THIRTY-FOUR

Payton sat at her kitchen counter, perched on a stool. She gave a bored glance at the folded copy of the Watertown News and pulled it toward her. For the past two days, the story about Sean and Franks’ deaths had been relegated to the fourth page, but today it was once again splashed across the front—“Poisonous Plant Used in Sackets Harbor Deaths.” The article was short and didn’t state the specific plant that had been used. Either the police weren’t releasing the information or they didn’t know. Yet. She recalled the research saying many plants couldn’t be detected after death.

The phone rang and Payton went to retrieve the cordless handset from the dining table. “Hello.”

“Hello, dear.”

“Hi, Helen.”

“Did you hear the news about Claire? She was just here asking for a lease to reopen Sean’s café.”

“I heard. What’s wrong with that?”

“She doesn’t have any restaurant experience. She admitted it to me just now. What’s going on with her? With her job at the library she wouldn’t have time to run a restaurant anyway.”

“Something’s definitely going on.”

“Would you try and talk to Claire tomorrow? You know, talk her out of this ridiculousness.”

Payton wasn’t sure ridiculousness was a word. “What have the cops been up to? I haven’t seen them around lately.”

“I heard they’re back questioning Amanda and her husband.”

“Really?” Amanda had bought a few plants. Payton couldn’t recall exactly which—except one had been monkshood.

“Dear, are you still there?”

“Yes. Sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked if you had any idea why authorities would want to talk to them again.”

“No. Unless they found something on those videos.”

“Did you see anything when you watched them?”

“No. And it was awful watching myself almost drown.”

“All right, dear. Take care. Let me know if you find out anything.”

Payton pushed the OFF button and ran a hand through her hair. The burnished strands filtered between her fingers like water over a dam, glimmering in the overhead kitchen light. So the police were questioning the Marches. She tapped the ON button and dialed MaryAnn’s number.

“Hi, it’s Payton. I wondered if you wanted some company.”

“You must have ESP. I was just thinking of calling you.”

Payton found a pencil and scribbled directions to MaryAnn’s house. “See you in a bit.”

The house was a respectable ranch in a middle-class neighborhood. The houses were close together, even more so than in Payton’s neighborhood but all were well kept, with newish cars in the yards. The porch light was on and before Payton reached the top step, MaryAnn opened the door. She wore jeans, a baggy pink t-shirt and a welcoming smile.

“I’m really glad you called. I was feeling a little down.”

“I brought refreshments.” She brandished a bottle of merlot and followed MaryAnn into a well-furnished home. It was clean and smelled of furniture polish.

MaryAnn handed her a corkscrew and opened cabinet doors. “I know there are wine glasses here somewhere.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Payton said, twisting the opener into the cork.

MaryAnn finally gave up and took two tumblers from the dish drainer.

“Did you make the cake?” Payton pointed to a plastic wrapped plate on the counter.

“No. And I have no idea where it came from. Someone at the restaurant must’ve made it for Sean.”

“Why didn’t you eat it?”

“I’m deathly allergic to chocolate. You can have it if you want.”

Payton picked up the plate and peered at it closely. Two layers, moist, creamy looking frosting. Suddenly she wished she could bake, to turn out something this luscious looking. She pulled back the plastic wrap, dipped her finger in the frosting and put it in her mouth. “Oooh, this is fabulous.”

“Eat it. I’m just going to end up throwing it away. Hold on, I’ll get you a fork.”

Payton pulled the plastic down and put the plate on the counter. “Maybe later. I want some of that wine first. I want it so badly I’m not even letting the bottle breathe first.” She poured both glasses full. Fruity and smooth, it flowed like mercury from a thermometer.

Claire’s words about the world’s best chocolate cake echoed inside her. Maybe this had been what she’d been referring to. Payton dearly wanted to eat that cake but felt a little awkward with MaryAnn not having something herself.

They carried the glasses down the hall. MaryAnn stopped at the master bedroom. “This was Sean’s room.”

The room was definitely a man’s domain. The bedding, crumpled in the middle of the king-sized bed was red and green plaid. The walls were painted white; a sportsman’s border had been applied near the ceiling. Two dressers, one with a mirror and one tallboy were good quality. A photo of Sean and MaryAnn on their wedding day sat atop the tall dresser. She’d worn a simple blue pantsuit and held a bunch of miniature white roses. Her face was innocent and unmarked. Payton picked it up. “When were you married?”

“April fifth. It was seven years ago. I was sixteen.”

