A Dose of Deadly Intentions

by Lucia N Davis

  “I’ll say! Julia died one heck of a crappy death in that fire. I mean, just the whole idea of it.” Phoebe pursed her lips. “How could he ever have thought this would work out?”

  “You say that,” Jean said, mulling it over, “but it really wasn’t such a bad plan. Think about it: the earthquake was creating so much chaos. What’s one more dead body, in the scheme of things? Besides, Alice already had a history of illness—if she suddenly dropped dead, I don’t think people would’ve been very surprised.”

  “So was he trying to poison her all along?” Phoebe asked.

  “No—I don’t think so,” Sara said. “He was confessing his deed—putting something in her second drink—but he didn’t mention trying it before.”

  “In that case, she had a very keen sense of foreboding, passing on the cup. Maybe this sixth sense is somehow hereditary…” Jean said.

  Sara knew that last remark had been directed at her. Maybe it was hereditary, but she sure hoped it would not affect her the way it had Alice. “I only see the past, not the future,” she said.

  “Perhaps that’s better."

  “Better would be not having it at all, trust me. In any case, I don’t think she thought anything about the drink—it was her second, after all, and she didn’t act very suspicious, just a little crazy. She seemed broken, having to leave her house and everything in it.”

  “Do you know what he gave her?” Jean was ever the doctor.

  “Just too much of the good stuff, he said. Nobody would’ve questioned it.”

  “Hmm, that’s not helpful. I wish your dream people were a little less cryptic.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter—at the end of the dream, they left,” Sara said, relieved, even though she felt immensely sorry for her great-great-grandmother’s suffering. “Julia and William. They’re gone! Wherever they were supposed to go, I guess. I think we’ve solved the puzzle, and now they can be in peace. And more importantly, so can I.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I felt it. Look.” She went to the table and came back carrying the chest. “It stopped humming. It’s just a box now.” She opened the little box inside and pulled out William’s letter. “See? No freezing cold. Just a letter. Containing half the truth of what really happened. Pretty smart, come to think of it. He stuck as much to the truth as he could. And now for the final test…” She picked up the box and shoved it in front of a sleeping Estelle. The dog immediately sat up and started growling at the box. Sara frowned. “Okay, maybe not the response I was hoping for, but at least she didn’t flee from it.” The pug was yapping viciously now, and Sara took the chest away. “Hmm, she really doesn’t like the box, does she?”

  “More like Pavlov’s bell, would be my guess,” Phoebe said. “She barks that way at the gardener because she hates the lawnmower. Never mind her; you’ve convinced me. I’m glad it’s solved, even though I now officially have a killer as an ancestor. May they rest in peace and all that.”

  “What do we do now?” Sara asked.

  Phoebe shrugged. “Have dinner? Maybe you’d like to change? You’re awfully quiet, Jean.”

  Upon hearing her name, Jean snapped out of her daydreaming. “Yes, dinner sounds good. I’ve got some stuff I’d like to look up. I’ll join you soon.”

  Sara went to her room to find some comfortable clothing. Drops of rain were hitting the window. No patio dinner tonight, she thought, a little disappointed. Estelle had followed her, breathing heavily while Sara changed. “I’ll never get used to this panting of yours, Estelle. You sound like a dirty old man.” She walked back to the hallway with the dog in tow. At the top of the stairs, Estelle suddenly rushed forward and started growling. Teeth showing, she planted herself firmly in front of Sara, neck hairs standing up straight. “What’s up, Estelle? You’re so jumpy.” Sara rubbed her arms—it was a little chilly in here. Phoebe needed to calm down with the air conditioning.

  The little dog wouldn’t move. “Estelle, I’d like to go down now. You mind?” She bent over to pick the dog up, but was propelled forward and lost her balance. Giving a short cry of surprise, she toppled over the pug, landing hard on her right arm and shoulder, after which she rolled sideways down the stairs. She used her arms to keep her head from hitting the carpeted steps, but the rest of her body took a beating. When she finally stopped rolling, she was lying in a fetal position on the hardwood floor, still holding her head.

  “What was that?” Phoebe and Jean both came running toward her. “What happened?”

