The Fiancée

by Kate White

  12

  Hannah stares straight at me, unblinking, committed to this falsehood. I think of Billy’s comment—that Hannah Kane has ice in her veins.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, “I’m going to do some more deliveries.”

  She doesn’t hug the wall to let me pass, just swivels her torso an inch or so to the left. As I edge past her, I’m unable to avoid contact, and the bare skin of my arm brushes unpleasantly against hers. I also detect a whiff of cigarette smoke. Hannah clearly has a bad habit that she’s hiding from the rest of us.

  As soon as I descend the stairs, I hear a soft click, her bedroom door closing behind her. I wonder if she’s smiling. Because it must absolutely delight her that she’s unnerved me—and I’m not a good enough actress to disguise the fact.

  “Couldn’t find any place to put them?”

  Again, I’m caught by surprise. This time it’s Wendy, standing a foot or so inside the front door, holding an orange. I must look like an idiot, still lugging the fucking vase around.

  “Sorry, I’m operating in a daze today,” I say. I set the vase down on a side table with a soft thud. “I guess this spot is as good as any.”

  “Did I hear you talking to someone?”

  “Yes, Hannah’s back.”

  “Ahh. Well, thanks for the flowers.”

  I end up taking the long way back to the cottage, doing a sweep down beyond the pool and across the bright green lawn, and gnawing at one of my cuticles. It’s clear to me now that the missing foxgloves aren’t anywhere on the property, that no one clipped them for a bouquet, unaware that they’re toxic. So perhaps someone—and Hannah’s name is at the top of my list—did do something horrible with them. Like kill Claire.

  No, that’s insane, I admonish myself. Claire had high blood pressure and there’s no proof she died of anything but a heart attack. And maybe Hannah was so busy kissing up during the garden tour that she didn’t pay attention to what Claire was actually saying about various plants. Besides, even if Hannah is some kind of sociopath, as Billy insinuated, how could she have pulled off poisoning Claire? She could hardly have tucked a few blossoms into Claire’s sandwich on Sunday because she would have noticed them. And, in fact, Claire didn’t even eat her sandwich that day.

  I have to calm down and step away from the vehicle. There must be an explanation for the missing foxgloves that I’m too wired to see.

  And more than anything right now, I need my mom. I fish my phone from my pocket and call her cell.

  “Oh, Sara, hi,” she says. “What a nice way for me to start a Monday.”

  After I launched my acting career and started referring to myself as Summer, my dad came on board, but my mother has never switched over, and I’ve tried not to mind it too much.

  “Hey, Mom, nice for me to hear your voice, too. You and Dad good?”

  “Yes, and I was actually about to call you today. We were driving to some friends’ house last evening and heard a commercial for sunscreen on the radio. We’re positive it was your voice.”

  “A sport cream, paraben-free?”

  “I believe so, though I have no clue what paraben is.”

  “Yup, that was me.”

  “Oh, what a kick for us. I may have to even go out and buy some now.”

  “That’s so sweet of you, Mom. But actually, there’s a specific reason for my call today.”

  I blurt it out then, trying not to blubber as I do. Because the Keatons live in Manhattan, I’ve spent more time with them in recent years than with my own parents, and I don’t want my mom to think that I was closer to Claire than to her—because I wasn’t.

  “Goodness, no,” she exclaims. “Oh, Sara, this must be so hard for Gabe. And for you, too.”

  “Yes, everybody’s very shaken.”

  She peppers me gently with questions, and once I’ve told her what I know, she says how sorry she is. “Dad and I will come down to New York for the funeral, of course.”

  I explain that the service is being held here in Bucks County and for only immediate family. A brief silence follows, and I sense she’s hurt.

  “I would love to have you and Dad here,” I add. “But I want to respect Ash’s wishes. Wendy’s and Keira’s parents won’t be here, either.”

  “I understand,” she says. “For some families, a small service works best.”

  “I’d better go,” I tell her. “But I’ll call in a day or so and fill you in.”

  “Let us know if there’s any way we can help, honey.”

