Oh, God. Edie closed her eyes in silent prayer to whatever was out there in the universe, and lifted the teacup.
“Go on,” Ellen whispered hoarsely, her eyes fixed.
Edie tried not to swallow. Could whatever was in that tea seep through her body anyway? Her hand shook as she replaced the cup, making it clatter against the saucer.
“And now the cake,” Ellen said in that same strained tone. “I made them specially for you.”
No choice, now. She had to swallow. She downed the gulp she’d been holding and played her only card. “Not until you let Miranda go.”
Ellen shook her head, clutched the child closer. Miranda shrieked.
“You’re hurting her,” Edie cried.
“No, my dear, you’re hurting her.” Ellen had to raise her voice over Miranda’s howls. “You or Miranda—it’s your choice, not mine.”
“I want to go home,” Miranda wailed. She squirmed and screeched louder. “I want my daddy! I want my daddy!”
“Stop it! Stop it this instant!” Ellen said.
But Miranda kicked and pummeled the older woman with flailing arms, a wild, uncontrollable, slippery thing. Ellen ducked her head, tried to shift her hold to get a better grip. Instead, Miranda writhed, opening a gap. Immediately, she slithered down, out of Ellen’s grasp.
Edie shot forward, seized Miranda’s hand, and ran. Into the kitchen and out the back door. Swung Miranda up into her arms as they flew down the steps to the top of the drive where her bike was parked.
She shifted the child to her back. “Hold tight! Don’t let go!”
The bike roared to life and she took off down the drive. The wind tore back her hair, and she prayed that whatever she’d swallowed wouldn’t take effect until she got Miranda to safety.
53
Holt was examining the site where the abandoned pickup had been found when the call came. He answered it calmly, not thinking it could be the end of his world.
“This is County Hospital, Chief. We’ve got your daughter here.”
He froze. “Miranda? Is she all right? What happened?”
“She seems to be fine. It’s the woman with her. ID says Swann. Black hair, tattoos?”
Holt was already running toward his car. “What’s wrong with Edie?”
“We’re still trying to find out. She brought your daughter in, then collapsed in the emergency room. We’d like permission to check out your little girl.”
“I’ll be right there.”
He waved to Sam, who was staring at him from across the field where the pickup had been abandoned. Yanked the car door open, set the siren, and took off, brakes squealing. He radioed Sam on the way, explained where he was going, then set all his concentration on getting there.
When he pulled up to the emergency room entrance, he barely stopped before tumbling out and racing inside. He grabbed the first medical person he saw and spun her around.
“Miranda Drennen?”
But she directed him to the admissions desk. Mouth dry, palms sweaty, pulse bubbling, he ran to the desk.
“Daddy!”
Whirling, he got turned around just in time for his child to fling herself into his arms. Sobbing, she clung to his neck, and he held her tighter than he thought possible. She blubbered up a bunch of disjointed words. Swan lady, Auntie, pink ones.
“It’s okay, baby doll. I’m here. Daddy’s here.” He continued to croon and cajole and hold on, more grateful than he’d ever been to have her whole and crying in his arms.
When she’d finally calmed down, and his own heart had stopped battering his chest, he saw his mother and father sitting quietly in the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room.
Seeing his father, a flash of hot anger shook him, then faded. At least Miranda hadn’t been alone waiting for him.
He brought her over to them. Sat with her in his lap, and she curled into him, her thumb in her mouth. She hadn’t done that in a long time.
He stroked her head, spoke to his mother. “Did she say what happened?”
“Couldn’t get much out of her. Something about cake and how she didn’t let go.” He felt her hiccup against him.
“What about Edie?”
“They won’t tell us anything.”
“I don’t think they know anything.” His father spoke for the first time. Holt couldn’t bring himself to look at him.
A few minutes later, Miranda was sound asleep. Carefully, Holt transferred the exhausted child to his mother’s arms and went in search of Edie. He used his badge to get him to a weary doctor in scrubs.
“I think she’s been poisoned,” the doctor said.
