Pick Your Poison yrm-1

by Leann Sweeney

  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.”

  10

  Once Willis left, I headed to Galveston, now very late for my lunch appointment with Steven. We had planned to meet and talk about the renovation. When I turned onto P Street an hour later, I saw an exterminator’s vehicle parked in the driveway. Steven was paying the uniformed man, and when the truck left, I pulled the Camry in.

  After I slid from behind the wheel, Steven said, “You were supposed to be here at eleven-thirty.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel, climbed the porch steps, and stomped into the house.

  “Sheesh. Just what I want to do. Spend the afternoon with an alligator with chapped lips,” I mumbled, following him.

  Once inside, I saw he’d been hard at work. The scent of pine welcomed me when I entered, and the ceiling fan in the parlor was spinning furiously. The wooden shades were all open, revealing gleaming windows.

  Steven was in the kitchen watching a few roaches squirm in the throes of chemical death on the tile floor.

  “Looks like a different place. I’m impressed,” I said, nodding in appreciation.

  My reaction seemed to soften him up a little, because he almost smiled. “I paid the cleaning crew a hundred and the exterminator fifty. My treat. But where in hell have you been?”

  “Sorry, but I had a few visitors this morning.”

>   Steven pointed to a spray bottle on the counter. “While I remember, the bug man left extra juice in case a few critters need an extra push to roach heaven.”

  “There’s always some who hang on. Have you eaten yet?” I asked.

  “No, and I’m pretty darn hungry. Let’s head for the beach and the shrimp. These chemicals may be odorless, but I don’t like to hang around right after the exterminator has done his business. Stuff is pretty potent.”

  “How did you know I was craving seafood?” I said as we walked out through the back door.

  Stan’s Shrimp Shack, a tiny restaurant off Seawall Boulevard, had few customers, so we had our choice of tables. We sat in the corner farthest from the bar. Between mouthfuls of crab salad, I filled Steven in on what I had learned about Ben after the funeral yesterday and how I hoped to find answers.

  “So you talked the county mountie out of his paperwork, huh?” He peeled a shrimp and dunked it in hot sauce. “I knew you couldn’t keep your pretty nose out of this mystery.”

  “Hey, I can do what I want with my pretty nose.”

  “And how I love it when you remind me. Let’s talk about the house. That’s what I’m doing in Galveston, right?”

  “I know the place is in bad shape,” I said.

  We spent the next thirty or forty minutes discussing the needed renovations, and by the time he finished, I wondered if we might be better off tearing the place down and starting over.

  Steven, who could still read my mind as well as ever, said, “And don’t even think about razing the Victorian. I contacted the city, and the house is more than a hundred years old. You don’t tear down hundred-year-old houses in Galveston without dealing with reams of paperwork and getting multiple stamps of approval.”

  “Okay. But this sounds like a huge undertaking. Can you handle this project alone?” I asked.

  “No way. But I will get the house in good enough shape to last through hurricane season. Fix the roof, replace windows, that kind of stuff. Meanwhile, I’ve arranged to have a more experienced renovator come by and take a look.”

  I nodded. “You’ve impressed me twice in one day, Steven. Sounds like I hired the right man. But we haven’t discussed your fee.”

  He stiffened. “I don’t want your money. I got enough when we divorced.”

  “That’s not what you told the judge.”

  “Hey, I was knee-walking, spit-slinging drunk the day we finalized. You can’t hold me to anything I said back then.”

  “Okay. Maybe that’s so. But I’m still paying you for your work. I want this to be a professional relationship.”

  “You don’t want to owe me? Is that it?” He sat back, arms folded across his chest.

  How did he always manage to turn things around? I took a deep breath. “If you want, I’ll have Willis work with you about payment. That way you and I can stay clear of touchy issues like money.”

  He said nothing for several seconds; then his face relaxed in a smile. “Good idea.”

  I smiled back, relieved. If Steven stayed sober and if we both controlled our tempers, this renovation might actually be fun.

  We went back to the Victorian after lunch, and he showed me where we needed the most urgent repairs, pointed out the phone he’d had installed, and then went upstairs to work on a leaky toilet. Meanwhile, I returned to the vandalized room. Maybe I could find bank records that would lead me to the mysterious safe-deposit box. But after an hour of searching, I settled for the next-best option—canceled checks. Since Daddy must have paid for the box’s rental somehow, and since he used checks for everything, maybe I could find the name of the bank that way.

  I was placing rubber-banded stacks of paper in a box when Steven appeared in the door, wrench in hand. “I need a few plumbing supplies. Can I get you anything while I’m out? A Coke or something?”

  “No, I’m on my way home. You can carry this box to my car, though.”

  He set down his wrench, came over, and picked up the box. “What’s in here? Bricks?”

  “Three decades of canceled checks.” I explained about the safe-deposit box and my plan to find out where the box was hiding.

  “Good thing Charlie saved everything,” Steven said snidely, heading for the stairs. “He’s providing for your entertainment even after he’s gone.”

  I chose not to answer back, but all the way home I kept wondering why Steven had to ruin what had almost been a pleasant afternoon.

