“How can you tell?” Sam asked, certain the weatherman had called for a clear night.
“My homemade barometer is showing low pressure.” Miss Posey pointed to one of the cans with a toothpick gauge. “It’ll be a doozy tonight!”
How accurate Miss Posey would turn out to be…
By the time Sam shrugged off Miss Posey’s weather assessment and slipped into her car, driving past one, two, three more For Sale signs, she had forgotten all about her new scandalous neighbor or her sinking home value. She had much bigger problems to worry about tonight.
Chapter 14
Another dead end. It seemed only Sam’s bad luck was on a winning streak these days.
After Sam knocked on the massive iron lion’s head knocker at Thomas Cook’s residence, the housekeeper gripped the edge of the front door protectively, then shortly announced that “no, Dr. Cook isn’t home,” and “he does not take kindly to uninvited guests.”
“But we had plans…” Sam lied. Even if Sam had plans, her bad luck would have inevitably rose above them.
You see, plans were meant for people who could successfully execute them. People with a natural predisposition for good luck. Sam, on the other hand, had a knack for the exact opposite, her life proving to be a domino effect of events cascading randomly every which way, impossible to stop and frustrating to clean up.
“Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you,” the housekeeper replied. “Dr. Cook isn’t exactly known for keeping his appointments.”
This put a kink in Sam’s carefully laid plan of duping Thomas Cook into permitting her entrance into his 11,000-square-foot brick mansion with the claim that her car had broken down conveniently outside his home. Part 1 of the plan segued into a glass of wine and intimate conversation through the wee hours of the night, at which point Sam plotted Part 2: a little snooping once Thomas Cook passed out, which he inevitably would, thanks to Sam’s ingenuity. After that, well, Sam hoped the evidence she needed would fall into her lap. The ploy sounded so much easier in her head.
“Do you know when Mr. Cook will be back?”
“You mean Dr. Cook, don’t you? You should know he insists on the doctor.”
“Of course. How forgetful of me,” Sam apologized, mentally noting it.
The housekeeper was used to strangers arriving on the estate uninvited wanting one thing or another. Long-lost relatives begging for money. Ex-girlfriends digging for gold. Reporters hungry for an interview. All the same characters, just a different story. But something about Sam felt different. Apparently the pathetic look on Sam’s face garnered a morsel of pity from the frazzled housekeeper as she paused before she would usually slam the heavy oak double-entry doors in the intruder’s face.
“He usually doesn’t get home until late. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Actually, yes, ma’am. I noticed that your fingernails are purple,” Sam commented.
The housekeeper released her grip on the door and self-consciously assessed her fingertips.
“So they are,” the housekeeper noted with alarm. “Do you have any idea what could cause this?”
“It can be a sign of cyanosis, which is caused by lack of oxygen in the blood,” Sam explained. Glimpsing the housekeeper’s mildly stained teeth, Sam deduced a possible cause. “Do you happen to smoke, ma’am?”
“You got me. A bad habit, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to quit, but the stress of this job… and my night classes…”
“Say no more.” Sam raised a hand to halt her. “I completely understand. But smoking is most likely diminishing your lung capacity, thus causing the cyanosis, and if it gets any worse, well, life will become a lot more stressful.”
“Oh dear.”
“I think I can help, though.”
“Really? How so?”
Sam tapped a newly manicured Georgia Peach-painted fingernail against her chin. “Quitting cold turkey can be tough, but I have some lobelia that can make it easier. It’s a flower that can stifle the nicotine craving and relax your airways by halting the production of inflammatory proteins in your lungs.” Sam rattled off facts while the housekeeper looked perplexed but grateful. “Then I can mix the lobelia with ginseng, which will help your body adapt to the stress. All safe, all natural, and all freely grown in my garden.” Or what Archibald had left of it.
“I can’t thank you enough, Miss…?”
“Stanton. Sam Stanton. And if natural remedies interest you, I run an advice column called Samantha Says that can address any ailment you might have, whether it be emotional or physical. Write to me any question, any time.”
“I truly appreciate that. No one, let alone a stranger, has ever been so considerate of me. Not even Dr. Cook,” the housekeeper exclaimed gratefully. “By the way, what is it you’re here to see him about, miss? Maybe I can help.”
Sam realized her broken-down car alibi required a quick change in tactic, preferably one where she could serendipitously run into Thomas Cook in person.
“I, uh, was interested in Cook Pharmaceuticals’ research division and was supposed to meet Mr. Cook—I mean Dr. Cook—after hours.” Sam hated fibbing to the woman, but as Raul had emphasized more than once, it was a necessary God-approved sin exclusive to investigative journalists. A tiny white lie Raul assured her God would overlook. “We were supposed to meet for dinner tonight to discuss a new drug trial. But I can’t recall where.”
“Oh, that would be the Gaslight Club. But certainly you know that it’s a gentlemen only club?”
“So I’ve heard.”
Sam first learned of the exclusive establishment when the news had covered the two dozen nude paintings that had created quite a seamy controversy. Rumors had even circulated that the Gaslight Club would be hosting its own private showing of Oh Calcutta!, a nude risqué revue that had only recently made its Off-Broadway debut. A gentleman’s club, they called it? Sam was fairly certain there would be no gentlemen present.
