Part 4
“You said my statement might create misunderstandings.”
“I was speaking generally.”
“You were looking at me.”
Thomas lifted one palm. “This is not productive.”
Margaret removed her coat and handed it to no one. She folded it over the back of a chair.
“What has Camille told the police?”
“That she added a nutritional supplement provided by a private wellness consultant,” Grant said.
“Name?”
Camille swallowed. “Daria Holt.”
“Credentials?”
“She works with several families we know.”
“That was not my question.”
“She isn’t a doctor.”
“Is she licensed?”
“I don’t know what licenses nutrition people need.”
Thomas said, “Margaret, we should not conduct our own examination.”
“You are correct.” She turned to Camille. “The police may ask.”
“They already did,” Camille said.
“And?”
“I gave them Daria’s number.”
Grant leaned forward. He was forty, broad-shouldered, and graying slightly at the temples in a way that made him resemble Arthur before Arthur became thin. “The important point is that Camille believed the supplement was safe.”
Lena said, “She hid it when I came in.”
Camille’s eyes flashed. “I did not hide anything.”
“You put the stopper back on.”
“It is a carafe. Stopper goes on it.”
“You turned your back.”
“Because you were staring at me.”
“I was staring at what you put in Mr. Wexler’s drink.”
“You have spent years treating me as if I walked into this house to steal the paintings.”
“I’ve never accused you of stealing.”
“You don’t have to say everything out loud, Lena.”
The room became still.
Lena considered the truth in that. She had not trusted Camille from the beginning. Not because Camille was young, beautiful, or new. Those were the explanations Camille preferred. Lena distrusted her because she moved through other people’s work without noticing it. Wet towels appeared on chairs. Half-finished coffee hardened in cups. Staff schedules changed around her lunches. She remembered birthdays when photographs were being taken and forgot them when people were sick.
But dislike was not evidence.
“I saw you drop a capsule into the tonic,” Lena said. “That is what I told the officer. That is what I will keep telling them.”
Camille looked at Margaret. “You see? She already decided what it meant.”
“I decided Arthur shouldn’t drink something his doctor didn’t order.”
“You don’t know that it would have hurt him.”
“No,” Lena said. “Neither do you.”
A uniformed officer entered with a second officer carrying a hard plastic case. Thomas stood and introduced himself. The officers asked everyone except Margaret and Paul to leave the library while they collected the jars from the safe.
Grant objected.
Margaret did not.
They waited in the morning room, where the breakfast table remained set for six though only Arthur had planned to eat there. Sunlight had warmed the silverware. A plate of biscuits sat beneath a linen cloth.
Paul came in and looked at the untouched food.
“I made too much,” he said.
No one answered.
He lifted the cloth, selected a biscuit, and tore it in half. “Still warm.”
Margaret took one. She did not eat it.
Camille stood near the window with Grant. They spoke quietly enough that Lena could not hear words, only the shape of disagreement. Grant’s hand made a short cutting motion. Camille turned away. He reached for her, and she shook him off.
For the first time that morning, Lena wondered whether Grant believed his wife or merely needed to.
Dr. Shaw arrived shortly before noon. He examined Arthur upstairs, reviewed his medications, and came down looking tired.
“Arthur has not been harmed,” he said. “His vital signs are stable. He is angry that no one will explain why police are in his foyer.”
“That sounds like him,” Paul said.
Dr. Shaw did not smile. “I need to know whether he has consumed anything unusual during the past several weeks.”
Camille stared at the floor.
Margaret noticed.
“So do I,” she said.
Arthur came downstairs at one.
No one could stop him.
He wore wool trousers, a white shirt buttoned incorrectly at the collar, and the old green robe Margaret had tried to discard twice. His weight rested on a carved cane. Dr. Shaw followed close behind with the helpless irritation of a physician whose advice had been treated as optional.
Arthur stopped on the last clean stair above the taped section of floor.
“What happened to my carafe?”
His voice was rough from illness but carried through the foyer.
Margaret went to him. “It broke.”
“I can see that.”
“Lena fell.”
Arthur looked at the sling. “Who pushed you?”
No one had told him she had been pushed.
Lena wondered whether he saw it in the room, the way he used to identify which executive had lied before a board meeting began.
Camille stepped forward. “It was an accident.”
Arthur’s eyes moved to her bare feet, then to the police tape, then to Grant.
“What was in the drink?”
“A supplement,” Camille said.
“What supplement?”
“She doesn’t know,” Margaret answered.
Camille flinched.
Arthur shifted his grip on the cane. The effort of standing had brought color into his face, but it was not healthy color. “Why would you give me something you cannot name?”
“Daria said it would help you sleep.”
“I sleep most of the day.”
“It was supposed to improve the quality.”
“By adding it without telling me?”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
Camille hesitated.
Grant stepped in. “Dad, you should sit down.”
Arthur looked at him. “Did you know?”
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
Margaret heard it too. “Did you know Camille had consulted this woman?”
Grant adjusted his cuff. “She mentioned her.”
“Did you know she planned to give Arthur something?”
“No.”
“Did you know she had already given him anything?”
Camille turned toward him.
The movement was small, but it answered before he did.
May you like
Arthur lowered himself onto the bottom clean stair. Dr. Shaw moved to assist him. Arthur waved him away, then accepted help when his knee failed to hold.
“Grant.”
