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MARY-ALICE RANG BOON’S doorbell. When there was no answer, she knocked politely.
“His truck’s in the carport,” Gertie said. “He should be here. Okay, plan B. Both of you turn around.”
Mary-Alice and Fortune did as Gertie ordered. They gazed at the houses across the street for a full minute as Gertie made clicking noises behind them.
“You can turn around now.” Gertie stood proudly in front of the open door. “Boon got himself some high-end locks, no joke.”
Mary-Alice followed Gertie and Fortune into Boon's house. The house looked as she remembered it, but it seemed oddly quiet. The windows were open, but the air was damp and still.
“Well he's not out here,” Gertie said. “Let's check the bedroom. Mary-Alice, lead the way.”
“Well I'm sure I wouldn’t know where the bedroom is,” Mary-Alice objected.
“I’m guessing it’s down the hallway,” Fortune said.
They found Boon in his bed, covers pulled up to his chin despite the afternoon heat.
“Boon?” Mary-Alice whispered.
Boon’s eyelids fluttered open. With effort, he turned his head toward them and squinted.
“Miss Gertie?” he said, finally.
Fortune was already on the phone. She had a quick conversation and hung up.
“We have to take him to the ER,” she said. “Now. It's quicker than an ambulance.”
Fortune pulled up and parked illegally at the ER entrance, and Gertie climbed out. She returned in the company of two burly orderlies pushing a gurney. Mary-Alice was sitting in the back. Boon was lying down with his head on her lap.
The orderlies moved Boon out of the back seat and placed him carefully onto the gurney.
“Someone’s gotta come in and do the paperwork,” the older of the two men said. “One of you ladies related to him?”
“I’ll go,” Mary-Alice said.
“You the wife?”
“She's his common-law wife.” Gertie gave Mary-Alice an encouraging shove toward the ER entrance. “He needs someone there with him,” Gertie whispered.
Mary-Alice smoothed her hair and followed the men through the sliding glass doors.
“Give us a call when you need a ride,” Fortune called after her.
Mary-Alice filled out the intake forms as best she could. She couldn't fill in Boon’s Social Security number or his birth date, but she knew his street address and his marital status (widowed). His zip code was easy. Everyone in Sinful had the same zip code.
When she had done what she could with the paperwork, she took a seat in the waiting area. She hadn’t brought anything to read, but she did have her journal and her sunflower pen.
She would use the time to think about the Victorin Lowery case. Keeping her mind busy would help her ignore the groans and cries that filled the ER waiting room. And would keep her from worrying about Boon.
She opened her journal and read over what she had written so far about the case of Victorin Lowery. Then she turned to a clean page and wrote:
Suspects:
1. Ida Belle. Acquaintance. Motive: Protect supply of cough syrup from theft. Confessed to shooting him?
2. Girlfriend Leonie Blanchard. Motive: Jealous b/c of ex-wife. Had big fight, threatened to kill him.
3. Francine? Motive: Was very angry b/c he broke into her kitchen and may have made her soufflés fall.
Mary-Alice twirled the sunflower pen and ignored the retching sounds behind her.
4. Mother Eulalie Cormier. Motive: Money? Said she was provided for. Legal expenses b/c of pink house.
What was the name of the man who was suing Eulalie? Gaudet.
5. Beauregard Gaudet. Motive: Money? Honor? But why kill Victorin and not Eulalie?
6. Ex-wife Marine. Motive: all the reasons people kill their spouses. Has medical knowledge to change apparent time of death.
7. Ex-wife’s acquaintance who works at the morgue and wanted to have lunch with her, only I happened to show up first. Motive: Wants Marine to himself. Also has knowledge to change apparent time of death and access to morgue.
But why would Marine and/or her admirer tamper with the time of death? It was Leonie who needed the alibi.
8. Unless the ex-wife and the girlfriend had plotted together? Like in that song where the wife and the mistress both show up at a man’s funeral in matching black Cadillacs, and pretend to be sad.
