by Cindy Davis
“Gee, if I’d known you’d wait up, Mom, I’d have called.”
Espinoza followed, wordless, into the house. She dropped her purse on the floor beside her desk, took off her jacket, and started to toss it across the back of the loveseat. Suddenly she remembered Sean’s wallet and key and hung the jacket in the closet.
“You know, Sergeant, you’re here so often my neighbors are going to think we’re having an affair. What do you want this time?”
“We discovered the identity of the poison that killed Mr. Adams and Mr. Simpson. Thanks to your research and kind plant donations, the toxicologist was able to match up the plant DNA with the residue found in the men’s systems.”
“Glad I could be of help. Couldn’t you have called to tell me this—in the morning?”
“Could have. But then I wouldn’t have seen the surprise on your face when you came home at the crack of dawn.”
“You didn’t tell me not to leave town. And it’s not the crack of dawn.”
“How is Ms. Adams by the way?”
Silent, she poured two cups of leftover coffee and popped them into the microwave. She pushed the creamer and sugar bowl to him when she was finished preparing her own. “MaryAnn is fine.”
He took a sip, and then another without putting the cup down. “The poison was from the monkshood plant. It didn’t come from medicine. And the chemists are fairly sure the serum didn’t come from a wild plant.”
“Wild?”
“Yes, the plant is in-indigenous to the area.”
“Gotta watch those big words, Sergeant,” she said, not able to let his verbal hesitation pass. “How can they tell it wasn’t a wild plant?”
He shrugged. “Different plant genetics or something.”
“So, you’ve convinced yourself the murder-plant came from my shop.”
“There’s only one other nursery in a thirty mile radius that sells them. Chances are it came from here. Now I need a more detailed list as to who bought them from you.”
“Couldn’t this have waited till morning?” she asked wearily.
“It is morning.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The trail grows colder by the minute.”
“And this should worry me why?”
“The thought of a murderer in your midst should worry you, Miss Winters. Once a person has killed, they often do it again.”
“So, have you finally eliminated me from the suspect list?”
“No.”
“Then you’d better watch how you phrase your comments, you said ‘he.’ And as far as a murderer in my midst, you know what? It bothered me at first but then I realized that, even though Sean Adams wasn’t a Jeffrey Dahmer, he was a thoroughly rotten human being, and—don’t look at me that way—I happen to think whoever killed him, did the town a favor. ”
“Can we get to it? I’d like to catch a few hours sleep before daybreak.”
It was obvious the sergeant wasn’t used to going without sleep. She suddenly felt a bit superior, happy that she was keeping him from the pursuit of physical comfort. She couldn’t help asking, “Does your wife wait up for you?”
“She used to, and be so anxious by the time I straggled in, she started taking sleeping pills whenever I’m on a case.” He withdrew the ubiquitous notebook from his breast pocket and then looked up, his dark eyes edged in the red of exhaustion. “Ms. Featherstone has a monkshood. Did she purchase it from you?”
Payton nodded.
“And Ms. March?”
Another nod.
“Miss Bastian?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“Helen Mortenson.” Payton ran a hand through her hair. “I think that’s all. The records are at the shop.”
“Which of the women would you think the most likely to—”
“Oh no! I’m not going to rat out one of my friends.”
“I’m just asking your opinion. I assume since you’re investigating things yourself—which, in a moment I’m going to warn you against—that you’ve formed an opinion.”
She held up her hand. “Stop now. One, I’m not going to share my thoughts. They’re my friends and my opinions are just that, opinions. Two, as for investigating on my own, I’m only asking the questions you probably already asked. And three—”
“What questions did you ask Ms. Adams?”
Payton’s slow smile seemed to disturb the sergeant, his lips tightened, but for only a second. “It’s none of your business, and you won’t believe me, but I went to her house to help her clean out Sean’s things. She’s my friend.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Childhoods, marriages, school. Girl talk.”
“Did she give any indication that she wanted her husband dead?”
“No. Sergeant, I’m sure she and most other people in town have already told you about MaryAnn and Sean’s relationship. I have nothing new to add. Now, I’d really appreciate it if you go so I can get to bed.”
“No insomnia tonight?”
“I don’t know yet.” Payton took her still full cup to the sink.
The sergeant got up too and pushed his chair under the table. “Heard from Mr. Green?”
“No.” She didn’t say she was really beginning to worry. “Was Frank Simpson’s death an accident?”
He gave a small nod.
“How was the poison administered?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Well, the newspaper said there was nothing toxic in their stomachs so they obviously didn’t eat it. I can only guess since they were the only two on the boat, it wasn’t injected, and since they were in open air, it wasn’t gas.” She stopped as an idea flickered inside her head. “Maybe it could have been gas. Maybe it was in the cabin below.” Then she shook her head. “No, can’t be. They were racing, there wouldn’t be any time, or need, for them to go below. So the poison had to be absorbed through the skin.”
A look of admiration appeared on Espinoza’s once-again fatherly countenance. “Someone made a paste and painted it on the ropes. The idea was obviously for it to come off on Sean’s hands when he raised the sails.”
