Nightshade on Elm Street: A Flower Shop Mystery (35 page)

Instead of continuing toward the house, Orabell staggered toward one of the deck chairs and nearly fell into it. “All of a sudden, I’m not feeling well.”

I tried to bring her into focus, but her image blurred before my eyes. There was a bad taste in my mouth, too, and my head was beginning to pound, as though I had a really bad hangover. “Orabell,” I said, my throat tightening, “I
don’t feel well either. I think something’s wrong with these drinks.”

“Ow,” Orabell moaned. “My stomach is twisting like a snake.”

Mine was definitely feeling queasy. I set the glass aside. “When did Halston make the martinis?”

“I don’t know. He left me a note about them.” She rose. “Would you—
hic
—excuse me, Aggie.” She lurched across the deck, propelling herself from one chair to the next until she reached the door. Then she pushed it open and fairly fell inside.

I could barely keep my eyes open now. My head ached, perspiration dampened my face, and fear swirled about me. Was it possible Halston had poisoned the drink mix? Or could it have been Jake…or Melissa, both of whom had found a reason to leave before the drinks were served?

No one here is trustworthy,
my foggy brain whispered.

I glanced around for help, but I was alone. I rubbed my temples, trying to think. Where was Halston? Why had Jake conveniently stormed off? Why hadn’t I heard his motorcycle start up? Why had Melissa made a quick exit? Why was I alone on the deck? Was there a plot to kill me? Had they all conspired?

I sounded paranoid even to myself, but my thoughts were spinning so rapidly, I couldn’t keep them in check.

No crazy thinking, Abby,
I told myself.
Focus!

But I couldn’t focus. My entire body felt hot and my limbs weighted down. At the same time, something inside me warned that if I stayed where I was, I would not be alive to tell Marco what had happened. But where could I go and be safe? To Pryce’s? Could I trust him? What if it was Pryce who lured me here? What if he was in on the plot? Did I dare attempt to reach my car in my condition? And then how could I drive?

Get out of there,
I heard a voice whisper, or maybe it was saying,
Get to the pier.

I knew I had to trust that voice. It had helped me before, and if I’d listened earlier, it would have kept me out of the danger I now found myself in. Using the arms of the chair to push to my feet, I managed to drag myself up to the railing, then staggered along it until I reached the stairs. It was all I could do to keep the ground in focus as I made my way down that long flight of steps.

By sheer will, I forced my unwilling legs to carry me toward the shore. Fearing Halston, or whoever had poisoned the drink, was following me, I kept glancing over my shoulder, which caused me to stumble twice before falling to my knees and heaving the contents of my stomach onto the sand. I gasped for breath and looked around. Where could I go?

I had to phone for help.

Dread gripped me. I’d left my purse on the Burches’ deck.

I heard a rustling of dead leaves and looked around, startled to see a dark figure moving toward me through the trees. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and staggered toward the water, my heart pounding in apprehension. With great effort, I dragged myself to the wooden dock, then collapsed on the sand to vomit again. When I straightened, I saw a young woman in a red coat standing on the pier, and she seemed to be motioning for me to hurry.

“I can’t make it,” I cried. “My legs are paralyzed.” My vision blurred and I blinked hard to bring her back into focus. But there was no girl in a red coat. There was no one but me. I’d imagined her.

I heard footsteps pounding on the sand and turned with a gasp to see someone running toward the pier.

What were my options? Scream for help, or stay
where I was and hope whoever was coming toward me wasn’t the killer?

I screamed.

Jump into the lake!
a voice whispered.
Hurry! You’ll be safe.

Gathering my strength, I ran out onto the pier and plunged straight into the chilly lake, sinking like a stone beneath the inky water, until I thought my lungs would explode. I hit bottom and used what was left of my strength to push off, rising to the surface and gasping for air.

A blurred figure ran onto the dock, hands gripping something long and thin. A knife?

Swim away from the dock. Hurry!

