Heaven Preserve Us: A Home Crafting Mystery (A Home Crafting Mystery) Read online

  "Numb? No," I said. "Philip, is there some reason you're not taking this last threat seriously?"

  "It's just someone letting off steam. Are you still coming on Friday?" His skin had taken on a weird grayish tinge.

  "You look terrible. Go to bed."

  "Friday?" he repeated.

  I counted to ten. "Yes. I'll be here on Friday. I said I would, and I will. Okay?"

  "You should call the police about this Allen character," he said.

   

  "Maybe. I'll think about it." Of course, calling the police in my case was the same thing as putting my boyfriend on high alert. I wasn't sure if that was a good idea or not.

  "He probably followed you home from the parking lot," Philip said.

  An involuntary shiver tickled my shoulder blades. "Oh, that's very helpful. Thank you for that thought. I'm going to go now."

  "Maybe he's been following you for a while. Maybe it has nothing to do with the Helpline. Call the police, babe. I mean it."

  "Sounds like you might want to do the same," I said.

  He turned and threw up all over the wall.

  "Holy shit!" It just sort of slipped out before I could stop it. I mean, I wasn't trying to make the guy feel bad; he obviously felt pretty bad as it was. His head lolled back and he slid off his chair.

  "Maryjake," I called, hurrying around the desk. And then again, louder. "Maryjake!"

   

  FOUR

  PHILIP'S MOUTH OPENED AND closed like a beached fish now, but he wasn't making much noise. With rigid fingers, he clawed at the side of the desk. I was on the phone with emergency services when Maryjake hit the doorway. She saw Philip's feet sticking out from behind the desk and rushed around to join us. Now there were three of us in that tiny space, and I stepped back against the wall to make room, urging the 911 operator to send an ambulance as soon as possible.

  "Oh, God! Philip, honey, what happened? Oh, God. Ohgodoh- godohgod." She dissolved into a puddle by his side.

  Honey? I spared the briefest of moments wondering what Maryjake's husband, James, would think of that.

  "I don't know what's wrong with him," I said into the phone. "He can't seem to breathe, and he threw up." All over the wall. Which I was leaning against. I shut my eyes, trying to remember how high the splatter had gone, and instinctively put a few inches between myself and the plaster. I suspected it was too late, though.

   

  Ew, ew, ew.

  "Yes. Thank you. I hear them now," I told the operator, and hung up.

  The sirens got louder as I maneuvered around Maryjake sobbing all over Philip, now eerily quiet, his eyes closed.

  "Maryjake, they're going to need to get to him. Come on. Let's move the desk to the side."

  "Oh, Phillllllllip." Her voice quavered like Laura Petry's on the old Dick Van Dyke Show as she stood and ran out of the room.

  Great.

  I bent to try and move the desk by myself. Philip grabbed my arm and pulled me down toward him. Eyes open again, his gaze slid blearily around the ceiling. His mouth worked as he tried to speak. He smelled like cigarettes and vomit, but I forced myself to lean close to his lips.

  "Threat. Meant it." He breathed the words against my ear.

  "Who did?" I demanded.

  But his lids fluttered down, and the grip on my arm loosened. Putting my ear to his chest, I tried to determine whether he was still breathing. Barely, and his heartbeat sounded way too loud.

  I heard voices downstairs and called out, "Up here."

  Boots pounded up the old wooden stairs. Maryjake darted in with a damp washcloth in her hand just before the bevy of uniformed men began filing into the room. She knelt over Philip and put the cloth on his forehead. It seemed an odd way to address an emergency medical situation, but what did I know?

  If I'd thought there were too many people in the room before, now it turned into a how-many-people-can-you-fit-in-a-phonebooth thing. I struggled through the paramedics, which was not nearly as unpleasant as it sounds, and out to the hallway. Behind me Maryjake shrieked, whether because of the thoroughly uncharacteristic hysteria that seemed to have grabbed her, or because of anger at the paramedics asking her to move or leave, I didn't know.

   

  One of the uniformed men followed me down the short hall. We paused outside the closed door to Philip's apartment, and I turned to him.

