We took the main stairway down, Patrick walking ahead of me. I carried the piece of pie, hoping I could coax him to eat a little more. As we crossed the second-floor hall to his room, Patrick suddenly stopped. He looked back at me, then quickly turned away.
"What's wrong?"
His body shuddered violently, then he bent over and threw up. I quickly set the pie on a side table and put my arm around his waist, supporting him. He heaved and heaved, but nothing more came out after that first sickening puddle of reddish purple.
"My tummy hurts, Kate. It hurts bad."
Even in the warm light of the hall lamps, his face was pale as milk. He clutched his stomach, his fingers digging into his clothes. I laid my hand over his, then rubbed his tummy gently, trying to soothe him.
"Do you think you can make it as far as your bathroom?" I asked. It was the next door down the hall, just before his bedroom. "We'll rinse your mouth and wipe your face, then get you in bed."
We had taken only five more steps, when he began to shudder again. I dropped down next to him. He strained forward in my arms and wretched a second time.
"I can't help it. I can't stop it."
"Oh, Patrick, I know that. You're ill."
"Mrs. Hopewell is going to be mad."
"I'll clean it up before she sees it. It's hardly anything," I said, glancing at the second puddle, less red this time, with a lot of clear liquid.
He has nothing in him to vomit, I thought, probably less than the cat had, just crackers and three bites of raspberry pie. Then a chill went through me. The crackers were plain soda wafers, packaged in cellophane. I doubted they had caused the problem. But the raspberry pie had come from downstairs. Had someone dared to taint his food? I was ready to believe it. If Patrick hadn't been so miserable, I would have rushed down the steps, screaming at the lot of them.
"I guess I shouldn't have eaten your pie," Patrick said.
My pie. I was so focused on protecting him, I had forgotten—the piece was intended for me.
"Come on, Patrick, a few steps more. Let's get you cleaned up."
From the bathroom I buzzed the intercom for assistance.
"Henry is coming," Mrs. Hopewell responded, then clicked off before I could tell her what I wanted.
I buzzed again. "Mrs. Hopewell, please send up Emily and Adrian. Patrick is ill."
"I will tell them after dinner is over." Click.
I pushed the button a third time.
"You will tell them now. The pie may have been tainted," I said, avoiding the word "poisoned" for Patrick's sake.
A long silence followed. "I don't understand," Mrs. Hopewell replied at last. "What exactly is the problem?"
"He ate a few bites of the pie. He has thrown up twice."
"That wasn't his dessert!"
Was she irate because a plan to poison me had gone awry or because her rule about dinner before dessert had been ignored? It was difficult to tell with her.
"Mrs. Hopewell, send Adrian up before I make my own decision to phone for medical assistance." I clicked off.
She, Adrian, Emily, and Brook arrived upstairs shortly after, meeting Patrick and me in the bedroom. I made him comfortable under his quilt and quickly recounted what had happened. Patrick was no longer holding his stomach, and his color had started to return. Still, when Emily wanted to call a paramedic, I pressed Adrian for the same thing. "At least his doctor," I said.
"The child is already recovering," Mrs. Hopewell observed. "You can't call a pediatrician every time a child sneezes or throws up."
"My mother did," Brook remarked. "Though sometimes she got confused and called the vet."
"The last time the doctor was called, all of Wisteria knew it," Mrs. Hopewell reminded Adrian.
He nodded. "It was most unfortunate. Call the doctor, Louise."
While Emily sat by Patrick's bed holding his hand, Adrian paced back and forth in the room. The expression on his face was calm, his hands steady, but I had observed his son enough to recognize the stiffness in his shoulders and the set of his jaw. He was upset and steeling himself against something.
Brook lounged against the bedroom door. Since he had no affection for Patrick, I wished he had stayed downstairs with Trent and Robyn. "Thank you, Brook," I said quietly, "but I have all the help I need."
He gazed at me, surprised. "I'm not here to help. I'm bored."
Adrian flicked him a look.