  When I arrived back in Houston, Kate had left a note saying she was at Terry’s place. Time for a chore I had been putting off. I told Ruth I would gather whatever belongings Ben had left in the garage apartment once the police removed the crime scene tape, which they had done while I was at the funeral. I went outside, found a cardboard box in the garage, then climbed the stairs.

  The air-conditioning had been turned down to sixty degrees, probably by the cops, and they left the ceiling fan running, too. Goose bumps rose on my bare arms, and I immediately reset the thermostat.

  The apartment we furnished consisted of only two rooms—a living area with a small kitchenette, and a bedroom. The chenille couch cushions lay on the floor, and the cabinets below the sink and microwave stood ajar. I found a crocheted afghan by the recliner that I didn’t recognize and folded the blanket into the box. After a brief search of the room, which yielded only a coffee mug and several Handyman magazines, I went to the bedroom.

  I stopped after stepping inside, a lump in my throat. A quilt similar to those Ruth had shown me up at her place, ones she made by hand, had been pulled off the bed, and a worn Bible rested on the end table. Pillowcases and sheets had been tossed in the corner, and the mattress was off center on the box springs. Every dresser drawer stood open, their contents removed. Ben’s meager wardrobe—work clothes, Levi’s, cotton shirts, and underwear—lay in a crumpled pile in the closet. All the pockets in his trousers were turned out.

  I sat on the floor and packed up his clothes, feeling sad and also a little angry at how the police had discarded his belongings. I then folded the quilt and remade the bed before turning to the Bible. For some reason, I didn’t want to even touch the book. Bibles seemed such private things.

  Feeling like I was somehow betraying Ben, I opened to the first page. What I saw made me blink hard and swallow that tennis ball in my throat. The inscription read, To Ben from Connie. All my love. July 24, 1971.

  Connie? Not his beloved Cloris? Was this the Connie mentioned in the newspaper article? The one who had disappeared? Seemed a logical conclusion. So what happened to Connie? And why would an article about her be packed away with Cloris’s belongings?

  I quickly boxed up Ben’s things and hurried back to the house, anxious to research the newspaper article. I took the clipping into Daddy’s study and booted up the computer. The byline in the Marysville Sentinel clipping belonged to a Larry Kryshevski. The small newspaper did have a web site, but the archives went back only a year. I called the phone number provided on the site, but the young woman who answered had never heard of the author. Heck, the article was probably written before she was born.

  With so much time having passed, the writer seemed like my best bet to learn more than what meager facts were provided in the article, so I plugged Larry K’s name into a search engine. It seemed he was a syndicated freelancer, and I found pages and pages of Web articles from newspapers all over the country. And I also found his mother’s obituary, which offered the name of his hometown. Finding his phone number was as easy as catching fish with dynamite.

  After I dialed, he answered with, “Kryshevski here. I don’t want any.”

  “I’m not a telemarketer,” I said quickly. “I’m calling about a story you wrote years ago.”

  “Years ago I might remember; just don’t ask me about anything I wrote yesterday.” His raspy, gruff voice sounded like he was a smoker.

  “My name is Abby Rose, and the article in question concerned a teenager’s disappearance. Very brief story in the Marysville Sentinel.
I’m hoping you know more than what appeared in the paper.”

  “Hold on a second.” He didn’t bother to cover the receiver when he started yelling at whoever was in the room with him. “Can you tell I’m on the phone? Or have you added deaf and blind to the hypochondria list?”

  I heard a female respond, but couldn’t make out what she said. Larry answered her with, “Now I understand why you sneeze all the time. To remove the dust from your brain.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Ms. Rose. Continue.”

  “The teenager’s name was Connie Kramer,” I said, hoping to end this conversation quickly. Larry K wasn’t exactly my kind of guy.

  “Yeah. Connie. She disappeared.”

  “So you do recall the story?”

  “The kid, more than the story. In places like Marysville you get to know people.”

  “And what do you remember about her?”

  “Hold on again,” he said, then barked, “Chicken again? Are you hoping to put enough salmonella in my system to kill me, Phyllis?”

  Sounded like a decent plan to me, I thought.

  This time the woman’s response was audible. “Kryshevski, you’re living proof there are more horse’s butts than horses. Eat your dinner and shut up.”

  It seemed she didn’t need anyone’s help to handle this jerk.

  Larry said, “I’m having a conversation with someone far more interesting than a fucking chicken. She wants to know about something I wrote, which of course would never interest you.”

  “Uh, maybe I should call you back later?” I said.

  “No. Me and the chicken will go in the other room—if that’s okay with you, Phyllis?”

  Another muffled response that I was glad I couldn’t understand.

  “Women,” said Larry K, and then I heard a door squeal shut. “Okay. Blessed privacy. Now why are you asking about Connie Kramer?”

  “I was cleaning out an attic after a friend died and found the article. Looks like it came from one of those ‘police beat’ sections,” I said. “The last line is what caught my interest. You wrote, ‘Foul play is not suspected.’ ”