9. An admirer of Leonie's who wanted Victorin out of the way?
Mary-Alice closed her eyes and imagined her “little grey cells” swinging into action. (Mary-Alice loved Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot). She tried to ignore the corrosive diaper smell wafting from the baby next to her.
What if this wasn’t about Victorin Lowery at all? What if framing Ida Belle was the whole point?
Celia was a strong-willed woman. In fact, Mary-Alice had always admired that about her cousin. But was she ruthless enough to commit cold-blooded murder, just to frame Ida Belle?
10. Celia?
“Mary-Alice Arceneaux?” A woman in Hello Kitty scrubs stood by the door to the patient area, holding a clipboard, and looking around the room.
Mary-Alice put away her journal and her big sunflower pen, closed her eyes, and said a brief prayer for Boon. Then she put on her cheerful face and followed the woman through the double doors.
In the chaos of the emergency room, Mary-Alice was able to stay by Boon’s bedside as long as she liked. The patient area was well-secured, but now that she was inside, everyone was too busy to bother kicking her out. A curtain hanging from the ceiling defined Boon's “room.” Boon was in a deep sleep, hooked up to various monitors and bags.
A man with a rolling cart full of needles and vials came by to take Boon’s blood minutes after another man with a similar cart had done the same thing. There had been a shift change and the first man forgot to mark Boon’s chart. As soon as Mary-Alice got that straightened out, she noticed that Boon's saline bag had emptied. When no one came to replace it, Mary-Alice went to find someone to do it.
When she was finished negotiating with emergency room personnel, Mary-Alice sat and held Boon's hand. One time he opened his eyes, smiled at her, and then drifted off again. Mary-Alice, too, must have dozed off at some point. She awoke to see Dr. Stewart making notes on a clipboard.
“Good morning, Mary-Alice. Were you here all night?”
Mary-Alice stood and straightened her blouse. Her neck was stiff and sore, and she felt grimy. She longed for a toothbrush, a hot, soapy shower, and a clean bed.
“It was no trouble at all, Doctor. How is he doing?”
Boon looked the same as he did the night before. Mary-Alice hoped he was healing as he slept.
“Boon's lucky you found him when you did,” Doctor Stewart said. “He was severely dehydrated.”
“What's wrong with him?”
“Looks like ASP. Been quite a few cases this summer.”
“What is ASP?”
Doctor Stewart pulled a blue paper from his clipboard and handed it to Mary-Alice.
Amnesic shellfish poisoning (ASP) is caused by the consumption of domoic acid, Mary-Alice read, a marine biotoxin found in shellfish. ASP causes gastrointestinal symptoms, disorientation, and loss of short-term memory. There is no known antidote; immediate hospitalization is recommended. Rest and rehydration are the only treatments.
“Loss of short-term memory!” Mary-Alice exclaimed. “Is that why he only recognized Gertie, and not Fortune or me?”
“Quite possibly. Do you know if he's had shellfish?”
“Why, yes. He had oyster stew at Landrieu’s Landing. That was the last time I saw him before he fell ill, now that I think of it.”
“Well, as I say, it’s a good thing you found him when you did. That’s one of the drawbacks of living alone. He was lucky.”
“I should have thought to call on him earlier,” Mary-Alice wrung her slender hands. “He’s remodeling my kitchen, you see, and he hadn't been showing up with his crew. They told me he was out. I had no idea it was so serious. I'm sure his workers didn't either.”
“Don't blame yourself, Mary-Alice. One thing I’ve learned is that things aren’t always as they seem. The real problem's often hiding behind the obvious diagnosis. A few beds over is a case of acute gastritis that turned out to be a nine-pound baby boy. Why don’t you go on home and get some rest?”
Mary-Alice went outside to the waiting benches and called Fortune. Within minutes, Fortune’s Jeep pulled up, with Gertie in the passenger seat.
“Well?” Gertie demanded.
Mary-Alice handed Gertie the blue information sheet and then climbed into the back of the Jeep.
“Food poisoning?” Gertie said. “Oh, lord. That’s a misery. It certainly is a good thing we came by when we did.”
