by Cindy Davis
“She went behind the cafe.”
Helen drew up to the curb. Payton and Helen flew out of the car and cupped their hands to peek in the café windows. “There’s no one in there,” Helen announced.
“Let’s go around back.”
They ran down the alley to the left of the building and stopped at the corner. Claire’s empty car was there. It was running and the door stood open.
A tiny metallic squeak brought Payton’s eyes up to the top of a flight of wooden steps. A white, raised panel door waffled back and forth in the breeze.
“That’s the door to the kitchen,” Helen explained.
Payton went first, up the stairs. Her stomach was in a twist, not from fear but worry for Claire. The officer was nowhere to be seen. Payton almost told Helen to go back and get him.
She poked her head in the kitchen. The place was cold as a tomb. A large cast iron stove filled most of the right-hand wall, vents and blowers above it. Directly ahead, all the cupboard doors stood open. On the left, the refrigerator was ajar and empty. A long counter, with shelves both above and below, was clean and bare except for an enormous knife rack. One wooden handled knife was missing.
A scratching noise came from the dining room.
Payton made no sound crossing the gleaming white-tiled floor. She inched her face up to the round goldfish bowl type window. Claire stood in the middle of the dining room, amid the round metal tables. Each table had a pair of chairs tipped upside down on top.
Claire clutched a white apron to her chest. Her hands wrung it in a long rope shape, twisting it tighter and tighter, the string ties dangling to the floor. She turned in a complete circle, looking at everything, and nothing. Her back was to Payton right now, but they knew she was crying. Her body heaved and jerked as she struggled to catch a breath between sobs. Helen’s arm touched hers as she peered through the second round window.
“What do we do?” Helen whispered.
“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s best to let her get it out of her system, whatever it is.” Then Payton remembered the knife missing from the rack on the counter. “Uh-oh.”
Helen squinted for a moment. She shook her head. “What’s wrong?”
Had Claire carried the large French knife into the dining room? Nothing on the tables. Nothing tucked in her waistband. Perhaps the knife was in the dishwasher or something. There was nothing to indicate Claire had it. Payton fortified herself with a breath and pushed the door open.
Claire turned.
Payton stopped. She couldn’t see the knife. That didn’t mean that if Payton rushed to Claire, it wouldn’t be jammed between her ribs. For what reason Payton couldn’t imagine, but Claire wasn’t acting like a woman in possession of all her senses.
Whatever Payton expected, it certainly wasn’t for Claire to crumple to the floor in a heap. Payton and Helen did the best they could to lift her and wrap her in a protective embrace. Claire sobbed even harder now. Intense gasps and snorts racked her thin frame.
Payton put her left arm around Claire’s back, her right arm on top of Claire’s hands, still clutching Sean’s apron. Helen’s right arm clutched Claire’s waist. Her left hand lay on Claire’s knee. They leaned their heads on each other. There they sat, an ungainly statue, mourning the loss of someone nobody had liked.
Payton felt more than saw the officer arrive. A change in air pressure. A fuller feeling in the air space, perhaps. Didn’t matter. If they needed help, he was there.
Helen looked up from where she’d been leaning her head against Claire’s. “Get out.” And he obeyed.
Behind them, the door to the vacant shop opened. “Oh my,” came Mamie’s voice. Then rushing feet. She stopped in front of the women and dropped to her knees. “Is someone hurt? Should I get help?”
“No,” Payton said softly.
With Mamie’s help, they eased Claire to her feet and out into the passenger seat of her car. “I’ll take her home and get her to bed,” Mamie offered.
“She’s in shock,” Helen said.
“Do you think she should be treated?” Payton asked.
Mamie started the car. “I’ll stay with her.”
“I hope she’s all right,” Payton said as they drove away.
“Claire just needs rest. I’ll go back up to lock the door.”
The officer, standing near the corner, approached Payton. “You will come with me now.”
“I’m going back. But I’ll ride with Helen.”
