“Why do you think they had to rush off that way?” she asks, sounding perturbed. “Could there have been some development?”
“From what I know, they just need to make sure the other law partner is in the loop. I mean, if there was any news, they’d tell us.”
“You think so?”
“Jeez, Keira. Why wouldn’t they?”
I didn’t mean to snap, but her endless worry is making my own apprehension even worse.
“Why wouldn’t they? Because people in this house keep secrets.”
My stomach knots uncomfortably. “What secrets?”
“Ash and Jillian, for instance. Who knows what was going on there?”
“What else?”
She looks off, pressing her lips together.
“Nothing,” she says finally.
“Keira, look, I know things are really tough. But we need to do our best to get through it. Why don’t you tell me what you need me to do for dinner?”
Before she can, my phone rings from inside the pocket of my capris. Fishing it out, I see to my surprise that Amanda’s name is on the screen, but when I answer, it’s Henry who is on the other end.
“Hey, Hen,” I say. “Everything okay?”
“I tried Dad, but he didn’t pick up.”
“Oh, you know, he’s out for a drive with Grandpa now, and they’re probably on that part of the road where the cell service is bad.”
“Okay. Dad’s not sick, is he?”
“No, no, he’s fine.” As I answer, I realize this isn’t the first time Henry’s sounded worried about us getting sick—and it seems like something might be going on in his little mind. I cross the kitchen, push open the swinging door, and step into the dining room. “Hen, why do you keep asking if we’re sick? Does it have to do with Gee?”
I take his silence as a yes.
“Honey, Gee had a heart attack, which can happen to older people when their hearts aren’t as strong. It’s not something you have to worry about with Dad and me.”
“But did getting sick make Gee’s heart less strong?”
“What do you mean, Hen?”
“You know, getting sick, throwing up.”
Unease ripples through me.
“Why do you think Gee was throwing up?”
“She told me she was. She told me that day.”
26
In my mind, I hear a sudden echo of the question Henry asked when I first told him that his grandmother was ill. Is she throwing up? he’d said. I should have asked what he meant.
“That’s actually very helpful to know, honey,” I say. “Where did you see Gee that day—in the kitchen?”
“Um, no. She was in the office.”
“The office?”
“Grandpa’s office. Where his desk is.”
“Oh, right,” I say, realizing he means the study. “What was Gee doing in there, do you know?”
“Sitting. And looking at a book.”
“And she said she’d been sick?”
“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 called Plants 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.