Lethal Dose of Love (29 page)

“I didn’t expect we’d be sitting on the ground though,” added Sylvie. “Amanda, could I have some of that tossed salad, please?”

“Well,” Amanda handed across the bowl, “nobody offered to bring chairs.”

Sylvie lowered herself heavily onto a blanket, facing the water, maybe so she didn’t have to make eye contact with Helen. “I’m down, but someone might have to help me up.”

“No problem,” Amanda said. “But what I wonder is who’s going to help the first person up.”

Payton laughed. “Maybe we can flag down a tourist.”

“Where’s everyone else?” Sylvie asked.

“Claire and Mamie are coming down the hill now,” Amanda said.

“Mamie’s packed on a few pounds,” Sylvie offered.

“That’s not a subject most of us are comfortable talking about, Sylvie.” Helen laughed; her weight was often a humorous subject of conversation. But Sylvie scowled and Helen shut up.

Claire and Mamie soon settled, but both seemed out of sorts.

Claire’s eyes darted back and forth, like roving Christmas lights. Mamie seemed nervous, too, but demonstrated it by looking only at the food in her lap. Payton was used to her not making eye contact, but today she never once looked up from her plate.

Finally, topic of the meeting turned to Sean’s murder. There was an unspoken moment of silence for the two men, after which, Sylvie said, “Never much liked Sean. Don’t know how he ever got hooked up with that nice Frank Simpson.”

Amanda nodded slightly, but even Sylvie was content to let the subject drop.

Payton wondered at the logic of mentioning her intention of finding the killer. If either of the three were guilty, they’d be on her thick as honey. Would any of them resort to a second murder if she got too close? What was she saying—Helen and Carter were no more murderers than her. Sylvie on the other hand…

Sylvie’s voice brought her senses alert. “Bullshit. You could kill as easily as anyone else, given the right set of circumstances.”

“No,” Felicia said. “I believe my inborn desire not to hurt anyone would overrule the part of me that’s angry enough to do something like that. Heaven knows, I’ve been in that position often enough with Brighton.”

They all laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Haven’t you all been so angry you wanted to hurt someone? You manage to stop yourself, don’t you? Well, I believe that, even given those considerable circumstances, I could hold back.”

“This wasn’t a crime of passion,” Helen said. “This was cold and well calculated in advance.”

“You ought to know about cold and calculating,” Sylvie said.

Helen bent forward, hand knit sweater almost in her potato salad. “Sylvie, what is your problem? What did I do to make you so angry?”

“It’s your big mouth, that’s what. You telling your husband Sean got what was coming to him.”

“What!”

“I heard you, don’t try and deny it.”

“I never said such a thing.”

“No!” Sylvie got to her feet without any of the difficulty she’d proclaimed she’d have.

“You must have misinterpreted something I said,” Helen protested.

“Ladies,” Payton said.

“You’re the one who should learn a little decorum,” Helen said.

The word decorum obviously stymied Sylvie for a moment, but she finally realized that whatever it meant, it wasn’t a compliment. “How dare you?”

“If any of us could do such a thing as murder, it’s you.”

“Ladies!”

“What reason would I have for killing somebody, assuming I could do such a thing?”

Lightning bolts from Sylvie’s eyes hit Helen squarely in the barricade that had, so far, controlled her temper. It broke with an almost audible snap. “You have as good a reason as anyone, Sylvie French. When you sold that parcel of land out from under Sean, he vowed he’d pay you back. And he did, didn’t he? He made sure you couldn’t get the variance on that strip-mall deal.”

Sylvie spluttered like a fire with ice water thrown on it. But she wasn’t ready to be extinguished yet. She balled her hands and shook them at Helen. “You’re saying I cheated Sean out of that land?”

“Give a trophy to the lady. Yes, that’s exactly what you did. Sean gave you a ten thousand dollar deposit. I saw the check myself. You tore it up and went with a higher bidder.”

“I—”

“I was there, remember? Sean’s check was dated four days before the Carlson Corporation’s.”

