Bloodroot

by Cynthia Riggs

  “We needn’t follow,” said Victoria. “The fewer people around the better. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  As they turned into Victoria’s drive, Elizabeth said, “Everything happened so fast, it didn’t occur to me until now. Where were Wesley and Heather?”

  “You’re right. They need to know about their brother. We’d better go back.”

  * * *

  Lockwood parked his Jeep behind the youth hostel and hiked the short distance along the bike path to Victoria’s house. He thought again about what he would do.

  He’d recognized Elizabeth’s car, of course, heading in the direction of the Wilmington’s. Whether that was their destination or not, he figured he’d have time to prowl around the house a bit. By rights, his house, he told himself.

  An overhanging branch brushed his face and with an angry gesture he snapped it off and flung it to the side of the path.

  Victoria had trusted him. If it hadn’t been for lies Elizabeth must have told her grandmother, she would have turned the house over to his care. He respected the house. He’d have taken care of Victoria.

  His flashlight picked up a slight movement by the side of the path, and he shone the beam around until it picked up a black creature, the size of a cat. Two white stripes stood out, almost fluorescent in the light. A skunk. He stopped. The skunk moved its head back and forth as though looking for something, then shambled across the path only a couple of feet from him. He waited until the skunk disappeared into the undergrowth, and then continued his walk. The path dipped down into the small valley and he was almost at his goal.

  The front door was always latched, he knew. A northeast wind would blow it open otherwise. The other doors were never locked. He’d enter through the south door. They wouldn’t expect that. Then, and he laughed at the thought, he’d unlatch the front door and when he heard them coming, he’d exit that way. That would puzzle them, the unlatched front door.

  When he was in the house he’d do something simple but baffling. Move some of Elizabeth’s underwear from her bureau drawer into Victoria’s.

  The house was on the opposite side of the road. He crossed over and circled to the back, past the kitchen windows, still lit, apparently waiting for their return. He smelled smoke from the parlor fire and felt a flicker of anger as he thought he should be sitting by it, discussing local politics with Victoria while Elizabeth prepared supper.

  A frisson of excitement ran through him as he thought about their return. Elizabeth wouldn’t realize anyone had been in the house, even in her bedroom, and probably not for a day or two.

  Lockwood was upstairs humming to himself when he saw the headlights of a car turn into the drive. Trapped. A surge of adrenaline kicked in. The car slowed, stopped, then continued on out of the drive and headed up-Island.

  That was puzzling. Where were they going? Wherever it was, he was almost done. He’d taken three pairs of Elizabeth’s cotton panties and stashed them under Victoria’s more sedate underthings.

  He was humming an irritating piece of music.

  It would take Elizabeth a few days to discover the missing items, and Victoria a few days to find them.

  He’d been listening to Ravel’s Boléro on the Cape Cod classical music station and it had insinuated itself into his head. That’s what he was humming. The repetitive theme ran through his brain, faster and faster. He hated that music. Monotonous. Why did they have to play that particular piece at this particular time?

  He slipped downstairs and out the unlatched front door. He pushed it shut firmly behind him.

  Dum! dum dum dum dum dum dum, Dum, dum-dum-dum!

  The man must have been insane when he composed it.

  CHAPTER 27

  Elizabeth turned the car around in the drive and retraced their route to the Wilmington house. No streetlights marred the night’s blackness. No cars approached.

  “What do you think, Gram? Scott’s symptoms didn’t seem typical of a heart attack. That awful grimace. And vomiting? And he’s my age, early thirties.”

  Victoria shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  They crossed the town line, again. Their headlights picked up gray lichened stone walls on either side of the road and touched the bright leaves of beech trees. Theirs was the only car on the road. It was as though they were the only humans for miles around. In a few weeks the season would start, and things would be different.

  A deer suddenly leaped the stone wall to their right and darted across the road in front of them. Victoria braced her hands on the dashboard. Elizabeth braked and the car stalled. The deer, followed by two spotted fawns, disappeared into the woods on the other side.

  “That was close,” said Victoria. “I’d hate to hit them.”

