Lethal Dose of Love Read online

  Sylvie’s house was the same Victorian style as Claire’s but not in as good condition. Sylvie was either not a very successful real estate agent, or else she chose to do other things with her money. Maybe Payton could use real estate as an excuse for her visit. Another house? Sylvie wouldn’t believe that. And it was far too soon to be thinking about enlarging the shop. So, what to use as a reason for the visit? Simple, she’d come to patch things up between she and Helen. She pushed the ancient brass doorbell.

  Sylvie opened the door only enough to peek outside. Seeing Payton, she pulled the door open about a foot. She was wearing a striped blouse and polyester slacks from the sixties. Swollen ankles stuck out between the hem and purple veined feet. “I suppose Helen sent you.”

  “She has no idea I’m here,” Payton said.

  “You should look for a new friend.”

  Payton sucked in a breath and said, “Maybe I am.”

  Perhaps it was just idle curiosity that made Sylvie step back and allow Payton to enter.

  She had just enough time to determine she was in a hallway before the door slammed shut, throwing them into sudden and near-complete darkness that emoted the hallway into a long soundless cave. The still air enveloped Payton in a most distasteful scent; bitter and acerbic. The only light was a skinny rectangle around a door at the end of the hall. It did nothing more than mark the location of the next room.

  Without speaking, Sylvie walked toward that elongated rectangle, her bare feet scuffing on what sounded like linoleum. Payton followed with her own shuffling steps, trying to recall, in her brief moment of sight, whether she’d seen any furniture that would trip her up. Holding her breath against the odor, Payton took a few halting steps and came up short when a sharp object jabbed into her left hip. Feathering her fingers over the flat surface, she decided she’d bumped into a table. She moved around it, one hand rubbing the sore hip, the other probing for more obstructions.

  Sylvie threw open a door. At that moment, two things hit Payton: the first was the stark fluorescence of a ceiling light. Her pupils contracted, throwing her once again into total blindness. The second was an accretion of the aroma against which she’d been holding her breath. A wall of stink moved at her like an invisible enemy. Ammonia burned the inside of her nose. The tiny hairs in her nostrils shriveled. Payton’s instinctive inhalation only succeeded in drawing the burning into her lungs.

  “I don’t suppose it’s anything like your house.”

  “I don’t choose my friends because of where they live.”

  Between rapid blinks of traumatized eyes and restricted intakes of air, Payton saw she was in Sylvie’s kitchen. To her right was a Formica table with molded chrome legs and four matching chairs. Sylvie dropped into the chair at the far end. She didn’t invite Payton to sit. Payton, dizzied by the smell of ammonia, pulled out the nearest chair and sat anyway.

  Payton felt like she’d somehow stepped inside a time machine—back to 1969 to her grandmother’s house. Her kitchen had been exactly like this, long and narrow, running the width of the old house. Linoleum floor, white metal cabinets and double porcelain sink. The only redeeming thing about this room was that it didn’t have avocado-color fixtures.

  “This is wonderful period decor,” Payton lied. “Have you maintained it throughout the house?”

  “Y-yes.” Sylvie’s voice betrayed her confusion. She recovered quickly. “I have. Shag carpets, vinyl living room set, the works.”

  “A virtual trip into the past. Wonderful.” Payton glanced around for something else to praise. “Those cabinets are in wonderful condition. I haven’t seen metal ones since…” She was about to say “my grandmother’s house” but didn’t think that would be construed as a compliment. So she let the sentence hang.

  “Originals,” was all Sylvie volunteered.

  By then Payton’s eyes had adjusted to the unbounded reality of the fluorescent lights and she realized, with a flicker of horror, just what was causing the horrific odor.

  Cats.

  Everywhere. Like hairy doilies, they decorated every available surface: counter, stove, windowsills, the top of the refrigerator. Payton’s right elbow suddenly bumped something solid. A black cat with a white patch on its head eyed her with disdain from the corner of the table.

