It was a feast, better than Thanksgiving, Corey Harper said. Martha brought in a huge platter with a pot roast in the center, carrots, potatoes, and onions placed artistically around it. There was a huge Caesar salad with tart dressing, garlic bread that indeed made your teeth snap, and for dessert, an apple crisp.
And there was eggplant par-migiana on the side. Thelma hadn't waited. She'd wanted her eggplant at four-thirty.
Martha appeared at just the right times to refill their wineglasses with the nicest Cabernet Sauvignon anyone had tasted in a long time.
She clucked primarily around the men, encouraging them to eat, until finally Quinlan dropped his fork, sat back in his chair, and groaned. "Martha, any more and God will strike me down for gluttony. Just look at David-his shirt buttons are about to pop off. Even Thomas, who's skinny, would fill out in no time here with you. Since I'm polite, I won't refer to how much the women poked down their gullets."
Sally threw the rest of her garlic bread at him. She turned to a beaming Martha. "You said apple crisp, Martha?"
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“Oh, yes, Sally, with lots of French Vanilla ice cream from the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop."
They had coffee with amaretto, a treat from Thelma- who was eating in her room since Quinlan had worn her out earlier with all her talk, or so she claimed according to Martha. Actually, Thelma had to sleep off all that eggplant parmigiana she'd eaten.
After Martha returned to the kitchen, Sally told Thomas Shredder, Corey Harper, and David Mountebank, who had easily been persuaded to return for dinner and another conference, about the cemetery.
Quinlan said, "I called Dillon. Knowing how fast he is, I'll probably hear back from him tonight. If it's something weird, I'll wake all of you up."
"I don't know if anyone will be able to wake me up," David said, as he sipped at his coffee. “Forget the coffee as a stimulant. This is the best Amaretto I've ever tasted. I'm already feeling like I want to put on my jammies. I hope my girls don't try to climb up my body when I get home. With luck, Jane will already have them in bed."
Sally didn't say anything. She hated Amaretto, always had. She'd taken one drink, then discreetly poured her coffee into Quinlan's cup while Corey Harper was telling a story about a guy in training school at Quantico who'd arrested some visiting brass by mistake after a bank robbery in Hogan's Alley, the fake USA town set up at Quantico for training. The biggest of the brass had thought it a great exercise until one of the trainees had clapped handcuffs on him and hauled him off.
Quinlan promised he would call if Dillon found out anything urgent. But he couldn't imagine waking up even if the phone rang off the wall.'
"I think you're tipsy," he told Sally as he held her up with one arm and unlocked the tower room door with the other.
"I'm tipsy?"
"I think Ms. Lilly would get a kick out of seeing you now."
"Next time I see her, I'll have to tell her that even though I was tipsy I had your pants off you in record time."
She was laughing so hard that when she jumped on him, he wrapped his arms around her back and brought her down to the bed, on top of him. He was kissing her, his breath warm with the tart taste of Amaretto.
"For a small favor I won't tell Martha what you did. You know, pouring your Amaretto in my coffee cup.
Now, what's this about getting my pants off?"
She tried to give him a sultry look. He nearly doubled over laughing. Then she touched him and he groaned, his laughter choking in his throat. His eyes closed, his neck muscles convulsed.
"Jesus," he said. He began kissing her, his tongue in her mouth, and she loved the feel of him, the taste of him. His hands were on her bottom, strong hands kneading her, pressing her against him. He was hard as the bars on her windows at Beadermeyer's sanitarium. Oh, God, why had she thought that?
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She felt a shiver of cold. No, that was just a horrible memory that belonged in the past. It couldn't touch her now. She kissed him again. His mouth was slack. He wasn't so hard now against her belly. He wasn't rubbing his palms over her buttocks.
She lifted herself on her elbows and stared down at him, preparing to see him wink at her, preparing to have him toss her over onto her back.
"James?"
He smiled vaguely at her, not moving, not winking, nothing. "I'm tired, Sally," he said, his words soft and slurred. "Aren't you?"
"Just a bit," she said, leaned down, and kissed him again. Suddenly he closed his eyes, and his head fell to the side.
"James? James!"
Something was wrong. He wasn't teasing her. Something was very wrong. She pressed her fingers to the pulse in his throat. Slow, steady. She flattened her palm over his heart. The beat was solid and slow. She lifted his eyelids and called his name again. She slapped his face.
No response.
He was unconscious. The damned coffee had been drugged. She'd had just a single sip of it, thank God, and that's why she was still conscious. There was no other explanation. She tried to pull herself off Quinlan, and she did manage it, but her arms and legs felt soft and wobbly. Just one drink of that amaretto was doing this to her?
She had to get help. She had to get to Thomas Shredder and Corey Harper. They were staying here, just down the hall. Not far, not far at all. Oh, God, they'd drunk the coffee too. And so had David, and he was driving. She had to see if Thomas and Corey were unconscious. She had to go to their rooms and see. She could make it.
She fell off the bed and rolled. She lay there a moment on her back, staring up at the beautiful molding that ran around the edge of the ceiling. There were even Victorian cherubs at each corner, naked, holding up harps and flowers.
She had to move. She got herself up on her hands and knees. What room was Corey Harper in? She'd told her, but she couldn't remember. Well, it didn't matter, she would find both of them. Their rooms had to be just down the hall. She crawled to the door. Not far at all. She managed to stretch up and turn the knob to open the door.
The hallway stretched forever to her left, the lighting dim and shadowy. What if the person who had drugged the coffee was waiting in those shadows, waiting to see if someone didn't succumb to the drug, waiting to kill that person? She shook her head and managed to heave herself to her feet. She made her feet move, one step at a time, that was all she needed to do, just one foot in front of the other. She'd find Thomas and Corey. Finally, a door appeared on her left-number 114. She knocked.
There was no answer.
She called out, her voice only a miserable whisper, "Thomas? Corey?"
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She knocked again. Still no answer. She turned the knob. To her surprise, the door opened. It opened quickly, and she stumbled into the room, her knees buckling under her. She fell on her side.
She called out, "Thomas? Corey?"
She managed to get onto her hands and knees. There was only a single lamp burning, on top of the bedside table. Thomas Shredder was lying on his back, his arms and legs sprawled out away from his body. He was unconscious. Or he was dead. She tried to scream. She wanted to scream, but only a small cry came out of her mouth.
She heard footsteps behind her. She managed to get herself turned around to face the open doorway.
James? Was he all right now? But she didn't call out his name.
She was afraid it wasn't him. James had drunk a whole cup of that coffee. It couldn't be him. She was afraid of who it might be.
The light was dim. Shadows filled the room, filled her vision. There was a man standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets.