FOURTEEN

      

       Jarvis walked Angie outside. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“I’m putting you under protective custody.” He swung around and took hold of her upper arms. “Don’t bother arguing with me. I’m not taking any more chances with your safety. I’ve let this go on long enough.”

“You’ll take me to the theater, and that’s not negotiable. Everyone—and that includes you—will be there for rehearsal.”

Jarvis pushed out a heavy sigh, which Angie ignored. How much safer could she be amongst all those people? The thought was soon joined by one that said, yes, and the note appeared there by itself.

She hurried to the passenger side of Jarvis’s Jeep and waited for him to open the door.

“What time is rehearsal?” he asked once he settled in the drivers seat.

“Noon, but Tyson and the new playwright will be there—should be there right now. Can we stop for coffee at the diner first?”

“I hope you mean to-go because I’m not exactly dressed for eating out.”

Her eyes slid down to the striped pajama bottoms. She smiled. “Flannel jammies?”

He rolled his eyes and drove the few hundred feet to the diner. Angie went inside. “Help, I’m being held hostage.”

Judy peeked over Angie’s shoulder and grinned. “Looks like a dangerous situation to me. Should I call the SWAT team?” She passed Angie’s usual coffee across the counter and prepared one for Jarvis. “So, when are you two gonna—” She wiggled her hand in the air in a motion that Angie could take in several ways. She chose not to elucidate and simply laughed.

When she returned to the Jeep, Jarvis had the phone to his ear. When he said, “I know. I’ll be happier when they’re both safe,” Angie realized he was talking about she and Gloria. He could have been talking to Wilson, but more likely Bud was on the other end of the line.

Angie slid the coffee into the cup holders, Jarvis stowed the phone in his jacket pocket and put the car in gear. “So, what was so funny with you two?”

“Funny?”

“You and Judy were laughing like hyenas.”

She said, “I don’t recall any hyena-laughs,” but Jarvis’s expression said he didn’t believe her. “Getting a little paranoid, aren’t you?”

“No,” he said, sounding defensive. “Only curious. Hasn’t been much to laugh at lately.”

“You have a very sour attitude.”

“Would you expect anything different right now?”

Thankfully they arrived at the theater because the conversation needed an attitude adjustment. Jarvis insisted on examining the building for intruders, anonymous messages and booby-traps. Satisfied finally, he stopped at the long table where Tyson and Sally Pruit were seated.

Tyson introduced them. Angie knew the case had taken a toll on him when he barely reacted to the pretty woman’s presence. “Angie received a threatening note yesterday,” Jarvis said. “Here in the theater. I need you to keep a close eye on things while I’m gone. Don’t let any strangers in the building. If anything even remotely out of the ordinary happens, telephone Wilson immediately.”

“Where will you be?” Angie asked.

“Out of town a couple of hours.” He turned back to Tyson. “Don’t take any chances. I’ve alerted Sergeant Wilson of the situation.” Jarvis jerked a thumb in Angie’s direction. “If it were up to me, she’d be in a safe house somewhere.”

He let the sentence hang. To cover the awkward silence, Angie became defensive. “We have a lot of work to do.”

Jarvis pulled in a breath. “I can take a hint.” He left through the back door, even though his Jeep was parked out front.

Angie, after explaining in detail about the note, her open front door and slashed tires, finally convinced Tyson and Sally to settle down to work. They spent more than two hours making notes, rewriting and fine-tuning the manuscript for their specific needs. Sally took the suggested changes with good humor, and even had some great suggestions for scenes Angie and Tyson hadn’t envisioned. It seemed as though the relationship with Ms. Pruit might be quite beneficial. Especially after she mentioned having two more plays in the works.

The trio broke at ten for some leg stretching. Angie went to her office to scrounge for something to eat. But no food showed its face, not even a stale cracker. She took her cell phone from her purse and flopped on the old sofa bought at a yard sale last summer for $25. Paul Zimmerman’s phone rang five times. She was about to hang up when a tired sounding voice answered.

