Pick Your Poison

by Leann Sweeney

  “Then help me arrange for Ben to be moved north to Shade for burial as soon as the medical examiner releases his body.”

  “What?” he said.

  “I promised Ruth Grayson her husband could be buried back home, and I’m not sure how to start the ball rolling. Since you seem so all-fired anxious to be involved, maybe this assignment will satisfy your need.”

  Willis turned to Kate. “Can’t you talk some sense into your sister?”

  “I avoid telling Abby what to do,” Kate replied. “Makes it much easier to live with her that way.”

  “You think it’s easy living with someone who thinks tofu is actually edible?” I shot back.

  She just smiled.

  “Anyway,” I went on, getting back to Wills. “I promised Ben’s widow, so please make the arrangements. Bill me at double your hourly rate, if that makes you feel better.”

  “Hourly rate will suffice,” he replied tersely.

  Kate broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. “One problem solved. Now for the other issue. Selling this house. Helping us with the legalities might be more up your alley, Willis.”

  He flushed so deeply I feared his blood pressure might shoot off the charts. “The dirt hasn’t settled on Charlie’s grave and you’re selling his house?” He pushed away from the kitchen table, a jagged vein in his temple pulsing. He stomped over to the sink with his plate.

  “This isn’t about Daddy, Willis,” I said. “Kate’s moving in with Terry, and the idea of living alone in an airplane hangar disguised as a house does not appeal to me. I need a smaller place.”

  Willis turned and stared at me for a second, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sounding calmer, he said, “What does Caroline think about this idea?”

  “She doesn’t know yet,” I said.

  “Really?” Willis said. “I suggest you inform her before the For Sale sign goes up. And now I’d better leave before you two spring something else on me.”

  I walked him down the hall and across the foyer, surprised to see we had another visitor when I opened the door. Steven Bradley, my ex-husband, stood on the front porch, his finger ready to press the bell.

  “Hi there,” he said.

  New contact lenses, I noted. This time he’d chosen an intriguing sea green. I had to admit a little ocean in his eyes looked pretty darn good.

  “I’ll be running along,” Willis said uneasily, glancing back and forth between us as he slipped past to the walkway.

  Steven stepped inside. “I see my favorite girl has gotten her name into the newspaper—nice picture, by the way. So tell me, what’s been going on here, babe?”

  “I am neither your babe nor your girl, a difference of opinion that probably explains why we’re divorced.”

  He grinned wider. “I knew that. Sorry. How’s about you tell me the straight story? Because I’m not sure I can believe what I read in the Chronicle.”

  “If you promise not to address me with any word synonymous with child,” I said.

  He held up a hand. “Promise.”

  We walked into the game room, his favorite spot when we lived here together—maybe because he’d purchased the big-screen TV, the DVD, stereo, and home-theater equipment himself. Steven sat down on the butter-colored leather sectional and stretched out his legs.

  I sat next to him and started at the beginning, when I first discovered Ben in the greenhouse. By the time I finished, Steven was shaking his head in disbelief.

  “And you’re doing a funeral for this Ruth person? Then what, Mother Teresa?”

  “Save the sarcasm, Steven.”

  “If I know you, Abby—and I do believe I’m familiar with every square inch of skin and strand of hair—you’re more than a little interested in why Ben got himself killed. Does your curiosity have anything to do with this charity project?”

  “I would have helped Ruth Grayson no matter what. After finding Ben like that, I feel so . . . so . . . responsible.”

  “Responsible? Some nutcase kills a guy and you feel responsible? I don’t get it.”

  “I never took the time to get to know Ben, to really talk to him—and I should have.”

  Steven reached over and took my hand. “You’ve had a rough few months since losing Charlie. Cut yourself some slack.”

  “But why do I feel so guilty?”

  “You got me.” He slid over and fingered a wisp of hair near my temple. “I like your hair short, by the way. Like the color, too. Red suits you.”

