‘Maybe you should have eaten more – all those martini cocktails on an empty stomach …’ said Brant, ‘it’s no wonder you have a headache.’
‘Oh, I could hardly eat at all,’ she said. ‘The dress disaster upset me too much.’
‘You should have tried the oysters, they were something else,’ said Brant.
‘What, are you kidding? After Ruby told me about the mucus, no siree Bob, I stuck to the nibbles on sticks.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, run me a bath would you Brant, I’ve got to wash away this evening and pretend like it never happened.’
Brant helped his wife to her feet and, putting an arm around her, guided her downstairs. No matter how much Ruby might mock, one thing was clear: the night really had taken a toll on her mom. She looked as fragile as a sick bird.
Ruby climbed the stairs to her room. She got into bed, but something about her mom’s defeated appearance niggled her. She picked up her science magazine and read an article exploring the possibility of colonising Mars. From the sound of it, it was entirely possible it would happen, probably many years from today, many decades on from 1973 – perhaps not until 2030 or so – but just because it seemed more than probable didn’t necessarily mean it was a very appealing idea or even (in Ruby’s opinion) a good one. Mars didn’t have a whole lot of oxygen and that seemed a good reason not to climb aboard the spaceship and that was just for starters. Once you factored in lack of food and water it really seemed like a no-brainer.
Jeepers, thought Ruby, give me Death Valley any time.
She was just imagining how her mother might cope on the Red Planet – a woman who could be struck down by the embarrassment of a party dress double-up – when she heard a noise that sounded a lot like her father shouting, ‘Call the paramedics!’
She jumped out of bed, opened the door and was halfway down the stairs before Mrs Digby made it out of her housekeeper’s ground floor apartment.
‘What’s going on, Dad?’
‘It’s your mother, she isn’t doing so well.’
‘It was just a dress, Dad, aren’t you all being a little melodramatic?’
‘It’s not the dress, Rube, something is very wrong. She’s sick as anything. She got all uncoordinated and started staggering about. Then she fell over and now she can’t stop throwing up.’
‘Food poisoning?’ asked Ruby. She was trying to keep her voice steady, but she could see the look in her father’s eyes – he looked scared. It wasn’t like Brant Redfort to be scared. Maybe because life had pretty much always dealt him an even hand, it had never really occurred to him that things could go badly wrong.
‘I don’t know,’ said Brant, ‘it could be. She looks terrible Rube, just terrible …’ His words tailed off.
It was Mrs Digby who took control. ‘Now Mr R, don’t you go flapping, she’ll be fine. That Sabina’s been through more than a lot in the years I’ve known her. Ruby will call 911, you call the doc and I will attend to Mrs R.’ She paused. ‘You got that?’
Brant nodded, and the housekeeper disappeared into Sabina’s room.
When Ruby entered her mother’s bedroom – the ambulance now on its way – she could see there was reason enough to flap. Sabina had not even managed to get out of her evening gown, she was lying on the bed, swaddled in the red silk which was in great contrast to the pallor of her face. Her skin had turned an unfortunate colour, like that of some creature already dead. In fact were it not for the beads of sweat sitting on her forehead, it would be hard to imagine she were alive at all, her breathing was so shallow, and when Ruby felt for her mother’s pulse, it was there but barely.
‘My hands won’t seem to go where I want them to,’ murmured Sabina. ‘The room is spinning. My head aches so and my mouth tastes like metal.’
The paramedics arrived, lights flashing and sirens sounding. Sabina was stretchered into the vehicle and Brant held her hand the whole way to the hospital, and stayed there all night.
While Brant was at the hospital, Ruby and Mrs Digby sat up scouring books. If food poisoning was to blame then what exactly was the source of the malady? Her mother claimed to barely have nibbled more than a few canapés.
Though it was past midnight Ruby picked up the phone and dialled Clancy’s number.
CLANCY: ‘Ruby?’
RUBY: ‘Are you awake?’
CLANCY: ‘Yeah, but why are you?’
RUBY: ‘I was just wondering, are you OK?’
CLANCY: ‘Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?’
RUBY: ‘And your dad, how about him?’
