Pick Your Poison

by Leann Sweeney

  “Between your umbrella and your dog, I’m sure we’re as safe as squirrels up a tree until they get here.”

  “Very funny.”

  Then we both heard it.

  A shuffle or a scrape. Coming from upstairs.

  Kate gasped, her umbrella weapon clattering to the floor. She zipped to my side, dragging Webster with her. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, digging her fingers into my arm.

  Webster started pedaling, his nails clicking on the wood floor.

  “Calm down or you’ll give the poor dog a heart attack. This is our house, and I’m finding out this minute what’s going on. Who knows? Maybe there’s a bird trapped upstairs—or even a possum.” I sounded brave enough. But was I trying to convince Kate—or myself?

  “Okay,” she said. “But help me put Webster in the kitchen first. He’ll never go up those stairs.”

  She was right. “Come on, you poor excuse for a dog,” I said, pushing him from the rear.

  Kate stuck with his front end, but when we reached the kitchen door, footsteps—running, pounding steps—echoed through what I thought had been a vacant house.

  Someone was coming down the stairs.

  Neither of us had time to move before we saw a gray blur race through the foyer and out the open front door.

  Kate started screaming, “Oh, my God!” over and over, which sent Webster flying through the kitchen entry beyond us.

  I almost went after whoever ran off, buoyed by the idea that the intruder felt compelled to escape. I’ve always preferred my criminal types on the spineless end of the bell curve. But I didn’t think that would be too smart, so I said, “Pull yourself together, Kate. We’ll corral Webster and wait in my car for the police.”

  I turned my attention to the kitchen, where sun persisted through the grime of curtainless windows, striping the room with dust-filled rays of light.

  What I saw didn’t register at first, considering I expected to see Webster cowering in the corner rather than where he was—sitting in the center of the room . . . next to the man lying in a pool of blood.

  7

  I hurried over and knelt next to the man, pressing my fingers to his throat to take yet another pulse in less than a week.

  Kate flipped on the light and opened the blinds. That was when I realized whose pulse I was taking.

  “You’d better not be dead,” I said under my breath. “We’ve got too much unfinished business, buster.”

  But Steven’s pulse was strong—racing, in fact. Blood still oozed from a gash at the base of his skull, and with nothing better available, I pressed the hem of my T-shirt against the wound.

  “Is he . . . you know?” Kate stood above us, her mouth white-ringed with fear.

  Steven answered the question himself by moaning and turning his head in my direction. “Abby? Is that you?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  His eyes opened wider and then his hand flew to the back of his head.

  “Don’t move,” I said sharply.

  But did he listen? Of course not. He sat bolt upright, like Dracula popping up from his casket.

  “What in hell happened?” He surveyed the room, obviously disoriented.

  Meanwhile, Webster plopped down in the corner.

  Steven gingerly removed his pale yellow Polo and held the wadded shirt against the gash.

  A siren whined from several blocks away. Our siren, I hoped.

  “We called the police. I’m sure they’ll call you an ambulance,” I said.

  “I don’t need any ambulance. If I ever get my hands on the bastard who hit me, he’ll be one sorry-ass cowboy.” Steven slowly rose, but once upright, wavered on wobbly legs.

  I supported him by cupping his elbow. “Why don’t you humor me and sit still a minute longer?”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, okay?” He flushed with anger.

  “Back to your old self in record time, I see. Fine. But the next time you need help, count me out.”

  “She’s just glad you’re okay, Steven,” Kate said. “She gets a teensy bit irritable when she’s scared.”

  “You don’t need to explain my behavior to him, Kate. He’s an ungrateful slob, which, of course, is not a news flash.”

  “Me, ungrateful? I don’t recall ever hearing you say kiss my foot, much less thank-you,” he shot back. “I came here to help you, babe, if I remember right.”

  “Don’t call me babe!”

  When the police arrived a few minutes later, we were still arguing. From her expression, Kate was even more thankful than I was for the interruption.