“Paul? Hi, it’s Angie Deacon.” She waited for him to process the name and heard his pleased response.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has. How’ve you been?”

His voice took on a more alert tone. “Not bad. Not bad at all. How’s Will?”

“Fine. He mentioned you just yesterday as a matter of fact. He said he hadn’t heard from you in a while. Anyway I thought I’d call and see how you were.”

“I’m opening my own plumbing business here in Portland. Hardly any time to think straight.”

“What good news. Not that you haven’t time to think—that you’re finally achieving your dream. How’s that affect your love life?”

Paul laughed. “What love life? Speaking of that, how is Donna doing?”

Angie didn’t know how to respond. Hadn’t Donna said Paul came to town yesterday? “I saw her yesterday. She’s doing well. The flower shop seems quite successful. She showed me her irises.”

Paul made a scoffing sound. “Those damned irises.”

“They’re very pretty.”

“And expensive.”

“Expensive?” Angie asked.

“You can’t believe the money she’s spent trying to, what’s the word.” He thought a second, then said, “I know this isn’t right but it’s all I can think of—she’s trying to breed the things. As if they were living, breathing creatures.”

“I’ve had some trouble adjusting to the idea, too.”

“What’s your connection?”

“Not sure you know that I am co-owner of a small theater. During our first performance, one of our major players was killed, right on stage.”

Silence, as though Paul searched for the appropriate words. Angie continued, “The guy who died—well, his regular job was as a nursery owner, where he bred irises. It’s become quite the talk of the town.”

“His name wasn’t John Bloom?” Paul asked.

“You knew him?”

“She talked about him all the time. Him and some guy from Denmark. A Peter somebody.”

So, John hadn’t kept his iris affiliation a secret. Did that mean he also talked about his quest for the red?

“Angie!”

The way he called her name said it wasn’t the first time he’d spoken. “Sorry. I—” A knock came on her door. Tyson said, “Angie, Blake is here. He wants to see you.”

She cupped a hand over the phone and said, “Okay, tell him I’ll be right out.” To Paul she said, “I have to go. It’s been nice talking to you. Please keep in touch. Will said he misses talking with you.”

So, she thought, standing and going to the door…had Donna’s extravagance with irises been part of what split her and Paul? Angie pulled open the door and started to walk through, but slammed up against a wall of muscle. Blake McCoy held his ground and didn’t reach out to keep her from falling. Momentum carried Angie backwards. He stepped into the office.

“You’re early for rehearsal.”

“I wanted to talk to you first.” He crossed the tiny space and dropped on the couch, almost sitting on her handbag. She planted her feet and crossed her arms, wishing she could move further from the angry missiles launching from Blake’s eyes. With every second that he glared at her, the pounding between her ears increased. It was all she could do to say, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

He bent forward, forearms on his thighs. “What have you got against us?”

“Huh?” For something to do, she poked hair behind her ears.

“I thought we were friends.”

“We—what are you talking about?”

“You sicced the cops on my wife.”

At last Angie knew where the conversation headed. “Blake, I had noth—”

“You told them Trynne was cheating on me with John.”

Angie gave an emphatic headshake that only rekindled the throbbing. “Trynne wasn’t—” She swore she wasn’t.

“You made the cops search our house.”

Angie couldn’t contain her temper any longer. She stepped forward, hands clenched at her sides—after all Tyson was just a shout away—and leaned toward Blake’s face. “You’re the one who put your wife and John back together. You’re the one who hired John as your wholesaler. You’re the one responsible for him having a part in the play. Not. Me.”

Blake shot to his feet, for the second time in five minutes, nearly knocking her down. “I’m not the one who told everyone about her cheating on me.”

“If she’s cheating, I had no knowledge of it.”

“You brought Jarvis to search her lab.”

“How can you accuse me when you weren’t…even…there?” Angie unclenched her hands and pressed them against her thighs. “All right, now I’ll throw your words back at you: I thought we were friends.”

