Pick Your Poison

9

The next morning, I was sitting at my kitchen table surrounded by my newly acquired sketches, a yellowed newspaper article, documents, police reports, and the photos. The color in the pictures had faded to variations of brown, but Cloris’s dark eyes still grabbed me. So sad. So tired. The drawings in the sketchbook were signed simply with C, and I lingered over them. Ruth had told me before I left last night that according to Ben, Cloris had been happiest when she was drawing, and her art reflected a joy not evident in her face.

Just then the cat decided she was ready for her morning coffee—which she attempted to steal from the mug sitting next to me. The cream interested her, of course, not the coffee.

“Get out of here, Diva!” I shooed her away, knowing I’d pissed her off. But no one, not even her, messes with my Kona.

I heard Kate’s footsteps on the back stairs, and she and Webster appeared seconds later. Stretching her arms over her head, she yawned, then said, “How was the funeral?”

“A lot less stressful than Daddy’s. I think Willis did a great job with the arrangements.”

“I’m glad Ben got a decent burial,” she said.

She let Webster out into the backyard, and then microwaved water to brew her morning green tea.

Once she’d finished, she sat across from me with her cup. “I hope the funeral brought some closure to all this guilt you’ve taken on concerning Ben.”

“Closure? I love it when you talk like a shrink.”

“That’s me. Shrinkish through and through.”

“In a way I do feel better—though I still intend to find out why Ben was working here and how it connects to his wife’s death. Last night I gathered a few clues.”

I showed Kate what I’d brought home from Shade, and after she looked everything over, she reexamined the HPD report that had been faxed to Nemec, the one documenting how the murder had occurred. “I can’t believe there was cyanide in those rose containers,” she said.

“Very sneaky way to arrange a murder. Not only were there cyanide pellets in every pot, the watering can had been filled with the acid used to shock the pool. When Ben poured that acid on those plants... well, chemistry took over. The acid even burned Ben’s arm when he collapsed from the fumes.”

“Cyanide and acid,” Kate said, shaking her head. “That’s horrible and devious and... and... plain evil. Whoever killed him created a gas chamber right in our backyard.”

“Makes me mad as a wet hornet,” I said. “More reason to find out who did this and why.”

“But how can Cloris’s drawings—wonderful as they are—help you find anything?” Kate asked.

“I’m not sure, but artwork is almost like a fingerprint. And don’t forget the calendars,” I said. “She noted a few names. Appointments, I presume. And one name on the calendar—Samuel Feldman—is even scribbled over and over on the back page of the sketchbook.”

Kate picked up the newspaper clipping that I’d found. “Why do you think she saved this?”

The article reported the disappearance of a teenager named Connie Kramer from a small town in East Texas. “I’m not sure, but I’m hoping to find out.”

“But that happened more than thirty years ago, Abby.”

“The Internet is a wonderful thing. Useful for much more than researching schizophrenia or obsessive-compulsive disorder, which is all you’ve ever done on-line.”

“That’s all I’ve had time to do on-line in the last three years. You really believe you can find answers on the Web?”

“I do,” I said.

Kate sipped her tea. “I know your curiosity is piqued, but you’d better be careful. Both Ben and his wife died horrible deaths and, well... if anything happened to you...” She stared into her cup.

I reached over and laid my hand on hers. “Nothing will happen to me.”

“Are you absolutely sure Ben didn’t kill his wife? I mean, maybe something happened between them. Maybe he desperately needed the insurance money for, say, a sick mother or father, and—”

“He didn’t kill her, Kate. I know he didn’t.”

“How can you be certain?”

“I trust Ruth. She knew him better than anyone, and if she says he’s innocent, that’s good enough for me.”

Kate said, “Okay, then why not go to Sergeant Kline and tell him what you think?”

“You mean the man who was raised on pickle juice? Why should I willingly subject myself to him?”

Webster barked, wanting in, so Kate went to the back door.

Aunt Caroline had arrived and came in with the dog—early for her, I thought—and an overdose of Sunflowers perfume permeated the kitchen when she made her entrance. Dressed in a fuchsia-and-gold warm-up, she wore what looked to be new running shoes. She deposited her handbag on the baker’s rack by the door and sat down.

Kate reclaimed her chair.

Staring at my bare thighs—I hadn’t even dressed yet—Aunt Caroline said, “I have the best cosmetic surgeon. He does wonderful things with liposuction, Abby.”

“And face-lifts, too, I’ll bet. Course, when you get into double digits on those little operations, you—”

Kate kicked my shin. Hard. She said, “Can I get you coffee, Aunt Caroline?”

“I’m glad someone hasn’t forgotten the manners I taught the two of you. Coffee would be wonderful.” While Kate went for the coffee, Aunt Caroline addressed me. “So is that man buried yet?”

“You mean Ben?”

“Yes,” she said.

“If he is buried, does that mean you can obliterate his memory?” I said coldly. “Deny he existed?” I tossed a crust of my leftover toast to Webster.

He held out for more, though Diva, obviously irritated at my favoring the dog, twitched her tail and left the room.

Kate placed a mug in front of Aunt Caroline and refilled my cup from the glass pot she carried in her other hand.

“What is all this?” Aunt Caroline waved at the papers on the table.

“Abby’s found a new calling. Detective,” said Kate. She set the pot on a trivet in the center of the table.

