Read Online Dearly Departed by Hy Conrad - Free Book Online Page A

Laila asserted. “Or ever remind you that she knew.”
    â€œYou don’t realize until after she leaves and the spell is broken.. . .” Nicole pushed aside her untasted wine. “I think part of being on this trip is the therapy. Sharing all the Paisley stories. You realize how many others put themselves in that same position. Smart, well-adjusted people, like my parents, who left her nearly everything, for God’s sake. I was a teenager, so I was probably less susceptible to having this kind of best friend.”
    â€œTherapy,” Laila said and nodded back. “An apt way of putting it. At the time, it seemed all good, like an addiction does, I suppose.”
    Therapy? Addiction? Amy had been expecting a simpler, sweeter explanation, similar to the testimonials everyone had been spouting last night on the yacht. The perfect servant—from Jeeves to Hazel to Batman’s Alfred—was an easy, comforting cliché. But perfection could have its dark side, she realized.
    The table fell into an awkward silence as the waiter arrived with their lunches and a second bottle of Beaujolais. When he walked away, the talk resumed and became small, the usual inspection and smelling of the food and comments about the weather, over the background music of knives and forks and quiet chewing. And breathing. Someone was breathing. Loudly. A little annoying , Amy thought casually as she dove into yet another spoonful of white beans and meat, this time a succulent shred of duck. Very annoy . . .
    When Amy looked up from her cassoulet, Laila had dropped her fork and was grabbing at her throat. At first, Amy didn’t think, Choking, or too much salt . She automatically thought, Poison . “What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to get Laila to focus. Of course, it couldn’t be poison. Who would poison her here? The chef? The waiter?
    Laila couldn’t answer. By now she had both hands on her chest, her eyes staring down at the lamb chop and the brown stuffing as if they were terrorists.
    â€œAllergy?” Nicole asked with surprising calm.
    Laila bobbed her head.
    â€œI thought so. Shellfish?” Nicole continued, as if in a game of Twenty Questions. “Of course not. Peanuts? Tree nuts?”
    Laila bobbed again and, with a shaky hand, tried to reach down for the purse at her feet. Nicole helped her to grab it.
    â€œIt’s anaphylactic shock,” she said to Amy. “I’ve seen it before.”
    Amy was already pushing herself up from her chair and calling for the waiter. “Monsieur?”
    He was nearby, discussing with his customers their choice of starters. Everyone at the table stopped their chatter and looked perturbed. Americans could be so pushy.
    â€œMonsieur,” she said again, the panic rising in her voice. “Ces côtelettes d’agneau. Y a-t-il des noix?”
    The waiter blinked at Amy, then blinked at his customers, a well-dressed table of six. “Bien sûr. Pâte de marrons.” Of course. Chestnut paste. The others all murmured in agreement—“Chestnut paste in a lamb stuffing, of course”—as if it were a ridiculous thing to ask, and so rudely put, without even a “ Pardon ” or an “ Excusez-moi .”
    When Amy looked back, Laila had collapsed on the marble floor. Nicole was still going through Laila’s purse. A second later she pulled out a small zipped pouch and out of the pouch an EpiPen. Amy had never seen one before, but she knew what it was.
    â€œMy niece has a nut allergy,” Nicole said, still relatively calm. The device looked like a Magic Marker; it was around the same size and shape. Nicole made a fist around the pen, pressed it against the thigh of Laila’s silk dress, and pushed. Laila was still gasping. Nicole held it in place for nearly twenty seconds.
    Amy wasn’t sure what she should expect. Nothing as dramatic as an instant recovery, maybe. Maybe a slow recovery of