  They examined both doors, checked the windows, and started filling out reports. Policeman One convinced Steven that an emergency room visit might be a good idea, but agreed an ambulance wasn’t necessary. Then Policeman Two added his two cents, saying he’d have to be dead or unconscious to ride in an ambulance, since every paramedic he knew drove like a New York cabbie. “Besides,” he added, “everyone bleeds. Doesn’t mean you’re dying.”

  They all laughed.

  I had to interrupt this conversation before I became seriously nauseated. “Could we delay this meeting of Extra Y Chromosomes Anonymous? A crime was committed here.”

  Cop One said, “You talking about the broken lock or the assault?”

  “Both,” I said.

  “I guess you saw that the back lock was broken, too,” Steven said.

  Policeman Two nodded. “I noticed. We’ve had a problem with homeless folks in the area wanting out of the sun. Might have been one of them.” He looked at me. “You didn’t secure the place very well, if you don’t mind me saying. Padlocks aren’t much use. Now, if you kept that dog around, he might work. Dogs are the best theft deterrent going.”

  “Thanks so much for providing my law-enforcement lesson of the day,” I said.

  Cop Two smiled. “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to upset you. Our homeless in Galveston are pretty harmless for the most part, but if Mr. Bradley here caught one off guard, the guy might have freaked out.”

  “Whoever was responsible, I’d appreciate a thorough investigation,” I said. “A man was murdered on my property this week, and this incident could be connected.”

  “Murdered? Here?” said Cop One, finally showing interest.

  “No. In Houston.”

  He scratched his head. “Who killed him?”

  “They haven’t found out yet,” said Kate.

  “But you’re not involved, right?” said Cop Two, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Of course she’s not!” piped in Kate.

  “Can’t we focus on this crime?” I said. “What about fingerprints? And interviewing the neighbors?”

  “We’ll do that, ma’am. But I hope you don’t mind if we communicate with the boys at HPD while we’re at it,” said Cop One.

  “Why? Because you think I’m a serial killer who flubbed the job on old Steven here?” I thumbed at my ex, then gave a disgusted wave of my hand. “Call whoever you have to.”

  I folded my arms and slumped against the nearest wall. When was the last time I’d been in such a foul mood? Probably when Steven and I were together. Most times I felt like the tail was wagging the dog back then, too.

  When I realized Steven’s truck had been parked out back by the garage all along, I felt like an idiot. If I’d bothered to go around to the back door, I would have seen the pickup and been better prepared for what Kate and I found inside.

  Kate chauffeured Steven to the hospital in my car, despite his protests that he wanted to drive himself. The two of us had gone a round on that, but the wisdom of his newfound buddies on the police force prevailed, and he begrudgingly allowed Kate the honor. Meanwhile, I took the dog for a potty break.

  While Webster took his time finding the perfect spot in the backyard, the forensic crew arrived. When I came back inside, I was relegated to the front room until they finished their job. Cop One had me sign the police report and told me he would let me know if they found the intruder.
He and his partner left, and when the forensic crew came downstairs, one of them cheerfully informed me that the culprit had left “a hell of a mess upstairs.”

  And what, I wondered, was so darn delightful about that?

  Webster, now Mr. Cooperative, had no problem following me, and as I went upstairs, I asked myself how much havoc could one little old vandal wreak in an empty house?

  But within seconds I answered my own question.

  “Plenty,” I said aloud from my vantage point in the doorway of the bedroom. “Plenty indeed.”

  I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the bedroom, papers scattered in every direction, when Kate and Steven returned from the hospital.

  “Whoa, Abby! What happened here?” Kate said, handing me a sack from the local sub shop.

  Steven followed her into the room, offering a jumbo iced tea, which I accepted gratefully.

  “Welcome to Daddy’s stockpile,” I said. “I remember him saying, ‘Why rent a warehouse when this place will serve the same purpose,’ but I never realized his pack-rat mentality went as far as paper wads. Whoever was up here dumped all four of Daddy’s filing cabinets.”