“We were.”

“Then how can you think I’d do any of what you just accused me of?” Angie took a breath. Her sentence structure really suffered when she was upset. “The way you’re acting, I hardly feel like wasting my time talking to you, so I’ll say one thing before I ask you to leave. I went to see Trynne, to make her feel better, which, by the way, is what you should have done. Jarvis arrived—all on his own—and, as long as we’re throwing stories around, why don’t we talk about the fact that Trynne’s the one who set up video cameras.”

Deflated, Blake flopped back onto the worn-out cushion. He bent his head into cupped hands. So there! Blake’s guilt for running out on Trynne was eating away at him. He would focus blame anywhere else he could. Anywhere but on himself.

Angie marched to the door and yanked it open. “Go to your wife. Tell her you’re sorry for losing your temper. Tell her you love her and will stand by her through this horrible tragedy.” When he didn’t move, she repeated, “Go.”

Blake stood up, arms dangling at his sides, chin to his chest. He stopped in front of her. “I’m sorry, Angie. I don’t know what got into me.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Go see Trynne. Make up. Be back by noon for rehearsal.”

Blake stopped again in the doorway. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Indecision wrinkled his face. Angie wasn’t about to ask questions. The door closed and she fell onto the couch, head really hammering now. Angie dragged her purse across the cushion and rummaged through the contents twice before remembering she’d given Will her bottle of acetaminophen. Food. That would help take her mind off the headache. A quick sandwich from the diner. Perhaps someone could deliver it. Spur-of-the-moment meals: another thing abolished from her life if she married Jarvis. Not that fast foods were good, or healthy, but not having the responsibility made things a lot easier. The opposing sides of Angie’s brain renewed their discussion. Shirts to iron—money for a new wardrobe. Busy with his job—things to talk about. Fighting for the bathroom, sharing the hot tub.

The door opened and Jarvis stepped inside, wearing the silly Sherlock Holmes hat. She couldn’t help smiling even though her mind scrambled for a reason for his sudden appearance.

He strode to the couch and picked up the jacket. She stood dumbly while he held it in the air. Finally her brain made the connection: he wanted her to put it on. Angie slipped her arms in the sleeves. Lunch. He planned to feed her before rehearsal. He handed her purse from the dressing table and propelled her out the door.

They were backing out of the spot before Jarvis said, “Will’s in the hospital.” Jarvis sped toward Lakes Region Hospital on Route 11A. While he outlined what he knew about Will’s emergency, Angie sat with her back stiff, gazing at, but not seeing the road ahead.

“Will phoned 911 at 6:42. He didn’t answer the doorbell and officers had to break in. Wilson found him lying on the upstairs bathroom floor in a pool of vomit and diarrhea. He was just barely conscious, but couldn’t speak. Wilson called me and I called you. Gloria’s meeting us there.”

The urge to cry became too strong to ignore; sobs wracked her body. She folded her arms tight around herself. Jarvis reached across and squeezed her hand. As they squealed around the turn onto Highland Street, and the hospital came into sight, she finally developed the ability to speak. “Is he…is he going to die?”

“I don’t know anything about his condition. I’m sorry.”

She leaned her head against the window. Angie had never been very religious, but now seemed like the time to pray.

She came alert when they skidded into the ambulance bay of the hospital. Before he could come around to get her, Angie leaped out and raced through the automatic doors. Gloria stood near the nurse’s desk, wringing her hands. She pulled Angie into an embrace.

Angie’s ex-supervisor, Zoë took their arms and steered the two women to a corner of the waiting room. “Sorry to see you under these circumstances, hon. It looks like Will’s got a severe case of gastroenteritis.”

Angie’s professional training kicked in. She asked, “Symptoms?” as Jarvis slid up behind them in a blur of denim.

Zoë counted off on her fingers. “Headache, stomach cramps, vomiting, diarrhea. We’ve got him on normal saline, oxygen and a cardiac monitor.” She gave Angie a hug, her nylon uniform crinkling between them. “He’s in good hands, you know that.”

