Poison to Purge Melancholy (25 page)

I got a glimpse of Sachi’s left forefinger and the ring it bore: gold with a red stone.

Cherry spoke up, interrupting my speculations. “To tell the truth, I haven’t been feeling so hot since I got here. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to pay your bathroom another visit.” She made a hasty exit, high heels clopping up the stairs to the second floor.

“Anxiety-related,” Foot diagnosed, “what with her husband and all.”

“I hope so.” Evelyn stood to retrieve the wine bottle and water decanter from the sideboard and began refilling glasses. “I’ve checked everything I could think of. Had the furnace cleaned, chimneys swept, and all the vents vacuumed. Made them test for radon and had carbon monoxide detectors put on all the floors—”

“From what I know of the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation,” Miss Maggie said through a mouthful of beets, “they don’t let just anyone make maintenance decisions. So, Evelyn, what do you do when you aren’t wearing britches?”

Everyone laughed, even Evelyn, though he went crimson to his ears.

Glad answered for him, with pride in her voice. “Ev’s a historical restoration architect for the Foundation. He only fills in as an interpreter if he’s needed. Like this week when half the staff was down with the flu.”

“Right.” Evelyn topped off Foot’s water glass. “That’s how I met Glad. The day after she became a volunteer, she came into the housing office to ask why the Carson house was vacant and could she arrange to live there. I was within earshot and heard her say she was a direct descendant of Elizabeth Carson. Gave me an excuse to call her and invite her out for coffee to discuss her genealogy. In the name of research, of course.” His eyes twinkled as he gazed across the table at Glad. She smiled back. I sighed as I do when romantic movies have happy endings.

Rich ruined the moment. “Lucky for you, Mom. If not for that chance meeting, you’d never have moved here.”

“Nonsense.” Evelyn replenished Rich’s wine. “The Foundation would have let Glad rent the house, and at a reasonable rate. Better to have the place occupied than sitting empty. No, I’m the lucky one.” He turned back toward Glad. “Well? We might not get a more appropriate cue.”

She nodded, pushing back her chair to stand, smoothing her satin overskirt. Evelyn set down decanter and bottle and went to stand by her side. Glad cleared her throat. “We have an announcement.” Superfluous, but it gave her time to lick her lips and swallow, and glance at Evelyn. By the time she spoke, everyone knew what was coming. “We’re going to be married.”

I opened my mouth to congratulate them, but Glad didn’t give me a chance.

“January sixth, actually. Twelfth night. In keeping with the colonial custom.” As an afterthought, she added, “You’re all invited, of course.”

Miss Maggie broke the shocked silence by raising her wine glass. “To Gladys and Evelyn: happiness and a long life together.” Then she sent one of her teacher-warning looks around the room.

“I’ll second that,” Acey said as she and Sachi hoisted their glasses in unison. “We’ll be there, Mom.”

I nudged Hugh with one arm while joining the toast with the other. He followed suit, but didn’t open his mouth, so I said, “We will, too. Congrats.”

Beth Ann lifted her water as Horse voiced a deep, “Huzzah!” and downed his wine in a gulp. With a sigh, Rich jumped on the bandwagon.

All eyes went to Foot, including Irene, who was fingering her glass stem, waiting for his cue. He scowled and pushed back his chair. “I’ve had my fill of this meal.” He left the room and we heard him take the stairs two at a time.

Before awkwardness set in, though, we heard two cries from above—a masculine “Hey!” followed by a feminine “Let go!” This last was repeated twice more amid sounds of scuffling.

Hugh was out of the room a second before Horse, and both were up to the stair landing by the time Acey, Beth Ann, and I entered the hall.

“Stop her!” Foot yelled from above. “She’s a thief!”

You’d think two men the size of pro linebackers could stop one woman. Problem was, Cherry used her teeth, fingernails, and high heels to full advantage, kicking Hugh hard on the shin as she pushed past him. Horse held onto her for a few seconds longer, but she managed to squirm around and knee him in the groin. He went down and she disappeared into the rear hallway.

“Go after her!” Acey called. “I’ll head her off in the kitchen.”

Foot and Hugh took up the chase. Beth Ann ran after her aunt. I felt immediately ill and clutched my stomach.

Miss Maggie was beside me, whispering in my ear. “Hurry, get to the kitchen.”

I obeyed, pushing past Rich, Evelyn, and Glad as they tried to see what was going on. Beyond them, Irene stood by her place, not sure what to do. Sachi stood by Beth Ann’s, holding the chair for support, obviously feeling as awful as I did.

