Page 32 of Murder Will Out
“I’m sorry if I’m prying. Maybe it’s none of my business, but do they have any idea what—”
“Lithium,” Naomi answered shortly. “He’s dealing with a massive overdose of lithium; don’t ask me where it came from.”
Willow blinked in surprise. “Lithium? You mean like the batteries—?”
“I mean like the medication, most likely. Lithium carbonate or something. It’s prescribed for people with bipolar disorder. But Geralt’s not bipolar—his status as a grumpy old reprobate is consistent and overall monopolar—and it’s not a medication he’s ever been prescribed.”
A server came by, setting down by Naomi a pint of dark beer and two glasses of what looked like bourbon. “What’ll you have? It’s on me, or rather on Geralt, and they have like a hundred different kinds of beer here.” She picked up the menu again. “And what about food? You know what,” she said, not waiting for Willow to answer, “I’ll have the brownie sundae.” She set down the menu emphatically. “My husband’s in the hospital, probably dying, I haven’t eaten bread or refined sugar in years, so screw my waistline—this has been a horrible day to end all horrible days, and I want a goddamn sundae. Extra whipped cream, please. You want one too?”
The other woman’s hands were moving a little too erratically, and something in the hard glitter of her eyes made Willow suspect these were not Naomi’s first drinks of the evening.
Willow declined the beer but decided she, too, wanted the goddamn sundae.
Naomi downed one of the bourbons in a single gulp and looked up at Willow, meeting her gaze dead on. “I know what you’re thinking. No, I’m not drunk, and I won’t get drunk, as much as I’d like to. I just…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head in grieving puzzlement. “I don’t know where he would have gotten the meds from. I keep track of his prescriptions, and his doctors have confirmed I have all the details right. Did he get it from somewhere else, or did someone, like, intentionally—I mean, the cops are asking us so many questions.”
She hasn’t quite accepted it, Willow realized.She’s still thinking this could have been an accidental overdose or a drug interaction of some kind. She hasn’t made the jump to “Who tried to kill my husband?”
Then again, Willow thought, if Geralt had been deliberately poisoned, the spouse was always the first person the police looked at—Naomi had access, she had opportunity, and, as his sole heir, she had motive. But Naomi’s bewilderment looked genuine, her sorrow palpable.
Was she that great an actor? Willow didn’t think so.
Impulsively, Willow reached across the table to where Naomi’s hand lay and gave it a quick squeeze; Naomi squeezed back, holding for a moment. Then she let go as the server approached with two heaping bowls of ice cream and fudge sauce.
The whipped cream was clearly homemade, and the ice cream, flecked with vanilla bean bits, melted a little where it met the warm brownie beneath it. The women basked in chocolate-laden bliss for a few minutes before Naomi set down her spoon and faced Willow again, looking uncomfortable.
“Okay, so yeah, I guess I did want some company, but that’s not the real reason I wanted to meet you tonight.”
Willow put down her spoon as well and waited.
“First of all,” she said, “the police confiscated Geralt’s cup from the party, the one he drank from there. Since that was the last place he ate and drank before he—I just feel like you should know.” She leaned in. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you need to be careful who you trust on this island, okay?”
“Your husband said almost the same thing to me, a few hours before he collapsed.”
“Did he?” Naomi asked thoughtfully, picking up her spoon for another bite of hot fudge. “Look. I know you’re new and all, but the thing your aunt and her bohemian second-career friends probably never told you is that most of the folks on these islands have to live through the year on what they can earn over the summertourist season. Less than half of the lobstermen are equipped to fish all winter, and there isn’t enough work.”
Willow protested. “Hang on—first, she’s not my aunt, and second, that’s not fair. How do you—”
“Where do I get off dissing middle-class business owners who love history and the environment and pitting them against the plight of the underemployed worker, when I’m married to the richest guy on the island and walking around in twelve-hundred-dollar boots?” Naomi’s voice took on a slight edge as she jabbed into the sundae. “I didn’t start out here, and I sure never expected to be this person. I was a physical therapist, for God’s sake, living paycheck to paycheck and paying down my student loan debt, living in a one-bedroom apartment I could barely afford like everyone else I knew. I met Geralt when he came in for rehab after his hip replacement. Trust me, this lifestyle isnotwhere I started. Why do you think the blue bloods all hate me so much?”
Because you’re young enough to be his granddaughter and they assume you’re after his money, Willow thought, but didn’t say it out loud. Also,Twelve-hundred-dollar boots? People actually pay that much for footwear?
Naomi grimaced. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be defensive. It’s not you. It’s that house. It’s Effie Cameron. When she died and left the mansion to a stranger—I know, I know”—she held up a hand before Willow could argue again—“she wasn’t a stranger, not really, but around here, if you can’t trace your lineage back six generations, you’re automatically from Away.” There was the silent capitalization again, Willow thought. “So Effie leaves her the house. Then Sue falls in love and is ready to get married—to a woman, yet—and dies suddenly, without a will. If it had been after the wedding, Rina Montalto would have inherited everything, but since Sue died without spouse or children, the house would go to Geralt. Except Rina’s got it all up in her bonnet to do the whole historic-landmark-status thing and maintain the house for the Friendsof the Historical Society or whatever it is, and it’s pissing a lot of people off.”
“Not least your husband.” Willow’s mind shot back to the hushed conversation in the church foyer.
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Geralt was pissed off about everything. And there wasn’t much doubt he’d get the house; Effie’s will was pretty clear.”
“What would he do with it?” Willow refused to refer to Geralt in the past tense, not yet, not one second before she had to. And she noticed, and found it a little off-putting, that Naomi could do it without the slightest flinch.
“He offered to fix it up for us so we could live there, turn it into our dream home and all. But frankly, I wouldn’t live there for any amount of money. The place gives me the creeps; it’s like the walls are always watching me, like they don’t want me there.” She shuddered and picked up the second bourbon, taking a sip. “Everyone says it’s haunted; maybe they’re right. I thought he would sell it off as soon as it was officially his, but he started talking the other day about hanging on to it, so…” She shrugged. “I have no idea what he had in mind.”
Naomi stood, much more steadily than Willow would have expected, and said, “I have to pee, and then I need to call my ride. Be right back.” She walked away from the booth with the studied and too-careful walk of one just sober enough to pretend they are more sober than they are.
Willow sat in thought. Naomi was right about one thing at least—Willow didn’t know how island life worked, as islanders seemed bent on reminding her. Naomi’s plea rang with passion and sincerity, and it almost made sense.
Still—the rest of the island may not know Cameron House remained occupied, but Willow did. Even if it weren’t, there had to be some option besides Hank Ramsey tearing it down and building a hotel as tasteless as his comb-over.
She hadn’t told Naomi about hearing the argument in the church vestibule. Was it because she didn’t want to burden her further?
