Lethal Dose of Love (5 page)

Claire waved good-bye to Mamie and walked around her house, checking the perennials sprouting in the small gardens around the property. Tulips in a dozen colors on the driveway side. Daffodils, including pink ones, along the back. Everything needed raking again. But even so, it looked beautiful. This was her artwork, her specialty. People who couldn’t, or wouldn’t develop their talents—people like Felicia—bought art from people like Mamie and, she guessed, like Sean. Where had he purchased
Sunset
? Maybe Claire could find out.

She went inside and phoned Felicia. “I was just curious. Did Sean tell you where he bought that painting?”

“He said he got it from a gallery in the City.” Felicia told Claire the name, but she didn’t recognize it. After hanging up, she typed the gallery name in the computer search square. Why wasn’t she surprised to find it had come from one of the places owned by Miles Arenheim?

Chapter 5

When the postmistress pushed the rectangular package across the counter, Claire felt a surge of elation so strong it was like being blasted by January wind off the harbor. She glanced at the vacant table in the corner but swallowed the urge to open the package right there.

A wall of rain hit her head-on as she stepped outside. She held the door for old Mrs. Campe, already soaked just running from her car. Claire opened her umbrella, ducked her face into her jacket collar and started down the steps, the words “it’s here!” repeating in her head.

On the bottom step, Claire’s left foot slipped. She turned her ankle and went down hard. The umbrella and package flew out of her hands. Razor-like pain shot up her leg and into her spine. Frigid water saturated her pants. Her vision clouded. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced her brain to override the messages of pain.

A firm hand gripped her shoulder and someone knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”

Even through the viscous haze, Claire recognized the owner of the voice. Her eyes shot open. Blood rushed to her cheeks. “My package. Where is it?”

“Right here. It’s only a little damp.” Sean shook it near his left ear. “Don’t worry. Doesn’t sound like anything’s broken. Are you hurt?”

Claire pushed his hand off her arm. A vein throbbed in her temple and a migraine materialized as if yanked from a magician’s hat. She grasped the iron railing and tried to get to her feet but the feet just wouldn’t cooperate. Faces bent to hers, asked if she was hurt. Features blurred together. Suddenly they all had Sean’s bright blue eyes and high cheekbones. She blinked several times to displace the vision and tried again to pull herself up. This time her right foot worked.

Sean held her down. “Don’t move, an ambulance is on the way.” He peeled her hand from the rail and warmed it in his.

She wrenched it from him and tried once again to rise. “No ambulance. I’m not hurt. Someone just help me stand.” She seized the railing and planted her boots firmly in the puddle. “Please.”

Strong hands grasped her upper arms from behind and she was set carefully on her feet. Another wave of pain seared up her back. She tried not to grimace. Swallow the pain. Her eyes darted toward the package in Sean’s long lean fingers.

“Ms. Bastian, are you sure you’re all right?” Officer Vaughn Spencer’s face evolved from the mass of images before her.

“I’m fine. Will someone just help me to my car?”

“Why don’t you go to the hospital—” Vaughn tried to say.

“No! Home.”

“Okay, okay, take it easy. I’ll send the ambulance away when it gets here and take you home myself.”

She recognized the panic in her voice and warned herself to remain calm. She took a breath, then another, put a little weight on the injured ankle, then let the foot take all the pressure. The pain was bad but not unbearable. “I’ll go home now,” she said.

“I’ll drive you. Sean will follow in your car.”

“No, not…” Claire started to say, but she was suddenly overcome with fatigue. “Oh, all right. Where’s my package?”

“Right here.” Sean wiggled it before her.

She wanted to demand he hand it over but instead allowed them each to take an arm and help her to the police cruiser. With them at her sides, she didn’t have to put much weight on the ankle and it hardly hurt at all.

The sound of a siren loomed in the distance. “No hospital.”

“It’s okay. You can just sign a paper that says you don’t want treatment. But I still think you should go.” Vaughn’s voice was soothing, his grip calm and steady. He threw open the front door of the SUV and helped her inside. He’d left the motor running and it was toasty warm. He patted Claire’s arm. “I’ll go talk to the ambulance guys. Be right back.”

