Bloodroot Read online

  She led Jane to the couch and gently pushed her onto it. “A cup of hot chocolate with rum. That’ll fix you up good. You need something in your belly. Never you mind about that Dr. Mann.”

  Jane looked up, her eyes blurred with tears. “I despise that man. I loathe the ground he walks on.”

  “You listen to me,” Abigail said. “I know what’s best. Known you since before you was Davina’s age. You keep up your strength. We’ll set things right, you and me. I’m calling Mrs. Mann right now and inviting her to tea to meet her husband’s daughter.”

  Jane brought her hands up to her face. “Oh, my God, Abigail! No! Don’t do it.”

  “Wait and see, Missy. Things will turn out all right.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Mann drove from Jane’s to Morrice the florist and picked out a bouquet of yellow roses. A dozen of them.

  “Yellow roses mean a broken heart,” said the florist, an attractive woman who looked like Jane, but with dark hair instead of platinum. “I hope that’s not the case.”

  “No, she just loves the color yellow.” He didn’t believe in that language of flowers nonsense. He didn’t think Jane did, either. He wrote out a check and the florist assured him they’d be delivered that very afternoon.

  “Have a pleasant evening,” she said with a knowing smile.

  * * *

  “Mrs. Mann?” Abigail asked the voice that answered the phone.

  “Yes. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “My name is Abigail Baker. You don’t know me, but I work for a lady employed at your husband’s clinic.”

  “Oh, no!” A voice of alarm. “What’s happened?”

  Her reaction set Abigail back for a moment.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Mrs. Mann. I’m the nanny for the lady’s baby and she wanted me to invite you to tea so she could meet you.”

  A long silence and Abigail thought at first that she had been disconnected. “Mrs. Mann?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m still here.” Another pause. “It’s just that … I don’t know. Something apparently happened at the clinic today. I’ve gotten several calls telling me an ambulance was there and asking me why, and I don’t know the answer. I haven’t seen my husband all day.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That must be unsettling.” Abigail decided it was not up to her to explain about Mrs. Wilmington’s death and about her husband’s visit to her lady. “I wish I could tell you, ma’am. My lady is Dr. McBride’s new assistant, Jane Douglas.” Abigail wondered if Mrs. Mann would recognize the name.

  Another pause.

  “Dr. McBride,” Mrs. Mann repeated. “Isn’t she the new dentist?”

  “Yes, ma’am, she hasn’t been there a year yet.”

  “And her assistant. She must be fairly new, too. What did you say her name is?”

  “Jane Douglas, ma’am.”

  “I don’t know much about my husband’s work or the people who work for him. He prefers to keep work and home separate.” Another pause. “You have a lovely voice, Abigail. Are you from Jamaica?”

  “Thank you. Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you say you’re Jane Douglas’s nanny?”

  “I’m now her baby’s nanny, but when Ms. Douglas was a baby I was her nanny, too.”

  “Wonderful. What did Ms. Douglas want of me again?”

  “She’d like to invite you to tea, ma’am. She wanted to meet you, but it’s not easy for her to leave the baby. Except to go to work.”

  “My children are old enough to be left alone now, so I would be available to accept her invitation. I’m free almost any day.” She paused. “It’s time I got to know some of the people my husband works with.”

  “Would Thursday be convenient, ma’am? At four thirty?”

  “I think so. Let me check my calendar.”

  Abigail waited.

  Mrs. Mann returned to the phone. “Thursday at four thirty would be lovely. Will others be there?”

  “No, ma’am. Just Ms. Douglas and you.”

  “You’ll have to tell me where you live.”

  Abigail gave her directions and told her where she could park near the house.

  “That’s right on the harbor, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I look forward to meeting Ms. Douglas and the baby. How old is he?”

  “She’s a girl, ma’am, almost two years old. Her name is Davina and she’s a pretty little thing. Very bright.”

  “You must be proud of her.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “I’m sure you’re a good influence on Davina.”

  “I hope so, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “What can I bring?”