  Elizabeth started the car again. “I have trouble thinking of them as pests, but that’s what they are. Mice are cute, too.”

  The open rolling pastures of Chilmark were dark forms in the night that blended into the darker sky. In a short time, they turned left onto the dirt road that led to the Wilmington’s.

  The house looked no different from the way it had when they’d rushed Scott away an hour before. Lights still blazed in the upstairs windows. The front door was open, the way they’d left it when they’d half carried him down the porch steps.

  Victoria climbed the steps, holding the railing tightly, and knocked on the frame of the open door. “Hello! Anybody home?”

  No answer.

  Elizabeth joined her grandmother. “What now?”

  “We need to make sure they’re all right.”

  In the dining room, part of Scott’s steak, bathed in congealed gravy, was still on the table. The mushrooms were unappetizing black lumps.

  “I’ll take his plate with us to let the doctor know what he’d been eating,” said Victoria.

  “Not exactly a heart-healthy meal, I guess.”

  “You check the parlor,” said Victoria. “I’ll go upstairs.”

  “I’ll go,” said Elizabeth, but Victoria was already on her way up, holding the banister firmly.

  “Hello!” she called when she reached the second floor. “Anybody here?”

  No answer.

  She had no trouble finding her way around, since every light in the house seemed to be on. There were two open doors, one to her left, one to her right. She went into the room on the right.

  The room was large and brightly lit. A king-size bed dominated the space. Heather, sprawled out in the middle, looked petite on the huge bed, although she was as well built as her sister.

  “Heather?” said Victoria softly. “Heather, can you hear me?”

  Heather’s eyes were closed.

  “Are you all right?” Victoria reached over the wide bed and took hold of Heather’s wrist. The wrist was warm and Victoria could feel a steady pulse.

  “Heather, wake up,” Victoria said, shaking the wrist she still held. “Wake up!”

  Heather mumbled, “Shouldn’t’ve drunk so much.”

  “Your brother’s sick. He’s in the hospital. Get up!”

  Heather opened her eyes a small crack and examined Victoria.

  “You need to sober up. Get to the shower,” Victoria ordered.

  Heather edged around the bed, holding on to bedposts and chairs. “Everything’s spinning around.”

  “Where’s Wesley?”

  “Over there.” Heather pointed vaguely.

  “Can you take a shower yourself, or must I undress you?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll take a shower.”

  Elizabeth was already in the room across the hall, trying to awaken Wesley.

  “He’s drunk,” said Elizabeth.

  “We’d better take them to the hospital. The problem may be something they and their brother ate.”

  “I’ll make coffee,” said Elizabeth.

  It took a half hour before the sister and brother could be settled in the backseat of Elizabeth’s car. The trip to the hospital seemed endless. Elizabeth opened her window wide. “Hope y
ou don’t mind, Gram.”

  “Not at all,” said Victoria, opening her own window.

  At the Emergency Room parking lot, she looked at the two in the backseat. Wesley’s head was pressed firmly against the metal brace of the convertible’s top, his mouth open, and he was snoring. Heather’s head rested on Wesley’s shoulder. A string of drool looped from the corner of her mouth.

  Victoria eased herself out of the passenger seat. “I’ll go in. You wait with them.”

  The automatic doors of the Emergency Room made way for her. At the desk, a tall doctor with thinning blond hair was studying charts. A stethoscope hung around his neck. He looked up and grinned.

  “Mrs. Trumbull. Your toe bothering you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve brought Scott’s sister and brother. They’re not in the best condition themselves.”

  “Same symptoms as their brother?” he asked, concerned.

  “I don’t know.”

  Susan, who’d been pacing in the waiting area, rushed over to Victoria. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “We’ve brought Scott and Heather and the remains of their dinner, or at least his dinner, in case it turns out it’s something they ate. Steak with mushroom gravy.”

  Susan put her hands up to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

  “Is something the matter?”

  Susan turned away. “I left some sautéed ink caps in the refrigerator.”

  “Ink caps? Tippler’s Bane?” asked Victoria.

