One Deadly Sin (42 page)

Ellen’s words ricocheted inside Edie. Would anyone believe them? She was hearing it with her own two ears and she hardly believed them herself. “That was… that was lucky.”

“Oh, no, my dear,” Ellen said sternly. “Luck had nothing to do with it. Well, except for Mr. Butene.
That
was lucky.”

The name registered with another jolt, but if the older woman noticed Edie’s shock, she only plowed right over it.

“Perhaps that’s too formal?” She frowned. “He was my father, you know. No, of course you didn’t know. How could you? Mother kept it secret, even from me. But when she died, the payments stopped, you see. Now why else would Alan Butene pay Mother a monthly stipend if it wasn’t for me? Of course, he denied it all. Laughed at me. Can you imagine?” She huffed. “I’m sure you would have been outraged, too. I needed that money to start my new life. And how was I to know the ladder wouldn’t hold up under a good shaking?”

Edie swallowed a gasp.

“If you hadn’t scared poor Fred Lyle to death I probably would still be here, old and unloved and unwanted by anyone,” Ellen said. “But you gave me the idea.”

Edie’s stomach twisted again. If she could, she would have strangled herself for ever having come to Redbud.

But fault didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting the truth into the open. Getting herself out of her own trap and getting Miranda home safe.

“Did you know angels are messengers of God?” Ellen babbled on, and while she did, Edie scanned the room, trying to recall the layout of the house, looking for the fastest route out. “Your black angels were my messengers. God wanted them to pay for the way they left me to dwindle inside this monster of a house. Mother worked her fingers to the bone for those men. And when she got sick, did they care? Did they come even once to see her? Why bother, she has Ellen to nurse her. Ellen can stay. Ellen can turn down every chance at happiness. College, husband, children. Ellen can do it. Always Ellen. Ellen, Ellen, Ellen. I was glad when she died. Glad!” Her voice shook with angry triumph, then brightened. “Now,” she said. “Cake or sandwich?”

Edie swallowed. There were two doors leading from the parlor. Was the kitchen to the right or the left? “I’m really not hungry.”

“Of course you are.” Ellen indicated a plate. “Can’t have you wandering around, denying your part in all this.” She reached over and patted Edie’s hand. “Poor dear, I know how sorry you are. My goodness, no one will blink an eye when you take the easy way out.”

Dizzy with disbelief, Edie stared at the older woman.

Ellen sighed. “Miranda will have something, won’t you dear?” With her free hand, she plucked a pink petit four from the tier and handed it to the child.

And now the reason for Miranda’s presence became clear. Pulse pumping, Edie tried to intercept the cake, but Ellen had already squeezed it into Miranda’s hand and was forcing it up toward her mouth. Miranda shrieked, and Edie did the only thing she could. She leaped and made a grab for Holt’s daughter.

But Ellen was faster and nimbler than Edie could have imagined. Closer, too. She wrenched back Miranda’s chair. It crashed to the floor, but not before Ellen snatched up the child. “There now,” she cooed, holding Miranda tight, “we can have a fun time and eat lots of little pink cakes, can’t we?”

Miranda squealed in terror, and a horrified Edie looked on as Ellen danced away, the child in her arms, the tiny cake and whatever was inside it at Miranda’s lips.

“Wait!” Edie cried. “Wait!”

Ellen stopped. Swung around to face Edie. “Yes?”

Edie could rush her. She could just knock the older woman down, grab Miranda and run. But would that… that thing get inside her mouth before Edie could get there? It would take less than half a second to smash it against the child’s lips. If there was something in it, some, oh God, some terrible poison, and Miranda swallowed it… Edie couldn’t take the chance. Not with Holt’s daughter. Never with Holt’s daughter.

She backed up to the table. Slid her teacup toward her. Ellen watched and didn’t budge.

Oh, God. Edie closed her eyes in silent prayer to whatever was out there in the universe, and lifted the teacup.

“Go on,” Ellen whispered hoarsely, her eyes fixed.

Edie tried not to swallow. Could whatever was in that tea seep through her body anyway? Her hand shook as she replaced the cup, making it clatter against the saucer.

“And now the cake,” Ellen said in that same strained tone. “I made them specially for you.”

No choice, now. She had to swallow. She downed the gulp she’d been holding and played her only card. “Not until you let Miranda go.”

Ellen shook her head, clutched the child closer. Miranda shrieked.

“You’re hurting her,” Edie cried.

“No, my dear, you’re hurting her.” Ellen had to raise her voice over Miranda’s howls. “You or Miranda—it’s your choice, not mine.”

“I want to go home,” Miranda wailed. She squirmed and screeched louder. “I want my daddy! I want my daddy!”

“Stop it! Stop it this instant!” Ellen said.

But Miranda kicked and pummeled the older woman with flailing arms, a wild, uncontrollable, slippery thing. Ellen ducked her head, tried to shift her hold to get a better grip. Instead, Miranda writhed, opening a gap. Immediately, she slithered down, out of Ellen’s grasp.

Edie shot forward, seized Miranda’s hand, and ran. Into the kitchen and out the back door. Swung Miranda up into her arms as they flew down the steps to the top of the drive where her bike was parked.

She shifted the child to her back. “Hold tight! Don’t let go!”

The bike roared to life and she took off down the drive. The wind tore back her hair, and she prayed that whatever she’d swallowed wouldn’t take effect until she got Miranda to safety.

53

H
olt was examining the site where the abandoned pickup had been found when the call came. He answered it calmly, not thinking it could be the end of his world.

“This is County Hospital, Chief. We’ve got your daughter here.”

He froze. “Miranda? Is she all right? What happened?”