  “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” said Steven.

  I had nursed him through enough hangovers to recognize the strain in his tone. The man had a giant headache. “How’s your head?” I asked.

  “Five stitches, and my plot at the cemetery is still empty,” he replied. “What’s in all these files?”

  “Documents from back when Daddy first started CompuCan. Certainly old tax files. I’ve seen plenty of those already. I’ve also run across Kate’s and my report cards, twenty pounds of newspaper clippings, a dozen recipes for salsa, and napkins from every restaurant this side of the Mississippi.”

  “Why would anyone save this stuff?” He pushed sheets of paper around with his booted toe.

  “Because Daddy saved everything,” Kate and I said in unison.

  “Either the guy who broke in wanted something real bad or he was plain ornery,” Steven said.

  “If there’s a reason other than vandalism for this mess, I’d sure like to know,” I said. “And I’m still wondering if this has something to do with Ben’s murder.”

  “I’m more interested in who clubbed me. No one’s gonna blindside me and get away with it.” He rubbed his head near his recent reminder of the day’s events.

  “How did this person get the jump on you, by the way?” asked Kate.

  “I came by to inspect the place, see what needed doing.”

  “Did you see this person? See anything?” I asked.

  “Actually, my new contacts were bugging me, so I’d taken them out.”

  “Ah. So you were literally blindsided,” I said.

  “Why do you think I let Kate drive me to the hospital?” he said. “I sure as hell couldn’t navigate with that skull crusher of a headache and my contacts out.”

  “If you knew you couldn’t drive, why the hissy fit when I suggested Kate take you?” This I had to hear.

  “Abby, there’s a hell of a difference between you telling me anything and regular people telling me.”

  “Is that supposed to make sense?” I asked.

  “Does to me,” he answered.

  “I forgot. You’re different. Kate, would you help me make order out of this chaos?” I sat on the floor and gathered papers toward me, trying to ignore my anger. Just like the old days, I shoved my feelings down, and this led within minutes to a slow burn in my midsection. If only my familiarity with that sensation could have bred enough contempt for me to tell Steven to get lost—permanently.

  Kate and I began our chore, while Steven, unable to remain still despite the head injury, stuck around and busied himself with his measuring tape, preparing for the job ahead.

  An hour later, Kate and I had hardly made a wave in the paper ocean. I reached into my tea and removed the remnant of an ice cube, which I tossed to Webster. He crunched away, happy as a hog in a mud hole.

  “Sorting through all this could take weeks,” I said. “Why would someone do this?”

  “Maybe one of those homeless people decided to make a paper mattress.” Kate swiped a hand across her forehead. Despite the window air conditioner droning in the background—no central air in this old place—the room felt like a steam bath.

  I held my cup against my temple and savored the chill. “Well, if the break-in is somehow connected to Ben, the intruder may have taken the evidence with him. All we’ve found are credit card bills dating back twenty years, canceled checks beginning in 1960, and bank statements galore. Vitally important, if you work for the IRS and need your daily fix of old financial records.”

  Kate said, “We should start packing boxes, get rid of some of this stuff. What about that pile?” Tight-lipped, she nodded at a stack of medical records from our mother’s numerous hospitalizations.

  I didn’t want to deal with those, and I could tell Kate didn’t either. Our mother, Elizabeth, had died from complications of cystic fibrosis when we were about three years old. Neither of us remembered her—she’d been too ill even to care for us—but Daddy spoke of her often, reminded us that she had loved us dearly and had been heartbroken when she became wheelchair-bound less than a year after our adoption. She’d died when we were three.

  “I say we concentrate our efforts on anything that might be connected to Ben,” I said, glancing around.

  “There may be nothing here,” Kate said. “This vandalism could be totally unrelated to his murder.”

  “I wouldn’t place bets. Too coincidental.”

