Pick Your Poison

15

My heart thudded against my chest, and I was about to grab the phone or scream for Kate when Steven opened the door. My whole body went limp with relief. “Steven Bradley! You gave me a mouthful of my own heart!”

“Sorry,” he said. “Thought I could sneak in and out without waking you.”

“I know I locked that door. And the alarm was on.”

“No alarm, babe. You musta forgot, as usual.” He then held a key with a sheepish grin. “Found this a month or two after the divorce. Couldn’t sleep, thanks to all the Dr Pepper I drank, so I thought I could sneak in and pick up the blueprints for the Victorian. I saw them in Charlie’s study one time.”

“Give me that key. Seems it’s slipped your mind that you don’t live here anymore.”

He walked over and placed it in my outstretched palm.

“You smell like a wet hog, by the way.” I waved my hand in front of my face.

“Huh?” He was focused on my T-shirt, which read, Let’s put the fun back in dysfunctional—a phrase that I realized might well have been Steven’s motto.

“You stink, Steven. Have you taken to living in a ditch these days?”

“Sorry, the truck needs Freon and it’s about ninety degrees outside.”

“Do you happen to have a flashlight, by the way? Diva is stuck in the attic.”

“How’d she get in there?”

“How would I know? Have you got one?” I said impatiently.

“Got what?” He had renewed his interest in my chest, and not because he was a slow reader.

I crossed my arms and whispered hoarsely, “A flashlight!”

“Sorry. Yeah. In the truck.”

He left.

I grabbed a quick drink of water and was just about to get those blueprints when I heard voices outside. Now what?

I walked to the door, the sound of raised male voices carrying from the back driveway. Though not exactly dressed to meet the neighbors, I went outside, and the night immediately enveloped me in its sticky August embrace.

I jogged in the direction of what was now a considerable commotion, considering the possibility that all the residents in this particular zip code might be congregated in my yard. But I stopped dead when the glow from the small lights that marked the drive revealed only two men—Steven and someone else—locked in a struggle.

The assailant’s back was to me, and, figuring I had the advantage, I ran up behind him. Maybe I could stick my fingers in his eyes or pull his hair, but instead my hands slid down his sweaty cheeks. The guy’s elbows flew out, and one strong arm tossed me off his back like popcorn.

I landed hard on my tailbone, legs flailing. Steven, meanwhile, had freed himself, and his fist was drawn back.

“Don’t hit him!” I hollered, realizing who the assailant was. “He’s a cop.”

For once Steven listened.

“You know this bozo?” said Kline between gasps, brushing his clothes, then dabbing the cut near his eye. Blood wound in a thin trail down his cheek.

“Yes, I know him.” I stood. “Sorry for scratching you, but I am immunized against most diseases.”

As usual, Sergeant Kline was in no mood for jokes.

Nor was Steven, who took a menacing step forward. “I’m no bozo.”

Even in the dim light, I could tell the tips of Steven’s ears were scarlet, and that meant trouble. Several guys at the Frontier Club, where we used to party before I became acquainted with the term codependent , knew what sort of trouble.

“Why don’t we go inside before we wake the neighborhood?” I said. “Besides, I’m half-naked.”

Those words got their attention. Despite preoccupation with fistfights or territorial disputes, most men remain on full alert for a less-than-adequately-clothed female.

As I started walking toward the house, I said, “I don’t recall inviting either of you for this two-man square dance.”

Neither of them responded. They followed in silence up the walkway and into the kitchen. I hated to leave the two of them alone, but I couldn’t comfortably converse in my underwear, so I said, “Make coffee, Steven,” hoping that would keep him occupied.

I took the back stairs two at a time, and Webster raced past me in the opposite direction, barking frantically, tail wagging.

“Better late than never, Wonder Dog.” I glanced back as he trotted down to greet the guests. “Better go see if you can lick those intruders to death.”

