THIRTY-ONE

 

 

“If everyone will sit down, we’ll get started.”

Five metal folding chairs were arranged in a semi-circle in front of Mamie’s stool. Her easel, holding a tall pad of paper, faced the empty chairs. Payton, Helen, Felicia and Amanda chatted near the refreshment table while waiting for the class to start. Helen stood uncharacteristically to one side. Her face was pale. She held her keys in her left hand and rattled them in an unconscious gesture. Payton took them from her fingers and dropped them into her oversized handbag, receiving an appreciative look from Felicia who slid the bag under the middle chair.

“We’ll get started as soon as Sylvie arrives.”

“Claire’s not coming?”

“I don’t think so. She hates painting. Besides, she just not—lately she’s just not right.”

“I don’t think Sylvie is either,” Helen said.

“Coming…or quite right?” asked Felicia. No one responded.

“Yesterday Sylvie told me she would be here.” Mamie said.

“We had a…a confrontation,” Helen said. She sat heavily in the end chair. Her knuckles were white against her black flowered dress. “I didn’t have time to bake anything for our get-together so I stopped at the supermarket on the way here. I was trying to decide between the pastry and the cookies when Sylvie came up beside me. I said hello. She looked at me, her face turned red and she started shouting at me. Shouting. She said I was the l-lowest form of scum on this earth and I should be ashamed of myself. She said I should c-crawl in a hole and die.”

A chorus of “nos” and “whats!” came from the women.

“Did she say what was wrong?” Felicia asked.

“I haven’t spoken to her since the day of the race.” Helen’s round body trembled. Amanda poured her a paper cup of water. “Everyone in the place was listening. It was terrible. The manager came over and told us to take it outside like we were some sort of street brawlers or something.”

Suddenly Amanda laughed, and then so did Felicia. Payton almost did too. The vision of Helen and Sylvie rolling on the supermarket floor, pulling hair and screaming obscenities among spilled oranges and yams, was very vivid.

“I’m sure it didn’t help that I threw a tomato at her,” Helen admitted softly.

“What!”

“I couldn’t help it. I was so mortified she’d spoken to me that way. You all know me. I’ve always said that if any of you have a problem, just come to me so we can talk about it.”

“Helen,” said Mamie, the only one of the five able to maintain a totally serious air. “I can’t picture you throwing things.”

“Are you all forgetting that time at the Wanderlust meeting when Sean told everyone he was going to become a life insurance salesman?” Felicia said with a laugh. “She threw a blueberry scone at him saying what a terrible agent he’d make because he’d chase all the wives and he’d be the one to need the policies.”

The corners of Helen’s lips twitched.

“You really did that?” Payton asked.

“’Fraid so,” Helen said.

“I always felt sorry for his poor mother,” Mamie said. “Having him late in life the way she did, and then having him turn out to be such a bad boy.”

“In what way was he bad?” Payton asked.

“He was always into something,” Mamie said. “Conning kids out of their lunch money and toys. He was arrested at least once for breaking and entering when he was about twelve.”

“Didn’t he also get arrested once for rape?” Felicia asked.

“Attempted,” said Helen. “It was that young Brice girl, Zoe.”

“Isn’t that the family who lived in my house?” Payton asked. “I thought Harry Brice only had one son.”

“No, there was a daughter too. She left town just after the trial. She’s never been back, that I know of. The judge practically laughed the case out of court. She was a bit of a…”

“Tramp,” finished Amanda. “Where did she go? I mean, she couldn’t have been more than fifteen.”

“Sixteen, I think,” Helen said. “She went to live with relatives in Oregon. The family had been about to send her away anyhow. She’d been in a lot of trouble.”

“So Sean didn’t really rape her?”

“No. At least nobody thought so at the time.” Helen shifted in her chair and sighed. “I’m sure my escapade in the supermarket will make the front page of this week’s Gazette.” Some of Helen’s color had returned and she was seeing a little humor in the situation.

