Lethal Dose of Love (14 page)

The door moved two inches before the first squeak. She stopped, waited, listened. Nothing. No barking or scratch of toenails on linoleum, if Sean had linoleum. Maybe it was tiles. Or wood. Or…

The door moved another millimeter. Another squeaky protest. An absolute screech in her ears. What was that smell? She sniffed again and was assaulted by a vision of her father slouched in his chair, head lolled to one side, beer can dangling in flaccid fingers. She thrust the image into the recesses of her mind and stepped inside, easing forward till the screen door was closed but not latched.

The odor was stronger now and she knew it well. She’d never gotten to know her father as a person. Until her teens, she’d cursed his drinking and scorned his inattention to her and her brother. Gradually Claire realized the real trouble came from her mother, who waited till the kids were in bed, dressed in her best cotton dress, and went out, coming home smelling like someone else’s aftershave just before dawn. Her mother was the biggest reason Claire decided to give Sean up for adoption. Genes had a tendency to replicate. She shut her eyes and counted to ten.

Sean’s kitchen was backlit by the glow of the streetlight through the front picture window. She could see large objects: counters, cabinets, table, a large dark thing on the table. A box? No, it was roundish and lumpy looking. Laundry? Claire sometimes dumped her laundry on the table to fold.

She took a step toward the long rectangle of countertop, still eyeing the mass on the table. The closer she got, the more certain she was that it was clothing. A coat maybe, tossed there as someone passed. She took another step, intent on putting down the cake and getting the hell out of there.

The pile moved!

Claire stiffened, the plate held ridiculously out in front, like a weapon. Or a shield.

The bundle moved again, growing before her eyes—her very wide eyes. Perspiration squirted out her pores, as though her body was a giant corn popper. Hysteria produced another vision, of the popcorn building, deepening, surrounding. Soon it would envelop her completely, and she’d be trapped in this beer-scented house.

Something rose up from the pile. A head. God, someone was here in the kitchen. Sitting in the dark. Drinking. Had to be Sean.

Claire made like a statue, praying her silhouette wasn’t emblazoned against the wall like an actor on stage. If she remained perfectly still…

The head moved.

Her right leg began to tingle. She needed to flex it, hop up and down, do something to get her blood flowing.

The head wobbled. “So, you came back, you bitch.” He sat up straighter in the chair but had to prop his palms on the table to steady himself. “You got balls, girl. Anybody ever tell you what big balls you have?” He staggered to his feet. The chair thumped off the half-wall behind him. Sean tottered there for a moment, then moved toward her.

How had Claire’s mother handled her father when he got like this? Her stomach shriveled at the thought. She took a step backward and whispered, “It’s me, Sean. Claire. Claire Bastian.”

Even in silhouette, his hesitation was evident. She tried again hoping familiarity would plow through his fog. “I-I came to. I-er, brought you a piece of cake.” She held out the plate. “I made it…just for you.” Would he remember how much he enjoyed her chocolate cake?

He took a step away from the table. His right arm fumbled for something to grab onto. “I told you to get out and not come back. I said I’d kill you if you came back, and I meant it.” He took a step.

When she spoke, her voice was scratchy but calm. “Sean, I’m not MaryAnn. I’m Claire Bastian, the librarian. Remember you got books the other day? Books on redecorating your restaurant.”

“There is no more restaurant.”

What was he talking about? She didn’t dare draw him into conversation.

“Cake. Have a piece of cake, Sean.”

He stepped closer. Sparks danced in his eyes. He planned to thrash her and enjoy every minute of it. But she wouldn’t go down without a fight. She hadn’t gone to all this trouble to have it end this way.

“I told you to get out and stay out.”

She leaned toward the counter, the plate in her left hand. “I’m just going to put it here for you.” In her nervousness she set the plate down an inch too early. It slipped. She groped, caught it, and slid the plate onto safe territory.

He took another step. His breath was cloying, hot on her face.

