Lethal Dose of Love

by Cindy Davis

  “It’s probably the excitement of the gallery opening.” By now, she was halfway down the hallway.

  “I don’t have anything in the house. You told me you were cutting back on sweets, so I didn’t make anything.”

  Claire heard cabinets opening and shutting and launched herself from the room as total silence descended upon the house. She ran, choking down a mouthful of panic similar to the feeling of waking to the sound of a wailing smoke detector. She stopped dead in the doorway; Mamie stood on a chair clutching Sean’s cake in her chubby hands. She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean you don’t have anything in the house?”

  Was it too late to pray? “That’s…ah, for the potluck tomorrow.”

  Mamie stepped down from the chair holding the cake at eye level turning it this way and that as if it were a pair of shoes in a store. She brought the plate to her nose and sniffed. “Yum. Come on, let’s have a slice.”

  “Mamie, I just told you…”

  “If you made it for the group, why is there a slice missing?”

  “I-I couldn’t help myself. That’s why I hid it in the cabinet.”

  “In that case, it shouldn’t matter if I have just a skinny little piece.” She set the cake on the counter and plundered in the silverware drawer.

  Claire vaulted into the room. The unexpected movement shot pain up her leg. Her ankle went out from under her and she crashed to the floor.

  Mamie slammed the drawer. “Goodness, are you all right?”

  “Twisted my ankle again.”

  “Did you hurt anything else? Can you get up?”

  Claire allowed Mamie to help her up. She braced herself with one hand on the doorframe. Oh god, there was chocolate frosting in the corner of Mamie’s mouth!

  Claire stood for a moment, testing the ankle. Finally she’d delayed long enough and shook off Mamie’s hand. She limped to a chair and dropped into it. One corner of the cake wrapping gaped open. A three-inch scrape marred the frosting on one side. “Mamie! I told you that cake was for the sailing club.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Your cakes are to die for.”

  Mamie reached out a pair of fingers to take another swipe at the frosting. Claire’s hand thrust out and slapped her arm. Mamie reeled back.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry, Mamie.”

  “It’s not like this is the first time we’ve had to make another dessert.”

  “I know. I just…”

  “Okay, okay. It’s your damned cake. Do what you want with it.”

  “Mamie, don’t be mad. It’s just a cake.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  Their eyes met in a silent challenge/apology. Mamie was the first to break the gaze. She took two plates from the dish drainer and fumbled in the drawer for several seconds. “Where’s your cake knife?”

  She opened the dishwasher and uttered a gratified grunt. Claire’s blood went sour. She bounded out of the chair. Her ankle turned and she fell forward clawing the air. Her fingers found only the edge of the cake plate. They closed around it. She went down, banging her chin on the counter and taking the cake with her.

  Mamie knelt on the floor beside her friend, now painted psychedelically in brown and red. Claire’s face was a mask of pain. Blood trickled from a gash on her chin. A wad of chocolate cake clung to her left ear. Mamie removed it with an index finger and started to put it in her mouth.

  Claire’s hand flashed up and batted it away.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you!”

  “Help me up.” Claire struggled to rise, deliberately slipping and sliding and mashing the cake into brown goo on her once-spotless tile floor.

  THIRTEEN

  Wordlessly she and Mamie cleaned up the chocolate mess, somehow without Mamie attempting to eat any more. Through the dessert-less evening, Claire watched her friend for signs of poisoning even though she’d been reasonably sure Mamie hadn’t eaten more than a few fingerfuls of frosting. What if she had eaten cake and the poison hadn’t worked? Not that Claire would want it to work on Mamie, but it raised uncertainty in her mind.

  She’d fended off another apology for ruining the cake, several offers to help make another and finally closed the door against her friend’s round backside at 11:30.

  Claire brewed herself a cup of tea and went to the living room to sip and let the troubles of the past few hours ebb away. Mamie’s newest painting gaped at her: a nondescript mother dog standing over a basket of yellow pups depicted as a swirling mass of yellow fur, hard to tell where one ended and another began. Claire tried to count the tiny black noses, no easy feat since the blanket in the basket was black and white polka dots. The expression on the mother dog’s face was the only redeeming quality. She gazed adoringly at her pups like Madonna over her brood. Claire rotated the easel to face the wall.

  She sat again and leaned her head back on the handmade doily. Her lids felt so heavy. She’d just close them for a second.

  Claire bolted upright, adrenaline pumping so hard she could barely see that she’d slept three hours. Time to go. She limped upstairs to don dark colored clothes. Her ankle throbbed with each step. Where had all that good luck gone?