“I can see the headlines now,” Felicia said. “Helen Mortenson’s first pitch of the season is a strike.”

“What was she angry about?” Payton asked.

“That’s the thing. I have no idea.”

They finally got down to the lesson, but the air was heavy.

It wasn’t fifteen minutes before Payton wondered how Mamie could possibly be such a bad teacher. She was impatient almost to the point of being rude. At one point Helen looked at both she and Felicia and raised her eyebrows.

Mamie seemed nervous, glancing often at the clock. Several times Payton almost asked what was wrong. But Mamie was a naturally anxious person; this could be perfectly normal behavior.

Payton’s mind wandered as she worked on her painting of an herb garden. What had upset Sylvie to the point of making a scene? Could it have something to do with Sean’s death?

An hour later, Felicia and Amanda left carrying the new portfolios Mamie had provided. Payton snapped the art case shut and picked it up by the two narrow handles. “Is everything all right between you and Claire? You seem a bit out of sorts.”

“No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know. Claire’s been…strange since Sean’s death. So serious. And so—I don’t know—weird. Did you know she’s been out jogging?”

“What’s strange about that?”

“She always said it was a waste of time and wrecked your joints. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. And I don’t know what to do.”

Helen patted Mamie’s shoulder. “This whole thing’s hit her hard. I’ll go see her on my way home. I’ll tell her about my run-in with Sylvie. That should get her laughing again.”

“I’m glad to see you’re over it,” Payton said.

Helen shrugged. “Eventually I’ll find out what ticked her off. Till then, I’m not going to worry about it. There’re enough immediate things to keep my mind occupied.”

Mamie locked the door. Payton refused rides home and walked, downtown instead of home. Dusk had descended. A pale gray-yellow light outlined the opposite shore of the lake, near Long Point. Payton crossed the street and let herself into her shop. An uncomfortable feeling lurked at the back of her mind. As she sat behind the counter, the feeling took shape in the form of a headache, carving a relentless path through her brain. She dug through her purse for a bottle of pain pills. As the ache marched from the nape of her neck up between her ears, her thoughts grew jumbled. There was something she should be remembering.

Almost in a trance, she locked the door, leaving the ficus plants on the sidewalk. She gave them “you’d better be there in the morning” glances and started up Main Street. Statistics said that traditionally women used poison as a murder weapon, but could she picture any of her friends actually doing so? There was obviously some animosity between Felicia and Sean. Was it enough to compel her to murder?

And Helen. She admitted being one of Sean’s advocates, chalking his exploits up to youthful exuberance. Was his last deed with the empty store enough to finally make her realize what a low-down snake he was? What about Helen’s husband, Carter? On the surface, he seemed easygoing and agreeable. He’d stayed out of Sean and Helen’s business dealings, but could he be sick of Helen sticking up for Sean all the time?

Using the empty shop as a motive, wasn’t it possible Mamie killed him? She wanted the contract with Miles Arenheim more than anything in the world. Even though Payton offered her home, had Mamie been unable to let go of the emotion?

Amanda said if Edward found out what she’d paid for Commodore, he’d kill her. Would he be more likely to take his anger out on Sean? If Claire had a motive it totally escaped Payton. Claire was far too levelheaded to let Sean talk her into buying paintings she didn’t want. She was too logical to let what he did to Mamie rule her emotions. She was the type to go out and find Mamie another venue. It’s said anyone can murder given the right set of circumstances but Payton just couldn’t picture Claire as a murderess.

Who else? Sylvie? Payton didn’t know anything much about her except what she’d been told: she was in her early sixties, had been divorced for quite some time and owned Sackets Harbor Real Estate. And that lately Sylvie was acting out of character. Payton had seen signs of the opinionated behavior for herself. Suddenly she had the urge to talk to the woman. Thankfully, seven thirty wasn’t too late to make a social visit. She made tracks to Sylvie’s house.

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 under 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.