Chapter 16 - Arsenic in the Evening Tea
A siren wailed in the far distance—not an ambulance, but the coastal storm horn from the Guilford harbor master.
The gale was blowing in early. Outside, the sky had turned a bruised, sickly purple. Black waves battered the rocks, throwing white foam twenty feet into the air.
"The bridge to the mainland will be closed by high tide at six," Martha said, backing toward the boathouse door. "You have two hours to run. If you stay here, you’re a corpse."
Before Clara could reply, the roar of a car engine tore through the driveway.
Headlights cut through the gloom, sweeping across the boathouse windows.
"Too late," Martha whispered, her face draining of color. "He’s back early."
"Out the back dock," Clara gasped, grabbing the micro-cassette and shoving it into her pocket alongside the unmarked capsules. "There’s a footpath along the seawall."
"I’m sixty-two with bad knees, girl," Martha spat, pulling a small silver snub-nosed revolver from her coat. "I’ll take my chances in the marsh. You run."
Martha slipped out the side door into the howling salt wind. Clara pressed herself flat against the boathouse wall, slipping through the shadows toward the main cottage.
She needed her car keys. She needed her phone. She had left her purse on the kitchen counter.
Clara entered the kitchen through the mudroom. The cottage was dark, the power lines already swaying violently in the gale. The only light came from the blue flames of the gas stove.
Julian was standing by the stove, whistling a low, tuneless melody. He was stirring a pot of dark tea.
Beside the stove sat a stainless-steel medical tray lined with surgical scalpels, clamps, and four ampoules of clear liquid.
Clara froze in the archway, her hand gripping her stomach as a massive, genuine contraction seized her lower back. She gasped, unable to hold it in.
Julian turned around.
He didn't look angry. He looked serene. He was wearing clear surgical gloves.
"You shouldn't have gone out in the storm, Clara," he said gently, turning off the gas flame. "The damp air isn't good for your lungs. But look—I made your tea. Chamomile and valerian. With just a touch of potassium chloride to ease the muscular tension."
"I know about Ethan," Clara said, her voice shaking with rage and terror. She didn't retreat. She stood tall, her hands guarding her womb. "I know you cut his brakes. I know you burned the manor. And I know you paid Morrison to forge his credentials."
Julian paused, holding the porcelain cup in his gloved hands. He sighed, a soft, disappointed sound, like a teacher dealing with an unruly child.
"Ethan was weak, Clara," Julian said matter-of-factly. "He wanted to donate Blackwood to the state historic society. He wanted to turn eighty million dollars into an artist retreat for broken poets. He didn't understand what the Vance name requires. It requires sacrifice. It requires blood."
He took a step toward her, holding the tea out.
May you like
"Drink it," Julian whispered. "It makes the transition painless. If you fight, Morrison will have to use the restraints. And that’s so undignified for my wife."
***