A million questions swirled inside Payton’s head, but she didn’t ask them. The time wasn’t right. A framed photograph over the bed caught her eye. It was of a seaside cottage, its weather-beaten shingles gray, the roof spotted with white bird droppings. Water pounded the marsh grass strewn shore where a small boy, obviously Sean, in a red bathing suit splashed in the gray/green surf.

MaryAnn climbed on the bed and took down the photo. “Sean’s parents used to rent a cottage on Cape Cod.” She gazed at it tenderly for a moment and then hung it back on the wall.

MaryAnn had been cleaning out Sean’s things. In one corner squatted a large box. It was half full of folded clothing, probably destined for the thrift shop. Payton pictured MaryAnn running her hands over each item, recalling when they’d bought it, or what memories each evoked. She’d have tears coursing down her cheeks. Payton knew exactly how it felt.

“If this is too much for you, I can do it. You can work in another room.”

“I’m okay. If you could do the dresser and his personal things, that would help the most.” MaryAnn hauled a cardboard box out of the closet. “I’ll go through this one. I’m thinking we put the stuff in three cartons; that one for the thrift shop, this one is for Sean’s aunt in Amarillo and the one near the doorway for the trash man.”

“Does Sean have any other relatives?”

“Only Elaine. She’s his mother’s older sister.”

“Why didn’t she come to the memorial service?”

“She’s an invalid.”

Payton opened the bottom drawer. “I assume you want the jewelry and knickknacks in her box?”

“Right.” MaryAnn’s voice sounded muffled. Payton turned to see her nearly upside down in a large cardboard container.

Payton set to work pulling the contents out of the drawer. It was mostly sweatpants and shirts, all in good condition and smelling like Polo cologne. She dropped them into the thrift shop box. “He sure had a lot of sweat clothes.”

“He jogged most every day and I’m not very good at doing laundry.”

They worked in silence for a long time, Payton slogging her way through Sean’s summer clothes and dress shirts and MaryAnn starting on one she dragged from the depths of the walk-in closet.

It gave Payton a creepy feeling to be sorting through Sean’s things, a man she not only disliked, but one whose bloated face kept appearing before her. The next drawer held his underwear. Without noticing anything other than they were mostly all new, she picked them up in two handfuls and flung them in the trash.

She hadn’t had to do this with Cameron’s things. In a heavy funk, she’d moved from the penthouse to a hotel. Months later, when she finally emerged from her walking coma, the penthouse had been cleared, furniture placed in storage and the apartment put on the market.

MaryAnn held a worn leather jacket. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “He wore this on our first date.”

When MaryAnn dissolved into great heaving sobs, Payton wrested the garment from her fingers and heaved it in the trash. As it left her fingers, something solid in the pocket made her retrieve it and dig deep. She came out with a beautiful silver money clip. MaryAnn was still sobbing, so rather than ask about it, she laid it on the dresser in front of their wedding picture.

She sat beside MaryAnn on the floor and wrapped her in a hug. Payton rocked her gently. The digital clock beside the bed clicked around to 9:10. Payton had to blink to bring the numbers into focus and realized she too was crying. Not for the death of an inconsiderate man. Not for the loss of a human being, but for the town who’d felt its reverberations to its very soul.

After a while, MaryAnn sniffled, disentangled herself and plucked two tissues from the box on the bedside table. Payton went to refill their glasses. She put the almost empty bottle on the counter and picked up the plate of chocolate cake. Payton pulled up the edge of the plastic and scooped two fingers-full of the delicious frosting. She opened a drawer and fumbled out a fork.

“Payton,” MaryAnn called, “come see what I found.”

MaryAnn still sat in the middle of the room, but instead of crumpled tissues, she now held a gray metal box. “Any idea what this is? It was in with the things the cops returned.”

Payton swished her tongue around her teeth, savoring the chocolate taste and really wanting to run back to the kitchen. She pushed aside a pair of brass bookends and put the glasses on the dresser. “It looks like one of those fireproof boxes. You said the police already saw this? Where’s the key?”

“I think I remember them asking for one, but I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Did they find one?”

“I guess so. Or else they would have broken into it, right?”

“Possibly.”

MaryAnn retrieved her glass and took a long drink, then smacked her lips. “Good.” She giggled. “When I was a kid, we had wine with every meal.”

Payton set the box atop the mess on the dresser. She picked up her drink and sat on the bed. “Where are you from?”