Claire made two fists, the feeling of the cotton gloves comforting. “What do you think you’re going to do to me?” She leaned into him, making contact with his abdomen. “Let’s see what a big guy you are. See if you can get the better of someone half your size.” She poked her fists into him, feeling the heavy resistance of his sternum. “Well, what are you waiting for, you little pussy?”

“You…” He only had a chance to breathe the single word that smelled exactly like her father’s breath. Her rush of anger was unexpected. Both fists flashed out. One struck him in the nose. The other hit him in the stomach. He doubled over and dropped to the floor.

“That’s the thanks I get for being neighborly. For baking you a special cake.”

He didn’t speak or move, but she didn’t wait. She slipped outside and into the deepest darkest shadows she could find. She stopped under a dew-damp lilac branch and listened. Nothing. No light turned on. No yelling for the bitch to come back and take what was coming to her.

Her greatest wish, second to the one that needed him off the planet, had been to watch him exclaim over the luscious piece of cake. Now, there was the likelihood of him not eating it at all. The chance he’d toss the whole damn thing in the trash.

****

Claire stumbled into her house, despondent and exhausted. The horizon was a puke-yellow strip just above the tree line, signaling the arrival of dawn. It was 4:30. All she needed was a cup of tea and a few rejuvenating hours of sleep. But there was one more thing left to take care of.

There was always one more thing.

She removed the plastic trash bag from under the sink. The aroma of the mashed chocolate cake rushed out. She held her breath and fed it down the garbage disposal with a large serving spoon. Several times, she had to put down the spoon and rush to the back door for a breath. Then a thought hit her—the fumes couldn’t be toxic. Mamie had inhaled them while cleaning up the mess last night. Claire held her breath anyway and went back to shoveling spoonfuls down the garbage disposal. The little motor whirred away the last of the brown glop. She poured bleach into the drain, tooth-brushed as far down as she could reach, added boiling water, and then more bleach.

The teapot’s insistent whistling broke through her reverie. Steam poured from the spout, wafted and tangled in the hood over the stove. She made tea and carried it upstairs, and climbed into bed wondering how to dispose of the trash bag, and the gloves. Too bad she didn’t have a fireplace.

In a few hours they’d all be down in the harbor waiting for the horn to signal the start of the season’s first race. She’d arranged for Sarah to take her shift at the library. Once again, Claire thought about retirement. She’d made some wise investments and was fairly well off. But what would she do with her time, sit in that comfy chair in her front window and watch the world go by? She drank tea and turned on her side.

Would people be surprised when Sean didn’t show up for the meet? No, probably not. They’d assume Frank Simpson had been stuck in another business meeting, and the men had decided not to participate.

The dreams weren’t pleasant; she was seventeen, sitting at the Formica table in her parent’s kitchen, amid the stench of beer and cigarettes, with the icebox and three-legged woodstove. Her mother jabbed her finger in Claire’s chest. “What do you mean you’re pregnant? How could this happen? You whore!”

“You
know
how it happens, Mother.” Claire’s words gathered a stinging slap on each cheek.

“Who’s the father? Who’ve you been fucking?”

Claire stood firm as her mother named off every boy she could think of. Wouldn’t his identity just blow her mind? Not a boy. A man. Passing through town. How could Claire explain why she’d succumbed to the man when she didn’t even know herself—not until years later. For a few fleeting moments that man embodied everything her childhood lacked. Tenderness, love, protection.

“Well, I guess that’s it then,” her mother had said.

“What?” Claire hadn’t needed to ask. She was on her own to raise her child. Didn’t Claire’s mother care that she’d never see her grandchild, never hold his hand to cross a street, never show him how to…what? Just what did her mother do that could be taught to a young child?

With a heavy heart, Claire had packed her belongings in a suitcase and large paper bag and walked. For miles and miles. Eventually, she’d gotten a ride. As they passed through Sackets Harbor, she’d made the driver stop and let her out. Thankful she looked older than her seventeen years, she’d been offered a job at the library. She and head librarian Edna Adams took to each other right away. Within weeks Edna was voicing some of her deepest, darkest troubles to Claire, one of which was her desire to have a child. That was when Claire burst into tears and told the whole story.

