We stood and thanked him. “What about her car?” I asked.
“The police have it,” he said, getting up to see us out.
“Are they investigating her death?”
“Not at the moment. The coroner has accepted Dr. Curran’s determination for the time being.”
“There’ll be an autopsy, won’t there?”
“If the coroner orders it or the family requests it.”
“Because I don’t think a food allergy was the cause of her death,” I said. “At least not food she ate last night.”
He gave a neutral shrug, then put out his hand. “Please let us know if you find a way to reach the parents. Or any next of kin.”
The emergency room was on the first floor. We collapsed into some soft chairs and waited for the doctor to become available. Five minutes later he greeted us. Dr. Curran was young. He had short red hair with a curl or two on his forehead and wire frame glasses. We followed him into a small examining room to talk.
“Sheila was brought in by ambulance,” he told us. “She was not breathing when the police found her. We tried everything. Oxygen, intubation, adrenaline, dopamine, IV Benadryl, CPR, you name it. It was just too late. She had no vital signs.”
“So she died from—?” I asked.
“Anaphylactic shock. A severe allergic reaction.”
“And you’re sure about that?”
“The skin welts, hypotension, angio-edema, and broncho-constriction were clear.”
“Isn’t it just incredibly rare for this to happen?” Jenny asked.
“The hospital gets several cases a year. Most of them aren’t fatal, but I wouldn’t call it rare. Usually it happens to children. I’m afraid your friend was just unlucky. I’m sorry.”
Jenny gazed at his badge. “Are you a full doctor?”
“I’m a third-year resident. The indications were not hard to spot.”
“She knew she had allergies. She would have been prepared and taken an antihistamine or something,” I said.
“An oral antihistamine wouldn’t do the job. But yes, she was prepared. She’d administered epinephrine with a device called an Epi-Pen. Unfortunately, the solution had gone bad.”
“Gone bad how?”
“We found the Epi-Pen in her bag. Traces of fluid in the injector were brown. It had probably been exposed to heat, which would have spoiled it.”
“So who’s got the bag now? And the rest of her stuff?” Jenny asked.
“The morgue. It’ll be handed over to the family.”
Jenny lowered her eyes. I saw her brace herself for the next question. “And what — what do you think caused Sheila’s allergic reaction?”
The doctor adjusted his glasses. “We inspected the body for insect bites. There were none. We found a card telling us she had no drug allergies. Her tongue and gut were swollen. She’d vomited. That indicates a substance she ingested.”
“Like food.”
“That’s the likely pathway. We’d have to do some more tests to nail it down. For my money, it was something she had for dinner last night. The reaction comes on quickly.”
Jenny’s face melted into tears.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Curran said, momentarily lowering his eyes. “But I’m afraid I have other patients waiting.”
He turned, then hesitated. “You can call me,” he said to Jenny as he scribbled his number on a small pad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to me. “If either of you have more questions.”
5
“It was me, Bill. Something from my kitchen killed Sheila.”
Jenny was sunk into her couch, arms folded in a tight knot. I had not expected her to face the issue so directly, and I welcomed it. To me, the need to respond was clear. That moment in the morgue, gazing down at Sheila’s corpse, had frozen in me. It required some kind of action or explanation to thaw it. A life in motion had stopped abruptly. Whatever moaning I’d done about my own life being in a state of suspension now sounded trivial.
I remembered our last bit of dinner conversation, how Sheila hung her head under the gaze of the guests. How she pressed her fingers to her temples as the allergic reaction came on. She was starting to feel the constriction in her throat. Her body was coiling for an overwhelming, self-strangling counterattack on some seemingly harmless bite of food. She excused herself to the bathroom, hoping the symptoms would pass, then rushed to her car, where perhaps she had left the Epi-Pen. Maybe she’d realized the epinephrine had gone bad and was racing home for more.
And the rest of us oblivious all the while. If only we hadn’t been so clumsy, so self-absorbed…
It was this idea — the fear of her own negligence — that Jenny focused on. I told her that whatever caused the reaction couldn’t have been something she cooked last night. Jenny knew Sheila was allergic to shellfish and had specifically checked with her to make sure the entire menu was safe.
The phone rang. It was Fay. Jenny told her the news. Fay said she’d be right over.
When Fay arrived, she and Jenny threw their arms around each other. After some tearful commiseration, they sat down in the living room to review what might have gone wrong at the dinner party. I went into Jenny’s room, where the computer was. I wanted to learn more about anaphylaxis on the Internet.
“Listen to this,” I called a few minutes later, moving to the doorway. “Apparently just a few particles can cause an attack. On an airplane, people with the allergy can get sick just from other passengers opening their peanut bags. Diners with fish allergies can have problems from residue left over in restaurant woks.”
“That’s right, blame the Chinese,” Fay said in her melodic voice, then smiled. She was an unusual combination of playful and intimidating, ambitious and coy.
Jenny bit her thumb. “Maybe I had shellfish here this week. Wait, no — I’m sure I didn’t. I ate out every night. Anyway, a little residue couldn’t kill her, could it?”
“Who knows?” Fay said. “She was so sensitive. She had those small bones. Simon said she was sick for an entire vacation once because a shred of crab got into her omelet.”
“But she lived,” Jenny said.
“Wait a minute — Simon?” I asked. He was Fay’s boyfriend.
“Sheila used to date Simon,” Fay explained. “Poor Sheila. She was actually convinced he wanted to get back together with her.”
“Is that what you were arguing about last night?”
Fay stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders. “I was just trying to help her move on with her life. Simon sent her a few letters while he’s on his trip to Australia. She took them the wrong way. He’s English, he was trying to be polite.”
Fay spread her fingers and regarded her nails, a deep shade of blue. “Jenny, you know what we should do? Tear apart your kitchen from top to bottom. We’ll find out for sure what’s in there. You’ll be able to stop worrying about it.”
Jenny’s face lit up. She popped to her feet. The two of them rushed to the kitchen. Pretty soon they were flinging open cabinets, emptying drawers, and inspecting labels.
I followed them and asked Fay if she had any idea how to find Sheila’s parents. She didn’t, but said that Sheila had a brother named Abe, a doctor who lived in Europe.
She checked her watch. “I’ll call Simon. He might know. This will really upset him. He always felt some kind of duty to protect Sheila.”
I went back to the computer. A search for Abe Harros turned up nothing. While I was online, I checked my email. Rita had sent a message, all in capitals. Rita never used capitals. It was considered bad form, unless you meant to shout at someone.
WHAT IS WITH THIS GREGORY GUY??? HE’S BEEN CALLING ME EVERY HOUR. I HOPE YOU DIDN’T GIVE HIM MY NUMBER.