Angie gave Zoë a weak grin. “He had a headache yesterday afternoon. I gave him acetaminophen and sent him home to sleep. I talked to him later in the evening and the headache still hadn’t eased up.” She should’ve called this morning to check on him. She could’ve gotten him here hours earlier. Her legs buckled. Zoë and Jarvis gripped her elbows and lowered her into a chair.

Jarvis knelt in front of her. “You all right?”

Zoë showed them to a small cubicle where they could wait in private. When Jarvis spoke, his voice was tight with emotion. “He’ll be all right.” He settled Gloria and Angie in a loveseat under the television. Then he sat in a hard looking chair facing it, and repeated, “He’ll be all right.”

“Of course,” said Gloria. “He’s Will Deacon.”

Angie gave them both a strained smile. “By the way, where’s Bud?”

“Jarvis phoned and told Bud to get me to his place and stay there. He said somebody threatened you.” She frowned. “And we’ll talk about that later. We went to the condo to pick up clean clothes. By the way, did Blake catch up with you? He came while we were there. Anyway, we’d drove to Jarvis’s. Bud wasn’t feeling well. I sent him to bed. That’s when Jarvis got the call about Will.”

Zoë entered then, stepping soundlessly in white shoes. She wedged her ample behind on the seat between Angie and Gloria. “Will’s been taken to a room on the second floor. We’ve been able to ease some of his discomfort, but there’s been no sign of recovery as yet.”

“You don’t know what’s wrong?” Jarvis asked.

“This early, we’re assuming it’s something he ate.”

Gloria voiced the words Angie couldn’t say. “Is he going to be all right?”

“We should know more by morning, why don’t you go home and—”

“No!” Angie and her mother said at the same time. More calmly, Angie added, “I’m not leaving. Can I see him?”

“Not yet,” Zoë said, and left saying she’d be back as soon as she had anything more to report. She returned in less than five minutes. Three people flew to their feet. She gave a sheepish grin and pushed an armful of pillows and lightweight blankets at them. “Sorry if I scared you. I thought you might be more comfortable with these.”

Angie curled up as snugly as she could in a chair. Jarvis jammed the pillow behind his head and stretched out, arms crossed, in another chair. Gloria folded herself in the fetal position on the narrow loveseat, one hand under her chin, the blanket tucked around her shoulders. She already looked asleep. Now and again, Jarvis peeked at Angie and smiled. He reached over his left shoulder and flicked off the light switch.

The light from the television made the room glow blue. Hospital sounds faded into the background. Angie felt herself rising into the air, weightless. Below, on the gorgeous green New Hampshire terrain, she and Will hiked up Gunstock Mountain. They were laughing. They stopped for a picnic lunch on a rock outcropping. The scene changed, fading in mottled shades of blue. Now they stood on tall scaffolding, painting their raised ranch. Both of them were dappled in yellow paint. What fun they’d had scrubbing it off each other. Another scene change, they were on Valerie and Nolan Little’s fishing tour boat. Will’s fiftieth birthday. The day her life fell apart.

Angie woke to a buxom nurse jiggling her arm and came instantly awake. “Is he all right?”

“He wants to see you.”

On the way out, she gave a quick glance at the still sleeping Gloria. Jarvis’s chair was empty.

“You didn’t answer me,” Angie said, hurrying to keep up with the energetic woman. The energy transferred to Angie’s nerves, she took hold of the back of the light blue uniform and made the nurse stop. “You didn’t answer me.”

The nurse tilted her head, waited till Angie let go of her clothes and then said, “I don’t work on that floor. I’m only a messenger.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Go to the second floor, take a right out of the elevator. It’s room 227.”

“I know where it is. Thanks.”

Odd that Angie was alone in the elevator this time of day.

Standing outside his room, she raked numb fingers through her hair, took a breath and willed herself to be strong.

