Right there was a reason to close up shop and move on: Sandy’s big nose. “Don’t be silly,” Nina said, trying to be patient. “The money only makes it possible for me to examine my options.”
“You would miss work.”
Nina could think of many good reasons not to work today, tomorrow, or ever again, but in the hard light of Sandy’s dark eyes they appeared rather insubstantial to her at the moment. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just don’t want to make any sudden decisions.”
This time, Sandy studied her without anger. “Well,” she said finally, “if you’re looking to keep things small and invest your windfall temporarily, say the word. I’ve got this ex-brother-in-law with Charles Schwab. . . .”
“When the money comes in, it will seem more real to me, Sandy. Until then, I’m just spinning spiderwebs.” She looked at the papers on her desk and thought, I can’t believe it really will come in. That’s the trouble.
“Something else is on your mind, isn’t it?” Sandy asked. “Is this about the juror that died?” She had an unerring ability to press on the sore spot, a talent she shared with Paul.
“No, there’s nothing else,” Nina lied. She rustled a few papers and took a final drink from her cup, setting it down on the desk ceremoniously. “I want to touch base with Lindy. We’ve hardly talked since the verdict. Try to reach her at her friend Alice’s or at her message number, okay?”
Sandy shrugged and went back to her desk.
Nina returned to her work in a state of emotional clutter. The weekend with Paul had been good, but things were never easy with him. He was so closely tied to her in every way, physically, emotionally, and even at work. She hoped he would forget about the juror. Wright was dead and the trial was over.
She hadn’t even had time to miss Bob, who had gone on a field trip financed by his grandpa to the East Coast on Sunday and would be visiting the Bureau of Engraving with his classmates sometime today. A cup of coffee gave her back the illusion of clear thinking, and she concentrated on some pending files that needed her attention. With Lake Tahoe spread-eagled out the window in front of her, she allowed herself five luxurious minutes to weave images in her mind of exotic lands and freedom from financial worry before she needed to pack her bag, resume her normal duties, and head back to the courthouse.
“You’re the fellow here about Wright,” said Dr. Clauson, studying Paul through Coke-bottle lenses. A skinny, balding man, he wore a wrinkled, short-sleeved shirt over trousers that were shiny at the knees.
Paul had never seen the medical examiner’s office before. In his mind, Doc Clauson forever loitered in the basement morgue at Placerville, where he had first seen him.
Clauson stepped behind a battle-scarred oak desk littered with gum wrappers, wadded-up bits of trash, and a hundred file folders. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve met. I work with Nina Reilly.”
“Her?” said Clauson, inserting a piece of Juicy Fruit into his mouth. “She gonna drag me into another mess? She send you?”
“I’m here to satisfy my own curiosity. Nothing to do with her.”
Clauson liked that answer, Paul could tell. Having survived a few run-ins with Nina himself, Paul could empathize.
“Well, it’s just a run-of-the-mill thing,” said Clauson, pulling a file out of a stack on the floor beside his desk.
He read for a moment, then scanned further as he spoke. “One of the bailiffs dialed nine-one-one. By the time the paramedics arrived, Wright had suffocated. They tried intravenous epinephrine, but it was too late.”
“Dr. Clauson,” Paul began.
“Call me Doc.”
“Okay, Doc. I’m curious about what it says on his death certificate.”
“Anaphylactic shock“—Clauson nodded—”with an immunologic component. That means as opposed to anaphylactoid shock related to nonspecific release of mediators.” He tipped back in his chair, as if relishing the chance to go over the case, and spoke in the choppy sentences Paul remembered. “Only the second case I’ve seen. First one was a woman; died from kissing a man who’d just polished off a bag of chocolate-covered peanut butter candies. Dead in a couple of minutes. Killed by a kiss. Sounds incredible, I know, but it happened.”
“Would you mind telling me in general terms what anaphylactic shock is?”
“Sure. Basically, you introduce a foreign agent, an antigen, into an organism, and the organism begins an all-out war against itself. Shuts down breathing or shuts down circulation, or both.”
