“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 orshouldfeel.”
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 isreacting, 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 isstill 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 maketea. 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 poisonedherself? 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 teaforher.
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 Claire: 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 fewaresimilar 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 fordigitalis. 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 Clairewaspoisoned, 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. “Iamdistraught.”
“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.”