Will lay flat in the bed, tubes leading from his left arm up to the dripping IV. Though the drops were silent each echoed with the volume of thunder. The heart monitor made a blipping sound and scorched a jagged yellow line across a tiny screen. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she held in. Angie approached the bed.

Will’s eyes were open. They were on her. “You look like shit,” they both said in unison.

Angie laughed, Will didn’t.

His hand was cold and clammy. Angie stifled the instinct to drop it back on the sheet. Instead, she pulled up a chair and enveloped his hands in hers. She laid her head on their clasped hands and prayed again.

When she woke, morning lit the flowered broadcloth drapes. 8:30.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Will said, his voice raspy.

They smiled the smiles of long-time lovers and friends.

“Why do I feel so bad?”

“What did they tell you?”

“Nothing. They come, they poke me, and they leave. A while ago I woke to somebody plucking out my hair. Ange, what’s going on?”

Angie couldn’t speak. A hair sample meant they suspected poison. A list immediately formed in her mind. The possibilities were endless, the results rarely good. They couldn’t do a generic test for poison; they needed a clue, an idea what to look for, a place to begin.

“What’s going on, Ange? And don’t tell me you don’t know. I saw your face.”

“It means they think you were poisoned.”

“With what? Who?”

All she could do is shake her head.

“Guess.”

“It wouldn’t do any good. I worked in the ER, I didn’t have experience with poisons. Did they ask what you ate yesterday?”

The word “Yeah” came out in a rush of air. He was getting tired. “Hard to remember. How long does the test take?”

“Depends whether they can do it here or have to send it out.”

He gave a great heaving sigh that must have cleared his lungs. He winced and didn’t inhale for several seconds. “What’s the difference?”

“They don’t have facilities to test for the more obscure things.” She lifted his hand and kissed the palm. He folded his fingers around hers; his grip strong and firm. She traced the outline of his veins with an index finger remembering how she always laughed at the design: the state of Texas. Somehow she managed to hold in the gasp of concern because Will’s skin held a definite yellow/green tinge. She papered a smile on her lips and let her eyes move to his face. As she’d feared, his face was also jaundiced. Tears played against the back of her eyes.

Angie stood up. “I’m going to find someone who can tell us what’s going on.” Without a backward glance, she raced from the room. Before the door swooshed closed, tears were rushing down her face. She let the cold hard wall hold her up. A nurse scurried from behind the desk. She bypassed Angie and ran into Will’s room. Angie mustered enough energy to pull herself away from the wall, go to the elevator and push the button for the fourth floor. She walked the route by long-dormant memory.

Will, her one-time beloved, had been poisoned. He might be dying.

Horace Smith’s office was at the end of the hall. Angie didn’t bother knocking on the door of the hospital director, her ex-boss. The hefty man sat behind a massive oak desk. He looked up frowned at the interruption, then removed wire-rimmed spectacles and squinted past his bulbous nose.

His expression erupted into a smile. He rose and came around the desk. “Angie, so nice to see you.” Then he noticed her tears and spread beefy arms wide. Suddenly her knees folded. Fog swallowed her. Firm fingers took hold of her upper arms and guided her into one of the leather-upholstered chairs in front of the desk.

“I’m sorry to bother you like this, Race.”

“No bother at all my dear.”

“It’s Will…”

“I know, I heard about your divorce. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Her mind swirled with confusion. She struggled to find words to convey the situation.

“Something else,” Race prompted.

She managed a nod. He went to the desk and plucked a tissue from the box on the corner. She blew her nose and tried again. “Will’s sick. Maybe dying.” After that, her words came in a rush.

Race’s demeanor shifted. His voice became soothing, like a father to a daughter. He picked up the phone, dialed two numbers and spoke in short, curt tones—that of a boss to an employee. When he hung up, his manner had changed once more. Now he was anxious, as parent to a small child, he used her name as a buffer for the bad news. “Angie, they suspect he’s ingested arsenic. Sorry, I worded it wrong. They think it’s…”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

Unless…this had something to do with her. Had someone tried to get to her through Will? Angie’s brain scrambled to connect the day’s events: the anonymous note, the open front door, flat tires. It didn’t make sense. Everyone who knew her knew about the divorce. They also knew she and Jarvis— Wouldn’t he be a more likely target?

