Pick Your Poison

Ruth said, “I hear someone in the drive. Maybe a late caller coming to pay their respects. You be okay up there, Miss Abby?”

“I’ll be fine. You go on.”

I took the glass with me and had just dragged the second trunk over so I could look through the contents when I heard a voice I recognized. Sheriff Nemec.

I quickly opened the trunk, and this one proved far more interesting. I found several calendars, two photographs, and several sketchbooks. One photo showed a young woman standing by the gate to this house. The other picture was of Ben in an ill-fitting suit and the same woman in a simple white dress holding a bouquet of roses. I turned it over. Ben and Cloris had been penned on the back. I quickly switched my attention to the sketchbooks. Some of the colored-pencil drawings of birds and flowers were expertly detailed, stunningly realistic, but before I could examine these more closely, the sheriff interrupted me.

“You best come down from there, miss. HPD might be interested in what you’ve found.”

I turned and stared down at Nemec, who held his hat in his hand. “I believe Ruth would have given you the same chance at this stuff.”

“Might have, Miss Abby,” Ruth said. “But now I’m not so sure.”

I pushed the trunk away from the attic opening and descended the stairs.

“Nothing but some old clothes and toys anyway,” I said, brushing remnants of insulation off my linen skirt.

“Mind if I check myself?” He put a beefy hand on the stair railing and waved me aside.

Quickly I said, “Ruth, did he show you a warrant?”

“No, miss. Guess he needs one, huh?”

Nemec’s jaw tightened. “Ruth, I never had no argument with you. I’m only doing my job, just like when I went after Ben.”

“Then you do it proper and get that piece of paper,” she said.

“I was hoping you’d let bygones be bygones now that Ben’s dead and buried,” he said. “Before you took a shine to him, you and I had a few things in common, as I recall.”

“Are you thinking I forgot how you hounded Ben year after year? And you didn’t start with your tales of how he was going to hell until I turned your marriage proposal down. I take that kinda personal, Stanley.”

The sheriff frowned and stared at the thin carpet that ran the length of the hall. “I couldn’t believe you befriended a murderer. I kept telling you he done it. But I’ve been doing some thinking, and I may be willing to admit a mistake or two.” He shook his head. “Never could pin Cloris’s death on him. Been like trying to stack greased BBs all these years.”

“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.

9

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