  Even though she’d been with Jane’s family for at least twenty-five years and had spent much of that time on Martha’s Vineyard, Abigail had never become accustomed to the Vineyard tradition of potluck everything. Invite someone to dinner and they say, “What can I bring?” and you tell them, “Either salad or dessert.” Or main course. Or mashed potatoes. Should she suggest something Mrs. Mann might bring? Perhaps something for Davina.

  So she said, “Davina loves those little boxes of animal crackers.”

  Mrs. Mann laughed. “That’s what I’ll bring. Thank you so much.”

  “We’ll see you on Thursday, then, Mrs. Mann.”

  * * *

  Abigail had just headed from the kitchen phone to the downstairs bedroom to tell Jane Mrs. Mann had accepted the invitation for tea when there was a knock on the door. She answered and accepted the florist’s bouquet in a tall glass vase.

  “She’s not going to like this one bit, Dr. Mann,” Abigail murmured to the flowers. “You don’t know my little girl.” She cradled an opening bud in her hand. “Pretty, though.”

  “Who was that, Abigail?” Jane appeared from the bedroom. She’d changed into her black watch flannel bathrobe and was brushing her hair.

  Abigail offered her the vase of flowers without a word.

  Jane plucked out the card, read it, tossed her hairbrush aside, and tore the card into pieces. She threw the pieces onto the floor and stamped on them. She lifted the roses out of the vase and flung them into the wastepaper basket. “The nerve of him. Yellow roses? Is he that stupid?”

  Abigail picked the roses out of the trash. “Not the flowers’ fault.” She straightened a bent stem. “Mind if I keep them?”

  Jane turned and the hem of her robe made an angry swish around her. “Take them away. I don’t want to see them.” She swiveled back again. “You know what yellow roses mean? Do you?”

  Abigail shook her head. “Don’t believe in that stuff.”

  “Well, he couldn’t have sent a plainer message. Yellow roses for infidelity. Yellow roses for betrayal. How about that?”

  Abigail buried her nose in the flowers. “They’ll surely look pretty on my dresser.”

  She would wait until later to tell Jane about Mrs. Mann and their engagement for tea.

  * * *

  Arthur lived on Snake Hollow Road, where he’d built a cabin on a small fenced lot. Two rooms, one a bedroom, the other a combination kitchen and living room with a toilet and shower off to one side.

  As he pulled up to his place, a large dog greeted him with a basso profundo bark, paws up on the chain-link fence, tongue out. He was a huge dog of an indeterminate mix, maybe shepherd, husky, boxer, collie, Lab.

  Arthur opened the gate, bent down, and ruffled his fur.

  “Hey, Dog. Home early.”

  He went into the house and got a leash, which he didn’t fasten to Dog’s collar, and the two went for a long walk on a path that ran behind his place. He tossed sticks that Dog fetched until Arthur tired of it and sat on a fallen log beside the path. Dog chased squirrels and searched for game until he, too, tired of it and lay down next to Arthur.

  “What do you think, Dog. Gave Miz Douglas a ride home. How about that?”

  Dog thumped his tail.

  “First time she noticed I was alive, Dog. Glad enoug
h for me to give her a ride home.” He bent down and picked up a small stick. Dog’s ears perked up and he lifted his head. Arthur broke the stick in half, then in half again, and dropped the pieces.

  Dog laid his head back down on his paws.

  “Pretty rough on a lady like her watching someone die in front of her eyes.”

  Twigs snapped and last fall’s dead oak leaves crackled on the path. Arthur and Dog both looked in the direction of approaching footsteps.

  An older man, tweed hat, plaid shirt, walking with a cane. “Howdy, Arthur. Hey, Dog. How’re you two doing?” He stopped and leaned on his cane. “Off from work this early?”

  “What d’ya say, Mr. Tabor. Too nice a day to be at work,” said Arthur, not wanting to go into details of his morning.

  “You can say that again.” John Tabor reached into his pocket and brought out a treat. “Always prepared to run into you and Dog. Okay with you if I give him this?”

  “Sure. Be his friend for life.”

  John Tabor held out the biscuit to Dog, who sat up and wolfed it down. Then he stood up as straight as he could, stretched, and took a deep breath. “Roses, honeysuckle, and the sea.” He let out his breath. “Best perfume in the world. Taking my noon constitutional. Not enough days in the world like this.”