I remembered a buoy tethered some distance away from the shoreline and swam toward it, hoping my direction was right. I wasn’t a strong swimmer and my muscles were still heavy and lethargic, but fear sent adrenaline coursing through my body.

I kept going until I couldn’t go another stroke. Treading water, I looked back at the dock but saw no one on it. I was a good distance away, but still had a long way to go to reach the buoy. How long could I keep swimming?

Then I heard what sounded like oars slicing through water. I blinked to clear my eyes and saw what appeared to be a dinghy bobbing toward me.

Was it Halston? Was the killer coming to finish me off?

With a new rush of adrenaline, I began to swim toward the shoreline, hoping I could make it onto the sand. What then, I had no idea. I was exhausted.

“Give me your hand,” I heard.

Out of breath and strength, terrified, I dog-paddled as the boat came alongside me.

“Give me your hand.”

I looked up and saw a figure in a red coat reaching
out to help me. “You’re not real,” I said, then took in a gulp of water and coughed.

“Of course I’m real.” A red-sleeved arm reached out. “Abigail, for God’s sake, take my hand.”

“Pryce?”

“Y
es, it’s me,” Pryce said. “Would you please take my hand?”

My vision cleared enough to let me see that he was wearing a gray and red sweatshirt. I sank back under the water, nearly swallowing another mouthful of murky liquid. I was getting weaker. I knew I couldn’t dog-paddle for long. But could I trust him? “How did you know I was in the water?”

“I stepped outside onto the deck to start up the charcoal grill and heard you cry out. I grabbed my binoculars and saw you jump in the water. For God’s sake, take my hand before I have to dive in to get you.”

Almost at once, I felt a warmth spread through my chest, filling me with enough strength to reach out and take the hand Pryce offered. He hoisted me into the small boat, where I huddled, shivering, on a seat, water puddling around me. He put a heavy plaid lap blanket over my shoulders, then picked up the oars again and began to row.

“Pryce, we can’t go back to the pier,” I managed through chattering teeth. “It’s too dangerous.”

He put his hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up. I’ve got to get you back.”

“No, Pryce. Listen to me. Someone at the Burches’ tried to poison me, and just now, when I was trying to get away, I was chased across the sand. That’s why I jumped in the water. Someone was chasing me with a knife.”

“Abigail, you’re delirious. I didn’t see a single soul on the beach or on either of the piers, and certainly nobody with a knife.”

Had I imagined it? Had the poison made me delusional? “You have to believe that someone tried to poison me, Pryce, because I got very ill after drinking Halston’s martini mix. I think I threw up enough of it to save myself. Orabell drank it, too, and also got sick. I don’t know what condition she’s in.”

I could see by Pryce’s skeptical look that he didn’t believe me. “Why would Halston want to poison either of you?”

I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the pounding. “I don’t know. I’ve tried to make sense of it, but the only thing I come up with is that he killed Lily and was afraid Marco and I were onto him.”

“How does Marco fit into this scenario?”

“One of the martinis was for Marco.”

“How do you know that?”

“Orabell told me. She was passing them out to whoever wanted one, but Jake declined and Melissa had already taken off for your cottage.”

“Abigail, trust me, Halston wouldn’t harm a fly.”

“Where is he, then? He’s been missing all evening and wouldn’t tell Orabell where he was going.”

“Halston is probably meeting with clients, and Orabell no doubt forgot that he told her. It’s happened before.”

“Then the killer must be Jake or Melissa, because
someone
came running out of the trees to chase me.”

“Melissa is at my cottage, and Jake took off on his
motorcycle about twenty minutes ago. I heard him leave. As soon as we get back, I’m going to call for an ambulance. You need to be checked out.”

I gave up and huddled farther beneath the blanket, grateful that the outside temperature was warm. I couldn’t seem to make Pryce understand the danger we were in because my thoughts were as cloudy as my vision. Was that the work of the poison? What if I’d imagined someone chasing me with a knife?

