A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(84)

She moved along the gallery and heard something. The sound was a loud electronic beep, unchanging and harsh. “Bee bee bee bee bee bee . . .” An alarm system?

She ran toward it, hoping to be able to turn it off. Usually home systems gave the user thirty or forty seconds to disarm them before a telephone signal went to the security company or the police station. She reached the place where it was loudest, swung the door open, and found herself in the master bedroom again. She saw what it was—not an alarm system, an alarm clock.

The digital clock was beside the king-size bed on an end table. The alarm was one of those that got louder each minute or two, and by now it was painful to hear. It began to make a different noise, like a howl, as some car alarms did, just when Jane reached it and hit the button.

The girl had not awakened. She was still lying motionless in the bed, her head no more than three feet from the deafening alarm clock. Jane looked closely at her. She was sprawled on her back with one arm a little behind her. She seemed to be lying on it. Jane saw a small downy feather from a pillow clinging to the bedspread. She picked it up and held it beneath Chelsea’s nose. The thin filaments of white barely moved, then were still for a count of five, six, seven, then moved again. The girl was barely breathing. Drugs?

The girl was in trouble. Jane shook her shoulder. No reaction. She shook her harder, then rolled her onto her side and pulled the arm out from under her. It was cool, and looked white as though she had been in the same position for hours. Jane got onto the bed, straddled her, and pulled her up by the shoulders. She held her and moved her hips back so she could keep her upright, then put two big pillows behind her. She patted the girl’s face once, twice, then harder. “Chelsea. Chelsea, wake up.”

The girl’s eyes fluttered but didn’t stay open. “No,” she croaked. “No.”

“You took something,” Jane said. “What was it?”

The girl’s eyes opened, but they were opaque, glassy, with no understanding. They closed again.

Jane let her lean back and hurried into the bathroom. What was it? There were no bottles or plastic bags on any of the counters. She ran back and scanned the tops of the dressers, the nightstands, then looked at the floors, and ran her hands over the bedcovers to feel for a pill bottle.

She remembered seeing a bar in the living room. There had been glasses—dirty ones left on the counter for the housekeeper to wash. She hurried into the living room and over to the bar. She sniffed the two glasses, but smelled nothing. There was also a cognac glass. She went around the granite bar and looked closely at the bottles, which seemed unremarkable, and the sink. There was no residue she could detect. When she turned to look over the bar at the room, something caught her eye. There was a shelf just below the bar for shakers, blenders, peelers, corkscrews, and other equipment, but there was also a small, plain cardboard box, and beside it the torn-off top of a little envelope. It was at most a quarter inch wide and an inch long, but the trace of white powder beside it attracted her attention. Sugar?

She knelt to look closer. The small, brown cardboard box was open at the top. Inside was a pile of identical tan paper envelopes, about an inch and a half long and less than an inch wide. She turned the small cardboard box. There was a very pretty, colorful stamp with several unfamiliar birds on it, and MEXICO CONSERVA across the bottom.

She plucked one of the envelopes out and examined them. There was a tiny pencil scribble on the side of each one: GAMMA-HYDROXYBUTYRATE.

Great. He gave her a date-rape drug. She pocketed a handful of the envelopes and ran into the bedroom. Chelsea was in exactly the same position she’d propped her in. She looked at her watch. It was after ten. Where was Mrs. Machak? Would she be here in a few seconds? A few minutes? Would she even know what to do?

Jane snatched up the telephone in the room and dialed 911.

“Nine one one, what is your emergency?”

“The address is 84792 Landover Road. There is a young woman in the master bedroom who seems to have ingested GHB. She’s in a semicomatose state.”

“Your name, please?”

“Mrs. Verna Machak. I’m the housekeeper.”

“Do you know how she came to take the drug, Mrs. Machak?”

“I have no idea. I just came in and found her. Is the ambulance on the way?”

“Of course. Are you in the room with her?”

“No. I’ve got to get back there now.” Jane hung up and ran to the bedroom. “Chelsea. The ambulance is coming.” She knew she should get out of the house as quickly as she could, but she noticed again the clothes lying on the chair. Aware that what she was about to do was foolish, she ignored the dress, snatched up the shorts and tank top, pulled the tank top down over Chelsea’s head and put her arms through, then pulled back the covers and slid Chelsea’s underwear over her ankles and up over her hips, and then the shorts. People with drug overdoses didn’t have much dignity to preserve, but the change made Jane feel better.

Jane pulled the covers up over the unconscious girl, took one of the small envelopes out of her pocket and tossed it on the bed beside her. Then she hurried to the front door, unlocked it and opened it wide, and ran to the kitchen.

She climbed out the louvered window, devoted a few seconds to sliding the eight glass strips back into their frame, and trotted along the back of the house to the side. She could see that the driveway was still clear, so she dashed across it into the stand of big trees. She waited until she could hear the wail of the ambulance before she jogged down the road to her car.