I handed Patrick's favorite old picture book to Emily, hoping he would find it comforting to read with her. Outside in the hall, Henry cleaned the Oriental rug. Mrs. Hopewell returned to say the doctor was coming. When the housekeeper told Adrian she wanted to speak to him in the hall, I followed them uninvited, as. did Emily, who closed the bedroom door behind us. The door opened and Brook darted out from Patrick's room, then hung like a roach on the wall, listening.
"No one informed me that Patrick had an allergy to raspberries," Mrs. Hopewell said to Emily. "Not that the dessert was intended for him," she added, glancing at me.
"How could I inform you if I wasn't aware of it?" Emily replied, sounding defensive. "You know as well as I do, he has never had a reaction before, not to berries or to any other kind of food."
"And he didn't now," I said. "He was poisoned."
"Poisoned," Emily echoed faintly.
Adrian turned to stare at me. "Do you mean deliberately?"
"I believe the tainting was deliberate—though it was meant for me, not Patrick. If I hadn't been concerned about him, I would have eaten the entire serving myself. What do you think"—I looked from one face to the next and tried to keep my voice steady—"was the pie meant only to make me ill, so I couldn't care for Patrick, or did someone want to kill me?"
"That's a ridiculous question," said Mrs. Hopewell.
"It is somewhat melodramatic," Emily observed.
"But interesting," Brook added. "In my opinion, the pie was intended to do the same thing that pushing you down the steps was intended to do."
"And what was that?" I asked angrily.
No one answered.
"We'll sort this out, Kate," Adrian assured me. "I want the pie wrapped up," he instructed Mrs. Hopewell "We'll have it tested." He turned toward Patrick's room.
"That won't be possible," the housekeeper said.
Adrian swung around. "And why not?"
"I have cleared it away."
"Then take it out of the trash, Louise." He said each word distinctly.
"I do not put spoiled food in the trash. It may develop a bad odor and attract wildlife. I ground the dessert in the garbage disposal."
"What about the rest of the pie?" Adrian asked.
"The rest!" I cried, frustrated. "Tainting can be done after a piece is cut, done to just one serving. A test will prove nothing."
Mrs. Hopewell went on as if I hadn't spoken. "I thought it best, sir, to dispose of the entire pie."
Adrian grimaced. "Have the doctor speak to me first when he arrives. In the meantime, inform Trent and Robyn of the situation. And take Brook downstairs with you. Kate, I want you to stay with Emily and me." He led the way into Patrick's room.
Patrick was turning the pages of his favorite book, looking at pictures of Max and "the wild things," paging forward and backward. Emily resumed reading aloud. I couldn't tell if Patrick was listening; his eyes followed me around the room as I mechanically straightened things that didn't need straightening. Adrian sat in the rocking chair, motionless, deep in thought.
When the doctor arrived, Adrian met with her briefly in the hall to explain the situation, then introduced her to us as Dr. Whelan, informing Patrick that she was covering for his pediatrician. Emily pointed out the door to Patrick's bathroom, so that the physician could wash her hands before examining Patrick.
She returned to the bedroom with an odd expression on her face. As she checked Patrick's eyes, mouth, and ears, she questioned him.
"tell me what you ate," she said softly.
"Some of Kate's crackers.
"
"A package from a vending machine," I told her.
"And some of Kate's pie."
She got out her stethoscope. "What kind was it?"
"Raspberry."
"What else did you eat?"
"Nothing."
"Take a big breath for me. Good. Take another. You ate nothing else?"
"No."
"He had an after-school snack around three forty-five," I said, "a piece of buttered toast and a small glass of apple juice."
"Any tremors, convulsions, labored breathing?" she asked.
"No, ma'am," I replied.
"Patrick, did you have anything to drink later?" No.
"Why don't you whisper the answer to me?" the doctor suggested.
"He didn't have anything else!" I said, frustrated that she wasn't keying in on the pie. "Why do you keep asking him?"
She turned to me. "Because there is a bottle of cough syrup lying open on the bathroom sink."