  Payton reached out to pat the Holstein-colored creature. It tilted its head and half-closed yellow eyes. The animal appeared to be purring. She ran a palm down its back a couple of times hoping to gain a bit more of Sylvie’s trust. “How many cats do you have?”

  “I’m not really sure. They’re always bringing home friends.”

  By the aroma coming from what must be an overflowing litter box, Payton had trouble believing any of these pets ever went outdoors.

  “Phoebe had five upstairs in the guest closet,” Sylvie said with pride. “They’re almost eight weeks old.”

  Payton withdrew her fingers from the short, coarse fur.

  “So, tell me again why you came. I’m sure it wasn’t to meet my kitties.”

  She gave Sylvie her most direct gaze. “I thought maybe you could help me. Help the people of Sackets Harbor.”

  Sylvie’s eyes narrowed.

  “I assume you know Aden is under suspicion for Sean’s murder.” Sylvie nodded, her expression beginning to make Payton feel a bit uneasy. “Do you have any idea why he might want Sean dead?”

  “To have you for himself.”

  Was that what everyone believed? “Did Sean and Aden have anything in common besides me?”

  Sylvie thought seriously for several moments. Her left fingers drummed on the table, the others held the side of her face as though her head suddenly grew too heavy for her neck. “No.” She sounded so certain Payton didn’t try to draw her out any further.

  “It just doesn’t set right with me. Especially now that Aden’s missing.”

  “Missing? Well…that just about solves it, hey?”

  “He works in the Mideast, Sylvie. There could be a dozen reasons why he’s out of touch. What I was trying to say is that the authorities are looking at other people.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know specifically, but this morning they searched my shop.” She lowered her voice. “I got it out of that sergeant that the poison used to kill Sean was from some kind of poisonous plant.”

  Sylvie’s eyes widened. She put down the tabby she was holding and leaned both elbows on the table. “I knew something was going to happen with those things all over the place. I just knew it.”

  “Sylvie, we tried to tell you at the time, they’re not—”

  “Obviously you were wrong.” She picked up the cat again, watched it turn in a circle and lie down on her lap. “What types of plants are poisonous?”

  “Lots really. Poinsettia and lily of the valley to name two.”

  “Lily of the valley,” Sylvie said thoughtfully. “How does somebody use a plant to kill somebody?”

  “I have no idea. The authorities are waiting for test results that show how the poison got in Sean’s system.”

  “Do they suspect you?”

  “I hardly knew Sean.”

  “That’s not how the rumors went.”

  Payton shrugged. “I have no control over what people say. Sean was merely a thorn in my side, a mosquito.” She recalled Espinoza’s comment about the demise of the pesky insects. She shivered, banging her elbow against the innocent cat. It got up, stretched in a way that would send most humans screaming for a chiropractor and hopped to the floor. “From their questions, I got the idea they think the killer is a woman. Poison is usually a woman’s weapon. And Sean came in contact with a lot of women. The ones he worked with, spoke with at meetings or in shops, sold paintings to.” Payton knew she was rambling but was spurred by the curious expression that had crept onto Sylvie’s face. Guilt? Suspicion?

  What if Sylvie was the murderer? Payton didn’t know of a possible motive, but she didn’t know Aden’s either, at least not the one the police kept u
nder wraps. Sylvie had lived in town a long time. It was conceivable she’d have been affected by one of Sean’s escapades.

  Sylvie still didn’t speak.

  The black and white cat returned and stood between Payton’s shoes, looking at her with big yellow eyes. It crouched, leaped and landed in her lap. Payton stroked the shiny fur. Whatever could be said for Sylvie’s litter box cleaning habits, at least this cat appeared to be well fed.

  “So, will you help me find out who did this?” Payton asked.

  Finally the iceberg melted. Sylvie’s features softened, smoothed out. “Yes. I think I’d like to do that.”

  Payton set the cat on the floor. “Were you born here in town?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “Married?”

  “I was…once. C’mere kitty kitty.” Sylvie bent over and put her hand out to a cat that had hopped off the windowsill. She spent an inordinate amount of time scratching between the animal’s ears and cooing little nothings.