Race’s fax machine pulled her away from the harsh thoughts. He drew out the single sheet of paper, read it, then handed it to Angie. “This is a list of what he ate yesterday. See if there’s anything you can add.”

“I only saw him for a minute in the afternoon.” She told Race about his headache and how she’d given him her bottle of acetaminophen.

He took the page from her fingers and scanned the contents. She’d never before noticed how deep brown his eyes were, nor how little crinkles appeared at the corners when he was serious.

“There’s no medication of any kind listed here. Where is this bottle?”

“He didn’t give it back to me. It must be at the house.”

Race dialed one number, waited for an outside line, then dialed seven more digits. He didn’t have to wait long for someone to answer. “Hello, Alton Bay police, this is Doctor Horace Smith at Lakes Region Hospital. I’m calling in regard to Willis Deacon, brought in about an hour ago. I need one of your people to retrieve a bottle of—” he cupped his hand over the receiver and asked Angie, “What brand?”

“Exedrin. Green bottle. Capsules.”

He nodded knowing, as she did, those pull apart capsules were one of the easiest ways for someone to insert poison. Angie leaned her head in her hands.

“—a bottle of Exedrin from Will Deacon’s house. Can you get it to us ASAP? Thank you.” The next words must’ve been directed at her. She peered up through her hair.

“Are you all right?” Race returned to “concerned friend” mode. His face grew blurry. She blinked. He didn’t get any clearer. This time Race didn’t attempt to comfort her; he sat on the edge of the desk and put his glasses on. “Want to tell me what’s been going on?”

When she finished, he handed her another tissue, eased her upright and tweaked her under the chin. “The nurse said he’s stable and sleeping. Go home. We won’t know anything for hours. I’ll tell the nurses you went home for a few minutes and leave your number. I’ll call as soon as I know anything about the poison. Have faith.”

“Thanks for everything.”

Angie hurried to the waiting room to wake Gloria, but found her mother standing in the hallway talking to the same nurse who’d come to wake Angie. “How is he?”

“Sleeping.”

Angie thanked the nurse and steered her mother into the waiting area. Gloria sat in stunned silence as Angie told about the arsenic, not mentioning that her bottle of acetaminophen might be the culprit. Who would have—could have—spiked her painkiller? When at the theater, the bag was always locked in her office. At home, she left it on the hall table, within anyone’s reach.

Gloria’s hand touched Angie’s then reached down and turned up the car’s heater. “Can we go now? I want to check on Bud.”

Angie shook her head, hard, trying to dislodge the tangle of thoughts. She didn’t remember leaving the hospital. Didn’t remember taking her mother’s keys or getting into the drivers seat of the rental car. Surely the chilly air should have shocked her alert. The digital clock on the dash said 2:03, but the dark clouds looked as though they’d been set atop a glass dome only a few feet overhead. Flat wads of multi-colored gray moved across the dome. Between the wads came glimpses of bright blue sky.

“Can we go now?” Gloria repeated.

“Huh? Uh, yeah.”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“No, I’m all right.” Angie reached down to turn the key, but the ignition was empty. Gloria got out of the car, came around and flung open Angie’s door. “Out.”

Gloria drove the thirty-minute trip and stopped in the theater parking lot. “Are you sure you’re all right to drive? I assume you’re changing and going right back to the hospital.”

“Yes. I’ll call and let you know how things go.”

At the condo, shoes dropped on the hallway floor. Purse and jacket landed on the arm of the sofa. Bedroom closet door bumped open. Clean clothes were laid on the bed. Yesterday’s clothing fell in the hamper. Angie oozed into the shower. She leaned against the tiles and let the scalding darts flush the toxins from her mind. The musky scent of shampoo filled the cubicle. Suds sluiced down her skin. The water turned tepid and she reluctantly twisted the knob.

