Hemlock for the Holidays

by Paula Darnell

  “Please wish her well for me and let me know how she's getting along.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  No sooner had I set my cell phone down than Laddie ran to the kitchen door, whipping his tail back and forth in eager anticipation. He jumped up and down on his front paws when I opened the door, and Belle came in and handed me a green plastic-wrapped bag.

  “Divinity,” she said, stopping to pet Laddie, who followed us into the living room after I thanked Belle and set the candy on the counter.

  “Are you feeling all right, Amanda? You look a little pale.”

  “I'm OK, but, for a minute, I was afraid I had food poisoning.” I explained that Susan and I had seen three ambulances coming to the high school just as we'd left and told her what Rebecca had said.

  “Food poisoning from carrot bars? I've never heard of such a thing, have you?”

  “No, I can't say that I have.”

  “Were there any left in the choir's booth that the health department can test?”

  “That's a good question. I'll have to ask Rebecca when she calls me back.”

  “I hope they can isolate the cause. What if more people ate them?'

  “I suppose they'll put out some kind of recall announcement.”

  “Let's hope word gets out before more people get sick. This is a terrible end to a great day. Our library auxiliary always does really well at the high school fair.”

  “The Roadrunner had a good day, too. I just hope nobody's seriously ill. Rebecca said Carmen was on oxygen when they took her to the hospital.”

  “Poor Carmen. At the party, she said she was really looking forward to buying gifts at the fair, remember?”

  I nodded. Rebecca's neighbor had gone from a fun day purchasing unique hand-crafted gifts for her family and friends to the hospital. It was truly horrific. For the rest of the evening, I kept expecting Rebecca to call me with an update on Carmen's condition, but the phone never rang.

  Chapter 7

  As soon as I woke, I checked my phone right away for messages, but there weren't any. It was around six o'clock, and I knew Rebecca didn't usually get up that early, but her husband Greg did. The only problem was that I didn't have Greg's cell phone number, only Rebecca's.

  I thought I might be able to catch him at the little park where we both walked our dogs, though. I called Laddie, snapped his leash onto his collar, and we departed for a walk before breakfast. Laddie pranced along happily beside me, the cold air not bothering him in the least, but I shivered as I pulled the knit cap I wore down over my ears and fastened the hood of my parka over it, pulling it tight under my chin. A cold wind blew from the north, and normally I would have been tempted to skip our walk because of it, but I was hoping to see Greg and find out how Carmen was getting along.

  When we arrived at the park, we found it deserted, except for Greg, who was walking Skippy and Tucker. As soon as he saw Laddie and me, he hurried toward us. The terriers yapped with excitement at seeing Laddie, as they hustled to greet him.

  “Greg, what happened with Carmen last night? Is she OK? Rebecca was going to call me to let me know.”

  “Yeah, sorry, Amanda. We didn't really know anything until late last night, when it was too late to call, anyway. Carmen's still in the hospital. Rebecca's staying with the kids until Carmen's husband Lew comes home.” He pointed to a house across the street, a couple doors down from his. “They live right over there. The kids came to the hospital with Lew last night, and, by midnight, they were pretty well exhausted, so Rebecca took them home, while Lew stayed at the hospital. I hung out with him for a while, until he was able to talk to the doctor. Carmen's really been through the mill, but she and the kids in the band will get through it, according to the doc. He said they were poisoned, and the health department's analyzing the carrot bars that hadn't been sold yet. Rebecca's fit to be tied. We have no idea how this could have happened.”

  Since Greg and I were the only people stirring in the neighborhood, we noticed immediately when a white painter's van with a ladder secured to its side parked in front of the house Greg had pointed out earlier.

  A man wearing a navy hoodie and jeans jumped out. When Greg waved to him, he came over to us.

  “Lew, how's Carmen this morning?”

  “Exhausted. She finally went to sleep a little while ago, so I came home to regroup. I'll take the kids back to the hospital to see her later this morning.”

