“She was holding a tissue on her mouth, and I asked her what the matter was, and she said she had an upset tummy. That’s what she calls it when I throw up.”
So Claire’s stomach was definitely in distress that day. If only I’d paid better attention to Henry.
I sense him squirming on the other end of the line. “Am I in trouble?” he asks.
“No, no, you’re not in trouble, Hen. I was just curious.” I briefly comb through my memories, back to that afternoon. Henry must have gone to the house after I’d left for my run. And Henry, not me, was probably the last person to speak to Claire before she died. “I thought you’d been taking a nap with your dad that afternoon.”
“I was, but I woke up and you were gone, and I wanted to find Ginger and Bella.”
“Ah, got it. That makes perfect sense. Thanks so much for telling me. What... what did you guys end up doing today?”
“Nothing really. My mom said I shouldn’t complain about not being at the house because it’s going to rain a lot there anyway. If it thunders, can you hold Bella for me?”
As he knows, Bella’s terrified of thunder. When it’s far away, she worries and clamors to be in someone’s arms. When it’s close and boomingly loud, she goes into a full-blown panic and wedges herself into the tightest place she can find.
“Of course. And if you want, you can try your dad again in a little while. He’ll be in a place where there’s service soon.”
I hate to rush him off the phone, but I have to follow up on what he told me. I hurry into the living room and pause on the threshold of the study. More than once over the past few days I’ve wondered what Claire was doing at this end of the living room and now I know. She’d been coming from the study, where she’d been sitting and reading a book. But what book? And why?
I step softly into the room and explore the floor-to-ceiling walnut bookshelves with my eyes. Though I’ve always thought of the study as Ash’s domain, it was hardly off-limits to Claire. On a couple of winter afternoons over the years, I’d found her reading in one of the comfy armchairs, a fire crackling in the hearth nearby.
Based on what Henry said, as well as my own chronology of events, he must have come across Claire twenty or thirty minutes after she’d told me she planned to lie down. Maybe she stopped in the study to grab a book to take upstairs with her, but if she wasn’t feeling well, why skim through it here first?
I didn’t notice any book near her on the floor, which suggests that she’d put it away before she collapsed, rather than taking it with her, which seems odd, too.
I drift to the bookcases behind Ash’s desk. Ordinarily I’d consider this area a kind of no-fly zone, but the normal rules don’t apply anymore. Though the books aren’t alphabetized, they appear to be clustered according to general topics: biographies, memoirs, history, a smattering of novels, art books, and on the lower shelves, several dozen oversize books on landscape design that must have been Claire’s.
As my gaze approaches the floor, I see a volume jutting out more than the others, its glossy flap askew as if it’s been jammed back in a hurry. I tilt my head to better read the spine and gasp in surprise. It’s calledPlants That Kill.
“Is everything okay with Henry?”
I spin around at the sound of Keira’s voice and find her standing in the doorway, her expression puzzled.
“Yeah. He just wanted to say hi,” I explain.
She continues to stare, clearly wondering what I’m doing standing behind Ash’s desk.
“Oh, and he’s missing a book,” I fib. “I thought someone might have stuck it in one of the shelves here. You ready for me?”
“Not yet actually. Since they won’t be back until close to nine, I think we should hold off on making the lasagna. Why don’t we meet in the kitchen at around seven thirty? Wendy’s going to help, too.”
“Sure, fine.”
I don’t love the idea of being alone, but hanging in the house has no appeal either so I return to the cottage. My heart’s hammering as things come together now more clearly in my mind. Just last night I was beginning to wonder if my suspicions were all a kind of mirage, the result of grief, and okay, maybe a smidgen of envy, colliding with an overactive imagination. But I wasn’t wrong. Claire was definitely sick to her stomach the day she died. And very possibly looking through a book on toxic plants, wondering if that’s where she’d find the reason for her gastrointestinal distress.
Hannah is as dangerous as I thought she was. Should I call the detectives who interviewed me yesterday? I shake off that idea. Maybe I should go to Ash with my discovery as soon as he returns. But he tends to be a conservative thinker, and it’s highly possible he’ll treat my theory with as much skepticism as Gabe did. I have to findsomeoneto talk to, though, or I’m going to go out of my mind.
I try to distract myself by answering emails, and I also finally alert a few friends about Claire’s death. At one point I text my mom, asking if she’s around to talk. I haven’t evenfilled her in on Jillian’s death yet. But there’s no response, and I finally remember it’s Thursday and that means a trip to the movies for her and my father.
With nothing left to do, I simply continue to pace, gnawing at my cuticles.
At 7:25 sharp, I exit the cottage, locking the door behind me. Though the sun hasn’t set yet, the sky is fairly dark thanks to the thick gray clouds crowding it. If there are any state police still down by the woods, they’re probably packing up now. Far off to my left I see a faint flash of lightning.That’s all we need tonight, I think—a storm to knock out the power.
Keira’s already in the kitchen when I arrive, wearing a white apron over her jeans and jersey top and peeking into a pot of rapidly boiling water on the stove, and Wendy’s at the island, drying lettuce leaves in a salad spinner. Keira’s laid out peppers, squash, and zucchini for me on the table, along with a cutting board, so I slide onto a stool next to Wendy. As I dice the vegetables with a large kitchen knife, my mind keeps rushing to my call with Henry and the book about poisons, and what it all means, and I have to force myself to concentrate so I don’t accidentally slice a finger off.
There’s not much chitchat as we work, which is a relief. At one point, though, when Keira’s busy dumping the lasagna noodles into the boiling water, Wendy leans toward me and whispers, “Nothing about Hannah yet, but my guy is on it.”
I nod, relieved that at least Wendy’s still taking me seriously.
