Season Of Glory. Ron/Janet Benrey

three o’clock.”

      Keefe made a noncommittal grunt. “What were you wearing when you prepared the dessert?”

      The sudden shift in topic startled Sharon. “I beg your pardon. What difference does my clothing make?”

      “You wore some sort of pants suit to the tea party. I doubt you worked in the kitchen dressed like that. Where did you leave the puddings when you went home to change?”

      She fought back a snicker. “Some sort of pants suit” was made of dark green Dupioni silk, had cost the better part of a month’s salary, and accentuated the best aspects of her figure. It was her Christmas gift to herself this year. She’d seen it at the Glorious Boutique on Main Street and had straight away given in to temptation. Well, why even try to resist? She had no one in her life to buy expensive presents for—and no one to buy them for her.

      And no one to tell me blatant lies about business meetings that take all evening…

      “Actually, Agent Keefe, I dressed for the tea party in Emma and Rafe Neilson’s bedroom—but I see where you’re going. In fact, the ramekins were never left alone during the afternoon. You can check with Calvin Constable, but I believe he kept working in the kitchen when I went upstairs to change.”

      “I did check with Mr. Constable,” Keefe confirmed. “When did you move the desserts to the gazebo?”

      “About a quarter to four. Calvin and I used a kitchen cart to wheel all the goodies from the kitchen through the garden. We took turns carrying dishes up the gazebo’s front steps. We were ready for guests a few minutes before four.”

      “Just in time for you to meet Andrew Ballantine.”

      Sharon hoped that her face didn’t reveal her confused emotions. Everything had happened so quickly and she had spent most of the night in the emergency room doing what was necessary to keep him alive. She and Ken Lehman had worked together in an E.R. resuscitation bay, equipped with patient monitors and a defibrillator in the event they had to restart Andrew’s heart.

      Sometime during the evening her own heart had restarted. She realized that she no longer saw him as a “consultant” or even as a “patient.” And to her great surprise she’d stopped worrying about Andrew’s trustworthiness. He’d made a wondrous first impression on her, although she wasn’t sure how he managed to do it. She had prayed during every step of the treatment they’d administered, surprised at the depth of her affection for Andrew that had intensified as she worked to maintain his steady heartbeat. She’d reminded herself over and over again that she’d met him the previous afternoon, that they’d spoken for only an hour, that she knew almost nothing about his personal life—other than he’d grown up in Knoxville, Tennessee, traveled far and wide to do his job, and saw himself as a confirmed bachelor. But biographic details seemed less important than the chief thing she didn’t know—how Andrew felt about her.

      Stop acting like a harebrained sixteen-year-old. You’re on the verge of making a fool of yourself.

      But logic was ineffective against those pesky feelings she felt—feelings that countered her long-held belief that she was much too sensible a person to fall in love at first sight.

      At the party, she’d had to remind herself to stop gaping at the man—and to stop thinking of Andrew Ballantine as perfect. Even now, the memories of that opening hour with Andrew made it difficult to concentrate on Agent Keefe’s ardent questions.

      Keefe went on. “So, once you began talking with Mr. Ballantine, you lost track of time and the Strathbogie Mist.”

      “I suppose so.”

      “Consequently, anyone in the gazebo that afternoon could have tampered with the desserts.”

      “True enough.” Sharon thought back to the tea party. The gazebo had appeared crowded, what with the Dickensons, the Carrolls and Amanda Turner talking together and various members of the church coming and going. Sharon supposed that there must have been a dozen people milling about, greeting Rafe and Emma Neilson, and saying hello to Andrew.

      She and Andrew eventually moved to a quiet spot two steps down the wide staircase. She’d been so engrossed in their conversation that she wouldn’t have noticed if a flying saucer had beamed up the ceramic ramekins—at least not until Andrew had decided to try one of her homemade treats. He had declared it “one of the most incredible dishes of Strathbogie Mist I’ve ever eaten. Better than my grandmother’s. A dessert to die for.”

      He doesn’t know yet how close he came.

      “Unfortunately,” Keefe said, “that leaves us with an open-ended array of potential suspects, unless…” He smiled crookedly. “Unless I can find solid evidence that you did it.”

      Sharon let herself frown. “You seem to have forgotten that I cared for Andrew most of last night. If I wanted to kill him, I had plenty of good opportunities when he was unconscious in the emergency room.”

      “Not necessarily. You knew by then that you’d be considered a suspect in his poisoning. Killing him in the E.R. would have involved too much risk. No—we can be confident that Mr. Ballantine was safe in your hands last night.”

      “And he’ll be safe in my hands today,” she murmured.

      “Did you say something?” He stood up and pointed at the clock over the door. “Look at that—we finished a full minute ahead of time.”

      “I said that you aren’t very bright if you seriously think that I poisoned Andrew Ballantine.”

      He shrugged. “At this point in my investigation, everyone who attended the tea party is a person of interest. But I’ll admit that you’re pretty low on my list of suspects. What’s more, I’m rooting that you didn’t do it. Good E.R. nurses are in short supply these days and Rafe Neilson told me that you are considered one of the best in the Carolinas.”

      He pulled open the heavy metal door that led to the hospital’s main corridor. He waited until he stood on the threshold to continue. “However, the fact remains that someone tried to kill Mr. Ballantine—someone with a motive we don’t understand. I’d like to close the case before the perpetrator strikes again.”

      Sharon smothered a gasp. The notion of a repeat attack hadn’t occurred to her. Was someone in Glory determined to kill Andrew Ballantine? And would that person try again?

      TWO

      How do I get them to tell me the whole truth?

      Andrew Ballantine mulled over his situation and cataloged the six forlorn facts he knew for certain:

      1. According to the embroidered label on his blanket, he was a “guest” of Glory Regional Hospital.

      2. He’d spent an entire night in a hospital for the first time in his life.

      3. He’d been asleep much of that night—drifting in and out of consciousness.

      4. He’d awoken at 10:00 a.m. and now felt reasonably clearheaded, although his innards still ached a bit.

      5. His illness, whatever its cause, had begun at an afternoon tea party—he dimly recollected drinking a mug of an especially fine Indian Assam.

      6. The nurse who’d visited him twice to take his temperature this morning—a rosy cheeked woman named Melanie, who looked about twelve years old—repeatedly replied “I don’t know” when he asked what was wrong with him or why he was attached to five different medical monitors.

      Andrew lifted the blanket and peered at the various wires connected to circular pads stuck on his chest, arms and legs, and contemplated yanking the clips loose.

      “That would set off the alarms and start a noisy commotion,” he mused. “Maybe then someone in this hospital will tell me what’s going on.”

      A tap on the door interrupted his scheming. “Mr. Ballantine?”

      Now