lay on top of her quilt, still wearing that red-and-white checked dress; she hadn’t had a chance to put on her nightgown—she had just collapsed, unconscious or dead.
“Aunt Peck?” I called softly.
From below, ancient nails groaned as they pulled free from a board. By the sounds, Joe hadn’t been lying: he really was pulling up the floor.
“Aunt Peck?” I called again, louder.
When she still didn’t respond, I limped over and shook her shoulder. Nothing. Her forehead glistened faintly with perspiration; when I touched her carotid artery, she had a fast, fluttery heartbeat. Drugged?
No more than two or three minutes had passed since I’d called Smith’s office for help. How fast would Hellerville’s EMS respond to a 911 call? Who would get here first?
Taking a deep breath, I dialed 911. I couldn’t risk an old woman’s life.
“Emergency services,” said a tinny voice.
“I need an ambulance,” I said.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“I have an old woman here who’s unconscious. Possible drug overdose. I don’t know what she took.”
“What is your location?”
I gave the address. “How long will it take to get someone here?”
“I have already alerted the police, sir. They should arrive shortly. Can you remain on the line?”
Behind me, I heard a voice say, “What are you doing?”
A chill swept through me. I whirled—and found Joe Carver silhouetted in the doorway. With two quick strides, he reached me and ripped the cell phone from my hand.
“Aunt Peck—” I began.
“You leave her be!” He raised his fist to strike me, face drawing back in rage.
Then the doorbell rang. A second later someone began to pound on the door. The cavalry had arrived. Far off, I heard the wail of an ambulance’s siren.
Joe hesitated, then lowered his fist. He looked over his shoulder, clearly uneasy.
“The police are here,” I said in a soothing voice. “You better run down and let them in. I think Aunt Peck had a stroke.”
“A—a stroke?” He gaped at me.
“Please—let them in!” I let a note of urgency creep into my voice. “We have to get her to a hospital!”
The cell phone in his hand began to ring. I reached out and plucked it from his fingers.
“Go!” I said, pointing at the stairs. “Let them in!”
He turned and thundered down the steps. I heard him babbling to the police about how poor old Bessie must have had a stroke, how they needed to get her to a hospital.
Then I answered the cell phone: “Peter Geller.”
“You’ve got cops there,” said the man with the gravelly voice. “We drove past. What do you want me to do?”
“Circle around. Come in quietly as soon as they’re gone.”
“Anything else?”
“Call Smith and tell him to get out here fast. It’s important.”
“Got it.” He hung up.
I stuck the phone in my pocket as two uniformed police officers came bounding up the stairs carrying medical cases. Both cops looked young—maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, with close-shaved heads and plenty of muscles bulging beneath their uniforms. One started taking Aunt Peck’s blood pressure while the other did a circuit of the room, scooping vials of pills from her dresser into a plastic bag.
“You phoned it in?” the cop asked me. Pulling out a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff, he started to take Aunt Peck’s blood pressure. “Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
Over his shoulder, I read Aunt Peck’s blood pressure: 160 over 90. Much too high.
“Yes, I know what’s wrong.” My gaze flickered over to Joe Carver, standing in the doorway wringing his hands. “It’s a drug overdose.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I noticed a white residue in her coffee mug. I think there were pills in it.”
“A—a stroke!” Joe said. His face had gone bone white. “You said it was a stroke!”
“No, it wasn’t a stroke.”
“Where is the coffee mug?” the first cop asked.
“She washed it.”
The second cop said, “Besides the ones here, do you know of any other pills she might have taken?”
“No.” Again I looked at Joe, but he volunteered nothing.
The ambulance’s siren cut off as it pulled into the farm’s driveway; I could see its flashing lights through the drawn shades. The police officer who had collected the pills pushed past Joe and jogged down the stairs to show them in.
Two minutes later, they had Aunt Peck on a stretcher and carried her down. All the fuss and attention seemed to have finally penetrated her stupor. She half opened her eyes and looked at me.
“Angels…,” she whispered.
Maybe that’s where all her visitations had come from—drug-induced dreams. Which meant Joe had dosed her before. All the pieces of the puzzle were falling neatly into place. Everything except why.
When I patted her arm gently, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
“Where will they take her?” I asked the police.
“County hospital,” the first officer said. “It’s the closest. Don’t worry, they’ll take good care of her.”
“I should go, too,” muttered Joe. “Bessie….”
“No,” I said firmly. “You aren’t family. The hospital won’t let you in.” Pointedly, I added, “Besides, you’ve done quite enough for Aunt Peck already.”
Joe stared at me, eyes glittering with hatred. “Then you should go.”
“I’d love to, but I’m not family, either.”
“But you said—”
I smiled sweetly. “I lied.”
Just then the first police officer returned and asked for my name. I told him the truth, and he wrote it down. Then he did the same to Joe. A little sullenly, Joe told him.
Joe