  “Where were you last Tuesday night?”

  The tone of Payton’s voice hadn’t been accusatory, just conversational yet the iceberg returned. Sylvie’s eyes transformed into black slits, her mouth to a skinny pink line.

  “Sylvie, I’m just trying to piece things together in my mind. Whatever was used to kill Sean obviously had to have been put on his boat the night before. I know where I was—home—alone. Helen and Carter went to the movies.”

  “How convenient they can alibi each other. I was here. Alone. I came back from the office around five. Cooked supper for me and my children.” She arm waved to include her furry companions. “We watched television until about ten and then went to bed. Not very exciting. Not like what you probably did.”

  Payton smiled. “I did about the same things, except I only fed myself. I don’t have any pets.”

  “Don’t you like animals?”

  “I do. I just don’t happen to have any. Who do you think had reason enough to want Sean dead?”

  The reply was simple and to the point. “MaryAnn. On NYPD Blue, the spouse is always the one who did it. She took a lot from him. She worked her ass off to put him through cooking school. Then there was the abuse.”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Everyone knew. You’ll ask why people put up with it.” Sylvie made an exasperated sound with her tongue. “We all tried to get her to leave him, or press charges. Even Officer Vaughn did. But she wouldn’t. I always wondered if Sean had something on her. I mean, why else would a woman take what he did?”

  “Weak women do that sometimes.”

  “She doesn’t seem weak to me.”

  Sylvie had a good theory. If Sean was indeed holding something over MaryAnn, that would explain a lot of things.

  “I understand you saw Sean and Felicia in Chaumont.”

  “Another of his conquests.”

  “An unlikely pair. What was their demeanor? Did you hear any conversation between them? See any gestures? Did they hug or kiss, or anything like that?”

  “They were standing in front of a restaurant, a foot or so apart. If that’s not the posture of people who know each other very well, I don’t know what is.”

  “Could it have been simpler than that; two people having a conversation over the sound of traffic?”

  Again Sylvie thought. Then she nodded. “I suppose it could have been.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “I wanted to watch them but couldn’t find a spot to park. I went to turn around, but when I got back Felicia was gone. Sean was still standing there.”

  “Do you know of any relationship between Amanda March and Sean? Besides sailboats, I mean.”

  “I don’t think it’s possible. Edward rarely lets her out of his sight. He’s a tough bastard, if you’ll excuse my French.”

  “Is he that strict?”

  “Last October, I overheard them arguing. He was using the worst vocabulary you can imagine, saying she’d better phone next time she was going to be late, or else.”

  “He really said ‘or else’?”

  “He did.”

  “Where had she been?” Payton asked.

  “It was Helen’s birthday. We were all at Mamie’s. He knew exactly where she was.”

  “How did you come to overhear the argument?”

  “I took a walk to the battlefield during my lunch break. They were in the marina parking lot.”

  Payton put down the cat and crossed her legs. “Helen was really upset about your meeting at the supermarket.”

  “That’s the real reason for this visit, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll admit it’s a part of it. Helen and I are friends and I’m understandably concerned. She doesn’t know I’m here, nor did she suggest it. I really do want to get better acquainted with you. Of all the people I know in town, I think you’re the most logical one to help me find the real killer.”

  Sylvie thawed a little more. “Sometimes Helen makes me so mad. I can’t believe she believed Sean’s tale about Mamie’s gallery troubles. Everybody knows never to believe anything Sean says. The thing that got me was when Helen said ‘she got what was coming to her for being such a pantywaist.’”

  “Helen said that?”

  “She sure did.”

  “Are you certain she was talking about Mamie? To whom was she talking?”

  “Carter. At Sean’s memorial service. I was sitting behind them.”

  Sylvie talked a while longer, obviously happy to have someone besides her cats. She wasn’t forthcoming with any more helpful gossip, and Payton soon made an excuse to leave. Though not before she’d been given a complete tour of the smelly, run-down Victorian. And been introduced to the adorable “kids” in the bedroom closet.

