Destroying Angels (Leigh Girard Book 1) Page 11

  The wind rattled the outside shutters. “Did you arrange for this spooky weather?” I asked. “And I do want to know Peck's symptoms. I can handle it.”

  Lydia laughed. “Okay, I see you’re not going to let this go. So here’s the deal. You tell me what you know about mushroom poisoning, and I’ll tell you if it sounds like Peck’s symptoms. But let me get the wine first. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  Lydia left the candle on a low table and lit about a dozen more before she went into the kitchen for the wine. She returned with two glasses and an open bottle of chardonnay. She poured each of us a full glass and handed me one before carefully positioning herself on one of the pillows. I sat down across from her and took a deep sip of wine.

  “So Lois Lane, let’s hear what you found out?”

  “Well,” I began, putting my wine glass on the floor. “According to the various books I read, in the case of an amanitas poisoning there are four stages. What makes this poisoning so deadly is that for the first six to twenty-four hours after ingestion, there are no symptoms. And that’s when the poison is working on the liver and kidneys. Though it’s not until the second stage that the first symptoms appear. The person starts vomiting, has diarrhea, and severe stomach pains. If they don’t make the connection between eating the mushroom and the symptoms, a lot of times they think they have the flu or food poisoning. This lasts for about a day. Then there’s a latency period that also lasts for about a day. It’s sort of like the lull before the storm. If a person’s thinks it’s the flu or some other stomach problem, they assume they’re better. But this is when the second and lethal effect of the poisoning occurs, when the liver and kidneys deteriorate. Then the person dies.” I took a deep breath. “And there’s no known antidote. So does this fit what you know about Peck's medical condition prior to his death?”

  Lydia sipped her wine for a moment, and I thought she wasn’t going to answer. “I’m going to spare you the gory details, because I don’t want to have to revive you again. And if you tell anyone I told you this, I’ll call you a liar. Okay?”

  I nodded yes.

  “Peck showed up at the hospital the morning before he died with violent vomiting. Plus bloody diarrhea and mega abdominal cramps. And he was thirsty as hell. Kept screaming for water.”

  I picked up my glass and took another gulp of wine.

  “You want me to go on?”

  I nodded yes.

  “He was a pretty nasty shade of yellow, looked like mustard. Sure sign his liver was shutting down.” Lydia had a grin on her face and she looked flushed. She was obviously enjoying painting the agonies of Peck’s death. “Then there were the urinary problems. He couldn’t, literally. Let’s see, what else? Did I say he was blown up like a balloon? When you pressed on his skin, you could feel the fluid. That evening, he went into convulsions. Almost bit his tongue off. We had to keep a rubber clamp in his mouth for a while and tie him to the bed. Both his liver and kidneys failed completely. Then his heart arrested. And as they say, 'that’s all she wrote.' So what do you think?”

  “Amanita.”

  “No.” She raised her glass. “How's the wine?”

  “It’s good. Nice and dry.” I took another sip and went over the symptoms in my head. “Only two mushrooms fit the whole list of symptoms related to fatal poisoning, along with the relevant geography and season. I’ll bet a paycheck Carl Peck ate either an amanita verna or an amanita virosa.”

  “Amanita what-as?”

  “Both mushrooms are deadly. I think verna is commonly known as Fool’s Mushroom, and virosa is called 'the Destroying Angel.' They look pretty harmless, though most deaths are caused by amanitas. And they grow in Door County."

  “What an apropos name, Destroying Angel, especially when you consider what that mushroom did to him.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t come to the hospital as soon as he had the first symptoms?”

  “Maybe he did,” Lydia answered. “The mushroom toxins must have hit his already damaged liver like a sledgehammer. His system probably started shutting down right away.” She leaned forward and poured me another glass of wine. “How much do you know about Carl Peck?” Lydia asked.

  “Just that he had a history of alcohol abuse. Was a skilled artisan, liked to talk. May have cheated Renn Woulff out of their shared business.” I cradled my glass and tried to settle onto a pillow on the floor. “Could be too friendly in bars, as you yourself told me."