Holt stared at him, appalled. “Poisoned?”
“Arsenic. Could be accidental. It happens. Has she been around pesticides, rat poison, anything like that?”
“I doubt it.”
“Suicidal?”
Holt recalled the evening before. Nothing in her words or demeanor indicated she’d hit a low point. “No. Absolutely not.”
The doctor shrugged. “That only leaves one other explanation.”
Holt’s thoughts hardened. Refused to go to that place where murder waited.
“She going to make it?” He braced himself, afraid of the answer.
“Don’t know yet. We gave her Succimer. It’s the antidote. If that doesn’t work, there’s Dimercaprol. It’s more toxic, but it’s there if we need it. A lot depends on how much she ingested and how fast we got to her.”
“Can I see her?”
“You can, but she’s not up for questions. She was convulsing, so we had to put her out.”
Convulsing. He pushed past that image. “I just want to see her.”
“Help yourself.” The doctor led Holt to a curtained cubicle and left him there.
Edie was pale, her closed eyelids red-rimmed, the black lashes against her skin like winter branches against snow. He took her hand, straightened the fingers, stroked them. An IV was inserted in her arm, pumping medicine, vital liquids into her. How is it that the people he loved always ended up here—fighting for their lives on gurneys, plugged into machines, living off needles?
He set her hand back. Brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. “Don’t die on me, Edie Swann,” he said softly. “Don’t you dare die on me.”
Back in the waiting room Miranda was still asleep on his mother’s lap.
“Can you take her home?” Holt asked.
Mimsy didn’t ask a single question or make an ounce of protest. “Of course,” she said. “Did you see Edie?”
“Briefly. She’s alive. For now.”
“Oh, Holt, I’m so sorry,” Mimsy said. “What on earth happened?”
“Someone poisoned her.”
“What?” His father jolted to his feet.
“Oh, my God,” his mother said at the same time. “Do you think…?” She looked down at Miranda.
“She hasn’t shown any signs of vomiting or an upset stomach, has she?”
“No.”
“I don’t know what happened, but she’s probably okay. Best let the doctor check her out, though.”
They woke her up and Holt stayed until the doctor had cleared Miranda. She got a lollipop for her trouble, and sucked on it greedily, still clinging desperately to her daddy.
“Auntie Ellen said I could have cake,” Miranda said in a hurt little-girl voice. “But then she wouldn’t give me any.”
Holt stilled. Flicked a glance at his mother and back at his child. “Who is Auntie Ellen?”
“She picked me up early. She said you were busy.”
His mind whirled, the name ricocheting inside his brain. Ellen.
“Is the swan lady coming home?” Miranda asked.
He answered, but he wasn’t concentrating. All he could think about was that name. There was only one Ellen connected with all this. And if Ellen Garvey was involved, Terry couldn’t be far behind. “Not yet,” he said, stroking Miranda’s hair absently. “She’s still sick.”
He
swallowed. Protests hammered at him. Ellen Garvey was old. Old people don’t do things like that. She was kind. She worked at the church, for God’s sake. If Miranda was talking about Ellen Garvey, she must have been forced into doing whatever she did.
Or maybe Miranda got it wrong. How could he trust the word of a distressed five-year-old?
But then she repeated it. “Auntie Ellen wanted the swan lady to eat the cake but she wouldn’t. And she wouldn’t let me. And then we ran fast.”
Outrage filled Holt, but he forced himself to stay calm. Anything else would upset Miranda even further. “Tell you what.” He raised her chin and nuzzled her nose. “You go home with Grandma and we’ll have cake for dinner. How’s that?”
“Pink cake?”
“Pink, blue, whatever color you want.”
“I want pink. With white flowers.”
“You got it. Go with Nannie now, and I’ll be home for cake.” He tried to transfer her over but she clutched at him.
“Promise? I don’t like Auntie Ellen.”
Grimly, he tensed his jaw. “Me neither. You won’t have to see her anymore. I promise. Go on now.” He kissed her. “There’s a brave girl.”