Claire leaned back on the headrest, the throbbing pulse of her ankle reverberating all the way into her ears. She closed her eyes and willed her brain to ignore it. How easy it would be to fall asleep in this warm, safe haven. Away from her problems.

Her eyes shot open as Vaughn opened the door. She blinked guiltily; she had indeed fallen asleep. He didn’t seem to notice, just shoved a clipboard in front of her and placed a pen in her right hand. Claire switched it to her left and skimmed down the page looking for the signature line, not bothering to read any of the typewritten words. She scrawled her name and the date and handed the things back to him.

Rain pounded down, echoing inside the SUV like a tunnel. The windshield wipers were on full speed and still she couldn’t see the road ahead. Vaughn drove so slowly she thought she could have walked faster. If she
could
walk, that is. Then it dawned on her that she wouldn’t be walking much at all for the next few days, possibly weeks. Claire said a quick prayer the ankle wasn’t broken. She hadn’t heard anything snap. She’d read that when women reached a certain age, their bones tended to be a little more brittle and wondered if she’d reached that age yet. She was only forty-three and had taken good care of herself: mammograms, vitamins, the works.

Vaughn pulled the police SUV to a stop and cast a concerned glance at her. He opened his mouth to speak but clapped it shut when she shot him an icy glare. Sean swung her little car through the river of rain at the side of the road and into her driveway. She tried not to let her emotions reach her face as he raced toward them.

Vaughn ran around to open her door. “Give me your house keys.”

“He’s got them,” she said.

“Okay, swivel on the seat and put your feet on the sidewalk.”

Claire banged her foot on the door, and a stab of pain went up her leg, but she didn’t flinch. Wouldn’t. Both feet were on the ground. She reached out for something solid and felt herself grasped on each side by strong hands. They practically carried her across the sidewalk, up her recently swept walkway and onto her nice dry front porch. Home. On her right side, Sean’s hands burned through the jacket, cotton blouse, and into her upper arm. Each finger etched into her like torches.

The key rattled in the old lock. Sean wiggled it, then rattled it again. She was just about to jerk the keys from his hands when the door sailed open. A blast of warm chocolate scented air rushed outside.

“Mmm.” Sean put his nose in the air and sniffed, like a wolf scenting out a rabbit. “Do I smell one of your famous chocolate cakes?”

“It’s got to be. Ms. Bastian, you make the best chocolate cake in town.” Vaughn kicked the door shut as they guided her into the living room.

“MaryAnn made it once and it didn’t taste anything like yours,” Sean said.

“Your wife is a wonderful cook.” Claire unzipped her coat. “You’re smelling chocolate chip cookies. There’s some in the cookie jar on top of the refrigerator.”

She held her breath while Sean helped her off with her jacket. Once again his fingers burned her flesh wherever they touched. The two men eased her into her flower-patterned chair, placed so she had the best view up and down Broad Street. Then they stood, arms crossed, dripping on her highly waxed floor. Claire could almost see the silence hanging in the air. “My package. Where is it? And my umbrella.”

“In the car. I’ll get them,” Sean said.

“You can go now,” she told Vaughn. “I’ll be all right, really.”

She knew he was reluctant to leave her alone in that big empty house, but he also knew she would insist on it. Vaughn shifted restlessly, putting his hands into, then out of, his pockets. “Are you sure? I can come back…”

“I’m sure. Really. Thank you for being such a lifesaver.”

Sean returned. Instead of bringing the package to her, he traipsed down the hall to the kitchen. She stifled a groan thinking about the footprints on her floor. The cookie jar lid rattled and footsteps returned down the hallway. Sean stopped in the living room doorway, three cookies in his left hand.

“Well, I guess we’ll be on our way.” Vaughn walked to the newspaper rack beside the chair. He picked up the topmost one, took a pen from his pocket and wrote two phone numbers in the margin. “You know to dial 911 if you have an emergency, but here’s my home and cell numbers. Please call if you need anything: a cup of tea”—his cheeks reddened—“help to the bathroom, anything. I’ll stop during my rounds and check on you in a couple of hours regardless.” He laid the newspaper on the small table beside her comfortable chair.

