Free Poison to Purge Melancholy by Elena Santangelo Page A

dining room to the kitchen, grabbing a box of Swiss Miss hot chocolate mix off a pantry shelf en route. The smell of roast bird welcomed us, raising my spirits, though the room was dreary because the fluorescent light was out. I assumed Horse had turned it off as we left on our tour, so I tried the wall switch by the door, an antique with two buttons, one out, one already in. I pushed the outtie in, the innie popped out, and the top light went out.
    Beth Ann glared at me as I switched the light back on. She started opening cupboards until she found cups. While she filled a mug at the sink, I wandered over to the oven.
    “Don’t open it,” she said, bringing her water to the microwave. “We’re not allowed to look until—dammit, the microwave’s not working.”
    Resisting the urge to censor her language, I glanced at the appliance in question, which was when I noticed that the lamp over the stove had a dingy white cord trailing down the wall, behind the long table. I bent over to take a gander below counter level. Sure enough, both the light and microwave were plugged into the same outlet on the baseboard. “Another fuse. At least it’s not the stove this time.”
    “I hate this house.” Abandoning the cocoa idea, Beth Ann opened the refrigerator and inspected its contents.
    I had a good enough view to be scandalized. To me, holiday dinners meant refrigerators so stuffed with food, you had to leap back when you opened the door lest a Cool Whip container full of black olives should fall on your toes. Oh, this fridge wasn’t empty by anything but Italian standards, but all I could see were basics like milk, eggs, drinks, and sandwich fixings. Hugh had said his mother would throw two lavish dinners: one tonight, one tomorrow. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Where’s the food? For dinner, I mean.”
    Beth Ann chose a can of Pepsi and closed the door. “Locked up in Grandmom’s other fridge, wherever she hides it in this house. We’re not allowed to see the contents until dinner. Like the turkey. Although we always have the same things: ham, turkey, yams—”
    Glad came back into the room with Foot right behind her. His coat, suitcase, and brother were all missing, but he was still talking. I got the impression he hadn’t stopped, nor taken a breath, since he got out of the cab.
    “. . . the salesgirl was downright rude. Didn’t want to answer my questions because other customers were waiting. I asked for her manager and he gave me a run-around about Christmas crowds. I said if they couldn’t handle it, they ought to hire more help. God knows they’re pulling in enough money . . .”
    I guess I could have waited until he was finished, or until Glad found out about the fuse on her own, which would more likely come first. But I grew up in a family where everyone talked at once, and where not interrupting was considered a socialization disorder. Besides, Foot would be turning blue soon, so breaking in was a humanitarian gesture.
    With a loud “Excuse me,” I told Glad about the microwave.
    “Oh, bother. Now where did Ev put the new fuses?” A rhetorical question, because she went straight to the hutch beside the back door, picked up a brown paper bag, peeked inside, and pronounced them found.
    Foot shut up as his mother bustled out of the room, Beth Ann in her wake, soda in hand. I thought he’d follow, too, but he didn’t. I wondered if I should, though by now, the fear I’d felt earlier seemed absurd. Beth Ann wasn’t in any danger. And my knees wanted me to sit down.
    But first, I introduced myself to this new brother. “Hi, I’m Pat Montella.”
    Giving me the LAG—his default expression—he took my offered hand in a dry, apathetic grip. “You’re Hugh’s, er, friend.”
    Funny how he could make a nice word like “friend” sound so indecent. “Right, and you’re his, er, brother.” I hadn’t spent twelve years in corporate America without learning how to parry.
    Horse came