Some Like It Lethal (4 page)

"What kind of dog is that?" Thomasina squinted at Spike when he displayed his teeth with diabolical flair. "A wire fox? Jack Russell?"

"A miniature pit bull," I told her, straight-faced. "Not recognized by the kennel club yet."

"Not very friendly, is he?" Her brows pinched suspiciously. "Are you taking him to obedience class?"

"I've been a little busy."

She shook her head and reached into her pocket for a business card. "If you don't make an effort now, you'll regret it for the rest of his life. Call me at that
number and I'll set you up with a trainer I know. She's the best for hopeless cases."

"Thanks."

Thomasina grabbed my arm just in time to yank me out of the way of a huge chestnut horse that lunged at the end of the reins held by a pixie hardly big enough to reach his massive shoulders.

"Sorry!" The girl laughed, her gimlet eyes still alight with the excitement of the hunt. "Come on, Genghis!"

It was Merrie Naftzinger, I realized, all grown up since I'd attended her eighth birthday party at the Four Seasons a few years ago. She wore a bowler hat and sported blue rubber bands on her braces.

An idea hit me.

"Merrie," I said, "how about having your picture taken for the newspaper? You and Genghis?"

"Hi, Miss Blackbird! Sure, you can take our picture. If I can get him to stand still a minute."

Thomasina stepped forward with a businesslike air that Genghis recognized immediately. I dashed off to find the
Intelligencer
photographer, and by the time we came back, Genghis was standing at attention and Merrie looked flushed and pleased. I herded Thomasina and Donald into the photo, too, and in seconds the deed was done. I thanked the photographer and everyone concerned, reserving special attention for Merrie.

"Come see my dad," she said. "He's over in the barn."

Keeping a safe distance from Genghis's lethal-looking hind legs, I followed Merrie across the cobblestones to the east wing of the barn. We skirted groups of people and various heaps of riding gear that cluttered the walkway. Canvas chairs stood outside most of the stalls, with thermoses and heavy clothing in
evidence. Some horses were already stabled, and put their heads out of the Dutch doors to watch the action. Riders busily attended their mounts. The scents of sawdust, saddle soap and exertion overpowered the cold air.

Tim Naftzinger was stripping off his mud-spattered scarlet coat, obviously having just finished cleaning up his horse.

I had first met Tim years ago when he'd been a medical school classmate of my late husband, who had introduced Tim even then as "one of the good guys." Now Dr. Naftzinger was a respected pediatrician, and I knew he was destined for great things. We hadn't seen much of each other in the last two years, which had been no accident. Tim felt guilty, I think, for not saving my husband from the drug life. I couldn't help feeling the same way, despite all the friends who urged me to believe I couldn't have made a difference when my husband turned into a cocaine-burning comet that blazed off on a trajectory to oblivion.

Tim saw me behind Merrie and went still. "Nora," he said, a nanosecond too late. "Great to see you."

"Hi." I put my hand out to shake his. "I just commandeered your daughter for a newspaper photo. I hope you don't mind."

He managed a smile. "Not a bit. I hope she didn't break the camera."

"Da-ad!" Merrie laughed and disappeared into the next stall with her horse.

"Merrie's all grown up," I said. "She's going to be tall, just like her father."

"Fortunately, the rest of her looks come from her mom."

I smiled, too, but felt a pang. "How is Caroline?"

Tim shrugged. "About the same."

His wife's coma had lasted almost a year now, I calculated. They had been skiing, and she'd skidded on ice and struck a tree. Tim still looked as shell-shocked as he had at the beginning of his ordeal.

I said, "I went to see her in August. I just sat and talked for an hour."

"That was nice. Thanks."

There must have been a time when Tim and I could make conversation. Maybe we had talked about the med school softball tournament or whether we should go sailing on the weekend or maybe run up to New York to see a play. I couldn't remember. Before Merrie was born, Caroline collected early pewter, and I occasionally tagged along with her to estate sales. We'd meet our husbands at the end of the day for cozy dinners. But eventually Todd became unreliable and Tim had checked his watch often at our restaurant tables, while Caroline talked with too much vivacity to cover my pain and embarrassment. Merrie's birth had given Caroline and Tim a graceful excuse to stop our weekend socializing altogether, and when Todd died, essentially so had our relationship.

Now, with both our spouses gone, there seemed nothing to talk about without bleeding all over each other.

Merrie bounded out of the stall and clipped a nylon web in place of the door. She put her bowler in her teeth and struggled to get a scrunchie around her ponytail.

I went over and took the hat from her mouth. "Here, let me help. Did you have a great ride today?"

"Wonderful! Genghis went over every fence, even the coop. Did you see us, Dad?"

"Sure did, Mer. You looked like a pro."

"All those lessons with Emma are really paying off. Do you ride, Miss Blackbird? Like your sister?"

"Nobody rides like Emma."

Tim laughed. "Nora was the one who fell off her pony in the middle of Orchard Pond once."

"I'm still thawing out," I told Merrie. "Has Emma been teaching you to play poker as well as jump fences?"

She finished her ponytail with a flourish. "No, just working on my riding. She's been great, hasn't she, Dad?"

"Yes," said Tim.

I said, "She hasn't made you ride Mr. Twinkles yet, has she?"

"Oh, no, he's too wild for me. But we've been working with Genghis." She gave her horse's nose an affectionate rub. "Dad says we won't have to sell him to the glue factory after all."

Tim smiled.

To me, Merrie said, "Emma says he might be ready for eventing next summer. She's going to take us around in her trailer. That is, if Dad says it's okay."

"We'll see," said Tim, making no promises. "Are you ready for some breakfast?"

"I'm starving!"

"Me, too," said her father. He slid his arm affectionately across Merrie's shoulders. "Finish taking care of Genghis, and we'll eat."