Sleepy-eyed Kate was coming out of her room when I entered the upstairs hallway. “Did I hear people yelling?”

“We had a little Pecos promenade on the lawn. One of the yellers—Steven—is making coffee, so join us, if you’re so inclined. And by the way, do you have a flashlight?”

“In my nightstand. But who else is downstairs?”

I explained about Steven and Kline as we walked to her room. Kate did have a flashlight—exactly where she knew it would be.

“Would you mind rescuing Diva from the attic while I get dressed?” I asked. “Then I need to play referee downstairs. Those two might not be able to stay in the same room together without doing severe damage to each other’s faces.”

Kate agreed to find the cat, and I went to my bedroom and quickly pulled on shorts and put a bra on under my T-shirt. When I arrived back downstairs, well armed with questions for my policeman friend, I realized I might need a meat cleaver to cut the tension.

I smiled. “So maybe we can have introductions now. Or have you two already done that?” I glanced back and forth between them and was rewarded with a surly grunt from Steven and an “are you nuts?” look from Kline.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, then. Guess you’ve already exchanged names.”

“Not exactly,” said Kline. “He’s not talking. Since you obviously know him, why don’t you enlighten me as to who he is and what he’s doing here?”

“Uh, sure. Sergeant Kline, this is Steven Bradley, my ex-husband.”

“Oh,” said Kline, his tone frosted with sarcasm. “Did I stumble in on one of those kinky ‘ex-spouse’ things?”

Steven was on his feet faster than a prairie fire with a tailwind. He grabbed Kline by the lapels of his sports jacket.

This set Webster to barking and racing around the table.

“Who the hell do you think you are, asshole?” Steven said. He was spraying bits of spit into the cop’s face, but Kline had no trouble turning the tables. Within a millisecond, he had Steven restrained.

I jumped up. “Stop acting as if this is recess at elementary school. He could arrest you, Steven.” I focused on Kline, trying to contain my anger. “What Steven and I do in private is none of your damn business, so I suggest you let him go.”

Kline pushed Steven away and straightened his jacket. Both of them sat back down.

I reclaimed my seat as well, my hands shaking as I raised the coffee mug Steven had set on the table for me.

To his credit, Kline said, “Sorry. I was way out of line.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the bright slash on his cheek produced earlier by my fingernail.

“Why were you in my driveway in the middle of the night, Sergeant Kline?” I asked. “I thought you said you were finished with the surveillance.”

“Thought I was.” Kline offered his pack of Big Red to Steven and me. It was definitely the worse for wear.

I declined, and Steven ignored the olive branch.

Kline put two sticks in his mouth and chewed for a second before continuing. “As I waded through the paperwork on my desk after you left the station this morning, I came across a fax from Galveston Police Department. Why didn’t you tell me about the break-in on P Street, Ms. Rose?”

“You didn’t ask. You had other priorities, remember?”

Kline flushed.

My turn to gloat. “But I like a man who can admit when he’s wrong.”

Steven perked up at this exchange. “Maybe I ought to leave the two of you alone so you can like each other in private.” But he didn’t budge from his chair.

That figured. He wasn’t about to leave me alone with Kline. I said, “You didn’t exactly call at a reasonable hour, Steven, so don’t pull that ‘poor me’ stuff.” I turned back to Kline. “Tell me, Sergeant. How does a break-in on P Street lead to this fight with Steven?”

“I was working late on a case tonight, another surveillance, and after my partner took over I decided it wouldn’t hurt to swing by and make sure everything was okay over here. What went down in Galveston concerned me. The report said someone dinged your ex-husband and—Wait a minute. I guess that was you, huh, hero?” Kline smiled.

Gosh. He could actually do more with his mouth than chew gum tonight.

“It was only a scratch,” said Steven, staring intently into his coffee.

“Anyway,” continued Kline, “seemed like a good idea to keep an eye out here until I figure out if that break-in is connected to the murder. But what do I see when I get here? This jerk—excuse me—him”—he thumbed at Steven—“creeping away from the house. How would you expect a cop to react?”