  * * * *

  Sean’s car sat in his driveway. Claire drove to the end of the block, made a U-turn and went past again. All quiet. She turned and drove partway back, parking under the overhanging branches of a lilac two houses away. The luminous dial on her watch said 3 a.m. She hadn’t been outdoors at this hour in many years. The sky was inky black. No stars or clouds. The moon a mere slit. She touched the flashlight on the seat, comforted by its presence. It had fresh batteries and a new bulb.

  Claire’s heart slammed against her ribs as though it were trying to escape. Her hands sweated so badly she feared not being able to hold the plate. She took in enough breath to fill her lungs. She held it, then let it out slowly. Calm. Be calm. Everything will be fine.

  Sean’s house was a long ranch with a breezeway and an attached two car garage. Both doors were closed. Sean’s Grand Am sat in front of the right-hand side. The front porch was a small cement stoop, wide enough for one person. The light to the right of the screen door was on, bright, probably 60 watts. Too bright.

  A screened breezeway, picture window in the living room, two windows to the right. She didn’t know which one was Sean’s room, or which was MaryAnn’s. Considering their situation, he and MaryAnn were hardly likely to be sharing a room—if she still lived here. Regardless, except for the porch light, all was dark. Not even a television flickered.

  Claire rolled down her window. Most of the houses along this street were bordered by lilac bushes. The air was laden with their heady aroma. The hedge-like shrubs would make good cover.

  She opened the door and stood beside the vehicle. The lone streetlight illuminated Sean’s entire front yard. Hopefully the breezeway door wasn’t locked. Claire had read all the Lawrence Block’s Burglar series, but none of Bernie Rhodenbarr’s lock picking talent had rubbed off on her. She should have sought out MaryAnn and asked discreet questions that wouldn’t raise eyebrows, like whether they had a dog or were insomniacs. Too late now.

  Claire wiped her palms on her slacks, put on gardening gloves, dropped the flashlight in her pocket and picked up the plate. She pushed the car door closed, till the dome light shut off but keeping the latch from clicking shut. She stepped out of the arc cast by the streetlight and into a black corridor between the house and the lilacs bordering the property. Unfortunately the corridor ran below what had to be bedroom windows. But Claire had surprise on her side and knew how to be quiet. The dewy grass soaked her canvas sneakers as she tiptoed across the shaggy lawn. She stopped till her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Darkness had never been one of her favorite things. Her father always laughed and forced her into dark forbidding places, a beefy hand securely set against her backside should she balk, saying she would “get her over it,” but he’d been wrong.

  Only the tiniest bit of light penetrated the
shadows. Enough to give shape to objects she hoped were just bushes. Her father’s invisible hand pressured the base of her spine. Claire groped for obstacles with her left foot, then slid the right to meet it, wishing she dared use the flashlight. The backyard was just as dark as the side lawn. The outline of a stairway with a narrow railing of some sort—a kitchen window to the left, a smaller window to its left, probably the bathroom. She leaned against dewy shingles trying to hear through the wall, dizzy with excitement.

  Sean Adams had cheated his last person, beaten up his last woman, purloined his last empty storefront. Claire swallowed her guilt and forged on. Holding the cake in gloved hands that seemed to glow in the dark, she stepped to the large black rectangle of the back door. The stoop was cement, three stairs. She tiptoed up and touched her fingertips to the handle of the screen door. A cheaper model, coarse aluminum with a single square of screen at the top. She pulled on the small lever handle. It unlatched easily. No rattle, no metallic squeak or even a click.

  Claire opened the door inch by tedious inch, propped the door against her hip and touched the inside doorknob. It was cool metal and turned easily. Best of all, it wasn’t locked. She twisted it so slowly that if anyone had been in the kitchen in broad daylight, they wouldn’t have seen movement. The house was silent—deadly silent.

  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, assaulted by the vision of her father, slouched in his chair, head lolled to one side, beer can dangling from his 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 it.

  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 cunt.” 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 restaurant.”

  What?

  “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 for it, 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 dripping 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 cake down the garbage disposal. The little motor whirred away the last of the brown glop. She poured bleach, then boiling water, and then more bleach down the drain.

  The teapot’s insistent whistling broke through her reverie. Steam poured from the spout, wafted up 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 lay on her side.

  Would people be surprised when Sean didn’t show up for the meet? No, probably not. They’d probably 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 garnered 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 realize 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 should 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.