Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

“We both knew. But I ran toward the truth instead of away from it,” I said.

“Are you turning this information over to Jeff? Please say that’s what you plan to do.”

“Yes, but I want that CD, Kate. I want to hear Daddy’s side. I don’t want to believe he murdered our mother or cooperated with Feldman, even though I’m almost certain that’s what I’ll discover.”

“What about Feldman’s wife? She’s one cold, calculating female. Couldn’t she have murdered Ben?”

I nodded. “Maybe. But the killer knew the routine here, with the roses and all. That means Willis. Lord knows he had motive. His reputation and his law practice were at stake.” I stood.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“That CD is important. I’m heading for Steven’s office. I can never count on him to pick up his messages.”

“But the roads are terrible, and they’ll be in worse condition the farther south you travel.”

“Can I use the 4Runner again?”

Kate stood. “I’ll go with you.”

“You need to stay in case Jeff or Steven calls. Give them my cell number. And if Steven does phone, tell him to bring me that CD.”

“Please be careful. It’s pouring bullfrogs and heifer yearlings, like Daddy used to...” Her voice trailed off and she bit her lower lip.

Steven’s office, located about halfway between Houston and Galveston, occupied the far-west stall of a strip mall off the Gulf Freeway. The water on the feeder road leading into the parking lot sloshed halfway up my tires, and still the muddy skies poured rain.

The office was locked and Steven was nowhere in sight, but the cleaning crew hadn’t left. They were jump-starting their van with cables attached to another vehicle. The same lady who always cleaned Steven’s office recognized me and unlocked his door when I told her what I needed.

The place hadn’t changed. Steven always marked the map on the wall showing his ongoing construction jobs with colored pushpins, but aside from the pin on P Street, he had only one other job going. Can’t make much of a living like that, I thought, my eyes scanning the office.

I didn’t see any CDs, maybe because papers were strewn all over, along with stacks of blueprints. I checked the drive on the computer. No luck there, either.

But when I moved aside a paper, I spied a floppy disk with a familiar label. My disk. The one I’d looked for in the carousel at home just a short time ago.

So why did Steven need to borrow the CD if he had a disk with an updated program?

Cold fingers of fear gripped my heart and squeezed.

“Shit,” I whispered, tearing out the door.

I climbed back in the 4Runner and was back on the freeway heading toward Galveston seconds later. Why had Steven told Kate he needed the CD if the same program on disk had been here in his office all along? Unless he realized the CD contained important information.

Okay. So maybe Steven wanted to help me uncover the truth, and this was his latest attempt at inserting himself back into my life. Somehow he figured out before I did that the CD was the key.

My IQ through most of my so-called investigating had equaled my bra size: meager. But as blind as I’d been, believing for one nanosecond that Steven Bradley had borrowed the CD to help me find Ben’s murderer took the cake, the ice cream, and the hired clown.

Despite his newfound temperance, Steven still took care of Steven. If he wanted that CD, he had a damn good reason, one that didn’t involve helping anyone but himself.

Checking the rearview mirror, I watched the wake of dirty water, knowing I shouldn’t be speeding in this weather. I might pirouette straight into the hereafter on a highway so treacherously close to impassable.

But I didn’t care about my safety. Not anymore. I was dealing with the realization that I had badly misread every person in my life besides Kate. But folks were finished pissing in my boots and telling me it was rainwater. Feldman wouldn’t be tossing me out this time. Not before I had the truth.

An umbrella would have been useless with the wind commanding the rain every which way, so I settled for my purse, holding it over my head as I rushed to the Feldmans’ front door. My hand rested on the bell, but I didn’t press it. Why would Feldman or Hamilton ever invite me in? So I tried the knob.

The door opened.

“Anyone home?” I called into the chandelier-lit foyer.

No response.

I stepped inside, immediately creating a puddle at my feet. I looked around for a mat to wipe my sopping Keds and discovered that an unlocked door wasn’t the only thing out of the ordinary at the Feldman home.

A trail of what looked like blood meandered from the left and stopped at the front door. Some blood had even rusted the small pond around my feet.

I announced my presence louder. “Is anybody here?”

“What are you doing in my house?” called Helen Hamilton from the landing. She clutched a wad of lingerie in one hand and a hair dryer in the other and sounded pretty pissed off, but then, so was I.

“The door was open,” I said.

“It’s still open. Find your way out the same way you came in.”

“Do you know who I really am, Hamilton?”

She sneered down at me. “I know exactly who you are. Now get the hell out, and if you’re smart, you’ll get off this island.”

She disappeared into a room off the landing.

“If you won’t come to me, I’ll come to you,” I muttered, tackling the curving stairs. I hadn’t had one of those lovely pain pills lately and my thighs started aching again, making it seem like a very long climb to the second floor.

Hamilton was packing, if that was what you wanted to call it. Actually, she was throwing things into a suitcase as fast as I’d seen anyone move in a long time.

I leaned on the door frame. “Did you know there’s blood in your foyer?”

She ignored me and continued her frenzied raid of the dresser.

“Are you hurt? Did Feldman do something to you?” I asked.

She whirled. “You think that’s my blood down there?” She shook her head. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Then where did it come from?”

“I could make an educated guess, but I won’t.” She swiped the dresser top, clearing off hairbrushes and perfume bottles. After gathering them up, she stuffed them into the suitcase.

“Did you ask your husband what happened down there?”

“I don’t have time for your questions,” she said.

“Where’s Feldman? I need to talk to him before the police get here and arrest him.”

“He’s not here. And that’s the problem.” She paused, a hand on her hip. “You see, he never leaves. And I mean never . Samuel has this phobia about outdoors. It’s been three years since he’s even seen the sun. But I came home and bingo—he’s gone! No explanation except the blood.”

She closed her suitcase, retucked her blouse into her skirt, and slid her long, skinny feet into shoes retrieved from under the bed.

Those shoes. I’d seen them before, hadn’t I?

She glanced briefly into the mirror above the oak dresser and picked up the suitcase.

“Wait a minute. You’re leaving without even trying to find your husband?”

She pushed past me and I followed her down the stairs.

“I’m not waiting around for the cops to arrive or for someone to add my blood to that.” She nodded at the marble floor.

“Feldman was involved in murder, and I’m thinking you might know quite a lot about that involvement,” I said.

“I’m not saying a word without a lawyer. But they have to find me first.”

She hurried out before I could move, slamming the door after her.