  "Why so many EMTs?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Everyone at the station was available. Plus, we're training."

  The last time I'd called for paramedics only two had shown up. Of course, the man I'd called them for had been dead. But still.

  Tall, blond, and cute-as-a-button spoke again. "You're the one who called?"

  I nodded.

  "Tell me what happened"

  "We were just talking. He didn't look so hot. In fact, his assistant-" I pointed toward the office to indicate Maryjake, and he nodded his understanding, "-told me before I came up that he wasn't feeling well this morning. His speech was slurred, he couldn't seem to catch his breath, and then he threw up. After that he kind of turned gray and collapsed." I craned my neck to try and see if I had Heaven barf on my behind, then realized how strange my contortions must look.

  He had a few more questions, but I couldn't really shed any more light on the situation. When he'd finished, Mr. Paramedic gave me a smile and thanked me.

   

  As I noticed his pretty white teeth, the little voice that lived in the back of my brain noted ironically that having sex on a regular basis seemed to have a kind of ripple effect; getting more, I wanted more. It then reminded me not to leer, and I complied. I did, however, continue to stand with my back to the wall as he walked away so I wouldn't inadvertently show any unsavory smears that might be on my backside.

  "Is he going to be okay?" I called.

  The paramedic turned. "I don't know." And this time he didn't smile, not one bit.

  Suddenly my calm didn't seem so laudable. Suddenly I felt like a horrible person. Philip was obnoxious and silly and rude and terribly inefficient, but I didn't want anything truly bad to happen to him. I mean, so he called me babe all the time. It was kind of cute, really.

  Wasn't it?

  I leaned against the wall and covered my face with my hands.

  They took Philip off to the hospital, and I sent a hysterical Maryjake home. I stayed to answer the Helpline, until Ruth Black showed up for her volunteer shift. I practically wept on her shoulder when she walked in the door, I was so grateful to be able to leave. Ruth, seventy and sassy with her spiked white hair and an elaborate quilted cardigan that looked more like a work of art than something to wear, accepted my enthusiastic welcome with good grace, though the look she gave me wasn't exactly sympathetic.

   

  The morning had evaporated. What had started as a quick break had turned into three traumatic hours. At home Meghan greeted me with a frustrated, "Where have you been?"

  She'd had to begin the process of making wine jelly without me, and obviously wasn't very happy about it. Two dozen squat jelly jars sat waiting on a towel on the counter, still steaming from the sterilization process. On the stove, the huge black canning kettle roiled with boiling water. Meghan slowly stirred the beautiful deep red liquid in the double boiler, melting sugar into the hot cabernet sauvignon before adding the pectin that would cause it to gel.

  "I'm sorry. I have a good excuse, though." I poured a cup of coffee and took over stirring, filling her in on the excitement at Heaven House.

  "Oh, my God. Is he going to be okay?" she asked when I'd finished.

  She'd added the pectin to the mixture while I'd been talking, and now I skimmed a little foam off the top while she fitted the pouring funnel into the first jar.

  Grimacing as I ladled out the hot wine jelly, I said, "I don't know. That paramedic didn't look very happy."

  "I'm calling the hospital." Meghan left to get the phone, wiping her hands on a well-stained floursack d
ishtowel.

  I continued ladling until all the jars were filled and began fitting the lids on and affixing them with the screw-on metal bands. I heard Meghan murmuring in the other room. I had just placed the first set of jars in the boiling water canner, replaced the lid and set the timer when she came back in.

  "Philip's in the ICU."

   

  "Do they know what's wrong with him?" I asked.

  Meghan bit her lip. "This isn't official information, by the way. They don't just give that out. But I called someone I know over there. Apparently it could be a ton of things, maybe even a stroke, but they're thinking it was probably something he ate."

  I leaned against the counter and stared at the runnels of collected moisture making vertical worm tracks on the steamed-up window over the sink.

  Threat. Meant it.

  Had someone poisoned Philip Heaven?

  "Are you okay? It must have been awful," Meghan said.