  Susan didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER 28

  While Victoria and Elizabeth were at the hospital with the Wilmington grandchildren, and while Lockwood was snooping around Victoria’s house, Dr. Mann and Dr. McBride were seated at one of the booths at Offshore Ale. A basket of peanuts and glasses of India pale ale were on the table in front of them. She was wearing another green silk blouse that was the same color as her eyes.

  “I suppose we should really be drinking champagne, Horace,” said Aileen, holding up her glass in a toast.

  “It would be premature to celebrate, Aileen. In a case of death by other than natural causes, like this, any bequest—”

  Aileen interrupted and placed a soft hand over his. “Don’t say it, Horace. It’s too, too horrible to consider.” She withdrew her hand and held her glass up to her lips. “I have nightmares about that horrible, horrible day. I’d heard she had a weak heart. I never realized arsenic had such an awful effect.”

  “What effect did you think it had?” asked Horace, setting down his glass.

  “Please, don’t say anything more about it.” She set her own glass down. “Just tell me this. Why did Mrs. Wilmington leave you all that money?”

  He smiled. “She was a great supporter of my clinic.”

  “There are other dentists on the Island. And I hate to say this, but some of them are better dentists than you are.”

  “That’s why I run a clinic. I hire the best.”

  Aileen pouted. “Demetrios?”

  “Come, now, Aileen.” He reached into the basket for a peanut, snapped it open, and tossed the shells onto the floor. “Dr. Demetrios is an excellent periodontist. One of the best in New England.” He flipped the peanuts into his mouth.

  “She’s hardly a soothing presence. She was telling poor Mrs. Trumbull how she extracted the tooth of a Bengal tiger.”

  Horace laughed. “Poor Mrs. Trumbull, indeed!”

  Aileen moved her frosted glass around in circles in the ring of moisture on the varnished table. “I don’t understand what you and Mrs. Wilmington had going between you. Three million dollars? Did you know she had that kind of money?”

  Horace snapped open another peanut. “It was rumored.”

  Aileen opened her blue eyes wide. “You did know, didn’t you? Did you know she was leaving it to you?”

  “Aileen, my dear, let’s order. Their hamburgers are superb.”

  * * *

  While the doctors Horace Mann and Aileen McBride were ordering hamburgers at Offshore Ale, the doctors Ophelia Demetrios and Sam Minnowfish were dressing their hamburgers with ketchup and mustard at the Black Dog Tavern. They were seated on the enclosed porch overlooking Vineyard Haven harbor, a dark mirror reflecting lights from the departing ferry.

  “Mrs. Wilmington, what was she thinking?” said Ophelia, squeezing out an angry burst of ketchup. “Three million dollars to our Horace? So much money.”

  Sam Minnowfish took the ketchup from her, dosed his own hamburger, and said, “Well—”

  “He has the personality of, how do you say it, a turtle.” She slapped the top of the bun onto her burger. “And his mind…” she shrugged.

  “Didn’t realize turtles had personalities,” said Sam, around a mouthful of hamburger.

  “Why?” Ophelia took back the ketchup bottle. “Why did she leave all that money to Horace?”

  “Uniforms. Women go for uniforms in a big way.” Sam set his burger down on the plate and took a swig of beer. He wiped his mouth on a paper napkin.

  “Uniform? What do you mean?”

  “That crisp white lab coat,” said Minnowfish. “Girls find it sexy as hell. Why I went into dentistry.”

  “You mustn’t talk like that, Sam.” Ophelia cut her hamburger in half with sharp jabs. “The Island. He was born here?”

  Sam nodded. “Born and raised here. Couple of years ahead of me at the high school.”

  Ophelia pushed the two halves of her hamburger apart. “His family, are they from the Island?”

  “He’s adopted, you know.” Sam took another bite and red meat juice ran down his chin. He wiped it with a paper napkin.

  “Yes. He makes no secret of it. His birth parents. Do we know who they are?”

  “Nothing’s secret on this Island.” He wadded up the napkin and dropped it onto the table.

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  Sam shrugged.

