Rotten to the Core (31 page)

She returned to the kitchen, where Seth had finished wrapping up the scant leftovers and putting them in the refrigerator. “If that’s it, I guess I’ll go now. Meg, that really was a great dinner.”

“Thanks, Seth. I just wish Daphne hadn’t shown up. I know that sounds cold, but I really don’t like that woman. I hope she didn’t make trouble between you and Michael, Bree.”

Bree shook her head. “It’s okay. He just couldn’t figure out how to say no to her, and she’s a real leech. I think he’s going to learn pretty fast, after this. You don’t mind my staying?”

“Of course not. It’s your room, and you can come and go as you like.”

“Then I guess I’ll turn in, maybe read for a while. ’Night.” Bree fled, leaving Meg and Seth alone in the kitchen.

Meg slumped against the stove. “Well, all things considered, I guess that didn’t go too badly. And at least all the appliances work! Thanks again, Seth.”

“Happy to help. I’ll see you sometime this week—I’ve got a shipment of lumber coming in for the shed build-out. I’ve got to get moving on that if I’m supposed to be out of my current shop by May.”

“And don’t forget my apple storage.”

“I’m on it. Good night, Meg.” He hesitated a moment, and Meg wondered if he was thinking about kissing her good night, and then wondered why she was wondering about it. In any case, he slipped out the back door and was gone.

Meg stood for a moment, debating about doing the dishes despite what she had said earlier. But she was tired, and she had a good book waiting by her bed. She deserved that small treat; the dishes could wait till the morning. She turned off the kitchen light and made her way to the front stairs, turning off lights as she went and checking that the front door was locked. Lolly appeared from wherever she had been hiding and dashed up the stairs, pausing at the top to wait for Meg to catch up.

When Meg opened her eyes, it was pitch dark outside, and she wondered what had awakened her. Lolly slept soundly at the foot of her bed, curled up with her nose under her tail, and the house was quiet. She didn’t hear anything from the goats. She checked the glowing numerals of her clock: two fourteen. Why was she awake?

The wave of nausea that hit her answered that question. She never got sick. She hated throwing up, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had. Years, definitely. What was going on? Couldn’t be a hangover—she’d had no more than two glasses of wine at dinner.

The nausea returned, stronger. Unfortunately she wasn’t going to be able to ignore it and go back to sleep. Nope, not happening. She stumbled out of bed, not bothering to turn on the light or find her slippers, and reached the bathroom with no time to spare, spewing whatever was left in her stomach into the toilet. When that wave subsided, Meg slumped to the floor, weak and sweating.

She wasn’t sure how long she would have sat there, but she was startled to hear a knock on the bathroom door. Meg struggled to her feet and opened it to find Bree doubled over, her dark skin a peculiar ashy color. “Sorry—move!” Bree shoved past Meg and vomited into the toilet. Meg leaned against the bathroom door, confused and dizzy.

If Bree had the same problem as she did, it had to have been the food.
Oh, no
, Meg thought in dismay
. I gave everyone food poisoning!
But how? Those ancient pots, a bad can of tomatoes, something in the salad? She’d cheated and bought a couple of premixed bags of greens. Hadn’t she read about contaminated salad mixes? Or had it been spinach? But she had been careful to wash it. That should have helped, shouldn’t it?

Bree had rolled around to sit on the floor next to the toilet, and she looked up at Meg. “This sucks.”

“Tell me about it.” Meg slid down the door to sit, since she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her, and she didn’t want to move far from the toilet. “Food poisoning?”

Bree shrugged, wrapping her arms around her midsection.

“Stomach cramps?” Meg asked. Bree nodded without speaking.

“Damn—we should call the others and see if they’re all right. But I’d hate to wake them if this is limited to the two of us.”

Bree hauled herself to her feet. “You’ll hear from them soon enough, if they’ve got this, too. One thing I do know—we need to drink liquids, keep hydrated, flush out whatever’s in us. You got juice downstairs?”