Helen slammed the upstairs door, making Payton jump. “I’ll have to get a new lock. Claire broke the other one.”
“Now,” the officer said.
Payton eyed the young man, too small, in Payton’s mind, to be a policeman, a defender of the wronged, fighter for the right. She wondered what he’d do if she suddenly popped him in the balls and bolted across the parking lot and into the line of trees behind it.
“Now.” He made his voice deeper, putting her in mind of the wrestlers Cameron used to watch on television, men who never talked in their own voices.
It was a short drive to her house, but today the trip passed as though in some sort of science-fiction time warp.
TWENTY-NINE
At Payton’s, the sergeant waited at the patio table in the herb garden. He gestured for her to sit across from him. Sun beat down, heating the metal past bearability. He laid the ever-present notebook on the table. Payton waited for the questions to begin.
He looked at her, pen ready, brown eyes somber. Those eyes didn’t fool her. She’d been taken in by the “I’m-your-Daddy” routine once already. “Ms. Winters,” he began, and Payton felt suddenly quite lonely. “Can you tell me any reason why Mr. Green might have wanted Sean Adams dead?”
“I didn’t have an answer the first time you asked, and I don’t have one now.”
“All right. Tell me what you did last Tuesday during the day.”
“I went to the shop early to put in an order, dust and do some bookwork. On the way I picked up a cup of coffee at the Galley. I moved the ficus plants outside, turned on the patio sprinklers and watered the plants inside the shop. Just before putting the Open sign in the window, I went to the bathroom.”
Espinoza frowned at her overly detailed description but didn’t say anything. “A lot of people come in during the day?”
“Only everyone who’d read a newspaper or listened to the news.”
“Any local people?”
This was where she was supposed to throw her townspeople to the wolves. Yes, so-and-so was here. Yes, she talked about the murder. No, she didn’t mention wanting Sean dead, but she was carrying a hundred pound bag of arsenic and an Internet print-out of how to murder Sean.
“Felicia stopped in. She wanted to know what I was bringing to the potluck before the race. I told her I’d bring a salad. After lunch there was a dress rehearsal for the race and we all went there.”
“Dress rehearsal?”
“Yes. It’s when we take the boats along the course to familiarize ourselves with the route. I sailed with Helen and Carter.”
“Not in your own boat?”
“I don’t own one. I’ve been thinking of buying Zephyr.”
He gave a slow nod and took notes. “What about Sean Adams?”
“Sean’s partner was unavailable and he sailed alone.”
“This can be done?”
“Not easily. But remember, it was only to familiarize ourselves with the route.”
“Who else was at this dress rehearsal?”
Payton counted on her fingers. “Helen and Carter. Sylvie and her partner—I don’t know her name. Amanda and Edward. Brighton and Aden. That’s it, I think. After rehearsal we all went back to work.”
“Who took care of the shop while you were gone?”
“I left a note on the door telling everyone to come watch. Most shop owners do that.”
“And next?”
She thought a moment. “Mamie came for the keys to the house. She was meeting Mr. Arenheim here. T
hen MaryAnn came looking for a job.”
“That right.”
Payton didn’t say the words that wanted to come from her mouth: “Yeah, that’s what I said.” She didn’t want to piss off this man. There were too many skeletons in her closet.
“Did you hire her?”
“Yes.”
“Was she qualified to work in a flower shop?”
“You don’t exactly have to be a rocket scientist to sell plants. She’s hard working and came with good references. That’s enough for me.”
“What happened next?”
“I gave her a plant book so she could familiarize herself with some of the most common plants. Then Claire and I remembered the Wanderlust meeting.”
“So you went to the meeting. Did you close the shop?”
“I left MaryAnn in charge. It was slow. I was only going to be a couple of minutes away. It seemed like a good time to break her in.”
“Where was the meeting?”
“Helen’s. She wanted to show off her new breakfast room.”
