Lethal Dose of Love

by Cindy Davis

  “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 firmly.

  “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 repeating 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, aware 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.”

  A stab of pain went up Claire’s leg when she banged the foot on the door but she didn’t even flinch. 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 said, unzipping 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.”

  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. Claire heard the rattle of the cookie jar lid and footsteps return 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 said, spotting a 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 anyway.” 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.”

  She nodded, hoping her face didn’t show the consternation she suddenly felt.

  They left. Finally.

  The cruiser pulled away, sadness clutched her insides. Was Mamie in for another downfall? Was Sean somehow at the background of this new gallery? For now, she shook off worries about Mamie. There was nothing she could do without further proof.

  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 her chair and flexed the foot gently in a 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 kept roving from the digital blue numbers on the microwave to 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 zip
per 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 sound of the telephone brought a muttered curse. She tottered to the wall phone. “Oh, hi, Mamie.”

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

  “I’m just fine, really.”

  “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 wanted to see the inside of Payton’s house. “Sure, I’d love to.”

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

  “Thanks for calling.”

  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.

  SIX

  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.

  She searched for a place to hide her treasure. Behind the bread maker? Seemed like she never found time for it any more. On top of the refrigerator? No, it’d be just her luck Mamie would show up wanting cookies. Claire finally settled on a spot behind a stack of flowerpots under the kitchen sink, chuckling a little thinking of all the trouble it was to hide something in a house where she lived all alone.

  Claire had a sudden wish that she could move away and restart her life like Payton had. Not to hide from something, as Mamie seemed to believe about Payton, but just to begin as another person. She could establish herself as a recluse. People would leave her alone. She wouldn’t have to deal with old memories, wouldn’t have to face her misdeed every single day.

  Who was she kidding? The memory would still be there, lurking in the back of her mind, choking her dreams. She sighed again and poked the paper wrapper deeper into the trash. She wouldn’t always want to be alone. Sooner or later, she’d seek out company and the cycle would begin again. Claire pushed the wad of paper and the invoice deeper, burying it under the morning’s coffee grounds.

  She took a fortifying sip of the now-cold tea and limped down the hallway. The old banister creaked with Claire’s weight against it. It took four minutes to climb the thirteen steps to her bedroom and another two minutes to peel off the sodden clothes. The skin of her upper arms still tingled where Sean had touched it. She massaged the limp flesh.

  A wave of grief hit like a punch in the gut. How ironic was it that he’d carried his own murder weapon? Tears came, but she brushed them angrily away. No time for regrets. Claire lowered herself on the edge of the bed and removed her socks, wondering why the wet things hadn’t bothered her; usually a tiny splash on her blouse during dishwashing was enough to send her scurrying upstairs to change.

  Finally she was ready. The bedside clock said there were still twelve minutes before Mamie was due. Maybe time for just another short glance at the book. Claire’s heart thumped with excitement, but by the time she’d struggled downstairs most of the time had evaporated.

  Three minutes left. Not enough time. Mamie was never late.

  * * * *

  It was eight p.m. before Claire returned home. Mamie had insisted they watch television. After the movie, Claire urged Mamie to drive her home, but she’d risen and prepared leftover meatloaf for dinner. “You always say it’s so much better the second time around.”

  Even though she’d barely touched her lunch, Claire wasn’t hungry. But Mamie wouldn’t listen to protests. When dishes were done, Mamie tried to enlist Claire’s interest in a video, but she’d finally put her foot down. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”

  Mamie had looked at Claire’s top button. “I’ve been doing my best to keep you here. I know the mood you’re in. You’re going to go home and brood, though God knows what you’ve got to brood about.”

  “I’m not going to brood. I’m going to bed, to sleep.”

  Finally they stood on the sidewalk, Mamie talking about the dismal weather, Claire trying to figure out how to dissuade Mamie from escorting her inside and tucking her in bed.

  “A bit like being in a cave, isn’t it?” Mamie was looking up at the branches of the maples, heavy with rain.

  “Hmm? Oh yes. As though none of the outside world can get in and ruin things.”

