to my end of the conversation and what they could hear of Patty’s squeals. “You’d think the Ladies’ League would have been much more careful after what happened the last time,” Joe said. “They should have vetted every single food item themselves, never mind the cop, and kept tabs on who actually carried each one into the kitchen.”
“Okay, I won’t say they should have dowsed the dinner,” Fiona said. “I know that’s not their thing. But for Goddess’s sake, a modicum of care. Talk about ‘Death by Chocolate’!”
Hearing our excited voices, Becky, Adam, and Freddie came in from the living room, where Freddie had been taking all their money in a cut-throat game of Monopoly. I’d warned them that Freddie was a wizard with dice.
“What is it?” Adam demanded.
“Not another poisoning!” Becky cried. “What kind of a pervert would poison people on Thanksgiving?”
“Chocolate cake this time. Might be hemlock again.” I found I needed to sit down and take deep breaths for a moment. Joe put a consoling hand on my shoulder. “That was Patty Peacedale. The cake turned up at the Gethsemane Thanksgiving dinner for the lonely and elderly. The pastor is very ill. He’s at the hospital now with several of his parishioners.”
“Awesome,” Freddie declared. “Some nutty dude, no doubt about it. Wish I could stick around to help catch this guy. But you go, girls! Chocolate lovers are getting to be an endangered species around here.”
“Yes, this has gone quite far enough!” Fiona was drawing herself up into her most imperious glamour. “We simply must get together posthaste.”
“Maybe at Phil’s,” I agreed. “She’s entertaining family, but I believe they’ll be leaving sometime tomorrow.”
At seven, Becky said good-bye, pleading the merciless caseload she was carrying for Katz and Kinder. Leaving Joe, Adam, and Freddie to deal with the last of the dishes, Fiona and I jumped into her ancient baby blue Lincoln Town Car and headed to Jordan Hospital to see how Wyn and Patty were faring.
“You don’t suppose the reverend is being targeted by evil forces, do you?” Fiona asked as she drove at her usual lulling pace of thirty-five miles an hour.
“Nothing so medieval,” I said. “If he is a target, it’s those millions he’s just inherited.”
“Evil is the root of all money.” Another of Fiona’s pixilated proverbs.
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