Beatrice Young 7- The Paw-sitively Cheerful Poisoner Read online

  9

  There was a split second when Beatrice was frozen in place. People started to crowd around, asking what was wrong, but she was so shocked she couldn’t respond.

  Then her instincts kicked into place and she reached into her pocket, pulled out her cell, and called Dr. Violet—her trusted local veterinarian.

  “Vi, I think Hamish’s been poisoned,” Beatrice said as calmly as she could as soon as the vet picked up.

  “I’m at the clinic.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  Beatrice gently moved Hamish’s heaving body onto a blanket and carried him out into the car, muscling her way through the throng of onlookers. The other cats tried to follow but Bee firmly shooed them aside. She only had the energy to deal with one of them—and at that moment, Hamish took priority. She drove the short distance to Dr. Violet’s office. The vet was waiting for her and quickly ushered her into the operating room.

  “Bee, I’m going to have to pump his stomach. You’ll need to wait outside. You don’t want to see this, trust me,” she said firmly. Beatrice faltered. “He’s in good hands.”

  Beatrice nodded and backed out of the room reluctantly. She trusted Dr. Violet absolutely. She’d gotten her cats out of a variety of predicaments—encounters with cars, accidental submersion in a bucket of turpentine, and bad fights with other cats were just a few examples. But poisoning was something totally new, or at least that’s what Beatrice suspected was happening.

  She plunked down in a gray felt–covered chair in the waiting room, her mind racing. She tried to recall how close Hamish had been to Ann, if Ann had reached down at some point and placed something in front of the cat to eat. Even if that’s what she’d done, surely Hammy was smart enough not to eat anything she gave him?

  Or was Ann not to blame? Had Hamish simply got into something he wasn’t supposed to—but again, he was usually too smart to do that either. And anyway, why would Ann poison her cat? Why not Beatrice herself? That seemed more in line with her usual behavior.

  People and their pets filtered in and out of the office. The receptionist picked up calls and the radio flicked between pop hits, news updates, and ads. The bright florescent lights burned Bee’s eyes fiercely but she was barely aware of her surroundings. She was almost entirely focused on the empty pit in her stomach. Her mind went blank. She glanced at the clock. She waited. Waited. And waited some more.

  At some point, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up vaguely. Matthew stood there, concern etched on his face. He thrust a tall plastic cup into her hands and she sucked absently at the straw. Matthew knew that even when she was too upset to eat, she’d still drink anything that tasted like chocolate. Her brain vaguely registered the concoction as a banana smoothie with chocolate protein powder. Matthew sat down beside her, his hand still on her shoulder. He didn’t say anything.

  She raised her eyes to his blue ones and looked at him. No words needed to be exchanged—he knew how she felt. He also knew that no words of comfort would do. Matthew was smart enough not to say that it was all going to be okay. Because they were both old enough to know that often things simply weren’t okay and wishing them otherwise wouldn’t do a thing to help. Accepting the not–okay thing and waiting for it to be less not–okay was the only time–tested method of survival. So, holding hands, they waited together for events to unfold as they would.

  Dr. Violet emerged eventually. Beatrice realized that the receptionist had gone home, the radio was turned off, and she and Matthew were the only ones left in the waiting room. “I’m going to need to watch him overnight,” the vet said. “Give him fluids. He’s very weak, Bee. I’m going to need to run tests to figure out exactly what he’s been given but whatever it was, it would have felled a less–robust animal for sure. Hamish is a very lucky boy.”

  “He’s going to be alright?” Beatrice croaked. Her throat was dry.

  Dr. Violet paused. “He’s past the worst of it. But he’s not as young as he used to be. I need to monitor him very closely over the next few hours.”

  Beatrice took in these words. They seemed to indicate that Hamish was not alright, not at all. She struggled with this idea, but was unable to accept it. She felt Matthew’s arm around her shoulders. “It’s late, Bee,” he said softly. “We can’t be of any help here. Better try to get some sleep.”

