33

It’s too late. Within ten minutes, the dining room is filled with the smell of sickness. Two people have puked all over themselves, and the other people at their table have clasped their hands over their noses to avoid the smell, including the two police officers.

Oops. There goes another one—it’s one of the officers. The other officer joins him. All the sick people are at the same table. Maybe they got soup from the same pot. Hopefully, it’s only one bad pot. Mom radios for backup and ambulances as the people around me swallow repeatedly and try not to blow chunks.

Two green-faced people are up and looking for extra napkins, and Billingsley is slowly making her way around them. She has her hand cupped over her nose as she moves toward the door.

Mom sees her officers are in distress, rushes over to me, and says, “You get her bag—I’ll get her.” We take off after the dog-loving saboteur, who is just about out the door. I grab Billingsley’s elbow and get a handful of sweater. It slows her down long enough for me to wrench her bag off her shoulder. Groucho pops his head out of it, barks, and leaps to the ground, and I lunge to catch him. Bag and dog in hand, I step back so Mom can get past me and follow Billingsley out the door.

Dad sees the chaos and yells, “Oh, no! My food!” He grabs two fistfuls of napkins and runs from table to table, handing them out. Mr. Lewis, who mentions that he’s a doctor, offers to assist. Dad practically weeps as he says, “Thank you!”

Ben, who hadn’t ordered any soup, runs to his uncle John, who is green and gagging but not throwing up. Ella, also not a soup eater, is trying to help the sisters. Dominic looks like he’s in rough shape, but he’s rushing to help his parents, who are also gasping for air. Mrs. Lewis is swallowing hard as her husband tends to her. Maybe not everyone got the bad soup, but we’ve all had our lunch ruined.

Zoe has her head down, her cheek flat against the table, and her mass of red hair halfway in the bowl. She’s not barfing but she’s green. The smell alone has turned other diners the same color.

I hurry outside to see if Mom needs any help. But Billingsley’s on her belly, and Mom is already handcuffing her. Hubert nearly pushes me over when he comes barreling through the main door.

“What are you doing?” he yells. “Stop it! Hey! That’s my mother!”

Mom orders him to stand back.

“Hubert,” Billingsley shouts, “do something, you useless idiot!”

Sirens roar in the distance, and a Rook River squad car squeals onto the scene. Mom lets the uniformed officers get Billingsley up and read her the arrest rights. As an officer guides her into the squad car’s back seat, Billingsley yells, “My dog. I want my dog!”

“Give me the dog,” Hubert says.

“Not now,” Mom replies. “We’ll take it into protective custody and address that tomorrow.”

I hand Mom the big purse, Groucho included. She puts it in the front seat of her squad car.

“This is illegal search and seizure,” screams Billingsley.

“Pipe down,” Mom says.

Then she turns to Hubert and tells him, “Meet me at my office in ten minutes and bring Willy. We’re going to the station in Rook River.”

As Billingsley kicks the Rook River squad car’s protective steel mesh and bulletproof glass divider, one officer turns to another and says, “I think we’re going to need some help on the other end.”

Three ambulances from the fire and rescue station wail into town and turn into the parking lot, followed by another two police cars from Rook River.

The paramedics and extra officers flood into the café to help sick people and collect evidence, including the vomit samples, the pots of soup, and anything Billingsley touched. They have white paper masks on, but that doesn’t keep three of them from gagging.

Mom says to one of the paramedics directing people into ambulances, “Can you handle all of this?”

He replies, “Yes, ma’am. It’s what we do. But you better call the state health department. They’re going to want to examine the food that did this.”

She nods. “We have plenty of samples for them.”

Thankfully, I’m told to stay outside with Groucho while they finish up.

Dad comes out of the restaurant and looks around for Mom. “I can’t believe this. This is crazy. They’re sick. From my cooking. Not in my lifetime. Not in generations. I feel terrible.”

“I’m pretty sure Mrs. Billingsley poisoned the soup,” I tell him.

“How? When?”

“I think it was when she went in the kitchen to wash the hot sauce bottle.”

“You mean it wasn’t my food?” Dad looks so relieved, I think he’s going to cry.

Mom puts her arm around his waist. “No, honey. Not any ingredient you added.”

* * *

Mom drives me, Groucho, and the big handbag back to her office at home. Because we’re taking her squad car, I have to ride in the back like a perp. Groucho thinks it’s fun, bouncing around and jumping at the chain mesh divider. I guess he and I are friends again.

Once we’ve arrived, Mom puts plastic down across the surface of her sheriff’s desk and places the bag on top of it. She works her hands into surgical gloves and tags the bag as evidence. Then she starts examining the contents.

“It smells really bad,” I say.

“The whole town smells bad,” she says.

First, she pulls out a leather wallet with wet spots on it, then lipstick with the cap off, a lipstick cap, a pen, some receipts, a brush, and the incriminating evidence—two large plastic zip bags with the remnants of rotten fish in their corners.

She opens one of the bags, puts her nose near it, and reels back in revulsion. “I guess we know what went into the soup.”

As she carefully re-zips the bag, there’s a banging at the front of the house, and we both turn our heads.

Mom goes to the door, and I hear Hubert’s voice. “What do I need to do to get my mother?”

“I see you didn’t eat the soup,” Mom says.

“No,” he answers. “I don’t eat fish myself. I’m allergic to it.”

Mom looks at him skeptically. “Look, Hubert—she’s involved in this. And I’m going to find out who else is. Where’s Willy?”

“He’s in the car.”

“Then both of you get in the back of mine. I’m driving.”