Pick Your Poison (4 page)

“Could she have committed suicide?” I asked.

“I considered the possibility and rejected the notion ten seconds later. Why go to all the trouble of taking cold capsules apart and packing them with cyanide? Hell, she coulda just swallowed the stuff.” Nemec leaned forward and spit in the paper cup he held.

“I see your point. But could anyone besides Ben have tampered with the medicine?”

“I suppose, but no one had a motive ’cept for him. Course, he had himself a convenient alibi. Doing carpenter work up on Ridge Road in front of six men the day she died. But I always said he coulda snuck that poison in anytime.”

“There was no real proof he murdered her, though?”

“No signed confession. No fingerprints on the medicine bottle. No cyanide in the shed. None of that. So, much as I tried, I couldn’t pin anything on him.”

“But you still think he killed her?”

“Sure as hell’s hot.”

“Did Ben have any relatives besides Cloris?”

“They had no kids, and he had no other kin I know about, but he remarried not long ago. Local widow named Ruth Sawyer. Fine person, too. What she saw in him is the real mystery here.”

“He had a wife?”

“Yeah. They was
newlyweds
.” He said this last word with undisguised contempt.

“You disliked Ben?” I said, thinking it odd that a newly married man would work so far from home. Had he come back here on his days off?

“Disliked Ben?” the sheriff was saying. “Nah, I hated him. Made his life hell after he murdered Cloris. Figured if I couldn’t stick him in jail, I’d make him feel like a cell might not be such a bad idea. Better than livin’ with me hounding him day and night. To this very day, I don’t understand why he stayed in this town.”

“Did he ever offer an explanation?”

Nemec nodded and spit again. “Oh, sure. Told me every chance he got how he’d never leave until he proved me wrong. Then he goes and marries the widow of the guy who sold him all that insurance on Cloris. I considered that more than a little fishy.”

“But his wife’s death was years ago. Did Ben even know Ruth Sawyer then?”

“Course. Everyone knows everyone here in Shade.” I’m sure they did. “Seems Ben’s wife is the person I came here to find. Could you tell me where she lives?”

“I already broke the news to her after HPD faxed the first report yesterday. She’s pretty tore up, so you best leave her alone.” He leaned back in the chair, his gut hanging over his belt. Rusty-brown tobacco stains dotted his dingy shirt, along with whatever he’d had for lunch. Something with mustard, I decided.

“I want to speak to her, so if you don’t mind—”

“I do mind. I don’t want you bothering the woman. She’s been widowed twice now.”

I rose. “Since everyone knows everyone here, I suppose plenty of other folks in Shade could point me in the right direction.”

Nemec stood and placed his chunky hands on the desk, his jowled face dark with anger. “Don’t go bringing up that murdering no-good’s name around my town. Just go back to Houston and leave us be.”

“I wouldn’t have to bring up his name if you’d simply help me out,” I replied sweetly, countering his agitation with a calmness that surprised me. For some reason, I had gained an advantage with this man, though I wasn’t sure why.

He stared at me for a second, his lips pursed, eyes narrowed. “Okay. I’ll tell you where Ruth lives if you have to know. But you’ll need to answer me one thing first. The fax from HPD said Ben was poisoned, nothing else. Exactly how did that son of a bitch get his?”

“Cyanide,” I answered quietly.

His mouth spread in an unpleasant smile, revealing stained, uneven teeth. “Finally got a taste of his own medicine, huh?”

Not long after I left the sheriff’s office, I sat down with Ruth Grayson in the small front room of her one-story wood-frame home. Our comfortable twin chairs with their worn upholstery offered a view out a large picture window. A round oak table covered with lace doilies sat between us.

After I’d offered my condolences and told Mrs. Grayson what I could remember of Ben’s last day on earth—which was precious little, unfortunately—she wanted to fix me tea, even offered to cook me an early supper, but I persuaded her I needed nothing more than time to talk about Ben.

Twisting a blue tissue with arthritic fingers, she said, “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I know this is difficult,” I said, “but I visited the sheriff first and he was telling me that—”

“Oh, I know what he said, that my Ben was a killer. That he murdered Cloris. Isn’t that right, miss?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“Let me set you straight, then. Ben loved Cloris with all his heart. That’s one reason I didn’t marry him when he first asked me. Her ghost was still perched on his shoulder. The man missed her something awful.”

“And this is the woman he was accused of killing?”

“Don’t make sense, do it? But Miss Rose, I’m not sure Ben would be happy with me talking about Cloris. That was his business, like he always told me.”

“Okay, let’s talk about Ben, then. Why are you so certain he was innocent?”

“You married, Miss Rose?”

“I have been, yes.”

“Because if you’ve been married, then you know that if you live with a man, see how he does you day in and day out, how he handles what the Lord sends him, well . . . you know if he’s a liar. Ain’t that true, miss?”

“Yes,” I said, silently adding,
though sometimes not right away.
“But why didn’t Ben leave Shade? He could have started over in a new town.”

“He feared the insurance company would think he was guilty if he ran off. You see, they tried to wangle out of paying after Cloris’s death, seein’ as how he was a suspect and all.”