“Sean.” It was hard for Claire to say his name. He flashed those brilliant blue eyes her way, eyes that had captured several Sackets Harbor’s citizens. “Felicia’s painting is beautiful.”

He put a finger to the cleft in his chin. “She bought
Sunset
, right? Yes. It is very nice.”

“I was wondering where you got it.”

“At an auction in Boston. Would you want something similar?”

“Uh, no, thank you.” Claire hoped her face didn’t show the consternation she suddenly felt.

They left. Finally.

The cruiser pulled away, sadness clutched her insides. Was Felicia in for a downfall? Would Sean find another a way to screw up Mamie’s future? For now, she shook off worries. There was nothing she could do about any of it right now.

Claire gazed at the wet spots on her imported Persian rug. Of course, she hadn’t imported it—had bought it used—but preferred to think of it the other way around. She struggled to her feet taking plenty of time. After all, no one was there to see her pain now. The ankle wasn’t broken. To prove it, she leaned heavily on the arm of the chair and flexed the foot in a slow circle. It hurt but moved freely. She hobbled into the hallway and threw a disdainful look at Sean’s trail of footprints. She blew out a breath and, using the wall for support—usually a no-no—made her way to the kitchen.

The mail and package were on the table. The brown paper was a little spotted but didn’t look soaked through. She shuffled to the sink, ran water into her favorite mug, dropped in an herbal teabag and popped it in the microwave. Her eyes roved back and forth between the digital blue numbers on the microwave and the package on the table. What a blessing credit cards were. You could call or e-mail to order absolutely anything and they sent things out the same day.

Her plans were finally coming to fruition. The temptation to tear the wrapping off right in the post office had been almost unbearable. She’d hurried to get home to open it and fell in her impatience. How many times did mothers warn their children to slow down and pay attention?

Claire dunked the teabag up and down in the cup. On the table, the package emitted a heady magnetism. She squeezed a wedge of lemon into the cup, dropped the fruit in a zipper bag and returned it to the refrigerator. She dribbled a little milk in the cup and stirred, looking out the kitchen window. It was still raining so hard the house next door was invisible. She wiped up the drops of lemon juice and milk from the counter and once more gazed down the hallway at the water spots but knew if she got down to clean them up, that’s where Vaughn would find her later.

Claire cradled the cup in both hands, savoring the warmth oozing through the heavy ceramic, and went to the table. She pulled out the chair, sat and took another sip before allowing her full attention to settle on the plain brown package on the corner of the vinyl tablecloth. The ringing of the telephone brought a muttered curse. For gosh sakes, isn’t there any peace and quiet in this town? She tottered to the wall phone. “Oh, hi, Mamie.”

“How are you? I heard you took a tumble at the post office.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should go for x-rays.”

“Really, I’m all right, a little stiff perhaps. Did you decide if you’re using Payton’s house for the exhibit?”

“Yes. What a wonderful thing for her to do. She doesn’t even know me.”

“It
was
nice. When are you going to check it out?”

“She’s invited me over tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

What a perfect opportunity. Claire had been dying to see the inside of Payton’s house. “Sure, I’d love to.”

“I’ll call and let you know what time. Go to bed, rest your ankle.”

“Thanks for checking on me.”

Claire hobbled back to her chair. She picked up the parcel and tore off the paper. The cover shone in the lamplight, beckoning. Claire ran a hand over the glossy green paper, then brought the book to her nose and sniffed. There was nothing better than the scent of fresh ink. Claire could almost hear the thing say “Open me.” So she did.

Chapter 6

An hour later, Claire hung up the phone with an ache in the pit of her stomach. Mamie was on her way over to take Claire out for lunch. Her eyes roved to the table, to the brightly colored book beside the damp pile of mail. Speaking of damp. Claire ran a hand over her narrow backside. She’d been so wrapped up in the book she hadn’t even noticed the cotton fabric clinging to her bottom. She pulled the cloth away, but it rippled back in place as if drawn by a magnet. Claire glanced at the ceiling and then at the plastic rooster-shaped clock on the kitchen wall. She sucked in a breath then let it out in an exasperated hiss. All she wanted was a few hours of peace and quiet.