  “I met Carmen at Rebecca's cookie exchange. I was so sorry to hear what happened,” I told Lew.

  “Pardon me,” Greg said. “I should have introduced you two. Amanda Trent, Lew Hearndon.”

  “Hi, Amanda. Aren't you the artist? I think Carmen mentioned that you were going to be at the fair.”

  “Yes. I was there, all afternoon, to help at the Roadrunner's booth.”

  “I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Carmen and the band kids were poisoned at the fair. I can't understand how it happened, but the guy from the health department was really concerned. He told me he was going to alert the media to warn people.”

  “We hope nobody else has a problem,” Greg said.

  “That's for sure. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. See you later.”

  “I should get going, too,” Greg said. “Rebecca'll be coming home in a minute. She plans to go over her list of everybody who provided baked goods or candy for the Pioneers' booth and try to figure out where those carrot bars came from.”

  “I thought Rebecca already did that.”

  “She did, but it can't hurt to take another look. Who knows? Maybe we'll come up with something. I guarantee you, somebody knows where those poison carrot bars came from, but whoever it is probably doesn't want to admit it. I think the person who made them mixed in some ingredients by mistake.”

  “I suppose that could have happened,” I said, although I thought it unlikely. “Anyway, I'm relieved to hear that Carmen and the band members will be all right.”

  By the time Laddie and I walked the few blocks home, I felt like an icicle. Laddie hadn't minded the cold one bit, but my teeth chattered until I warmed myself by drinking a cup of strong, hot tea while Mona Lisa playfully batted my feet.

  Laddie had received his share of attention, and now she wanted hers. After I'd warmed up, I flicked her feather toy back and forth for her so that she could try to catch it. By the time I ended the game, she seemed satisfied, leaping to the top of her kitty tree and surveying Laddie and me from on high.

  I decided it would be a perfect day to complete my portrait of Mr. Big, because Belle and Dennis were spending the day in Prescott with Belle's cousin. I'd offered to dogsit Mr. Big, but they'd decided to take him along. With several uninterrupted hours available for me to paint, I could complete the portrait without having to worry about hiding it from Belle.

  I donned an old flannel shirt, rolled up the sleeves, and went to work. Laddie cooperated nicely, curling up on his bed in the corner of my studio and taking a nap. Although my uninterrupted painting schedule wasn't strictly uninterrupted—I broke for lunch and, later, to play fetch in the backyard with Laddie—I worked steadily and felt a sense of accomplishment when, with a flourish, I added my artist's signature at the bottom of Mr. Big's portrait. I left the painting on an easel in the middle of the studio since Belle wouldn't be coming over in the evening.

  I was looking forward to dinner at Miguel's with Susan, my queasiness from the night before, caused by the thought that I might have eaten a poisoned carrot bar, all but forgotten. I showered, styled my hair with the help of my blow dryer, and put on some make-up. The cold north wind hadn't let up since Laddie and I had taken our morning walk to the park, so I decided to wear my warmest sweater with jeans and knee-high boots.

  After I fed Laddie and Mona Lisa, I grabbed my car keys and was out the door. Unfortunately, I didn't get very far.

  The clicking sound when I turned my key in the ignition told me all I needed to know. I wasn't going anywhere.

>   Chapter 8

  I groaned and rested my head on the steering wheel for a couple of seconds. I tried to remember the last time I replaced the battery in my SUV before recalling that I never had. Another unexpected expense, I thought, as I went back inside, surprising Laddie and Mona Lisa.

  There was no time to wait for help from the auto club without being late for dinner, so I called Susan, who volunteered to pick me up.

  Laddie waited at my side, while I watched for her from the front window. Mona Lisa showed no interest in my impending departure and crept behind the sofa, one of her favorite hiding spots.

  When Susan pulled up in front of the house, I left my disappointed retriever behind and scurried outside to meet her.

  “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “No problem. When we get back after dinner, we can try to start your car again. I have jumper cables.”

