THIRTY-FIVE

In the living room, Payton turned on a table lamp and sat in a deep leather recliner in a beautiful shade of mahogany. A man’s chair, she knew because a matching one in cranberry corduroy sat nearby. Knowing it had been Sean’s chair disturbed Payton. She picked up the items and went to sit in the other chair. She opened the wallet first. Sean’s license with a pretty good picture of him. He would turn twenty-eight on September 12th. He had three credit cards, a photo of MaryAnn, $72, and a dog-eared social security card. She put the things back in the wallet and laid it aside.

Payton slid the metal box onto her lap. Where would Sean keep a key? She went to the kitchen. Lots of people kept keys on a rack near the door. Not so with Sean. Where would he keep a key he rarely used? In his dresser, most likely, but she’d cleaned out every drawer and the only key had been to an automobile Sean had sold back in ’97. MaryAnn had suffered a fit of giggles relating stories of the car’s undependability.

Payton sipped and thought, but nothing occurred to her. She tiptoed down the narrow hallway. MaryAnn had turned onto her side. Payton pulled the comforter around her shoulders and as she turned to leave, her eyes fastened on the bedside table, one on each side of the bed, each with a drawer at the top.

She opened the nearest one, but besides three packages of condoms and another box of tissues, it was empty. The other table yielded a jackpot, the tiny gold key on a length of household string. Payton managed to stifle a whoop of elation.

Back in the living room, in the corduroy chair, with the box in her lap, Payton slid the key into the tiny lock. She twisted it.

“Man, I guess I fell asleep,” said a voice in front of her.

Payton flew out of the chair, the box tumbling to the floor. “Oh jeez, you scared me.” She laughed. The box lay on its side, the tiny key glinting in the light of the 60-watt bulb. Payton picked up the box.

“What’re you doing?” MaryAnn asked.

“Trying to figure out what’s inside.” As Payton handed MaryAnn the box, she palmed the key. She wasn’t sure why, but it was too late to turn back now.

“There should be another key, wouldn’t you think?” She teetered in place for a moment. “I suppose it could be on his regular key chain.” She shook the box beside her head. “What do you suppose is in here?”

“It sounded like paper to me. If I had one I’d put my will, the deed to my house, birth certificate, insurance forms, anything I didn’t want lost or burned. If my house caught on fire I could just grab the box and run. Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” She rolled vague eyes in Payton’s direction. She flopped into the leather recliner. “For more than two years I’ve imagined some angry husband running Sean off the road. Or somebody shooting him, trying to rob the restaurant. And I wasn’t sad. You know?”

Payton got up. “Come on. It’s time for bed.”

MaryAnn allowed Payton to lead her to the second bedroom, still clutching the metal box. So this was MaryAnn’s room, all pink. The bed was neatly made; a collection of colorful stuffed animals obscured the surface. The only furniture was a dresser and a wood rocking chair. No pictures or paintings. No knickknacks. Just a few cheap cosmetics and a hairbrush on the dresser.

“The police stuck a Q-tip in my mouth,” MaryAnn mumbled.

Payton brushed the animals to the floor and pulled down the chenille spread.

“I’ve been sleeping in Sean’s room,” she said, which explained the mussed bed in the other room.

“Sit.”

MaryAnn obeyed, and Payton removed her shoes and socks. MaryAnn lay down, still gripping the box. Payton attempted to slip it away, but MaryAnn held tight. Payton tucked the covers around her friend and shut off the light.

“Leave the door open, please.”

Payton dropped the small key and Sean’s wallet in her jacket pocket and headed for home. What was in that box? Maybe she was being overly suspicious, but something told Payton the contents of that box were very important to someone in Sackets Harbor. Maybe important enough to kill for.

Sergeant Espinoza was sitting on Payton’s stoop when she arrived home at 2:10 a.m. She spotted him immediately even though she’d forgotten to leave the porch light on. She almost decided to go in through the garage entrance and leave him sitting there but took her time getting out of the car instead. He rose as she approached.

“Gee, if I’d known you’d wait up, Mom, I’d have called.”

Espinoza followed, wordless, into the house. She dropped her purse on the floor beside her desk, took off her jacket, and started to toss it across the back of the loveseat. Suddenly she remembered Sean’s wallet and key and hung the jacket in the closet.

“You know, Sergeant, you’re here so often my neighbors are going to think we’re having an affair. What do you want this time?”

“We discovered the identity of the poison that killed Mr. Adams and Mr. Simpson. Thanks to your research and kind plant donations, the toxicologist was able to match up the plant DNA with the residue found in the men’s systems.”

“Glad I could be of help. Couldn’t you have called to tell me this—in the morning?”

“Could have. But then I wouldn’t have seen the surprise on your face when you came home at the crack of dawn.”

“You didn’t tell me not to leave town. And it’s not the crack of dawn.”

“How is Ms. Adams by the way?”

Silent, she poured two cups of leftover coffee and popped them into the microwave. She pushed the creamer and sugar bowl to him when she was finished preparing her own. “MaryAnn is fine.”

He took a sip, and then another without putting the cup down. “The poison was from the monkshood plant. It didn’t come from medicine. And the chemists are fairly sure the serum didn’t come from a wild plant.”

“Wild?”

“Yes, the plant is in-indigenous to the area.”

“Gotta watch those big words, Sergeant,” she said, not able to let his verbal hesitation pass. “How can they tell it wasn’t a wild plant?”

He shrugged. “Different plant genetics or something.”

“So, you’ve convinced yourself the murder-plant came from my shop.”

“There’s only one other nursery in a thirty mile radius that sells them. Chances are it came from here. Now I need a more detailed list as to who bought them from you.”