  Sara was moaning. Pain was shooting through her arms, legs, and back. “I fell…”

  Estelle had run down and was whining softly, trying to lick Sara’s face.

  “Estelle, get out of the way.” Jean knelt next to Sara. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  Sara slowly opened her arms and stretched out her legs, rolling over onto her back. Her neck felt fine, as did her head—no concussion this time. She pushed herself up, wincing when she put weight on her right arm. Jean started to protest, but Sara waved her concerns away. “I’m fine. I think. A bit bruised. It’s just my right wrist and shoulder that hurt.”

  “What happened?” Phoebe asked again.

  “I fell down the stairs.”

  “Yes, we got that, but how?”

  “I must have tripped over the dog. I’m clumsy—these things happen to me.”

  “Oh no! I’m so sorry. That dog! Estelle, I’ll keep you in the kitchen from now on.” Phoebe grabbed the pug by her collar.

  “Please don’t,” Sara said. “It really was my fault. Just let her be. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Phoebe let go of Estelle. “If you say so.”

  They helped Sara get back on her feet and walked her over to a chair. Jean looked over Sara’s wrist and shoulder. It was painful, but she had full range of motion. Sara refused to go to an urgent care. “I’m fine, really.”

  Even though Sara claimed to be fine, Phoebe forbade her from helping with the dinner preparations. Sitting in her chair, Sara heard the wind blow outside. The palm trees were really swaying now and the rain fell hard on the patio. Estelle whimpered and jumped into her lap, shaking.

  Absently stroking the scared little dog with her left arm, Sara stole a quick glance at the staircase. She was not exactly sure what had happened, but she had not tripped over the dog as she had said. Someone—or something—had pushed her. She strained to recall those last moments on top of the stairs. She remembered a faint smell just before she fell, of something she could not quite define. And cold. She had been cold. But maybe she had just fallen—it would not be the first time her brain and legs had a disconnect.

  The chairs outside were moving in the wind, scraping over the patio stones. Phoebe rushed out to put them away. When she came back in, she was dripping. “Whew, can you believe this weather? I wonder if it’s going to storm. That rarely happens, sorry guys,” she said. “It’s really nasty out there.” She walked up the stairs to change her clothes and Sara watched her, nervously biting her lip.

  Jean was still fiddling with her laptop, unaware of the disturbances. Sara got up with Estelle under her good arm, took a deep breath, and walked over to where Jean was sitting. She took a seat next to her. “This is our weekend away, remember? No work.”

  Jean looked up. “I’m not working. I was just checking on some stuff. You mind handing me that cardigan next to you? It gets cold here on and off. Must be the draft from the wind. You think they’d build a house like this with better insulation.” She shook her head in disapproval.

  “Oh, sure,” Sara said, handing Jean her cardigan. It was chilly. She pulled Estelle closer. But of course, the draft—that made perfect sense.

  “Ready to eat?” Phoebe had come down.

  Jean closed her laptop. “Yes, that sounds good.”

  Phoebe was an excellent cook and dinner was delicious, but Sara could not fully enjoy it. Her shoulder and wrist were still hurting despite the cold packs. The other two women talked animatedly about
Sara’s last dream, William and Julia, and Phoebe’s upcoming trip to France, but Sara mostly kept quiet. However hard she tried, she could not shake the feeling that someone was watching her. It gave her goosebumps.

  The wind was pulling on the windows. Not used to this weather, Estelle had refused to leave Sara’s lap; every time she had put the pug down, the dog had morphed into a shaking, terrified little fur ball, and Sara, feeling pity for the scared thing, had left her where she was most comfortable. Even on her lap, Estelle was trembling.

  After dinner, Sara excused herself. She really wanted to lie down. Phoebe handed her a bottle of Tylenol PM. “Here, this may help with the pain, and it will help you sleep too.”

