“You’re not the one I’m worried about. I don’t trust that bastard Riordan.”

* * * * *

Lisa phoned as we were lying in bed watching Michael Palin’s Palin’s New Europe. Actually Guy had been watching, and I had been dozing. Ever chivalrous, Guy took the bullet for me.

Gratefully, I listened to his side of the conversation.

“He’s fine, Lisa. He’s right here. Just having an early night.”

Poor Guy. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Did my mother think we were in separate rooms? Sleeping in bunk beds? I lowered the TV volume with the remote control. The TV in the bedroom was Guy’s idea. He found watching TV together more companionable than reading -- not that we spent a lot of sheet time in intellectual pursuits.

“Yep, he’s taking all his meds.”

“Oh my God,” I said.

Guy’s eyes laughed at me.

“He’s eating. He’s resting. He’ll give you a call tomorrow. I give you my word.”

I raised my brows at this. Guy raised his own in reply.

Folding my arms behind my head, I stared at the streetlamp shining behind the lace drapes over the window. Not that I would have admitted this to anyone, but my lack of energy scared me. I knew it was normal after pneumonia, like the sore ribs and the ugly cough, but the fatigue and shortness of breath brought back unpleasant memories. As had the hospital stay.

When my number came up, I wanted it to be lightning-bolt fast. I sure as hell didn’t want to end things struggling for breath in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines and stuck full of needles.

“Sweet dreams,” Guy cooed and leaned over to replace the handset on its hook.

“I owe you, man.”

“She’s a doll, really.”

“Mm. Bride of Chucky.”

He chuckled and bent over me, his breath light and cool as his mouth touched mine. “Say the word and I’ll make running interference a permanent part of my job description.”

I kissed him back lightly.

“No?” He raised an eyebrow.

I sighed.

“What’s it take to convince you I’m here for the long haul?”

“Maybe I’m just too set in my ways,” I said. “I’ve been living on my own a long time.”

“You’re thirty-five, Adrien. It’s not like your best years are behind you.”

They felt behind me, I thought, with my heartbeat fluttering in my throat as it did more often now. But I couldn’t tell Guy that. I couldn’t tell anyone that.

“You know I love you,” Guy said. “Right? So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m the problem.”

“No. You just need time.” He kissed me again. “That’s okay, lover. You take all the time you need.”

* * * * *

The next morning, Monday, Natalie and I were having a little debate about inventory loss control -- Natalie taking the view that stealing books was not really a crime so much as a cry for help -- when Detective Alonzo showed up with Jake in tow.

“Can we talk to you for a few minutes, Mr. English?” Alonzo asked over the din of power tools from behind the plastic curtain.

I looked at Jake. His face gave nothing away.

We went back to my office. Jake leaned against the wall as though he were strictly there in some official capacity as observer in a training exercise for Alonzo.

Alonzo said, “We were wondering if you’d had a chance to remember anything else after you made your statement yesterday.”

“You mean like, did I remember I killed Porter Jones?”

He smiled, a genial cat to a smart-ass mouse. “Something like that.”

“Not that I know of.”

He looked interested. “What’s that mean?”

I’d been debating since the evening before whether to mention the thing about handing Porter his drink before we went into lunch, and I concluded that it would be easier -- safer -- to have it out now. I said, “It means that if he was poisoned, then I think there’s a possibility I handed him the drink that killed him.”

“You think he was poisoned, Mr. English?”

“I think I’d have noticed if he’d been shot or stabbed.”

Alonzo looked toward Jake as though seeking confirmation. “You got a little bit of an attitude, Mr. English, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I don’t mind.”

His black brows drew together.

“I guess you won’t be surprised to hear that the coroner’s preliminary findings indicate that Mr. Jones was poisoned.”

“I see.” And I thought I did.

“We’ve found the glass that was probably used to administer the poison. It was broken in a bag of trash, but there was enough to lift fingerprints.”

“Let me guess. Mine.”

“Jackpot,” said Detective Alonzo. He did seem to enjoy his work.

I reminded myself I’d been through police questioning before and that I had nothing to hide. “I did say I might have inadvertently given him the poison. I passed him his glass right before we went into lunch. There should be other prints on the glass as well.”

“The vic’s.”

“Paul Kane’s fingerprints should also be on the glass.”

“Well, it’s his house,” Alonzo pointed out.

Jake said, “The interesting thing is the poison.”

I had avoided looking his way till now. His gaze was impassive.

Alonzo asked, “Do you have a heart condition, sir?”

Jake’s gaze shifted pointedly to Alonzo.

I nodded.

“What medications do you take?”

“Digoxin and aspirin.”

“Digoxin. That’s a form of digitalis, right?”

“Right. It slows and strengthens the heartbeat.”

“You take tablets or injections or what?”

“I take tablets.”

I waited. I knew what was coming.

“You’ll find this interesting. The autopsy results indicate that Mr. Jones died of a massive heart attack brought on by a fatal dose of some form of digitalis.”

They both stared at me.

Two or three murder investigations ago I might have panicked. As it was, I studied Detective Alonzo, perplexed.

“The glass was sitting on the bar for a few minutes. It was crowded, especially by the bar. Any number of people could have slipped something into that drink.”

“How would they know whose drink it was?”

“How would I? Paul Kane picked it up and said it was Porter’s drink. I handed it to Porter.”

“You need a prescription for digitalis, right?”

“No. That is, it’s a cardiac glycoside found in the foxglove plant, which is pretty common.” I thought of Lisa’s house in Porter Ranch surrounded by a classic English cottage garden full of graceful spires of foxglove. “The entire plant is toxic, but the leaves especially so.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I watch a lot of TV.”

“And you’re a mystery writer. I bet you know a lot about poisons.”

“Enough. I’m also a heart patient, so if I was going to poison someone I’d choose something that wouldn’t immediately make me a suspect.”

Detective Alonzo gave Jake another one of those looks as if seeking guidance. None was forthcoming.

“You know, I’ve got to say, Mr. English, I’ve interviewed a lot of suspects, and usually people react a lot differently when they’re questioned in a homicide investigation. Innocent people, I mean.”

“It’s not my first homicide investigation.” I replied. I turned to Jake. “Maybe you should fill him in on how we know each other.”

He didn’t move a muscle. “He knows.”

“Really?” I smiled crookedly. “Everything?”

Not a bat of an eyelash. “Everything relevant.”

He waited for me to say it. My heart sped up as I pictured myself speaking the words, betraying the secret he had protected for forty-two years. I could hurt him every bit as badly as he had hurt me -- and the hurt would be lasting, permanent -- devastating everything he cared about, from his career to his marriage. I could wreck him with a couple of sentences, and he knew it. He could see I was considering it.

He expected me to say it. His eyes never left mine, but there was no asking for quarter. He just…waited. Not breathing.