Poison to Purge Melancholy (15 page)

Beth Ann sat, too, bundling up her arms between her stomach and knees, either from cold or fright, but all she said was, “That car shouldn’t be there.” Her gaze was aimed across the street and uphill, where a white BMW was parked.

Behind the car, at the corner, was a stop sign on a little island in the middle of the road, with a warning about driving slow in the historic area. That and the narrower lane here made cars inch forward before passing each other in front of the BMW.

“I hope the ambulance can get through all right,” I said.

“Is he going to die?” Beth Ann was still gazing at the BMW, and the question came out terse, as if she regretted asking it before the last word.

I wanted to answer no, to give her reassurance—to give myself reassurance, because besides ruining Christmas, I imagined a death in the house would stir up other-worldly activity. Not that I was an expert on what provokes the spirit realm—most of what I knew about the subject I’d heard from psychics on TV talk shows. But death was the main link, right?

Anyway, I couldn’t lie to Beth Ann. “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”

After a few beats of silence, she said, “Uncle Rich wants me to be one. He says I’ve got the right kind of mind.”

Backward logic, I thought. You don’t decide what your mind is capable of first. You decide what you want to do, then apply your mind to it. Though, maybe I only believed that because I didn’t have the right kind of mind for anything. To Beth Ann I merely said, “I thought you wanted to do something with botany.”

She shrugged. “No one cares if you heal a sick plant.”

“The plant cares. And whoever eats the plant.”

“Or the fruit of the plant. Like chestnuts.” She’d eaten a half dozen of the imported variety for dessert.

“Right.
And
whatever’s growing next to the plant. I mean, if someone contagious walks into the room, you have the option of leaving, but what’s a rhododendron to do?”

That got a laugh from her, but the mirth was short-lived. Evelyn came out of the house just as we heard the ambulance beep its siren through the Henry-Francis Streets intersection.

“I
told
her she couldn’t park there,” he mumbled, taking off at a trot toward the BMW, which revved up and drove away before Evelyn was off the curb. As the car passed the house and under the streetlamp, I saw a woman at the wheel—blonde, I thought, though that’s all I had time to notice.

* * *

“Come inside, you two,” Miss Maggie called from behind as the ambulance pulled up. “We’ll go in the kitchen where we’ll be out of the way and warm at the same time.”

Beth Ann didn’t protest and I followed her in, leery this time about walking through the hall and dining room.

The hall was quiet enough—no feelings of anxiety other than those trickling from the parlor where I could hear Rich giving orders, Horse still talking on the phone, and Glad uttering faint “oh dear”s. In the dining room, a lamp on the server had been turned on, giving the room a cozy glow. Our dessert plates were still on the table, but the leftovers had been removed. I waved Miss Maggie ahead of me as we went single file toward the kitchen.

Suddenly, I had an upset stomach. Not just mildly upset, either. Pain and nausea. I almost doubled over.

I let out a gasp and Miss Maggie turned around. “Pat?”

“Keep going,” I managed to say. My main consideration was getting to the sink in a hurry, though, as I passed over the threshold into the kitchen, the tummy ache disappeared. Oh, my gut still felt packed full, but the cramps and urge to barf were gone, leaving not even a residual belch.

“Pat?” Miss Maggie said again.

“I’m okay. Just . . . just a little indigestion.”

“I’ve got Pepto in my suitcase.” She put a hand on my wrist to quiet my protests. “Beth Ann, run upstairs and fetch it, will you? I need it, too. Got what Pat calls
agita
. In the zippered compartment. Pink pills.”

Had Beth Ann been seated, I’m sure no force short of an act of God would have moved her. Her whole body conveyed that singular strain of energy deficiency found only in teenagers. Since she was on her feet already, and since Miss Maggie was so darn hard to say no to, she went, albeit not at the requested run.

“Good,” Miss Maggie said when she was out of sight. “Now talk fast before she comes back. What happened just now, and at dinner?”

