SIX

An hour later, Claire hung up the phone with an ache in the pit of her stomach. Mamie was on her way over to take Claire out for lunch. Her eyes roved to the table, to the brightly colored book beside the damp pile of mail. Speaking of damp. Claire ran a hand over her narrow backside. She’d been so wrapped up in the book she hadn’t even noticed the cotton fabric clinging to her bottom. She pulled the cloth away, but it rippled back in place as if drawn by a magnet. Claire glanced at the ceiling and then at the plastic rooster-shaped clock on the kitchen wall. She sucked in a breath then let it out in an exasperated hiss. All she wanted was a few hours of peace and quiet.

She searched for a place to hide her treasure. Behind the bread maker? Seemed like she never found time for it any more. On top of the refrigerator? No, it’d be just her luck Mamie would show up wanting cookies. Claire finally settled on a spot behind a stack of flowerpots under the kitchen sink, chuckling a little thinking of all the trouble it was to hide something in a house where she lived all alone.

Claire had a sudden wish that she could move away and restart her life like Payton had. Not to hide from something, as Mamie seemed to believe about Payton, but just to begin as another person. She could establish herself as a recluse. People would leave her alone. She wouldn’t have to deal with old memories, wouldn’t have to face her misdeed every single day.

Who was she kidding? The memory would still be there, lurking in the back of her mind, choking her dreams. She sighed again and poked the paper wrapper deeper into the trash. She wouldn’t always want to be alone. Sooner or later, she’d seek out company and the cycle would begin again. Claire pushed the wad of paper and the invoice deeper, burying it under the morning’s coffee grounds.

She took a fortifying sip of the now-cold tea and limped down the hallway. The old banister creaked with Claire’s weight against it. It took four minutes to climb the thirteen steps to her bedroom and another two minutes to peel off the sodden clothes. The skin of her upper arms still tingled where Sean had touched it. She massaged the limp flesh.

A wave of grief hit like a punch in the gut. How ironic was it that he’d carried his own murder weapon? Tears came, but she brushed them angrily away. No time for regrets. Claire lowered herself on the edge of the bed and removed her socks, wondering why the wet things hadn’t bothered her; usually a tiny splash on her blouse during dishwashing was enough to send her scurrying upstairs to change.

Finally she was ready. The bedside clock said there were still twelve minutes before Mamie was due. Maybe time for just another short glance at the book. Claire’s heart thumped with excitement, but by the time she’d struggled downstairs most of the time had evaporated.

Three minutes left. Not enough time. Mamie was never late.

* * * *

It was eight p.m. before Claire returned home. Mamie had insisted they watch television. After the movie, Claire urged Mamie to drive her home, but she’d risen and prepared leftover meatloaf for dinner. “You always say it’s so much better the second time around.”

Even though she’d barely touched her lunch, Claire wasn’t hungry. But Mamie wouldn’t listen to protests. When dishes were done, Mamie tried to enlist Claire’s interest in a video, but she’d finally put her foot down. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”

Mamie had looked at Claire’s top button. “I’ve been doing my best to keep you here. I know the mood you’re in. You’re going to go home and brood, though God knows what you’ve got to brood about.”

“I’m not going to brood. I’m going to bed, to sleep.”

Finally they stood on the sidewalk, Mamie talking about the dismal weather, Claire trying to figure out how to dissuade Mamie from escorting her inside and tucking her in bed.

“A bit like being in a cave, isn’t it?” Mamie was looking up at the branches of the maples, heavy with rain.

“Hmm? Oh yes. As though none of the outside world can get in and ruin things.”

“Ruin things?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” Claire had turned away from the frown on Mamie’s round face and hobbled up the steps. Taped to the front door was a piece of paper. Stopped by to see if you were ok. Hope this means you decided to go to the hospital. You should’ve called. Will stop again in morning. Vaughn.

Claire left her boots in the tray beside the door, hung her coat on the hall rack, tossed a rueful glance at Sean’s long dried footprints and limped to the kitchen. The cabinet doors looked undisturbed. The tiny smudge of flour she’d left on the handle was still there. Claire wiped it off with the tip of her thumb. She poured a double shot of peach schnapps, gathered up the book and hobbled upstairs. No more delays.

Finally in nightclothes and under the fluffy down comforter, she clutched the book to her chest. She’d actually bought three books: one on poisonous plants and two on gardening and landscaping. The one on poisonous plants was destined for the trash. No need for it again. After all, how often does a person go around poisoning someone?

In the light from the pink-shaded bedside lamp, Claire smoothed her palm over the glossy cover with its mass of bright green leaves splashed across it like a jungle. Poisonous Plants and You. A twinge of excitement, almost carnal in nature—that is, if she remembered correctly—coursed through her. And another when the spine crackled as she opened the cover. Claire savored the aroma of the fresh-off-the-press pages. It was well after midnight before Claire shut off the light. Her eyes were on fire and refused to read another word.

But sleep was as elusive as was the way to carry out the plan. Her ankle throbbed. The pulses were like sheep on a sleepless night. At 3 a.m. she began to think something might be more seriously wrong than a simple sprained talus, but she channeled thoughts of pain into thoughts of Sean and his demise. She hadn’t felt this hopeful, nor this depressed, in a very long time.

Claire woke to sun streaming in the windows. She loved the east facing room for that reason. She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back to work out the stiffness. As she flexed her legs the memory of yesterday’s tumble came roaring back. Pain bolted up her leg. She grimaced and lay back on the pillows, realizing today would be the first time in seventeen years she’d call in sick to the library. She’d been very proud of that record, but while tossing and turning last night, Claire had done some thinking about her life. A wasted life, really. Who the heck would care if she never missed a day of work? Would they put it on her tombstone? Big deal.

The one thing she’d done, that should have turned out good, was all crap. She would rectify it. She’d make it right for Sackets Harbor—and that could go on her tombstone.

Here lies Claire Bastian ~ She Saved Sackets Harbor

Just as General Jacob Brown did in 1813

That would be Claire’s legacy. It was all she had left.

The book lay on the bedside table, a Hay Memorial Library bookmark stuck in about a third of the way. She glanced at it, then at the clock, 8:10! A knot formed in her stomach, then dissipated as she remembered her decision to take the day off. She hadn’t slept this late in years. Today would be a day for blazing new trails. Maybe she’d just call the library director and say she was retiring—at age forty-three. Wouldn’t that just shake things up?

Claire slid her legs over the edge of the bed, the braided rug rough on the soles of her feet. She stood, letting the right ankle absorb the weight. Not that her weight had ever been a problem. She’d always been able to eat anything and it didn’t show up on her hips or thighs the way it did with other women. Particularly Mamie. She was always complaining about her weight. Never did anything about it though.

The ankle was painful but not unbearable. Still, she wouldn’t be tripping the light fantastic for at least a couple of weeks. When was the last time she’d gone dancing—God, had it been twenty years? She took one step away from the bed. The air was chilly and her nipples stiffened. The nightgown rubbed across them, and she fluffed the fabric away.

After a shower, Claire sat on the bed and wrapped her ankle in an Ace bandage, slipped on a pair of heavy socks and finished dressing. The journey down the stairs was easier than yesterday afternoon.

She called the library director. Once the phone was back in its cradle, Claire hid the book under a pile of mail and set about making coffee and breakfast. She had no sooner popped two slices of wheat bread in the toaster when she heard tires swooshing on water. Down the long hallway and through the window on the front door, the roof of a car was visible—Vaughn’s SUV. A long, deep sigh issued from her throat and she hurried to hide the book in the cabinet.

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.