  Ophelia leaned forward. “Well, who are these people who adopted him?”

  “Newcomers. Came over on the boat.”

  Ophelia sat back. “The way Horace acts, I thought his family came over on the Mayflower.”

  “That’s the boat.” Sam grinned. “They’ve only been in this country a few hundred years.” He thumped his chest. “Not like my family.”

  “Ah, Sam. You are a mongrel like all Americans.”

  “Arf! Arf!” said Sam, and took another bite of his burger.

  * * *

  At the hospital, orderlies wheeled Heather and Wesley into the Emergency Room. Both were protesting loudly. Heather’s long blond hair was still wet from her shower. Except for that, the two looked reasonably put together, still dressed in the jeans and T-shirts they’d worn earlier.

  Victoria held the plate containing the remains of Scott’s dinner.

  Susan rolled and unrolled a magazine she’d been reading and watched as the wheelchairs were taken into an examining room. “Where’s the doctor? I suppose I should tell him about the mushrooms.”

  “He’s in there.” A tall, slim nurse wearing a blue scrub suit came out of the examining room carrying a sheaf of papers. She nodded toward the room. When she saw Victoria, she looked concerned. “Auntie Vic! What are you doing here?”

  Victoria explained to her grandniece, Hope, about Scott’s seizure and his brother’s and sister’s conditions. Hope fanned herself with her papers. “I could get high on the exhaust fumes from those two. They’re drunk.”

  “I don’t know,” said Victoria. “I brought in the remains of Scott’s meal.” She handed the plastic-covered plate to Hope, who lifted a corner of the wrap.

  “Steak?”

  “Mushroom gravy,” Susan said, “I’m pretty sure they used ink caps that I’d left in the fridge.”

  “I’ll tell the doc. Did all three eat the mushrooms?”

  “There were two used plates,” said Victoria.

  At that point, Wesley and Heather were wheeled back into the waiting area followed by Doc Yablonsky. He was the tall man in his
late fifties with thinning blond hair. He nodded at Victoria. “How’s your sore toe?”

  “My toe is fine,” she said. “I’m here with Scott’s sister and brother.”

  “It’s not Scott’s heart!” Heather protested loudly. “He played football in high school.”

  “Ath-a-letes get ath-a-lete’s foot.” Wesley guffawed.

  “Feet,” said Heather.

  “Oh, shut up,” snapped Susan.

  Heather pouted. “Rich bitch.”

  “The mushrooms in the gravy may be ink caps, what they call Tippler’s Bane,” said Hope. “Did they have supper?”

  Dr. Yablonsky shook his head. “They had nothing to eat.”

  “There was a second plate,” said Victoria. “Which one used it? Someone did.”

  The doc checked the papers on his clipboard. “Neither Heather nor Wesley had anything to eat. They overdid the cocktails and will probably have serious hangovers tomorrow.”

  “They were trying to drown their sorrows,” said Susan.

  “They almost succeeded,” said Hope. “What’s their problem?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  The doctor turned to Susan. “Your brother apparently is suffering from alcohol poisoning. The mushrooms contain a substance that blocks the metabolism of alcohol.”

  Susan nodded and looked away.

  “Do any of you know how much Scott had to drink?”

  “There was an empty Scotch bottle on the porch table when I got home,” Susan said. “A half gallon they bought this afternoon.”

  He tapped his pen on the clipboard. “The three finished off the entire bottle?”

  Susan shrugged. “The Scotch bottle was empty and Scott had a half-empty bottle of wine in front of him.”

  “I don’t know if we were able to get rid of enough alcohol. Our technician is identifying the mushrooms he ate.” He looked up as a stocky woman with thick glasses strode toward them and handed a paper to the doctor.

  “Coprinopsis,” she said, and told them what they already knew about the mushroom.

  Susan leaned against the desk. “What about Scott?”

  “Alcohol is absorbed quickly into the bloodstream and the liver needs about an hour to metabolize alcohol in one drink,” said Dr. Yablonsky. “If metabolism is blocked…” He didn’t finish.