  “Right,” said Arthur.

  “Be seeing you two.” John lifted his hat and shuffled off down the path.

  Dog lay down again.

  The footsteps died away. Arthur picked up another dead twig and snapped it in half. Aside from his ears perking up again, Dog didn’t move. He snapped the twig pieces in half again and tossed them aside, got to his feet. “I’ll keep an eye on her, Dog. Make sure she’s safe.”

  CHAPTER 9

  On the way home in the police car Roosevelt was thinking about the line between life and death. Would Vivian still be alive if he hadn’t stopped for his bottle of Scotch? If only he’d spent less time at the liquor store. If only …

  “Mr. Mark.” The police officer driving interrupted Roosevelt’s thoughts. He looked him straight in the eye in the rearview mirror. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t go there.” He looked back at the road. “There was nothing you could have done differently. You did your best.”

  * * *

  Once home, Roosevelt stripped off his wet clothes and took a long hot shower. After he toweled himself dry, he found his spare glasses and dressed in clean slacks and shirt. He fixed himself a Scotch on the rocks from PJ’s bottle of Dewar’s, since his own bottle lay in shards by the harbor, and settled into his recliner.

  He needed desperately to tell his partner about his horrendous morning. Two deaths. But PJ would be seeing patients for the rest of the day and Roosevelt didn’t want to disturb him.

  Indelibly printed on Roosevelt’s brain was the sight of Vivian’s flowered skirt billowing up out of the murky water, a gigantic jellyfish, an inflated plastic bag floating amid the harbor’s rubbish. Such an undignified end.

  He sipped the Dewar’s, then held the stubby glass up to the window. The Scotch intermingling with ice ranged from pale gold to robust amber. He swirled the glass to watch the shifting shades of color, then set it down on a napkin on the end table.

  Why had she killed herself?

  Was it possibly an accident? Had she gotten out of the car for a breath of fresh air, wandered over to the harbor to view the boats, had a dizzy spell, and fell?

  He sipped his Scotch. What had gone through her mind?

  Of course she was upset about Mrs. Wilmington’s death. The entire staff was. Think how Mann must feel. Dr. McBride, whose chair Mrs. Wilmington was in. Jane Douglas, McBride’s assistant. If anyone on the clinic’s staff could be called fragile, it was Jane. Think what it must be like now for her.

  He felt a momentary anger at Vivian for the inconvenience of it all. His lost glasses, his wet clothes, his useless attempt at lifesaving, his Glenlivet. What had she been trying to prove?

  And what had she meant by her last remark? Something like if only she hadn’t answered the phone. Strange.

  He stood up. Past lunchtime. He usually ate promptly at noon, sometimes with Sam Minnowfish, driving the short distance from the clinic to the restaurant at the airport.

  He had no idea what was in the fridge. That was PJ’s bailiwick. He picked up his glass and sipped the last drops. Ice bumped against his mustache and he blotted his mouth with the napkin.

  Someone would have to notify her next of kin. He supposed the police would take care of that. He had no idea who her next of kin might be, or whether they even existed, for that matter.

  He thought about pouring another drink and decided he’d really better eat something.

  The sound of Mrs. Wilmington’s screams echoed in his brain and would, he knew, for a long time. The screams were like a tune he couldn’t stop hearing. The screams and the sight of her being hustled out on the stretcher. Was that a reason for Vivian to kill herself? Was she that sensitive? He didn’t think so.

  He rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass and glanced out the window at the view that always soothed him. His and PJ’s house was situated on a cove of Sengekontacket Pond with a view that encompassed vast beauty. Above the pond the wide sweep of sky produced ever-changing weather. Hawks, gulls, terns soared and dipped. Along the barrier bar that separated the pond from Nantucket Sound he could see cars, tiny in the distance, heading toward Oak Bluffs or Edgartown. On a clear day like today he could see the thin band of the mainland.

  What had possessed her to give up this Island’s beauty?

  He went into the small kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and stared at the food within. What did he want? Nothing. He shut the door, poured himself another glass of Dewar’s, and sat back in his recliner, turning to face the view.