Had someone put arsenic in her acetaminophen? How? She always had a bottle in her bag. Probably a lot of people knew that. But how many had access to it? How many murderers skulked around her on a regular basis? Substituting the capsules had to be planned in advance. The capsules had to be filled with poison. They had to be stored in someone’s pocket waiting for one of the infrequent moments her handbag was left unattended. After doing so, the job still took time—open the clasp, hide the bottle at the bottom.

At 3:30, wearing a tailored pants suit, Will favorite, and a pink satin blouse open to the third button, Angie reentered the hospital. The elevator doors whooshed open. Zoë, holding a clipboard, grasped Angie’s arm and pulled her aside. “Good news. It’s arsenic poisoning. We’ve begun treatment and Will’s already responding.” Angie heaved a sigh that made Zoë’s smile widen. “He’s asking for you.”

Angie hugged Zoë. “Thanks. That’s the best news.”

The curtains in Will’s room were open a few inches. Late afternoon sun lit a long narrow triangle across the bed. “Want me to open the curtains a little more?”

“No, light hurts my eyes.”

She sat in the chair and checked out Will’s skin color. Zoë told the truth, he’d responded to treatment. Already his skin had lost some of the yellow tinge, and his eyes were brighter. He put out a hand. She took it and sat, her knees jammed against the metal bed frame. “You look better.”

“What have I missed?”

“Nothing much.”

“You haven’t already tracked down who did this to me? You must be slacking off.”

“Stop it, Will. How do you feel?”

He turned serious. “Better. For a while, I thought I’d spew my whole insides.”

“The doctor said arsenic was in the pills you gave me. Were you trying to get rid of me, to get my millions?” He laughed, winced and turned serious. “Why would someone want to kill you?”

She didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“I heard the cops asking for you a while ago.”

“They probably want a list of people who had access to my purse.”

“Any idea…” Tiring, he paused for a breath.

“None at all.” Somewhere inside Angie, a tremor began. Just a tickle at first, but it rose through her organs spreading up and out, growing like a cancer.

Will’s fingers closed around hers. “What’s wrong?”

“I just realized how close you came to dying. And I would’ve been responsible.” Angie untangled her fingers from his, stood and bent to kiss his forehead. It felt cool and dry. Will reached up his right hand and pulled her down, folding her against his chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs. “You rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She said her thanks to Zoë and received a “be careful” warning in return. So, word had spread about Angie being the likely target of the arsenic.

Automatic doors swung wide, admitting the cool afternoon air. She stepped between some cars near the building, a single word echoing with each clip-clopped step on the pavement—target. Yes, a target. With a bright red and white circle painted on her coat.

She stopped a moment, listening, watching. Then felt ridiculous. Nobody but Gloria knew she’d returned here. Nobody could have a rifle zeroed in on her. Angie shook off the bizarre reaction and started walking, with only a small glance around to see if anyone had noticed her behavior. The Lexus sat three rows away, its navy blue paint glistened in the sun beside a low, red coupe.

A man with his back to her, stood up between the two cars. He had on a tan trench coat and round-topped hat. He brushed off his slacks and walked toward the opposite end of the parking lot. Angie’s tongue felt like it had swelled to three times its size. It filled her mouth, her head, made her senses swim. She laid a hand on the nearest car, letting the sun-warmed metal keep her from falling on the pavement.

What had he done to her car? Strapped a bomb there? Cut her brake line?

Stop him.

No.

Call the cops.

It’ll be too late.

Then, catch him.

Angie started after the man. It was nearly impossible, to run in heels. Especially hard not to make any noise. But she ran.

He was almost across the lot now, walking fast, weaving between vehicles in a parallel line to her, right arm held tight against his side. Probably keeping the bomb components from clanking against each other.

Three rows away. Then two.

He stopped. He turned.

Angie stopped too. Her knees buckled and she sagged against the nearest car.