Sylvie shot another volley of lightning at Helen then stormed off up the hill.

Amanda was first to break the awkward silence. “Well.”

Helen pushed onto her knees and then to her feet. “I’m going home.”

“We might as well all go,” Felicia said. “I feel the urge to apologize to Brighton.”

“For what?” Amanda asked.

“All the times I wanted to pound him into mush.”

Together they folded the blankets, wrapped the uneaten food and went their separate ways. Mamie and Claire—who hadn’t spoken a word throughout the meeting—and Payton walked up the hill together.

“Claire, tell Payton your plan,” Mamie said suddenly.

“I wanted to tell everyone at once, but…I’m going to ask Helen about reopening Sean’s café.”

The words “you’re kidding!” squeezed between Payton’s lips before she could get her surprise-reflex under control.

“Someone should be carrying on his legacy. MaryAnn doesn’t want to. She’s even selling his house.”

“She’s decided to keep it.”

“Good. Well, I’ll try and corner Helen at home. I want to get things rolling as quickly as possible.” Claire waved good-bye and strode away, not limping at all on her bad ankle.

Mamie’s eyes focused on Payton’s top button. “Crazier and crazier.”

Chapter 34

Payton sat at her kitchen counter perched on a stool. She gave a bored glance at the folded copy of the
Watertown News
and pulled it toward her. For the past two days, the story about Sean and Franks’ deaths had been relegated to the fourth page, but today it was once again splashed across the front: Poisonous Plant Used in Sackets Harbor Deaths. The article was short and didn’t state the specific plant that had been used. Either the police weren’t releasing the information or they didn’t know. Yet. She recalled the research saying many plants couldn’t be detected after death.

The phone rang and Payton went to retrieve the cordless handset from the dining table. “Hello.”

“Hello, dear.”

“Hi, Helen.”

“Did you hear the news about Claire? She was just here asking for a lease to reopen Sean’s café.”

“I heard. What’s wrong with that?”

“She doesn’t have any restaurant experience. What’s going on with her? With her job at the library she wouldn’t have time to run a restaurant anyway.”

“Something’s definitely up.”

“Would you try and talk to Claire tomorrow? You know, talk her out of this ridiculousness.”

Payton wasn’t sure ridiculousness was a word. “What have the cops been up to? I haven’t seen them around lately.”

“I heard they’re back questioning Amanda and her husband.”

“Really?” Amanda had bought a few plants. Payton couldn’t recall exactly which ones—except one had been monkshood.

“Dear, are you still there?”

“Yes. Sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked if you had any idea why authorities would want to talk to them again.”

“No. Unless they found something on those videos.”

“Did you see anything when you watched them?”

“No. And it was awful watching myself almost drown.”

“All right, dear. Take care. Let me know if you find out anything.”

Payton pushed the Off button and ran a hand through her hair. The burnished strands filtered between her fingers like water over a dam, glimmering in the overhead kitchen light. So the police were questioning the Marches. She tapped the On button and dialed MaryAnn’s number.

“Hi, it’s Payton. I wondered if you wanted some company.”

“You must have ESP. I was just thinking of calling you.”

Payton found a pencil and scribbled directions to MaryAnn’s house. “See you in a bit.”

The house was a respectable ranch in a middle-class neighborhood. The houses were close together, even more so than in Payton’s neighborhood but all were well kept, with newish cars in the yards. The porch light was on and before Payton reached the top step, MaryAnn opened the door. She wore jeans, a baggy pink t-shirt and a welcoming smile.

“I’m really glad you called. I was feeling a little down.”

“I brought refreshments.” She brandished a bottle of merlot and followed MaryAnn into a well-furnished home. It was clean and smelled of furniture polish.

MaryAnn handed her a corkscrew and opened cabinet doors. “I know there are wine glasses here somewhere.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Payton twisted the opener into the cork.

MaryAnn finally gave up and took two tumblers from the dish drainer.