  She felt herself being guided out of the clinic. The air was frigid; there’d been a cold snap. The chill dug into her bones. Matthew put her in the passenger seat of his truck and she felt herself being bumped all the way to her house. He led her to her front door, as though she was an invalid. There was the faint chirping of spring peepers from a pond somewhere in the forest, and the rustling of the wind in the trees. Inside the house it was absolutely dark. Shadows from the trees outside spread over the wide wood floorboards.

  “The cats?” Beatrice asked.

  “Zoe’s taking care of them tonight.”

  Matthew steered her into the bathroom with a set of clean pyjamas and she changed slowly, numbly. She splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, then stood in front of the vanity, staring at herself absently, until Matthew came in and led her to bed. He put a cup of steaming tea on the table beside her. It smelled faintly of honey. He spread the blankets over her as she rested against the pillows heaped behind her. The glow of light from the table lamp illuminated the dark room. Outside, Beatrice could see the stars sparkling in the sky.

  Matthew sat down next to her and took her hand. “Do you think you can sleep?” he asked.

  Beatrice looked up at him. “I think so. I’m going to try.” She looked at her mug. “You didn’t put something in my tea, did you?”

  A ghost of a smile played over his lips. “I tend to ask people’s consent before I spike their drinks.” He squeezed her hand. “Listen, I’m going to stay here tonight. Make sure you’re okay.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. His lips pressed firmly against her. He smelled faintly of sandalwood aftershave. “I’m not tired yet, so I’m just going to sit in that chair, okay?” He motioned at the plump armchair opposite the bed.

  “I’m not going to off myself,” Beatrice said grumpily.

  “It’s called offering support. Accept it,” Matthew said, rolling his eyes and moving to the armchair. He took out his e–reader from his bag. The screen’s glow lent a pallid cast to his skin. Beatrice sipped her tea, watching him, one eye on her cell on the side table just in case Dr. Violet called. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep a wink, but sometime in the night she slipped into unconsciousness, the sound of Matthew’s breathing luring her into a sense of security.

  10

  Beatrice woke in the early dawn, just as the sun was starting to crest over the distant mountains. Matthew was slumped in the opposite chair, his hands still clutching his e–reader, his head lolling to the side as he snored gently. Her mind was slowly flooded with remembrances—Hamish’s seizure, sitting in Dr. Violet’s office, being taken home. Her thoughts drifted over to the source of all this pain—Ann’s visit to the café, her swift disappearance.

  She grasped for her cell phone. There was a text from Dr. Violet.

  I think he’s stabilized. Someone gave him a toxic dose of aspirin. He’s on IV fluids. I’ll call you in the morning.

  Beatrice’s mind zeroed in one thought: Ann had poisoned her beloved Hamish. He might die because of her. Even worse, she had poisoned innumerable other people. And no one was stopping this woman from harming others just because she had this reputation as the most cheerful, dependable person around.

  Beatrice wasn’t having it. She would stop Ann, immediately, before she hurt anyone else.

  She didn’t have a concrete plan of what she was going to do or where she’d go; nevertheless, she dressed hurriedly in the faint light, scooped Matthew’s keys off the dining table, and went out and into his truck, slowly rumbling off down her gravel driveway. Even if he’d heard the engine start, he had no way of following her. Beatrice headed onto
the country road, away from town, towards the Robinsons. Ann had to be at the cottage she normally rented. She’d have gotten the keys somehow, and with the Robinsons’ estate still being settled, she doubted anyone would be disputing Ann’s tenancy as of yet.

  As she pulled into their driveway, her mind went back to the last time she’d been there—at Anita’s funeral reception just weeks prior. Rich and Janet had both been alive then. This only solidified Bee’s resolve to pursue Ann. She was killing people who she and other Ashbrook folks loved. She couldn’t be allowed to continue.

  Beatrice followed the driveway that continued around the back of the Robinson house. The sky was filling with magnificent tangerine and melon colors. Birds twittered in the tall oaks around her. The cottage was in a corner of the property. It was a little one–floor structure with white wood siding and gray gingerbread accents. No lights were on. Beatrice parked, approached, and tried the door handle. Locked. Her mind seized. What was she doing there and why? What did she expect to do—kill the nurse in her bed?