CLANCY: ‘Fine.’
RUBY: ‘He’s not throwing up or anything? No headaches?’
CLANCY: ‘Ruby, what’s this about?’
RUBY: ‘My mom ate something that didn’t agree with her.’
CLANCY: ‘Is she OK?’
RUBY: ‘The paramedics took her, my dad’s at the hospital.’
CLANCY: ‘How bad is she?’
RUBY: ‘Pretty bad.’
CLANCY: ‘Are you worried?’
RUBY: ‘A little.’
CLANCY: ‘Who’s that in the background?’
RUBY: ‘Mrs Digby, we can’t sleep.’
CLANCY: ‘I’m coming over, I’ll keep you company.’
RUBY: ‘You don’t have to Clance.’
CLANCY: ‘I know.’
CLANCY MUST HAVE RIDDEN HIS BIKE AT SOME KIND OF SUPERHUMAN SPEED because he was there before Mrs Digby had even begun to boil the milk for the hot chocolate she was planning on handing him when he walked through the door.
‘Boy, you got here fast,’ said Ruby.
‘The wind was behind me,’ said Clancy. ‘The storm might have blown through, but it’s still kinda gusty. You know a tree’s come down on the corner of your street? I had to clamber right over it.’ He paused. ‘So what do you think made your mom sick?’ he said, pulling himself out of his raincoat.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t down to that Consuela Cruz’s cooking,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘People think she’s the bee’s knees, but the question is: does she keep a clean kitchen?’
‘Mrs Digby, I think you’re clutching at straws,’ said Ruby. ‘Just because you’re no big fan of Consuela’s, it doesn’t mean she’s going around poisoning everyone.’
‘So you’re sure that’s what it is – definitely food poisoning?’ said Clancy.
‘It’s the logical thing,’ replied Ruby, ‘but what kind of food poisoning, that’s the big question.’
‘Your dad’s OK, my dad’s OK, I’m OK,’ said Clancy.
‘So let’s assume it’s not “general food poisoning”,’ said Ruby, ‘let’s assume there was one bad morsel there and my mom is the unlucky consumer.’
‘Sounds like shellfish poisoning,’ said Clancy. ‘I mean it can’t be chicken poisoning, because if the chicken was off then a whole bunch of people would be in the ER right now.’
‘Plus Consuela didn’t serve chicken,’ said Ruby.
‘She didn’t?’ said Clancy. ‘I could have sworn I ate chicken.’
‘Probably frogs’ legs,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘I hear they taste just like chicken.’
‘I thought it was human beings that tasted like chicken,’ said Clancy.
‘I would imagine it’s unlikely Consuela served either,’ said Ruby, ‘so maybe we should stick to the likely contenders.’
‘So a rogue oyster?’ suggested Clancy. ‘Or a mussel? Or maybe a prawn or shrimp or something? There were shellfish there, you know what those are like for stomach cramps.’
‘Yeah,’ sighed Ruby, ‘and she was all dizzy and complaining of a terrible headache.’
‘Well, what you are describing sounds very much like a wrong oyster to me. My sister Nancy ate one once and I can tell you it wasn’t a pretty sight – barf central.’
Clancy really liked to read up on diseases and sickness generally; if he was going to contract something horrible then he might as well know what he was in for. It helped to be prepared. I mean put it this way, he would argue,
if I know it’s normal to puke for twelve hours non-stop, then I can tough it out. What I don’t want to hear is, “This is highly irregular, we have never seen this kind of reaction in a human being before.”
Clancy liked to be prepared for the worst.
‘That’s that then, she must have eaten a bad bivalve,’ he said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Ruby, but she didn’t sound convinced.
Clancy looked at her. ‘You don’t think it is oyster poisoning?’
‘I don’t know, you’re probably right and it probably is. The only thing I am surprised about is my mom seemed dead set against eating oysters on account of the mucus.’
‘Mucus?’
‘Yeah. We had a whole conversation about the structure of an oyster because she thought they had brains and I said—Actually, it doesn’t matter. The point is she said afterwards that she wouldn’t ever eat another oyster.’