I hooked my hand around her upper arm. “Come with me. Quick!”

She responded to the urgency in my voice, letting me pull her through the pantry and into the kitchen. My nausea vanished the moment I crossed the threshold and I turned to Sachi. “Do you feel better?”

She nodded, amazed, but said only, “I have to help Acey.”

We heard feet thumping down the circular stair. Acey crouched, waiting for the door to open. When it did, she launched herself in such a beautiful flying tackle, I pictured her playing football with her brothers, and beating them. Cherry sprawled face down, arms flailing. Sachi grabbed one wrist, I took the other, and Beth Ann sat on the woman’s feet.

By the time Foot and Hugh came through the door, Cherry had given up struggling.

All of them were breathing hard, but Foot managed to bellow, “Someone call the police!”

“Go ahead, call them!” Cherry shouted. “Wait ’til I show them what I found in your luggage. I
knew
one of you tried to kill Kevin. Now I have proof.”

Acey sat back, taking her weight off Cherry. “What are you talking about?” Then to Foot, “What does she mean?”

Cherry answered. “Get everyone off me and I’ll show you.”

“Let go of her,” Acey said. We did, though Hugh moved himself between Cherry and the outside door. Having seen what she did to Horse, I moved to Hugh’s side.

Cherry stood, running her hands down her leather pants to get the kinks out. Then, with a grin, she reached down her sweater and from her cleavage brought out a small brown prescription bottle.

Foot made a grab for it, but Cherry yanked it away. “They’re antidepressants,” she said. “Like what poisoned Kevin.”

“Now some with Feasts do crown the Day,
Whilst others loose their Coyn in play.”

—Titan Leeds,
The American Almanac
, December 1714

December 25, 1783—The Hunt

I returned to Mrs.
Carson’s house, still intent on examining Brennan’s room while my landlady and her children were at Christmas devotions.

Brennan’s room was still cold, one window yet open a crack. His bed had been stripped of blanket and ticking, and his spare shirt, waistcoat, and britches were laid out to air upon the ropes. His trunk stood empty.

I no longer needed proof of Brennan’s role in the death of Thomas Carson, nor did I hope to find written evidence of the act. I now sought some clue as to how Brennan had been driven to lunacy, and why, if the poison would have killed him eventually, he’d been shot instead.

If Riddick was correct, then Brennan’s first signs of madness were from mercuric salts mixed into his snuff. Indeed, ’twas likely the very reason he discarded the items, seeing them tainted. I presumed that he’d found no fault with the snuff, mint, and stores of tobacco remaining in his room, or he’d have thrown them out as well. Yet, I scanned these sacks first, as best I could without spilling out the contents. No contaminant was evident.

Nevertheless, after Brennan had the lock put on his door, his lunacy had progressed. How had the quicksilver been given him? He’d fetched his own water and food, and kept his new snuff pouch close to his person, as well as the key to his room.

His few possessions provided no answers, and I soon gave up the hunt in favor of another errand—paying a call on Alex at Dr. Galt’s Apothecary.

When I arrived, the sole patron was Mrs. Hockaday, the young, proud wife of Matthew. She was saying, “Mary claims her monthly pain is so great, she cannot stand to cook or do her chores. I’ve given her sanicle root and some burnet—of course, one can’t find balm flowers or shepherd’s sprouts this time of year—”

Alex made sympathetic noises.

“She said they made her worse. Not that I believe it—sanicle has always worked for me. Matthew says she’s lying—all slaves do when opportunity affords, he says. Yet, Mary does seem greatly pained, Mr. Fisher.”

Alex nodded his understanding of her predicament. “Perhaps a different physic? Rue, I’d say, to loose the menses, with a bit of rhubarb, in case a costive bowel is to blame.”

She frowned in doubt. “English rhubarb? The price has risen so since the embargoes.”

“Anise, then? I can give you an ounce at four pence.”

To this she agreed. Alex weighed the seed and dried rue, and when she’d gone, turned to me. “What will you have, Ben? A remedy for rum punch headache? Half the town’s come in for such a cure this morn.”

Assuring him to the contrary, I leaned across the counter and lowered my voice, lest Dr. Galt hear from his back room. “Do you remember the first day I came here, Alex?”

“I should say so. Asking after poisons. Had I not known you since Brandywine, I’d have called the constable straightway. As it were, I knew you to be the only man in Williamsburg who could fashion a decent toddy from army rations. Playing fiddle all the while.”

“The poison I inquired about—cassava root. A piece of it was found in Brennan’s pocket.”

Alex let go a low whistle. “Not happenstance, I take it?”

