The Poison Garden

by A. J. Banner

  John let out a low whistle, took another gulp of coffee. “Did you hear them say anything more specific?” He whipped a notepad from his shirt pocket and laid it on the table, fished out a pen and jotted notes.

  “Just those words. She said she wanted it to be ‘done’ and she wanted me ‘gone already,’ and Kieran said to be ‘patient, chill out’ and something about how she should learn to play the long game.”

  John kept shaking his head, dropped the pen on the pad of paper. “All this just happened?”

  “Yes, two days ago,” I said, shaking now. “I asked Kieran about it, but he put me off.”

  John sat back, ran his hand down his face. “Do you have any evidence that they might be planning to harm you?”

  “You mean aside from what I heard and read?”

  “You don’t have a recording, a phone message? Evidence of a specific plan?”

  “No,” I said faintly.

  He whipped a crumpled tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. “How long did you know him before you married him?” He downed the rest of his coffee.

  I focused on a robin alighting on the alder tree outside the window. “I’ve known him only three years. We dated for a while, then I broke things off. But he actually wanted to marry me after six months.” I remembered now, Kieran kissing the palm of my hand, all the way up my arm, saying, “Why not get married right now? We can go to the courthouse . . .”

  “You refused him?”

  “It was too soon,” I said, thinking back, understanding now that Kieran had been rushing things. “And then my mom got sick. I wonder if he knew . . .”

  “That she was sick?”

  “That she was dying. I moved back to the mainland, but I was coming back here to take her to doctors’ appointments and treatments. I wasn’t seeing him for a while. But when she died, he was there . . . for me.”

  “And you married him after how long?”

  “Six months later,” I said. “We’ve been married a year. It was too fast.”

  John shrugged, picked up the pen again, rolled it between his forefinger and thumb. “People get married after three weeks. You never know. Did he take out a large life insurance policy on you?”

  My shoulders tensed. “No, not that I know of.”

  “Do you have one on him?”

  “What? No!”

  “How much does he stand to inherit in the event of your death?”

  “Nearly five million dollars,” I said, and I could feel my lips trembling.

  “Whoa.” John dropped the pen on the notepad again, picked it up. “That’s quite a chunk of cash.”

  “I’ve got a call in to my attorney to change my will. Sometimes he takes a day or two to check his messages.”

  “All right,” John said carefully. “Has your husband shown any other signs that he wants your money, other than his debts?”

  I sighed. “No—he likes fast cars, expensive gifts.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  I could feel the blood rushing to my face. “Well, I don’t.”

  He slicked back his hair. “Liking expensive things is not a crime I could investigate. Or overheard conversations. Has he posted anything on social media?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said. “But I didn’t check. He told me he doesn’t have social media accounts.”

  “Anything in any emails?”

  “I didn’t read them. I don’t have his passwords.”

  “Any phone calls or other indications? Rumors?”

  My blood thickened, slowing in my veins. “Not that I know of.”

  “You share a computer?”

  “No, no. He’s got his own.”

  “Texts on his cell phone?”

  “I don’t know his code, no.” I frowned.

  “The journal in your purse, what did your mother write in it?”

  “She was afraid he might kill her. This was a few weeks before she died. But . . .”

  “Your mother was suffering from a brain tumor,” John said, sitting back. “I don’t know if you realize this, but I was once called to pick her up. She was wandering the street in her nightgown. I took her home. She begged me not to tell anyone.”

  “What?” My insides turned to mush. “Who called you?”

  “A passing motorist—they were concerned about her out on the main road. Luckily she didn’t get far from your house.”

  “You should have called me!”

  He opened his arms. “Hey, she didn’t want me to. She seemed lucid to me. I took her to the clinic. Dr. Lund saw her. Turned out she was sleepwalking. Apparently she had done that before. She didn’t want us to call anyone, and there was no reason to.”

  “But there was,” I said, my voice breaking. “She was my mother.”