“What causes it?”
“In this case, legumes. Peanuts are the most popular legume. A peanut is not a nut, properly speaking. We think some people become allergic because they are exposed to these tricky foods before an immature system can handle it properly. Probably mothers shouldn’t be eating peanuts while they nurse their babies. Kids under three shouldn’t eat peanut butter.”
Paul mentally totted up the thousands of peanut butter sandwiches he had eaten as a boy. “But not everyone who is exposed young develops an allergy.”
“True. Most don’t.”
“Are there other allergies besides the one to peanuts that can be deadly?”
“Of course, in susceptible people. Spider venom, pollen, antibiotics, vitamins. Most of his life, my father couldn’t eat apples. We now know that an apple reaction can be related to a birch pollen or ragweed allergic response. During pollen seasons, similar proteins in fresh fruit cause reactions in a compromised immune system. But that’s an odd one. And you’ve heard of allergies to bee stings, right?”
“Sure.”
“Can be life-threatening. Good idea to watch what you eat from the time you’re very young,” said Clauson, patting a stomach that had thickened slightly since the days when he sucked on Camels as if they were M&M’s.
“You did an autopsy on Wright?”
“Yep.”
“Mind going into detail for me?”
“Classic case of anaphylaxis. Laryngeal edema, hoarseness—he was still calling out when the medics got there, but not for long. Stridor—that’s harsh breathing. Angioedema, that’s a deep edematous cutaneous process. But look here, I’ve got a picture.” He handed a large, glossy color photo over to Paul.
“Man,” Paul said. “What a way to go.”
Clauson laid the picture on the desk in front of him and turned toward Paul. He crooked a thin finger and pointed.
“It’s the most characteristic external feature of this condition—giant hives.” He looked at his report and read, rolling the medical terms officiously around in his mouth. “Cutaneous wheals with erythematous, serpiginous borders and white centers.” Putting the sheet aside he said, “Discrete borders, but you can see here, so rampant he swelled up head to toe. The eyes are the worst.”
“How fast could that develop?”
“In this case, minutes. In some cases, people die in seconds. If he’d lived to get treated, those big red clumps would have disappeared over the next few days.”
“He say anything?”
“Throat too swollen. Now, there’s two ways to die with this thing. The angioedema—which he’d feel like a lump that blocks his breathing passages—can kill by causing respiratory insufficiency. Second way is vascular collapse, which can occur with or without hypoxia. The angioedema did him in. Way I could tell was the visceral congestion without a shift in the distribution of blood volume. Also, the lungs showed hyperinflation—that’s something you can see with the naked eye and with a microscope, common in fatal cases with clinical bronchial obstruction. I’ve got a photo here.”
“If he had gotten his kit and given himself a shot, what would have happened?”
“He would have calmed down all over and gone on with the show.”
“This is what I don’t understand. If he knew he was so dangerously allergic to peanuts, why wasn’t he more careful? Why did he eat them?”
“Obviously, he had no idea he was eating peanuts.” Clauson read from his notes. “Last meal
was lunch in the jury room. Vegetable chow mein, egg rolls, and fortune cookie. Didn’t make it far into the cookie part. Only a trace in the stomach.”
“They put peanuts in chow mein?”
“Nope.”
“In the egg rolls?”
“Nope.”
“The cookie?”
“Nope.”
“I assume you talked to the caterer?”
“A restaurant on Ski Run Boulevard. Owner swears there were no peanuts in the food. Wright called there before to check with them and ask them particularly not to use any in his meal.”
“I don’t get it.”
If eyes as colorless as apricot pits could be said to twinkle, Clauson’s did. “I said the same thing to myself a few days ago. Then I went home. I go home at night, not much is happening. Tube, bed, let the cat out. I’m a bachelor. Women don’t like my work.”
“Yeah?”
“Used to smoke like a fiend. Not as good as a wife, but Mr. Butts kept me company of a sort.”
Clauson chewed his gum ruminatively. Paul waited for him to get to his point.