He put her in the back of Mimsy’s car. “I love you, baby girl.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
He waved as they drove off, tears welling in his eyes. Thank you, Edie, for keeping her safe. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
And now he allowed his fury to come. Hands fisted, he raced for his car. Pounded the wheel. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he not have seen it? Old people get confused and can be easily manipulated. But still…
Ellen had fed them cake? Poisoned cake? Bizarre as it sounded, that was the only sense he could make of his daughter’s words. And where was Terry? Miranda hadn’t mentioned him at all.
He sped off toward town, punching in phone numbers and barking at whoever answered until he’d tracked down Miranda’s counselor. She was Darcy’s youngest, so she wasn’t hard to find.
“She had your card,” the young woman said over the phone. “And a note on the back giving her permission to pick up Miranda. She works at the church; I was sure it was all right. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”
His hand tightened on the phone, and he felt like screaming. But he managed not to. “Just double-checking.” It wasn’t her fault for trusting someone she’d always known. Hadn’t everyone?
He phoned Sam, told her what had happened, and had her meet him at the Garvey house. He wasn’t sure what they’d find, but if Terry had somehow pressured his aunt to pick up Miranda, who knows what he’d be up to now that his plans had been thwarted.
Holt met Sam at the curb. He took out his weapon, signaled Sam to do the same.
“Expecting a fight?” she asked.
“Don’t know what I’m expecting,” he said grimly. “Terry could be holding his aunt hostage, or worse. He must be completely out of control. I want to be prepared. I’ll take the front, you take the back,” Holt said. “Don’t want anyone running off on us.”
“How’s Edie?”
Holt looked at her, surprised she even cared. She reddened, then said, “I didn’t ask anyone to kill her, Holt. Just wanted justice done.”
“I don’t know how she is.” He took a breath. “Can’t think about it now. Gotta concentrate on this.”
She nodded and switched on her radio. “Look, been something I’ve wanted to say for a while.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“Probably. But we’re going in armed and all, and, well, better get if off my chest now.” She squared her shoulders. “Want to thank you for not firing me.”
“I should have.”
“I know.”
“You’re lucky you’re a damn good deputy.” He turned on his radio, too, then raised his weapon. “You go behind my back again, though…”
“No, sir. Won’t happen again.”
He eyed her. “Don’t think you’re through groveling.”
Her mouth twitched, but she repressed the smile. “No, sir.”
“Okay, enough said. Let’s do this.” He nodded for her to take off. She walked up the drive and around back while Holt took the steps. Through the arched and overgrown shrubs and up to the front door.
He knocked.
No answer.
Knocked again. “Open up, Miss Ellen. It’s Chief Drennen.”
Still no answer.
“I’m going in,” he radioed to Sam. “He could have her tied up in there. Meet you inside. Count of three.” He counted down, kicked open the door, and crashed inside.
Except for the echo of his footsteps it was quiet as a tomb.
“Sam,” he whispered into the radio. “Anything?”
“Negative,” she said.
He made his way cautiously, room by room, leading with his weapon and clearing each one before moving on to the next. He made it past the dreary entryway, with its narrow set of stairs leading into a darkened second floor, then a front parlor whose French doors had been shut tight the last time he’d been there. When he got through he saw the room had been converted into a bedroom. A large, unmade hospital bed took up most of the space. Backing out, he headed deeper into the house.
He found the remains of a meal in the room he’d sat in with Ellen the other evening. Fancy teacups and cakes were scattered over a table in the middle. He poked at one with a pen. Pink, just as Miranda had said. An image of his frightened daughter rose up along with one of pale, lifeless Edie. Fury surged through him, and he gripped the pen so tightly it snapped in two.
Grimly, he surveyed the rest of the room. There were clear signs of a struggle. A chair pushed back, another overturned. A teacup spilled. What in holy hell had happened here?
“Got something,” Sam said into his radio. “Upstairs.”
He tramped back to the front of the house and up the staircase. Sam was waiting in the hall outside an open door. She nodded with her head to the room, and he went in. Terry was on the floor.
“Dead,” Sam said.