  “I know you loved her, Elise, but she was a grown-up. I thought she was confused, but I had to honor her wishes.”

  “You thought she was confused. You mean, what she wrote in the journal—you think she was delusional.”

  He tapped the pen on the table. “It’s a possibility. It crossed your mind, too, didn’t it? Dr. Lund is a well-respected physician. People love him. Your mother was very ill, Elise. Let’s say he did want to do away with her, or planned to . . . What could I do about it now? We don’t have a body or any other proof. Nothing. She was cremated.”

  I got up, shaking, my legs almost buckling. “You know what? You’re right. It was a mistake to come here.”

  “Whoa, wait a second.” John got up, too, motioned me to sit down again, but I didn’t. We were both standing there on opposite sides of the table. John rubbed his upper lip. “Look, if you want me to write up a report, I will.”

  “No, why should you? You can’t do anything for me.”

  “All right, for now, I’ll kiss off the paperwork.”

  “You think I’m jumping to conclusions—maybe I am.”

  He ran his hand down his face, touched the clip-on tie dangling from his collar. “I didn’t say that, exactly.”

  “But you meant it.”

  “It’s a terrible thing, your spouse cheating on you. Your mom passing away . . . and with what she wrote, nobody could blame you for jumping to conclusions.”

  “What about what Kieran and his lover were saying?”

  “You know, maybe they were just talking. Lovers talk. They exaggerate.”

  “Right,” I said, the walls closing in. I needed to get out of there.

  “If something more specific happens, come on in and talk to me and I’ll write it up. Unless you want me to have a talk with your husband. I could do that. If you want. Go down and have a chat with him.”

  “And ask him what? If he’s planning to kill me for my money?” I laughed, shaking my head.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “No!” I shouted, holding up my hand. “He would only get angry. I’d be in worse danger. You think I’m being ridiculous, and I see it now. I am. I’m losing it—I don’t know what came over me. Please don’t talk to him.”

  “Yeah, okay, you got it. But I thought I’d offer.” He followed me to the front door. “Nothing I can do if no crime has been committed. I walk a fine line. But when you’ve got something more, come in and—”

  “You’ll write up a report. Thank you,” I said.

  He handed me his business card. “Call me anytime, Elise, and take care.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Take care—right. What was I supposed to do to take care of myself? I fumed all the way home. Locked the journal in a drawer in the cottage, beneath a stack of papers. In the main house, I paced the rooms. It wasn’t long before I heard the rumble of Kieran’s car racing up the driveway. My heart rate kicked up immediately. What was he doing here, yet again? The guy never gave up. It’s what you do when you’re after five million dollars, I thought in a panic. But he couldn’t get in, thank goodness. I was so glad Brandon had changed the locks.

  A minute later, I heard his key in the front door,
and then he was ringing the doorbell, over and over. My veins froze. Just breathe. Keep calm. I went to the front door, but I didn’t open it. “What do you want?”

  “You changed the fucking locks!” he yelled. “You can’t do that.”

  “I can! Go away!” I yelled through the door, the words in my mother’s journal spinning around and around in my head. Must warn Elise.

  There was silence, then the sound of scuffling and branches scraping the house, and then he pressed his nose to the picture window in the living room. “Open the door. We need to talk.”

  A cold dread rippled across my skin. I shouldn’t feel this way about my own husband, I thought. Then I admonished myself, tried to convince myself that my mother had become paranoid. He’s the man you knew—not loyal, but normal in other ways. Or was he?

  “We’ll talk through my attorney!” I said.

  A look of fear, then disbelief, crossed his face. “Come on—we haven’t even sat down together to work through this! Why do we need an attorney?” His voice was muffled through the window, the privet bush snagging on his jacket. For once, I wished the house were not so secluded, out of earshot of helpful neighbors. “I miss you,” he said, pressing the flat of his hand to the window. “Come on. We need to talk.”

  “Give me time,” I said. “I need to think! I have to open the shop today. I’ve been closed for a week. Go away.”