I stared at her dumbfounded.
Emily's red eyebrows pulled together. "His medicine cabinet is kept locked." She looked at me accusingly. "At least, it's supposed to be."
"I keep it locked, just as you told me to," I said, starting out of the room to see for myself. "Besides, there was nothing on the sink when I washed up Patrick."
I stopped at the bathroom's marble transom. There was now—a half-empty bottle. I had been in a hurry to clean him up and get him in bed, but surely I would have noticed it.
I returned to the room. "I don't know how that bottle got there."
"How much of the medicine did you drink, Patrick?" Adrian asked wearily.
"None."
"tell the truth."
I am!"
"Did Ashley dare you to take some?" I asked.
"Kate," Emily pleaded.
"Who is Ashley?" Dr. Whelan asked.
Emily sighed. "Patrick's imaginary playmate."
"Did she?" I persisted.
Patrick shook his head no.
I turned to Adrian. He met my eyes, but I couldn't read his gaze—he didn't want me to.
"Dr. Whelan," I said, "is it possible that Patrick ate something that was poisonous enough to make him sick and, if he had eaten more, could have killed him?"
The physician studied me, the lines in her softly weathered face deepening. "There are an endless number of poisons, some more potent than others, some more deadly in a higher dosage. Why do you ask?"
"Are some tasteless?" I persisted. "Some odorless?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Because I don't think Patrick drank any cough syrup. And as it happens, that raspberry pie—the entire piece, not two bites—was intended for me."
Dr. Whelan glanced at Adrian.
"When you have finished examining Patrick, we will discuss matters downstairs in my office," he said.
"I'm done," she told him.
"Emily?" He held out his hand for his wife. "Kate, would you mind staying with Patrick until he is asleep?"
He was not allowing me to talk further with the doctor. What was he afraid of—that I would give her even more reason to question the situation she found at Mason's Choice?
"I'm staying with him all night," I replied.
The doctor rewashed her hands and accompanied Adrian and Emily downstairs. Patrick resumed looking at the illustrations in his old book. I sensed he didn't want me sitting on his bed reading to him, so I pulled a chair next to it and sat quietly.
"I didn't have any medicine, Kate," he said, looking up from the book. "And Ashley didn't dare me."
"I know, Patrick."
I knew that flesh-and-blood hands had tainted the pie and unlocked the medicine cabinet. Whether by poisoning or by framing, someone was desperate to get rid of me. After twelve years, someone's nerves were starting to fray, and I was pretty sure it was Ashley's killer.
Chapter 17
I spent the night on Patrick's bedroom floor, getting more rest when I wasn't asleep, for in my dreams I ran continually, searching for Patrick, all the while being chased by someone or something I couldn't see. It was a relief when the alarm clock rang.
Patrick ate all of his breakfast and wanted to go to school. Emily was uncertain about sending him, but Adrian was pleased and praised him repeatedly for being "a strong boy," which made me wince. While Patrick waited for Emily to finish a note to his teacher, I went out to get the car. I stepped into a soft gray day, the warm air and melting snow blanketing the land with fog.
"Good morning."
"Sam!" I exclaimed, startled to see him leaning against his car in the Westbrooks' driveway.
I got home too late to call you back," he said.
"Your mother told me you were out."
"She told me that she gave you Sara's number." He cocked his head. "Why didn't you call?"
"I didn't want to interrupt anything."
"Anything like what?" he asked, laughing.
"Anything."
He moved closer, examining my face, his own becoming more serious. "You don't look like you got a lot of sleep."
"Right you are, Sherlock."
"What happened?" He opened the front door on the passenger side of his car. "Have a seat here in my office. Talk, Kate."
I sat sideways, keeping my feet outside the car, and told him about the poisoning of November, the dessert intended for me, and the sudden appearance of the cough syrup.
"I think Adrian is losing faith in me," I concluded, lapsing into silence. I was more tired than I had realized.
