I stood, then sat again, feeling foolish that I’d thought I could do something about Clarissa’s illness. She’d been dead of one cause or another—old age, I hoped—for well over a century. Still, it might be interesting to do some Internet research on household poisons of that era and see if I could match anything with Clarissa’s symptoms. I’d use the computer at the salon next time I was there and search the Internet.
Better yet . . . I dug through my purse for the card Stuart Varnet had given me. I didn’t know if he’d be back at work yet after his near drowning, but it was worth a phone call. I ran my finger over the embossed agency name as I dialed: “Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry.”
“Varnet,” he answered the phone.
“Hi,” I said, feeling awkward. “This is Grace Terhune. I—”
I was spared the embarrassment of explaining who I was. “Grace!” He sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. “Are you in Atlanta? I’m clearing my schedule right now so I can take you to Bacchanalia. It’s my favorite restaurant in the city.”
“No.” I laughed. “I’m still in St. Elizabeth, waiting for the hurricane. But I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Does your job have anything to do with poisons directly? Do you know anything about them?”
“ ‘Poison’ is my middle name,” he said cheerily. “Shall I tell you about my organic chemistry degrees and my dissertation on industrial poisons?”
Dissertation. He must have a PhD. He didn’t trumpet his degree on his business card and that modesty made me more comfortable. “If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you something.” I told him about Clarissa’s letters, about her father’s death, and her illness. He didn’t interrupt and I finished with, “So, I was wondering if there might have been a poison in the eighteen hundreds that would have those effects.”
“Plenty,” Stuart said. “Mercury, lead, arsenic. And that’s just for starters. I don’t suppose your Clarissa and her father were metal workers?”
“No,” I said. “They owned a plantation.”
“Almost as good,” Stuart said. “Arsenic was widely used for rodent control and, of course, upper-class women used lead in their makeup. And arsenic was actually used as a medicine. Any chance this Cyril Rothmere had syphilis?”
I stored that thought away to ponder later. Hadn’t Lucy Mortimer said Cyril had a reputation as a philanderer?
“Doesn’t arsenic kill quickly?” I asked, vague memories of a high school production of Arsenic and Old Lace drifting through my mind. The old men had keeled over pretty quickly after drinking the poisoned tea, if I remembered correctly.
“It depends on the dose,” he said. “Small doses can actually build up a tolerance, but they would produce the tummy problems you mentioned. It’s too bad you don’t have a hair sample.”
“Hair? Why?”
“In people exposed to arsenic over a long period, traces appear in the hair. Or fingernails would also work if you’ve got some nail clippings?”
“Afraid not.”
“Even a single strand would do it,” he said, clearly enthused by the subject. “A little synchrotron radiation based X-ray fluorescence spectroscopy or microparticle-induced X-ray emission and we could nail it. Without a sample, though, I can’t narrow it down much for you.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “At least you’ve been able to tell me they might have been poisoned.” Although that didn’t go a long way toward helping me figure out if it was accidental or deliberate.
“Sorry I couldn’t help more,” Stuart said. “Let me know if you come up with a sample.”
“Sure.” Fat chance of that, I thought, hanging up.
As I pulled the next letter from the box, my phone rang.
“Glad I caught you,” said a vaguely familiar voice on the other end of the line. “This is Merle.”
Merle? My mind raced, trying to place the caller. “Yes?” I said cautiously.
“I was wondering if it might be possible for you to come by the school this afternoon to shave the heads of the folks who ‘won’ the fund-raiser. I’m afraid I’m one of them.” He laughed.
Principal Kornhiser. Of course. I pictured him sitting cross-legged on his orange pillow, the phone tucked between his chin and shoulder. He kept talking before I could jump in.
“The school board has decided to close the school tomorrow and Friday—they have to take snow days in New York and Minnesota; we have to factor in hurricane days here!—and so we’re moving up our pep rally to this afternoon. I know it’s an inconvenience—”