Merrie looked at me. "Would you like to come with us?"

Tim stiffened almost imperceptibly.

"Actually, I should go talk to more people."

"Okay, maybe we'll catch you in the tent."

When she dashed into the box stall, I said to Tim, "She's a delightful kid."

He didn't meet my eye, but continued to untangle a bridle. "Yeah, she's great."

"I'm glad Emma's been able to work with her. Sounds as if they get along really well."

"I'm just glad Merrie's learning how to ride safely. It's a dangerous sport."

Of course Tim would be concerned about his daughter's well-being. He, more than most anyone, knew how fast life could change. "I'm sure Emma takes every precaution."

"Emma's been wonderful," he said.

"I hear you've been nominated for Chief of Pediatrics at your hospital. Congratulations."

"Oh. Yes. I'm one of several nominees."

"Good luck. I'm sure you're the man for the job."

Neither of us had a chance to say anything more.

We heard screaming.

From the direction of the other stable wing came shouts for help and one long, hysterical, babbling shriek. Tim and I turned together and Spike wriggled his head out of my bag.

He barked when he saw Libby stumble into view.

Rushing toward us, she looked dreadful. Windblown and terrified, she'd lost her hat somewhere, but one of the pheasant feathers was sticking out of her hair. She screamed as if she'd been stabbed.

I ran to Libby and caught her shoulders. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

She gasped. "Come quick."

She grabbed my arm and I went with her, my heart slamming in my chest. I heard Tim and Merrie behind us, and we all ran across the stable yard.

A cluster of people had already gathered outside a stall door. By the way they were bumping into each other and rushing around, I could see something was very wrong. There was shouting, and someone called for an ambulance. Libby shoved through the crowd, dragging me with her. Someone tried to bar our way, but Libby gave him a push and he gave up. We blundered inside the stall.

A knot of people were bent over a figure in the fresh straw.

On the other side of the stall, Emma lay flat out, her booted legs spread at a vulgar angle, her clothing dirty, her beautiful face completely blank and very white. Blood smeared her hands and jeans.

"Oh, God," I said. "Please, no."

I don't remember how I reached her body, but I went down on my knees in the straw and felt for her pulse. Her head lolled away from my hand. Spike jumped out of my handbag and seized Emma's shirtsleeve in his teeth. He began to yank. Behind me, Libby went into hysterics.

With probing fingertips, I found a pulse in Emma's throat. When I called her name, she did not respond. Spike let go of her sleeve and began to yap.

Inches from her hand in the straw, as if dropped when she had passed out, glittered her silver flask. Libby snatched it up. The cap was missing. The flask was empty.

"She's not dead," Libby prayed above me. "She's not dead, she's not dead."

Farther away in the straw lay Emma's riding crop. She had taped the handle to fit her grip, and I recognized it. The leather looked wet and dark.

Suddenly, Tim was there. He shouldered me aside and knelt in the straw, reaching competently to help
my sister. He called her name and smacked her cheek with enough force to make me gasp. But I thought I saw Emma's eyes roll back in her head. I put my hands on her shoulders and shook her. "Em!"

Over Libby's sobbing, I heard other people arrive. Someone pulled me to my feet to give Tim room to work. A voice began talking to 911 on a cell phone, and the stall started to spin around me. The air was very hot and hard to breathe.

Thomasina Silk came over, agitated and very white. "Tim. Tim, it's Rush Strawcutter. I think he's dead."

I tried to draw a breath and couldn't.

"Tim!" Thomasina tried again. "Did you hear me? There's blood everywhere. He's been hit in the head. I think Rush is dead."

Still bent over Emma, Tim said, "Then I can't do anything for him."

"What about Emma?" I said.

Tim looked up at me, but he seemed to telescope to a distant place. "Hold her," he said to someone far away. "She's fainting."

A black wave slammed over me and I was swept away.

Chapter 3

At the hospital, the ER staff immediately whisked Emma into a treatment room. Libby and I were escorted more slowly to another cubicle, where a young nurse and a doctor with a goatee fussed over me. While they tried to determine the cause of my faint, a patient-care representative brought frequent updates on Emma's condition. Alcohol poisoning was the most serious concern.

"They're pumping her stomach," was the first report.

"She's coming around a little."

Then, "The doctor's with her. She's awake and talking."

And finally, "Your sister's quite a handful, isn't she?"

I felt as if I'd been hit by a truck. The weight of calamity was so heavy it made me dizzy, and I could barely sit up. Surprising the hell out of me, my sister Libby pulled herself together first and spoke firmly to my doctor.

"She faints all the time. It's nothing new and nothing serious."

"Any loss of consciousness is serious."

"Not with Nora. She's very tenderhearted. It's all emotional. I'm emotional too, of course, but my constitution is stronger. I had a baby just a few weeks ago, and you don't see me looking wan, do you?"

"Certainly not."

The doctor had an earring as well as the neat goatee. He had slender hands, too, and he toyed with a Cross pen as he contemplated the state of Libby's health. He said, "You're vibrant."

"Vibrant!" Libby smiled, and her hand strayed unconsciously to the upper slope of the Himalayas barely contained by her jacket. "What a charming word. You're charming, Dr. Quartermaine."

"And you," he responded solemnly, "are enchanting."

"Oh, my goodness! Look at me, I'm leaking again!" She clutched her breasts and blushed. "I can't help myself sometimes. It's so embarrassing, but I can't stop the flow—"

"It's quite natural," the doctor said calmly, but I thought I detected a quiver in his pointed beard as he passed her a handful of tissues.

She stuffed them into her bra to stop the torrent of milk. Any minute she was going to start telling him about her personal goddess, so I said, "I'm fine, too. I don't need coddling."