  Abruptly, he disappeared from view. I dashed through the foyer, peered out through the dining room window, hoping he’d gone back to his car, which I could see parked at an angle in the driveway. But the car stayed where it was. The back door.

  I turned and raced down the hall, moving in slow motion, as if through quicksand. I slid along the kitchen floor in my socks, reaching for the door, but his shadow appeared. He was already there. Opening the screen, the inside door. I hadn’t locked it. I nearly crashed into him in the kitchen. He looked around, his brows thick and brooding, closed the door after him.

  “I didn’t invite you in,” I said. “Get out.”

  “Or what?” he said mildly, looking down at me with amusement in his eyes. “You’ll kick me out? Call the cops? Better get that landline fixed.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Dark terror shot through me.

  He shook his head, his face softening. “No, no, I’m just . . . Why are you doing this? Are you going to punish me forever? Changing the locks, refusing to talk to me.”

  “It has only been two days,” I said, but it felt like we’d been apart for a lifetime.

  “Who changed the locks? Why would you do that?”

  “Why would you keep an extra key under a rock and then sneak into the house and watch me sleep?”

  “I didn’t sneak. I came home. This is my home.”

  I said nothing, the fear stuck in my throat. I wouldn’t be able to get rid of him now. He had stepped across the threshold. “What do you want?” I tried to keep my voice firm. “Make it fast.” Must warn Elise . . . If I die now, it was not an accident. Dr. L . . .

  I backed up toward the kitchen doorway, where he had stood when I’d brandished the knife.

  He looked at me strangely, peering into my eyes as if I wore a mask, as if I’d become someone else, someone he didn’t know. He reached out toward me, then withdrew his hand quickly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, pain in his eyes. “If I’d known—you should’ve told me.”

  “Told you what?” The cold dread inside me turned to ice. I tried to gauge how many steps back to the front door.

  “Nothing is a secret in this town,” he said, sitting at the kitchen table.

  I remained standing in the doorway. “What’s not a secret? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My gaze slid to the wooden block of knives on the counter. He followed my gaze.

  “No coffee today, huh?” he said, a slight frown on his face. “You make coffee early, usually. No caffeine for a few months?”

  Shit, I thought. “How did you know?”

  “Lily Kim, at the pharmacy. I was there buying a tube of toothpaste. I didn’t have any at the house. And a few other supplies. She asked me, actually. In a roundabout way. She said something like, ‘So, starting a family?’ I must’ve looked surprised, so she backpedaled. She said, ‘Sorry, none of my business.’”

  “Pharmacists are supposed to be discreet,” I said bitterly.

  “The test was positive, wasn’t it?” he said.

  I said nothing, felt a tear slipping down my cheek.

  “When were you going to tell me?” The gathering pain in his eyes looked genuine.

  “Eventually,” I said, wiping away the tear. “I just found out myself. I didn’t know before yesterday.”

  “You didn’t call me. You didn’t even—you could’ve sent me a text. At least.”

  I said nothing, a bitter taste spreading across my tongue. “I didn’t have to do anything.”

  “Have you been to a doctor? Have you had blood tests?”

  “No, Kieran! I told you, I just found out yesterday.”

  “How are you feeling? Any morning sickness?”

  “As if you care. I’m fine. But I did faint—I thought it was because I found you with Diane—”

  “You could’ve fainted because you’re pregnant.” He got up, came to me, tried to pull me into his arms.

  I almost let him. For a moment, I could believe he was the man I’d known. I so badly wanted to believe. I was so exhausted—I wanted to lean into him, but I moved away. “Could it happen again? The fainting?”

  “It’s a definite possibility,” he said. “You can’t go through this alone. I need to be here. We’re going to have a baby.”

  “No, Kieran. I’m going to have a baby. If I don’t have a miscarriage. I’m not a young mother.”

