Will it? I mean, the pantry is nearly bursting with a brigade of fruit- and animal-shaped alternatives, so why would anyone take the container Claire used, unless they wanted to be sure it couldn’t be found?
“Okay, I’ll have regular iced tea for now . . . . Bonnie, can I ask you one more question?” I lower my voice, and she observes me quizzically. “When you found Claire yesterday—do you think she’d just come downstairs from a nap? Or do you suppose she’d never gone up?”
I’ve been wondering that ever since last night.
“Gosh, Summer, I don’t have any idea.”
“Why, if she wasn’t feeling well, do you think she would have gone into the living room instead of coming out here and trying to find help?”
Her face contorts in anguish. “Maybe she was looking for Ash in his study. To tell you the truth, it’s too tough for me to even think about.”
I feel guilty making Bonnie relive the tragedy, but I need to in order to figure things out. “I understand. And I’m sorry to bring it up. I only hope she wasn’t suffering for too long.”
“I know; me, too.”
I start to exit the house by the kitchen door, but a glance out the window reveals Keira and Marcus standing on the patio, their faces grim. He shakes his head, not angrily but with a firmness that says she’s wrong about something or that he’s not going to change his mind. There’s no way I’m going to intrude on the moment.
But I need a quiet place to think. I slip into the dining room and follow the long corridor to the eastern end of the house. Once I reach the screened-in porch, I settle on one of the wicker couches and exhale.
Okay, let’s say that the terrifying theory I’ve been toying with is really true and Claire was poisoned to death by a drink made from foxgloves. How would the tea have been brewed? I wonder. The killer must have dried out the leaves from the plant after they’d been picked. But where? An oven seems like the only possibility given the tight time frame, though using the oven in this kitchen would have been too risky with everyone around. And yet . . . it would have been easy enough to do during a quiet moment in the carriage house kitchen. The carriage house where Hannah is staying.
Once the leaves were dried and crumbled, the poisonous tea could have been made and substituted for Claire’s daily iced tea, or possibly added to it. Thinking it through, the latter makes more sense to me, because the taste of the foxglove leaves would have been better disguised that way.
The trickiest part of the plan would have been adding the poison tea to Claire’s jug without being observed because the kitchen here often resembles Grand Central Station at rush hour. Yet the room wasn’t bustling on Sunday morning, was it? Claire was at the farmers’ market, Ash was on a bike ride, and Bonnie was at church.
There would have been one more matter to deal with: the jug. Someone washed it and placed it in the drainer after Claire drank the tea, and it probably wasn’t her, since she was beginning to feel unwell. But then the jug was removed later. Did the killer decide it was smarter to get rid of it altogether?
I lean back against the couch pillows, bewildered. Though it’s easy to imagine how someone might have orchestrated the poisoning, when I take a few steps backward, the whole idea seems preposterous, including the notion of Hannah as a poisoner. She might be a liar and thief but that doesn’t make her a cold-blooded murderer. Right?
I glance at my watch. It’s after noon. I want to check in on Gabe and Henry and I also need to find Ash, to see if he needs any help.
Shaking away thoughts of dried leaves and toxic tea, I wind my way back through the house into the front hall, where standing in a circle are Ash, all four sons . . . and also, with her back to me, Hannah. Exactly the person I’m trying to avoid.
She turns at the sound of my footsteps and to my surprise I discover it’s not Hannah, after all, but Ash’s executive assistant, who must have driven out here from the city this morning. Her hair is similarly dark and chin-length, and she’s Hannah’s height. Though her looks are striking, as well, she doesn’t dazzle quite the same way Hannah does. Even I have to admit that.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, beginning to retreat from the impromptu family conference that seems to be happening.
“No problem, dear,” Ash says. “We’re talking over plans for the service tomorrow.”
“I’ve already discussed a menu with Bonnie,” I say. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“That’s kind of you, Summer. We seem to have things under control otherwise. You remember Jillian Herrera, of course.”
“Yes, hi,” I say, and she smiles in greeting. I’ve only met her a handful of times and know little about her beyond the fact she’s in her early forties, recently divorced, and is supposedly very, very good at her job.
“Keira just took Henry down to the tennis court to hit a few balls,” Gabe says.
“I’ll relieve her in a bit,” I tell him. “I want to head out to the patio and take care of one thing for the luncheon I promised Bonnie I’d do.”
“Why don’t I go with you, Summer?” Jillian says. “I can review a few details with you about the service.”
She follows me out to the patio, where we have the space to ourselves. I motion for her to have a seat at the table.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Summer,” she says. She touches my arm, a warmer gesture than I’m used to with her. “I know everyone must be devastated.”
“Yes, it’s been brutal.”
“I’m helping Ash coordinate as much as possible—writing the obit, alerting colleagues, inviting people to the service—but if there’s anything you can think of, please let me know.”
Though Jillian’s title is executive assistant, her job is apparently broader than that. She not only ensures that Ash’s work life runs smoothly, but I’ve been told she has her eye on the business, too, making certain that none of the spinning plates is about to drop and shatter. During the times I’ve been in her presence, she’s been polite but no-nonsense, the kind of woman who seems to like everything just-so. I’m sure she keeps her panties rolled like little sausages in a paper-lined underwear drawer, but they’re probably sexy, empowering panties from brands like Agent Provocateur.
“Nothing off the top of my head. How many people do you expect?”
“It will be only family and several friends of Claire’s who Ash felt we needed to include. And she has a cousin who apparently wants to fly in from Pittsburgh. I’d tell Bonnie to plan on about twenty-five people, not including the musical quartet we’ve hired.”
Thirty. I understand the desire to keep the service intimate, and yet it seems like such a paltry gathering to celebrate the kind of life Claire led.
“And it’s set for eleven A.M.?”
“That’s right. After a short welcome from Blake, Claire’s meditation teacher is going to do a reading, and then any friends or family members who wish to speak may do so.”
“Um, okay.” I hadn’t even considered that there would be such an opportunity. I’m sure Gabe will want to say a few words. Should I do the same?
Before I can really think about it, Jillian asks what Bonnie plans to serve at the luncheon.