  I could smell his soap, the hint of an unfamiliar cologne, and I was tempted. But I refused to give in, even though lust was powerful enough to transcend insight and obliterate a long list of unpleasant memories, at least temporarily.

  I pushed his shoulder. “Stop it. And move back over there where you came from.”

  He laughed. “Sure. Whatever you say.” He migrated about six inches away and intertwined his fingers behind his head. “Now tell me how you plan to solve Ben’s murder, ’cause I know you’ve been thinking about exactly that.”

  “I’m not planning to solve anything. I might check a few facts concerning the old murder case, though.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “Talk to people, maybe dig up old newspaper articles, search Ben’s room.”

  “All the things police do, right?”

  “Well, yes, but maybe they’ve overlooked something.”

  “And where will all this snooping around lead you?”

  “I have no idea, but Ben came here for a reason. I want to know why.”

  “Even a horse with blinders on can see what’s up ahead, Abby. This could get you in big trouble.”

  I drew up my legs and hugged them to my chest. “That idiot cop already thinks Kate or I had something to do with Ben’s death, so what have I got to lose?”

  He grinned and nodded. “I like that.”

  “What do you like?”

  “The fact that someone else besides me has gotten under your skin.”

  “Not funny, Steven. Let me remind you that no one, and I mean no one, ever pissed me off more than you did with all your drunken craziness.”

  “Hey. We’re supposed to put the past behind us—at least that’s what you told me the last time we talked. I haven’t had a drink in one hundred and forty days, so I’m doing my part.”

  “That’s what you keep saying.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Sorry. Guess you have been trying,” I muttered. But why in hell should I be sorry about anything? He was the one who owed the apologies.

  I decided to retreat from this precarious ground by changing the subject. “By the way, Kate and I have decided to sell the house. She’s moving in with Terry, and I’m not sure I want to live here alone.”

  “Don’t, then,” he said quickly. “Let me move back in.”

  “No way. We failed miserably and completely as a couple, and I like to think I learn from my mistakes.”

  “One of these days I’ll convince you I’m a changed man and you’ll reconsider.”

  What he didn’t know was that I had reconsidered, and then reconsidered the reconsideration. Despite all our fights, despite the long nights when he left here and I didn’t know where he was, despite words that hung like a venomous cloud long after they were spoken, I still wanted Steven. But wanting someone and loving someone are very different.

  “Listen,” I said, hoping to ease the tension between us. “I need some work done on the house in Galveston before we get any further into the hurricane season.”

  “No kidding. I helped your daddy cart some boxes over there a few months before he died and told him as much.”

  “Daddy actually let you help him with something?”

  “You know something, Abby? He and I got along a whole lot better after you and I divorced. Guess he figured he had you back where he wanted you.”

  “Point to Steven,” I replied, trying to sound like his jab didn’t bother me. “Do you have any big jobs pend
ing?”

  “I’m building one house, got appointments to talk with a few people about contracts. Nothing too time-consuming.”

  “So you could look the place over, see what needs fixing?”

  “I don’t know. I might brush up against you, or touch your hair, or smile at you too much if we work together. Get you all pissed off.”

  “Quit it, Steven. We can be friends.”

  “Sure. Friends,” he said, unsmiling.

  After I gave him a key to the Galveston property, he left, still moping, and as I went upstairs to wash the Shade dust from my hair, I told myself I’d made a mistake asking him for help. But like Daddy used to say, it’s always easier to borrow trouble than give it away.

  6

  The next morning Kate and I decided to take Willis’s advice and inform Aunt Caroline about our plans to sell the house. She arrived an hour after we called her, and the three of us gathered in the formal living room—or the “parlor,” as Aunt Caroline liked to call it. Filled with antique end tables, a brocade love seat, tapestry chairs, and a grand piano, the room seemed old-fashioned and pretentious to me, and I hardly ever spent time there. Knowing this conversation would be difficult didn’t make me feel any more comfortable.