  “Yes, you are. You’ll be fine. We’ll do everything we can to make sure. You need to start taking prenatal vitamins. I’ll write a prescription. We’ll run blood work.”

  “No!” I lifted my hands, pressed them against his chest, pushed him away. “I’m not going to the clinic. I’m going to Seattle to see Dr. Gupta.”

  “Why? You can see me.”

  I shook my head vigorously. “No, Kieran. I don’t want to see you.” A sob rose inside me, but I pushed it back down. I was not going to cry, not now, not again. I wanted to yell at him, accuse him of killing my mother, but instinct, a sense of self-preservation, kept me quiet. I had no idea what he would do to me, how he would react.

  “All right, fine,” he said with resignation, running his fingers through his hair. “I guess you can’t get over something like that so fast.”

  “Thank you for figuring that out. Now please leave.”

  “For now, but tomorrow we’ll go out on the boat. It will just be the two of us. We can talk—we don’t have to do anything else.”

  “No!” I said. “Leave. Now.”

  “We’ll just plan what to do . . . for the baby. I’ll call Dr. Thacker—she’s a therapist on the island—and we’ll work it all out.” He went to the door, his hand on the knob. “Please, think about it. I’ll be back in the morning. You don’t know how much I love you.”

  Then he was gone. I locked the dead bolt, then slid down the door and collapsed on the floor. Go out on the yacht with him? Never again.

  If he showed up in the morning, I would turn him away. Again. But I felt backed into a corner—what could I do to protect myself and my baby? He would keep coming back, and then one day, he would throw me overboard, tell everyone I’d slipped or jumped into the sea. Or on a hike, he would push me off a cliff.

  I imagined mixing the Juliet into his drink, giving him a dose of his own medicine. I imagined watching him froth at the mouth and gasp for breath, begging for his life.

  It took me a long time to fall asleep. The wind had picked up—every scrape of a branch against the house, every sound, made me think Kieran had returned. But I must have dozed off at some point. I woke from a vague dream that I had floated down the stairs and out t
o the cottage. The trees swayed in darkness, in shadows, surreal. Next thing I knew, I woke in bed, vague, broken images falling into my mind, the dream already fading in the pale-blue dawn.

  I sat up, pulled on my robe, and tiptoed downstairs. The house was eerily quiet. Two coffee mugs sat on the countertop in the kitchen, one with coffee still inside, the other containing only residue. The full mug still felt warm. But I couldn’t remember getting up, let alone making coffee. I wouldn’t drink any in my condition. Had Kieran come into the house and made coffee for us? But he didn’t have a key. I’d locked the dead bolt. Now it was unlocked again.

  I must’ve done it myself, made coffee, gone outside, and wandered around while asleep again. The air condensed in my lungs—the room shrank. Was I going mad? Padding around in the dark, my subconscious alter ego seizing control?

  My trembling fingers showed no trace of coffee grounds, no telltale signs of what I might’ve been doing. And after it all, I’d gone back up to bed. Slipped under the covers, as if I had never been up. My subconscious mind was playing tricks on me, trying to drive me crazy.

  Two mugs. Kieran must have been here, I thought. I must’ve let him in. I stood at the countertop, my throat tight, my thoughts in a whirlwind.

  If Kieran had come over, where was he? Had he gone outside? I opened the back door and stepped out. “Kieran!” I called. No answer. I went down the steps, and I nearly tripped over something heavy, something in my way.

  It was Kieran, lying on his back, motionless in the grass, eyes half-open, staring at the cloudy sky.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Kieran, are you all right? What happened?”

  He did not reply. I kneeled next to him. He lay on his back, his arms flung out, as if he had simply fallen backward onto the grass.

  “Wake up.” I slapped lightly at his cheek. His skin felt cool. He did not respond, did not even blink. His hair slid away from his face, pulled down by gravity. He looked skyward, his half-closed eyes giving him a drowsy expression, as if he were merely daydreaming, watching the clouds roll past. But he did not appear to be breathing.