Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

“Did you ever think maybe you couldn’t pin the murder on him because he wasn’t guilty?” I asked.

He stared at me. “If he didn’t do it, then who the hell did?”

“Probably the same person who killed him,” I said. “Have you pondered that since you heard about Ben’s death, Stanley?”

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

“Perhaps you were wrong about Ben?” I coaxed.

He didn’t answer immediately, and the grandfather clock ticking in the front room seemed as loud as a skeet shoot.

Finally Nemec turned to Ruth and said, “I’m sorry. I guess that’s what I came over to say. When they laid Ben in the ground today—and this may sound strange—but I was mad! I wasted years blaming him when I should have given up. My chasing after him only made you cotton to him more.” He paused and then said, “You heard me. And what in the hell good does that do anyone?”

I was beginning to think this confession could definitely do me some good. “You could make things up to Ruth, if you’re truly sorry,” I said.

“How’s that?”

“Yes, Miss Abby,” said Ruth. “How’s that? I ain’t sure I can forgive and forget, even though the Lord says I should.”

“Finding out what really happened is what’s important, right? I want to know who murdered Ben. But the Houston Police Department won’t be cooperating with the likes of me. You know how they treated you on the phone, Ruth.”

“I sure do, but what’s this got to do with Stanley?” she said.

“The police have cooperated with you, Sheriff,” I said. “I’ll bet you know a lot about Ben’s murder, don’t you? You might even be privy to more information, if you asked.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I got a full plate here in Shade. I can’t be traipsin’ off to Houston huntin’ up killers.”

“You won’t have to. I’ll do the traipsing. All I need is a little more information about Ben’s case, and a peek at the evidence from your investigation into Cloris’s death.”

The sheriff shook his head and stared at his boots. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to do that.”

“Stanley,” Ruth piped in, “if you help Miss Abby—who’s been very kind to me—I’d be inclined to serve you supper every now and then.” She smiled slyly, even though I would have never thought she had a sly bone in her body.

“All right,” he replied reluctantly. “For you, Ruth. Because I respect you, not because of some old pot roast.” He pointed a stubby finger at me. “You follow me to my office, city girl.”

He marched toward the front of the house, waving his hat this way and that, mumbling to himself.

And I climbed back up the ladder to gather anything belonging to Cloris I thought might help me before I met up with the sheriff.

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.”