Poison to Purge Melancholy (33 page)

I hoisted my water glass for a welcome gulp. “Rich claimed he found out Foot took antidepressants Sunday afternoon, after the antacid was spiked. He might have lied, but if he intended to kill his brother, why admit he knew at all? And Delia—”

“She didn’t do it,” Rich declared, with such passion he shocked everyone, including himself. Embarrassed, he added, “Delia couldn’t get hold of the prescription.”

Acey agreed. “They don’t sell it on eBay.”

“I didn’t rule her out for that reason,” I said. “For all I know, she knew of a way to fake prescriptions, or obtain a drug without one. But I can’t see a motive. Acey said last night that none of you would inherit from Foot.”

“Delia doesn’t have a motive,” Rich said firmly. “And neither does any of the rest of our family.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Glad calmly stirred cream into her coffee. “Francis is upset that I sold my other house, and he wants me to leave this one, maybe even leave Ev. I also think my son believes I need to live in a retirement home or some such arrangement. Now, if he intends to take action on any of this, that gives me a motive, doesn’t it? That is, if I were inclined to murder.”

Her children were struck dumb by the notion, though after a half moment, Acey laughed and said, “You go, girl.”

I agreed that Glad had a good motive. “But when was the last time you saw Foot?”

“Thanksgiving,” Glad replied.

“And I guess you’ve taken antacid since?” I asked Foot.

He nodded. “Three, four times a week.”

“So Glad had no opportunity.” One candle in front of me flickered wildly, yet I felt no draft. I took another gulp of water. “The last doctor I went to in Pennsylvania, well, once or twice he had his front desk phone a prescription in to a drugstore for me. Foot, do you ever do that?”

“Certainly. Some of my patients would lose their scripts two minutes after walking out my door.”

“Do you make the calls?”

His look implied that this was menial labor. “My receptionist does.”

“And you’ve got two patients on protriptyline? One who claimed his ex-wife stole his pills recently? Was that prescription phoned in?”

Foot nodded, his face grave.

“What if someone overheard your receptionist make that call,” I suggested, “then went to the drugstore to pick up the prescription before the patient got there?”

“Whoever picked it up would have had to sign for it,” Sachi said. “At least, in my pharmacy.”

“ID isn’t required by Virginia law,” Horse pointed out.

“Not yet,” Sachi conceded.

“So, at most, signature only,” Acey mused. “How hard would it be to sign ‘Mrs.’ and the name on the prescription? The patient sees that and blames his ex. His shrink”—she waved a hand at Foot—“thinks he’s delusional and calls in another script for him. You’re brilliant, Scooby. We should have thought of Irene in the first place—”

“Me?” Irene had her deer-caught-in-headlights look on.

“Well, the rest of us don’t hang out in Foot’s office, buddy-buddying around with his receptionist,” Acey said.

“But I didn’t know what medicine Francis was taking, let alone what other drug reacts with—”

“I told you I took MAO inhibitors,” Foot said, giving his wife a LAG, “before we were married.”

Irene nodded, patting his hand on the table. “I remember you mentioning that you took something, honey, but I didn’t understand. It’s not like I have a medical degree.”

“Oh, good Lord!” Acey exclaimed. “You can’t be
that
dumb.”

“Foot,” Horse cut in, “where do you store your pills at home?”

“In the cabinet by the kitchen sink.”

“In the original prescription bottle?”

“Always. It’s dangerous to store drugs any other way.”

Acey slapped the table again. “She got the name of the drug off the bottle, then looked it up on the Internet. All the info she needed is online. No medical degree necessary,
honey
.”

Every eye in the room was on Irene, except mine. Both candles on the table were now flickering, as were the ones on the mantel and beneath the glass on the card table, which shouldn’t have been touched by a draft, even if I’d felt one, which I didn’t. What I did feel was someone lurking just out of candle range. I placated my nerves by thinking that, on the upside, this meant we were no longer thirteen in the room.