Sam's verbal explosions woke me up. His eyes flashed and he kicked the tires of his car. "You've got to leave, Kate. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you. I can't."
"You've got to!"
"I will not abandon Patrick," I said firmly. "I know how it feels to be left as a child."
"Like I don't? You keep forgetting about my father."
"That's different," I argued. "Your father didn't choose to leave. Something happens, Sam, happens to your heart, when you know a person has chosen to leave you. You keep waiting for the next person to go."
He kicked bits of dirty snow out from under his car's tires. "Okay, maybe I don't understand that part," he said.
"But here's the thing: If your goal is to help Patrick, I'd like to know how you are going to do that dead."
"Dead?" I shook my head. "Is there something you know that I don't?"
"The steps were a warning—I think they were just a warning. The pie, if you had eaten the whole piece—"
"Think about it," I interrupted. "It wouldn't have been very smart for someone to kill me with a piece of pie. An autopsy would have shown I was poisoned." It was the argument with which I had been trying to reassure myself since last night.
"Some poisons show up, some don't."
"All the same, I think you are getting a bit melodramatic," I said, borrowing Emily's line.
"You haven't yet seen melodramatic," he replied, suddenly pull ing me out of the car. He held me tightly in his arms. I could feel the blood pulse beneath my skin each place where his body touched mine.
"Why can't you drop the act, Kate?" He pulled back his head to look at me. His black eyes burned and became liquid with tears. "Don't you get it?" he asked, his voice trembling. I will go crazy if something happens to you. Don't make me any crazier than you already have."
"Hi, Sam."
At the sound of Patrick's voice, Sam released me. We both sagged against the car. I felt as if I'd had the wind knocked out of me. My eyes burned, my throat was dry.
I had thought your heart was supposed to break when someone left you, not when someone wanted in, but I felt as if Sam were chipping away, putting deep cracks in mine.
He rubbed his mouth. "Hey, short stuff. How's it going?"
"Okay," Patrick replied.
"Yeah? Is it?"
Patrick dropped his book bag next to the car, then shrugged.
"You think you might like another lesson in ice skating?"
"Okay," he said, w
ith only a touch of enthusiasm.
Sam knelt in the snow. "I'm going to be straight with you. I heard that yesterday wasn't okay. I heard it was tough when you got home."
Patrick didn't reply.
Sam put his hand under Patrick's chin, gently lifting it. "I'm sorry about November."
Patrick took deep, sniffly breaths.
"It hurts bad; huh?"
Patrick nodded, and Sam put his arms around him. "It's okay to cry. When my dog died, I cried my eyes out. I cried when my friend's dog died. Heck, I cried when my friend's grandmother's cat died!"
I laughed quietly, but the kindness in Sam's voice and the tender way he held Patrick made my own eyes warm with tears. Patrick suddenly gave in, sobbing against Sam's shoulder. Sam stayed quiet til he was done.
"Feeling better now?"
"Yes," Patrick said softly.
"So, here's the bad news: You might want to cry again. And that's okay. Sometimes crying comes and goes."
Sam took out a package of tissue to wipe Patrick's tears, then handed him one. "Big blow," he said. "We don't want no boogies hanging out. No boogies for you, no boogies for me," he chanted, then blew his own nose.
Patrick giggled. "I like boogies."
"They are interesting. But girls don't like them. I bet Kate thinks they're gross."
"You bet right. Need more tissue?"
"What'd I tell you," Sam said to Patrick, and stood up. "Have a decent time at school today. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He leaned closer to him.
"That still leaves you with a pretty long list.
"I'll call you tonight, Kate," Sam went on, turning to me. "Do you have a direct line?"
I wrote down my cell phone number. As he slipped it in his pocket, he glanced toward the house and gave a casual wave. "Just saying hello to the nice people watching us—someone upstairs, someone down."
I turned quickly, but all I saw was a blur as a figure withdrew from the library window.
Sam drove off, leaving greasy black snow where his car had been parked. Patrick and I trudged silently toward the garage as if we were already at the end of a very long day.