by Diane Noble
I called Hyacinth once more, only to reach her voice mail. Still no answer.
My next call was to the sheriff.
I got right to the point with Sheriff Doyle. “I need a favor, Sheriff.” I went on to explain that I couldn’t find Hyacinth, nor could I leave my post at the Encore. The sheriff knew us both well. We’d gotten into his hair more than once when my investigations overlapped his.
“Odd you should call about Hyacinth,” he said. “I had a strange call from her a couple of hours ago. She said the university didn’t need extra personnel at the library after all. That campus police had beefed up their own security.”
“She did?” That didn’t make sense. The sheriff continued, “I questioned her about it, and she was pretty vague as to why. But that’s what she said.”
“That’s odd. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her most of the afternoon. She won’t pick up.”
“If you’re still worried, I can send someone over to her house to make sure she’s all right.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He paused, probably rubbing his eyes, which he did a lot. “My advice is not to worry. You of all people know how Hyacinth gets herself into fixes.” He laughed. “But then you yourself have been known to do the same.” He chuckled. “Y’all have a good evening now, Mrs. L.”
I pushed through the swinging door into the dining room. The guests were now seated in front of their place cards, eight to ten per round table, with the guests of honor seated at a long rectangular table near the dais. Max sat at its center with an empty chair to his left, President James Delancy and his wife, Maureen, to his right, Mayor Benny Ord and his wife, Cecile, on the far side of the empty chair.
I searched the sea of faces for Devereaux and his companion, but didn’t see them. Max had said they’d met with two deans earlier. I headed back to the kitchen, grabbed my clipboard, and thumbed through my notes until I found Hyacinth’s seating chart. The deans were seated at one table near the front. I returned to the dining room, clipboard in hand. Devereaux and his companion seemed to have disappeared. Anxiety threaded through me. Casually, I strolled along one side of the dining room, examining the faces at each table. Still no sign of them.
I started for the kitchen when a young woman with a long reddish braid made her way through the guests until she reached the head table. She wore high heels and a vivid emerald dress and smiled at Max, who looked a little confused as he stood to greet her. She took her seat next to Max and then leaned in to say something that made him laugh. Even from this distance, I could see she was beautiful.
I’d seen her around campus and thought she might be the newest member of Max’s department. I’d heard rumors that she was brilliant. And stunning. I squinted in her direction. That had to be her. What was her name again? Jane something. Dr. Jane something. I huffed out a deep sigh, feeling suddenly bereft for reasons I couldn’t fathom.
I went back into the kitchen. The hubbub of activity continued to whirl around me with sounds from the dining room dropping to a low drone as the doors swung closed behind me.
A moment later, I heard the distinctive deep voice of the priest from Grace Church offering a prayer of thanksgiving for the meal and the celebration. When he’d finished, I gave the waitstaff the signal to begin serving the salads. They seemed to stand taller, putting their shoulders back and looking like the professionals they were, and headed through the doorway, trays held butler-style. Even the students, new to my crew, looked superb. I needn’t have worried when they were added to The Butler’s lineup.
I couldn’t help smiling.
Katie came over and hugged me. “Couldn’t be going better, Mom. I’m so proud of you and what you’ve done with this company.”
“Our biggest and best event,” I breathed. “It’s just the turnaround the company needs. Though maybe I should knock on wood someplace.”
We both laughed. It seemed that everything in this state-of-the-art kitchen was stainless steel. Everything was going well, and I wanted to enjoy the moment. I popped into the dining room to check on the progress with the salads. Most people were finished, with a few still working on theirs. I gave the nod to the staff to begin clearing the salad plates.
Back in the kitchen near the stove, Katie supervised the rest of the staff as they plated the main courses. Soon servers were moving in and out of the swinging doors in perfect harmony.
I zipped around the kitchen, helping here and there as needed, checking on serving sizes, the temperature of the ribs and the catfish, making sure the sauce was simmering but not boiling.
Baskets of hush puppies went out next. It hadn’t taken long for this Cali transplant to learn that no decent Southern barbecue could be served without them.
The soufflé ramekins were served with the main course, but went out separately. I heard the oohs and aahs from the dining room and couldn’t help smiling.
I gave sous chefs Bubba and Junior the honor of serving dessert—beautifully decorated cupcakes with the sailing motif. They puffed out their chests as if they’d fashioned the cupcakes themselves. When the last one had been served, the diminutive university vice-chancellor, Dr. Isabel Chang, walked up to the podium.
I was heading into the kitchen with a silver coffee server, but stopped short when Dr. Delancy and his wife rose from their seats next to Max. Instead of moving to the podium, as I expected, they made their way across the large dining room to the foyer. As they passed, I could see that Dr. Delancy’s skin had taken on a grayish tone. He held his hand to his mouth. I whispered a prayer for him. He had been in ill health earlier in the semester.
Dr. Chang rose and went to the podium. “President Delancy has been taken ill. Keep him in your thoughts and prayers as we continue. I know he is extremely sorry to have to leave. But because of his recent heart surgery, they thought it wise to go straight to the hospital.”
People exchanged glances and whispered to each other, looking concerned.
