cheered me more than I’d have expected.

The mealtime conversation was polite and innocuous, which seemed weird to me, but also understandable. It might have been different if members of the Asquith Circle had still been present, but only Anna had any real link to Nella. Perhaps if she hadn’t been at the table, the others would have discussed the accident. As it was, the topics of conversation encompassed the weather, everyone’s travel plans, and—inevitably with writers—what we were all working on.

There was the usual excitement over J.X.’s latest project. He was working on a standalone thriller, his first. I’d already had a sneak preview the last time I’d spent the weekend. The book was an unholy, riveting, utterly readable page-turner involving unwed mothers, Russian mobsters, ecoterrorists and a small-town sheriff with Issues. It had bestseller stamped all over it, and I preferred not to think about it.

Not that I was jealous or anything.

“And what has Miss Butterwith planned for us next?” Anna inquired of me, after J.X. had finished modestly brushing the acclaim the best he could off his broad shoulders. It tended to stick to that dark material.

“Nothing. I’m not working on anything,” I said in answer to Anna’s question.

I felt the quick look J.X. threw me. Anna said, “Oh fuck! Surely there’s
something
you haven’t put the old girl through yet?”

I smiled. Reached for my wineglass.

“You haven’t done anything with soccer or hockey themes, have you?”

I shook my head.

Anna was enjoying herself. She raised her hand as though checking perspective on a painting. “I can picture the title now.
Miss Butterworth Kicks the Bucket
.”

There was laughter around the table. I laughed too.

“What are you working on, Anna?” J.X. sounded terse enough to be grilling a suspect.

Anna looked mildly surprised, as though one of the candelabra had spoken up a la Lumiere in
Beauty and the Beast
.

“
Ah.
Thank you for asking. As I was telling Christopher the other day, I’m very happy, very relieved to say my own dry spell is over.” She raised her glass in a toast and the rest of us followed suit although I couldn’t help noticing the surprised exchange of glances between Rudolph, Sara and Ricky.

Anna said to me, “I do feel your pain, darling.”

Startled, I said, “I’m not having a dry spell.”

She didn’t hear me. “What’s it been, Rudolph?”

“Five years.”

“Five fucking years.” Anna shook her head, sipped her wine. “It felt like twenty.”

“Anna, that’s marvelous. I didn’t realize.” Rudolph was smiling—beaming, in fact.

“You haven’t been listening, darling.” There was the faintest edge there.

“Here’s to another blockbuster from the American Agatha Christie,” Ricky said. “And here’s to the movie rights!” He raised his glass in a toast.

We lifted our glasses. The bell-like chime of crystal rang up and down the long table and filled the silence.

I woke to the unpleasant sound of someone being sick.

Fortunately not me.

Unfortunately someone nearby. I raised my head cautiously. The adjoining bathroom door was closed but I could see the band of light beneath it. I could hear the muted hum of the fan and the less muted and distinct sounds of J.X. paying homage to the porcelain god.

I swallowed hard. Did that in-sickness-and-in-health thing hold for dating?

Shoving aside the bedclothes, I tiptoed across the chilly floor and pawed faintheartedly at the bathroom door.

The resulting sounds were not encouraging but…

I pushed open the door.

J.X. knelt before the toilet, hands braced and white-knuckled, black hair drenched in perspiration. Perspiration sheened the muscular planes of his back too.

The animal scents of sweat and sickness knocked me to my knees beside him.

“Honey,” I whispered, touching his ice-cold face. “What’s wrong?”

J.X.’s dark eyes looked glazed as they met mine. His colorless mouth moved, but I couldn’t make out the words.

“Hold on,” I told him. “I’ll get help.”

Never underestimate the energizing benefits of sheer panic. I was up and sprinting down the shadowy hallway and across the gallery before my brain had a chance to catch up with my rarely used muscles.

I had no idea where I was going, but I was making good time when I tripped over something soft and warm and moving feebly in the same direction as me. Until I landed awkwardly, painfully on the expensive antique runner, I’d forgotten that I was still convalescent myself.

Fortunately my scream was buried in the velvety pile allowing me to retain whatever dignity was possible while rolling around on the floor swearing and moaning.

My outpourings blended inharmoniously with those of the person I’d stumbled over, who turned out, on peering inspection, to be Ricky.

He appeared to be suffering from the same malady as J.X.—and that frightened me like nothing else.

Poison.

I remembered Anna talking about a mysterious bout of food poisoning that had hit this house once already. Twice in the space of a few weeks was too much of a coincidence.

“Hang on. I’ll get help,” I told Ricky. I had no idea if he understood me or not. I was up and running once more, but only a yard or so down the next hallway I narrowly avoided slamming into Rudolph who had reeled from the shadows to clutch at me.

“Are you ill?” he gasped.

“No, but J.X. is.” I didn’t have to ask after Rudolph. Even in the poor light I could see he was gray-faced and perspiring heavily. “Have you checked on Anna?”

He shook his head.

“Do you know where Sara’s room is?”

I didn’t know if Sara was behind this sudden outbreak of food poisoning, but it seemed to me that it would be well worth keeping an eye on her—not that I had an eye to spare.

“I’ve already tried Sara,” Rudolph whispered. “She’s ill too.”

Well, she would be, if she had any brains at all. But not
too
ill, I was willing to bet.

Rudolph said, “We need to call for help. We need to phone an ambulance or emergency services or—or something.”

Yes to all of the above. But first things first. “I’m going to make sure Anna’s all right,” I said, gripped by sudden cold fear. I detached myself from Rudolph’s limpet-like clutch, and continued on my way down the hall.

Anna’s door was closed. I tapped a couple of times—no response—then pounded energetically.

