Wishbones (39 page)

Tinkie stumbled, and Cece and I held her up as we battled our fears.

"You need something to eat." Cece attempted to draw Tinkie away from the window. "We'll go to the hospital waiting room. That's not three minutes away."

Tinkie shook her head. "Oscar knows I'm here. He'll know if I'm gone."

I found my cell phone. "I'll call Millie and get her to fix a plate." Millie ran the local cafe where we often met to discuss cases or simply to gossip. She was a big part of our close-knit group. I placed an order for chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh green beans, and dewberry cobbler.

"Hold her up," Cece said, waving me to take Tinkie's arm. "I'll be right back." She disappeared down the hallway, her high heels efficiently smacking the linoleum tile.

"Is there any change?" I asked Tinkie.

"No. I saw Doc about four hours ago, before they found Gordon. Doc doesn't know what it is or how to treat it, but it seems that all of the victims have visited one place. An old plantation. Coleman is checking that out."

"What treatment is Doc using?"

"Oscar's on the most powerful antibiotic I.V. they have. They've tried steroids." Her fingers brushed across the glass window of the isolation ward. "Doc has consulted with specialists at Johns Hopkins. They considered transferring him, but until they can figure out what this is and how it's transmitted . . ."

I rubbed her arms. She felt cold to my touch. "Where's Chablis?" Chablis was her dustmop of a dog that long ago was the source of our friendship--and partnership in the detective agency.

"At home. Can you keep her for a few days?"

"Sure. I'll get her when I pick up your food."

"Make way, dahlings." Cece returned carrying a chair and deposited it so that Tinkie could sit and monitor the window.

"Does anyone know what happened?" I asked.

Tinkie's blue eyes were glassy with fatigue and near shock. We'd been home twelve hours, and she hadn't left the hospital hallway.

"Oscar and the bank manage the lease on the Carlisle estate," Tinkie explained. "It's a thousand-acre plantation Erin Carlisle and her brother, Luther, own. Luther called Oscar yesterday morning and told him he had a buyer. He wanted Oscar to make sure the house and property were in good order, so Oscar rode out there and looked around."

For a long moment there were only the sounds of two nurses talking at a nearby desk. At last Tinkie spoke again. "He went back to the bank, ate lunch, and about two o'clock, Margene went in to give him some papers. That's when she found him on the floor, moaning, with those ghastly sores breaking out all over him. Doc said when Oscar got to the hospital, his temperature was . . . a hundred and five." She covered her mouth with her hand to hold back an anguished rasp.

"When did Regina and Luann get sick?" Cece asked.

"That same day. Later in the evening."

"And Gordon?"

Tinkie looked so lost. "He went out to the Carlisle place around six o'clock. From what I understand he checked the house, walked the area, then went home to change clothes. He called in for medical help from there. He was nearly unconscious by the time the paramedics got to him. The only strange thing he said was that the cotton at the Carlisle place was extremely high, like a late-August crop instead of newly planted. Oscar had told Margene the same thing."

"And Regina and Luann? Were they at the Carlisle plantation?"

"Coleman has confirmed that. They went out, hoping to list the property." Tinkie rubbed at her eyes.

"High cotton," I mused. "That would seem to be a good thing. A farmer might get two crops a year instead of one if there was a variety that developed this fast."

Tinkie fumbled in her pocket and brought out a tissue. "As far as we know, neither Oscar nor Gordon saw anything
unusual except the cotton. Of course, they're not talking now."

I relayed the news about the CDC to both of them. Cece met it with a frown. "Are we positive that it's the Carlisle place that Oscar, Gordon, and the realtors have in common?"

That was an excellent question, and one that needed an immediate answer.

Cece picked up Tinkie's hand. "You're going to have to help us with this, Tink. We can't do it without you."

The blank look she gave Cece concerned me. "It doesn't matter where he got it, Cece. The only thing that matters is that he gets over it."

That wasn't my partner talking. That was exhaustion and desperation and fear. Tinkie loved Zinnia and the people of Sunflower County. She hadn't yet projected this illness to other residents. In her mind, it was contained within the walls of the hospital, within the room where her husband and three others lay dying.

"I'll get the food and Chablis," I told them.

"I'll stay here," Cece told me. "Just hurry."