  Aunt Caroline’s white hair framed her small, pointy face, and I wondered if she’d fit in another face-lift since I last saw her. Pretty soon she was going to run out of skin to tuck behind her ears.

  Kate broke the news about our decision, and Aunt Caroline’s reaction was swift and strong.

  “You have to be joking,” she said. “This is outrageous.”

  “Now that Daddy’s gone, we have to get on with our lives,” I said. “Kate has plans, and so do I.”

  “Your father would consider this a betrayal. He came to this city dirt-poor, with nothing but the clothes on his back. When he finally earned enough to build in River Oaks, he felt like he’d accomplished something important.”

  “I’m sorry you disagree with us,” I said. “But this house is too big for me to handle alone, and Kate—”

  “I could move in with you, then.” She followed this ghastly suggestion with a sigh. “From a business standpoint, selling my house makes far more sense. After that horrible incident in your greenhouse, the property value has probably hit rock bottom.”

  I glanced at Kate from the corner of my eye. The thought of Aunt Caroline living with me . . . Well, let’s say I felt a need to pray to the porcelain god.

  “Abby and I are selling,” Kate said firmly. “But Daddy left us so many paintings, antiques, and other artwork, maybe you could take a few things for yourself before we start packing up.”

  I nodded my agreement, liking this bribery idea. “I don’t know where I’ll be living, but I certainly won’t have room for all this furniture.”

  Her expression reminded me of the Wicked Witch meeting up with those flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. I half expected her to rub her hands together with glee. “How generous and thoughtful of you both. A number of objets d’art your father acquired in Europe mean a great deal to me.” She smoothed a few wrinkles on her turquoise silk slacks.

  I’d be willing to bet every single item she wanted to cart away from here carried a four-digit price tag. Money was all she cared about. I could move to Russia and it would be fine by her as long as I left the house, the business, and the bank account here.

  “I’m glad we settled this so amicably,” said Aunt Caroline, now nauseatingly chipper. “Now, tell me about this dreadful man who got himself murdered. Was he a drug dealer? Is that why he was killed?”

  “Ben was no drug dealer,” I answered. “And refresh my memory on the current ‘dreadful’ criteria, Aunt Caroline?”

  “No need to get testy, Abigail. I like to be informed, that’s all. I mean, what if this killer had poisoned you, too?”

  “Who would want me dead?” Besides you? I wanted to add.

  Kate said, “Don’t you think Aunt Caroline has a point?”

  Great. Two against one. “Not since I’m very much alive and Ben’s not. Did Daddy ever mention Ben to you, Aunt Caroline? Like why he hired him, for instance?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Your father took care of his household business and I took care of mine. Seems he made a serious mistake about that particular gardener, though.”

  “Why?” I was sure she knew something about Ben, something she wasn’t saying.

  “Because the man went and got himself killed, that’s why,” she replied. “Can we change the subject, please?”

  “What do you know, Aunt Caroline?” I persisted.

  “Abby,” Kate said, “what’s wrong with you? I’m beginning to think you’re the one who knows something.”

  “I discovered Ben came here looking for his wife’s murderer. Came to our house,” I said. “I was hoping Aunt Caroline might shed some light on that. Did Daddy tell you anything about Ben?”

  “You think Charlie willingly shared information with me? Do you ever remember that happening, Abigail?”

  Kate said, “Are you saying Ben came here for some reason other than a job?”

  “I’m not sure, but I plan to find out,” I answered. I went on to explain Ben’s mission to find his wife’s killer, then said, “I’m taking a trip down to the old Victorian in Galveston to check Daddy’s files. Maybe he left some clue behind concerning his relationship with Ben.”

  “Good luck sorting through that mess,” Aunt Caroline said. “I’m surprised the second story of that house hasn’t collapsed from the pure weight of all the junk Charlie saved.”

  “I haven’t been there in years,” I said. “Time I went, wouldn’t you say?”