“San Luis Potosi, a small city near Mexico City.”

“You don’t look Mexican.”

“My mother was Mexican. My father was a salesman for a chemical company.”

Payton giggled. “What nationality is that?”

MaryAnn held her laugh in with her free hand. “I think he was French. My mother met him when he was there on one of his trips. For twelve years, he came twice a year. I was born in the sixth year.” She grinned. “I have three brothers. One older, two younger. And who knows, by now there might be six or seven more.”

“Why did you leave Mexico?”

MaryAnn took a long fortifying drink. Her eyes had begun to look a bit glassy. “Papa was like a god to me. I wanted to go live with him. To be able to live in América! It was a dream. So when I turned sixteen, I sneaked across the border and hitchhiked north. In New York I got a bus to Watertown where he lived. I walked from the bus station to his house in the rain. I must have looked like a drowned rat when I knocked on his door. La señora opened it. She was muy hermosa, very pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes. I’d never seen los ojos like hers.” MaryAnn kept lapsing into her native tongue. She leaned back against the closet door and closed her eyes. “I asked her for mi padre and she stared at me like I was crazy.”

“Was he there?” Payton asked.

“Ha! No, the woman was his Américana wife. There were toys and bikes all over the yard.” MaryAnn gave a snort. “We didn’t have any bikes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“You don’t have an accent.”

“Sean helped me get rid of it.”

“How did you end up in Sackets Harbor?”

“I ran from that woman, and into the street. Sean almost hit me with his car.” She shrugged and said, “The rest is l’historia,” with a finality that told Payton it really wasn’t. MaryAnn wiped her eyes and got up. “I need some more of this stuff.”

Payton followed her to the kitchen where she splashed the rest of the wine into Payton’s glass. Then she fished under a cabinet and came out with a large bottle of Seagram’s. MaryAnn smiled and giggled. “It’s not like what you brought, but it’ll work.”

She poured her glass three quarters full of the amber liquid. They went back to the bedroom and sat on the bed. Payton leaned against the headboard sipping her wine. She giggled, spotting an ugly painting of a man in uniform on the far wall. “Where have I seen him before?”

MaryAnn looked up and snickered too. “Amanda has one in the marina.”

Payton got up to look more closely at it. She trailed her fingertips across the rough-napped paint. The signature in the lower right hand corner said Henry Woodward. Payton didn’t know much about art, but it looked genuine. “Do you know anything about this?”

“Sean had it hanging over the fireplace until last year. Then he moved it in here. I was really glad. It’s awful.”

“Do you mind if I ask why you stayed with him so long?”

MaryAnn sighed and looked into her glass. “Sería largo de contar.” She sighed again and closed her eyes. After a minute, she said, “He was really a sad little boy inside. He did a lot for me. I owed him.” MaryAnn opened her. “Sean married me so I wouldn’t be deported. I am illegal.”

For a fleeting moment, Sean Adams climbed in Payton’s esteem. He’d done something nice by offering to marry MaryAnn. There didn’t seem to have been anything in it for him. Nothing except the companionship of a hardworking woman. Theirs hadn’t been a conventional marriage. The relationship hadn’t turned into one of love and respect as some did under these circumstances. Sean had to have been disappointed in their union. MaryAnn admitted to being a poor housekeeper and cook, both things a perfectionist like Sean would demand. This must have frustrated him, and in response he’d abused her both physically and mentally. Suddenly Payton understood why MaryAnn was so accepting of his affairs, and that spark of respect she’d felt for him took a nosedive. He’d probably told her “that’s what Americans do.” Her biological father was a perfect example.

Was it possible she’d had enough and decided to kill him? What were the deportation laws in these situations?

Payton put down her glass and went back to work. There was only one drawer left, and it slid open without a sound: ties, hankies, watchcases, coins and a confusion of other things. Payton dropped the ties into the thrift shop box. She plucked up the pile of both white and colored handkerchiefs and was about to toss it too, but felt something solid. Buried between the layers was Sean’s wallet. She rolled it over a few times: average-quality leather in a deep brown color, tri-fold style, worn at the edges.

Payton turned intending to show it to MaryAnn. The girl’s head lolled to one side and she snored lightly. The glass tipped in her hand and some of the liquid sloshed on her jeans. Payton took the glass and set it on the bedside table. Then she opened the wallet. License, credit cards…all current. What man leaves his home without his identification?

She picked up the metal box and Sean’s wallet and turned off the bedroom light.