  * * *

  That was where PJ found him when he came home hours later, asleep in the chair, mouth open, eyes closed, one arm flung across his chest, the other almost touching the floor, and the bottle of Dewar’s on the table next to a full glass.

  PJ, tall, blond, blue-eyed, leaned over Roosevelt. “I gather you had a rough day,” he said softly. When Roosevelt didn’t stir, PJ covered him with a light blanket and went quietly into the kitchen. Roosevelt would wake up to the smell of dinner. In the meantime, let him sleep.

  * * *

  Elizabeth came home from the harbor early that afternoon, clearly upset. “I was listening to the news, Gram. Mrs. Wilmington died.”

  Victoria had been thumbing through seed catalogs. She pushed her chair away from the cookroom table. “Have they determined the cause of death?”

  “Not yet. By the way, how’s your tooth?”

  “It only bothers me when I eat,” said Victoria. “Her poor grandchildren.”

  “Her soon-to-be rich grandchildren,” said Elizabeth. Then, seeing her grandmother’s expression, she changed the subject. “Isn’t it late in the season to be going through seed catalogs?”

  “I lose myself in them,” said Victoria. “It was such a dreadful morning. I was hoping to forget Mildred.”

  Elizabeth sat across from her grandmother and picked up the catalog Victoria had been studying. “You’ve marked bloodroot?”

  “I’ve been meaning to grow it for some time,” Victoria explained. “I found a seed company that offers plants. They won’t ship it until fall.”

  “Bloodroot sounds like the Wilmington kids and their grandmother … or a dental procedure.”

  “Actually, it is used in dentistry,” said Victoria. “To reduce plaque buildup.”

  Elizabeth set the catalog down on the table. “When I was in college we went on a botany field trip to the Smoky Mountains. The bloodroot was in bloom all over the mountainside. We pulled up a plant to see its roots and the sap did look like blood.”

  Victoria pushed aside the stack of catalogs. “Everything I do today recalls Mildred Wilmington. Dentists, bloodroot.” She glanced at the stack of seed catalogs on the table. “I can’t throw them out. I
always imagine my gardens will look like the ones pictured, but they never do.”

  Elizabeth indicated the lush flower garden pictured on one of the catalogs. “I prefer yours to those.”

  Victoria pushed her chair back and stood. “I think I should make a condolence call on the Wilmington grandchildren.”

  “Right now?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Tomorrow would be better.”

  Elizabeth checked her watch. “I’ll see if there’s anything else on the news about Mrs. Wilmington.” The radio they seldom listened to was on the lower shelf of the bookcase. Elizabeth switched it on.

  But the only news was of a woman drowned in the Oak Bluffs harbor. The victim’s name was being withheld pending notification of next of kin.

  “How sad.” Victoria headed to the kitchen. “I wonder if she’s someone we know?”

  * * *

  The fragrance of biscuits baking and the sounds of dinner cooking awakened Roosevelt. He hadn’t remembered putting the fleece blanket over himself. The view of sky and sea was velvet black, punctuated by stars and the long-thrown headlights of cars moving along the barrier bar. It took him several moments to recall what had happened that morning.

  He tossed off the blanket and got to his feet.

  PJ looked up from the stove and greeted him. “Morning, sleepyhead.” He opened the oven door, brought out a pan of biscuits, and set them on top of the stove. “It looks like you had quite a day. Went for a swim, judging by the heap of wet clothes in the bathroom. And a pre–five o’clock drink? A nap!”

  Roosevelt sat down at the table. “You won’t believe it,” and he told PJ about Mrs. Wilmington’s seizure and the drowning of the receptionist. “And to top it all off, I broke my bottle of Glenlivet.”

  “A thoroughly disagreeable day,” PJ said. “I was listening to the radio on my way home. Your Mrs. Wilmington died.”

  “We heard.” Roosevelt set his elbows on the table, lowered his head onto his hands. “The way she sounded. She sounded like death.”

  PJ patted his partner’s back. “A good meal will help.”

  Roosevelt shook his head. “I don’t think I can eat a thing.”

  PJ set a platter of chicken thighs baked over a bed of rice on the table along with a bowl of broccoli, a salad, biscuits.