The Groaning Board

laughing so hard she lost her
balance and came down on top of him. “Oof,” he said. “You’ve put on weight,
little darling.”
    “You’d better be good and not say
another word about this or I’ll crush you like the flea you are.”
    “Birdie, darling.” His wicked eyes
glinted. “Whenever the spirits move you, I think you’re in for a treat.”
    She sat up. Izz was eyeing her
reproachfully; why didn’t she play with Izz instead of Carlos? “Man who used to
be best friend, what are you talking about?”
    “Bill Veeder, my little hayseed. And
I’m not talking about his performance in court.”
     
    When the tub was three-quarters full,
Wetzon lowered herself into the steamy water. She’d turned down dinner with
Carlos and Arthur. She’d turned down dinner with Bill Veeder, keeping him at
arm’s length, drawing out the sweetness of desire. Call it what it is, she told
herself. Well, all right. Lust.
    Izz stood on her hind legs leaning on
the rim of the tub. Her nose twitched and she licked Wetzon’s shoulder, then
stuck her nose in the hot water, pulled out, sneezed.
    Wetzon added more hot water, rested
her hand on the edge of the tub, luxuriating in the warmth, the peace, the...
    She woke out of a doze to Izz
barking, the phone ringing. Let the answering machine get it. But she couldn’t.
She’d been soaking long enough anyway. She got out of the tub and wrapped
herself in a towel, then padded to the bedroom phone, leaving a trail of wet
footprints.
    “Hello?” She was greeted by the now
familiar heavy silence that preceded the breather. Then the breathing started.
“We are not amused,” she said, and hung up. “No, we’re uneasy and growing
uneasier.” Picking up the phone again, she pressed star fifty-seven.
    Next she called Metzger at the
Seventeenth Precinct, not really expecting to find him still there. But he was.
    “I’ll check it out for you,” he said.
    “Anything new on the poison in the
muffins?”
    “You’re taking my advice to stay out
of this?”
    She crossed her fingers. “Oh,
absolutely,” she lied.
    “We know who made the muffins.”
    “You do?”
    “Micklynn Devora. Thanks for the
tip.”
    “Tip? I didn’t give you a tip.”
    “Yes, you did. You said caterer,
friend, odd flours. The corn muffins were made with cornmeal and rice flour.
Trail led right to Micklynn Devora.”
    “God. Did she admit it?”
    “She didn’t have to. We’re keeping an
eye on her, checking out any unnatural deaths of people she knew.”
    Guilt washed over Wetzon. Pure,
painful guilt. She’d gotten Micklynn in trouble and she was lying to Metzger.
What should she do? Oh, hell, keep moving.
    “What was the poison?” she asked.
    “The chef, it appears, has a thing
for flowers.”
    “She’s got this disease that makes
her allergic to gluten, just like Sheila.”
    “That’s not what I’m talking about.
I’m talking f-l-o-w-e-r-s. Not the kind you bake with usually. Except this one
time.”
    “I’m sorry. I don’t get it. How can a
flower kill?“
    “According to the M.E.’s
toxicologist, some flowers, seeds, stems, and leaves are highly poisonous.
Someone ground up the flowers and mixed them into the batter of the muffins.
Sheila ate one and it killed her. It was meant to.“
    “Good God. What flowers are that
toxic?”
    “More of them than you would think.
In this case,” Metzger said, “azaleas.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

     
     
     
    She woke up
angry, with a kind of manic energy, and took Izz out for a quick walk over to Central
Park West and back. The day yawned before her with a cluttered New York smorgasbord of choices, any number of museums, movies, theaters, antique shows,
street fairs. And for Wetzon this day had no choice at all. She waited, antsy,
while Izz watered the gutter and played sniffy with all the other dogs on the
block.
    “Nice doggie,” a child screamed from
his stroller, trying to grab a piece of Izz. The mom, who, like Wetzon, wore
biker shorts, was chatting on a cellular phone, her attention compromised.
    Wetzon steered Izz away from the tiny
grasping hand, but the child managed to snag a bit of fur and pulled. Izz
shrieked.
    “No!” Wetzon yelled at the child. She
knelt to try to remove Izz from the tight-fisted little hand. Izz whimpered.
    “Get that dog away from my baby!” the
mother screamed, jerking the stroller and adding to Izz’s pain.
    “Get your baby away from my dog, “
Wetzon countered.
    “Let go of the doggie,