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Authors: Mary Lou Kirwin
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telling which of them was speaking; their lips barely moved, and I always seemed to be looking at the wrong one when a remark was uttered.
“Girls,” Caldwell called them and pointed at me. “Please meet Karen Nash. She’s a mystery writer.”
I sat down with a hard thump in the other high-backed chair in the room. I thought I had told him I was incognito. This lie was becoming a tourniquet around my neck. Even my metaphors were getting twisted.
“Well, then maybe she can find out what happened to Howard,” said one of them. I guessed it was Barb.
“Oh, Barb, it was simply Howard’s time. We must accept this,” said the one who I was now sure was Betty.
Barb was wearing the red scarf and Betty the yellow.
“But there’s nothing to find out,” I started, then added, “He died of a heart attack. Isn’t that right, Caldwell?”
Caldwell turned slowly to me, his face ashen. “He did, but we’ve just had news. Apparently the doctor took it upon himself to check his level of digoxin, which Mr. Worth was taking to regulate his heart, and found that it was quite high. High enough to bring on a heart attack.”
“How awful,” I said. “What can this mean? I’ve heard that that medication can be very tricky.”
“It might be a simple matter of doubling up his dose,” Caldwell suggested. “He might have forgotten and taken it again.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Tired from jet lag, getting off of his normal schedule. That makes total sense.”
“Or that awful snit of a wife might have slipped it to him,” Betty said in her flat Nebraskan voice. “And killed him.”
FOURTEEN
The Richest Blend
W hen I woke the next day my first thought was, Had Howard Worth been murdered? I tried to remind myself that it had nothing to do with me, although I was the one who found him, and, somehow, that tied me to his death in an oddly emotional way.
In those few moments when I’d struggled with the fact that he was dead, I had wanted to save him. I remembered my Girl Scout training, my Lifesavers’ Code, my CPR lessons—but all for naught. He could not have been reached or revived by the time I found him.
But maybe I could do something to find out what had actually happened to him—how he had died. Learning his death was accidental would clear my mind and relieve me; if, however, I discovered that it was a result of foul play, I would be able to see that justice was served.
Also, because of my horrid thoughts about doing away with Dave, I had begun to suspect ordinary people capable of awful things. What if someone close to Howard had done him in? Unfortunately this now seemed plausible to me.
I decided a few questions to Annette and the Tweedles wouldn’t hurt anything. Gentle, but probing. I knew how to do that, like trying to help someone find the perfect book at the library, ask around the edges.
I stretched in bed. I was also worried about what Guy meant by his gesture to me outside the museum—was there any chance he had taken me seriously and was trying to involve himself with Dave? Anxiety often attacked me in the early morning when I was drowsy and vulnerable. I tried to push this thought away.
Yes, I hated that lousy plumber. Yes, he had done me wrong. Even yes, I had said I wanted him dead. But I no longer wanted to be involved with him in any way, and killing him would certainly bejust one more way of staying tied to him. One, in fact, that could send me to prison. I imagined myself for a moment as a prison librarian, wondering what selection of books they would have, seeing myself raising the quality of the books for the inmates. But I quickly decided all connections must be broken.
I loved staying in bed for a while after I woke up. It felt like such a luxury. That was one more thing I hadn’t liked about Dave. He would go from snoring to sitting bolt upright in seconds. I swear, a minute later he was drinking coffee and reading the paper or talking on the phone. Plumbers get up
“Girls,” Caldwell called them and pointed at me. “Please meet Karen Nash. She’s a mystery writer.”
I sat down with a hard thump in the other high-backed chair in the room. I thought I had told him I was incognito. This lie was becoming a tourniquet around my neck. Even my metaphors were getting twisted.
“Well, then maybe she can find out what happened to Howard,” said one of them. I guessed it was Barb.
“Oh, Barb, it was simply Howard’s time. We must accept this,” said the one who I was now sure was Betty.
Barb was wearing the red scarf and Betty the yellow.
“But there’s nothing to find out,” I started, then added, “He died of a heart attack. Isn’t that right, Caldwell?”
Caldwell turned slowly to me, his face ashen. “He did, but we’ve just had news. Apparently the doctor took it upon himself to check his level of digoxin, which Mr. Worth was taking to regulate his heart, and found that it was quite high. High enough to bring on a heart attack.”
“How awful,” I said. “What can this mean? I’ve heard that that medication can be very tricky.”
“It might be a simple matter of doubling up his dose,” Caldwell suggested. “He might have forgotten and taken it again.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Tired from jet lag, getting off of his normal schedule. That makes total sense.”
“Or that awful snit of a wife might have slipped it to him,” Betty said in her flat Nebraskan voice. “And killed him.”
FOURTEEN
The Richest Blend
W hen I woke the next day my first thought was, Had Howard Worth been murdered? I tried to remind myself that it had nothing to do with me, although I was the one who found him, and, somehow, that tied me to his death in an oddly emotional way.
In those few moments when I’d struggled with the fact that he was dead, I had wanted to save him. I remembered my Girl Scout training, my Lifesavers’ Code, my CPR lessons—but all for naught. He could not have been reached or revived by the time I found him.
But maybe I could do something to find out what had actually happened to him—how he had died. Learning his death was accidental would clear my mind and relieve me; if, however, I discovered that it was a result of foul play, I would be able to see that justice was served.
Also, because of my horrid thoughts about doing away with Dave, I had begun to suspect ordinary people capable of awful things. What if someone close to Howard had done him in? Unfortunately this now seemed plausible to me.
I decided a few questions to Annette and the Tweedles wouldn’t hurt anything. Gentle, but probing. I knew how to do that, like trying to help someone find the perfect book at the library, ask around the edges.
I stretched in bed. I was also worried about what Guy meant by his gesture to me outside the museum—was there any chance he had taken me seriously and was trying to involve himself with Dave? Anxiety often attacked me in the early morning when I was drowsy and vulnerable. I tried to push this thought away.
Yes, I hated that lousy plumber. Yes, he had done me wrong. Even yes, I had said I wanted him dead. But I no longer wanted to be involved with him in any way, and killing him would certainly bejust one more way of staying tied to him. One, in fact, that could send me to prison. I imagined myself for a moment as a prison librarian, wondering what selection of books they would have, seeing myself raising the quality of the books for the inmates. But I quickly decided all connections must be broken.
I loved staying in bed for a while after I woke up. It felt like such a luxury. That was one more thing I hadn’t liked about Dave. He would go from snoring to sitting bolt upright in seconds. I swear, a minute later he was drinking coffee and reading the paper or talking on the phone. Plumbers get up
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