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Adam sat by the hospital bed, listening to the ventilator’s whooshing as it forced air into the lungs of the man lying in a green hospital gown. It was eerily similar to what he’d seen at the hospital where Reggie Forsyth lay in his coma, but it hadn’t bothered him then. Was it because he took a perverse pleasure in seeing The Monster that way?
But Braddon’s prone form, the sounds, the sights, the smells of the pungent antiseptic—it all brought to mind the time it was Adam who was lying here. After a madman kidnapped and tortured him. He took a few deep breaths like his therapist has instructed.
He shook off the darkness as a woman burst into the room and stopped short of the bed. Beverly looked over at Adam. “I got a call from Sharon Bogren.”
“The conference center secretary?”
“She says you’re calling it suicide. And asked me specifically to tell you that you’re wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“She and Braddon started dating a few weeks ago. She said he was happier than she’d seen him in, well, since Jane Campen left. And he got the news the SCA board had decided to give the Rapier Marshall slot. That’s why she doesn’t believe he was suicidal in the least.”
Adam held up his cellphone, so she could see the text message, then he read it to her. “Couldn’t live with the guilt. I killed Wallace. I am a rabbit coward. Sorry.”
“He texted you a confession? And suicide note? That’s convenient.”
Adam pocketed the phone. “The preliminary blood analysis is monkshood poisoning. The only reason we knew to test for it is the bottle of monkshood tincture in his desk.”
“Monkshood? Isn’t that the type of poison used in the Middle Ages? Makes it sound like something an SCA person would use.”
“Like you said, convenient.”
Beverly moved closer to the bed. “How’s he doing?”
“They pumped his stomach, gave him activated charcoal, and have him in an induced coma. The doc said it’s touch and go, but there are positive signs he’ll pull through.”
“So, he just tipped up the bottle and drank it?”
“There was a cup of coffee nearby, so it may have been added to it.”
“Braddon’s ‘mud’ coffee?”
“Didn’t he say it was espresso, the more bitter, the better? With extra shots? Funny thing, that. Monkshood has a bitter, unpleasant taste. Braddon’s mud coffee’d be a perfect way to disguise the flavor.”
“You think Sharon Bogren is right?”
“Not necessarily. Still, very—”
“Convenient,” she finished for him.
“The lab’ll run prints on the cup, the bottle, Braddon’s cellphone. Not that I’m expecting anything. If this was a murder attempt and not suicide, it was carefully planned. Gloves would be on the checklist.”
Beverly gripped the bed rails. “I have to confess I’ve felt sorry for Braddon. A man with big dreams and big roadblocks.”
Adam rubbed his chin. “Too bad it’s winter.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
“Dr. Vernon Atkinson is an avid gardener. Everything’s died off now. Couldn’t tell if he grew monkshood or not.”
“It could be dried or refrigerated, right?”
“Yep. And Atkinson has a chemistry background.”
Adam stood up as he noted a new arrival. The man slowly pushed a walker into the room, dragging his right foot with each step. Adam scanned the man’s face and saw that the mouth, eye, and muscles on his right side drooped.
Adam asked, “Mr. Hopper?”
The man looked over at him and nodded. Then Mr. Hopper pushed the walker beside the bed and reached out with his good arm to stroke his son’s forehead.
Adam said, “The doctor thinks Braddon’s going to be okay. They put him in an induced coma. But that’s to give his body time to recover.”
When he spoke, the older man’s voice was soft and hoarse, and the slurring made it even harder to hear him. “I can’t lose him. He’s all I’ve g-g-g-got. He’s a good boy. He’s such a good b-b-b-boy.”
Adam asked, “Mr. Hopper, had Braddon been unusually upset lately? Possibly depressed?”
“There’s a lot of . . . p-p-p-pressure. But not worse. Maybe b-b-b-better.”
Adam motioned toward a big, oversized recliner in the corner. “Why don’t you sit down. You can see him from there.”
Adam and Beverly helped him ease into the chair just as a woman around the father’s same age entered the room. She moved the walker out of the way and hovered over the older man, speaking soothingly to him. Adam introduced himself and Beverly, and she explained she was the man’s sister and Braddon’s aunt.
“They’re saying this was a suicide attempt, aren’t they? Well, they’re flat-out wrong. Not Braddon.”
“Then, do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt your nephew?”
“Not a fly. Could it be an accident?”
“Unlikely, I’m afraid. Our department is checking everything we can.”
“Thank you, Detective. Whichever pond scum lowlife did this deserves a taste of their own poison.”
When a doctor and nurse arrived, Adam put a hand on Beverly’s shoulder to guide her out of the room. He’d be getting regular updates, anyway. He started to lead the way toward the lobby when Beverly yanked him into a small supply closet and pulled the door closed except for a crack.
He stared at her. “What the—”
She put a finger on his lips and peeked out the crack, then whispered, “Mayor Lehmann’s here. Didn’t think you’d want to be caught in a pissing contest right now.”
“Good thinking.” Since he couldn’t see through the opening, he had to rely on her observations. Which gave him a brief moment for a few observations of his own. Like how close they were. How soft her body felt against his. How he smelled something sweet on her breath again, this time like summer-fresh raspberries. He also heard the loud thumping of his heart in his chest and wondered if she could, too.
He felt a twinge of disappointment when she whispered, “The coast is clear,” then opened the door all the way. If the nurse at the desk down the hall saw them duck into the closet, she wasn’t looking in their direction. Or was pretending not to.
He wished he could pretend that all he was thinking about was Braddon or Harlan or cases or justice. He reluctantly followed Beverly toward the lobby and the bright light of day streaming through the tall paned windows.
Once outside the building, Beverly asked, “Jinks have the day off?”
“It’s Sunday. She and Felicia were taking their kids skating.”
“That means you’re in need of a partner. Where do we go next? Wally’s neighbor with the potentially deadly garden?”
“We?” he asked.
“My presence might set them more at ease, particularly Nyssa. I should tell you that Fern Gery and I were at the Apple Peel when Nyssa walked inside, saw Fern, and walked out. Fern thinks Nyssa tried to come on to Wally. And may have blamed Fern for some of the bad blood between him and her husband.”
“She might transfer that dislike to you. If she remembers you from the shop.”
“I could do something about that. If you’ll let me.”
“Beverly...”
“She didn’t see me for long. Only a wig. I promise.”
Adam sighed. “If it’s just the one time, and I’m there with you. That blond wig you used when you came charging to my rescue three months ago was pretty fetching.” He hastened to add, “If you like that sort of thing.”
She grinned at him. “Blonds have more fun, right? Lead on, partner.”