Shaking my head, I asked, “You sell physics from the Indies. Do you obtain them all through the importers? Greenhow? Tarply?”

“Yes, of course. They employ the ships, after all.” Alex rubbed his chin. “Though, if a man wished to avoid a documented transaction, he might pay a sailor to procure his desire.”

“What about during the war?”

“Trade with the British islands was trickier, but from what I’ve heard, many a merchant vessel carried a variety of flags, depending on which ports they sailed for. Or, for all we know of Brennan, he might have come from the Indies himself and brought the root with him.”

I conceded the point. “Another query for you: quicksilver. If taken in large quantity, will it turn poison?”

“Poisons again?” Alex’s brow ascended a good half inch. “Nearly every medicine on these shelves will turn poison in quantity, quicksilver included. ’Tis sometimes a very fine line between cure and kill. Why do you ask?”

I spoke with care, so as not to betray the doctor. “I’ve heard that quicksilver can drive a man to lunacy if the powders are breathed in.”

But Alex laughed. “Heard from Dr. Riddick, no doubt. His pet subject.”

“Do you believe it?”

He gave a shrug of the shoulders. “I’ve not decided. Yet, I’ll admit that I’ve begun telling my patrons to hold their breath when swallowing the powders, and to keep the liquid from candle and hearth lest it steam. No harm in caution. But if you’re thinking Brennan’s lunacy was brought on by quicksilver, well, he got it elsewhere. I sold him nothing.”

“What of the others in our house?” I asked. “Jim and the doctor? Have they purchased it?”

“Ah, you think Brennan might have stolen it. Let me think.” Alex took a scrap of homespun from beneath the counter and wiped the scale. “Doctor Riddick, of course, takes a small case of physics with him when he makes his calls. If used, he brings back payment from his patient. I believe quicksilver is one of his staples.”

“Does he help himself to your stores?”

“When I’m not about. Many’s the time he or Dr. Galt are called to a sickbed when the shop’s closed.”

“And Jim?”

“Bought an ounce of quicksilver not two months ago for a purge. As for the others, I know Mrs. Carson keeps the physic on hand for herself and children. And Sam, as you know, takes the salts regularly.” Alex slapped the counter. “I forgot until this instant. Beginning of December, young Tom came in with the instruction that Mr. Walker had misplaced his powders and would like a new supply for the coming fortnight, which I sent along with the boy. There’s your answer. Brennan must have taken Sam’s powders.”

Foot made another grab
for the pill bottle, but Cherry stretched her arm away from him, holding him off with her other hand. She didn’t realize she was putting the bottle right in front of Beth Ann, who snatched it out of Cherry’s fingers, then retreated to her aunt’s side.

At that moment, Miss Maggie led the rest of the troops in from the dining room. Horse was limping, but okay.

Acey, relishing the idea of an audience, crossed her arms across her chest as she took a step toward Cherry. “You weren’t trying to
find
proof upstairs. You were
planting
it. Because if Kevin dies and it looks like suicide, you won’t get his insurance money.”

The accusation hit a nerve. Cherry’s eyes practically flashed fire back at her. “He
didn’t
try to kill himself.”

“No? Well maybe
you
did. You’ve got the motive, honey.”

“Uh, Aunt Acey?” Beth Ann interrupted. “This has Uncle Foot’s name on it.”

Acey took the bottle from her niece and read the label. “Wait, this isn’t protriptyline.”

“It’s an antidepressant,” Cherry maintained. “It says so on one of those little warning stickers on the side. I think. I mean, it says not to take it with
other
antidepressants, so I—”

“This is an MAO inhibitor,” Acey said, as if that made everything clear, which I’m sure it did to the doctors present. For the rest of us, Acey added, “It’s a different class of antidepressant entirely. Couldn’t be mistaken for protriptyline in Kevin’s blood.” A classic LAG took over her face, aimed at Foot.

His response was to scowl and hold his hand out for the bottle. When Acey gave it to him, he fled through the open stairway door, slamming it behind him.

Acey turned to Rich and Horse. “Why’s Foot taking MAO inhibitors?”

Horse shrugged. “He never told me about it.”

“Me neither,” Irene piped in.

Rich said nothing at first, but when everyone stared at him and Acey said “Out with it,” he admitted he’d known.

“Last weekend, when we were down at the shore house, I walked into his room as he was packing the bottle Sunday afternoon. He tried to hide it, but I—”

“Why didn’t you tell the rest of us?” Acey demanded.

“It was a matter of confidentiality and—”

“He consulted you professionally?”