“Was it on all the ropes?”
“Yes.” He’d begun walking to the front door but stopped and came back. “What are you thinking?”
“The person who did this wasn’t a sailor. The members of the yacht club would know exactly which lines Sean manned during a race. We never changed positions. You get proficient at one job and stay there. See what I mean?” Payton could almost hear him rubbing his mental hands together in anticipation as he flipped the notebook shut, locked it securely behind that small round button, and left her house. This was a man who wouldn’t get any sleep at all tonight. The thought made her grin.
Across the street, Aden’s house was black. Payton went to the closet and switched Sean’s wallet and key to the pocket of her winter coat hanging at the far left. She pulled the dry cleaners’ plastic down and smoothed the creases. She put on the jacket and went outdoors, walking confidently, in case any other insomniacs lived in her neighborhood, across the street and onto Aden’s front porch. Most people kept spare keys somewhere near the door. Aden didn’t seem like the type to do this, but he also hadn’t seemed like the sort to run away from a murder investigation.
Payton searched above the door and under the mat, anywhere she could think where someone might hide a key. She even checked the rocks in the garden, having seen artificial stones with crevices for such things. Nothing. She stood in the shadow of the maple at the street and eyed the house.
Where might he hide a key? She traipsed through the dewy grass around the house. Not over the door. Not under the mat. Not under either of the enormous geranium planters. Not under the stone to the right of the steps. But tucked into the slot in the fake left hand rock was Aden’s house key.
The door made the tiniest click as Payton slipped inside. The place smelled faintly of vanilla. The officers had left a mess. Not the sort of mess th
at occurred during a home invasion, but just a disruption of neatness. For example, the books on the shelves of the entertainment center were off kilter, the sofa pillows were lopsided. What she expected to find here that the cops hadn’t, she had no idea.
Standing in Aden’s bedroom, she suddenly felt very stupid. She had no reason to suspect Aden of anything, least of all murdering Sean Adams. Sean’s pestering her was her problem alone. Aden hadn’t cared enough to defend her honor. He didn’t care enough to stay around and make sure none of his friends were accused of murders they didn’t commit. Payton stomped a sneakered foot and stormed from the house. It wasn’t until she got back inside her front door that she realized she still had his house key in her hand. She peered at it lying innocently in the palm of her hand and then flung it against the wall.
THIRTY-SIX
The key hit with a tiny ping and bounced off the hardwood floor. Payton dropped on the sofa and cried until she felt staggered by exhaustion. All energy drained, she couldn’t even raise her head from the cushion. As the hall clock struck 9 a.m., even the realization she would be late opening her shop didn’t produce enough adrenaline to do more than wipe hair from her face. Strands of it clung to wet cheeks and eyelashes. One strand had even found its way into her mouth. She felt the tickle of it in her throat and plucked it away. Still she couldn’t move from the sofa. She didn’t care about the shop. She didn’t even care which friend was a murderer.
She also didn’t care that someone was banging on the sliders. But as the sound grew louder, Payton realized whoever was outside could see her lying there, arms outstretched, legs crunched up to fit her height into the small space. If she didn’t move, whoever relentlessly pounded on the double-glazed glass would eventually feel the need to break in. So Payton moved, first her right arm, to push the hair from her face, then the left, pins and needles striking like barbs as she raised it from its dangling position off the edge. The tingling burst into her brain, shocking her awake.
Helen stood with her nose pressed to the glass, hands cupped around her face giving it a ghoulish look that in the dark might have startled Payton. But right now, she was incapable of feeling anything more than simple annoyance at being disturbed. She inched off the couch, muscles and nerves screaming in indignation. Helen lowered her arms as Payton staggered to the door and unlocked it. She didn’t open the door, just went back to the couch, sitting instead of lying down.
“Dear, do you know what time it is?”
Payton’s brain told her to say it was nine o’clock. So she did.
“Are you going to open your store?”
“No.”
Helen joggled Payton’s shoulder. She rubbed the spot and stood up. “No,” she said more succinctly than before. “I didn’t forget. I just…” Payton started for the stairs, and a shower. Late or not, she needed the bracing hot needles to bring her senses to life. She turned. “Did you come for something in particular?”
“No dear. I didn’t see you leave and wondered if you’d overslept. Give me your keys. I’ll go down and man the ship so you don’t have to hurry.”
Payton’s brain wasn’t functioning well enough to tell her where she’d left the keys. Helen found Payton’s handbag and brought it to her. Payton fumbled around inside.
“Are you sure you’re all right, dear?”
“I had a rough night.” Payton came up with something jingly and handed it to Helen. “Thank you, you’re a lifesaver.”
“What kind?”
“Peppermint,” Payton muttered and shuffled upstairs, still wearing her wet sneakers.
An hour and a half later, Payton sat on the stool behind the counter in the shop. She’d absorbed two cups of coffee—which Helen had been thoughtful enough to make—and sent Helen on her way, thanking her several times for her kindness, and somehow managing not to give a plausible explanation for her behavior. Helen knew of Payton’s insomnia and probably assumed it finally caught up with her. That was partly it, but at Aden’s, she’d had a re-realization of where she stood in the grand scheme of the world. It was a sobering thought to know that if you disappeared from the earth, few people would notice.
