Finally, Bill asked, “Is Anarchy investigating?”

“He will.” I prayed he would.

“What’s he doing, now? Why isn’t he here?” He scowled at me, as if I were responsible for Anarchy’s absence. “What could be more important than finding Buffy's killer?”

“Mrs. Jones!” Randy’s call came from the path, halfway to the clubhouse. “The hospital is on the phone. They say it’s urgent.”

I took off at a run with Bear at my heels.

Chapter Twelve

The telephone was nestled amongst the magazines and ledgers on Randy’s desk. I snatched the receiver and pressed it against my ear. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Jones?” The voice was unfamiliar.

“This is she.”

“This is Dr. Collins. I’m chief of staff at Miami County Hospital.”

I couldn’t breathe. I barely managed a whisper. “Yes?”

“You called earlier about your husband.” Deep regret suffused his voice.

I sank into Randy’s desk chair. The doctor was calling with awful news. They’d messed up the anti-venom, and Anarchy was dead. I should have insisted the ambulance take him to a trauma center in Kansas City. This was my fault. I clutched the edge of the desk with my free hand. “What has happened?”

Bear rested his graying chin on my leg and stared at me with liquid eyes.

“I understand our receptionist refused to put through your call.”

I’d missed my chance to say goodbye. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t look at a world without Anarchy in it.

“I’m sorry—”

A keening sob rose from my chest and broke free.

Bear whined in sympathy.

“I didn’t realize it was that upsetting.” He sounded positively horrified at my display of emotion.

“My husband is dead.” If Dr. Collins didn’t think that would be upsetting, there was something seriously wrong with him.

“What? No, he’s not. I’m apologizing for our receptionist.”

He was apologizing for Florence? The regret I heard in his voice was Mother-induced? Not because they’d botched Anarchy’s care? “How's my husband?” I held my breath as I waited for his answer.

“He's under observation in the ICU.”

“Intensive Care?”

“So we can keep a close eye on him. We see hundreds of snake bites a year and haven’t lost a patient yet. He’ll be fine. Good as new. I promise.” He was trying to comfort me? Too little, too late. In fact, I wanted to introduce Dr. Collins to a nest of copperheads.

“May I speak with him, please?”

“Of course, I’ll connect you.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you’re not too upset about the earlier mix-up.”

That nest of copperheads still seemed like a good option. Or I could ask Mother to call again. The thought brought an evil smile to my lips. “Take good care of my husband, and I’ll forget all about it.”

I waited through thirty long seconds of dreadful hold music, then Anarchy said, “Hello.”