Part 5
His son stared at the broken carafe.
“What have you given me?”
Grant’s face emptied. “Nothing.”
Camille said, “He didn’t know.”
Margaret looked between them. “That is not the same answer.”
Camille began to cry again. This time the tears came quickly. She wiped them with the heel of her hand, leaving a faint streak of mascara.
“It was only twice,” she said.
Grant closed his eyes.
Arthur’s fingers tightened around the cane. “Only twice what?”
Camille looked at Dr. Shaw. “A sleep aid. That’s all. He was restless. He kept trying to work, and everyone said rest was important.”
“I did not say to sedate him,” Dr. Shaw said.
“It wasn’t sedation.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know the chemical name.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Daria.”
Grant stepped away from her.
Camille saw him move. “You knew I was trying to help.”
“I knew you had tea from her. Powders. Vitamins. I didn’t know you were putting medication in Dad’s drinks.”
“It wasn’t medication.”
Arthur’s cane struck the floor once.
The sound was not loud. Everyone stopped anyway.
“You will not tell me what it was,” he said. “You will not tell me why I was not asked. And you expect me to believe my safety was the purpose.”
Camille’s face folded.
For the first time, Lena saw not the woman who had shoved her, but someone younger, terrified of a door closing.
Grant saw it too. He moved back toward her.
Margaret did not.
“Go upstairs,” Margaret told Arthur.
“This is my house.”
“And you are recovering from pneumonia.”
“I was apparently recovering under amateur pharmaceutical supervision.”
Dr. Shaw placed a hand lightly beneath Arthur’s arm. “Let me check you again. We’ll arrange blood work.”
Arthur resisted for another moment, then stood.
As he passed Lena, he stopped.
“Did she push you?”
“Yes.”
“Because you tried to stop her?”
“Yes.”
Arthur nodded once. The nod cost him more than he wanted anyone to see.
“I’m sorry.”
Lena had no answer ready. He continued upstairs.
The police separated them after that.
Lena gave her statement in the small office beside the kitchen, sitting beneath a corkboard filled with grocery lists, plumber invoices, and a postcard from Paul’s sister in Busan. She described entering the service hall, seeing Camille open the carafe, watching the capsule fall, and approaching her.
The detective, a woman named Keane, asked how far away Lena had been.
“About twelve feet.”
“Was anything blocking your view?”
“The doorway frame, partly. Not her hands.”
“Could the object have been something other than a capsule?”
“It could have been shaped like a capsule and dark red for some other reason.”
Detective Keane wrote that down.
“Have you had prior conflicts with Mrs. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Work.”
“Personal?”
“Work becomes personal in a house.”
Keane glanced up. “Explain.”
Lena considered how to describe years of small abrasions without making them sound like motive.
“Mrs. Mercer thinks I judge her.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does she know?”
“She’s not stupid.”
“Have you ever threatened her employment in the house?”
“She isn’t employed.”
“Have you threatened your own resignation because of her?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Two summers ago.”
“Why?”
“She left her dog in the conservatory during a party. The dog knocked over a table and cut its paw. She blamed a server for opening the wrong door.”
“What happened?”
“Mr. Wexler paid the veterinary bill. Mrs. Mercer apologized to the server.”
“Did you believe the apology?”
“No.”
Keane’s pen paused. “Does that affect what you say you saw today?”
“No.”
“Could it affect how you interpreted it?”
Lena felt irritation rise, then forced herself to let the question remain what it was: necessary.
“I thought she was hiding something before the carafe broke. After it broke, there was a capsule in the liquid. Interpretation had less work to do after that.”
Keane almost smiled.
When the interview ended, Lena returned to the kitchen. Paul had made soup no one wanted. He placed a bowl in front of her anyway.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“My arm hurts.”
“You were shaking before you hurt your arm.”
She ate three spoonfuls. The soup tasted of ginger and chicken, with too much black pepper.
“You overdid the pepper.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I was listening through the door.”
“That doesn’t explain pepper.”
“No. It explains distraction. Pepper was my own bad character.”
She ate another spoonful.
Paul sat across from her. “Camille says she got the capsules from a wellness consultant in Greenwich.”
“So I heard.”
“Police can’t reach the woman.”
“Maybe she’s with a client.”
“Maybe she doesn’t exist.”
“People exist even when they don’t answer the phone.”
Paul rested his hands around a mug. “Grant knew something.”
“Maybe.”
“He made the face.”
“What face?”
“The one people make when a lie arrives before they have prepared the room for it.”
Lena looked at him.
“What?”
“You’ve been cooking for rich people too long.”
“I cooked for rich people before I came here. These people are merely the current sample.”
A laugh escaped her. It hurt her shoulder, and she stopped.
Paul’s expression softened. “You should go home.”
“I can’t drive.”
“I’ll take you.”
“I need to speak to Margaret.”
“You have spoken to everyone except the governor.”
“Margaret will decide what happens to my job.”
Paul leaned back. “Your job?”
“Camille will say I attacked her.”
“She already has.”
“And Grant will believe her.”
“He already does not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I watched him when she said twice.”
Lena folded the napkin with her uninjured hand. “Families can believe two things at once. He can know she lied and still decide I’m the problem.”
Paul looked toward the kitchen door.
“Then let him try to eat after I leave.”
Margaret found Lena in the mudroom putting on her coat.
“You are going home?”
“Paul is driving me.”
“I’ll arrange for someone to stay with you tonight.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“You have a fracture.”
May you like
“A small one.”
“There are no ambitious fractures. They are all simply broken.”