“Who else was there?”
“The usual members. Amanda and Edward. Sylvie French. Claire and Mamie.”
“Do Mr. Green and Mr. Adams attend?”
She shook her head. “Aden calls them ‘a group established for the betterment of Sackets Harbor’s gossip.’”
“Was there any talk about Mr. Adams?”
She tried but couldn’t remember. And told him so.
“Where is Mr. Green right now?”
“Uzbekistan, I think he said. I’ve tried reaching him but keep getting a message that his number is out of service. That’s all I can tell you.” She started to rise, expecting him to flip shut his precious notebook and get the hell out off her property.
But he didn’t. He turned to a fresh page and wrote Payton Winters—continued at the top in letters so big she could read them upside down across the table. “All right, will you get me the telephone numbers of the people you said you spoke to the night before the murders?”
“What possible reason would I have for—”
“If…if Aden didn’t kill Sean, who do you think might have reason to?”
“Like I said before, I’ve only been in Sackets Harbor a few months. Since I’ve been here, I’ve heard rumors about things Sean’s done to people.”
“Tell me some of them.”
She put her hands on the sides of her head, her hair drifting between her fingers and falling down to cover her face. This little movement gave her some needed privacy. Time to think. Just what had she heard? Helen had been forthcoming with a lot of stuff about the town and its goingson through the years. How much of her chitchat was anything more than idle gossip? Should Payton tell this man and let him sort through it? Was it her problem? Helen had an admitted soft spot for Sean and would probably have glossed over a lot of his behaviors. That meant he’d most likely done worse things than she reported.
What did Payton know firsthand? That he beat up MaryAnn.
Was it her business to repeat any of it?
“Ms. Winters, would you be willing to give us a sample of your DNA?”
Payton pushed her hair behind her ears and lifted her head to stare at him. This was unbelievable. She shrugged.
“Okay. Now, think back to two days before the murder, to Monday, and tell me what you did.”
She’d taken inventory. Had lunch with Helen and Amanda. Did bookwork. Brought Aden’s gargantuan pile of newspapers in and put them on his counter. Oh God! She’d been in his house. No wonder Espinoza was acting so suspicious.
“Ms. Winters?”
“Oh, sorry. I was thinking.” She told him about the newspapers.
“You have a key to his house?”
“Not really.” The sergeant stopped writing and looked up. “Helen and Carter watch his house while he’s away. Helen loaned me the key to bring in the papers. Simple.” Again she stressed the word he disliked so much.
“Will you give me the names of the people you spoke to on the phone last Tuesday night?”
She shot him a wan smile. “You’re not going to like one of them.”
“Mr. Green?”
She nodded. “The other was my friend Marcy from back in Minneapolis.” She slid his notebook from under his arm and wrote Marcy’s phone number in the top margin. “I talked to her from around eight thirty to nine thirty.”
“What time did you talk to Mr. Green?”
“Around ten.”
Espinoza’s eyebrows did an up and down thing.
“I know what you’re thinking. I told you the other day he was concerned about me—as a friend. He called to check on me.”
“What made him think you might be up?”
“He probably saw my lights on. You’ll have to ask him.”
“Would you do me a favor?” asked Mr. Friendly again. “Would you watch the tapes of the race and see if anything strikes you as odd?”
“Do you want me to do that now?”
“What if I leave the tapes and you can do it tonight instead of watching television.”
“I never watch television.”
“What do you do for entertainment?”
“I’m writing a memoir.”
He got up and slapped the cover of the notebook shut. He peered at her over the top edge.
Why did she suddenly have the feeling he still hadn’t asked the one question he’d come about?
He called for shadow-officer to retrieve the tapes from the car, whispered something and came back to sit. They were silent until he returned with two DVDs and a small black plastic bag. He laid them on the table before the sergeant.
