Pick Your Poison

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.