Claire woke in a cold sweat. She got up and shut the shades, then climbed under the comforter still in her cake-delivery clothing. The tea was cold but she drank the rest in two swallows. She fluffed the pillows and looked out at the gray sky, the dream still too vivid to go back to sleep.

Edna and Rodney had paid for Claire to go away and have her baby. They took what they told everyone was a much needed vacation. When they returned, they brought with them their newborn son, Sean. He was a handsome child, with downy blond hair and a turned-up nose. His bright blue eyes, so knowing, so intelligent. Claire remained true to their agreement: she wouldn’t interfere with Sean’s upbringing so long as she could be close and watch him grow.

At first Claire made excuses for Sean’s school behavior saying it was the change from a doting mom to the freedom of the school life. It was just a phase he was going through.

Then something happened when Sean was twelve that Claire thought would scare him straight. He woke one morning to find both his parents had been stabbed to death by burglars. Sean’s behavior improved for a while. He went to live with his godmother, Edna’s sister, Elaine. Things had been good—for a few years. Then he’d returned.

Chapter 14

Claire watched the news for an announcement about Sean’s death. She went out and bought a newspaper. Nothing.

Probably MaryAnn had never come home. The body wouldn’t be discovered until Sean neglected to open the café and someone was sent to get him when he didn’t answer the phone.

If he had eaten the cake. If the poison worked.

Claire ate a bowl of cereal then went downtown and visited Payton. They sat together on a long flower-patterned sofa.

The shop door opened and a dervish whirled in, pushed ahead of the early morning rain. The woman was encased from head to foot in yellow plastic. “Whew!” she cried, stomping water on the mat inside the doorway. The hood flung back to reveal a pretty face with high cheekbones and the pale skin of a person who spent too much time indoors. Mid-length brunette hair exploded from the confines of the hood like cotton from its boll. “Whew!” She finally stopped moving long enough for identification.

MaryAnn, in her mid-twenties, had gained quite a lot of weight over her eight years with Sean. Claire didn’t think it was from sampling the decadent French food. The stress of living with him would turn anyone into a comfort eater. Her smiling face said she didn’t yet know about Sean’s death.

There was a definite discoloration under her left eye. She’d tried to cover it with makeup, but rain had become her enemy. Anger pushed into Claire’s limbs. She gulped down the emotion. At least Sean wouldn’t hit anyone again.

“MaryAnn! My goodness, Mamie and I were talking about you just yesterday saying we hadn’t seen you in ages. Have you and Payton met?”

MaryAnn shook more water from her raincoat. “Sure have. I’m her new employee.”

“We walked up from the dress rehearsal together,” Payton explained. “And it just happened.”

“I didn’t see you at rehearsal,” Claire said.

“I stayed away. Sean would have made a scene.”

“Claire, would you like some coffee?” Payton didn’t wait for a reply; she headed for the back room and returned quickly. “The water’s heating.”

At that moment, a large box van rumbled into the side parking lot. Payton looked out the window. “Sorry for the interruption, my delivery is here. They’re switching living room sets around.” Payton picked up a pair of pink flowered African violets from the end tables and set them on the front counter.

“I’ll do that for you.” Claire moved pillows and knickknacks.

“Did Payton tell you she and I are racing
Zephyr
today?” MaryAnn asked.

“No.” It seemed there was a lot she didn’t mention. Claire’s disappointment was palpable. She thought she and Payton were friends. Friends told each other things.

“It’s only for this week though,” MaryAnn continued, “so she can see how the boat goes. Since Sean and I are divorcing, he’s got to give me back
MaryAnn
.”

“He doesn’t own
MaryAnn
?”

“He was really pissed last night when I reminded him.” MaryAnn gestured at her eye.