Pick Your Poison (5 page)

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.”

“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.