That threw Holt. If Terry was dead, he couldn’t be the one pulling the strings. Which left… God, that was crazy. Pure unadulterated lunacy. “The aunt?”
“Don’t know,” Sam said. “Waited for you to check the rest of the rooms.”
There were two more bedrooms up there. They found Ellen Garvey in the second one.
She lay on the bed dressed in a yellowed bridal gown. The flouncy skirt was spread wide, and a gauzy veil covered her head. Beneath it, her face was petrified in a grimace of agony. A dried-up bouquet lay at her side, her fingers frozen into monsterish, clutching claws.
Sam holstered her weapon. Let out a whistling breath. “Not my idea of a wedding night.”
54
At ten, Holt left the endless paperwork at his desk and drove to the cemetery. By the look of the cloudless sky and the bright sun, it was going to be a scorcher. Not the day he’d pick to be standing around in the open, but everything had been arranged, so he couldn’t do much about it now. And Edie would appreciate the irony. It had been hot the day her father was buried, too.
He parked outside the gates and walked to the gravesite. Passed the countless markers that represented the lifeblood of the town. Some of the names were familiar, families still pumping oxygen into Redbud. But there were also those long forgotten, the faded names dating back to 1842. Children dead before they could walk, mothers dead bearing them. Murderers and thieves as well as upright citizens. How many secrets lay buried in those graves?
Well, at least one was out in the open now. The blood evidence from the abandoned truck led to a thug who used to do yardwork for the Butenes. He didn’t lose much time naming Hally Butene. Holt still remembered his disbelief, but when he went back to question Hally, he found Amy Lyle tied up and stuffed inside a closet.
“I thought Hally might remember something,” Amy told Holt when she’d recovered from her ordeal. “Together we could figure out what happened.”
> “But she didn’t want you poking around any more than she wanted Edie digging up the past.”
Amy had shuddered. “Edie must have called me three or four times that day.” Tears welled in her eyes. “She wanted to cook dinner for me.”
Holt had squeezed her thin shoulders, still not understanding why Hally Butene had done what she did. But later, between her testimony and Arlen Mayborne’s analysis of the file he’d taken off Terry, the whole story became clear.
The reports in the file reflected real production data, real profit-and-loss statements. Not the golden numbers Alan Butene, in his capacity as comptroller, showed IAT, the corporate parent. The reports in the file showed the factory losing money—a lot of money—its profits way down. In effect, the file was a second set of books. The real books.
Together with plant manager Fred Lyle, Alan had cooked up the scheme to doctor the reports in order to ensure the plant’s survival during the period of corporate consolidation in the late 1980s.
But Edie’s father found out, and threatened to tell the truth. Not only would that have put the plant in danger of closure, but discovery of the fraud would have meant the end of Butene’s and Lyle’s careers.
So they framed Charles Swanford. Holt discovered that Edie’s father had been treated for depression at that time, and speculated that, faced with the power of his adversaries, his conviction that they could make good on their threats, the shame he must have felt as the town shunned him, and the impending loss of his own livelihood and freedom, Charles jumped into the quarry.
“Implicating Charles was supposed to be temporary,” Hally Butene had explained in her gravelly voice while a tape recorder ran in the interview room. “A quick fix while they figured out what to do. But Charles jumped off that cliff.”
“And attacking Edie?”
She’d looked away, ashamed. Her voice was more wobbly, her tremors worse—a sure sign of the stress she was under. But she refused to give in to them. She squared her shoulders as best she could and looked him in the eye, facing her confessor as well as her actions, he’d supposed. “I’m very sorry about that. It was stupid. Desperate and utterly stupid. But I panicked. I was terrified they’d take away Alan’s pension if what he’d done came out. I’m afraid my husband wasn’t as crafty with his own investments as he was with Hammerbilt’s. The house and the pension are almost all I have left.” She sighed. “I never meant to hurt anyone. I just wanted to scare Edie off. No excuse, of course.” She gave a tiny, bitter laugh. “Things never do seem to go the way one planned, do they?”
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