Chapter 20: Wedding Cake

My grandmother refused to wear the hospital gown, on the grounds that she was still wearing the cake.

"It's buttercream," she told the nurse. "It stays."

She lay propped against three pillows in a private room on the cardiac floor.

There was frosting in her silver hair, and a monitor beeped quietly beside her.

I stood at the foot of the bed with my sprained wrist in a brace and my other hand around the rail.

I had already tagged the rail, the monitor cord and the soap dispenser.

It had not helped.

"Tilda," Hattie said. "Sit. You're making the bed nervous."

"You fell on a cake."

"I fell gracefully. The cake was not prepared."

Quincy came in from the corridor with the doctor, who was tall and tired and carried a tablet.

"She's stable," the doctor said. "It was a short rhythm problem."

"It was brought on by a blood pressure drug at about three times her dose, and a glass of champagne on top of it."

"Three times," I said.

"Her weekly pill organizer. Someone has put the wrong tablets in the Saturday slot, and they look nearly identical."

"She took them this morning. The champagne only tipped her over."

Quincy's face went very still.

"Who fills her organizer?"

"I do," said Hattie. "Every Sunday. I did it last Sunday in the kitchen."

"Then I went to the bathroom, and a girl in a yellow cardigan offered to keep an eye on the dish."

Nobody said anything.

"Ellerbys don't die on schedule," Hattie said calmly, "but someone has been trying to move the schedule up."

The doctor looked at her monitor, then at us, and discreetly left.

I sat down on the edge of the chair.

My hands were shaking too badly to hold the clipboard.

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