Espinoza opened the black bag and took out a white envelope with a black logo of some sort in the left hand corner. From this envelope, he removed a second envelope. It was also white, but with no logo. From this he took out a long handled swab, like a giant Q-tip. He brandished it toward her. “Open your mouth, please.”
She obeyed while he swabbed the vile object around inside her left cheek while she stifled her gag reflex. He placed the swab in the white envelope, wrote her name and vital statistics on it, then sealed and slipped it into the larger envelope. She folded her hands in her lap so he wouldn’t see they were trembling. He placed the envelope back in the black bag and laid it on the table.
When he sucked in a breath that filled both lungs—she could tell because his shirt strained at the buttons—she pictured them popping off like little bottle rockets and shooting all over her floor.
“What do you know about Mr. Adams’ financial status?”
“Nothing. The café appeared to be prosperous. I did hear him ask Helen to have pity on him and offer a really good deal on the rental of the empty store. I have no way of knowing that meant he was hard up for cash, concerned about costs, or a cheapskate.”
“Why did you move to Sackets Harbor?”
She’d known this question was coming but hadn’t prepared an answer. She also knew it was leading up to his most important query of the afternoon. Her silence must have gone on too long. He’d let out the breath, his shirtfront returned to its pristinely pressed status.
“To write. I wanted a small town. A quiet place.” She laughed. “A quiet place.”
“That didn’t really answer my question, did it?”
Now it was Payton’s turn to sigh. “I’m sure you’re aware that two years ago my husband was murdered. I came to…recover.”
“Ms. Winters, how many poisonous plants do you carry in your shop?”
THIRTY
Payton’s telephone rang. She considered not answering, but the image of Aden appeared before her. Maybe he was calling to ask her to harbor him in her home. How would she respond? Did she feel sufficiently thankful for what he’d done for her? Did she want to have him around the rest of her life? That’s what it would be, two souls who knew too much about each other, clinging out of need rather than the love and devotion a relationship should embrace.
The next ring s
eemed more insistent. “Hello.”
“Hello, dear. I just called to see how you were.”
Helen had called for gossip, but right now Payton didn’t care. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
“What are you doing?”
“Watching videos of the race.” Though she hadn’t been able to concentrate, visions of every poison plant from the shop kept floating onto the screen.
“Did the police badger you badly?”
“Nothing worse than before. Just more questions, like, what I did the two days leading up to the murder. Who did I talk to? Did I have any poisonous plants in the store.”
“What?”
“They didn’t say which one. And no, I didn’t ask.”
“So Sean was killed with a poisonous plant.”
“Helen, what if someone bought the murder weapon in my shop?”
“You’re not responsible for what people do with plants once they get them home.”
Payton couldn’t respond.
“Payton, if you owned a hardware store and someone bought a hammer to use as a murder weapon, you wouldn’t feel responsible, would you?”
Payton gave a nervous laugh. “Probably.”
Now Helen laughed too. “Well don’t.” Her voice turned pensive. “Who do you think did this?”
“I have no idea. It’s all I’ve been able to think of.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No thank you. I’m going to replay these videos and go to bed.”
Payton laid the cordless receiver on the desk. What if she had sold the plant that had killed Sean? Could plants really be used in that way? They could be used to make drugs that people smoked or injected into their veins, so probably it could be done. She’d known about poisonous plants, of course, to warn her customers as the law required. But she definitely hadn’t known any of them were that poisonous. She hadn’t thought “poisonous” in that context meant anything other than a tummy ache and diarrhea if your kitty chewed a leaf.
The sergeant’s voice boomed in her mind. “To whom have you sold poisonous plants?”
Payton had a sudden urge for a tall, strong drink with a ton of ice cubes. She crossed the living room to the cabinet where Mamie’s little statuary dotted the shelves now instead of her hand-painted Mexican dinnerware. Payton’s favorite of the figurines was the little brass whale: tail flexed, poised for his next dive, she could feel the awesome power of the animal. She brushed two fingers down its satiny spine and along the outstretched fluke.