“I do.” Meg got to her feet. She found she had to cling to the banister on her way downstairs: the dizziness was back and getting worse. The kitchen, when she turned on the light, looked like a battle zone, with dirty dishes and pans everywhere. No wonder her mother had told her not to leave a messy kitchen. It looked surreal, and her stomach lurched at the sight. Bree was rummaging through the refrigerator and pulled out an unopened bottle of cranberry juice. “This should work.”

As Meg tried to find two clean glasses, Lolly sauntered into the kitchen and leaped onto the countertop by the sink.

Slowly it occurred to Meg that she should not let the cat eat whatever was left on the plates, but before she could move, Lolly sniffed the remains of the sauce on one plate and backed away, her lips curled. “Bree? Look at the cat. It must be the sauce. But how could it be? I made it myself. I tasted it while I was cooking it, and it was fine.”

Lolly gave the dirty plates one last look of disgust, then jumped off the counter and fled the room. With great deliberation Meg shut the door behind her and moved hesitantly toward the sink: her legs were shaky, and it looked very far away. She leaned against the counter and grabbed a tissue from the box she kept there, and blew her nose. And wiped her mouth: she seemed to be drooling. An aftereffect of throwing up?

Then she went very still, clutching the edge of the counter for support. Not food poisoning: that would explain the nausea, but not everything else she was feeling. There was something familiar about all this, something she had read . . . Her mind was working slowly, slowly . . .

Pesticide poisoning.
The thought surfaced in her sluggish brain like a bubble of noxious gas in a swamp. She looked up to see Bree swigging juice, but her color was still an ugly gray. “Bree,” she whispered, “I think it’s pesticide poisoning.”

Bree’s eyes widened. “What? Can’t be. How?”

“I don’t know. But it fits: nausea, vomiting, and now I’m drooling and my nose is running. I looked it up online, when Jason died. Those are all symptoms. Oh my God!” Meg stumbled to a chair and sat down heavily, and Bree followed suit. “And there’s worse, a whole lot more symptoms. How are you feeling?”

Bree coughed. “Not so good. What do we do now?”

“I think we should go to the hospital.” Although Meg wasn’t sure she was in any shape to drive. “What about the others? We have to call them now!”

Bree nodded slowly. “Right. Good. I’ll call Michael, and he should have Daphne’s number somewhere. You call Seth. Then we call 911, right? Get help?”

“Right,” Meg replied absently. What had she done? Poisoned Seth? How could that be? She didn’t have any pesticide, certainly not in her kitchen.
Worry about that later.
She picked up the phone, dialed Seth’s number. No answer. She dialed again, not trusting her shaky fingers. Still no answer. She wanted to scream, to throw the phone across the room. Instead she sat staring stupidly at it.

“No answer at Michael’s,” Bree said. “And I don’t have Daphne’s number.”

Meg shook her head, trying to clear it. Somebody should take charge. No,
she
should take charge: this was her house, and she was the boss. “Okay, here’s the deal. We need to get to the hospital, and we need to make sure Seth and the others are all right. I’m going to call Art, and let him sort all this out. He lives in town here.”

Bree blinked owlishly. “Not 911?”

“No. Art can get here faster, and he can let somebody in Amherst know to look for Michael and Daphne.” Meg didn’t have a clue whether a single ambulance could transport three sick people to whatever hospital was closest, but she thought Art could figure that out. Her brief stab at authority had left her exhausted.

Meg looked at the phone in her hand and tried to remember how it worked.
Push one button, get a dial tone.
Art would know what to do. But Art wouldn’t be in the office at three o’clock in the morning. Did she have Art’s home number? No. But it would be in the phone book. Where was the phone book? She stood up and scrabbled through a pile of papers and magazines she had shoved out of the way.
Aha, phone book.
Skinny little thing, wasn’t it? Not like the Boston phone book, nope.
Focus, Meg, focus.
What was Art’s last name? Preston, that was it. Meg kept losing her place in the book, but she finally located the “P” pages. Thank God he was listed. Her hand trembling, Meg punched in the numbers.

