A Taste of Death (Maggie Olenski Series) (24 page)

"I hear you're looking at Paul now in the murder investigation," she said.

John rubbed his face and folded his hands on the desk. "I'm not even going to ask where you heard that," he said.

Maggie shrugged. "It's a small town, John. People talk, rumors fly. I just want to know if that means you're not looking at Elizabeth anymore."

"There were two murders, you know. So far we have a suspect for each."

"But...." Maggie swallowed what she was going to say, knowing it would do little good. "Will you at least tell me this? I can probably get it from Elizabeth's lawyer anyway, but you can save me the trouble. What was in the bottle you found in Elizabeth's cupboard. Was it poison?"

John nodded, his face stone-like. "Oleander. An extract from the plant. The same thing that killed Jack Warwick."

It was Maggie's turn to nod now. No real surprise there. The question
that  still remained
, as
far as she was concerned, was
exactly how that bottle ended up at Elizabeth's.

John's phone buzzed, and he answered it quickly, told someone he'd just be a minute, and hung up. "Did Dyna come with you?" he asked, getting to his feet.

"Dyna's gone to visit a friend in New Jersey for a couple days," Maggie said, remaining seated. "
She stopped in at Atlantic City
and happened to run into a few people who knew Alexander."

John sighed heavily. "Why don't you join her there. I hear it's an interesting place." He was moving toward the door, broadly signaling that the visit was ended.

"I find Cedar Hill pretty interesting. Sometimes I hear very curious things." John looked close to the end of his patience, so Maggie stood up slowly saying, "For instance, I heard a tale of the night Alexander drove into a snow bank and staggered the rest of the way home drunk. It was the night of Brenda Morgan's accident."

"Yes, I remember that. Her blood alcohol tested pretty high, and we briefly considered that she had been out drinking with Alexander. But we were able to track his movements that night and could place him far from town, and not with her, that entire night."

"Where had he been?" Maggie asked.

At that moment the door opened, and John's deputy leaned his head in, murmuring something inaudible to Maggie. John turned to her and said, "You can ask Karin for that information, if you like. But I don't think she'd appreciate the reminder, at this time, of her husband's foolishness. Now if you'll excuse me...." John held the door open for Maggie who had no choice but to exit through it.

She thanked him
for his time and left, pondering some of the things he had said. He seemed to be treating the two murders as unconnected, which disturbed Maggie. She was convinced they had been committed by the same person. But how was she going to prove it?

She climbed into her car
and shook her milk to see if it was still liquid. There was a definitely slushy sound to it. It was time to get it home.

With her mind running over the many things she had heard that day, Maggie pulled into the cabin's garage. She carried her groceries into the cabin, kicked off her boots in the foyer, and unpacked the bag. As she moved about the small kitchen automatically, her thoughts only partially on what she was doing, she suddenly felt a cold wetness seeping through her socks from the kitchen floor and looked down in surprise. Melted snow had puddled there.

But she hadn't walked into the kitchen with her boots, had she? Had snow dripped off her jeans? Or from her jacket? She didn't know. Maggie felt an unea
siness she couldn't explain but
shrugged it off and grabbed
a paper towel to mop up the water. She warned herself to keep her mind on one thing at a time, before she started walking into doors.

Or worse.

M
aggie turned over in bed. She pulled the comforter close to her head, feeling cold. In a moment she pushed it off, feeling too hot. The room was pitch dark. She wondered what time it was, but the effort of lifting her head the few inches necessary to see her travel clock on the end table seemed enormous. She felt awful.

She remembered feeling odd sometime around midnight. No, even earlier than that. There had been a queasiness as she had worked at her laptop. But it came and went, and she presumed it would eventually go away altogether. Instead, it had gradually worsened. Maggie threw back the covers and made a mad dash for the bathroom, heaving.

When she returned to the bedroom it was on rubbery legs. She felt the room spin and collapsed onto the bed. Her head pounded. Was it the flu? She had
had the flu before and this felt
worse. Much worse.

Her face itched. She raised one limp hand and scratched at it. Then her waist itched. Her leg. Her back. Soon Maggie was scratching uncontrollably. Until it began to hurt. She felt a wetness on her fingers and crawled over to switch on the bedside lamp. Her fingertips were red. She had scratched until she drew blood.

What was happening!

Maggie thought back to all she had eaten lately. Dinner was a pasta dish she had brought back from Leslie's. She had sampled the same dish the night before when she and Leslie had raided the party leftovers. Surely it couldn't have gone bad in the short time it sat in the cabin's refrigerator, could it?

Lunch had been Regina's casserole that she had shared with Elizabeth. Was Elizabeth sick? Should she call her?

She pulled herself to a sitting position. Dizziness rocked her and she put her head on her knees until it passed. The phone on the end table was an old Princess model. She grabbed at the receiver, putting it to her ear. No dial tone. The whirling in Maggie's head heightened her confusion and she struggled to clear it enough to think. Could Ali have pulled the jack out of the wall? She leaned to the back of the end table, pulling it out a few inches. The jack was firmly in place. But the phone was dead. Her stomach
churning, Magg
ie thought of her cell phone. It was in her purse, downstairs, but she hadn’t
been able to use it
since she’d arrived. There was, howeve
r, the other
land
-
line phone down there Could she get to it
? She'd have to try
.

After waiting for a wave of nausea and wooziness to pass, she stood, shakily, then staggered to the door. Maggie leaned against the door frame, breathing hard. Nearly every part of her was urging her to go back to the bed, collapse onto it, give up. But her brain told her no, don't do it! It would be so easy, but she must resist. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and she couldn't give in to it. She had to move.

