but after trying the hall powder room door--locked, with audible retching sounds emerging--I passed by the kitchen and saw three guests fighting for room at the sink while another was lying on the floor with her head propped over the dog's waterbowl. That's it, I told myself. I'm going home while I still can.
It wasn't easy. My head was beginning to ache badly, and even though it was twilight, the light hurt my eyes. I made it up the Brewsters' driveway and almost to the end of the next yard when the dizziness got so bad I had to stop and clutch the fence to stay upright. A horrible cramp went through my stomach, and I felt a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to strangle whichever of the Labs was barking just inside the fence.
'Meg?' I opened one eye to see Michael, with Spike in tow. Spike was trying to claw his way through the fence to get at the Labs. Serve him right if he succeeded, I thought.
'Meg, are you all right?' I shook my head, then wished I hadn't.
'Samantha's poisoned us all,' I gasped. 'At the shower. Food poisoning.'
'For God's sake, why didn't you stay there if you're sick.'
'No place to be sick,' I muttered. 'Can't even squeeze into a john. Everyone's having hysterics. Going home to be sick in peace.' I began to lever myself off the fence and toward home.
'Hang on a minute, damn it! Let me set Spike loose and I'll help you. He can find his own way home.' He caught up with me before I'd gone two steps, and picked me up remarkably easily, considering that I'm neither short nor skinny.
'What if I throw up on you?' I protested feebly.
'It'll wash out.'
I shut up so he could save his breath for carrying me. Mother, Dad, Jake, and Mrs. Fenniman were sitting on the porch chatting when he staggered up with me.
'Someone should get over to the Brewsters' house right away,' Michael ordered. 'Apparently all the guests are dropping like flies from food poisoning. Don't worry, I'll take care of Meg.'
All four of them took off immediately. Even, wonder of wonders, Mother. Dad had his ever-ready black bag, so I figured I could stop worrying about the others. Michael carried me upstairs, correctly figured out from my feeble gestures which bathroom I wanted and deposited me there just in time.
It was a long night. About the time I thought I had finished throwing up, some of the neighbors began setting off their fireworks, and for some reason that set me off again. Maybe it wasn't the neighbors' fault; maybe I was destined to get the dry heaves at about that point anyway, but the light hurt my eyes, the noise made my headache worse, and I wasn't in the mood for celebrating anything.
I think Dad came by once or twice to check on me. Michael stuck it out to the end, holding my head when I threw up, and then always ready with a glass of water, a clean washcloth, or a cold compress. It's a good thing it's Michael seeing you puking, I told myself, and not Mr. Right. I couldn't bear to think of Mr. Right, whoever he might turn out to be, seeing me heave my guts up seventeen times in succession. It was embarrassing enough having Michael see it.
Tuesday, July 5
I spent the next day in bed, as did most of the rest of the guests at the shower. I was one of the lucky ones; some of the other guests had also had diarrhea and convulsions. Dad had to send some of the worst cases off to the hospital. To Mrs. Brewster's complete mortification, the local paper ran a story about the incident, making it sound a great deal more hilarious than any of us in attendance thought it had been. I slept a lot. Mother and Eileen were too worried about me to mention any of the thousand tasks that weren't getting done, and Samantha was in the hospital. What a pity I spent most of this unexpected respite sleeping. And playing with the kitten, since no one had found the time to take him back to Mrs. Thornhill.
Wednesday, July 6
Perhaps the worst thing about being sick in bed is that everyone knows exactly where to find you. Barry attempted to smother me with attention. Dad shooed him out as often as possible, along with various neighborhood ladies who dropped by to report how bravely poor Samantha was holding up and how she was still doing everything she could to keep the wedding plans moving. Since the only thing I could discover she'd done was call me up three or four times to issue new orders and complain about the things I hadn't felt well enough to get done, a certain lack of cordiality tended to creep into these conversations.
But Dad liked Michael, or at least found him entertaining, and so didn't shoo him away as he did with most of the people who came to visit. In fact, Michael made me feel much better by reporting that he had convinced Mother that the blue fabric still in hiding at Pam's was the perfect thing for the living room, if only it could be found. He brushed away my repeated grateful thanks--about the fabric and his nursing services--and regaled me with the outrageous antics of the various bridal parties who'd been in and out of the shop all week. I was actually in a reasonably good mood when Dad dropped by with news that only he would have considered cheering for a recovering invalid.
'It wasn't food poisoning, you know,' he said, with enthusiasm.
'Then what was it?' I asked. 'Surely we weren't all simultaneously overcome with the force of Samantha's personality? After all, she was a victim, too.'
Michael sniggered, but Dad, full of his news, ignored my sarcasm.
'Some sort of vegetable alkaloid in the salsa,' he said.
'How does that differ from food poisoning?' I asked.
'It wasn't something that ought to have been in the salsa to begin with,' Dad explained. 'Probably something in the amaryllis family. I've had the residue sent to the ME in Richmond, but we may not be able to tell much more. It was out in the heat rather a long time before anyone thought to preserve it.'
'How remiss of me,' I said. 'Poor Pam! She must be frantic; it was her secret recipe for the salsa, after all.'
'The sheriff and I have both questioned Pam about the salsa, and it's hard to see how she could have done it by accident,' Dad said. 'The dishes she used to prepare it were still in her kitchen and showed no traces of poison, so it must have been added after she put it in the two serving bowls. And none of the kids admit to having played any tricks with it, and I believe them. There's just one thing that bothers me.'
'Just one?' Michael muttered.
'The rigged fuse box was probably directed at me,' Dad said. 'But these last two incidents--the bomb and the poisoned salsa--they were directed at you, Meg.'
'Not necessarily,' I said. 'The bomb, yes; but the salsa was probably aimed at you.'
'I wasn't even invited to the shower,' Dad protested.
'Yes, but the killer could have guessed you'd show up to nibble on the food before the party started,' I said. 'Everyone in town knows to fix more food than they need for a party, to feed the nibblers. And you're king of the nibblers.'
'That's ridiculous,' Dad said, but his face had turned a bright red that suggested he saw the truth, even if he wouldn't admit it.
'It's a good thing you were busy elsewhere all day,' I went on. 'If two bowls of salsa split among twenty people did all that damage, imagine what it would have done to you if you'd scarfed down a whole bowl the way you usually do with salsa. The only reason we had two bowls of the stuff is that you usually finish off one before the guests get to it, so Pam always makes one for you and one that she hopes you won't find.'
'Oh, well,' Dad said, looking shaken and not bothering to protest. 'Good point, I suppose. Anyway, there's no way Pam could have accidentally introduced a potentially fatal dosage of a highly toxic vegetable alkaloid into the salsa.'
'That's a relief.'
'The question is, who tampered with the salsa after Pam finished with it?'
'And why? Was it aimed at you, or Meg, or just at causing maximum death and injury?' Michael put in.