  No, she’d haul her to the police station. Not really advisable; she wasn’t a police officer, after all. She wasn’t really qualified to be making arrests. But reason was losing a battle with pure rage in Beatrice’s heart and mind. She pounded on the door with her open hand. A light flicked on at the back, there was a shuffling noise, and the sound of the bolt sliding back.

  Ann opened the door. She was wearing a long floral–pattern nightdress and she had a pink nightcap over her hair. She smiled faintly. “Thought I might see you here,” she said, as if it was perfectly natural for someone to come banging on her door at dawn.

  Alarm bells began ringing in Bee’s brain: why would Ann be expecting her? She ignored them and, pushed past the nurse into the cozy kitchen.

  “I want you to come with me to the sheriff’s office,” Beatrice blurted out. “I know you’ve been poisoning people. I know you poisoned my cat, Hamish.”

  “Yes, I did,” Ann said agreeably.

  Well, that was easy. Beatrice was flummoxed. “So you admit to poisoning the Robinsons? And Hamish?”

  “Goodness, yes.” Ann filled an old cast–iron kettle with water and set it on the stove. “If you want to call it that. ‘Poisoned’ makes it sound like I murdered them. I felt sorry for them, poor dears. They were all in so much pain. Poor Mrs. Robinson, so old and frail. And then Mr. Robinson, ill and having to deal with his wife’s death. And poor Janet, both her parents gone within weeks. It was too much for her.”

  “Janet was in so much pain because you killed her parents. Same with Mr. Robinson, you killed his wife! You created the problem, then you treated it with poison!”

  “Oh Bee, you make it all sound so awful. I was just so sad for the poor dears. You’d understand if you were close to them—that you’d do anything to ease their pain. And Hamish, well he’s just an old kitty, isn’t he? It’s his time. Little dear couldn’t resist a bit of peanut butter … with a touch of aspirin, of course. Would you like some tea?”

  Bee glared at her. “You’ve got to be nuts if you think I’m going to drink anything you make.”

  Ann sighed. “Well, I’ll just make a cup for myself then.” She flicked on the gas.

  “And this wasn’t the first time you’ve killed, right?”

  “Of course not!” Ann smiled warmly. “I’ve helped plenty of people in pain. You give them a little more morphine than usual, it’s quite simple really. They fall asleep and never wake up. Quick and painless. And the Robinsons certainly weren’t the first people I’ve helped. I’ve made a long career of making people more comfortable. It’s my life’s work! Let me see, there was Sarah Jones, who caught an awful case of pneumonia. Robert Waters who broke his back, poor dear. His daughter, Anna Waters, well, I don’t remember what was wrong with her. Michaela French, I definitely remember that she had a heart murmur.” A dreamy look spread over Ann’s face, as if she was remembering something particularly good.

  “Those don’t sound like life–threatening illnesses…”

  “Oh well those are just a sampling. I’ve helped patients with cancer, heart disease, chronic pain, and others who’d been in terrible accidents. My, and I started early too. I mean, when I was still a young nurse I took one of my former foster sisters out for ice cream. She was still with a family. I put strychnine in her soda.” She giggled. “I probably shouldn’t have done that. But the poor dear was just so, so unhappy with her family. I hated to see her so sad.”

  Ann snapped off the burner and pulled a tea bag out of jar. The water gurgled as she filled a mug. Beatrice watched her, mouth open. Shock eventually gave way to rage.

  “Do you even realize what you’re doing?” Beatrice sputtered. “You’ve just admitted to … well, I lost count of how many, but a lot of murders.”

  Ann stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea with a thoughtful look on her face. “I suppose I have, if you want to keep calling it by that name: murder. It’s funny, I’ve never talked about this with anyone before. I suppose I knew how it would sound: giving people a little morphine to make them go under, then perhaps a smidgen of atropine to make them perk up again. It’s fascinating how it works. A vial of this, a vial of that; they’re alive, they’re dead.” She leaned her ample hip against the counter, smiling beatifically.