“Wha?” a sleepy, angry voice answered after five rings.

“Art. Is this Art?”

“Yeah, you got me. Who’s this?”

“Meg Corey. I think I’ve been poisoned.”

“What?” The voice on the other end was suddenly more alert. “Why?”

“I had people over for dinner. I’m sick. Bree’s here, and she’s sick. And the others aren’t answering. Art, listen, I think this is more than just food poisoning. I think this is whatever killed Jason.”

“Call 911,” he said grimly. “I’ll be over in five.”

“Art, wait—Seth’s not picking up his phone. You should get over there.”

Art sighed. “Shit. If I have to worry about all of you, it’ll be faster if I just collect you all and take you to the hospital myself. Who are the others?”

“Michael Fisher and Daphne Lydon. They live in Amherst somewhere. Bree has Michael’s address and number? Bree?”

It took a couple of moments for Bree to focus on her, and then she reeled off Michael’s information and Meg repeated it to Art. “But neither of us knows where Daphne lives. Michael might, if you find him, but he’s not answering.”

“Got it. I’ll call it in to Amherst—they’ll send someone over. You stay put—I’ll swing by your place first, and then we can go to Seth’s. Five minutes.”

“Hurry.” Art hung up, and Meg was left gazing at the phone in her hand. It took her a moment to realize that Bree hadn’t heard the whole conversation. She looked up to find Bree retching into the sink.

When Bree was finished, she turned to Meg. “What?”

“He’s going to come by here, and then we’re going to Seth’s. I guess we don’t have time to get dressed, huh?” Meg squashed a bubble of hysteria. Now the police chief was visiting, and she still hadn’t washed her dishes, and worse, she was wearing a ratty pair of flannel pajamas. But maybe the plates were evidence now. Maybe that was a good thing she hadn’t washed them.
So there, Mom!
She looked at the pile of papers she had dislodged when she was hunting for the phone book. On top of the pile was the printout she had made about the pesticide, the one that had killed Jason. She tried to focus on the words swimming on the page. Those typed in capitals she could make out most easily: HEADACHE, DIZZINESS, WEAKNESS, INCOORDINATION, MUSCLE TWITCHING, TREMOR, NAUSEA, ABDOMINAL CRAMPS, DIARRHEA, SWEATING. She had all of those.
Great.
Knowing what was wrong didn’t make it any easier to handle, she thought, as she fought another wave of nausea. She wondered how long these symptoms would go on—and what would happen if they got worse.

Before she could read any further, there was a pounding on her back door.
Art, thank God.
She made her wobbly way over to the door and fumbled with the dead bolt. It took her three tries to make her hands work well enough to get it open, and by the time she had succeeded she was exhausted from the effort.

Art stepped into the room, wearing civvies: jeans and a flannel shirt, which nearly matched Meg’s pajamas. He took one look at the scene in the kitchen—Meg wavering on her feet, Bree sitting huddled at the table—and took charge. “Okay, we’re getting out of here! Meg, get coats. Can you handle that?”

Meg nodded. “Oh, here.” She thrust the printout at him. “You’d better take this along. Might save time at the hospital.”

“Whatever.” He folded it roughly and shoved it in his shirt pocket. “Now move!”

Meg laboriously disentangled her coat from the rack by the door, and one for Bree, who was wearing only an oversize T-shirt. “Bree, we’re going now. Put on these boots.”

Bree looked dully at her, then at the boots Meg shoved across the kitchen floor at her. “Right. Boots.”

Meg pulled on another pair. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate on anything, hold anything, do anything at all.
Let Art take care of it. That’s his job.
Art was holding Bree up by one arm. “Okay, car, now. Let’s go.” He grabbed one of Meg’s arms and hustled them out of the kitchen, into the night. Meg had already been shaking, but the cold air made it worse. Art pushed Bree into the backseat, and Meg took the front.

She lay back against the headrest. “Seth’s house.”

Art peeled out of the driveway. “Yes, we’re going to Seth’s house.”