Pick Your Poison

by Leann Sweeney

  “I didn’t have a reason to murder Ben. I don’t have a reason to murder anyone.” If he’d turned my way he would have been blinded by my stare.

  “Perhaps you should concentrate your efforts on your cash flow. Bail for murder is usually high. And you should be prepared to tell the police exactly what you were doing on the afternoon in question, should they ask.”

  “They already asked and I already answered. If that detective has even half a brain, he’ll realize Kate and I had nothing to do with Ben’s death. Now could we please drop this? I’m sure I’ll be called to testify before a grand jury, but I promise to let you know before I go to court. Does that make you happy?”

  He nodded, pleased at this small compliance, then abruptly switched radio stations. Much to my dismay, Wynonna’s contralto filled the car.

  After the service at the First Baptist Church, we drove to the cemetery. Willis and I joined those assembled for prayers at the grave site, and stood under the tent I’d arranged to shade us from the unbearable heat. Ben was being laid to rest next to his first wife.

  Daddy had died in the spring, and the day we buried him had been clear and cool—nothing like this. It was hot enough to sunburn the birds.

  I looked at Ruth, her head bent, her hands clutched tightly together at her waist. She was about the same age my mother would have been had she lived. Feeling a familiar ache in my gut, I whispered, “Was it this hot the day of Mom’s funeral?”

  Willis leaned toward me, looking confused. “What?”

  “You were there, right?”

  “Well . . . yes. But I don’t remember what the weather was like.”

  “Daddy never talked about her . . . service.”

  “Her death was not something he wanted to remember. Never saw a man so miserable as when she finally died.”

  “And what about our real parents? If they were buried out in El Paso, where the plane crashed, it was probably even hotter than this.” Kate and I were adopted after Jane and Morris Mitchell’s private plane went down in the West Texas desert, leaving their twin daughters orphaned.

  “Why are you bringing all this up now?” Willis whispered, sounding irritated.

  “I guess funerals make you think about details, about a past you weren’t a part of but that’s still a part of you,” I said.

  Willis placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t think you and Kate are alone, Abby. You have Caroline and me. We’ll always be here for you.”

  The preacher began reciting the Lord’s Prayer, so I shut up. But before I bowed my head, I spotted Sheriff Nemec, who’d stopped a good distance from the grave, out of Ruth’s sight. Not that she would have said anything about his showing up for Ben’s burial. She wasn’t the type for confrontations. At least by hanging back beneath a live oak, Nemec showed her a measure of respect—which surprised me. After our last encounter, I wouldn’t have pegged him as being even that sensitive.

  From his passive face, bloated on one side from a chaw of tobacco, I couldn’t imagine what he was feeling. Elation? Satisfaction? Or did I detect a hint of sadness because the pursuit had ended? Whatever was going through his mind, he stood quietly, hat in his hand, until they lowered Ben’s casket into the ground. When the coffin disappeared completely, he put on the Stetson, wheeled on his booted heel, and returned to a pickup parked on the small rise beyond the tree.

  I glanced back at Ruth, who had chosen off-white lace for the funeral. I wondered if that was the dress she’d been married in. In the circles Aunt Caroline and Willis traveled, people would have buzzed over a woman not choosing black, but here, with neighbors Ruth had known forever, no one would misunderstand or say anything unkind.

  The small crowd dispersed, and Ruth remained still and tearless while two men shoveled spades of clumped red clay over the casket. The sickly-sweet scent of dying flowers drifted toward me on the hot breeze.

  “Ready to head back to Houston?” whispered Willis, who’d been squirming next to me like a leech on a hook.

  “First we’re paying our respects at Ruth’s place,” I whispered back.

  “You didn’t tell me that.” He focused on his Rolex. “I have to return to town. Considering this funeral cost you a tidy sum, I only came to keep an eye on how your money was spent today. I must say, they did a fine job on the flowers . . . and the service benefited from those lilies you insisted on. Surprises me they could find such lovely ones, seeing as how we’re out here in—”

  I elbowed him in the ribs. “Would you shut up? Ruth is still praying.”