“Sheriff Nemec mentioned an insurance policy,” I said.

The weather-worn skin over her prominent cheek-bones took on color. “He told you about that, did he? Bet he didn’t mention how Ben only bought that insurance to help my first husband out. We were losing our shirt with the farm and started selling policies on the side. So Ben—and plenty of others, I might add—bought insurance he didn’t even need. And
that
was the Ben Grayson I knew.” She nodded, her mouth drawn into a stubborn pucker. “He was never no wife killer. Not never.” Her chin quivered and she fought back tears, then said, “It’s okay, Miss Rose. Don’t look so worried. I’m all right.”

“Please, call me Abby.” I reached across and touched one thin arm. “I didn’t come here to upset you. I want to help. How can I do that?”

“You could help me bring him home so I can put him to rest. I never been to Houston. Wouldn’t know where to start if I had to go there and . . . find him.”

“I’ll arrange everything. You won’t have to leave your home.”

“You’d do that for a stranger?”

“It’s the least I can do.”

She studied my face, then said, “You’re one fine lady, Miss Abby. Even if you do come from the city.”

I smiled. “I take that as a high compliment. I have one more question. Ben was using the name Garrison while he worked for me. Why did he change his name?”

She blinked her red-rimmed eyes several times, looking as if she’d put a bucket down a well and brought up Coke instead of water. “He was using some other name? He never said a word about that.”

“When did you speak to him last?”

“About a week ago. He called, said he was making progress. Sounded happier than I think I can ever remember.”

“Making progress? On what?”

“Well, I assumed on finding out who killed Cloris. That’s why he went to Houston in the first place. He’s been trying to find the person who killed her ever since she died. Sometimes he’d follow a lead for weeks and come back with nothing. But this last time was different. He’s been gone long on three months.”

I leaned back in the chair, questions flying through my brain like gnats. “I-I guess I assumed Ben came to Houston to find work.”

“Oh, no, Miss Abby. We had plenty of money since the insurance finally paid him what they owed—with interest, I might add.”

So Ben had ended up at
my
house to search for the truth about his wife’s murder. What clue had led him to us? Had he found the proof to clear his name? And was he killed because of what he’d learned?

I stood. “You’ve been so helpful, Mrs. Grayson. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“You’ve gone white as flour, miss. You sure you’re all right?”

“Well, I’m not sure I understand why he ended up working for my sister and me, that’s all.”

“Could be a simple explanation, Miss Abby. Ben’s been a workingman all his life. Could hardly think straight if he wasn’t using his hands. Can’t see him holin’ up in some hotel while he was in the city. That woulda never suited him. Carpentry was his first love, but he liked working with the earth, too. My guess is he took the job to keep busy while he looked for the killer.”

“Maybe,” I said, not sure I bought this explanation.

Ruth Grayson and I exchanged phone numbers, and I promised again that I’d move Ben’s body back to Shade for burial as soon as the police gave me the okay.

After we said our good-byes, I walked out into the late-afternoon heat, slid behind the wheel of my Camry, and pulled onto the dirt drive that led to the main road.

A cloud of dust signaled the approach of another vehicle, and with the road barely wide enough for my car, I wasn’t sure I could squeeze over without side-swiping the rail fence. I started to back up, but then recognized the car and braked.

Willis’s Mercedes lurched to a halt beside me, and he rolled down his window.

I did the same and tried to sound pleasant despite my irritation. “Hi, there, Willis.”

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Long way from home, aren’t you?” I forced a smile. I was not in the market for a surrogate father, even if he’d driven sixty miles to apply for the job.

“I asked you why you’re here.” His nose wrinkled and the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose edged closer to his eyes.

“Paying my respects to Ben’s widow.”

“Kate tells me you found things out about Ben. Unpleasant things.” He blotted his wet forehead with a handkerchief.

“Depends on whose version you listen to. And exactly why are you here?” Heat poured in through the open window, and I could feel sweat erupting on my hairline.

“Charlie expected me to look out for his girls after he died, so when Kate told me what you were up to, I thought I should help. The sheriff sent me this way.”

“You may be surprised to learn that I go to bed after
Letterman
, so I qualify as an adult. I can handle my own affairs.”

I pressed the window control and stomped on the gas, leaving him behind in a whirl of red dust.

5

Willis followed me home from Shade, coming in on my heels through the back door when we arrived. To my dismay, Kate immediately invited him to dinner.

She had prepared an organic vegetable ragout, and we ate in the kitchen, probably because any concoction containing rutabagas was never meant to be eaten in a dining room the size of a football field. No, I consider rutabagas, turnips, and collard greens to be kitchen food, the kind of stuff you feed the dog when no one’s looking.

Willis seemed completely unruffled by our previous testy encounter, so after we finished eating, I reminded him about his offer of assistance when he’d come over yesterday. “I think that’s why you drove all the way to Shade today, right? To help me out?”

“That’s right.” Willis wiped a zucchini seed off his chin with his napkin.

“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 pending?”

“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.