“Don’t be silly,” Irene was protesting. “Why would I want to kill Francis? He’s my husband. I love him.” Said with such sincerity, with a lump-in-the-throat swallow before the last sentence, it was hard not to believe her.

“Duh!” That was Acey. I now knew where Beth Ann learned her inflection. “You’d kill him for his money, of course. Even if you can’t contest what he’s already got pigeonholed for cancer research, let’s talk house, classic car, art collection, insurance—”

“Not life insurance,” Rich broke in. “They won’t pay for suicide and that’s what it would look like, with the drug in Foot’s system and the prescription issued by him.”

“Not much of my other money either,” Foot said. “I was smart enough this time to insist on a pre-nup.”

“He got ripped off in his other divorces,” Irene explained, smiling. “So if we split, I get zilch. Since we’ll never split, I signed it willingly.” She patted her hubby’s hand again.

“Nothing if we divorce,” Foot clarified, “and if either of us die, the remainder of the estate is to be divided in percentages equal to each of our prior year’s earned income. I didn’t include my investment income in the equation—that didn’t seem fair. But my thinking was that if she died, her family couldn’t claim half the house. And if I went first, well, more funds could go to research.”

Irene turned to him, puzzlement all over her face, but she didn’t say a word.

“You didn’t understand that, did you, honey?” Acey cackled. “You don’t have a math degree either, huh? Your—”

The hall lamp went off, and a quarter beat later, the lamp in the kitchen. I noticed the little red lights on the coffeemaker and percolator were also out. Just as Delia exclaimed, “Don’t you people pay your electric bills?” all other ambient light, from the parlor and upstairs hall, went dark.

“Look!” Beth Ann jumped to her feet, pointing at the hearth right behind Miss Maggie. I didn’t see anything, nor did I have a chance, because every candle was blown out at once, throwing the room into blackness.

After that everything happened in the same second. Foot shouted “Irene!” then Evelyn, “She’s getting away!” and chairs were pushed back. I’m not sure whether I moved to follow, or in response to Beth Ann, but all of a sudden I felt myself falling.

The napkin
, I had just enough time to remember. I must have slipped on it. Then my head banged against, I don’t know, a chair leg maybe, and I hit the floor hard.

No, I realized. I was pushed, or tripped. And now I felt something—some
one
—on my back, holding me down. I heard my name called, but it was too late. The symptoms came back in an overwhelming wave: nausea, thirst, metal taste, loose teeth, and worst of all, what I supposed must be insanity—like I was on the very brink of a cliff in my mind. I felt I couldn’t trust my senses or I’d lose my balance. Mental vertigo.

I heard something, too. Like a voice with no words. No, more like someone’s thoughts. Someone’s emotions. Anguish. A desperate plea for help.

The instinct to be still and listen made me stop fighting the symptoms. Yet, when I stopped fighting, they went away, even the feeling of being held down. I didn’t get up, though. As if I’d made a promise to keep listening.

I heard a fire crackling in the big hearth. And smelled food. Daylight flooded the room. The furniture was sparse and old. The tablecloth was stained. Dinner was set out, in twenty small, mismatched bowls and plates, arranged symmetrically.

And there before me stood Mr. Dunbar. But I wasn’t looking out of Polly’s eyes. Not this time.

“Matrimony alters us mightely.
I am afraid it alienates us from everyone else.”

—from the diary of Lucinda Lee, 1787

December 25, 1783—At Dinner

With my reputation to
preserve, I left the dining room door standing open wide as we supped, however much, after our exchange of courtesies in the hall, I should have loved to bar the door and shutter the windows. I reminded myself that men were kept in closer attendance by the hope rather than the deed, and that, with patience, I might soon meet Benjamin Dunbar in a proper nuptial bed.

Still, I took pleasure in the feel of his fingers beneath my own as he led me to the table. I’d placed two chairs center, opposite, so we might be close as we spoke, and perhaps brush hands in passing food.

When we’d recited our grace and taken our seats, he remarked, “Madam, your table is quite extraordinary.”