  Willis hadn’t even flinched when I hit him. It seemed his workouts were effective for more than networking with the “right people.”

  “Abby, I must leave. I have a client waiting,” he said.

  I pointed in the direction of the sleek black Lincoln parked on the grass about fifty yards away. “That hearse is headed back to Houston. Why not hitch a ride and I’ll drive your car back to town later tonight?”

  “You can’t be serious,” he replied.

  “I’ll be satisfied I’ve received the best service for my dollar with passengers in that contraption going in both directions. How’s that for a sound business decision?”

  “Um . . . maybe the hearse could wait for you and I’ll drive back in my car now?” The sweat on his balding forehead drizzled past his temples.

  “You’re not squeamish, are you, Willis? Besides, another dead person back in Houston is patiently awaiting that hearse’s return so they can experience city traffic one last time. Say, do you suppose the Six-ten Loop is actually purgatory? Miles and miles of endless, congested highways going around and around and—”

  “Abby, I’m not—”

  “Seriously, Willis. The hearse driver told me he has another funeral.” I smiled, deciding I hadn’t had this much fun in a long time.

  He adjusted his sunglasses and cleared his throat. “If that’s what you want, I’ll happily accommodate you.” With that, he turned stiffly and handed his car keys to me. “When can I tell Kate to expect you?”

  “I’m not sure,” I replied. “Tonight sometime. Borrow my car if you need one. Kate knows where I keep the spare key. And thanks for coming with me.”

  I felt a twinge of guilt at seeing his stricken face. He’d only sought to advise me in my best interests, and what did he get for his trouble? A long drive in a hearse, all the while praying none of the “right” people saw him.

  That sense of culpability passed swiftly, however. Maybe this unusual trip home would teach Willis not to try to control me. I hated men trying to control me.

  The finest meals in Texas are served after funerals, and Ruth’s kitchen table attested to that fact. I had loaded up with fried chicken, sour cream-dill potato salad, baked beans, and homemade pickles, and was balancing the plate in one hand while holding a glass of fresh lemonade in the other. I headed for the porch, where callers had gathered in the late-afternoon reprieve from the heat. When I passed Ruth on my way outside, she dropped a hot biscuit on top of my chicken.

  “This looks wonderful,” I said. “But aren’t you eating?”

  “I know I should partake of what these fine people have provided, but I haven’t had much appetite since Ben died.”

  She followed me outside, where we joined the remaining mourners. An old gentleman rose and offered his rocker, then said his good-byes. The others soon followed his lead until only Ruth and I remained.

  She rocked rhythmically, the setting sun highlighting the grief in her tired eyes. “I want to thank you again, Miss Abby, for your kindness and understanding, and for bringing Ben home. He would have been most grateful. Most grateful indeed. When they find who done this, he’ll truly rest.”

  “Have the police contacted you?”

  “Only Sheriff Nemec. Said the city police sent him over to ask me questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Oh, like, do I know anyone with a reason to harm Ben. I said, ‘Besides you, Stanley?’ He looked through Ben’s
belongings, and then after he left I spent money on a long-distance call to the city. I wanted to see what was bein’ done about finding his killer, since I don’t think Stanley will be breaking his back to find answers. Lady who I talked to says I got to have a case number. Says don’t I know there’s four million people in Houston? Says how’s she supposed to tell one dead body from another without a case number? One thing’s for sure, miss. That’ll be the last time I call them folks for anything. Don’t need to pay money on no phone bill to be talked to like that.” She lifted her chin and her lower lip quivered.

  “I’m so sorry.” To myself I added, Thank you, urban America.

  “It ain’t your fault. Lady was probably right. He was nothin’ to her.”

  “But he was everything to you.” I laid my hand on hers. “I’ll find out who killed him, Ruth. I promise.”

  “You don’t need to on my account. This funeral today was more than I ever expected. I’ll be grateful for the remainder of my days.” She closed her eyes and rocked faster.

