by Cindy Davis
A second later, his smiling face appeared in the glass.
“Coming!”
Vaughn stepped onto the mat and wiped his shoes. “I came to see how you were.”
“Come in. Do you have time for a cup of cocoa? I might just have some homemade muffins in the freezer too.”
“I’d love it.” He unbuttoned his police issue jacket and hung it on the peg beside hers on the wall. “How is your ankle this morning?”
“It’s sore, but it’ll be all right.” Claire pulled up the leg of her polyester slacks and displayed the bulky wool sock.
“I stopped in last night to check on you.”
“I was at Mamie’s.”
“I figured as much. You didn’t go to the hospital?”
“No. I’m fine, really.”
He took her elbow and helped her to the kitchen where he set the kettle to boil. When her toast popped up, Vaughn buttered it. He dropped it on the waiting plate while she defrosted a blueberry muffin. The phone rang. She considered not answering. Vaughn was enough company for now. Claire gave him an apologetic look and went to the living room to answer the phone on the small table.
“Good morning.” She forced a brightness she didn’t feel. “Hi, Mamie.”
“How are you this morning?”
“Wonderful, Thanks.”
“Why are you home?”
“I decided to take the day off.”
“Then you are hurt. I’ll be right over to take you to the hospital.”
“No! I’m fine. I just didn’t feel like working.”
There was much hesitation in Mamie’s voice when she said, “Okay, if you need something, call. I’m on my way to the shop. I’ll call later and let you know what time we’re going to Payton’s. If you’re still going.”
“Of course I’m going. I’ll talk to you later.”
The smell of warm muffins was in the air. Vaughn had settled himself at the table and was munching on a butter-smeared muffin. “I didn’t know where you kept the cocoa mix. Otherwise I would have made it.”
Claire opened the middle drawer near the sink and took out a packet of mix. “Sorry, I’m all out of whipped cream.”
“A little milk to cool it off. Here, sit down, I’ll get it. Your toast is getting cold.” He poured her another cup of coffee and sloshed milk into his cup. “Do you take milk?”
“Only a dribble, thanks. So, what’s on tap for the local constabulary today?”
“Just patrol.”
“Must get boring after a while. The same old scenery.”
“I love the job.” He chewed and swallowed. “I’ve been thinking about yesterday…about Felicia Feathersone’s painting. I didn’t know Sean sold art.”
“He sells it in his restaurant.”
Vaughn swallowed some coffee. “I don’t go in for that stuff much.”
“Neither do I.”
He put the last of the muffin in his mouth, took the plate and empty cocoa cup to the sink, rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. “You don’t like Sean much, do you?”
“It’s not that. I just have no use for him.”
“I grew up with him. We never hung out together though. He was always the jock. I was the bookworm.”
“I haven’t seen you in the library in years.”
“I buy my books. Probably could start my own library.” Vaughn went down the hall to get his coat. Claire started to get up to see him out, but he waved her off. “Don’t get up. I’ll stop by later to check on you.”
“Thank you for everything.”
She listened for his car to drive away. Then she got up and made the trip down the long hallway to lock the front door. She hobbled back to the kitchen and did the same with the back door, then pulled all the shades in the downstairs. Claire retrieved the book, grabbed her cup and headed for the living room. She folded herself into her chair in the living room to reread the paragraphs on monkshood for at least the hundredth time.
Every time, though, she prayed the words would change and become items that were easy to obtain, like at the supermarket or pharmacy. She’d racked her brain but couldn’t figure how to get monkshood without it being traced back. Granted, she had no police record. She probably wouldn’t even be a suspect when Sean was found dead. Everyone liked and respected her. Well, almost everyone.
Trouble was, as soon as Vaughn or the State Police, or whoever handled murders, began checking, they’d find a number of people, perhaps dozens, with reason to want Sean Adams dead. Claire didn’t worry about them pinning the crime on someone else. Sure there were plenty with motives, but who would have means and opportunity too? Besides, she planned for Sean to die at home. The only one there was his soon-to-be ex-wife, MaryAnn. And she didn’t have a motive to want him dead. They’d done what few divorcing couples could, remained friends.
As for herself being accused of Sean’s murder, Claire didn’t think they’d be able to turn up a motive. Except for yacht club meetings and a rare trip to his restaurant, their lives rarely intersected. If they did, well, she’d suffer the consequences. Hadn’t she been doing that for almost twenty-eight years?
No matter how hard she thought about it, the main ingredient presented a continued difficulty. If she knew members of the criminal element down in the City, she could just hop on the bus and be there in a matter of hours. Someone there surely could point her in the direction of…heck, in the City they probably had stores that specialized in such things.
Claire envisioned herself walking from the bus station—couldn’t risk a cabbie who might recall her face—to the seedy neighborhood where her contact hung out. Maybe he had a place in an abandoned building, replete with litter-strewn rooms and holes in the graffiti-painted plaster.
She put down the book and shivered. Without the monkshood plant, she might as well be reading a romance novel. Where on earth was she supposed to get it? Claire thumped a finger on the printed word monkshood and decided to try the Internet. She hobbled upstairs. Her ankle was already feeling better. Maybe she’d go back to work tomorrow. Or maybe not.
