Bad to the Last Drop (19 page)

Pat went back to the table as Deb and Bill were talking.
Thank you, universe, for Deb's great talent to engage people,
she thought; watching as Bill eagerly described the shading in his portrait. She reached for a chocolate-drop cookie, took a large bite of one, and then started coughing as she realized he might also have put something in the cookies. She hastily stashed the rest of the cookie in her pocket. While Deb was busily engaging Bill in more descriptions of his work, Pat quietly switched cups with him.
He wouldn't poison himself,
she reasoned. Taking a sip, Pat's eyes watered.
He put brandy in his!

"And thank you for your kind words," Bill was saying as he led Deb back to her place at the table. "Well, drink up while the coffee is still hot." Pat took another sip, and he beamed.

"Bill, your cookies are great," Pat said, reaching into her large pocket, "but I just happen to have some sugar cookies with me from Gabriele's. Would you like to try them?" She placed the wrapped cookies on the table and said in her most winsome tone, "Oh, do get another of these lovely antique plates to put them on. Were they your mother's?" Pat smiled and raised her cup to her lips.

"Yes, they were hers." Bill's eyes seemed locked on Pat's mouth as it touched the rim of the cup. "Actually she was a lot like you two. I'll just get that plate so we can finish up here."

"What are you doing?" Deb whispered. "Drinking that coffee and eating that damn cookie? What were you thinking?"

"Well, the cookie was a mistake," Pat admitted sheepishly. "But I switched cups with him while you distracted him over his boring self-portrait. Quick—dump your cup."

Glancing around, she leaned over and poured her drink into a lovely Boston fern.

"I hope it doesn't kill the plant," Deb said with a frown.

"Better it than us," Pat countered while pouring half of her cup into Deb's.

"How's this?" Bill asked, returning to them with another plate.

"Oh, how beautiful," Pat said. She placed the cookies from Gabriele's shop on the plate and tried to continue to engage Bill in conversation. "So your mother reminds you of us? How so?"

Bill's smile tightened. "She was a busybody, frankly. Always in other people's business. She'd say things like, 'The neighbor had somebody over when his wife was at her sisters,' or 'Did you see how the vicar visited Mrs. Jones today?' Sometimes it was quite amusing, but other times ... well, I couldn't stand how she knew just everything I did." His eyes focused on Deb's face as she slowly took a sip of coffee.

"My, this is strong," she said involuntarily.

"It gets better," Bill insisted. "Just keep drinking." And then he looked over at Pat, encouraging her to take a sip. "Joe was like that, too, you know," he continued. "Just like my mother." He folded his arms on the table, leaning on them dreamily. "I thought he was my friend. I thought we would always be close. I came here because of

Joe, you know. It's funny, really. I read his name in the paper when he won the lottery the first time, and I thought, what the hell; I think I'll go see my old buddy." He shook his head. "But friendships like the one you two share are hard to find. I should have known better. Things got worse after the black-market incident. He covered for me then, you know, but he was never the same with me again. We even were in rehab together. Post-traumatic stress syndrome is what they called it. And then we went our separate ways. I thought maybe he would have changed after all these years, but no ... No, in the end, he was just like my mother, trying to know my business, trying to control me." Bill suddenly sat up straight and his voice became agitated. He lent me money, too. Of course, you know that."

Now he watched them through half-closed lids. "You found them in his safe deposit box, didn't you? The IOU's? I looked everywhere. I needed that money for supplies. For canvas, for paints, for paying places for shows. You have no idea how much it costs to be an artist. It wasn't for me; it was for art." His eyes took on an almost religious fervor.

How fast acting is this stuff?
Pat thought, frantic to play her part.
Am I supposed to be getting dizzy, or faint, or throw up?
Slouching down in her chair, pretending to get sleepy, Pat prayed:
Get us out of this one, Lord, and I'll never ask for anything, ever again.
Desperately, she turned to Deb. "Didn't you have something you wanted to show to Bill?"

Deb looked quizzical for only a moment; then she rose from the table and stood in the middle of the living room. "Bill, because you have been so kind to us, I would like to show you a tool that Swami taught me during his stay that will help you have all the energy you want. It's a series of physical yoga postures that anyone can use called Solar Yoga. I'll show you. If you try this in the morning at least six to ten times, you should be set for the day. It's great for artists who work at an easel all day."

Pat looked on incredulously, and Bill appeared captivated as Deb breathed deeply, flexing her clasped arms backwards over her head before bending over to touch the floor in front of her. She felt her legs begin to shake a little as she blushed, and tried to remember the postures in order. She tried not to think about the show she was putting on.
Yoga wasn't made for beluga whales,
she mused.
I don't care what Swami thinks.
Deb did her best to maintain a shred of dignity in her performance and felt more than a little self-conscious.

"Come on, Bill," Deb called to him. "Give it a try."

Drinking down his cup in a final gulp, Bill joined Deb in the living room and started to imitate her poses. Just when Deb was nearly finished with the series of exercises, the part where she was supposed to snap back up to an inclined position, her foot slipped and Deb fell onto her right hand. There she was in all her glory in a most unflattering pose: her massive behind up in the air, a tripod of limbs, and unable to go down and unable to go upright.

Deb heard the muffled sound of laughter behind her reminding her that Pat and Bill were attentively following her every move. Her nervous laughter joined with theirs—and then she found that she was unable to extricate herself.

