TWENTY-EIGHT

The noise broke through her stupor. Insistent hammering.

With immense effort, Payton lifted her head and peered through a tangle of hair. Helen and Claire stood at the sliders, Helen’s fist making the most god-awful noise on the glass. When she saw Payton moving, she stopped pounding and signaled for her to unlock the door.

Payton moved slowly, every muscle, nerve and even her brain screaming. She let the women in. Helen put her arm around Payton while Claire pulled out a chair and helped her sit. Payton buried her head in her hands.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Payton thought how often people had been asking that question lately. Finally she nodded.

“What happened?”

“Aden,” was all she said.

“Has something happened to him?” Claire asked.

“He’s gone. It’s my fault.”

“Your fault?” Claire’s voice carried a hoarseness that made Payton look up.

Helen handed Payton a tissue. Claire cleared her throat and repeated the question.

“I told the sergeant that Aden thought Sean had been poisoned. Now he’s gone.”

Helen frowned and left Payton’s line of sight. The front door opened and shut. Helen returned carrying a thick copy of the “Watertown Daily Times.” She slapped it on the table and swiveled it so Payton could read the headline.

Sackets Harbor Man Poisoned

Payton held her breath and read the short article. Last Wednesday, two prominent businessmen died during the Sackets Harbor Yacht Club race. On Thursday, this paper reported that both Sean Adams and Frank Simpson had been murdered. A subsequent report determined they had been poisoned. “Although Mr. Adams ultimately drowned after rolling over the gunwale into Lake Ontario, the amount of poison in his system would most definitely have already killed him,” stated Daniel Grayson, New York State Coroner, yesterday. “Manner and variety of poison have not yet been determined. Though it’s often difficult to pinpoint a type of poison, we are following several leads. We should have toxicology reports in a few days.”

Payton looked at Helen. “So Aden was right.”

“What does it say?” asked Claire.

Payton slid the paper across the table. As Claire’s eyes neared the bottom of the article, a strangled sound came from her throat. Helen put a hand on her arm. “I’ll get you a drink of water.” But before she could move, Claire sprang from the chair and dashed outside.

“What on earth is going on this morning?” Helen asked.

“I think there’s something in the water,” Payton said, completely serious.

Head throbbing, she dashed outside. Rounding the front of the house, she felt herself being wrenched backwards. Her captor was a tall man wearing the tan uniform of the New York State Police. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Her reply was cut short when Helen pounded the officer on the arm. “Let her go, you bully.”

Sergeant Espinoza stepped up, took hold of Helen’s arms and yanked her away from the officer. “We want to talk to you.”

“Not now,” Payton said, jerking from the officer’s grasp.

“Now!”

Payton didn’t stop, didn’t even turn.

“Follow her,” the sergeant shouted.

Somehow Helen already had the car running and the door open. Payton leaped inside. The Buick’s tires squealed on the pavement. She raced directly to Claire’s house. Her car wasn’t there. It wasn’t at Mamie’s. And it wasn’t at the library.

Payton was suddenly sweating and trembling all over. She clenched her hands in her lap and ordered herself to concentrate on finding poor Claire. Sorrow could make a perfectly stable person do the most abnormal things. She leaned forward, pressing the seat belt strap tight, looking down driveways on the right side of the road while Helen did likewise on the left.

“Where could she have gone?” Helen asked.

Helen inched past the shops, even though they could both see Claire’s car wasn’t there. Helen turned into the marina driveway and stopped. Behind them, the police car jerked to a halt as if surprised by their actions.

Claire wasn’t at the marina either. “Where did she go?” Helen repeated. She backed as far as she could, avoiding the officer’s car, turned and went back up the hill. The shadow-car did likewise.

As they passed Payton’s shop, Payton hollered, “Stop!”

Helen slammed her foot to the floor, pitching Payton forward against the restraints. “Sorry.”

“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.