“What does she mean, Abigail?” Aunt Caroline added two packages of artificial sweetener to her coffee.

“I’m interested in the murder,” I said. “Curious and concerned, you could say.”

She sipped carefully, protecting her artistically made-up lips. “I’m not surprised you’re getting involved. Even as a child you constantly overstepped. Got caught up in causes, brought minorities home, picketed and petitioned. I’m glad you’ve toned down, but a certain naïveté still clings to you, my dear. Professionals are being paid to deal with this crime, and you have neither the knowledge nor the experience—”

“I’ll pass on the lecture. I don’t think that’s why you came over this morning.” She wouldn’t push my buttons today. Not if I could help it.

Aunt Caroline rose and retrieved her Gucci handbag, then produced two handwritten pages. “I have the list we discussed, a few sentimental items I’d like to have when you two move out.”

I took the pages. She’d named almost every antique and piece of art Daddy owned. “A few items?”

I passed the list to Kate, who forced a smile. “Could Abby and I review this and get back to you?”

“Of course, dear.” She took a gold compact from her purse and patted face powder on her nose. “Get back to me as soon as possible on the disbursement. I’ll pay for a moving van to transport everything to my home.”

I took a deep breath to ease the tightness in my gut. Why did our mother have to die and leave us at the mercy of a female role model as mean as a rattle-snake with a headache?

Aunt Caroline said, “Time for me to leave. I’m due at the health club for an appointment with Hans, my personal trainer. Quite a striking and knowledgeable young man.” She brushed imaginary crumbs from the front of her warm-up, then bent and retied her running shoes.

“I need to shower,” said Kate. “But please stop by again soon.” She kissed Aunt Caroline’s forehead; then she and the dog disappeared up the back stairs.

“Before you leave, Aunt Caroline,” I said, “could I ask you about something I found?” I took the safe-deposit key from the antique sideboard, deciding that if anyone would recall anything to do with a bank, Aunt Caroline would.

“You’ll make me late, Abigail,” she said impatiently.

“Do you recognize this?” I held out the key.

Her eyes flickered with interest. “Where did this come from?” She plucked it from my hand.

“Daddy’s house in Galveston.”

“But I went through the files and boxes down there after he died. I never saw this.”

“You went there?” I said, surprised.

“I wanted to make sure Charlie hadn’t, well... that something important hadn’t been overlooked for probate.”

Hmmm. Could things have disappeared from P Street that Kate and I knew nothing about? “So you had access to the Victorian?” I asked, thinking maybe Aunt Caroline broke the padlock and that was how the intruder got in.

“Your memory’s failing you, Abby. I added the padlocks after Charlie’s funeral. The old locks were flimsy, making that vacant house an easy target for a break-in. Don’t you remember? I gave you the keys the day we met to go over Charlie’s will.”

“Forgive me for forgetting. I was distracted that day. I think it’s called grief.”

“That’s why I put things in order down there. To spare you from having to confront the memories I knew you’d find.”

“Right. And I’ve got some swampland in Antarctica I’d love to sell you. Did you take anything?”

She blinked. “Certainly not. Despite our differences, I do love you, Abby, and would never betray you in that fashion.” She handed me the key. “But I expect you’ll share the contents of that box when you open it, since I, too, am an heir. Now, I absolutely must be on my way.”

She left, and I sat there wondering if she’d made more than one trip to Galveston—and more recently than right after Daddy died. I wouldn’t put it past her to bash Steven over the head if she thought she could benefit financially from assault and battery.

The phone rang and I picked it up. Willis was calling to say his secretary would be dropping him off so he could pick up his car. After I hung up, I showered and dressed. By the time he arrived, I’d even managed several calls to locksmiths in hopes of finding out who had made the key and what bank they worked for, but I’d had no luck.

“Have you forgiven me for making you ride in a hearse?” I said, after letting Willis in the back door.

“Yes, silly. I’m always willing to help you.” He immediately noticed the police report on the table and went over and picked the paper up, his lawyer eyes sharp with interest. “What are you doing with this?”

“Research.”

“Research?” he asked.

“On Ben’s murder.”

“And the police gave you one of their reports?” he said, surprised.

“Well, not the Houston police.” I went on to explain what had happened since Willis left Shade in a hearse.

“As your lawyer, I have to advise you in your best interest. And what you are doing, or intend to do, is not in your best interest. No, not intelligent in the least.”

“So you think I’m stupid to pursue the truth? You think I’m stupid to want to know who killed Ben? You think I’m stupid to—”

“Abby, I’m worried about you. Ben’s killer hasn’t been caught.”

“And that’s my point. So I don’t care whether searching for the truth is in my ‘best interest.’ ” I held up the safe-deposit key. “I found this at the Victorian. Look familiar?” I pushed the key across the table.

He picked it up and turned it over. “No. What bank is this from?”

“I have no idea. That’s the problem.” I noticed his tanned face was looking a little yellow, and a tiny line of sweat erupted above his upper lip. “Are you okay, Willis?”

He laughed, handing the key back. “I’m fine. Sorry I can’t help.” He stood, ready to leave.

“Thanks for the loan of your beautiful car. No hard feelings about your transportation back to Houston yesterday, right?” I walked around the table and put an arm around his shoulder.

“No problem,” he said. “No problem at all.”