  “Really? You know how to use those? I wouldn't have a clue.”

  “I do. They've come in handy more than once.”

  “It's worth a shot, I guess.” If it worked, I could put off buying another battery.

  “Have you heard anything more about the poisonings?” Susan asked me. I'd called to let her know what I'd learned from Rebecca and Greg earlier, so she was in the loop.

  “No, nothing except that I heard about the carrot bars, or a warning about them, on the radio news this morning.”

  “It was also on TV. I sure hope the health department people can figure out what's going on.”

  “Me, too. Poor Carmen and the band members! What a way to end the fair.”

  When we arrived at Miguel's, we found it humming but not so crowded that we had to wait very long for a table. After ten minutes or so, the hostess escorted us to a cozy two-seater booth tucked away in a corner. Colorful pottery and figurines, all handcrafted in Mexico, occupied alcoves in the adobe walls where Diego Rivera prints hung. Recorded mariachi music sounded in the background, but it wasn't so loud that it made conversation difficult.

  As soon as we were seated, our server appeared with a bowl of corn chips and smaller bowls of salsa and bean dip. I ordered a margarita, while Susan settled for a diet cola. We barely glanced at the menus the hostess had given us, because we'd dined there so many times before. As usual, Susan ordered the house special, shrimp tacos. I waffled between fajitas and enchiladas, finally deciding on the fajitas, which would come on a sizzling platter, along with sides of rice and beans and generous dollops of guacamole and sour cream.

  While we waited for our meals, we munched on the chips and sipped our drinks.

  “I promised I'd stop by Eric's place after dinner, but it shouldn't take too long,” Susan reminded me.

  “OK. I can wait in the car.”

  “No, please come in with me. I'm sure he won't mind.”

  “Well, I don't know if I should. He might not appreciate it.”

  “To tell you the truth, I don't want to be alone with him. I like him, but only as a friend. When I saw him last year, he made a pass at me. It was awkward for both of us. I could never think of him as anything but Natalie's husband. He may have been drinking before that incident, but, still, it wouldn't hurt to have backup.”

  “All right. Safety in numbers, I guess.”

  “Exactly.”

  After dinner, Susan drove to Eric's house, which was in a quiet neighborhood. Other than a couple walking their beagle, we were the only people outside. Christmas lights twinkled on several of the houses, but no lights were visible in front of Eric's place, nor were there any emanating from inside.

  “Hmm. Maybe he's not home,” Susan noted. “I'll give him a quick call.” She waited while the phone on the other end rang several times before she gave up.

  “He could have his phone turned off,” I said. “Look, there's kind of a glow over at the side of the house. He could be home.”

  “Might as well check, now that we're here.”

  We got out of the car and climbed the few steps to the front porch. Susan rang Eric's doorbell, but there was no answer.

  “I can hear something in there,” Susan told me. “It sounds like the TV's on.”

  “Let's check the side window. That's where the light's coming from.”

  We went around to the corner and peeked into the window. Susan had been right: on the wall, a flat screen television blared.

  She saw the figure on the floor before I did. She clutched my arm. “Look! Over by the desk.”

  Eric was sprawled on the floor beside the desk. As far as I could tell, he wasn't moving.

  Susan tapped the windowpane and called to him, but he didn't respond.

  My hands trembled as I reached for my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  “A man's collapsed!” I told the emergency operator.

  “Is he breathing?”

  “I don't know. We're outside, and he's inside. We can see him through a window, but we can't get in. The house is locked.” At least, I assumed it was locked, but I went around to the front door, anyway, just to make sure.

  “Address?”

  “7-9-2,” I read the metal numbers beside the front door. “I don't know the name of the street.” I looked at Susan, who shook her head. She was so rattled that she couldn't think of it, either. “We'll have to check the street sign,” I told the operator.

  Susan ran to the dog walkers on the other side of the street. At first, they looked at her as though she were a crazy woman, but she finally made them understand that it was an emergency involving their neighbor, and they followed her back to Eric's porch.