‘What colour was she?’ asked Clancy.
‘What?’ said Ruby.
‘Pale as the grave,’ said Mrs Digby.
‘Not puce?’ asked Clancy. ‘You eat a bad oyster and you usually turn puce.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Digby firmly, ‘ghostly she looked.’
‘She also mentioned her mouth tasted of metal.’
‘I haven’t heard that before,’ said Clancy. ‘My sister Nancy kept whining that her teeth were falling out, but it turned out that’s one of the symptoms.’
The three of them sat up all night discussing food poisoning and the various forms it could take until finally Brant telephoned at 6am to tell them Sabina was out of danger.
‘They say she’s going to be OK.’
‘Do you know what the cause was?’ asked Ruby.
‘We think it was probably stomach flu,’ said Brant. ‘The doc said he’ll stop by later today and fill me in.’
The conversation didn’t last long since Brant didn’t seem to have much useful information other than Sabina had suffered no permanent damage.
Ruby replaced the receiver and picked up the Twinford Echo, lying on the doormat. The front page was a photograph from last night’s Explorer Awards. She turned to page four for the story. There were photographs of some of those who had attended but nothing about Sabina Redfort being taken ill. She guessed her father would have tried to keep this quiet, not wanting to offend the organisers or cast a shadow over Consuela Cruz’s catering.
On one page, there was a picture of the winning explorer: Amarjargel Oidov, the woman who had discovered the new snake species. So that’s who won, thought Ruby. She glanced at the text under the photo:
AMARJARGEL OIDOV was honoured last night at the Explorer Awards for her role in discovering an all-new species of snake in Bhutan. The judges further cited her conservation work, including her tireless efforts to save the snake’s natural habitat – a small forest deep in the mountains, and sought after by timber merchants. The snake species itself is notable for …
Ruby skipped the rest. She looked again at the black and white picture – the snake woman, standing next to Ambassador Crew and Mayor Abrahams, all smiling at the camera. Ambassador Crew looking slightly perturbed by the snake that was wound around Ms Oidov’s arm. There was something about this photograph that triggered a thought in Ruby’s brain. It flickered there for a second, and then was gone.
Clancy and Ruby went down to survey the damage on Cedarwood Drive. Considering a large tree had come down, it wasn’t as bad as it might have been, however there was one casualty.
‘What’s she gonna do without her wheels?’ said Clancy.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ruby. ‘I’ve never seen her without her vehicle.’
They were staring at Mrs Beesman’s shopping cart. It was totally crushed and currently lying under a ton of tree.
The cans of cat food still in the cart were also crushed and the cat food itself was oozing out. Mrs Beesman was finding it hard to keep the cats from trying to get it and in so doing cut themselves on the sharp metal of the torn-open tins. The old lady had rigged up a sort of fence construction, but the cats weren’t giving up. Mrs Beesman had a lot of cats, some people said she had around seventy-four of them – whether this was an accurate number or not, really didn’t matter. The important thing was: she had a problem and she needed help.
‘Don’t worry Mrs Beesman, we can handle this,’ said Ruby.
Mrs Beesman grunted, the closest she ever got to speaking.
Clancy and Ruby cleared the mess easily enough, but the cart was a goner.
Lunch was interrupted by the chimes of the doorbell.
‘That will be the doc,’ said Ruby’s father, jumping to his feet.
He scooted down to answer the door and returned with the doctor in tow.
‘Would you like to join us?’ asked Brant.
Dr Shepherd shook his head. ‘No, I just dropped by to give you the good news – Sabina’s on the mend and she’s going to be just fine.’
‘So what was it? A bad case of stomach flu?’ asked Brant.
‘A bad case of shellfish poisoning,’ said Dr Shepherd.
‘Sabina is pretty adamant that she ate next to nothing last night on account of the dress mix up,’ said Brant.
‘She probably absent-mindedly popped an oyster and the rest as we say is a nasty case of vomiting and stomach cramps. One rogue oyster is all it takes to have you flat on your back with a few tubes in your arm.’
