Pick Your Poison (6 page)

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 driving 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.”

“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.