I pulled in and pressed the button to close the garage door immediately behind me, glad that an automatic system had been among our recent upgrades. From the driver’s seat, doors still locked, I peered into every garage corner I could see and listened for sounds. Finally, I got out of my car and entered the house through the kitchen door. Unlike my mortuary apartment, my new home did not have an alarm system. I was on my own.
I switched on the light and blinked until my pupils adjusted. The espresso maker came into focus, the toaster, the small ceramic kettle Elaine had sent from a pottery shop in Berkeley. Everything looked normal, the way we’d left it only six or seven hours ago. I stood in place, scanning the room, my keys at the ready for a quick getaway. Two mugs on the drain board, pot holders on the counter, a clean saucepan on the back burner. Nothing out of place. I could move to the next room.
RRRRRRRing!
I dropped my keys. It’s only the phone. I was utterly annoyed with myself for reacting like a scared child. In the time it took to put the receiver to my ear, I was able to imagine a too-solemn voice on the other end, a doctor summoning me back to Matt’s bedside.
“Aunt G? Oh, good. I knew you couldn’t be sleeping already.” MC’s voice. I took a breath.
“No, no, I just got in.” This is about bute, I thought. MC and I can finally talk about the emerging scoop on bute. I could get her to read Alex Simpson’s email to me over the phone, or better yet, forward it to me.
“It’s awful, Aunt G. I got home and there was a note on my door.” I waited, unable for a moment to remember the name of the person who’d harassed both of us. “From Wayne Gallen.”
“I thought he’d be halfway to Houston by now.”
“No such luck.”
MC read the note she’d found on her door: NO POLICE ORDERS WILL PROTECT YOU. IF IT WEREN’T FOR ME YOU’D ALREADY BE DEAD.
I shivered, silently, I hoped, so that MC wouldn’t be even more upset. “How did he get far enough to put something on your front door?”
“Martha, Mom’s assistant—well, of course, you’d know her.” MC uttered a frustrated sound, like a breath that lost its way from her throat. “Martha stayed late today, and he probably sweet-talked her into letting him go up for a minute. The note was in a regular, long, business-size envelope, so she wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Or he might have gotten her to put it there. I don’t know. I just know he’s freaking me out.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. I’m not sure what good it would do, unless I could talk to Matt. Wayne didn’t even sign it, so how could I prove he violated the order?”
“Well, Martha will remember a red handlebar mustache.”
“True. But now I’m afraid to leave the house. First, he might be out there; and second, maybe he’s right that I’m in danger. Jake said something, too, about something funny going on.”
“Tell me about that.”
“Jake has a hunch something illegal is going on and he’s doing a little ‘investigating,’ he called it. Also, he’s had the feeling someone’s been following him. Sound familiar?”
“It does. MC, I think we need to tackle bute.” I told her about the Dr. Schofield link. I now had two equestrians, an animal medication, and a veterinarian. Out of my field, with buckyballs far behind, but still I felt a rush that always accompanied making a connection, however tenuous. “Bute might be the key. Can you forward the email to me?”
“Done. I sent it as soon as I got in.”
“I’ll read it, and call you right back.”
Except I had one more thing to do before going to my computer.
I left the kitchen light on, but turned on no others as I made my way to the front door. I crossed the carpeted dining room where I took my shoes off, then walked barefoot on the hardwood and tiled entryway. I wished I’d turned on music or news to act as white noise over the normal creaks and groans of an old building. I felt my every step generated a seismic wave inside and outside the house.
As I thought, the porch light switch, an old-fashioned up and down single-throw variety, was in the up position, indicating that I had indeed turned it on before leaving for dinner.
Two tiny decorative strips of etched glass were embedded vertically in the oak door, so I should have been able to see the edge at least of a note tacked anywhere on it. I stood close to the glass and ran my eyes up and down both strips. Nothing. Unless the note was less than five inches wide, the width of the opaque part of the door. But MC’s note was in a size-ten envelope and there was no reason to think mine would be different.