Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

“Maybe you misjudged Mr. Garrison,” Willis said. “ Likable doesn’t translate to upstanding citizen.”

I turned to Willis. “Why are you so down on him? He’s been murdered, for God’s sake.”

“Maybe my attitude isn’t related to Ben. Maybe I’m still angry with Charlie for dying on me. One of our last disagreements involved Ben—how Charlie gave him the job without consulting me. He usually always asked my advice.”

I sat back, understanding now. I was still pissed off at Daddy myself for making such an abrupt exit. “So Daddy consulted you about more than CompuCan business, then?”

I currently pretend to run CompuCan, the company Daddy left behind, seeing as how I’m the daughter with the computer science degree. But about five years ago Daddy phased out the software side, and now CompuCan vies for its share of the “you want it, we’ll build it” desktop-laptop business. Since it’s well managed by others with far more expertise in sales and marketing than I possess, I pretty much keep my distance.

Willis said, “To answer your question, Charlie was my best friend first, my client second, and we talked about everything. But he hired Ben without my input, and now that choice seems to have landed you smack in the center of a scandal.”

“Have you forgotten we have a victim at the center of this so-called scandal, Willis?”

He hesitated, his cheeks infusing with color. “I-I guess I was sounding pretty callous. But my main concern is for you, Abby. If Ben was murdered, a killer sneaked onto your property while you were nearby.”

“I-I never thought of that.” And this realization jolted me. But not because I was worried about myself. No, the fact that Ben might have angered someone so much that they wanted him dead was what really bothered me. And the killer probably walked right past my sleeping body to do him harm. I’d heard nothing, and I should have.

“I’m going back to the club,” Willis said. “I dropped everything when I heard the news. Left my clothes in my locker. You need anything, you call me, understand?”

“Sure,” I replied, distracted. Why hadn’t I heard anything this afternoon? Could I have saved Ben’s life if I hadn’t fallen asleep? Or if I’d locked the gate? Or turned on the alarm? And how could I live with myself if I could have prevented Ben’s death?

Kate returned to the house about fifteen minutes later. She too couldn’t offer Sergeant Kline any information about Ben’s family. Together we searched the study for any documents Daddy might have saved concerning Ben, but came up with nothing. Within the hour we were back outside, watching them load Ben into the medical examiner’s van.

The setting sun created an apricot-and-red backdrop to this macabre scene—perfect colors for what was a far more emotional moment than I would have imagined. Tears slid down my cheeks and onto the front of the tank top I’d changed into. A hardworking man had been murdered while I slept by my fancy pool alongside my lavish home in my ritzy neighborhood. And wasn’t I proud?

The number of police on the property had dwindled to one: Sergeant Kline. He stood somberly by as the stretcher was hoisted into the van. Without acknowledging Kate’s or my presence, he then strode toward a white Crown Victoria.

I caught up to him as he was about to pull off the lawn.

He rolled down his window when I tapped on the glass.

“You remember something about that conversation with the victim?” he asked.

“No. Sorry. But I did check for the application we talked about.”

“And?”

“I couldn’t find one. But we own an old house in Galveston that Daddy used as a mini-warehouse for his document collection. He saved every scrap of paper he ever touched, so he could have stored—”

“Thanks, Ms. Rose. Let me know what you turn up.” And with that, the window whirred back up.

I stepped away from the car and he drove off.

Sheesh, I thought, rejoining Kate. That man’s mother probably had to feed him with a slingshot.

She and I walked back toward the house arm in arm, Kate’s head on my shoulder. Though I felt a powerful sadness at what had happened here, guilt grabbed at me the most. I knew nothing about a man who had lived right next to me for months. Nothing except his name. What were his dreams? Who had he shared them with? Where did he come from?

I kept imagining his family somewhere, maybe watching TV or reading books or taking a walk, completely unaware they had lost someone they loved. And so, before I fell asleep that night, I promised myself I would find out if Ben had a wife... children... or even aging parents. And I would speak with his family, offer them my sympathy. As Daddy always said, conscience is like a baby. It has to go to sleep before you do.

The next morning I lay curled under the quilt with Diva asleep on my hip. She’s a calico with plenty of attitude, and my best friend, next to Kate.

White morning light sneaked between the slats in the blinds, and the central air-conditioning hummed its reminder that this would be another scorching day in the Bayou City. But there would be no languishing by the pool. I was committed to tracking down Ben’s family.

I stroked Diva’s back, then eased her off me. She settled into the quilt folds and closed her eyes while I sat on the edge of the bed and stretched, ready to head for the shower.

The nightstand phone rang before I put a foot on the floor. I picked up.

“Abby?” snapped a female voice I recognized as belonging to my aunt Caroline Lemoyne. She comes on about as gentle as a mouthful of spicy gumbo, and even though she’d uttered only a single word, I knew she was hot.

“Hi, Aunt Caroline,” I replied, trying for nonchalant.

“Tell me what happened. Every detail. And I especially would like to know why I had to read about this murder in the Chronicle. ”

“I didn’t have much chance to—”

“Very unflattering picture of you and your sister, by the way. The newspaper used that awful shot from the Ackerman Charity Ball. The one with you in that red dress that makes you look so... plump.”

Oh, brother. That “unflattering” picture in the hands of reporters? A true social emergency.

“The Chronicle said it was a murder, then?” I said, focusing on the one interesting thing she’d managed to say. “Because the police wouldn’t confirm that yesterday.”

“I’m not sure it’s confirmed even today. You know how vague newspaper reporters get when they don’t possess all the facts. And who died, may I ask? Because apparently his identity is being withheld.”

“Remember the yardman, Ben Garrison?”

“Oh. Him. Well, then this murder theory makes no sense. Gardeners work with poisons all the time. Do you have a rodent problem? Is that how this cyanide affair played out?”

Cyanide? Yes! That’s what I’d smelled in the greenhouse. Almonds. “I didn’t even know about the cyanide. Did the article say anything else of interest?”

“Are you saying a man dies violently on your property and you know nothing? And you don’t bother to call me?”

“We were kind of overwhelmed by all the police searching the place, collecting evidence, asking questions. Then a slew of reporters hung around outside the gate even after the police left. You’ll be pleased to know we didn’t talk to them, by the way.”

“At least you have some sense left, but you still should have contacted me. We may not be blood relatives, but I have cared for you all your life, and with Charlie gone, I’m the only person you girls have left in this world.”