A compliment worded with care, I noted. My tablecloth was but common linen, yellowed with age, my plates of tin, and my bowls of Virginia red clay, turned and fired no farther afield than the potter’s shop five blocks distant. And though I set out full twenty dishes in this course, the portions were trifling, containing no sack or cream, little meat or spice, and far less sugar than called for. “Thank you, Mr. Dunbar. Not as fine as to what you’re accustomed, surely.”

“These last seven years, madam, I’ve been accustomed only to army provisions, where a full meal might be a half gill of rice and a spoon of vinegar. I remember your Thomas once declaring that our rations of fat beef were so thin and transparent, he should make lanterns from them.”

The mention of my late husband was unexpected, coming as I ladled pottage into a bowl. My hand shook.

Benjamin steadied the vessel from his side. “What is it, madam? Have I upset you with my talk of army victuals?”

“No, sir. You may speak of whatever you like.” The stronger sex, I have found, are soonest won by an attentive ear, the more so if their discourse be pompous and dull. Though I was certain Benjamin could be neither.

He took the bowl from me. “Then, madam, I would speak to you of three men: John Brennan, Gilbert Underwood, and your husband.”

“Tom?” My voice trembled as I said his name. “I am still much grieved to think of him, sir.”

“As am I. We were not close—a lieutenant cannot consort with privates. Yet, had he survived the war, I believe he would have shed all pretense of rank and called me friend. So I should have been proud to call him.” Benjamin set the bowl aside his plate, but did not eat. “But first I shall speak of Mr. Underwood, who retains the title ‘Captain’ as if ’twas his birthright, though he no longer drills with our militia.”

“Washington is called ‘General’ yet,” I noted, “and has retired to his home as well.”

“General Washington earned his title. Gilbert Underwood did not. We who served under the captain were convinced he wore the uniform only to assure his recent foothold in genteel society.”

“Have some of the stewed squab, Mr. Dunbar. It’s quite good.” I’d had to use mutton gravy in lieu of beef, bacon in lieu of anchovy, and but the wings and legs of one pigeon for meat, yet I thought the dish had turned out well.

“I’ve no doubt, madam. Allow me to serve you first.” No smile attended his offer, yet his eye caught and held my own.

The blush of a young girl rose upon my cheeks. Averting my gaze, I lifted my plate to hide my confusion. “Thank you, sir.”

Benjamin spooned the stew to each of us and, in like manner, began to fill his plate and my own with all the receipts of the table. “For myself, I thought Underwood arrogant and self-serving, and a poor leader of men. However, I have come to believe his blundering was a cunning act—that he was in truth in league with the Lobsterbacks, performing traitorous favors to be bartered when the British won the war and the king sent a new royal governor to Virginia.”

“Surely, sir, you cannot make such an accusation of a gentleman of the captain’s standing without some proof.”

“Proof, madam, is what I lack. Yet our system of justice places more weight upon the testimony of a witness, and I believe witnesses exist. John Brennan was one such. Underwood paid him recompense for his silence under the guise of almsgiving.”

Surprised, I dared raise my head once more. Benjamin’s ardent gaze yet rested upon me.

Now he smiled, gesturing to my plate. “Please, madam, you must have the first taste of meat. I insist.”

No man, not even Tom while we courted, had ever shown me such courtesy. Indeed, the most gentle of men seem to think food need enter their bodies as swift as smoke through a pipe, and only afford first taste to their social betters. “Sir, you do me honor.”

“Then, madam, you shall have first taste of all.”

My heart quickened, hoping his words extended to more than the fare of my table. Willing my eyes to convey that wish to him, I said softly, “I should like that, sir.”

He took in a breath, slow, so that I let myself imagine in him a desire to kiss me then and there. I regretted placing the taller pottage bowl between us. A flat tray might have lent ease to the fulfillment of such desire.

Benjamin shifted his eye from me, politely, so that I might eat. “As I was saying, madam—”