  “And how do you explain that as ‘helping people?’” Beatrice asked hotly. She inched forward slightly. She still wasn’t completely sure what she should do.

  “My dear Beatrice, it’s a little experimentation, nothing more, nothing less. If I’m to help people, I have to know exactly how my medicines work.”

  Bee could see that she was going to only get so far in questioning Ann. In the nurse’s mind, she could do no wrong. And if someone died, well, how could Ann be faulted for that when her ultimate goal was the care and comfort of those around her? She didn’t really mean to kill them.

  Still, Beatrice was as angry as ever with this cheerful poisoner. Images of Hamish limp, vomiting, and convulsing raced through her head. She clenched her hands, trying to prevent herself from launching herself at Ann and tackling her to the ground.

  “Aren’t you afraid I’m recording this?” she said through clenched teeth. “Pretty damning evidence, if I say so.”

  Ann took a sip of tea and then carefully placed the mug back on the counter. “Oh go ahead and record it if you want to, dear. It’ll be of no use to you or anybody. You see, I can’t let you leave here. Not alive at least.” Beatrice started. “Oh come, Bee. What did you think you were going to do here? Drag me off by my hair?” She laughed a high tinkling laugh. “No, I have my future to think about! I have ever so many more patients who need taking care of. And my reputation, no I can’t have you sullying me like that…”

  Beatrice took a step backwards as Ann reached across the counter with one pudgy hand … and withdrew what looked like a syringe from its hiding place. She raised it and squirted out a bit of the liquid so it crested through the air, landing at her feet. “I imagine there’s a little too much morphine in here for the average person. And you’re rather small. Why, you’ll slip right off to sleep, no trouble whatsoever.”

  Adrenaline started to pump through Beatrice’s body. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Her hands shook and her breath came quickly. She knew Ann wasn’t playing around. Whatever was in that syringe would kill her—after all, she’d done this so many times, what was one more person? She carefully circled the other way around the table, her eyes on the nurse, sizing her up. She was a short woman, but stout, and obviously accustomed to moving sick people and doing manual labor.

  Beatrice, on the other hand, was used to typing and eating cheesecake, with the occasional brisk hike thrown in for good measure. It wasn’t going to be brute strength that was going to overcome Ann. No, she’d have to rely on her wits, if they still existed.

  The nurse moved faster than she could’ve imagined—Ann scooted around the table toward her, syringe held high. Bee darted back, moving t
o the other end of the table. The two women faced off for a moment, before Beatrice dashed towards the door. She’d just laid her hands on the doorknob when she realized that Ann had closed the bolt. Then a pair of hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back. Bee spun around and ducked as Ann stabbed the syringe at her.

  Normally this was the time when the sheriff would step in. Or one of the cats would save her.

  But this time … there was no one.

  Beatrice ran out of the kitchen and down the hall. There had to be a back door—she hoped. But the hall was a dead end. Bee ducked instead into what looked like a sitting room. It was neat and filled with fake flowers. Doilies covered every possible surface. Beatrice tried to wrench a window open but it was stuck. She turned around. Cornered. Ann panted in the doorway, the syringe still raised. Her face was flushed yet, despite the exertion, her eyes still sparkled and there was a look of joviality about her.

  “You’re a maniac!” Beatrice panted.

  “Oh dear, that’s not nice.” Ann crept closer. “I mean, I don’t think you know what it’s like to have a childhood like mine—abandoned. Passed from one person to another like a sad houseplant no one wants to care for. Probably made me a little unhinged, I suppose, but I don’t think it’s exactly good manners for you to point it out.”

  She made a sudden leap forward, but Beatrice dodged her and went running back out into the hall. Ann was behind her in a second. Beatrice reached the front door again and tried to yank the bolt open but she felt something heavy strike her from behind. She went down like a sack of potatoes.

  Lying there, she only had a moment to focus on Ann looming above her. Then, there was a sharp sensation in her forearm and everything went black…