  “Will do.” I’m about to say good-bye when I catch myself. “Mom, just one more thing. Do you have any words of wisdom on the right way for me to support Gabe right now?”

  “That’s such a good question, Sara. I . . . I would say that the best thing you can do is follow his lead, and sense what he needs from you rather than simply deciding. And don’t tell him how he feels or should feel.”

  My heart aches a little. I know she’s basing her advice not only on her experience as a social worker, but also on how people treated her when my brother, Leo, died.

  “Thanks, Mom, that’s very helpful.”

  After signing off, I mull over her advice, still making my way to the cottage. My mother’s words remind me of a lesson they pound into your head in drama classes: the best acting is reacting, really listening to the other actors and responding to them instead of constantly focusing on the line you’re supposed to say next.

  Have I been doing that with Gabe? Mostly, I think.

  Stepping inside a minute later, I discover a note from him saying that he and Henry have taken the dogs for a walk again, which sounds like a perfect way to normalize things. I serve myself the remaining coffee from the carafe and wander with the mug into the sitting room, where my laptop is still on the table. It seems to shoot me a withering look that says, Your play’s not going to get any better if all you do is sit on your ass, so I plop down and hover the cursor over the document. But I don’t open it. Instead, I google two words for the second time: foxglove poisoning.

  Since the missing flowers aren’t in a vase somewhere on the property, it suggests someone had a plan for them that wasn’t decorative. But just because foxgloves are toxic doesn’t mean it’s easy to poison someone with them. If the process is really complicated, and unlikely for someone here to have pulled off, then I can quit obsessing. Needless to say, there’s no post titled “How to Poison Someone with Pretty Purple Plants from Your Garden,” so I start reading some of the additional posts on dangerous plants to see what turns up.

  It doesn’t take long for me to learn that over the years foxgloves have definitely been linked to homicides. Plus, there were instances of accidental poisoning back in the day when the plant was used medicinally because it was hard for medical practitioners to get the dosage right.

  Accidents have also occurred more recently, and not from an incorrect dosage. It says in one of the posts that the leaves of the foxglove plant have been mistaken for comfrey, a plant from the borage family that’s sometimes used to make tea.

  To make tea. I sit up stick straight as an image flashes in my mind. The pitcher of herbal iced tea that Claire drank from nearly every day during the summer. The one that was sitting on the kitchen island the last time I spoke to her.

  Could Claire have accidentally poisoned herself? Would she have mistaken foxglove leaves for borage—whatever the hell that is? It seems impossible, given her expertise with plants.

  But someone could have brewed poisonous tea for her.

  My pulse racing, I keep scrolling, and deep into another post, one from a medical journal, I find this: “An unusual side effect of digoxin is a disturbance of color vision (mostly yellow and green) called xanthopsia. Van Gogh’s ‘Yellow Period’ may have somehow been influenced by concurrent digitalis therapy . . . . Evidence of his use is supported by multiple self-portraits that include the foxglove plant.”

  Again, I picture the main kitchen as it was during my very last conversation with Cl
aire: the curtains oddly closed on a sunny day, the lights off. And then there was her final question: “Have you colored your hair lately, darling? It looks lighter to me this weekend.”

  I choke back a sob.

  Frantically, I google heart attack symptoms again to refresh my memory. A few are similar to the ones associated with digitalis poisoning, like nausea and tiredness, but there’s no mention of distorted vision—the green or yellow halo effect. Was Claire’s vision yellowed because she’d been poisoned with digoxin?

  Finally, I search for digitalis. Though the drug is still prescribed in certain instances for heart problems, there are newer meds now. In one of the posts is yet another detail that makes my breath quicken: An overdose of digitalis is more likely to be fatal if a person’s potassium levels are low. And one cause of lowered potassium levels is the use of a diuretic.

  Which Claire was taking for her high blood pressure.

  If someone intent on murdering her knew what drugs she’d been prescribed, they were probably aware that the diuretic improved their chances of success.

  I snap the laptop closed and stand up. There’s something I need to do in the main house before Gabe and Henry return: Get my hands on the iced-tea jug Claire always used. If Claire was poisoned, maybe there are still traces of the toxic tea.