“Couldn’t this have waited till morning?” she asked wearily.

“It is morning.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The trail grows colder by the minute.”

“And this should worry me why?”

“The thought of a murderer in your midst should worry you, Miss Winters. Once a person has killed, they often do it again.”

“So, have you finally eliminated me from the suspect list?”

“No.”

“Then you’d better watch how you phrase your comments, you said ‘he.’ And as far as a murderer in my midst, you know what? It bothered me at first but then I realized that, even though Sean Adams wasn’t a Jeffrey Dahmer, he was a thoroughly rotten human being, and—don’t look at me that way—I happen to think whoever killed him, did the town a favor. ”

“Can we get to it? I’d like to catch a few hours sleep before daybreak.”

It was obvious the sergeant wasn’t used to going without sleep. She suddenly felt a bit superior, happy that she was keeping him from the pursuit of physical comfort. She couldn’t help asking, “Does your wife wait up for you?”

“She used to, and be so anxious by the time I straggled in, she started taking sleeping pills whenever I’m on a case.” He withdrew the ubiquitous notebook from his breast pocket and then looked up, his dark eyes edged in the red of exhaustion. “Ms. Featherstone has a monkshood. Did she purchase it from you?”

Payton nodded.

“And Ms. March?”

Another nod.

“Miss Bastian?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else?”

“Helen Mortenson.” Payton ran a hand through her hair. “I think that’s all. The records are at the shop.”

“Which of the women would you think the most likely to—”

“Oh no! I’m not going to rat out one of my friends.”

“I’m just asking your opinion. I assume since you’re investigating things yourself—which, in a moment I’m going to warn you against—that you’ve formed an opinion.”

She held up her hand. “Stop now. One, I’m not going to share my thoughts. They’re my friends and my opinions are just that, opinions. Two, as for investigating on my own, I’m only asking the questions you probably already asked. And three—”

“What questions did you ask Ms. Adams?”

Payton’s slow smile seemed to disturb the sergeant, his lips tightened, but for only a second. “It’s none of your business, and you won’t believe me, but I went to her house to help her clean out Sean’s things. She’s my friend.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Childhoods, marriages, school. Girl talk.”

“Did she give any indication that she wanted her husband dead?”

“No. Sergeant, I’m sure she and most other people in town have already told you about MaryAnn and Sean’s relationship. I have nothing new to add. Now, I’d really appreciate it if you go so I can get to bed.”

“No insomnia tonight?”

“I don’t know yet.” Payton took her still full cup to the sink.

The sergeant got up too and pushed his chair under the table. “Heard from Mr. Green?”

“No.” She didn’t say she was really beginning to worry. “Was Frank Simpson’s death an accident?”

He gave a small nod.

“How was the poison administered?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Well, the newspaper said there was nothing toxic in their stomachs so they obviously didn’t eat it. I can only guess since they were the only two on the boat, it wasn’t injected, and since they were in open air, it wasn’t gas.” She stopped as an idea flickered inside her head. “Maybe it could have been gas. Maybe it was in the cabin below.” Then she shook her head. “No, can’t be. They were racing, there wouldn’t be any time, or need, for them to go below. So the poison had to be absorbed through the skin.”

A look of admiration appeared on Espinoza’s once-again fatherly countenance. “Someone made a paste and painted it on the ropes. The idea was obviously for it to come off on Sean’s hands when he raised the sails.”

“Was it on all the ropes?”

“Yes.” He’d begun walking to the front door but stopped and came back. “What are you thinking?”

“The person who did this wasn’t a sailor. The members of the yacht club would know exactly which lines Sean manned during a race. We never changed positions. You get proficient at one job and stay there. See what I mean?” Payton could almost hear him rubbing his mental hands together in anticipation as he flipped the notebook shut, locked it securely behind that small round button, and left her house. This was a man who wouldn’t get any sleep at all tonight. The thought made her grin.

Across the street, Aden’s house was black. Payton went to the closet and switched Sean’s wallet and key to the pocket of her winter coat hanging at the far left. She pulled the dry cleaners’ plastic down and smoothed the creases. She put on the jacket and went outdoors, walking confidently, in case any other insomniacs lived in her neighborhood, across the street and onto Aden’s front porch. Most people kept spare keys somewhere near the door. Aden didn’t seem like the type to do this, but he also hadn’t seemed like the sort to run away from a murder investigation.

Payton searched above the door and under the mat, anywhere she could think where someone might hide a key. She even checked the rocks in the garden, having seen artificial stones with crevices for such things. Nothing. She stood in the shadow of the maple at the street and eyed the house.

Where might he hide a key? She traipsed through the dewy grass around the house. Not over the door. Not under the mat. Not under either of the enormous geranium planters. Not under the stone to the right of the steps. But tucked into the slot in the fake left hand rock was Aden’s house key.

The door made the tiniest click as Payton slipped inside. The place smelled faintly of vanilla. The officers had left a mess. Not the sort of mess that occurred during a home invasion, but just a disruption of neatness. For example, the books on the shelves of the entertainment center were off kilter, the sofa pillows were lopsided. What she expected to find here that the cops hadn’t, she had no idea.

Standing in Aden’s bedroom, she suddenly felt very stupid. She had no reason to suspect Aden of anything, least of all murdering Sean Adams. Sean’s pestering her was her problem alone. Aden hadn’t cared enough to defend her honor. He didn’t care enough to stay around and make sure none of his friends were accused of murders they didn’t commit. Payton stomped a sneakered foot and stormed from the house. It wasn’t until she got back inside her front door that she realized she still had his house key in her hand. She peered at it lying innocently in the palm of her hand and then flung it against the wall.