“I wasn’t creeping,” said Steven with undisguised contempt. “I was doing Abby a favor.”

“And I was watching out for the lady, okay, Bradley?”

The knuckles on Steven’s clenched fists grew white. “The lady already has someone to—”

“Hey! Abby!” Kate called from the back stairs. She appeared seconds later and stopped in the doorway, pulling her robe around her. “I didn’t realize you still had company.”

“You remember Sergeant Kline, Kate?”

“Yes.” She nodded at both of them. “Listen, I need help. I can hear Diva, but I need more than a flashlight before I step inside that attic. I think a lightbulb and some reinforcements are in order. I remember the last time she pulled a stunt like this, she nearly shredded my arm during the rescue attempt.”

And that was how we all ended upstairs five minutes later—and discovered that rescuing Diva from the box where she was trapped was the least of our problems.

Someone had done the P Street number all over again. The small attic was a ransacked wreck.

I slept late the next day, with Diva harbored once more in her usual place, purring contentedly each time I reached out to stroke her. She wouldn’t be visiting the attic again in the near future, judging from the amount of food and water she’d consumed after rediscovering the kitchen.

Last night, Sergeant Kline—his first name was Jeff, I’d learned—had called for reinforcements to dust the attic for fingerprints and to determine if we’d been a victim of vandalism or theft. They couldn’t decide, and neither could we. I hadn’t exactly done an inventory prior to the ransacking. The police left around four-thirty in the morning, and then Kate and I had dragged the contents of the attic into the guest room so we wouldn’t have to pull things out tomorrow in the daytime heat to reorganize the mess. We had a huge pile of old clothes, picture albums, and household rejects, as well as more proof that Daddy’s need to save things had bordered on psychotic.

Last night, and now again this morning, I wondered whether this assault on the attic was somehow connected to Ben’s murder. Or could it be related to that safe-deposit box key? After all, I had found the hidden key right after a similar incident at the Victorian. Of course, I had no proof the key was even what the P Street vandal had been looking for.

Before I could think of any other possible reason for people tearing into our old belongings, the phone rang. I turned on my side and picked up the phone.

“Ms. Rose? Jeff Kline.”

“Oh, hi.” I sat up.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No,” I said.

“We found no identifiable prints last night. Lots of smudges on those dusty boxes, but my fingerprint expert thinks the perp wore gloves.”

Diva crawled into my lap and climbed halfway up my chest, rubbing her head on the hand holding the receiver. “Why would anyone be interested in a bunch of old family mementos?”

“Maybe they were looking for something else. Did you give any thought to the question I posed last night about how this person found the attic?”

“As far as I know, that attic could have been messed up for months. I haven’t been up there since right after Daddy died.”

“I checked the reports, thinking maybe my crew made that mess after Ben’s murder, but the person assigned to search upstairs said everything was in order that day.”

“So,” I said. “This must have happened in the last week.”

“Right. As for what’s-his-name, the ex,” Kline said. “He says he came for those blueprints you handed over to him last night, but I’ve learned about his DUIs and drunk-and-disorderlies. Not exactly your model citizen. Are you sure that’s all he came for?”

“I happened to be in the kitchen when he arrived, so he had no chance to go upstairs without me seeing him. As you saw firsthand, he’s still protective, despite the divorce, so don’t judge him too harshly.”

“I leave judging to the judges. Just filling you in on the work we’ve done since I left this morning.”

“Did you get any sleep at all?” I asked. That morning after Ben was killed, this guy could have hired on as an extra in Night of the Living Dead. But after what couldn’t have been more than an hour or two of sleep, he sounded downright energetic.

“Nada,” he answered.

“You sound awfully alert, while I’m feeling like I’ve been run over by a mobile home pulling a horse trailer.”