Payton thumbed through the phone book and dialed Claire’s number. “Hi, it’s Payton. I wondered if you’d like to get together for lunch today. MaryAnn’s due here at one, want to meet me here? We can go to the Galley.” Payton set down the phone and laughed. If MaryAnn was in any condition to show up. Well, if she didn’t, she and Claire would just order in.
The sky threatened rain. The streets were quiet. Even the tourists seemed to be sleeping late. Payton wondered if the sergeant finally got to sleep, or if visions of Sackets Harbor’s women carrying buckets loaded with monkshood paste down to the dock kept him awake.
Why hadn’t the investigation resulted in MaryAnn’s past coming to light? Being illegal, she couldn’t have a birth certificate, social security card or even a driver’s license. That explained her not owning a car. It wasn’t because she couldn’t afford one, as she’d said.
MaryAnn did arrive, and on time. She looked bright and ready to face the day.
“How come you look so good?” Payton asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Question: why didn’t the cops arrest you for being illegal?”
MaryAnn looked at Payton for several seconds, her dark eyes vacant, as though she’d forgotten she’d divulged her deepest secret. She sighed. “About six months after we got married, Sean paid a guy to make me all the official papers. As far as the government is concerned, I am legal.”
So MaryAnn really did owe him. Payton understood the gratitude of such a situation, but couldn’t believe MaryAnn would swallow every last ounce of her pride to pay back a man who cheated, lied and stole.
“When I got home that sergeant was waiting. They figured out how the poison was given to Sean. It was made into a paste and painted it on the rigging lines. When the ropes went through Sean and Frank’s hands, the poison got onto their skin.”
MaryAnn paled.
“It’s awful isn’t it?” Payton said.
“They must have suffered.” She rose and shook herself like a dog coming out of the lake. “You should go home and rest.”
“Can’t. Claire and I are going for lunch. I will fix my face though.”
When Payton returned, Claire and MaryAnn were seated in the patio area. Claire stood up, looking as disheveled as Payton felt.
“We’ll be back soon.”
“Have fun.”
They stepped out onto the sidewalk. Sergeant Espinoza’s car was parked in front of Sean’s cafe. No one was in sight. Payton picked up her pace.
“You still want to go to the Galley?”
“Sure. Did you remember there’s a race today?” Claire asked.
“God, I don’t feel like sailing today.”
“Don’t then.”
They found a table near the window where they could see the street.
“Tell me about your plan to reopen Sean’s café.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of research, looking for French recipes and all that.”
“Maybe he left some cookbooks in the restaurant.”
“Helen said she didn’t find any when she cleaned out the place.”
“I didn’t see any at his house either. Ask MaryAnn when we get back to the shop. Maybe she knows where they are. Did you try a search on the Internet?”
“I don’t have a computer. Well, I do, but it’s broken. I’m so excited about this.”
Broken? It was working a couple of nights ago.
“I’m hoping to open the first of August. I, er, gave the library director my notice.”
“Claire, are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“You aren’t going to try and talk me out of it too, are you?”
“No, of course not. I’m just worried you’re getting in over your head.”
“And at my age…”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Mam
ie did. She said I should be thinking about retiring and not bogging myself down with a career that’s known for its pressures and—oh, Payton, it is the right thing to do, isn’t it?”
“Only you would know that. I’m just worried about your health. Since Sean’s death, you’ve been different.”
Claire said softly, “We’ve all been different. I think someone should carry on for Sean. We owe him that.”
Payton didn’t think any of them—most of all MaryAnn—owed him anything. But Claire was right about one thing, Sean’s death had changed them all. Payton ordered a chef’s salad, realizing she hadn’t eaten since stealing the frosting off MaryAnn’s cake last night.
“What are you laughing about?” Claire asked.
“I was just remembering the last thing I ate. I was at MaryAnn’s helping clear out Sean’s things. There was this slice of chocolate cake on the counter. I stole some of the frosting. Claire, I swear it was the best frosting I’ve ever had.”
Claire rocketed to her feet and raced from the restaurant. Payton stood up and groped in her purse. She tossed some bills on the table but Claire was already running up the sidewalk. By the time Payton made it to the curb, she’d climbed into her car and sped away, squealing the tires. Payton went back inside and asked the waitress for the meals to go.
“Well, that’s about the wildest thing I’ve ever heard,” MaryAnn said between bites of Claire’s chicken salad.
The sergeant came out of Mamie’s gallery then drove two hundred feet down Main Street and turned into Sylvie’s parking lot. Payton let out the breath she’d been holding because she’d just figured out what Espinoza was doing—following up on the leads she’d given him in the wee hours of the morning. The thought gave her a heavy feeling, and Payton pushed the half eaten lunch away. “Will you be all right for a while? I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“Sure. While you were gone earlier, I thought I’d learn a little more about plants, but I couldn’t find the book. Did you take it home?”