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.”
“And face-lifts, too, I’ll bet. Course, when you get into double digits on those little operations, you—”
Kate kicked my shin. Hard. She said, “Can I get you coffee, Aunt Caroline?”
“I’m glad
“You mean Ben?”
“Yes,” she said.
“If he is buried, does that mean you can obliterate his memory?” I said coldly. “Deny he existed?” I tossed a crust of my leftover toast to Webster.
He held out for more, though Diva, obviously irritated at my favoring the dog, twitched her tail and left the room.
Kate placed a mug in front of Aunt Caroline and refilled my cup from the glass pot she carried in her other hand.
“What is all this?” Aunt Caroline waved at the papers on the table.
“Abby’s found a new calling. Detective,” said Kate. She set the pot on a trivet in the center of the table.
“What does she mean, Abigail?” Aunt Caroline added two packages of artificial sweetener to her coffee.
“I’m interested in the murder,” I said. “Curious and concerned, you could say.”
She sipped carefully, protecting her artistically made-up lips. “I’m not surprised you’re getting involved. Even as a child you constantly overstepped. Got caught up in causes, brought minorities home, picketed and petitioned. I’m glad you’ve toned down, but a certain naïveté still clings to you, my dear. Professionals are being paid to deal with this crime, and you have neither the knowledge nor the experience—”
“I’ll pass on the lecture. I don’t think that’s why you came over this morning.” She wouldn’t push my buttons today. Not if I could help it.
Aunt Caroline rose and retrieved her Gucci handbag, then produced two handwritten pages. “I have the list we discussed, a few sentimental items I’d like to have when you two move out.”
I took the pages. She’d named almost every antique and piece of art Daddy owned. “A few items?”
I passed the list to Kate, who forced a smile. “Could Abby and I review this and get back to you?”
“Of course, dear.” She took a gold compact from her purse and patted face powder on her nose. “Get back to me as soon as possible on the disbursement. I’ll pay for a moving van to transport everything to my home.”
I took a deep breath to ease the tightness in my gut. Why did our mother have to die and leave us at the mercy of a female role model as mean as a rattle-snake with a headache?
Aunt Caroline said, “Time for me to leave. I’m due at the health club for an appointment with Hans, my personal trainer. Quite a striking and knowledgeable young man.” She brushed imaginary crumbs from the front of her warm-up, then bent and retied her running shoes.
“I need to shower,” said Kate. “But please stop by again soon.” She kissed Aunt Caroline’s forehead; then she and the dog disappeared up the back stairs.
“Before you leave, Aunt Caroline,” I said, “could I ask you about something I found?” I took the safe-deposit key from the antique sideboard, deciding that if anyone would recall anything to do with a bank, Aunt Caroline would.
“You’ll make me late, Abigail,” she said impatiently.
“Do you recognize this?” I held out the key.
Her eyes flickered with interest. “Where did this come from?” She plucked it from my hand.
“Daddy’s house in Galveston.”
“But I went through the files and boxes down there after he died. I never saw this.”
“You went there?” I said, surprised.
“I wanted to make sure Charlie hadn’t, well... that something important hadn’t been overlooked for probate.”
Hmmm. Could things have disappeared from P Street that Kate and I knew nothing about? “So you had access to the Victorian?” I asked, thinking maybe Aunt Caroline broke the padlock and that was how the intruder got in.
“Your memory’s failing you, Abby. I added the padlocks after Charlie’s funeral. The old locks were flimsy, making that vacant house an easy target for a break-in. Don’t you remember? I gave you the keys the day we met to go over Charlie’s will.”
“Forgive me for forgetting. I was distracted that day. I think it’s called grief.”
“That’s why I put things in order down there. To spare you from having to confront the memories I knew you’d find.”
“Right. And I’ve got some swampland in Antarctica I’d love to sell you. Did you take anything?”
She blinked. “Certainly not. Despite our differences, I do love you, Abby, and would never betray you in that fashion.” She handed me the key. “But I expect you’ll share the contents of that box when you open it, since I, too, am an heir. Now, I absolutely must be on my way.”
She left, and I sat there wondering if she’d made more than one trip to Galveston—and more recently than