He laughed. “I’ve consumed more bad coffee than one human can safely tolerate, but other than that, I’m revived. I’ll let you know if any leads turn up.”

I hung up, liking the idea that he intended to stay in touch. Liking it plenty. I mean, the guy was a hunk, and he was even laughing at my jokes now.

Terry arrived for a late dinner that evening, and we ate our grilled tuna out on the patio by the pool. The amber antimosquito torches surrounded us, flickering against a starry sky. Kate had already called and told him about last night, making him once again hesitant to help me with my plan to investigate Parental Advocates. But I was certain that finding Feldman might lead us not only to Ben’s killer but maybe Cloris’s, too, and after a little pleading on my part, he finally succumbed. His renewed cooperation then resurrected the guilt I felt over the business cards now in my purse. But they were still staying in my purse.

“Hon, you look exhausted,” said Terry, reaching over and resting a hand on Kate’s cheek. He brought her to him and kissed her briefly.

“Abby needs to tell her gentlemen friends to call at more reasonable times,” said Kate. “I missed school, thanks to everything they stirred up.”

“Steven and Kline? Gentlemen friends?” he said.

“I didn’t invite them,” I said. “And I hope you’re using the adjective ‘gentlemen’ loosely. Did you know Kline put a tail on me, Terry?”

“Nope. Those Homicide dicks tell no secrets. Besides, they know Kate and I are a couple, so they wouldn’t say anything. By the way, what was your cat doing in the attic in the first place?”

“Someone must have left open the attic door,” I said. If I could remember the last time I saw Diva, maybe I could pinpoint when the room was trashed.

“I can narrow the field,” said Kate. “Aunt Caroline was all over the house Saturday—she and her strong-man, Hans.”

“You mean the guy she found in the yellow pages—listed under ‘recreational facilities’?” I said.

Kate smiled. “That’s the one.”

“So you think Aunt Caroline’s our culprit?” I said.

“Don’t tell her I was the one who fingered her,” Kate said. “She still likes me.”

I smirked. “Maybe I can change that. I think you should share the joy of genuine animosity.”

Kate and Terry laughed and then we cleared the table. After we finished the dishes, they went to catch a movie and I tackled the chaos in the guest room. I carried packing crates upstairs and Diva soon joined me, the lure of a box too enticing to refuse.

But instead of finishing up quickly, I found that the task stirred memories, and the work took much longer than I expected.

I hadn’t seen many of the photographs in years. I quickly set aside the ones of my mother in her wheelchair. I didn’t want to think of her like that. I only wanted to know her as I had for the last thirty years, as the woman Daddy spoke of so often and had loved so much.

Instead, I confronted my father’s smiling face in the albums, his healthy grip enclosing the small hands of Kate and I as we stared adoringly up at him in front of the Alamo or Disneyland. Those photos brought a fullness to my chest I hadn’t felt since that day he collapsed in front of me.

I turned more pages and witnessed the progression of men through Aunt Caroline’s life, each a blur in my memory. None of them ever stayed around long.

Willis made his regular appearances in the pictures as well—at Christmases or birthdays, usually alone, but occasionally with some strange female. The nannies were familiar, some Kate’s favorites and some mine. But one thing stood out, page after page—Daddy’s enduring grin. His lighthearted smiles diminished as the strain of my collapsing marriage appeared in all our eyes in the newer photographs.

The camera truly doesn’t lie.

Christmas... right before the divorce. We stood side by side, mouths forced into bleak crescents, my gaze not toward the lens but focused on the longneck in Steven’s hand. I skipped past those pages, eager to forget, then piled the albums in boxes, wishing I could pack the sadness away as well.

I missed Daddy... missed him terribly. He always insisted he was the small end of nothing, whittled down to a point, said we were specks of dust in the big picture. But if that were so, why did he occupy such a huge part of my heart?

A tear escaped, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand, shifting my attention to bags and boxes of clothes.