I told her about the stomach ache, and then about the metallic taste and sudden thirst, and how staying in physical contact with Hugh seemed to keep the bogeyman away.

“So that’s why you were stuck to him like cat hair on wool. I wondered. Not like you.” Miss Maggie pursed her lips. “Weird, though. Almost like you’ve been experiencing memories of an illness.”

“You think that’s what it is? The illness that killed the ghost?” Not a notion that appealed to me. I’ve seen the deaths of the other spirits I’d dealt with through what I can only describe as mediumistic trances (I’ve been told mine are pretty boring to watch—thank God; they’re embarrassing enough). But I’d never
felt
the final moments of those souls. I didn’t want to start now.

“It’s a theory.” She crossed to the table by the stove where, apparently, Glad had been in the process of putting leftover gingerbread in a ceramic cookie jar shaped like a cabbage. Miss Maggie broke off a piece of the gingerbread and nibbled on it. So much for her
agita
. “If we can pinpoint the malady, Pat, we might be able to identify the ghost. And lucky for us, we’re in a house chock full of diagnostic wizards.”

“Miss Maggie, you can’t tell Hugh’s siblings—”

“Oh, I won’t mention
why
we want to know. Don’t worry—”

We heard two sets of feet on the spiral stair. Beth Ann came through the doorway first, then Horse in his Redskins jacket.

“Just take one of them,” Horse said to me, indicating the Pepto box in Beth Ann’s hand. “No more tonight. They don’t mix well with aspirin.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, not intending to take even one, since my tummy now felt fine.

“I’m driving to the hospital,” Horse continued, patting his jacket pockets. “Acey went with the ambulance—I’ll bring her back. Now where did I put my keys? Beth Ann, could you run up to the front bedroom and see if I left them on the bureau there?”

“I just climbed the stairs for Miss Maggie.” She gave the impression that she could only do this once a day, tops, but she disappeared through the stairway door once more.

Horse swung back to us. “Foot and Hugh are upstairs going through Kevin’s luggage, to see if he had any drugs with him that might explain his symptoms. If they find anything, tell them to call my cell—”

Foot came through the dining room doorway, coat over his arm. “I’m coming with you.”

“No need,” Horse replied. “Besides, there isn’t room for all three of us in the Miata—”

“Fine. Just give me a ride to the hospital and I’ll get a cab back.”

“They wouldn’t pick you up after the scene out front this afternoon.”

“Then lend me your car. You stay here and I’ll drive Acey—”

“Let you drive my Miata? Are you nuts?”

Hugh came into the room via the spiral stair behind Horse. “No drugs, medicines, or controlled substances of any kind in Weisel’s bag. And he hadn’t unpacked anything yet.” Then he noticed the confrontational poses of his brothers. “What’s up?”

“Foot’s insisting on coming with me,” Horse explained. “I keep telling him there’s no need for both of us to go—”

“Acey’s my little sister, too,” Foot persisted.

“There’s no room in my car.”

Foot appealed to Hugh. “Lend me your Ford, will you? Since Lighthorse is being such a—”

“Wait a second.” Hugh could make his voice boom like thunder when he wanted to. His brothers shut up. “I’ll need a car in a couple hours to take Pat to midnight mass. If you want to go?” he tacked on, with a glance in my direction.

News to me. How considerate of him to think of it. I’d be able to keep my promise to Aunt Sophie. “Sure,” I said, wondering if I could stay awake that long.

He turned back to his brothers. “So, you two can borrow mine, but give me the keys to the Miata, in case you aren’t back in time.”

“Your Escort?” Horse said.

“Is there anything
wrong
with my car?” Hugh’s voice dared Horse to say something about the postal insignia on his doors. For the first time it occurred to me that his being the only non-doc among them might be a sensitive area.

Horse seemed to know better than to go there. Dipping into his jacket pocket, he brought out his wallet with a sigh. “Your Escort’s not exactly a chick-mobile, but with Foot along, I won’t be cruising anyway.”

Beth Ann reentered that instant with the Miata keys.