  Sara went hesitantly up the stairs, Estelle following close behind, so close that Sara almost did trip over her this time. In bed, she finally relaxed a little. She pulled an extra blanket over the comforter to chase away the draft. Estelle snuggled up close to her and this time, she did not mind. The rain seemed to have slowed down, but the wind was reluctant to give up. Something started scraping against her window, a branch probably, but the sound was grating. She took one of Phoebe’s pills and left the lamp on the nightstand switched on while she crawled back underneath the covers. As she listened to the storm outside, she held Estelle tight, until drowsiness took over at last.

  Chapter 28

  Sara recognizes the familiar scene and suppresses the urge to sigh. She has been here so many times before. She ignores the activity around her and heads for the stairs. As she goes up to the second floor, she reminds herself to focus only on Alice this time. She steps across the threshold of the bedroom to where Alice is sitting, steeling herself against the feeling of despair that will follow.

  “We have to go.” Julia is talking to Alice. “I know you don’t want to, but we must.”

  “Go… where?” Alice mumbles, her glassy eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

  “To one of the refugee camps, maybe, but the plan is to get to Oakland. It’ll be all right. I promise.”

  “My house may burn down, with everything I own in it. I’d hardly call that all right.” She takes a sip from the pewter cup she’s holding and pulls a face.

  “Did you pack everything you need?” Julia asks.

  A short, mocking snort is the reply. Alice makes a tired gesture with her free hand, pointing to the room around her, and lets it fall down to her side again. “Hardly—my household has been reduced to a cartload,” she says. Then she turns to the left to rebuke the little statue. “No! You can’t come with us.”

  Julia looks pained. Ignoring Alice’s conversation with the inanimate object, she says, “We have to go. Did you pack your medicine?”

  Alice hands her cup to Julia, gets up, and walks over to the cabinet. Sara wants to move closer, but it’s like moving through molasses. With clenched teeth, she manages to take two steps. Something doesn’t want her to get nearer—she can feel it.

  The scent of roses… with a shock, Sara recognizes the flowery smell from the staircase. Alice opens a drawer and Sara gets a better glimpse of the canister this time, before Alice takes it out. The atmosphere in the room changes—there is anger, hatred. Shame. It presses down on her. Ignoring it, she keeps Alice in her view.

  Alice puts the canister in a small suitcase.

  “You should drink some,” Alice says, pointing to the cup in Julia’s hands. “All the glasses are broken, but I thought this would do just as well. It could be the last old fashioned you’ll have for a while.”

  “You may need it more than I do.”

  “I’ve had one already.” Alice gives a strange giggle.

  “In that case, I’d better take it off your hands.” Julia takes a big swig and coughs. “Strong stuff—bitter,” she says, her eyes tearing up.

  “I know. I think it needs more sugar. Or maybe it’s the air—the smoke is clinging to the inside of my nose and mouth. It’s almost impossible to taste anything.” Alice walks over to Julia and embraces her. Because of her shifted position, this time Sara can see Alice’s face. Deep down in her stomach, a knot tightens. Alice is smiling—a terrible, triumphant smile, stripped of any affection. “Thank you, for everything. For giving me courage.”

  “Of course. What are sisters for? Why don’t you go down to the children. I’ll grab some last things and be out in a few minutes.”

  Julia ushers Alice out of the bedroom. Sara follows them—but something is wrong. The pressure seems to be increasing…pushing on her chest. There is a cloud of anger all around her, sucking her in. Swirling closer, it coils around her body, encircling her throat. It squeezes her, harder and harder. She tries to free herself, but there’s nothing to hold on to.

  Scream! She needs to scream. But no sound comes out. And no air gets in. The room starts spinning. Dogs are barking. And then it starts to rain…

  “Sara!”

  Estelle’s yapping echoed around in her brain. Her cheek stung sharply. “Ouch!” Sara opened her eyes. Her throat hurt, as did her cheek, and her face was wet. She gasped for air. “What the—”

  Jean hovered into view. “You’re awake! Finally. I’m sorry I had to hurt you.”

  Sara sat up, rubbing her cheek. Finally, in a shaky voice, she managed to say, “Actually I was already being hurt. Why am I wet?”

  Jean looked apologetic. “I threw water over you… and I might have slapped you a little bit. Sorry.”

  “Well, at least you weren’t the one throttling me.” Sara placed a hand over her sore throat, her teeth chattering.

