Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

Neither of them responded. They followed in silence up the walkway and into the kitchen. I hated to leave the two of them alone, but I couldn’t comfortably converse in my underwear, so I said, “Make coffee, Steven,” hoping that would keep him occupied.

I took the back stairs two at a time, and Webster raced past me in the opposite direction, barking frantically, tail wagging.

“Better late than never, Wonder Dog.” I glanced back as he trotted down to greet the guests. “Better go see if you can lick those intruders to death.”

Sleepy-eyed Kate was coming out of her room when I entered the upstairs hallway. “Did I hear people yelling?”

“We had a little Pecos promenade on the lawn. One of the yellers—Steven—is making coffee, so join us, if you’re so inclined. And by the way, do you have a flashlight?”

“In my nightstand. But who else is downstairs?”

I explained about Steven and Kline as we walked to her room. Kate did have a flashlight—exactly where she knew it would be.

“Would you mind rescuing Diva from the attic while I get dressed?” I asked. “Then I need to play referee downstairs. Those two might not be able to stay in the same room together without doing severe damage to each other’s faces.”

Kate agreed to find the cat, and I went to my bedroom and quickly pulled on shorts and put a bra on under my T-shirt. When I arrived back downstairs, well armed with questions for my policeman friend, I realized I might need a meat cleaver to cut the tension.

I smiled. “So maybe we can have introductions now. Or have you two already done that?” I glanced back and forth between them and was rewarded with a surly grunt from Steven and an “are you nuts?” look from Kline.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, then. Guess you’ve already exchanged names.”

“Not exactly,” said Kline. “He’s not talking. Since you obviously know him, why don’t you enlighten me as to who he is and what he’s doing here?”

“Uh, sure. Sergeant Kline, this is Steven Bradley, my ex-husband.”

“Oh,” said Kline, his tone frosted with sarcasm. “Did I stumble in on one of those kinky ‘ex-spouse’ things?”

Steven was on his feet faster than a prairie fire with a tailwind. He grabbed Kline by the lapels of his sports jacket.

This set Webster to barking and racing around the table.

“Who the hell do you think you are, asshole?” Steven said. He was spraying bits of spit into the cop’s face, but Kline had no trouble turning the tables. Within a millisecond, he had Steven restrained.

I jumped up. “Stop acting as if this is recess at elementary school. He could arrest you, Steven.” I focused on Kline, trying to contain my anger. “What Steven and I do in private is none of your damn business, so I suggest you let him go.”

Kline pushed Steven away and straightened his jacket. Both of them sat back down.

I reclaimed my seat as well, my hands shaking as I raised the coffee mug Steven had set on the table for me.

To his credit, Kline said, “Sorry. I was way out of line.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the bright slash on his cheek produced earlier by my fingernail.

“Why were you in my driveway in the middle of the night, Sergeant Kline?” I asked. “I thought you said you were finished with the surveillance.”

“Thought I was.” Kline offered his pack of Big Red to Steven and me. It was definitely the worse for wear.

I declined, and Steven ignored the olive branch.

Kline put two sticks in his mouth and chewed for a second before continuing. “As I waded through the paperwork on my desk after you left the station this morning, I came across a fax from Galveston Police Department. Why didn’t you tell me about the break-in on P Street, Ms. Rose?”

“You didn’t ask. You had other priorities, remember?”

Kline flushed.

My turn to gloat. “But I like a man who can admit when he’s wrong.”

Steven perked up at this exchange. “Maybe I ought to leave the two of you alone so you can like each other in private.” But he didn’t budge from his chair.

That figured. He wasn’t about to leave me alone with Kline. I said, “You didn’t exactly call at a reasonable hour, Steven, so don’t pull that ‘poor me’ stuff.” I turned back to Kline. “Tell me, Sergeant. How does a break-in on P Street lead to this fight with Steven?”

“I was working late on a case tonight, another surveillance, and after my partner took over I decided it wouldn’t hurt to swing by and make sure everything was okay over here. What went down in Galveston concerned me. The report said someone dinged your ex-husband and—Wait a minute. I guess that was you, huh, hero?” Kline smiled.

Gosh. He could actually do more with his mouth than chew gum tonight.

“It was only a scratch,” said Steven, staring intently into his coffee.

“Anyway,” continued Kline, “seemed like a good idea to keep an eye out here until I figure out if that break-in is connected to the murder. But what do I see when I get here? This jerk—excuse me—him”—he thumbed at Steven—“creeping away from the house. How would you expect a cop to react?”

“I wasn’t creeping,” said Steven with undisguised contempt. “I was doing Abby a favor.”

“And I was watching out for the lady, okay, Bradley?”

The knuckles on Steven’s clenched fists grew white. “The lady already has someone to—”

“Hey! Abby!” Kate called from the back stairs. She appeared seconds later and stopped in the doorway, pulling her robe around her. “I didn’t realize you still had company.”

“You remember Sergeant Kline, Kate?”

“Yes.” She nodded at both of them. “Listen, I need help. I can hear Diva, but I need more than a flashlight before I step inside that attic. I think a lightbulb and some reinforcements are in order. I remember the last time she pulled a stunt like this, she nearly shredded my arm during the rescue attempt.”

And that was how we all ended upstairs five minutes later—and discovered that rescuing Diva from the box where she was trapped was the least of our problems.

Someone had done the P Street number all over again. The small attic was a ransacked wreck.

I slept late the next day, with Diva harbored once more in her usual place, purring contentedly each time I reached out to stroke her. She wouldn’t be visiting the attic again in the near future, judging from the amount of food and water she’d consumed after rediscovering the kitchen.

Last night, Sergeant Kline—his first name was Jeff, I’d learned—had called for reinforcements to dust the attic for fingerprints and to determine if we’d been a victim of vandalism or theft. They couldn’t decide, and neither could we. I hadn’t exactly done an inventory prior to the ransacking. The police left around four-thirty in the morning, and then Kate and I had dragged the contents of the attic into the guest room so we wouldn’t have to pull things out tomorrow in the daytime heat to reorganize the mess. We had a huge pile of old clothes, picture albums, and household rejects, as well as more proof that Daddy’s need to save things had bordered on psychotic.

Last night, and now again this morning, I wondered whether this assault on the attic was somehow connected to Ben’s murder. Or could it be related to that safe-deposit box key? After all, I had found the hidden key right after a similar incident at the Victorian. Of course, I had no proof the key was even what the P Street vandal had been looking for.

Before I could think of any other possible reason for people tearing into our old belongings, the phone rang. I turned on my side and picked up the phone.

“Ms. Rose? Jeff Kline.”