  I swing open the front door, and to my surprise, Nick is on the other side, dressed in a weathered Bucknell T-shirt and shorts, his arm raised as if ready to knock.

  “Oh, Summer, gosh,” he says. “You look distraught. Give me a hug.”

  “Thanks, Nick,” I tell him as we quickly embrace. “I am distraught.”

  “Totally understood. You and my mom had such a great connection.”

  As we pull apart, I notice that his eyes are bloodshot, suggesting he’s had his share of crying jags since yesterday.

  “Your mom was so generous. I bet a lot of people feel that way.”

  “No, the two of you had a special bond.” He flashes one of his trademarked half-cocked grins. “In fact, you’re part of the reason I felt so comfortable bringing Hannah out here and sharing the news about our engagement. I knew my mom clearly had a soft spot for actresses.”

  Nothing in his words or demeanor suggests that he had any clue about Claire’s reservations regarding Hannah or that he’s aware of their confrontation. I work at keeping the smile on my face as he goes on. “Of course,” he adds, “she also loved how bighearted you are.”

  “That means a lot, Nick. Though for a bighearted person, I haven’t even asked how you’re doing.”

  “Miserable. I still can’t believe it’s true. It hit me this morning that my mom won’t be there for my wedding. But Hannah and I will get through it. We have to.”

  I can barely meet his eyes, but I nod. “I’m sure you will.”

  “Hey, is Gabe around? I was hoping to grab a few minutes with him.”

  “He and Henry are walking the dogs, but they should be back before long. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Uh, no, I can drop by later, I guess.” He scrunches his handsome face, clearly deliberating. “There is one thing that maybe I could ask you, though.”

  “Shoot. Anything, Nick.”

  “Is Gabe pissed at me?”

  “Pissed at you?” I say, caught off guard. “Of course not. What reason could he possibly have?”

  “You heard about how my father turned him and Marcus down for money?”

  It clicks. Ash had justified his choice by saying that he’d already been generous to Gabe and Marcus and now it was Nick’s turn, and Nick clearly feels guilty.

  “I’m sure Gabe doesn’t fault you for that. It was your dad’s decision, after all.”

  He drops his eyes to the ground, kicks at a stone with his Top-Sider. “Yeah, Dad’s decision—partly,” he says looking back at me. “But apparently mostly my mom’s. She was the one who told Dad that it wasn’t fair to me, and I needed a turn.”

  I stare at him, hiding my confusion. Gabe hadn’t mentioned that his mother had been part of the decision-making process related to the wine business. To my knowledge, in fact, she’d never been involved before. “How do you know this?”

  “Marcus told me that Dad admitted it at their meeting, after Gabe and Marcus prodded. You hadn’t heard?”

  I shake my head.

  “Gabe probably didn’t want to throw my mom under the bus. Can you act surprised when he brings it up? I’m sure he will at some point.”

  “Okay,” I say, still reeling a bit. I can’t believe Claire would have stopped Ash from helping Gabe and Marcus, simply because it violated some previously unknown protocol she’d established about how much they should support each son financially.

  “And I’ll talk to him when we get a chance,” he says. “I just feel so bad that this happened right before she died.”

  “I’m sure Gabe put it all into perspective,” I say.

  Nick looks stricken. “No, he was upset with her, Marcus told me. Really upset. He didn’t know why she’d do something like that.”

  For a moment, I can’t even think how to respond. Is this what Gabe was about to tell me as we sat on the bench outside the cottage? It must be eating at him, the idea that his mother died while he was so angry with her.

  “Um, well, yes, do talk to him about it, Nick. He’ll be around later.”

  He hugs me again then takes off down the path at a sprint. I give him a minute to put a little distance between us and then start off for the house myself, noticing how warm the day’s gotten. It must be in the mideighties by now.

  I enter the house through the kitchen. Jake’s alone in there, scooping tuna salad onto slices of bread.

  “Hi again,” I say. “Is Bonnie around?”