  At the front door, Payton was surprised to hear herself inviting Sylvie for coffee “one of these days.” From the way this offer was received, Payton had no doubt Sylvie would come knocking very soon.

  Outdoors, she breathed deeply of the clean air. Could she picture Sylvie as a killer? Possibly. Hadn’t she said that Sean cheated her out of a commission on the house he’d bought through her? That was years ago though.

  Sylvie’s seeing Sean and Felicia in Chaumont might be important. It was remotely possible they were having an affair. But more likely they’d been, as Felicia admitted, discussing Sunset.

  Then there was Sylvie’s assessment of Edward and Amanda’s relationship. From what Payton had seen they were always polite and considerate to each other. On the other hand, if Sylvie was right, that would explain Amanda’s fear of Edward finding out what she’d paid for the painting of the old commodore.

  She passed Claire’s house. No lights on. Not only had she supported Mamie through her troubles, but she’d also taken MaryAnn under her care. She had to be worn out. It was no wonder her behavior had become erratic.

  At home, Payton checked her answering machine. There was nothing from Aden. Why should she be worried about him? He was a low-down rat for leaving her alone to face the cops. She undressed in the dark, looking out over the harbor. Stars glinted off the mirror-like water. Where could he be?

  A laugh squirted between her lips. All this time she’d been worried about Aden and her friends, but more than likely she herself was at the top of the suspect list. She’d had means—the probable plant right in her store. She had no alibi. Flimsy as it was, she had a motive. And on top of it all, she had something none of the other suspects had: another unsolved murder in her past.

  She’d been a suspect before and survived.

  Before, she didn’t have a motive to kill Cameron. And she’d been out shopping when he was killed.

  So, how to keep the cops off the doorstep?

  Find the real killer.

  Easier said.

  As she climbed into bed, the painting class replayed in her mind, from the moment she put her packaged chocolate chip cookies on the table to the click of the door when Mamie locked it for the night. They had talked about Sean, his personality, his
deeds and misdeeds. They’d talked about Sylvie and Helen’s confrontation. They’d made jokes. Commiserated.

  The Brice girl had taken Sean to court, not surprising really. She’d been young; parents would be understandably upset learning their daughter had relations with anyone. They’d talked about Claire’s erratic behavior. There was a clue somewhere in all that talk. Darned if she could see it.

  Payton curled into the security of a fetal position, watching the clock. As the numbers flicked from 4:11 to 4:12 and a twinge of dawn’s light lit the room, Payton flung herself upright. She clutched the eyelet lace coverlet to her bare breasts, her nipples erect as though they’d been alerted to the same realization their owner had just made.

  THIRTY-TWO

  By 8 a.m. Payton sat in Helen’s glassed breakfast room. Carter voiced his intention of “letting you girls talk” but he remained there. Payton sipped Helen’s fresh-ground hazelnut coffee and leaned back in the white wicker chair, purchased at Payton’s shop at a 10 percent friendship discount. She dropped the bomb. “I’ve decided to investigate Sean’s death.”

  This was obviously not what they’d expected her to say. “Why?” they both asked at the same time.

  “Because…” Payton hesitated. “I—”

  “Because you’re scared they’re looking at you?” Carter asked, his usual teasing manner serious.

  “Right,” Payton admitted.

  “That’s absurd. Why would they suspect you before people who’ve known and despised Sean?” This also came from Carter. In response to the scathing look from Helen, he said to his wife, “I thought we decided you were done sticking up for Sean. Your attentions, although misguided, were well intentioned but will stop here.”

  A light flush colored Helen’s cheeks.

  “Did you ever buy insurance from Harry Brice?” Payton asked.

  “Er, yes,” Carter replied.

  “Did anyone else in the neighborhood?”

  Carter laughed. “It was hard not to buy from him.”

  “What could this have to do with Sean’s death?” Helen asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Do you know if Aden bought a policy?”