Claire booted up the ancient computer, wishing she could use the one at the library. It was much newer and connected to some fancy high-speed cable network. At the library they couldn’t be certain it was she who’d been looking up the information, but couple that with her purchase of the main ingredient and she’d be off to the penitentiary before you could say “John Kerry would have been a great president.” Then again maybe she’d be better off doing the research at the library because if they focused on her as a suspect, they would definitely know to look on her own computer. She’d just have to figure out a way to delete it from the innards of the thing. There had to be a way.
While the home page loaded, Claire undressed and donned a comfortable flannel nightgown and slippers. She took a large gulp of brandy, coughed twice, then realized she hadn’t eaten a thing since the toast with Vaughn that morning. No matter. She wasn’t hungry.
This had to be a perfect murder—unsolvable. Was that a word? A librarian should know such things. She frowned. It was the second time today she’d failed herself.
All was black outdoors except Sylvie French’s porch light diagonally across the street. The only sound was the rustle of branches against the house siding. Claire typed the appropriate words in the search square and waited. She opened the book and read the bold captions:
Ingredients
Consistency
Dosage
Storage
The plan had been brewing in the back of her mind for a long time; almost three years. But over the past weeks, Sean had gotten more and more out of hand. So far no one had done anything about it.
SEVEN
“It’ll be bigger than Funny Cide,” Helen remarked, standing beside the refreshment table in Payton’s shop, sipping tea from a steaming paper cup.
“Funnyside?” A little wrinkle formed across the bridge of Payton’s nose.
“C-I-D-E,” Helen spelled. “He’s a rac
e horse owned by some businessmen from town. The news people dubbed them the Sacket Six. It put us on the map and in the news when they entered him in the Kentucky Derby.”
Claire took a cookie from the plate on the table. “Did you make these?”
Payton gave an unhesitating giggle. “God no. I can’t cook. I bought them at the Galley.”
“It was nice of you to offer your place for Mamie’s showing. She’s really excited.”
“Please stop saying how nice it was. I hated to see Mamie get the short end of things.”
The door creaked open, then shut. Amanda March stood in the doorway. “Ooh. I love what you’ve done here.”
“Isn’t it lovely?” Claire agreed.
“I can only stay a few minutes. Edward’s up to his ears at the store.” Amanda and Edward March owned the marina at the bottom of the hill.
“Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour,” Payton offered.
“I love how you’ve made it like a regular home,” Claire said.
“Thanks. I thought it would give the customers ideas of how to decorate with plants without having it rammed down their throats.”
“I wonder if we could do that at the marina,” Amanda said.
“Yes, Amanda, I can see it now, framed boat parts on the walls,” said Claire.
“And as knickknacks on the piano,” Payton added.
“We don’t have a piano,” Amanda said, and they all erupted in laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Felicia stepped in from the patio.
“We were just being silly,” Payton said. “I was giving the nickel tour. Leave the money on the counter on your way out.”
“Where did you get this furniture?” Claire asked.
Payton fingered a discretely placed price tag. “I struck a deal with a used furniture shop in Watertown. They’ll rotate the pieces on a regular basis. I found a woodworker here in town who makes these wonderful shelves and arbors.”
“What’s the vine wound through this one?” Helen asked.
“Virgin’s bower.”
“Beautiful,” Amanda said, twining a length of it around a finger. “What’s that wonderful aroma?” She bent and sniffed the virgin’s bower.
Payton picked up a small plant beside it. “It’s a luculia gratissima. Isn’t it nice?”
“I bet you put it near the door on purpose.”
“A marketing technique.” Payton gave a modest grin.
“Well, it worked on me. Can I have two?” Felicia said.
“I’ll box them before you leave.” Payton straightened a plant on one end table, pinched a dead leaf from a peperomia and blew a whisper of dust from a lampshade.
“I’ll have one also,” said Helen.
“Me too,” said Claire. And while you’re at it, give me a monkshood plant.
The door whooshed open. “Good morn… Oh, what is that wonderful smell?” cried Mamie.
“It’s working!” Helen announced, then explained it to Mamie who asked if it was difficult to grow.
“No, though it will eventually need quite a large pot. Just so you know, I have a repotting service. And free pickup and delivery.” Payton showed Mamie the special tag attached along with the price. “The yellow tags indicate the easiest to grow. Green tags are moderately easy and the red ones require a special touch. And, see this shelf?” She pointed to an antique hotel mail holder on the wall near the front counter. “There’s a care sheet for every plant in the shop. If I don’t put one in your bag, make sure to ask for it.”
Mamie ran a finger along a satiny leaf. “Can I have two? I’ll put them in the gallery. Maybe they’ll cover the smell of paint and canvas.”
“A gallery isn’t a gallery without those smells,” Felicia said.
“You’re probably right. I’ll still take two, but I’ll take them home. I have to run, some people just went into the gallery. I wanted to come and say congratulations on your opening.”
“Thank you. I’ll box up the plants and send them over before the end of the day. So, have you been in touch with Mr. Arenheim?”