  “She ran upstairs to make the beds.”

  “Okay, I’ll futz around here until she gets back.”

  He returns to his task and I begin the one I came for. Though the kitchen has always been Bonnie and Claire’s domain, I’ve never felt it was off-limits to me. I swing the fridge door open, but there’s no iced tea on any of the shelves. I proceed to a cabinet at the far end of the kitchen and scan the inside. No jug there, either. Okay, it’s got to be someplace else in the room. I’m pivoting on my heels when Bonnie enters the room, clearly a little winded.

  “You need something, hon?” she asks.

  “Actually, yes.” I wish I didn’t have to burden her with another task, but it’s important. “I was looking for the jug Claire always used for her iced tea.”

  “There’s iced tea out on the patio already.”

  “Okay, thanks, but as silly as this sounds, I was hoping to use Claire’s jug and make some herbal tea. For, you know, sentimental reasons.”

  “Sure,” she says agreeably enough. “We actually keep it in here.”

  I trail behind her into the pantry, where she tugs open a long cupboard I’ve never looked inside before. One of the interior shelves is lined with nine or ten pitchers and jugs, some glass but also ceramic ones in the shape of things like peaches, oranges, rabbits, and monkeys.

  I watch her sweep the collection with her eyes, absentmindedly fingering the small gold cross she wears around her neck.

  “That’s odd,” she says. “It’s not here anymore.”

  13

  Shaking her head, Bonnie lingers before the shelf, obviously perplexed. This is her turf, and the mystery has snagged her attention. With her brow furrowed, she closes the door of the cupboard and pulls open another one. And another.

  “For Pete’s sake, where’d it go?” she says. “I’m sorry, Summer. Someone’s clearly using it.”

  “When was the last time you saw it?” My heart’s thrumming from what all this might mean.

  “It was upside down on the drainboard when I came back from my break yesterday. Claire must have washed it before she left the room.”

  Her face clouds as she speaks. A short time later, of course, she would find Claire writhing on the living room floor.
>
  “But what would someone be using it for?” I say.

  She shrugs. “Maybe they wanted water in their bedroom. I’m sure it will turn up at some point.”

  Will it? I mean, the pantry is nearly bursting with a brigade of fruit- and animal-shaped alternatives, so why would anyone take the container Claire used, unless they wanted to be sure it couldn’t be found?

  “Okay, I’ll have regular iced tea for now . . . . Bonnie, can I ask you one more question?” I lower my voice, and she observes me quizzically. “When you found Claire yesterday—do you think she’d just come downstairs from a nap? Or do you suppose she’d never gone up?”

  I’ve been wondering that ever since last night.

  “Gosh, Summer, I don’t have any idea.”

  “Why, if she wasn’t feeling well, do you think she would have gone into the living room instead of coming out here and trying to find help?”

  Her face contorts in anguish. “Maybe she was looking for Ash in his study. To tell you the truth, it’s too tough for me to even think about.”

  I feel guilty making Bonnie relive the tragedy, but I need to in order to figure things out. “I understand. And I’m sorry to bring it up. I only hope she wasn’t suffering for too long.”

  “I know; me, too.”

  I start to exit the house by the kitchen door, but a glance out the window reveals Keira and Marcus standing on the patio, their faces grim. He shakes his head, not angrily but with a firmness that says she’s wrong about something or that he’s not going to change his mind. There’s no way I’m going to intrude on the moment.

  But I need a quiet place to think. I slip into the dining room and follow the long corridor to the eastern end of the house. Once I reach the screened-in porch, I settle on one of the wicker couches and exhale.

  Okay, let’s say that the terrifying theory I’ve been toying with is really true and Claire was poisoned to death by a drink made from foxgloves. How would the tea have been brewed? I wonder. The killer must have dried out the leaves from the plant after they’d been picked. But where? An oven seems like the only possibility given the tight time frame, though using the oven in this kitchen would have been too risky with everyone around. And yet . . . it would have been easy enough to do during a quiet moment in the carriage house kitchen. The carriage house where Hannah is staying.