“Did you make the cake?” Payton pointed to a plastic wrapped plate on the counter.

“No. And I have no idea where it came from. Someone at the restaurant must’ve made it for Sean.”

“Why didn’t you eat it?”

“I’m deathly allergic to chocolate. You can have it if you want.”

Payton picked up the plate and peered at it closely. Two layers, moist, with decadent-looking frosting. Suddenly she wished she could bake, to turn out something this luscious looking. She pulled back the plastic wrap, dipped her finger in the frosting and put it in her mouth. “Oooh, this is fabulous.”

“Eat it. I’m just going to end up throwing it away. Hold on, I’ll get you a fork.”

Payton pulled the plastic down and put the plate on the counter. “Maybe later. I want some of that wine first. I want it so badly I’m not even letting the bottle breathe first.” She poured both glasses full. Fruity and smooth, it flowed like mercury from a thermometer.

Claire’s words about the world’s best chocolate cake echoed inside her. Maybe this had been what she’d been referring to. Payton dearly wanted to eat that cake but felt a little awkward with MaryAnn not having something herself.

They carried the glasses down the hall. MaryAnn stopped at the master bedroom. “This was Sean’s room.”

The room was definitely a man’s domain. The bedding, crumpled in the middle of the king-sized bed was red and green plaid. The walls were painted white; a wallpaper border in a hunting pattern had been applied near the ceiling. Two dressers, one with a mirror and one tallboy were good quality. A photo of Sean and MaryAnn on their wedding day sat atop the tall dresser. She’d worn a simple blue pantsuit and held a bunch of miniature white roses. Her face was innocent and unmarked. Payton picked it up. “When were you married?”

“April fifth. It was seven years ago. I was sixteen.”

A million questions swirled inside Payton’s head, but she didn’t ask them. The time wasn’t right. A framed photograph over the bed caught her eye. It was of a seaside cottage, its weather-beaten shingles gray, the roof spotted with white bird droppings. Water pounded the marsh-grass strewn shore where a small boy, obviously Sean, in a red bathing suit splashed in the gray/green surf.

MaryAnn climbed on the bed and took down the photo. “Sean’s parents used to rent a cottage on Cape Cod.” She gazed at it tenderly for a moment and then hung it back on the wall.

MaryAnn had been cleaning out Sean’s things. In one corner squatted a large box. It was half full of folded clothing, probably destined for the thrift shop. Payton pictured MaryAnn running her hands over each item, recalling when they’d bought it, or what memories each evoked. She’d have tears coursing down her cheeks. Payton knew exactly how it felt.

“If this is too much for you, I can do it. You can work in another room.”

“I’m okay. If you could do the dresser and his personal things, that would help the most.” MaryAnn hauled a cardboard box out of the closet. “I’ll go through this one. I’m thinking we put the stuff in three cartons; that one for the thrift shop, this one is for Sean’s aunt in Amarillo and the one near the doorway for the trash man.”

“Does Sean have any other relatives?”

“Only Elaine. She’s his mother’s older sister.”

“Why didn’t she come to the memorial service?”

“She’s an invalid.”

Payton opened the bottom drawer. “I assume you want the jewelry and knickknacks in her box?”

“Right.” MaryAnn’s voice sounded muffled. Payton turned to see her nearly upside down in a large cardboard container.

Payton set to work pulling the contents out of the drawer. It was mostly sweatpants and shirts, all in good condition and smelling like Polo cologne. She dropped them into the thrift shop box. “He sure had a lot of sweat clothes.”

“He jogged most every day and I’m not very good at doing laundry.”

They worked in silence for a long time, Payton slogging her way through Sean’s summer clothes and dress shirts and MaryAnn starting on a box she dragged from the depths of the walk-in closet.

It gave Payton a creepy feeling to be sorting through Sean’s things, a man she not only disliked, but one whose bloated face kept appearing before her. The next drawer held his underwear. Without noticing anything other than they were mostly all new, she picked them up in two handfuls and flung them in the trash.