  “I have another reason for wanting to know what happened to Ben. The police questioned me. Treated me like I might be involved.”

  Ruth stopped rocking. “They’ve got half the pickets missing from their fence if they think you coulda had anything to do with Ben’s death.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I smiled.

  She squeezed my hand.

  “Did the sheriff take anything of Ben’s?” I asked.

  “Nope. Nothin’ to take, that I know about.”

  “And what about Cloris? Did Ben save anything that belonged to her?”

  “Plenty of stuff. But Stanley didn’t even ask about her. He should have, though, shouldn’t he? Course, with Ben dead, he probably thinks nothin’ else matters.”

  “Would you be upset if I looked through Cloris’s belongings?”

  “Not at all, but since the trunks are stored overhead, I’ll be needin’ your help getting to them. Can’t much navigate a ladder these days, what with the arthritis.”

  “You don’t need to navigate anything. Is there a space in your overhead attic for me to sit?”

  “Small spot. Ben laid some plywood up there.”

  I followed her inside to the hallway leading to the two back bedrooms. A cord hung from the ceiling, and I pulled down the attic ladder. Heat and dust whooshed out to greet me. Best time of day for this kind of work, I thought as I began the climb. The outside temperature had dropped below ninety.

  “There’s a ceiling bulb. Just pull the string. Cloris’s trunks are black, if I remember right. While you start looking, I’ll be fetching you some water. Hotter than Hades up there.”

  I turned on the light and found two footlockers within arm’s length. I settled cross-legged on the small wood platform and pulled the closest one to me. I opened the lid, and the smell of mothballs escaped around me. Neatly folded dresses and underwear, circa 1970, were piled to the top of the trunk. I began searching through the clothing—Cloris was apparently a small woman—but found nothing of interest except two miniature teddy bears that looked like they had never been touched, much less played with.

  Before I could begin on the next trunk, Ruth appeared at the bottom of the stairs with the much-needed water. I was already sweating like a polar bear in Hawaii.

  “Find anything?” she asked.

  I climbed halfway down to retrieve the glass. “Not yet.” I gulped down half the water and turned to climb back up.

  Ruth said, “I hear someone in the drive. Maybe a late caller coming to pay their respects. You be okay up there, Miss Abby?”

  “I’ll be fine. You go on.”

  I took the glass with me and had just dragged the second trunk over so I could look through the contents when I heard a voice I recognized. Sheriff Nemec.

  I quickly opened the trunk, and this one proved far more interesting. I found several calendars, two photographs, and several sketchbooks. One photo showed a young woman standing by the gate to this house. The other picture was of Ben in an ill-fitting suit and the same woman in a simple white dress holding a bouquet of roses. I turned it over. Ben and Cloris had been penned on the back. I quickly switched my attention to the sketchbooks. Some of the colored-pencil drawings of birds and flowers were expertly detailed, stunningly realistic, but before I could examine these more closely, the sheriff interrupted me.

  “You best come down from there, miss. HPD might be interested in what you’ve found.”

  I turned and stared down at Nemec, who held his hat in his hand. “I believe Ruth would have given you the same chance at this stuff.”

  “Might have, Miss Abby,” Ruth said. “But now I’m not so sure.”

  I pushed the trunk away from the attic opening and descended the stairs.

  “Nothing but some old clothes and toys anyway,” I said, brushing remnants of insulation off my linen skirt.

  “Mind if I check myself?” He put a beefy hand on the stair railing and waved me aside.

  Quickly I said, “Ruth, did he show you a warrant?”

  “No, miss. Guess he needs one, huh?”

  Nemec’s jaw tightened. “Ruth, I never had no argument with you. I’m only doing my job, just like when I went after Ben.”

  “Then you do it proper and get that piece of paper,” she said.

  “I was hoping you’d let bygones be bygones now that Ben’s dead and buried,” he said. “Before you took a shine to him, you and I had a few things in common, as I recall.”