“Took a course at the college on cooking Asian food to meet some women. Didn’t find a wife, but learned to cook.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Decided to make myself some Szechuan chicken and homemade egg rolls.”
“Yes?”
“Looked at the bottle in my hand. Peanut oil. Lots of people cooking Chinese use peanut oil when they pinch the egg rolls shut.”
“But . . . isn’t it the protein in the peanuts that causes the reaction?”
“Oil will do it for some people.”
“Ah-hah!”
“What I said,” said Clauson.
“Did you ask the cook?”
“Swears she didn’t.”
“You think she’s lying.”
Clauson’s shoulders shook slightly, as if he had been tickled. “Gotta be. The food wasn’t bad enough to kill otherwise.” He chuckled at his joke, then looked sober. “Here’s negligence that caused a death, but nobody’s gonna pursue it. Guy with a time bomb in his system like that should have always brought his own lunch.”
“You think they’re afraid they’ll be sued.”
“That’s right, but I’m satisfied I know what happened. Done in by egg rolls.”
“You sure the cook was lying?” Paul said
Clauson sighed. Paul had apparently tried his patience just a bit. “There’s no question about the cause of death. You take the history of the patient before making a diagnosis. He’s been allergic since he was about three.”
“But this time he died.”
“That was almost a predictable outcome of another exposure. Just a couple of months ago, he took a trip to the hospital after eating ice cream that listed almonds in the ingredients, but had sneaked in peanuts as filler and flavoring without changing the labeling. Now that was a hard source to trace. This one is obvious, whether or not the restaurant takes responsibility.”
Paul had had his fifteen minutes. Doc Clauson jumped up, saying he had to go.
“Enjoyed talking with you,” he said. “Nobody takes much interest in death by natural causes, even interesting causes, except maybe the insurance people, and they’re only interested in how much they’re going to owe the grieving family.”
“It’s fascinating stuff, how many paths lead to death,” said Paul. “Oh, Doc,” he said, as Clauson put a hand on the door, “just one more thing.”
Clauson had to check his notes one last time for an address.
Nina waited for Paul on her favorite bench in the yard outside the courthouse where she could soak up sun, listening to the wind lifting the branches of the trees around her, insects buzzing, and the distant din of the highway a mile away. Closing fluorescent-scarred eyes, she drifted in dark, mindless bliss for several minutes.
“Waiting, waiting,” a voice said. The teddy bear had come back, the one Paul had given her when he proposed a long time ago, the one that spoke with his voice. But how could he be here? He lived in her front closet with her ski boots, his nagging tone for the time being smothered under a down jacket. “Wake up, sleepyhead.” A hand, not a furry paw, took hold of her side and shook.
“I’m not sleeping!” To her surprise, although her feet remained on the ground, her cheek had found its way to the cool, hard surface of the bench.
“If you say so, Ladyship.” Paul helped her to her feet. She straightened her jacket and turned her skirt back to face front.
“I must have dozed off. And don’t call me that.”
“Yes, you did and I’ll consider it,” said Paul. “Now how about lunch? It’s through the looking glass you know, napping before the meal.”
“I didn’t sleep much this weekend,” said Nina. “Now why do you suppose?”
“Better things to do,” said Paul, maneuvering himself into the driver’s seat. “You’ve finally got your head screwed on straight.”
Nina laughed at that.
“Hmmm. Exactly how hungry are you?”
“I have time for a quickie,” said Nina.
“I rise to a challenge,” said Paul, starting the engine to his van, whose roaring start soon settled into a purr.
“Food, I mean.”
“Oh, well.” He drove down the hill toward town.
“Where are we going?” asked Nina. “It’s so beautiful. Let’s eat outside.”
“I’m thinking Chinese,” said Paul.
“Anywhere with an outdoor patio?”
“I don’t think so. That’s not the Chinese way.”
“How do you know?”
“They hardly ever have windows. Some feng shui rule, I bet.”
