Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

And what, I wondered, was so darn delightful about that?

Webster, now Mr. Cooperative, had no problem following me, and as I went upstairs, I asked myself how much havoc could one little old vandal wreak in an empty house?

But within seconds I answered my own question.

“Plenty,” I said aloud from my vantage point in the doorway of the bedroom. “Plenty indeed.”

I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the bedroom, papers scattered in every direction, when Kate and Steven returned from the hospital.

“Whoa, Abby! What happened here?” Kate said, handing me a sack from the local sub shop.

Steven followed her into the room, offering a jumbo iced tea, which I accepted gratefully.

“Welcome to Daddy’s stockpile,” I said. “I remember him saying, ‘Why rent a warehouse when this place will serve the same purpose,’ but I never realized his pack-rat mentality went as far as paper wads. Whoever was up here dumped all four of Daddy’s filing cabinets.”

“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” said Steven.

I had nursed him through enough hangovers to recognize the strain in his tone. The man had a giant headache. “How’s your head?” I asked.

“Five stitches, and my plot at the cemetery is still empty,” he replied. “What’s in all these files?”

“Documents from back when Daddy first started CompuCan. Certainly old tax files. I’ve seen plenty of those already. I’ve also run across Kate’s and my report cards, twenty pounds of newspaper clippings, a dozen recipes for salsa, and napkins from every restaurant this side of the Mississippi.”

“Why would anyone save this stuff?” He pushed sheets of paper around with his booted toe.

“Because Daddy saved everything,” Kate and I said in unison.

“Either the guy who broke in wanted something real bad or he was plain ornery,” Steven said.

“If there’s a reason other than vandalism for this mess, I’d sure like to know,” I said. “And I’m still wondering if this has something to do with Ben’s murder.”

“I’m more interested in who clubbed me. No one’s gonna blindside me and get away with it.” He rubbed his head near his recent reminder of the day’s events.

“How did this person get the jump on you, by the way?” asked Kate.

“I came by to inspect the place, see what needed doing.”

“Did you see this person? See anything?” I asked.

“Actually, my new contacts were bugging me, so I’d taken them out.”

“Ah. So you were literally blindsided,” I said.

“Why do you think I let Kate drive me to the hospital?” he said. “I sure as hell couldn’t navigate with that skull crusher of a headache and my contacts out.”

“If you knew you couldn’t drive, why the hissy fit when I suggested Kate take you?” This I had to hear.

“Abby, there’s a hell of a difference between you telling me anything and regular people telling me.”

“Is that supposed to make sense?” I asked.

“Does to me,” he answered.

“I forgot. You’re different. Kate, would you help me make order out of this chaos?” I sat on the floor and gathered papers toward me, trying to ignore my anger. Just like the old days, I shoved my feelings down, and this led within minutes to a slow burn in my midsection. If only my familiarity with that sensation could have bred enough contempt for me to tell Steven to get lost—permanently.

Kate and I began our chore, while Steven, unable to remain still despite the head injury, stuck around and busied himself with his measuring tape, preparing for the job ahead.

An hour later, Kate and I had hardly made a wave in the paper ocean. I reached into my tea and removed the remnant of an ice cube, which I tossed to Webster. He crunched away, happy as a hog in a mud hole.

“Sorting through all this could take weeks,” I said. “Why would someone do this?”

“Maybe one of those homeless people decided to make a paper mattress.” Kate swiped a hand across her forehead. Despite the window air conditioner droning in the background—no central air in this old place—the room felt like a steam bath.

I held my cup against my temple and savored the chill. “Well, if the break-in is somehow connected to Ben, the intruder may have taken the evidence with him. All we’ve found are credit card bills dating back twenty years, canceled checks beginning in 1960, and bank statements galore. Vitally important, if you work for the IRS and need your daily fix of old financial records.”

Kate said, “We should start packing boxes, get rid of some of this stuff. What about that pile?” Tight-lipped, she nodded at a stack of medical records from our mother’s numerous hospitalizations.

I didn’t want to deal with those, and I could tell Kate didn’t either. Our mother, Elizabeth, had died from complications of cystic fibrosis when we were about three years old. Neither of us remembered her—she’d been too ill even to care for us—but Daddy spoke of her often, reminded us that she had loved us dearly and had been heartbroken when she became wheelchair-bound less than a year after our adoption. She’d died when we were three.

“I say we concentrate our efforts on anything that might be connected to Ben,” I said, glancing around.

“There may be nothing here,” Kate said. “This vandalism could be totally unrelated to his murder.”

“I wouldn’t place bets. Too coincidental.”

Kate picked up a folder and fanned her face. “You still think Daddy had Ben’s employment application? And why would you need that now? We know where he lived, know about his past.”

“I’m interested to learn whether Daddy knew Ben’s real identity. He could have been helping him find Cloris’s killer. If we uncover something to prove—”

“I’m still not convinced Daddy was helping Ben. And do you really believe Daddy could have kept that big a secret from us?” Kate asked.

She had a point. But maybe someone in Daddy’s past—an employee, perhaps—was somehow connected to Cloris Grayson’s death. “If Daddy didn’t share this secret with us,” I said, “he had a damn good reason. A good-hearted reason. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she said.

“Okay. So our job is to find out why Ben was hunting for a killer at our house. What, if anything, did his presence have to do with Daddy?”

I was about to start sorting through more documents when I noticed something taped to the folder Kate was using as a fan. “What’s that?”

She returned my puzzled expression. “You mean this?” She held up the manila folder.

“It’s an envelope,” I said, crawling over beside her.

Kate peeled off the tape that attached a small envelope to the back of the folder. Inside was a key.

“Looks like a safe-deposit box key,” I said, searching for an identifying logo.

“I thought we emptied all the bank boxes after Daddy died,” Kate said.

“Apparently not. So how do we find out where this one is located?”

“I have no idea,” Kate said.

“Maybe this is the clue we need. By the way, Willis called me early this morning and said Ben’s funeral is tomorrow. Can you drive to Shade with me?”

“Tomorrow? No way. I have marathon family therapy sessions.”

“I guess it’s me and Willis, then. How exciting.” I rolled my eyes, thinking about riding up and back to Shade having to endure his company, listening as he carried on about how, if I’d only give him the chance, he could expertly run my life. For a small fee, of course.

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.