"The child is already recovering," Mrs. Hopewell observed. "You can't call a pediatrician every time a child sneezes or throws up."
"My mother did," Brook remarked. "Though sometimes she got confused and called the vet."
"The last time the doctor was called, all of Wisteria knew it," Mrs. Hopewell reminded Adrian.
He nodded. "It was most unfortunate. Call the doctor, Louise."
While Emily sat by Patrick's bed holding his hand, Adrian paced back and forth in the room. The expression on his face was calm, his hands steady, but I had observed his son enough to recognize the stiffness in his shoulders and the set of his jaw. He was upset and steeling himself against something.
Brook lounged against the bedroom door. Since he had no affection for Patrick, I wished he had stayed downstairs with Trent and Robyn. "Thank you, Brook," I said quietly, "but I have all the help I need."
He gazed at me, surprised. "I'm not here to help. I'm bored."
Adrian flicked him a look.
I handed Patrick's favorite old picture book to Emily, hoping he would find it comforting to read with her. Outside in the hall, Henry cleaned the Oriental rug. Mrs. Hopewell returned to say the doctor was coming. When the housekeeper told Adrian she wanted to speak to him in the hall, I followed them uninvited, as. did Emily, who closed the bedroom door behind us. The door opened and Brook darted out from Patrick's room, then hung like a roach on the wall, listening.
"No one informed me that Patrick had an allergy to raspberries," Mrs. Hopewell said to Emily. "Not that the dessert was intended for him," she added, glancing at me.
"How could I inform you if I wasn't aware of it?" Emily replied, sounding defensive. "You know as well as I do, he has never had a reaction before, not to berries or to any other kind of food."
"And he didn't now," I said. "He was poisoned."
"Poisoned," Emily echoed faintly.
Adrian turned to stare at me. "Do you mean deliberately?"
"I believe the tainting was deliberate-though it was meant for me, not Patrick. If I hadn't been concerned about him, I would have eaten the entire serving myself. What do you think"-l looked from one face to the next and tried to keep my voice steady-"was the pie meant only to make me ill, so I couldn't care for Patrick, or did someone want to kill me?"
"That's a ridiculous question," said Mrs. Hopewell.
"It is somewhat melodramatic," Emily observed.
"But interesting," Brook added. "In my opinion, the pie was intended to do the same thing that pushing you down the steps was intended to do."
"And what was that?" I asked angrily.
No one answered.
"We'll sort this out, Kate," Adrian assured me. "I want the pie wrapped up," he instructed Mrs. Hopewell "We'll have it tested." He turned toward Patrick's room.
"That won't be possible," the housekeeper said.
Adrian swung around. "And why not?"
"I have cleared it away."
"Then take it out of the trash, Louise." He said each word distinctly.
"I do not put spoiled food in the trash. It may develop a bad odor and attract wildlife. I ground the dessert in the garbage disposal."
"What about the rest of the pie?" Adrian asked.
"The rest!" I cried, frustrated. "Tainting can be done after a piece is cut, done to just one serving. A test will prove nothing."
Mrs. Hopewell went on as if I hadn't spoken. "I thought it best, sir, to dispose of the entire pie."
Adrian grimaced. "Have the doctor speak to me first when he arrives. In the meantime, inform Trent and Robyn of the situation. And take Brook downstairs with you. Kate, I want you to stay with Emily and me." He led the way into Patrick's room.
Patrick was turning the pages of his favorite book, looking at pictures of Max and "the wild things," paging forward and backward. Emily resumed reading aloud. I couldn't tell if Patrick was listening; his eyes followed me around the room as I mechanically straightened things that didn't need straightening. Adrian sat in the rocking chair, motionless, deep in thought.
When the doctor arrived, Adrian met with her briefly in the hall to explain the situation, then introduced her to us as Dr. Whelan, informing Patrick that she was covering for his pediatrician. Emily pointed out the door to Patrick's bathroom, so that the physician could wash her hands before examining Patrick.
She returned to the bedroom with an odd expression on her face. As she checked Patrick's eyes, mouth, and ears, she questioned him.
"Tell me what you ate," she said softly.
"Some of Kate's crackers."
"A package from a vending machine," I told her.
"And some of Kate's pie."
She got out her stethoscope. "What kind was it?"
"Raspberry."
"What else did you eat?"
"Nothing."
"Take a big breath for me. Good. Take another. You ate nothing else?"
"No."
"He had an after-school snack around three forty-five," I said, "a piece of buttered toast and a small glass of apple juice."
"Any tremors, convulsions, labored breathing?" she asked.
"No, ma'am," I replied.
"Patrick, did you have anything to drink later?" No.
"Why don't you whisper the answer to me?" the doctor suggested.
"He didn't have anything else!" I said, frustrated that she wasn't keying in on the pie. "Why do you keep asking him?"