  "Well, it wasn't fun."

  "Why'd you go over there this morning anyway? Forget something last night?"

  I turned and looked at her. "I went over to find out from Philip whether there had been any other instances of a caller to the Helpline focusing on a particular volunteer."

  "Is this about the suicidal man last night?"

  "Mm hmm. Did you hear the phone ring after you'd gone to bed?"

  She nodded, her head cocked a little to one side. "Wasn't it Barr?"

  "Nope. It was Mr. Just-Call-Me-Allen. He wanted to let me know he knew who I was. And my phone number." Her eyes widened a fraction. "And probably where I live," I added, almost against my will.

  "Does Barr know?"

  "I'll call him. I'm sure it's nothing to be concerned about, but I'll call him."

   

  Meghan looked worried.

  "Listen," I said. "I still have a ton to do yet today. A gazillion retail orders to fill, and I have eight dozen Saltea Bags to make for that company in North Carolina that took all those samples at the Handmade Toiletries Trade Show."

  I was a soap maker. Well, to be more accurate, soap was only a part of my repertoire-I designed, produced, and sold a variety of handmade toiletries in my workroom in the basement of Meghan's house. I lived in the house, too, and paid rent. We'd been housemates since shortly after my husband died and she divorced that son-of-a-, well, you know... her ex. Richard.

  Dick was pretty much out of the picture now, living in California with his mother, the Wicked Witch of the West, waiting out his parole and no doubt whining like the dickens the whole time.

  Anyway. Meghan and I both worked out of the house, which made it handy Erin-wise, especially because we could coordinate our schedules. I'd been so busy lately that I'd been really bad about my side of coordinating things, though. Luckily, Meghan was pretty understanding about that. She was a massage therapist, and she had her busy times, too, when I tried to step up more on the domestic front.

  "You look tired," she said. "Need any help?"

  "Kyla and Cyan are coming after school this afternoon, so they can help me package up the wholesale order if I mix it up right away. And I should be able to knock out the retail orders either before they get here or after they leave, and then send those out first thing tomorrow. Besides, don't you have clients today?"

  She was wearing her work uniform: a soft white cotton T-shirt and loose gray yoga pants folded down to expose a narrow strip of her tiny waist. This woman had had a child? I sighed and tugged my sweater down.

   

  "I do," she said. "Two this afternoon, starting in half an hour, and then I'm going by the hospital to work on a couple of physical therapy patients."

  She'd recently branched out to work in the Caladia Acres Nursing Home and the hospital in the neighboring town of Everett. No wonder she knew someone who would tell her what was going on with Philip.

  "I'll be here at three when Erin gets home from school," I said.

  She looked relieved. "Good. I didn't have a chance to talk to you before I committed to the hospital thing. I'll finish up this jelly so you can get to work. And by the way, the Chase boys are going to be working on the chicken coop today. Luke said they'd be setting the corner posts in cement."

  Luke and Seth Chase, both in their early twenties, had moved into the house two doors down with their father. The previous fall Walter Hanover, our local handyman, had died. We were thrilled when both our clay artist friend Bette and Walter's former landlady, Mavis Gray, told us about the Chase brothers starting up a handyman business. They'd put new vinyl in Bette's tiny kitchen, and Mavis told us they'd done a nice job cleaning her roof and gutters. When we decided to keep a few laying hens in the back yard, we contacted them to see if they'd take on the job of building their quarters.

  I bolted my coffee and poured another cup to take downstairs to my workroom with me.

  "Sophie Mae?"

   

  I paused mid-pour. Something in her voice. "Yeah?"

  "Did you see Kelly O'Connell when you were at Heaven House this morning?"

  "Who?"

  She flapped her hand at me. "Never mind. Go. Work." The timer dinged, and she began lifting steaming jars of jelly out of the canner.

  "Okay." I'd find out what that was about later. Right now I wanted to call Barr and tell him what had happened. Was I completely off-base, thinking someone had intentionally slipped Philip something lethal? Fear had shown from his eyes as he whispered those words to me. Or was I projecting that onto him? I was quite frightened myself at the time, I had to admit. Maybe Barr could put things into perspective.