“No. I—”

“Then you aren’t his doctor. You’re his brother. I’m his sister, who has a right to know he’s taking a dangerous drug.”

“Calm down, Acey.” Rich ran a hand through his graying hair. “Foot assured me he’s being careful—watching what he eats, self-monitoring his blood pressure, getting liver scans every other month. He’d been taking milder antidepressants, on and off since Katharine died, but they became ineffective, and he’s intolerant of the other classes. This is the only medication that works for him—”

The beepy ringtone of a cell phone butt in. Six hands went to various pockets, six heads bent to check cellular screens.

Cherry was the one who called out, “Mine,” reaching to unhook a tiny phone from her belt. She listened to the caller a moment, said “uh-huh” twice, then turned her back on the rest of us and walked over to the hearth. A few seconds later, she hung up and swung around, her face defiant once more. “I have to go back to the hospital. Kevin had a heart attack.”

* * *

The next fifteen minutes were spent getting jackets and keys and moving cars. Hugh chivalrously volunteered to move mine for me. Or maybe he was still kissing up after the argument.

Perhaps on a similar guilt trip, Rich offered to take Acey to the hospital.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m staying here.”

Rich decided to go anyway, to find out what was happening on her behalf, he said. He left right after Cherry.

Glad shooed the rest of us from the kitchen and dining room, so she could get the second course out.

“I’ll be right with you,” Miss Maggie told me. “I’ve got a quick question for Evelyn first.”

Irene announced her intention of trying to rout Foot from his hole and went upstairs. Acey said that she, too, was going up to the bathroom. Sachi followed her. Which left Beth Ann, Horse, and me to settle in the parlor, Horse leaning against the wall by the mantel, Beth Ann and me on the sofa.

Miss Maggie and Hugh joined us less than a minute later. Still wearing his jacket, Hugh came to stand behind the sofa, giving my neck a massage with one hand while returning my car keys with the other. The man had his priorities straight. So did I let myself wallow in the attention? No, I glanced to my right for Beth Ann’s reaction, expecting to see her usual resentment.

Instead, she was staring at the fireplace, her thoughts obviously far away. Because of her Uncle Foot? Then again, except for the pill bottle episode, she hadn’t uttered a word since we sat down to dinner. In fact, I recalled that she’d barely touched the chicken and spoonbread on her plate.

I’d promised Miss Maggie I’d talk to Beth Ann. I was debating if I should do it now when Irene walked in, once more full of doubt. The expression seemed wrong for her, maybe because it implied thought on her part.

“Francis says his door’s stuck again,” she announced. “I couldn’t push it open. He told me to send Hugh up.”

“I’ll go, too,” Horse said, heading for the door.

“He doesn’t want you.” Irene sat in one of the armchairs. “Or Rich or Acey. That’s what he said. Just Hugh.”

Maybe because they’re both widowers, I thought, watching Hugh leave. Maybe Foot wanted to talk about his first wife. Problem was, another possibility occurred to me. One I didn’t like at all.

I turned to the remaining sibling. “Horse, can I ask you a medical question?”

“Shoot,” he said, resuming his pose near the hearth.

“Rich said Foot was intolerant of other classes of antidepressants. What does that mean?”

Horse put his hands in his pockets. “Drug intolerance can mean different things. Technically ‘intolerance’ means the body treats a substance as foreign and toxic. I knew of one patient who had such an intolerance to milk that sipping it would bring pain to the tissues in her mouth. But intolerance can also mean a medication’s side effects are too hard for a patient to endure. Or the drug might cause an allergic reaction, like itchy eyes or a rash. Or an adverse physiological reaction.” He grinned. “For instance, someone with a history of, say, thrombosis, might develop blood clots from certain medications. That’s an intolerance.”

He thought I was asking with my own case in mind, so I clarified my next question. “Can intolerance make a drug fatal? I mean, in one dose?”

“Oh. Well, assuming the prescribing physician performed a thorough examination, reviewing the patient’s medical history, family, allergies, and other medications taken, including vitamins and herbals,
and
assuming the patient follows his doctor’s and the pharmaceutical instructions regarding dosage, time of day and interaction precautions, then I’d say the chance of a reaction that severe is almost nil. Though not impossible. Of course, some patients never follow instructions. They take the doses wrong, or drink alcohol with their meds—”

“Like Dr. Weisel,” Beth Ann broke in.

Horse nodded. “He should have known better. Alcohol with an antidepressant is a nasty combination.”

“Uncle Foot didn’t have ale last night or wine today,” Beth Ann said.

