“Uda made this with her own hands!” Davina fluted, the snakes writhing. “Each layer of cake is no more than five millimeters thick, and the butter cream is also five millimeters thick, flavored by Grand Marnier. The top is sugar-and-water boiled to crisp, transparent amber glass. And the entire cake is for the many years John has been away, while the glassy top, which must be broken before the past can be eaten, is tonight. Eat up, my friends, eat up!”
“A minute, Vina, give me a minute first!” Max shouted, surging to his feet. “I want you to lift your glasses to Dr. Jim Hunter, whose book on nucleic acids and their possible philosophical meaning is shortly to be published by the Chubb University Press, whose printers we have been for over twenty years. Head Scholar Carter assures me that it’s going to be a popular bestseller. To Dr. Jim Hunter and his amazing, thought-provoking book, A Helical God!”
Good old Max, thought Millie, letting the most divine cake she had ever tasted dissolve gradually on her tongue. He could not resist showing Jim off for John’s benefit, always assuming that he had no idea we knew each other in the old days. And why would he know that? John’s advent is a shock.
Then the worst fate of all struck Millie; she was herded to the living room with Muse Markoff and expected to have coffee apart from the men, all gone to Max’s study. Not fair! What can I talk about, for God’s sake? They wouldn’t know a benzene ring from a curtain ring or an hydroxyl ion from a steam iron!
Luckily Davina and Muse, living across the street from each other, had plenty to talk about; Millie sat back and sipped much better coffee than she was used to, stomach pleasantly full and most of her spare blood supply more concerned with digestion than deep thoughts. Her eyelids drooped; no one noticed.
The door flew open upon a white-faced Max.
“Muse, Al needs his medical bag urgently,” he said.
Good wife, she was gone in under a second for the front door, the tiny maid Uda running at her elbow to steady her.
“What is it?” Davina faltered, all resemblance to Medusa vanished. “Let me see!”
“No!” he barked.
To Millie’s astonishment, Davina sank back into her chair at once. “What is it?” she repeated.
“John’s having some kind of attack. Ambulance!” And he rushed to the phone, gabbled into it that Dr. Al Markoff needed a resuscitation ambulance immediately — uh, yeah, address …
By this time Muse had returned, Uda carrying a seemingly heavy black leather doctor’s bag. Max snatched it.
“Stay here, all of you,” he said.
The minutes ticked by, marked out on a gigantic, fanciful clock sculpted into a wall; the women sat frozen, mute.
An ambulance came very quickly; the vigilant Uda let in two equipment-encumbered physician’s assistants and ran them to the study, then returned to take up her station beside Davina, who looked wilted and terrified.
Jim appeared, went straight to Millie.
“John is dead,” he said abruptly, “and Dr. Markoff says it’s suspicious.” The green eyes were stern, level. “I thought of the missing tetrodotoxin.”
Her skin lost all its color. “Jesus, no! How could it have gotten here, for God’s sake?”
“I don’t know, but if you can help, Millie, then help. Call your father and tell him what’s happened. The symptoms sound as if it was injected. If the pathologist acts quickly enough, there may be a chance he can find tetrodotoxin in the form of its last metabolites. There’s blood drawn, so get a motorcycle cop here to siren it into town. Then your dad’s got a fighting chance. Call Patrick, please.”
She obeyed, pushing Max away from the phone.
“By the time the road cop picks the sample up, Dad, I’ll have drawn a schematic of tetrodotoxin’s molecular structure,” Millie said to Patrick a moment later. “I think Jim’s crazy to suspect it, but what if he’s right? What if whoever stole the stuff is selling it as the undetectable poison? That’s why you have to assay the victim’s blood a.s.a.p.— more chance of a last metabolite or two. Gas chromatography first, then the mass spectrometer. Humor Jim, Dad, please! I mean, it can’t possibly be tetrodotoxin, these people have no connection to me.”
“I’ll send Gus Fennell. I have to recuse myself, Millie,” said her father’s voice, “and I’m guessing Carmine will too. It will probably be Abe Goldberg. Oh, shit!”
“Tell me about it.” She hung up.
Max Tunbull and Al Markoff were arguing.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Al! John’s mom died at about the same age, and John’s her spitting image — it runs in that family!” Max said.