“Is there any news with Ida Belle?” Mary-Alice asked.
“Nothing new,” Fortune said. “Gertie and I have been going over all the possible suspects, and there’s no one that really stands out.”
“I was doing the same thing in the waiting room,” Mary-Alice said. “Did you think of Beauregard Gaudet? He and Victorin’s mother are suing each other.”
“Then why kill Victorin and not Eulalie herself?” Fortune asked.
“Yes, that was exactly my line of thought. What about Celia?”
Fortune and Gertie exchanged a glance.
“Your cousin Celia?” Fortune asked.
“Yes. Gertie, I’m sure you know her better than I do. Do you believe Cousin Celia might kill someone in order to frame Ida Belle?”
“We actually did discuss the possibility,” Gertie admitted. “But it seems too clever a plan for Celia, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”
“And we don’t really have any evidence for it,” Fortune added.
The women rode in silence for a few minutes.
“Doctor Stewart told me something interesting,” Mary-Alice said. “He said the real problem's often hiding behind the obvious diagnosis. Gastritis can turn out to be a nine pound baby.”
“Whatever are you saying, Mary-Alice?” Gertie asked. “Someone’s having a baby?”
“Well yes, someone in the hospital, but what Doctor Stewart meant to say is that things aren't always as they seem. What's obvious isn't necessarily what's true. So while I was waiting for you I was turning the case over in my mind, trying to consider different possibilities. For example, what if the man they found wasn't Victorin Lowery?”
Mary-Alice braced herself to be laughed at, but that didn't happen.
“It’s possible,” Fortune said, “If he was working undercover and someone burned him, they could've faked his death and moved him somewhere else.”
“Would the government kill someone on purpose like that?” Mary-Alice asked.
“Not usually. Normally they'd find someone who had already died of something else. Then they'd stage a messy death that makes the body hard to identify. Like a fire or a car bomb. Or, in this case, a close-range shotgun blast. Of course, they’d be counting on the fact that no one would bother following through with a DNA identification.”
“Victorin was living with his mother,” Gertie pointed out. “Undercover agents don't usually live with their mothers.”
“Good point,” Fortune said.
“Then what if it the victim was Victorin Lowery,” Mary-Alice asked, “but he died of something other than the shotgun blast?”
They were just entering Sinful. Fortune pulled off the road and crunched to a stop in the lot of the old taxidermist’s shop. Mary-Alice averted her eyes from the glassy, cross-eyed stare of the moth-eaten deer head hanging next to the entry.
“Not bad, Mary-Alice. I wish I’d thought of that.” Fortune pulled out her phone and dialed. Gertie turned around and gave Mary-Alice a thumbs-up.
“Carter,” Fortune said. “The Lowery case. Did they to a tox screen on the vic? Oh. Yes, hello to you too. Listen. Tox screen? No, I realize it wouldn't be obvious considering... yes, I know about the budget situation. How about blood alcohol? Okay, water in his lungs? Did they check for that?” Fortune leaned her head back on the headrest with exasperation. “Carter, any standard autopsy would have caught water in the lungs—what do you mean they didn’t do an autopsy? Are you kidding me—no, I'm not telling you how to do your job.”
Yes she is, Gertie mouthed at Mary-Alice.
“Yes, I know that. What did you say? Oh, you haven’t begun to see bossy. I'll show you bossy.”
Fortune put the phone away.
“What happens now?” Gertie asked.
“We just have to be patient,” Fortune said. “Carter told me he’ll try again to request an autopsy, but he says even if the coroner will give him the time of day, the chances aren’t good. The vic got his head blown off with a shotgun, so they’re not going to consider it a top priority to figure out what might have killed him.”
“Well, all this brainstorming’s made me ravenous,” Gertie said. “You ladies up for breakfast at Francine's?”
“Sounds good to me.” Fortune started up the Jeep. Shells crunched under the tires as she pulled out to drive the short distance to Francine's Diner.
“Might I trouble you to drop me at my house?” Mary-Alice asked. “I believe I could use a little nap.”