  Kate picked up a folder and fanned her face. “You still think Daddy had Ben’s employment application? And why would you need that now? We know where he lived, know about his past.”

  “I’m interested to learn whether Daddy knew Ben’s real identity. He could have been helping him find Cloris’s killer. If we uncover something to prove—”

  “I’m still not convinced Daddy was helping Ben. And do you really believe Daddy could have kept that big a secret from us?” Kate asked.

  She had a point. But maybe someone in Daddy’s past—an employee, perhaps—was somehow connected to Cloris Grayson’s death. “If Daddy didn’t share this secret with us,” I said, “he had a damn good reason. A good-hearted reason. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” she said.

  “Okay. So our job is to find out why Ben was hunting for a killer at our house. What, if anything, did his presence have to do with Daddy?”

  I was about to start sorting through more documents when I noticed something taped to the folder Kate was using as a fan. “What’s that?”

  She returned my puzzled expression. “You mean this?” She held up the manila folder.

  “It’s an envelope,” I said, crawling over beside her.

  Kate peeled off the tape that attached a small envelope to the back of the folder. Inside was a key.

  “Looks like a safe-deposit box key,” I said, searching for an identifying logo.

  “I thought we emptied all the bank boxes after Daddy died,” Kate said.

  “Apparently not. So how do we find out where this one is located?”

  “I have no idea,” Kate said.

  “Maybe this is the clue we need. By the way, Willis called me early this morning and said Ben’s funeral is tomorrow. Can you drive to Shade with me?”

  “Tomorrow? No way. I have marathon family therapy sessions.”

  “I guess it’s me and Willis, then. How exciting.” I rolled my eyes, thinking about riding up and back to Shade having to endure his company, listening as he carried on about how, if I’d only give him the chance, he could expertly run my life. For a small fee, of course.

  8

  As we drove the sixty miles to Shade in Willis’s Mercedes the next day, the blended scents of leather and aftershave threatened to tranquilize me. I’d have preferred we travel in my car, rather than his bragging machine, since I’ve always had a problem with drivi
ng around in an automobile worth the price of a college education. But Willis wouldn’t hear of making the trip in anything but his fully appointed Mercedes. I was certain that before we left Shade after the funeral, I’d hear some good old boy oohing and aahing over Willis’s car, saying things like, “That dog’ll hunt, and bring back the duck stuffed.” Then Willis would beam with satisfaction. After all, that was what he paid a small fortune for—those Mercedes Moments.

  The hearse carrying Ben’s body stayed close behind us on the interstate. I’d had no problem forking over the money for Ben’s transportation home. He deserved what little I could offer in that department.

  As if reading my thoughts, Willis said, “I still don’t understand why you’re paying a fortune to bury this man, Abby.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why foot the bill for his funeral? I say let the widow pay.”

  “Like I can’t afford it.” I pushed the scan button on the radio, wishing I could turn the conversation in a different direction. I sensed a lecture in my imminent future.

  “If you want to run your father’s business and make a profit, you’d best learn to thoroughly evaluate each charitable impulse. You can’t pay through the nose for every employee who experiences a stroke of bad luck.”

  I looked at him, incredulous. “Is that what you call being murdered? A stroke of bad luck?”

  The familiar strains of “Hotel California” filled the car, and I reclined the seat, closed my eyes, and hoped the conversation was over.

  But no. He kept on talking. “Did you ever consider that the police might conclude you’re trying to ease a guilty conscience by going to all this trouble today?”

  “I am wrestling with my conscience, but not because I murdered anyone.”

  “But you don’t have an alibi, do you?”

  I glared over at him. If he wanted my attention, he had it now. “Like I told Aunt Caroline, I don’t need an alibi.”

  His heavy-lidded eyes held that legal glint I always saw when we’re reviewing contracts at CompuCan. He said, “If you say you don’t need an alibi, I believe you, Abby, but that doesn’t mean the police will.”