  “Copper Valley Road,” Susan said breathlessly, and I relayed the street name to the operator.

  As we waited for help to arrive, Susan led the couple around the side of the porch, and they were shocked to see Eric lying motionless on the floor inside.

  “I'll try the back door,” the man said, vaulting over the porch rail and disappearing around the side of the house. He returned in a minute to report that the back door was locked, too.

  We heard the wail of sirens, and the beagle began to bay. The man tried to shush him, but the little dog didn't stop until the sirens did.

  A patrol officer approached first, followed by a pair of EMTs.

  The policeman had evidently gotten the word that he'd have to break in, but he tried the door, anyway. When it didn't budge, the cop bashed in the side light window with his baton, reached inside, and unlocked the front door. He pushed it open and flipped a light switch. The EMTs followed him, and the four of us were right behind them. We went through the living room into the den where Eric lay on the floor. The police officer grabbed the remote and turned off the blaring television while the paramedics knelt to check on Eric. We held our breaths while they examined him.

  “We're too late,” one of them announced.

  Susan started to sob.

  “I'm sorry. Are you relatives?”” he asked.

  “No, just friends,” I responded.

  “We're neighbors,” the woman dog walker said. Holding their beagle, her husband stood beside her. The hound wiggled, but he held onto it.

  The patrol officer huddled with the EMTs, while Susan tried to control her crying.

  “Poor Eric,” she murmured. “He's only forty-five.”

  “Could be a heart attack or a stroke, maybe,” the neighbor speculated. “We didn't know him too well, but he seemed like a good guy.”

  “Folks, I'm going to have to ask you to wait until my sergeant gets here and we can sort things out.”

  “Do they know what happened?” I asked, nodding toward the paramedics.

  “No. The coroner will have to determine the cause of death. Now, if you all wouldn't mind waiting in the kitchen—”

  As we walked past Eric's desk, I noticed a neat stack of papers, held together by an oversize clip, on top. I craned my neck as we passed by, but I couldn't read the document, although I noticed that the paper was longer than regular printer paper. Susan looked at it, too, but we couldn't stop to exam
ine it because the officer kept urging us to go into the kitchen.

  The den was separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar counter. When we walked around the side of it, I saw a gray marble-topped island in the center of the room. But it wasn't the upscale carrara-topped island that grabbed my attention.

  It was what lay on top of it.

  Chapter 9

  A single carrot bar decorated with neatly piped orange and green icing in the shape of a carrot surrounded by crumbs sat on a plate in the center of the island, next to a half-full mug of coffee.

  “Oh, no! Eric must have been poisoned!” Susan exclaimed.

  “It certainly looks that way,” I agreed.

  The neighborhood couple looked at us in confusion.

  “Why do you think that?” the man asked.

  “There was an incident at the high school yesterday. Three people were taken to the hospital, and they'd all eaten carrot bars just like that.” I pointed to the innocent-looking dessert on the island. “Anyway, the health department says it was food poisoning. Warnings have been all over the news lately.”

  “We didn't hear a thing about it,” the woman said. “We spent the day putting up our Christmas lights and decorating the house.”

  “Eric must not have heard about it, either,” Susan said. “I should have called to warn him.”

  “There was no reason to think that Eric would eat any of these bars. I didn't see him at the fair, did you?”

  “No. I'm sure he wasn't there. It's not the kind of event he'd go to, not without Natalie, anyway.”

  “So you can't blame yourself, Susan. It was an accident you couldn't possibly have anticipated.”

  “I suppose, but I still feel terrible.”

  “We need to tell the police officer.”

  “Tell me what?”

  I whirled to see the officer coming into the kitchen. I pointed out the carrot bars, and he immediately understood the implication. Unlike the neighbors, he'd obviously heard the latest news.

  “OK. I'll alert the coroner. You folks just stay put, and don't touch anything. It shouldn't be too much longer.”