Death's Savage Passion by Jane Haddam Page B

coffee.”
    “In Dana Morton’s reception room?” Tony asked. “We checked the coffee. We took that Dripmaster apart. And put it together again, of course. And gave it back.”
    I tried to concentrate. “Halloween candy,” I said. “There was Halloween candy on a desk and I ate some of that.”
    Tony nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “Halloween candy. It was crammed. Problem is, girl who had it on her desk says she’s been eating it all week. Everybody in that office has been eating it all week. No problems.”
    “If you found arsenic in the Halloween candy,” I said, “why ask me about lunch?”
    “Fill in the gaps,” Tony said. “Besides—”
    “You’re saying someone put them there just for me.”
    “Maybe not,” Tony said.
    “How’d they know I’d eat the stuff? Nobody offered it to me. I just took it.”
    “Well, there,” Tony said. “You see the difficulty.”
    I closed my eyes and turned it over in my head. I couldn’t make much of a case for the Halloween candy. How would Sarah have got hold of the Halloween candy? And no matter what Tony was trying to hand me, I knew Sarah was dead. I had seen her die.
    Jane Herman. Sarah was supposed to see someone named Jane Herman.
    I shook my head. Possible, but I didn’t think it likely. That office had been deserted. Sarah hadn’t been there when I got there. When would she have seen Jane Herman?
    On the other hand, if she hadn’t seen Jane Herman and she hadn’t left the reception room, there had to have been arsenic in both the coffee and the Halloween candy. Which didn’t seem very likely either.
    There was a rattling outside in the corridor. Phoebe came bustling in, staggering under a D’Agostino’s bag. I had a sudden, stabbing nonmemory of something— something —out of place. God only knew what.
    Phoebe put the grocery bag on the chair next to my bed and bustled over to me. Then she stood on tiptoe so she could look into my face.
    “Oh,” she said. “Thank God.”
    “Cigarettes,” I said. “Now.”
    “Nick had to go downtown for an hour. I had the nurse call him.”
    “Cigarettes,” I said again.
    Phoebe frowned. “You can’t have cigarettes in a hospital room,” she said. “They don’t allow it.”
    “Is this a private room?” I asked her.
    “Of course it is. Nick and I wouldn’t put you in with a lot of strange people.”
    “Do I look like I’m in an oxygen tent?”
    “Now, McKenna,” Phoebe said.
    “Cigarettes,” I said. I held out my hand.
    Phoebe sighed and started rummaging in the grocery bag. “I knew you’d be like this,” she said. “I got the call on the intercom and I thought, I’m going to get up there and the fool is going to start bellowing for cigarettes but thank God if she does because that means she’s all right and here you are with a perfect chance to quit absolutely insisting on giving in to your addiction—”
    She put the cigarettes in my hand. The pack was new and unopened and wrapped in plastic. The matches were from Lüchow’s.
    This time I managed to sit up. There was no ashtray, so I dropped the spent match in the plastic water glass. Then I took the drag to end all drags.
    Phoebe’s grocery bag was sliding off the chair. I reached for it. I didn’t make it. I leaned. I tottered. Only emergency action on the part of Tony Marsh kept me from falling out of bed. Phoebe got very stiff.
    “If you need something,” she said, “all you have to do is ask.”
    “Jelly doughnuts,” I said.
    “How about Zabar’s chocolate croissants?”
    She pulled a little white bag out of the larger brown one and tossed it to me. Tony Marsh glowered at both of us.
    “I don’t think she’s supposed to be eating that sort of thing first thing,” he said.
    We both ignored him. Phoebe ignored him because Phoebe believes food is always good for you. I ignored him because, although I expected chocolate croissants to make me sick, I didn’t really care. I ate three, told my stomach not to notice,