"Help," she said, "I'm stuck."

Deb heard Pat giggling softly and then what sounded to be a chortle from Bill—but that was followed by a brief silence, followed by the sounds of loud choking and gasping. As she regained control of her body, Deb turned to see that Bill was turning purple and frantically waving his arms in front of his head.

"He's choking!" Deb cried. "Bill! Bill, are you okay?"

Bill shook his head violently from side to side, choking on a cookie. Deb reached around his back and brought her fists together firmly at the base of his chest and pulled upwards forcefully. She felt the weight of Bill collapsing backwards into her arms, even as he let out a long gasp and vomited on the rug.

Pat rushed over to them. "Is he dead?" Pat screamed as Deb lowered his limp body to the floor.

"Pat, be quiet! I have to check his pulse. He has a heart beat, and he's breathing, but he's out cold."

"Let's get out of here," Pat said nervously. "The man tried to poison us. Why are we sticking around?"

"We need to bind him," Deb said, "in case he wakes up. Oh I know, just what Mrs. Pollifax would do."

Pat picked up an antique table lamp and pulled its cord out of the outlet. "I'll tie his hands with this." "Now what?"

Knowing that they had no time to waste, Deb reached into Bill's pocket and grabbed the door key. "I'm going for help," she told Pat. "You stay here in case he wakes up." She grabbed her coat and then hurriedly unlocked the door before Pat could protest.

Deb ran down the stairs and into the darkness of the early evening. There was only one place she could think of to go: the Black Cat!

Running all the way there, she burst through the door, out of breath, and found Marc and Mitchell sitting over a table of empty dishes, along with Peter Thomas.

"I need help! Quick! Call 911 — Pat's still with him" she managed to blurt out.

Without asking for explanation, Mitchell quickly pulled out his cell and called for an ambulance.

"Just send them to the Video to Go store!" Deb shouted over her shoulder as she ran back out the door.

In Bill's apartment, everything suddenly seemed so quiet. With the snow, the traffic and sounds of people going by were muffled. Pat could only hear Bill's quiet breathing. The room looked like an ordinary room, the room of an ordinary, aging, single male. Neat and tidy—even the art supplies were carefully stacked. This was not how she pictured the room of a murderer. Maybe a multiple murderer, by the way he talked about his mother. Pat shivered. She had learned early on in her ministry not to trust appearance.
But Bill!
she thought.
Insane, of course, fooling himself that his art was worth everything. Deb may have not done him a favor by saving his life. No, thank God. That's not my decision to make. Thank God, indeed.
And for the first time in a long time, she really prayed.
Holy life-giver, I know I haven't been talking lately. It's been hard, but now I'm here, if you're listening. And I want to thank you for being with me even when I haven't wanted you there. And for being with us today. But mostly Lord, I want to ask you to take care of Bill. Thanks for listening. Amen.

Pat sat in the quiet dark of a murderer's room, with the murderer tied and unconscious at her feet. And she smiled at the peace she felt that she hadn't felt for a long time.

It was unusual to see Ruth Epstein sitting in the Black Cat during the day. Pat noticed the coroner as she walked into the coffeehouse to meet Deb, as usual. But there she was, sipping her coffee.

Ruth shivered slightly when she saw Pat—not from the cold air that drifted in through the door with her but at how close her two neighbors had come to lying on her autopsy table. She looked up and smiled at the two women. "Over here!" she called out. "I've been waiting for you. I've already ordered you both a special Christmas coffee—my treat." The barista brought over two steaming cups topped with whipped cream and cinnamon, with a peppermint stick poking out of the cup.

She got up and gave them both a hug, totally unlike her usual reserved self.

Settling in, the two women looked eagerly at Ruth.

"So, did you find out?" Pat asked, taking in the wonderful scent of the coffee.

"That is, if you can tell us," Deb added, raising her cup and taking a sip.

"Yes, Detective LeSeur said I could tell you."

"So come on," Pat begged. "What was in the cup, or did I just imagine it all?"

Ruth smiled at their childlike eagerness. "Believe it or not, you were right on. Those cups had enough fentanyl in them to take you both into the dark beyond. You are two very lucky women."

Deb and Pat glanced at each other over their whipped cream. Deb smiled at her friend, who already had a cream mustache.

"We don't actually think luck had anything to do with it," Pat said.

"Don't start up on that higher power God thing," Ruth protested. "You have brains and luckily, you used them this time."

"I agree," Pat said, taking another sip. "I just believe in the something that gave me the brains in the first place."

"However you view it," Ruth continued, "I'm just glad you're both here sitting talking, rather than in the freezer at the morgue." She smiled again, "And on that happy thought," she said, getting up, "I must get back to work."

"Me, too," said Deb, gulping down her drink. "I have to be in court in ten minutes."

Sitting alone, slowly savoring her drink, Pat said a silent prayer of thanks. Surprisingly, the whole event had left her energized, not depleted. Smiling, she put her feet up on the chair next to her and she called out, "Sam, another round for the house—and make mine a double." This was a very good day.

"Air Caribbean flight 26, boarding at gate 2. Flight number 26, final boarding at gate 2. Airecaribe, vuelo 26 cargando en puerta dos, vuelo 26, embarque final en puerta dos."

Hurrying, Pat and Deb arrived at their gate.