“She seems to be fine. It’s the woman with her. ID says Swann. Black hair, tattoos?”

Holt was already running toward his car. “What’s wrong with Edie?”

“We’re still trying to find out. She brought your daughter in, then collapsed in the emergency room. We’d like permission to check out your little girl.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He waved to Sam, who was staring at him from across the field where the pickup had been abandoned. Yanked the car door open, set the siren, and took off, brakes squealing. He radioed Sam on the way, explained where he was going, then set all his concentration on getting there.

When he pulled up to the emergency room entrance, he barely stopped before tumbling out and racing inside. He grabbed the first medical person he saw and spun her around.

“Miranda Drennen?”

But she directed him to the admissions desk. Mouth dry, palms sweaty, pulse bubbling, he ran to the desk.

“Daddy!”

Whirling, he got turned around just in time for his child to fling herself into his arms. Sobbing, she clung to his neck, and he held her tighter than he thought possible. She blubbered up a bunch of disjointed words. Swan lady, Auntie, pink ones.

“It’s okay, baby doll. I’m here. Daddy’s here.” He continued to croon and cajole and hold on, more grateful than he’d ever been to have her whole and crying in his arms.

When she’d finally calmed down, and his own heart had stopped battering his chest, he saw his mother and father sitting quietly in the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room.

Seeing his father, a flash of hot anger shook him, then faded. At least Miranda hadn’t been alone waiting for him.

He brought her over to them. Sat with her in his lap, and she curled into him, her thumb in her mouth. She hadn’t done that in a long time.

He stroked her head, spoke to his mother. “Did she say what happened?”

“Couldn’t get much out of her. Something about cake and how she didn’t let go.” He felt her hiccup against him.

“What about Edie?”

“They won’t tell us anything.”

“I don’t think they know anything.” His father spoke for the first time. Holt couldn’t bring himself to look at him.

A few minutes later, Miranda was sound asleep. Carefully, Holt transferred the exhausted child to his mother’s arms and went in search of Edie. He used his badge to get him to a weary doctor in scrubs.

“I think she’s been poisoned,” the doctor said.

Holt stared at him, appalled. “Poisoned?”

“Arsenic. Could be accidental. It happens. Has she been around pesticides, rat poison, anything like that?”

“I doubt it.”

“Suicidal?”

Holt recalled the evening before. Nothing in her words or demeanor indicated she’d hit a low point. “No. Absolutely not.”

The doctor shrugged. “That only leaves one other explanation.”

Holt’s thoughts hardened. Refused to go to that place where murder waited.

“She going to make it?” He braced himself, afraid of the answer.

“Don’t know yet. We gave her Succimer. It’s the antidote. If that doesn’t work, there’s Dimercaprol. It’s more toxic, but it’s there if we need it. A lot depends on how much she ingested and how fast we got to her.”

“Can I see her?”

“You can, but she’s not up for questions. She was convulsing, so we had to put her out.”

Convulsing. He pushed past that image. “I just want to see her.”

“Help yourself.” The doctor led Holt to a curtained cubicle and left him there.

Edie was pale, her closed eyelids red-rimmed, the black lashes against her skin like winter branches against snow. He took her hand, straightened the fingers, stroked them. An IV was inserted in her arm, pumping medicine, vital liquids into her. How is it that the people he loved always ended up here—fighting for their lives on gurneys, plugged into machines, living off needles?

He set her hand back. Brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. “Don’t die on me, Edie Swann,” he said softly. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

Back in the waiting room Miranda was still asleep on his mother’s lap.

“Can you take her home?” Holt asked.

Mimsy didn’t ask a single question or make an ounce of protest. “Of course,” she said. “Did you see Edie?”

“Briefly. She’s alive. For now.”

“Oh, Holt, I’m so sorry,” Mimsy said. “What on earth happened?”

“Someone poisoned her.”

“What?” His father jolted to his feet.

“Oh, my God,” his mother said at the same time. “Do you think…?” She looked down at Miranda.

“She hasn’t shown any signs of vomiting or an upset stomach, has she?”

“No.”

“I don’t know what happened, but she’s probably okay. Best let the doctor check her out, though.”

They woke her up and Holt stayed until the doctor had cleared Miranda. She got a lollipop for her trouble, and sucked on it greedily, still clinging desperately to her daddy.

“Auntie Ellen said I could have cake,” Miranda said in a hurt little-girl voice. “But then she wouldn’t give me any.”

Holt stilled. Flicked a glance at his mother and back at his child. “Who is Auntie Ellen?”

“She picked me up early. She said you were busy.”

His mind whirled, the name ricocheting inside his brain.
Ellen
.

“Is the swan lady coming home?” Miranda asked.

He answered, but he wasn’t concentrating. All he could think about was that name. There was only one Ellen connected with all this. And if Ellen Garvey was involved, Terry couldn’t be far behind. “Not yet,” he said, stroking Miranda’s hair absently. “She’s still sick.”

He swallowed. Protests hammered at him. Ellen Garvey was old. Old people don’t do things like that. She was kind. She worked at the church, for God’s sake. If Miranda was talking about Ellen Garvey, she must have been forced into doing whatever she did.

Or maybe Miranda got it wrong. How could he trust the word of a distressed five-year-old?

But then she repeated it. “Auntie Ellen wanted the swan lady to eat the cake but she wouldn’t. And she wouldn’t let me. And then we ran fast.”

Outrage filled Holt, but he forced himself to stay calm. Anything else would upset Miranda even further. “Tell you what.” He raised her chin and nuzzled her nose. “You go home with Grandma and we’ll have cake for dinner. How’s that?”