Dr. Chang cleared her throat to regain everyone’s attention. “Tonight we are here to celebrate Dr. Maxwell Haverhill,” she said, “and his more than three decades of service to this university and community. His outstanding discoveries, especially the latest, will be on display following the festivities here at the Encore.”
She smiled broadly and held out her hand toward Max. “It’s long been hush-hush, and I’m certain all of us are eagerly awaiting the details.” She smiled. “And I’m also certain Dr. Haverhill is just as eager to tell us about his historical find.
“But first I have an announcement to make on behalf of President Delancy. As part of our farewell to our beloved Dr. Maxwell Haverhill and to celebrate the unveiling of the library’s new exhibition wing …” She paused for dramatic effect, and then smiled broadly. “Well, I’m getting ahead of myself. Max, would you please join me?”
Max stood, straightened his tie, and then made his way to the podium to join Dr. Chang. My heart thudded with newfound pride, surprising me. He looked ruggedly handsome, and when he turned to face the audience, his gaze seemed to seek mine. I felt my cheeks warm.
“Thank you, Isabel. It’s an honor to be here.”
Dr. Chang looked out at the guests and then back to Max. “I’m honored to be the one to announce that our new library wing has been named …” She smiled at the jazz quartet. “Drumroll, please.” The drummer complied, then stopped on cue. “The Maxwell Haverhill Exhibit Hall.”
Max’s jaw dropped and he took a step backward, then seemed to seek out my face again. I grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
He turned his focus to his thank-you speech, and I turned mine back to the job at hand. Everything had gone well. The food was perfection itself. The presentation had been beautiful, the staff professional.
Everyone turned to me as I stepped back into the kitchen. With tears in my eyes, I smiled at them. “You all are the best,” I said. “You
couldn’t have done a better job.”
I gestured toward the banquet hall. “You may quietly begin removing the last dishes. I’ll be just outside, listening to the next few speeches.”
Katie came over, wrapped her arm around my waist, and stepped into the dining room with me. “I haven’t forgotten about our talk,” I whispered.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
I nodded absently, my attention suddenly captured by Max, who was just completing his speech. He brought his handkerchief to his forehead and mopped it. Then he stopped midsentence and stumbled off the dais, heading down the aisle toward me. Me?
I caught my hand to my throat and tried to move toward him. But the crowd reacted first, and several seated near the aisle stood to help him. Through the forest of bodies, I caught a glimpse of him. He was bent almost double, one arm wrapped around his stomach, running my direction with a look of terrible surprise. He didn’t quite make it, but stumbled and then crumpled to the floor.
Still more guests swarmed around him, some kneeling to help.
“Give him air,” I shouted. “Please, everyone, get back.”
The group parted like the Red Sea, and I moved through to kneel beside him. He was awake, but his skin had the same gray hue that Dr. Delancy’s had. He shivered violently. Perhaps in shock? I blinked, feeling sick and helpless myself.
Someone handed me a cloth napkin dipped in water, and I swabbed his forehead.
He attempted a smile and a wink. Neither was successful. “Must’ve been something I ate,” he said. Then he turned his head and retched.
He was joking, of course. But I noticed that the folks around me didn’t laugh. My heart twisted in fear. What if …? Surely not. I glanced around the room. No one else was ill.
“What about Dr. Delancy?” said someone at my elbow. “I wonder how he’s doing.” I turned to find the mayor’s wife, Cecile Ord, standing back and holding her stomach. I told myself it had to be sympathy nausea. That had happened when I was pregnant with Katie. My late husband, God rest his soul, had even worse morning sickness than I did.
A few moans filled the room. Frantically, I looked around, telling myself the unthinkable couldn’t be happening. I had to get a grip.
The woman I’d identified earlier as Jane appeared at my side. “You might want to roll him on his side,” she said. “He could choke on his own vomit.” She gently gave him a push in my direction.
I wished I’d thought of that. “Good thinking,” I muttered, trying to be generous even in my panic.
“I’m Jane Fletcher,” she said with a soft smile. “You know that there are others, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?” I looked around at the still-crowded room. “I haven’t heard anyone—”
“It’s spreading. I just came from the ladies’ room. I heard vomiting in two stalls. Several others were holding their stomachs. More were in the lobby, hanging over trash cans.
I sat back, my hands shaking, my heart racing. I didn’t think I could breathe. “It’s spreading?” It was difficult to get the words out. “How can that be?”
I looked down at Max, whose eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow, and his pallor more pronounced. “Max,” I whispered. “You were right after all. Please forgive me.”
Tears filled my eyes as I met Jane’s kind gaze. “This is turning into a terrible emergency,” she said gently. “We’d better get some help here fast.” She picked up her cell and dialed 9-1-1.
“The call was made a few minutes ago,” I said.
“I know. But earlier we called for just one ambulance—for Dr. Haverhill. Now, we need dozens.”
I stood to assess the situation in the room. Suddenly, my knees felt as if they were made of gelatin, and I sank into a nearby chair. Jane was right. Half the dinner guests were either on the floor, curled up in pain, or vomiting.