  “Besides his bar habits, let me tell you some other things about Carl Peck. I’m a fairly unbiased observer, since he never wowed me with any of his restoration wizardry or boozy charm.”

  I wasn’t convinced that Lydia was an unbiased observer, considering how uncomfortable she was the last time we discussed Peck, and how much relish she had just taken in describing his death. Still, I was glad she now wanted to give me the low down.

  “Appearance first: he was a jolly looking guy—sort of like Santa Claus, with the flushed face and round belly that shook when he laughed. You get the picture. But when he was younger, supposedly he was strikingly handsome and quite the Don Juan. Of course, I only have the word of one of the nurses who knew Peck way back when. But even though the alcoholism had about destroyed his looks, he remained vain about his appearance. He had a full head of silvery-grey hair that he wore straight back, sort of Rudolf Valentino style. Never wore a hat. I think he wanted to accentuate his strong nose and what was left of his fine features. Pretty obvious where Sarah got her looks.

  "Anyway, his clothes were always neatly pressed and clean. He usually wore a matching grey work shirt with grey pants. Even though he didn’t do many of the hands-on tasks anymore, I think he was cultivating this blue-collar image. He was always friendly, asked how you were doing. All pretty innocuous, right?”

  “Right. So what are you leading up to?” I leaned back against another of the pillows.

  “Well, one Saturday I was at the McDonald’s in Sturgeon Bay. Occasionally, I’ve got to have a fast food fix. It was around lunchtime and crowded. Eva Peck was sitting in a booth in the smoking section, since Carl smoked a pipe. Anyway, I was in the non-smoking section, and I don’t think she saw me. Whatever they ordered must have been a special order, because Carl stood beside the counter quite awhile waiting for his food. When he finally got it, he brought it to the table and threw one of the sandwiches at Eva. And I mean threw. The sandwich bounced off her chest and fell on the floor.” Lydia’s hand went over her heart in a dramatic gesture. “I couldn’t hear what he said, but it was obvious that he was steamed.”

  “What did Eva do? Did she throw something back at him?” That would have been my first reaction.

  “That’s the other interesting part. She left the sandwich on the floor where it had landed, got up from the table and walked quietly out of the restaurant. Carl took his time eating the rest of his food. When he finally left, the one sandwich was still there on the floor.” Lydia sighed deeply. She was the storyteller caught up in her own story.

  I took what she said with a grain of salt, not certain how much had been embellished by Lydia’s need to dramatize. “So, they had a fight. It’s not uncommon for couples to have fights.”

  “Right. But you had to have seen the look Eva gave him when she left.”

  “What kind of a look?”

  “Deadly. Ice cold.”

  “Are you saying that Eva Peck had something to do with her husband’s death?”

  “Her? No, of course not. The point of my story was to show you how out of control Carl Peck was because of his drinking. I could easily see him mistaking a poisonous mushroom for a harmless one.”

  “Because a thrown sandwich is hardly a reason to kill one’s husband.” I thought for a moment. “Though I suppose people have killed for less.”

  “Killed whose husband?” Sarah Peck was suddenly standing in the shadows at the top of the stairs. In the dim light, her dark red lipstick shone black. She was wearing the black leather jacket and matchi
ng leather mini skirt that had become her uniform. I wondered if that had been her attire for her father's funeral.

  “Gossiping as usual.” Lydia tried to make light of the situation.

  “You were talking about my parents, weren’t you? God, Lydia, and with her.” She pointed at me.

  “Guilty as charged. I’m sorry. You want a glass of wine?” Lydia’s diversionary tactic seemed to work. Sarah came into the candlelight and poured herself a glass of wine.

  “I’m not staying if she’s here.” She jerked her thumb at me.

  “Sit down, Sarah. She’s my guest too.”

  “Lydia, I told you, she’s been hounding my mother since my father’s death. Encouraging her delusions.”

  “She’s not here as a reporter. She’s here as an invited participant to our group.”