  After Aunt Caroline left, Kate and I headed for Galveston together. The island city of brick and stone, southeast down the interstate, stands in steadfast opposition to the smoked-glass glitz of Houston. As we sped over the causeway that spans the strip of sea separating Galveston from the rest of Texas, I rolled down the window to enjoy the ocean breeze.

  Webster, who had been sitting at Kate’s feet with his nose fixed reverently on the Camry’s air-conditioning vent, stood up when the fresh air filled the car. His nose twitched and then he curled back down. Sniffing probably expended too much energy.

  “Didn’t Steven move his business down this way?” Kate asked.

  “Yes, and he’s agreed to assess the Victorian. See what needs repairing. I remember Daddy saying something about foundation and roof problems.”

  “Uh, Abby, was that a smart move? I mean, I know you say you’re friends now, but—”

  “If Steven stays sober, he’ll do a great job. Despite his other flaws, his ability with a hammer and saw is unarguable,” I said.

  “Like his skill with other tools?”

  I blushed. “He’s always been handy. I won’t deny that.”

  “Jokes aside, be careful,” said Kate. “He’s already hurt you plenty.”

  We turned onto P Street and stopped in front of the once-vibrant-blue Victorian, Charlie Rose’s first real estate purchase decades ago. The siding was buckling and peeling, the house shamefully defaced by the constant assault from the gulf mists. Even the ginger-bread trim had turned gray with mildew.

  I parked on the street, slid from behind the wheel, and started for the front door, turning back when Kate didn’t follow.

  It seemed she couldn’t convince Webster to join us. He sat at the end of the walkway like a statue. Usually he’d follow Kate to the ends of the earth, but the ends of the earth apparently didn’t include this particular house.

  “Come on,” she begged, tugging on his collar.

  Webster didn’t budge, so she attached his leash and dragged him down the walkway and up the broken steps.

  “I’ve never known him to be this stubborn,” she said.

  We walked up to the door and Kate’s fingers flew to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh! Look.”

  A broken padlock dangled off the latch.

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

/>   Kate took a step backward. “Whoever broke the lock might still be in there.”

  Webster lurched, freeing himself. He hightailed it off the porch, galloped to the car as fast as a hoop snake, and started clawing the car door. I was more convinced than ever that he had Cowardly Lion in his pedigree.

  “Stop that animal from ruining my paint job, Kate.”

  She hurried after Webster, saying, “I’m calling nine-one-one,” over her shoulder.

  “Don’t overreact. Let me check the place out first.”

  “You shouldn’t do that,” she yelled, cell phone in one hand, Webster’s leash in the other.

  I’ve always considered shouldn’t a fighting word, so I pushed open the door and stuck my head inside. The rooms on either side of the foyer were as dark as the bottom of a well, probably because the windows had wooden shades that completely obliterated all daylight. Kept the place cool in the summer heat.

  Once I propped open the front door with my purse, I had enough light to see the stairs directly in front of me. I tried the foyer light switch, knowing we kept the electricity turned on, but nothing happened. Might not even be a bulb in the socket.

  I stepped all the way in and edged my way along the wall until I could feel the molding of a door frame. I inched farther down to the window, hunting with my fingers for the centerpiece that controlled the slats until I found it.

  Daylight brightened the front living room, sending huge roaches scurrying in every direction. I shivered with disgust, thinking I should have anticipated their presence and brought a shotgun—I’m pretty good with a gun. Daddy raised real Texans, not Southern belles, thank you very much.

  This room led to the dining area, and to the right of the dining room was the kitchen. Straight past the stairs would get me to the kitchen as well, and there were four bedrooms and a couple bathrooms upstairs.

  “Abby?” Kate whispered from the foyer.

  “To your left.”

  Kate’s silhouette was framed in the light of the door and she held Webster by the scruff, an umbrella poised in her other hand. “My phone wouldn’t respond when I dialed nine-one-one, so a lady three doors down called the police.”