Maggie eased the door open, bracing her weight on it and stepped into the hall. She flicked on the hall light, then grabbed onto the wrought-iron railing for support, following it to the staircase. Sinking to a sitting position, she eased herself down, step by step, the only way to keep from losing her balance and tumbling headfirst. Halfway down she had to stop as her head swam and eyes blurred. When it passed she continued on down.

Maggie made her way to the en
d table that held a lamp
and
phone. She nearly tipped the lamp over as she bumped into its shade, then fumbled for the switch and turned it on. Leaning heavily on the table, she reached for the phone and put the receiver to her ear. No dial tone.

Maggie sank onto the sofa. What was going on?
She dragg
ed herself forward. Her purse was on the kitchen counter
with her cell phone.
It was her last chance. If the cell
didn’t
work
, she didn’t know what she’d do
. She pushed herself up and staggered to the counter, fumbled through the purse until she found the phone. With
the last vestiges
of hope, she pressed the ‘on’ button, waited as it powered up an
d stared at the display, willing
the icons to appear and tell her she had network connection. Nothing. She dropped it onto the counter and sank onto one of the stools.

The itching she had managed to ignore as she struggled down the steps flared up again. She rubbed at her skin, trying desperately to avoid scratching with her nails, and groaned. Tears sprang to her eyes. She felt so bad, so very, very bad. And she needed help. How could she get it?

The itching
gradually
receded, only to be replaced by severe pain in her head. Maggie leaned back against the cushion. She closed her eyes and saw flashes of light behind her eyelids. This was not the flu, she realized. And she didn't think it was spoiled food. The itching seemed to point to an allergic reaction, but not along with the other symptoms she was having.

Maggie thought, trying hard to focus over the pounding in her head. Her heart beat rapidly, and her chest rose and fell as her lungs gasped for air, trying to keep up with it. This wasn't an ordinary illness. She knew that. Her body was telling her that. But could she believe what else it was trying to tell her? Was it possible? Had she been poisoned?

The thought overwhelmed her. Maggie sat, immobile, her mind racing to find other explanations, something it could cope with. She remembered the puddle on the kitchen floor she had stepped into that afternoon. It hadn't been from her own boots. Had someone been in the cabin while she was out, poisoning the food in her refrigerator?  Her hands began to shake and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead.

Nothing else made sense. She had to face it. But what had she been poisoned with? It wasn't the same thing that had been given to Jack Warwick. It wasn't Oleander. If it had been, she knew she would be dead by now. But what was it and how fast acting was it? How much time did she have to live?

Maggie clenched her hands to stillness, then wiped away the sweat. She needed to think rationally, not panic. She began to assess the situation. First: she was still conscious. Dizziness constantly threatened her, but so far she had been able to fight it back. Second: her eyes still focused. Third: she was still fairly mobile.

She had no idea how much longer these assets would last. She needed to act now. While she could. Drag herself to her car, which was locked in the garage, and drive into town. Could she do it? She had to. It could mean life or death to her.

She pulled herself off the sofa and staggered to the kitchen counter. Her keys, thankfully, sat at the end of it where she usually left them. There was no point trying to dress. What she had on, sweat pants and long-sleeved tee, would have to do. Somehow she managed to g
et her bare feet into her boots
and pull on her jacket. She rested on one of the high stools for a minute, gathering her strength, then went to the door and pulled it open.

Maggie took one step out onto the side landing when she heard a loud crack, and something zinged into the wooden railing, sending splinters flying. She pulled herself back inside quickly. Someone had shot at her!

The shock of that sent her staggering into the foyer wall. Someone was out there, with a rifle. Had been waiting for her to try to leave the cabin. Planned to keep her inside, to die by poison. Or to shoot her if she tried to leave!

No, it couldn't be. Maggie couldn't believe it. It had to be her muddled head tricking her. Or maybe not. She had to be sure.

Maggie stumbled to the kitchen and scrambled through the kitchen drawers. She found a long spoon and stuck it into her knit cap. Pulling the door open again, which spilled light onto the landing, she poked the hat out. Another crack sounded as a bullet zinged past, this time hitting nothing. Someone was out there, keeping her hostage, waiting for her to die.

Now she had two choices: death by poison or death by a bullet. Which one did she want? She sank onto a stool, and leaned her head onto the kitchen counter. Within seconds she popped it up. Neither! She wasn't going to give up. She was going to survive this. Maggie managed a grim laugh. Or die trying.

Her mind raced, searching for answers, coming up only with questions. First question: who was out there?

Just a few hours ago, Maggie had struggled with much the same problem: who was the murderer? She had listed names, listed motives and opportunities, and come up with nothing. Or nothing that had totally convinced her. Now, however, she had one more thing, one terrible thing, to add to her knowledge of this person. This killer had become so fearful of what she had been doing
, how close she was getting, and
had become desperate enough to come after her in this manner. That clinched it for Maggie. Now she was sure she knew who it was.

But what was she going to do about it?

Ideas bounced around the pain in her head, too often losing their way in the muddle the poison was making of her brains. She grappled to hold onto them, trying desperately to think clearly. She had few options, she knew. With no weapons to fight back with, she had only her wits left. She had to think. She had to get out of this alive.

Maggie dragged herself off the kitchen stool. Stumbling back to the door, she shot the deadbolt, then opened the small utility closet next to the foyer,  She found the circuit breaker box Dy
na had shown her that first day
and opened the metal cover, pulling the main breaker. The cabin immediately plunged into darkness.