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“I’m afraid the other Mrs.Nelson’s injuries are severe. Are you the next of kin? I need someone to authorize treatment, review the options.”
Tish is alive. I could have sworn from the way she was crumpled under the trunk that she died of her fall. The nurse stares at me.
I am not going to take responsibility for Tish’s care, that’s for sure. But I would like to be sure she can’t harm us anymore. “No, I am not related to her. She’s my ex-husband’s second wife.” I shake my head.
“Where is he?” she asks.
“My husband is deceased,” I answer. “You’ll need to get in touch with her attorney, a Mr.George Price. He’s the only contact of hers that I’m aware of. I’m sorry.”
Bob walks into the hospital room and nods in our direction with a finger in the air, signifying one minute. I had texted him as soon as I got to the hospital and had a moment of privacy. I’d feigned fainting to avoid answering any questions. And I needed to get out of here before someone started asking questions here. I told him to get me discharged immediately. He followed orders. “Let’s get out of here, shall we? I’ve signed the papers. Ashlyn, come along.”
Minutes later, the three of us walk out of the hospital and into the cool night.
“Mom,” Ashlyn says. “We need to go to her house.”
“It’s a police scene,” Bob says.
“She was going to hurt Mom tonight, when she went over there. Kill her, like she did Dad. I know it. She was setting a trap. I saw a pitcher of margaritas on the kitchen counter.”
I squeeze her hand so she won’t say more. She can’t admit she was there, not to anyone, not even Bob.
Bob looks at Ashlyn. And then turns to me.
“She’s right. Of course. Tish made another pitcher of her special margaritas, this time just for me,” I say, covering for Ashlyn. I’m sure she saw one, though. I wonder why Tish didn’t insist I have one? I suppose it’s because I came to her home with an offer for a bunch of money, and that’s all she really wanted.
“Good god,” Bob says, “I’ll call the police. Have them search the residence as a crime scene with a special focus on margaritas. Do you know what to test for, what she may have used?”
“Cherry pits. Ground-up cherry pits,” I say.
Ashlyn is shaking, and I wrap my arm around her.
“So, she really did poison John?” Bob pulls out his phone. “Yes, this is the attorney representing Mrs.Nelson, the first Mrs.Nelson, and her daughter, Ashlyn. We have reason to believe Mrs.Nelson was trying to poison the first Mrs.Nelson. She was fond of serving it. Yes, she can make a statement. Of course. Thank you.”
I don’t listen to the rest of Bob’s conversation as we stand in the parking lot of the hospital. I just hold on to my daughter. I know the police will want to question Ashlyn and me. But eventually, they’ll discover what Tish did.
I’ll call Chief Briggs personally and get him involved, if he isn’t already. It’s wonderful that we finally know what she used. The only thing left to do is be sure she doesn’t have a chance to implicate Ashlyn in her “fall” down the stairs.
As we stand outside in the warm night air, I feel my anger dissipating. My shoulders drop, and I take a deep breath. It’s true what I read about anger. Anger can benefit relationships, even though society tells us anger is dangerous and we should hide it. Hidden anger in intimate relationships can be detrimental, that’s for sure. But it’s also true that all emotions have a purpose and evolve to keep us safe. Anger is instinctual. It fuels our primitive need to live and protect ourselves. Anger sharpens our focus, pushes us to fight back when attacked and act to defend ourselves.
It’s human nature.
My thoughts drift to my nemesis, Tish. I wonder who they will find to make decisions about her situation. I happen to know it won’t be good old George Price. As his name implies, everyone has one.
CHAPTER 65
ASHLYN
Mom and I ride home in silence from the hospital, neither of us want to say anything in front of the Uber driver. My whole body aches and trembles, off and on, in waves.
Once we’re out of the car and safely inside the house, Mom turns on the alarm and looks at me.
“You thought she was going to kill me, so you made a move. It was the right thing to do,” she says, her voice calm, loving. “I couldn’t get past the anger, the hurt, with your dad. You understand now, don’t you?”
“I think so,” I answer, as the shaking starts again.
“It doesn’t matter. Tish as much as confessed to killing your father, I have our whole talk recorded on my phone. I even have a photo of the bowl of cherries she served. We’ll be in the clear and finally finished with her, once and for all. Thanks to you. You did the right thing. You did.”
I wish I believed her. How can almost killing someone be the right thing?