Nina took her brush out and ran it through her tumbled hair. “You like Chinese food?” she said, wincing as she snagged a rat.
“Let’s just say, this food has an unusual provenance.”
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Another secret unveiled. Damn,” said Paul, pulling up in front of a storefront with a large parking lot in front of it. “Next thing, you’ll be finding out how many women I’ve loved and lost.”
“How many?”
“None,” he said, pausing and then adding, “so beautiful as you.”
“See Paul dodge,” said Nina, giving him a kiss. “But it’s okay. Your two ex-wives are persecution enough for me in the dark of night.”
The restaurant’s low, flat building had a fire-engine-red-lacquered sign, flanked by black tiles arching over pink walls trimmed with gold paint, the whole of which somehow created the impression of a grand Oriental pavilion.
“What’s this place?” asked Nina, climbing out of the van. “Looks like more than a restaurant.”
“It is. They rent rooms, too. Welcome to the Inn of Five Happinesses,” said Paul. He hurried ahead to pull the brass knob. The door opened, and the pleasant aromas of fresh food and spices wrapped around them.
Once seated, Nina ignored the menu. “I always have the same thing,” she said. “Cashew chicken.”
“Have something else if you want," said Paul. “No one’s forcing you.”
“No. I’m just telling you. I want cashew chicken.”
“Not in an experimental mood. Got you," said Paul, looking up with interest as a smooth-faced Asian man appeared silently beside him, notepad ready. “Okay. One cashew chicken. One vegetable chow mein. A dozen egg rolls. Steamed rice. Tea for two.”
The waiter dipped his head slightly and turned away.
“You must be awfully hungry," said Nina. “You plan to eat a dozen?”
“There’s always a doggy bag," said Paul.
“Hitchcock won’t eat that stuff.”
“For your bottomless pit of a son.”
“Remember? Bob’s out of town this week—” Nina began.
But Paul excused himself to wash his hands. She amused herself by watching the other patrons, some of whom were picking leisurely through an array of dishes, while others, ob
viously office workers on a limited break, shoveled it in.
Paul wandered toward the kitchen, pushing a pair of swinging doors aside like John Wayne, feeling like an unusually large intruder invading a foreign landscape.
Painted white, with a black and white tile floor, the kitchen was on the small side, and the several people inside, wearing white aprons over jeans, whacked and clanged and moved from one end to the other with the grace of a single organism. One whole wall was absorbed by a massive silver cook top. Hanging from the ceiling, copper and stainless steel pots shone as though polished by the warm moisture suspended in the air.
“No, no!” A boy who looked about twenty waved a flat wooden spatula at Paul. “You go!”
Over a wooden chopping block, a teenaged girl ignored him, slicing away at cabbage and spring onions, her knife glinting and sharp, hair that could only be described as scarlet in color standing up in a multitude of lengths like unmowed grass. A diminutive older woman wearing a hair net opened a pan to reveal an entire fish, head and all, sweating in clouds of steam. To her left, another boy ran a Hobart dishwasher, sliding huge trays of dirty dishes in one end and out the other.
“Smells good,” Paul said.
“Kitchen,” said the kid, stepping up to Paul. About a foot shorter than Paul, but tightly muscled, he stood his ground. “You leave now.”
Paul saw himself in a Jackie Chan movie, about to be chopped and flipped and tossed out the swinging door. “See, I’m taking a class in Chinese cooking,” said Paul as politely as he could. “And for our final we’re supposed to make egg rolls. Only problem is, I’m afraid I cut most of the classes. I really have no idea what I’m doing. So I thought, well, here I am eating egg rolls for lunch. No excuse for not watching how it’s done.”
“No!” said the boy, but the older lady who slid the fish expertly onto a platter spoke to him in Chinese, and he stepped back, glowering. Turning his back on Paul, he hoisted the tray on one arm and glided back into the restaurant.
“We’re a family business. He’s my disrespectful son,” she said apologetically, rinsing a massive steel strainer full of shrimp with the vigor of a triathlete. “He is very rude.”
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