“How come you’ll let Hugh drive the Miata and not me?” Foot asked, whining like his niece.

“If you’re coming, let’s go.” Horse, having swapped registrations with Hugh and taken his Ford keys, headed for the door. Foot followed, shrugging into his coat as he stepped over the threshold.

“Poor man at rich men’s tables their guts forrage
With roast beef, mince-pies, pudding & plum porridge.”

—John Tully’s Almanac, 1688

December 24, 1783—Captain Underwood’s in the Market Square

We met no resistance
—the captain had few servants left after Cornwallis set the slaves of patriots free when the Lobsterbacks came through Williamsburg two years ago. Sam claimed some slaves had returned after the surrender, but Underwood’s would rather have perished in the marshes than come back to such a master.

We came upon the captain and his guests seated in the dining room before a sumptuous banquet, the flickering light of no less than a dozen costly tapers dancing upon the lavish feast. They were well into the course, but yet remained meat enough on the long table to serve the five of us for a week. The company raised their heads, startled, as we crowded the doorway. No Carters nor Wythes, nor any of Virginia’s old families sat here, rather, those for whom the war had brought substance. New gentry. I fancied that in such company, Underwood could claim a seniority denied him elsewhere.

Near the table’s foot, I recognized Noah Akers beside a matron who, if looks proved telling, was his mother. As I played my last measure, Noah fixed an eye upon me, then a smile, and I was certain, mask or no, he knew me.

Underwood stood as we entered. “What’s this intrusion? Lynch! Lynch!”

“Our compliments of the season, Captain,” Sam announced with an elaborate bow. “Pray, sir, give us gallant room tonight, for Virginia’s bold champion has come forth to fight. A champion so daring, no foe has yet withstood; step in, our noble knight”—here Sam clapped a hand to Will’s shoulder—“Captain Gilbert Underwood!”

Will, flustered by Sam’s departure from our rehearsed script, failed to speak his subsequent line.

Underwood, however, gave a scornful laugh. “You’d have us believe that this great oaf shall portray me in your play? And who is your reeking crimson fop? Cornwallis, I suppose.”

“No, sir. His Lordship’s stink was that of a cornered skunk.” Sam won a laugh from the assembly, and two of the gentlemen went so far as to slap their approval upon the white linen tablecloth, though they used only their fingers, not full fists as the lads at the Eagle. To Jim, Sam said, “Step forward, sir, and present yourself.”

Jim, his voice so gruff a disguise was needless, said, “In comes I, King George, the British; my colonies have made me skittish. Won’t pay their tax, nor drink their tea; I’ll send my Regulars ’cross the sea.”

Another laugh and one gentleman said that we had “more wit than most of the pirates who go about this season.”

Underwood frowned, for I suppose we stole his party’s attention from him. “I have no room large enough to accommodate your antics.”

“We can perform here, sir,” Sam proposed.

“No, my servants are ready for the remove.” Underwood gestured for his guests to stand so they might retire from the dining room. I thought how arrogant it was to leave such food upon the table, only to have more put in its place, while so many citizens hereabouts fared poorly this year. Yet I recalled that Mr. Ivey’s dinners had been the same—how I’d gorged upon the victuals sent back to the kitchen with no thought to those worse situated.

Lynch pushed his way through us, and Underwood began to question him about how we’d gotten inside, but Lynch silenced the captain with a whispered word in his ear.

Vexed by what he’d heard, Underwood shook his head. That response apparently did not suffice, for Lynch whispered yet again.

The captain’s gaze then settled upon Sam and, there fixed, lost some of its annoyance. “Your troupe may perform in front of my house. If any of my guests wish to view your play, they may do so from window or step. Be content with that or the constable shall be summoned and the lot of you arrested for housebreaking.”

Sam was not content with that, but before he could say so, Alex curtsied and, in a mocking falsetto, said, “How very kind you are, Captain, as well as handsome. Is he not, ladies?” He tittered girlishly, bringing another laugh from the assembly, then presented his hairy hand to Sam. “Will you escort me, Doctor?”