  “Are you thinking I forgot how you hounded Ben year after year? And you didn’t start with your tales of how he was going to hell until I turned your marriage proposal down. I take that kinda personal, Stanley.”

  The sheriff frowned and stared at the thin carpet that ran the length of the hall. “I couldn’t believe you befriended a murderer. I kept telling you he done it. But I’ve been doing some thinking, and I may be willing to admit a mistake or two.” He shook his head. “Never could pin Cloris’s death on him. Been like trying to stack greased BBs all these years.”

  “Did you ever think maybe you couldn’t pin the murder on him because he wasn’t guilty?” I asked.

  He stared at me. “If he didn’t do it, then who the hell did?”

  “Probably the same person who killed him,” I said. “Have you pondered that since you heard about Ben’s death, Stanley?”

  He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

  “Perhaps you were wrong about Ben?” I coaxed.

  He didn’t answer immediately, and the grandfather clock ticking in the front room seemed as loud as a skeet shoot.

  Finally Nemec turned to Ruth and said, “I’m sorry. I guess that’s what I came over to say. When they laid Ben in the ground today—and this may sound strange—but I was mad! I wasted years blaming him when I should have given up. My chasing after him only made you cotton to him more.” He paused and then said, “You heard me. And what in the hell good does that do anyone?”

  I was beginning to think this confession could definitely do me some good. “You could make things up to Ruth, if you’re truly sorry,” I said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Yes, Miss Abby,” said Ruth. “How’s that? I ain’t sure I can forgive and forget, even though the Lord says I should.”

  “Finding out what really happened is what’s important, right? I want to know who murdered Ben. But the Houston Police Department won’t be cooperating with the likes of me. You know how they treated you on the phone, Ruth.”

  “I sure do, but what’s this got to do with Stanley?” she said.

  “The police have cooperated with you, Sheriff,” I said. “I’ll bet you know a lot about Ben’s murder, don’t you? You might even be privy to more information, if you asked.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “I got a full plate here in Shade. I can’t be traipsin’ off to Houston huntin’ up killers.”

  “You won’t have to. I’ll do the traipsing. All I need is a little more informatio
n about Ben’s case, and a peek at the evidence from your investigation into Cloris’s death.”

  The sheriff shook his head and stared at his boots. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to do that.”

  “Stanley,” Ruth piped in, “if you help Miss Abby—who’s been very kind to me—I’d be inclined to serve you supper every now and then.” She smiled slyly, even though I would have never thought she had a sly bone in her body.

  “All right,” he replied reluctantly. “For you, Ruth. Because I respect you, not because of some old pot roast.” He pointed a stubby finger at me. “You follow me to my office, city girl.”

  He marched toward the front of the house, waving his hat this way and that, mumbling to himself.

  And I climbed back up the ladder to gather anything belonging to Cloris I thought might help me before I met up with the sheriff.

  9

  The next morning, I was sitting at my kitchen table surrounded by my newly acquired sketches, a yellowed newspaper article, documents, police reports, and the photos. The color in the pictures had faded to variations of brown, but Cloris’s dark eyes still grabbed me. So sad. So tired. The drawings in the sketchbook were signed simply with C, and I lingered over them. Ruth had told me before I left last night that according to Ben, Cloris had been happiest when she was drawing, and her art reflected a joy not evident in her face.

  Just then the cat decided she was ready for her morning coffee—which she attempted to steal from the mug sitting next to me. The cream interested her, of course, not the coffee.

  “Get out of here, Diva!” I shooed her away, knowing I’d pissed her off. But no one, not even her, messes with my Kona.

  I heard Kate’s footsteps on the back stairs, and she and Webster appeared seconds later. Stretching her arms over her head, she yawned, then said, “How was the funeral?”

  “A lot less stressful than Daddy’s. I think Willis did a great job with the arrangements.”

  “I’m glad Ben got a decent burial,” she said.

  She let Webster out into the backyard, and then microwaved water to brew her morning green tea.