  “Look, I can leave.” Sarah was piercing me with her hostile glare: the one she’d used on me at Joyce’s funeral.

  “No.” Lydia insisted. “Sarah, you’re understandably upset because of your father’s funeral. Sit down and relax.”

  Why was Lydia being so insistent that I stay? She seemed to have her own agenda that had nothing to do with me.

  “Does she know the rules?” Sarah plopped down so hard on a pillow, I heard air escape. I didn’t trust her acquiescence.

  “I thought I’d wait until everyone arrived.”

  Just then a woman huffed into the room. “Sorry I’m late. Had to wait for the sitter. Barb’s right behind me.”

  “Leigh, I think you know Marge.”

  People at work always seemed to be merging with people I was writing about. A familiar fist closed in my stomach, getting tighter and tighter. The room felt too small already. I was sweating. All I could think about was running away. I took a deep breath. Just give into it, I told myself. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Small world,” Marge said as she sat down.

  “And getting smaller by the minute,” I managed to say in return.

  “Hi guys,” said a tall woman in a blue sweat suit. She surveyed the room. “I know everyone but you.” She pointed at me. “So I guess that makes you Leigh. I’m Barb. Lydia’s told me all about you.”

  “Whatever she said, isn’t true." I was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute.

  “Don’t worry, we all know how Lydia likes to exaggerate. Hey, girl, where’s the wine?” Barb dangled the empty bottle.

  Lydia went into the kitchen and brought back another bottle of wine and passed it around.

  “Okay, now that everybody’s settled, I’ll go over the rules for Leigh and as a reminder for everyone else. Everything said here is confidential. Nothing leaves this room. No one is forced to talk, but you are encouraged. We are here to be supportive, not judgmental, and to work on our spiritual selves. Who wants to start?”

  “You get that, don’t you?” Sarah addressed me directly. “This is confidential. So you can’t use anything we say in the newspaper.”

  “I got it,” I responded, wondering if Sarah had considered that the rules also applied to her. What was she doing in this group? She seemed as far from spiritual as a person could get.

  “If I find out you’ve used anything in any way, I’ll get you.” Her voice had become menacing.

  “Sarah, I know you’re upset about your father. But I invited Leigh, and I feel she can be trusted,” Lydia pleaded.

  “Sometimes I wonder if you can be trusted.” Sarah apparently wasn't going to confine her anger just to me.

  Lydia bit back whatever it was she was going to say, as Sarah added,"You know damn well I’m not upset about my father. He should have died a long time ago and put everyone out of their misery. At least he died as ugly as he lived.”

  “You have every right to feel the way you do,” Marge encouraged, smiling at Sarah. “It’s the same way I feel about my husband when he criticizes me.”

  Sarah laughed derisively. “You have no friggin idea, Marge. It’s not the same at all, in any way. No one here knows, not any of you can know.” She stood up. “Some women’s group. You’re all a bunch of losers. I don’t know why I thought any of this would do any good.”

  We listened in silence to the click of her heels as she stormed down the stairs.

  * * * * *

  It was almost ten P.M. when I drove home down the peninsula. The darkness was absolute. Only as I passed through one of the villages did lights appear and quickly disappear. I was feeling shaky and overtired. Every fear I had ever had about groups had manifested itself tonight. Lydia had dismissed Marge, Barb, and me with an “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Her mantle of control had slipped, and she seemed unable to regain her poise in front of us.

  The wind thundered across the peninsula, and every once in awhile, lightning flashed in the distance, splitting the sky in two. Why had Sarah lashed out at the group? I could understand her fury at me. She saw me as an outsider who kept pestering her mother. Though the accusation wasn’t true, I understood it.

  However, her emotionality about her father was curious. She had said that she was glad he was dead. How had she phrased it, “his death had put everyone out of their misery”? But what really pushed her over the edge was Marge’s innocent remark comparing her situation with Sarah’s. Marge had only been trying to empathize, but Sarah took it as a lessening of her own pain. I’d been a member of enough therapy groups to recognize when a hidden wound was erupting to the surface and there was no way to stop it. It was like watching your skin split open.