  Downstairs, I looked out at the back yard and alley from the large windows that ran the entire length of my spacious workroom. I liked to have as much natural light as possible while I mixed and packaged and labeled my various Winding Road bath products. I watched a pair of stellars jays chowing down at the bird feeder as I waited for Barr to answer his cell. No luck. I left a message. He'd get back to me when he had a chance.

  Outside, the sky was a smooth, even gray, dark enough to make me wonder whether dawn had given up rather than bother trying to break through the muck above. I opened the back door and took a deep whiff of the winter air of the Pacific Northwest, a mix of green moss, red cedar, and yellowed leaves. The combination calmed me. The moisture in the air was palpable against my exposed face and the backs of my hands.

  Luke and Seth came around the edge of the house, each carrying a four-by-four post. Now I identified the scent of cedar as coming from the pile of posts stacked near the house and covered with a bright blue tarp.

   

  "Hey, Sophie Mae," Luke said, nodding in my direction as he walked past. With his dark hair, dark eyes, strong jaw and high cheekbones, he walked with the cocky confidence of someone who knows they're good looking. His brother Seth's eyes flashed up to meet mine for a split second. His mouth turned up in a quick, nervous smile, and then it was gone. Without a word he took his post over and laid it by one of the holes they'd dug the day before. The younger boy had received the toned-down version of his brother's looks, and apparently a toned-down version of his personality, too.

  "Hey," I said. "You're going to be setting those this morning?"

  He nodded.

  "What if it rains?"

  Luke answered. "Won't hurt anything. Mostly taking advantage of the mild temperature. Can't do cement work like this in the winter where we come from."

  "And where would that be?" I asked.

  "Kansas. Wichita."

  "What on earth brought you out to our little corner of the universe?"

  "Dad transferred. Boeing."

  "Ah"

  I'd heard their mother was dead, and Mavis Gray said it had happened recently. No doubt Mr. Chase was ready for a fresh start. I was a little surprised the boys had come with him, as old as they were. It was nice to think they'd remained intact as a family.

   

  Luke turned back to his post, a hint, no doubt, for me t
o let him get on with his work. I took it and went back inside to face my own to-do list.

  Three hours later I'd mixed the salts, soda, citric acid, green tea, herbs and oils for four kinds of Saltea bags-rosemary, citrus, lavender, and spearmint-and made a bit of headway on filling orders from my website. Kyla and Cyan Waters would be arriving any moment to put in a couple of hours of work, and Erin was due home from school. I'd called Barr again and left another message, but he hadn't called me back yet. I was a little surprised. It wasn't like I made a habit of calling him when he was working.

  But a barrage of other phone calls had interrupted my taskfilled afternoon. Word was getting around about what had happened to Philip, and the HH volunteers were trying to decide whether or not to go ahead with the preserves exchange that evening. Finally, I tracked down Jude Carmichael, and he said that since he hadn't been able to reach all the participants, we'd go ahead with the exchange as planned. I had mixed feelings about that, but agreed.

  Upstairs, I opened the front door, and Brodie charged out of the house, rushed to the side yard, and lifted his leg. Poor guy; I should have taken a break sooner. As I waited for him to finish, I kept seeing Philip's gray face and the desperate look in his eye as he tried to pull oxygen into his lungs. Being in the intensive care unit didn't bode well, but surely they'd bring him around. Wouldn't they? And then he'd be able to share the name of whoever had threatened him.

   

  The little guy finished his business and trotted arthritically back to the front porch where I waited. I looked up and down the street, thinking about what Philip had said about Allen following me home. I pictured him as a dark, shadowy figure waiting in the dark parking lot of Heaven House, watching as I ran through the rain to my pickup. Following me through Cadyville to my street, my home, and watching me hurry inside to get out of the rain.

  Wait a minute. That was silly. Following me wouldn't give him my name. It wouldn't give him our phone number. Philip was full of crap. Bless his heart, I amended.

  I needed to think.

  And that meant ... chocolate.