  “Ruin things?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.” Claire had turned away from the frown on Mamie’s round face and hobbled up the steps. Taped to the front door was a piece of paper. Stopped by to see if you were ok. Hope this means you decided to go to the hospital. You should’ve called. Will stop again in morning. Vaughn.

  Claire left her boots in the tray beside the door, hung her coat on the hall rack, tossed a rueful glance at Sean’s long dried footprints and limped to the kitchen. The cabinet doors looked undisturbed. The tiny smudge of flour she’d left on the handle was still there. Claire wiped it off with the tip of her thumb. She poured a double shot of peach schnapps, gathered up the book and hobbled upstairs. No more delays.

  Finally in nightclothes and under the fluffy down comforter, she clutched the book to her chest. She’d actually bought three books: one on poisonous plants and two on gardening and landscaping. The one on poisonous plants was destined for the trash. No need for it again. After all, how often does a person go around poisoning someone?

  In the light from the pink-shaded bedside lamp, Claire smoothed her palm over the glossy cover with its mass of bright green leaves splashed across it like a jungle. Poisonous Plants and You. A twinge of excitement, almost carnal in nature—that is, if she remembered correctly—coursed through her. And another when the spine crackled as she opened the cover. Claire savored the aroma of the fresh-off-the-press pages. It was well after midnight before Claire shut off the light. Her eyes were on fire and refused to read another word.

  But sleep was as elusive as was the way to carry out the plan. Her ankle throbbed. The pulses were like sheep on a sleepless night. At 3 a.m. she began to think something might be more seriously wrong than a simple sprained talus, but she channeled thoughts of pain into thoughts of Sean and his demise. She hadn’t felt this hopeful, nor this depressed, in a very long time.

  Claire woke to sun streaming in the windows. She loved the east facing room for that reason. She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back to work out the stiffness. As she flexed her legs the memory of yesterday’s tumble came roaring back. Pain bolted up her leg. She grimaced and lay back on the pillows, realizing today would be the first time in seventeen years she’d cal
l in sick to the library. She’d been very proud of that record, but while tossing and turning last night, Claire had done some thinking about her life. A wasted life, really. Who the heck would care if she never missed a day of work? Would they put it on her tombstone? Big deal.

  The one thing she’d done, that should have turned out good, was all crap. She would rectify it. She’d make it right for Sackets Harbor—and that could go on her tombstone.

  Here lies Claire Bastian ~ She Saved Sackets Harbor

  Just as General Jacob Brown did in 1813

  That would be Claire’s legacy. It was all she had left.

  The book lay on the bedside table, a Hay Memorial Library bookmark stuck in about a third of the way. She glanced at it, then at the clock, 8:10! A knot formed in her stomach, then dissipated as she remembered her decision to take the day off. She hadn’t slept this late in years. Today would be a day for blazing new trails. Maybe she’d just call the library director and say she was retiring—at age forty-three. Wouldn’t that just shake things up?

  Claire slid her legs over the edge of the bed, the braided rug rough on the soles of her feet. She stood, letting the right ankle absorb the weight. Not that her weight had ever been a problem. She’d always been able to eat anything and it didn’t show up on her hips or thighs the way it did with other women. Particularly Mamie. She was always complaining about her weight. Never did anything about it though.

  The ankle was painful but not unbearable. Still, she wouldn’t be tripping the light fantastic for at least a couple of weeks. When was the last time she’d gone dancing—God, had it been twenty years? She took one step away from the bed. The air was chilly and her nipples stiffened. The nightgown rubbed across them, and she fluffed the fabric away.

  After a shower, Claire sat on the bed and wrapped her ankle in an Ace bandage, slipped on a pair of heavy socks and finished dressing. The journey down the stairs was easier than yesterday afternoon.

  She called the library director. Once the phone was back in its cradle, Claire hid the book under a pile of mail and set about making coffee and breakfast. She had no sooner popped two slices of wheat bread in the toaster when she heard tires swooshing on water. Down the long hallway and through the window on the front door, the roof of a car was visible—Vaughn’s SUV. A long, deep sigh issued from her throat and she hurried to hide the book in the cabinet.