  I was no stranger to the ugly side of life, so some obvious and repulsive answers presented themselves to my overworked imagination. Peck had been an alcoholic. Alcoholics were known to lose control, to be abusive. Had he beaten her as a kid or done something worse? But Sarah had said, “put everyone out of their misery.” Who did that everyone include? Her mother? Someone else? Yet no one I’d talked to had said anything about Peck being abusive.

  I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts from the disturbing evening that I hadn't noticed the headlights behind me. Now the driver turned them up to brights; they looked like truck headlights, and they were moving in too close for comfort. As a good defensive driver, I slowed down, hoping whoever was behind me would pass, but they also slowed down and maintained that uncomfortable closeness to my back bumper. Up ahead, I spotted a side road. It was a gravel road that would take me the long way home, but at least I wouldn’t have to contend with this tailgater riding my ass. There were more than a fair share of drunk driving fatalities on the peninsula, and I didn’t want to end up one of them.

  Without giving a signal, I turned sharply onto the side road. I heard the tires of the vehicle behind me squeal. The truck had also turned and was coming up fast behind me. I realized this was no drunk. This was someone who was after me. My heart started beating so fast I thought it might rip a hole in my chest. I pushed my foot down hard on the accelerator. For a moment the headlights receded in my rearview mirror. I took a deep breath.

  It was then that I felt an aggressive thump on my rear bumper, which jerked me forward. The truck was back with a vengeance. I pushed my foot down even harder on the pedal, trying to control my truck as it lurched from side to side on the gravel road. I watched helplessly as the other truck fell back and accelerated again to ram my rear bumper.

  Like a mantra I kept repeating to myself, “Faster, faster, don’t stop, don’t stop.” I accelerated. Now my truck was shaking as it spit up gravel and veered all over the road. My arms ached. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, faster, faster!” My brain was moving as fast as my truck. Maybe I could make it home before this crazed idiot ran me off the road.

  I looked again in the rearview mirror and didn’t see the headlights. I knew what was coming, and braced myself. The truck had pulled alongside of me. For a split second, I thought of all the pain I had gone through with my cancer to live. Was I going to let some nut job get to me out here in the middle of nowhere, and not even know why? Immediately all the fear drained out of me.<
br />
  Before the truck could hit me broadside, I slammed the accelerator to the floor and veered toward the truck. The force of the impact surprised the driver who had been heading toward me. We both struggled to keep our vehicles on the road.

  The last thing I saw was a field opening up and taking me in.

  15

  Wednesday, November 8, Present day

  I must have forgotten to pull the shades because sunlight was streaming through the windows. My muscles ached, and I was nauseous and dizzy. When did the old familiar symptoms from chemo come back? Automatically I ran my hand over my head. Thankfully, my hair felt thick and lush. Yet there was something sticky on my fingers. I forced my eyes open. I was sitting in my truck in the middle of a field. Last night flooded back.

  I quickly looked around. The other truck was nowhere in sight. I was alone except for a flock of crows circling and cawing. I felt the sticky area on my head again and tried to see it in the mirror. There was a small knot of clotted blood near my hairline above my eye. I must have hit my head against the steering wheel.

  The key was still in the ignition. I reached forward to turn the key, and a searing pain tore through the left side of my chest. Quickly I opened the door and vomited. Like an internal explosion, the pain had set off a memory. I was standing in front of a mirror staring at the incised left side of my chest. Seeing the flat, nipple-less expanse. Tears ran down my face and fell over the scar. I couldn’t feel the tears, only the lingering, burning pain of the surgery.

  Out here in the field and the blazing sun, I carefully lifted my blouse away from my body. A large bruise blazed on the left side of my chest in garish greens and purples. I looked under my prosthesis. The skin was pink. No bruise. With great relief, I realized my prosthesis had protected the mastectomy scar.

  Gingerly, I turned the ignition key. The truck started on the first try. I backed up and saw what had stopped my truck last night: a stump jutting out of the dirt.

  * * * * *