I didn’t want to leave Max’s side, but I needed to call Sheriff Doyle. Blindly, I made my way to the kitchen and stumbled through the door.
My catering crew stood as still as death, watching me with large eyes and blanched faces. Behind them, through the window that faced the parking lot, I saw the flashing lights of the first ambulance in the night sky.
I took a deep, shuddering breath and dialed the sheriff. When he picked up the phone, the words just came tumbling out. “I think we have a massive case of food poisoning, and what did you find out about Hyacinth?”
Just then Jane stumbled through the door, clutching her stomach. “You need to come back out. It’s Max.” And then she wrapped her arms around her torso and ran toward the nearest trash receptacle.
Chapter Nine
Hyacinth
Hyacinth woke with a splitting headache. She didn’t open her eyes; one didn’t need to have every synapse firing to recognize the feel of a moving vehicle, or a bed, for that matter.
Wait a minute. I’m lying on a bed in a moving vehicle?
She tried to raise her head. Pain shot from the base of her skull to her temples as if she’d been hit by a bolt of lightning. She rested a moment and then tried to move again. Another unbearable jolt zapped her. Nausea followed in waves.
She closed her eyes and let the velvet black nothingness pull her under again. Seconds, or maybe hours, later she crawled out of the fog of pain and nausea once more, the memory of the earlier pain still vivid. She tried to move her head, turning just slightly, attempting to remember how she landed in an ambulance. Nothing came to her. Had she been in a car accident? She didn’t remember.
The pain was fierce, but she fought to hold her head up just enough to catch a glimpse of her toes, her feet, her strapped-down arms. She was strapped onto a gurney.
Her heart rate increased, and for a moment beat wildly as she considered what possibly could have happened. A stroke? A car accident?
Whatever it was, she was on her way to the hospital. She couldn’t move. She was paralyzed; she just knew it. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as her life flashed before her. The people she loved. All the things she wanted to do. Learn to skydive. Trek in the Andes. Fall in love again. Another tear squeezed out and trickled toward her ear.
She swallowed hard and then took a deep breath. She might as well face the bad news and find out how severe the paralysis was. She wiggled her toes. They seemed fine. She wiggled her fingers and moved her hands. All joints seemed to be in working order. Her spirits lifted a notch.
Odd, though, that no attendant sat nearby. One would think a stroke victim might need her stats monitored. She wasn’t hooked up to anything. Her dismay turned into a simmering indignation.
As familiar emotions began to surface, clarity gradually pushed away the fog brought on by pain and nausea. And fear. Bits and pieces of her memory floated into focus. She needed to help El at the banquet … she had a speech to make … Max’s big surprise banquet.
If not a stroke, what could account for her screaming headache and the hallucinations about a gun made of licorice? She would ask the paramedics, but where were they?
These paramedics were flat-out incompetent. Heads would roll over this. She would call their supervisor at her first opportunity. Then it occurred to her that she might not be able to speak. What if the stroke had affected her vocal cords? Hot tears pooled in her eyes again. Unable to speak? Unthinkable.
She ran through a quick do-re-me-fa-so-la-ti-do. Everything seemed to be working, so in her best Helen Reddy voice she sang out, “If I have to, I can do anything. I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman.”
The driver slammed on the brakes, and if it hadn’t been for the restraints, she would have slid to kingdom come.
“I could use some assistance back here,” she called out. “You kids aren’t doing your jobs.”
“What are you talking about?” The voice came from the front of the vehicle.
“You have a possible stroke victim ba
ck here, and no one seems to give a hoot. You should be checking my heart rate, taking my pulse. I should be hooked up to … well, I don’t know. You’re the experts. An IV drip of some sort, I suppose.”
“Experts?” a different voice said and then laughed.
“Don’t you worry now, ma’am,” voice number one said. “We’ve got you covered.”
His chuckle bothered her. Also the sound of his voice. She’d heard it before. But where?
She closed her eyes, trying to get past the headache and concentrate on what had happened. She tried to replay her day, but only snatches came back: her early morning at the Encore, El’s arrival, the worry over someone named Devereaux? He was French, charming when she met him, somehow considered bad news. Noise outside the window at the library … the drive home.
She gasped as a darker memory floated just beyond her consciousness. Goulish images of chefs came to her. Emeril Lagasse. Another strange TV chef. What did they have to do with her lock-down in an ambulance, heading to the hospital?
Images, words, memories flitted about her brain, just out of reach.
The vehicle slowed. She heard a chorus of sirens, all seeming to head for the same hospital entrance, which she assumed was emergency. She took a deep breath, waiting for hospital personnel to open the back door, lift her gurney to the ground, and wheel her into the hospital.
But they didn’t come for her. She heard the front doors slam and heavy footsteps heading away from the ambulance. No other hospital sounds. Just the incessant blaring of what had to be dozens of sirens.
A few minutes passed. Her head still throbbed, her stomach was still close to heaving. Her heart pounded. She wanted answers. About her accident or stroke or whatever ailed her. About why she was here.
The hinges on the back door of the ambulance creaked, and a moment later a strange masked figure approached her. She blinked. Emeril. She hadn’t been hallucinating after all. She searched her memory bank.