Pryce patted his pants pocket, then muttered, “Damn it! I left my phone on the kitchen counter.”

“Pryce, please listen to me. Maybe the poison has affected my thinking, but for my sake, can’t we just wait out here until Marco arrives?”

“Abigail, I can see my dock from here, and no one’s on it. I’ll stay a good distance from the Burches’ pier, if that makes you feel better. Why isn’t Marco with you?”

“He was busy at the bar, and I didn’t want to wait on him because I wanted to find out who put one of your handwritten notes on my windshield asking for a meeting tonight.”

He stopped rowing. “I didn’t leave you any note.”

“I know that now. I wanted to find out who did. The note said to meet you on the pier at eight o’clock, but no one showed up.”

“What you’re describing—someone arranging a meeting using one of my notes, poisoning the drinks, chasing you with a knife—sounds like the workings of a crazy person, and I’m telling you, it’s not Halston. Orabell, perhaps.”

“If I hadn’t seen Orabell get sick, I’d agree with you.”

“Perhaps she was only pretending to be sick.”

“Do you understand why I’m afraid to go back? I don’t know who to trust. We just need to stay out here until Marco arrives. He’ll see my car and know I’m around somewhere.”

“I hope Marco realizes he may be in danger, too.”

“So do I.”

“Good man, that Marco. You’re lucky to have found him. Just goes to prove that mistakes of the past don’t have to affect the future.”

Just what was Pryce insinuating? “Are you talking about
my
mistakes?”

“Let’s just say I hope you treat Marco’s family better than you treated mine.”

“Are you kidding me? Your parents are the reason you broke our engagement. They couldn’t stand the thought of a daughter-in-law being a failure.”

“Abigail, you pushed my parents away. They were completely sympathetic with what happened. You were so humiliated that you lashed out at everyone around you. Ask Nikki. She witnessed it.”

“My roommate, Nikki?” That was a laugh. She and I’d had some great conversations about what a heel Pryce and his parents had been.

“You couldn’t stand it that you’d have to be dependent on me,” Pryce said. “You hated that I had money.”

“Again, wrong. I didn’t hate that you had money. I hated that your parents didn’t think I was worthy of being an Osborne because I’d flunked out of law school.”

“They actually liked you, Abigail, until you made us all feel like our money was a handicap. My psychologist said that was your insecurity talking.”

“You saw a psychologist because of me?”

“I wanted to understand what I’d done wrong. Why you turned away from me.”

“Pryce, you turned away from me! You made me feel insignificant, and then you asked for the ring back. You broke up with me, not the other way around.”

“I had no choice but to ask for the ring back.”

“Because your parents dictated it.”

“Because your actions dictated it.”

Boy, did we see things from opposite ends of the spectrum. “So all this time, you thought the breakup was my fault.”

“Of course it was your fault. I wasn’t the one who flunked out of New Chapel School of Law. That’s what started it all.” Pryce used one oar to turn the boat. “It’s a pity really. We could have had a lucrative union.”

Lucrative. The romantic word every woman wanted to hear. I ignored his comment, tilting my head to let water drain from my right ear.

“We still could,” he added.

“What?”

“We could have a lucrative union.” He held up his hand just as I was about to protest. “Before you get bent out of shape, think about it. Your flower shop is successful, so you wouldn’t need my money, which is what you rebelled against before. You’re independent in your own right, and because of my wealth and connections, you’d have all the resources available to an Osborne. Think what a relief it would be never to have any financial worries ever again. No need to struggle to keep your flower shop running if you grew tired of it. What a great life you could have, Abigail.”

I
could have? He sounded like a time-share salesman. An arrogant one, at that. “What about you, Pryce? Would you want to be married to a woman who’s in love with another man? Would you have a great life being married to a middle-class, freckled, impetuous, hotheaded florist who didn’t give a fig about country clubs or political functions?”