‘Well, thanks Dr Shepherd, I really appreciate you taking a look at her.’ Brant shook his head. ‘I don’t mind admitting it, for a minute there I thought she might not pull through.’
Dr Shepherd put his hand on Brant’s shoulder. ‘The good thing is that she’s going to be OK, AOK, nothing to worry about. She’ll be back home tomorrow.’
Brant smiled. ‘Well, having her back safe and sound is all I care about.’ He looked over at Ruby. ‘All we care about.’
Ruby nodded, though she didn’t feel quite as reassured as her father did. Something was still gnawing at her.
Something about shellfish. And oysters. And her mother’s ghostly pale face as she lay in that red dress.
ONCE THE DOCTOR HAD LEFT, Ruby returned to her room and found Clancy asleep on the beanbag. It had been a long, sleepless night, but Ruby was wide awake. She began scanning her bookshelves, running her hands across the spines, trying to locate a very particular volume. The book she was after was one with a cover illustration showing a perfect red apple. The back cover showed the same apple gone bad. The book was called: Pick Your Poison.
Actually it was about a whole lot more than poison. It covered venom and toxins too. As the book’s introduction said: ‘Simply put, poisons are chemical substances which have an impact on the biological functions in other living organisms. A toxin is a poison produced by a living organism. Venoms are toxins, which are injected by way of sting or bite into another living organism. A venom is a toxin, but it does not follow that all toxins are venoms, just as all toxins are poisons but not all poisons are toxins. Any substance if taken in large enough quantity can be a poison and can lead to death. Even water, though essential for life, can be lethal if too much is consumed.’
The book also had an epigram from Paracelsus, the father of toxicology: ‘Everything is poison, there is poison in everything. Only the dose makes a thing not a poison.’
Interesting, thought Ruby. She turned to the second part of the book, a large glossy picture of a frog announcing the section that covered transdermal poisoning, beginning with a chapter on deadly frogs and toads.
1. Strawberry Poison-dart Frog {Oophaga pumilio}
A tiny vivid red frog native to Central America. Beautiful to look at, but contact with it will cause swelling and a burning sensation, though in comparison to other poison-dart frogs its toxicity is mild.
Ruby didn’t make it past the strawberry variety of frog: by the time the clock struck three, she was fast asleep.
When Ruby awoke, she found herself still thinking about frogs. And thinking about
frogs led her to think about fairy tales. Frogs were big in fairy tales, and the more she thought about fairy tales, the more she began to think about murder. There was a lot of murder in fairy tales too, or at least a lot of attempted murder.
Take Snow White, for instance. Just how many times did that stepmother queen try and kill poor little Snow White? Three times? More if you included her ordering the huntsman to do it for her. ‘Cut her heart from her …’ Wasn’t that how it went? Ruby reached for her Brothers Grimm and laid it down next to the poisons book and began to leaf through, looking for that most compliant of victims, Snow White.
‘I hope you’re not planning foul play.’
Ruby nearly jumped out of her socks.
‘Mrs Digby! You shouldn’t creep up on people like that.’
‘I wasn’t creeping, it’s your guilty conscience that’s got you jumping,’ said the housekeeper. ‘What are you reading up on?’ She reached for her glasses. ‘Plotting a murder, are we?’
‘I was reading up on frogs and poison and that made me think of fairy tales.’
‘I don’t remember there being a frog in Snow White,’ said the housekeeper.
‘There isn’t, but there is poison,’ said Ruby, ‘and a lot of it.’
‘Yep, that poor old queen,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘She asks that huntsman to do one little murder and he lets her down – so she just thinks to herself, if you want a job doing properly then do it yourself.’
‘You remember what she does next?’ asked Ruby.
‘Sure I do,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘As I recall, she tries a poison comb, and apples, but she’s foiled every time by those interfering dwarves.’ She sighed. ‘The apple of course would have done the job had it not been for that sappy prince.’
Ruby tutted. ‘You sound like you’re on the wicked queen’s side, Mrs Digby.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Digby shaking her head, ‘I’m not in favour of murder, not a bit, but I have sympathy for her plight none the less. She was the best at something, even if it was only the best at being beautiful.’