Still no reply.

I pushed the door open. Moonlight flooded from the bay windows, spotlighting the crumpled figure lying on the floor.

Oh God.

“Anna?”

I knelt beside the cloud of lace and rayon, reaching for her arm. Her skin was still warm.

Was she breathing? I couldn’t tell. I felt around the delicate bones of her wrist, trying to find some kind of pulse. As my fingers closed around her wrist, she moaned and tried to raise her head.

The relief had me falling back on my ass. I’d thought for sure…

“Take it easy, Anna. Help is on the way.”

“Poison,” she wheezed. “I’ve been poisoned.”

“Everyone has been poisoned.” Everyone but me. What did that mean? What had everyone else eaten that I hadn’t? Nothing as far as I could recall. I’d eaten everything and eaten heartily. What can I say? Death and disaster give me an appetite.

What had everyone drunk that I hadn’t?

Cocktails. No. We’d all had different cocktails. And later everyone had red wine at dinner. Except me.

I’m not sure if Anna understood me or not. She writhed, for once too weak to swear, curling onto her side—or trying to. The cast weighted her down.

I pushed to my feet, went to the bedside table and turned on the lamp. I had to pick the princess phone up and hold it away from my face to read the tiny buttons. Perhaps I’d reached an age where I ought to start wearing glasses on a chain around my neck. Like a lady librarian. Not that librarians necessarily wear eyeglasses to bed—disconcerting to one’s bed partner if magnifiers are required.

It occurred to me that my thoughts were spinning and I wasn’t getting much mental traction. I concentrated on the task at hand, finally making out the button that read
housekeeping
.

I pressed it.

On the end, the phone buzzed and buzzed and then picked up. A sleepy voice said, “Yes, ma’am?”

“Mrs. Hitchcock’s ill. I need some help up here.”

“Yes, Mr. Dunst. I’ll be right there.”

Mr. Dunst?

I said, “Before you do anything else, call 911. I think everyone has been poisoned. We need medical help ASAP.”

She was still squawking when I dropped the handset on its hook and went back to Anna. I crouched down beside her.

“Anna?”

Nothing. Her breathing sounded weird.

“Anna?”

“Christopher…”

“Help is on the way.”

She nodded feebly. “Help me…back to bed?”

“Maybe you should lie still. I’ll get a bla—”

“I didn’t break my other fucking ankle. I’ve been
poisoned
. Help me into the goddamned bed, Christopher.”

By then I was desperate to get back to J.X., but I was equally worried about leaving Anna on her own.

It wasn’t easy between my bad back and injured shoulder and her injured ribs and cast, but at last, sweating and breathless—that would be both of us—I dropped her into the disturbed tangle of sheets and blankets. She moaned and swore. I pulled the bedclothes over her sprawled form.

She moaned again—more ominously.

I looked around for something she could be sick in and had to settle for a cloisonné flower vase. I threw the flowers and water in the fireplace and placed the vase beside the bed.

“Anna? Can you hear me?”

She started as though she’d drifted off. “Rudy?”

Or maybe she was hallucinating.

“No. It’s me. Christopher. Listen, I have to check on the others. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I’ll be right back. I promise.”

She pleaded, “Don’t leave me, Christopher. I’m in danger.”

Who the hell wasn’t at this point?

“Everyone is ill, Anna. No one will try for you now. I promise I’ll be right back.”

She clutched feebly at my hand, but I was already on my way toward the door.

Midway down the hall I spotted Rudolph. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, weaving slightly. His face was ghastly.

I went to help him. “Here, you’d better sit down before you fall down.”

“Christopher.” Rudolph stopped. His mouth formed a word, but I couldn’t tell what it was. He tried again. “Sara.”

I drew back, studying his bloodless face. His eyes looked like he was on dope—black and stunned. My heart thundered in my ears. I had to raise my voice to speak over it. “What about Sara?”

“Sara…” He reached out and touched my arm. His fingers were ice cold and trembling. I understood that he wanted me to follow him.

I didn’t want to. I wanted to go back and reassure myself that J.X. was all right. I didn’t want to see whatever it was Rudolph wanted me to see.

Somehow my feet were uprooting themselves, stumbling forward, following him as he half-walked, half-reeled down the long hallway. He was hunched over, one of his arms clutching his belly, clearly in pain, but he was determined.

That determination said more than any words could.

At last we reached a bedroom off the main hallway.

Rudolph didn’t knock, didn’t call out. He pushed open the door and led the way through the elegant, tidy bedroom toward the large bathroom. Before I was halfway across the bedroom I knew what we were going to find.

She was lying belly down on the tiles. Her gilt hair was tumbled over her shoulders, veiling her face. She wore a flannel nightdress and I remember staring at the tiny peach roses and blue stripes. Not what I would have expected somehow. There was something so normal, so ordinary and comfortable about a flannel nightie—and this situation was anything but normal, ordinary or comfortable.

Dimly, I was aware that Rudolph was crying. I couldn’t seem to tear my gaze away from Sara. I kept watching her back, waiting for the rise and fall of her breaths. They didn’t come.

There were no breaths.

Rudolph dropped down on his knees beside her and stroked her shining hair with a shaking hand.

“Sara,” he whispered.

Sara didn’t answer. Sara didn’t live here anymore.

As bad nights go, that one was right up there. Or down there. Whichever. I felt at the time that it was the worst night of my life, which was saying something because I’d had some crappy nights in the last year.

I left Rudolph with Sara’s body and ran on shaking legs for my own room. Bursting through the doorway, I had to hang onto the doorframe to keep on my feet as I stared and stared at the sight before me.