  “Were you having a nightmare? The dog was barking like mad! When I came in, it almost looked like you were having a seizure.”

  Sara shook her head. “This was no regular nightmare. More like Nightmare on Elm Street, but without Freddy.”

  Jean looked confused. “Freddy?”

  “Never mind—I had another dream. She tried to kill me, I think.” Sara shivered.

  “Who tried to kill you? I thought it was all solved?”

  “I guess it wasn’t.” Sara got up and pulled the extra blanket around her. “Where’s Phoebe?”

  “Downstairs. We were just getting ready to go to bed.”

  Sara walked out of the room, the blanket trailing behind her, and went down the stairs, holding on tight to the railing with her left hand. “Make sure you hold on, Jean,” she called back. “She may push you.”

  Poor Jean was looking more confused by the moment. “Push me? Who? Sara, should we take you to the ER? You look rather pale.”

  Downstairs, Sara gathered Phoebe and Jean in the kitchen. “We need to talk,” she said in a hushed voice, barely audible over the noise of the wind and rain outside. “I think we have a problem.”

  “Huh?” Phoebe gave an empty stare and Jean was doing that not-blinking thing again. Sara waved her hand in front of Jean’s face. “Stop that. I know this is going to sound crazy. But—I didn’t trip over the dog this afternoon. Something made me fall.”

  “What do you mean—you were pushed?” Phoebe’s eyes were so wide open now, Sara worried they might pop out any moment. “What exactly are you implying?” Phoebe was talking so loud that even Estelle gave a short bark.

  “Shhh!” Sara said, putting her finger in front of her lips. “Keep your voice down. You believe in ghosts?”

  “A ghost? There’s a ghost? Here? In this house? You’re kidding, right?” Phoebe’s voice had risen a few octaves, although she tried to speak softly. “This house is new—not one of those creaking old mansions. How would a ghost get here?”

  “My guess? Jean’s box.”

  Jean raised an eyebrow. “My—how? I haven’t noticed anything at home, rummaging through the box and letters.”

  Sara shrugged. “Maybe she wasn’t that angry before. She is now.”

  Jean scanned the room, her expression caught between disbelief and fear.

  “You can’t see her,” Sara said.

  “Who is she?” Jean giggled nervously. “I don’t want to take hom
e an angry ghost. Can I leave the box here?”

  “Hell no!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Let’s pitch it. Throw it in the Pacific.”

  Sara impatiently shook her head. “The box isn’t the problem. Alice is.”

  “Alice?” Phoebe and Jean said simultaneously.

  In a trembling voice, Sara told them her dream. “You should have seen her smile,” she said at the end. “It was almost as if she knew she was giving her sister a cup filled with death. And then she nearly choked me. I‘m sure it was her. If Jean hadn’t woken me…”

  Phoebe touched the side of Sara’s neck. “It’s all red.”

  “It feels all red,” Sara mumbled.

  “Your dream actually fits with what I found earlier.” Jean spoke slowly, as if thinking out loud. “Before dinner. I was doing some research. Some things just didn’t add up; it kept bugging me. William said ‘too much of the good stuff,’ right? The only ‘good stuff’ I can think of is drugs—opiates—laudanum, in Alice’s case. Nobody would question an overdose, given the fact that she had a history of addiction. Right? Even though she had come off it, she could have easily relapsed…”

  Sara nodded. “I guess.”

  “Apparently, laudanum tastes bitter. So if there was a good dose of laudanum in a drink… Ring a bell?”

  “Yes. Julia commented on the bitter taste when she drank from Alice’s cup.”

  “And what did Alice say?”

  “Not enough sugar.”

  Jean looked expectantly at Sara and Phoebe. When they didn’t respond, Jean spelled it out for them. “Don’t you think Alice would recognize the taste of laudanum, even if it was faint? She was very familiar with it after all.”

  “If that’s true, that means—”

  “That Alice willingly and knowingly gave her sister a drink laced with laudanum. A drink her husband had intended for her, which she passed on to a victim of her own choosing.”

  Sara noticed it was getting colder. Or maybe it was just because of what Jean had told her. “But why?”