Mamie’s pale blue eyes lit up. In the artificial lighting she was almost pretty. “That’s another reason I stopped by. Can he come on Monday to look things over? I hope it’s convenient for you. He’s such a busy man, and that was the only time he—”
“Monday will be fine. I’ll probably be here, but you can go in.”
“Oh, I couldn’t…wouldn’t want to be there unless you were.”
“It’s all right, really. Workers are everywhere right now anyway. You’ll probably be tripping all over each other.”
“Oh, you’re such a life saver.”
“Question: someone mentioned you were once going to give painting lessons.”
Mamie’s smile faded. “I offered classes, but only two people signed up, so it wasn’t worth doing it.”
“I’d like to take a class or two.”
“Maybe…well, I’ll see if I can… I’ll talk to you later.” Mamie closed the door and hurried across the street, a new bounce in her step.
“That was nice of you,” Claire said.
“What?”
“Do you really want painting lessons?”
Payton smiled. “Of course. Do you want the rest of the tour?”
“Everything is so beautiful.”
“Thanks. I wanted people to see that they can use their plants as decorations rather than just something to set on a windowsill. Like this ficus radicans, for example.” Payton pointed to a plant on a wall shelf beside a photo of a little blonde girl. The plant’s tiny tendrils twisted through the shelf’s openwork back. “This plant looks best winding around something. Obviously this one has to be sold with the shelf, but I sell them separately also. Then I have these hand painted Mexican planters. They were made to hold herbs and sit on a windowsill.”
Two steps led down to the outdoor patio. A five-foot latticework fence had been erected on three sides, shielding the area from the road. Tall umbrella palms made subtle privacy curtains at the street. Different shapes and colors of stones had been laid in a meandering pattern on the gravel.
“Absolutely beautiful.” Helen sat in a white wicker chair and put her feet up on the matching ottoman. Sunshine filtered through the overhead lattice casting Helen’s face in warped squares of light. Hanging plants swayed in the warm breeze; the gentle aroma of peppermint wafted through.
Amanda took a chair beside Helen. “Payton, this is lovely.”
“Thank you.”
Claire sat in the third chair. Felicia took the fourth. Payton remained standing. Helen sipped her tea and pointed to a potted plant on the next table. “Tell me about this. We’re almost finished with our breakfast room and—”
“A breakfast room?” Claire asked.
“Yes. One day Payton pointed out how nice a sunroom cum breakfast nook would be, so I talked Carter into demolishing that old attached shed and replacing it with a glass room. You should see what a difference it makes. Anyway, I’ll be looking for plants to put out there. How would this be?”
“You don’t want that. It needs beaucoup sunlight, and your room will have filtered sun because of the surrounding chestnut trees,” Payton said.
“It’s so refreshing to have someone to tell me what’s going to work or not. Usually, I just hope a plant will live long enough for me to get it home from the supermarket. You know what you should do, dear? Start a home service where you go to people’s homes and tell them what sorts of plants they should have.”
It was hard keeping her ears tuned to Helen’s words because Claire’s eyes had spotted something that sent a thrill of excitement literally from her head to her toes. Nirvana. It had to be. She was experiencing total and all-encompassing bliss because, in the center of the glass topped table, not three feet away, sat the plant! In an unassuming plastic pot, eight inches of shining green leaves and a young cluster of blue/purple flowers, was her monkshood plant. Claire leaned back and closed her eyes. The others could thi
nk she was enjoying the pleasant weather and relaxing furniture if they wanted. In reality Claire was experiencing an emotion something like childbirth: the overwhelming emotion that hits when the pressure’s released from your vagina and everyone yells congratulations.
Congratulations, Miss Bastian. Your baby has arrived.
Claire’s fingers twitched. She forced her hands to fold in her lap, presenting the vision of leisure and cheer. Two tags were affixed to the pot. She couldn’t read the price, but the cost didn’t matter, she’d mortgage her home if she had to.
“What are you smiling at?” Felicia asked.
Would any of them suspect she was the one who’d murdered Sean Adams? Would they care? She’d seen movies where people in town banded together to protect a murderer. She’d better not count on something like that. Face up to it, that’s all she could do if the time came.
Felicia’s eyebrows lifted and Claire realized the woman was waiting for a response. “I was just enjoying the day.” Her eyes roved casually to the plant. A yellow tag meant it was easy to grow. That didn’t matter. It would only have to live a couple of hours. No, she’d probably keep the plant, minus the necessary number of leaves. If authorities came asking questions, would those missing leaves be incriminating? Could they tell leaves had been snipped off rather than simply dropped on their own?
How many others had Payton sold? It was pretty. The flowers smelled nice. It rebloomed without much effort from the owner, so the tag said. People would buy it by the score. No they wouldn’t. People with children or pets would be advised to stay away. The entire plant was poisonous, including the roots. “The drug toxins are absorbed not only through the skin, but also can be ingested or injected. There is no specific antidote,” the book said. Monkshood had a toxicity rating of six out of a possible six stars, which meant it was quickly fatal.