“Right, and he didn’t have caffeine. He also asked Ma the ingredients of everything she served, because he can’t eat certain foods while taking MAO inhibitors.”

“Sounds like they react with everything,” I said. “I guess he’d have to watch what other drugs he took, too.”

“Oh, sure, Foot knows all that.” Horse came over to the sofa and hunkered down in front of his niece. “Don’t worry about your Uncle Foot, Beth Ann. He’s always been super-careful. And now that the rest of us know, we can help him.”

* * *

Glad called us in to the second course. I paused in the hall near the stairs, signaling Beth Ann to wait with me. Hugh was on his way down, but my eye was on Sachi, two steps from the bottom, looking woozy, in pain, and about ready to hurl.

“Grab her arm,” I whispered to Beth Ann, but she already had her hand on Sachi’s wrist. I asked the latter if she felt okay. Her expression said Beth Ann had worked a miracle cure and she was opening her mouth to ask how. I interrupted with, “Where’s Acey?”

“Taking a nap. Said she was up late last night.” Her gaze, though, flickered not down the hall to Acey’s room, but back up the stairs.

I had no time to question her. Beth Ann, talking fast and low so her father wouldn’t hear, said, “Stay close to me and you won’t feel sick. We’ll explain later.” And she pulled Sachi toward the dining room.

As soon as Sachi got between us, I felt sick again. I ran up four steps to intercept Hugh, hiding my obvious relief as I touched him by asking, “How’s Foot?”

“All right.” Hugh’s furrowed brow belied his reply.

“He’s not coming down?”

“He’s better off alone.” Hugh slipped his arm around my waist. “Come on. I’m hungry.” As we passed beneath the mistletoe, he paused to plant a kiss on my forehead. Nothing passionate, just an I’m-glad-you-came-this-weekend kind of smooch. More sexy than he realized. Yet, I knew something was bugging him.

The table had the same layout as before—seven dishes—only this time slices of roast beef and ham sat where the fish and chicken had been earlier. In the center was a pyramid of small tarts, surrounded by plates of fritters, stewed apples, a high, round loaf of bread, and what seemed to be eggs cooked in brown gravy. I knew the look since my mom used to cook eggs in tomato sauce as a wintertime lunch for me.

Beth Ann put Sachi next to her grandmother—“so she doesn’t have to sit at the card table by herself,” she explained to Glad—and took my chair. I sat beside her, steering Hugh into Rich’s seat. Everyone else settled down where they’d been before, leaving Foot’s chair vacant.

Without him there, Glad gave a more abbreviated description of the foods, but I learned that the tarts were mince pies, the fritters were potato, and the bread was the infamous Sally Lunn. “From Raleigh Tavern Bake Shop,” Glad added. “I don’t have the patience to make it right. Be careful, Magnolia. You know it’s loaded with butter and eggs.”

Miss Maggie had sliced off a thick slab, but innocently passed it to Horse beside her as if that’s what she intended all along, saying, “Who else wants some?”

Once I’d tasted it, I understood. Sweet and rich, but light. Easy to pig out on. However, as Evelyn went around, pouring red wine, I again took tiny portions of each dish, telling myself there were two dessert courses to come.

Beth Ann, I noticed, took only ham, bread, and a fritter (I
had
to work on that kid’s gastronomic courage). Hugh took everything, but wasn’t shoveling it down as usual. I reached under the tablecloth and tickled his knee. It got a smile out of him, though no more than a two-point-four on the Mirth Scale.

“So, Sachi and Irene,” Glad said, “it’s so nice you could both come today. Tell us something about yourselves, won’t you? Sachi, how long have you known Ann Carter?”

Sachi sent a hesitant glance around the table. “Six years. We met at a seminar on homeopathic medicine.”

“You’re a doctor, too?” Horse asked.

“Oh, no. I manage a pharmacy. Chain store. Though I’d like to own a little independent someday.”

“Six years,” Glad echoed. “What a shame Ann Carter never brought you down here before. Irene, dear, what about yourself?”

She blinked twice, as if it took that long to understand the question. “Oh, I work in a department store. That’s why I couldn’t come last night. We were open ’til midnight.”

Glad cut her roast beef. “That’s what Francis told us. How did you meet him? You’ve only known each other a few months, haven’t you?”

“We didn’t start dating until September, but I met him . . . let’s see . . .”

“Last spring,” Horse offered. “When Foot hired his new receptionist. He said you two were friends.”

“Right.” Irene stabbed a bite-sized piece of ham. “I used to stop by his office on my days off so Marcy and I could do lunch. Then he asked me out and, well, here I am.”