Pick Your Poison

“Three decades of canceled checks.” I explained about the safe-deposit box and my plan to find out where the box was hiding.

“Good thing Charlie saved everything,” Steven said snidely, heading for the stairs. “He’s providing for your entertainment even after he’s gone.”

I chose not to answer back, but all the way home I kept wondering why Steven had to ruin what had almost been a pleasant afternoon.

When I arrived back in Houston, Kate had left a note saying she was at Terry’s place. Time for a chore I had been putting off. I told Ruth I would gather whatever belongings Ben had left in the garage apartment once the police removed the crime scene tape, which they had done while I was at the funeral. I went outside, found a cardboard box in the garage, then climbed the stairs.

The air-conditioning had been turned down to sixty degrees, probably by the cops, and they left the ceiling fan running, too. Goose bumps rose on my bare arms, and I immediately reset the thermostat.

The apartment we furnished consisted of only two rooms—a living area with a small kitchenette, and a bedroom. The chenille couch cushions lay on the floor, and the cabinets below the sink and microwave stood ajar. I found a crocheted afghan by the recliner that I didn’t recognize and folded the blanket into the box. After a brief search of the room, which yielded only a coffee mug and several Handyman magazines, I went to the bedroom.

I stopped after stepping inside, a lump in my throat. A quilt similar to those Ruth had shown me up at her place, ones she made by hand, had been pulled off the bed, and a worn Bible rested on the end table. Pillowcases and sheets had been tossed in the corner, and the mattress was off center on the box springs. Every dresser drawer stood open, their contents removed. Ben’s meager wardrobe—work clothes, Levi’s, cotton shirts, and underwear—lay in a crumpled pile in the closet. All the pockets in his trousers were turned out.

I sat on the floor and packed up his clothes, feeling sad and also a little angry at how the police had discarded his belongings. I then folded the quilt and remade the bed before turning to the Bible. For some reason, I didn’t want to even touch the book. Bibles seemed such private things.

Feeling like I was somehow betraying Ben, I opened to the first page. What I saw made me blink hard and swallow that tennis ball in my throat. The inscription read, To Ben from Connie. All my love. July 24, 1971.

Connie? Not his beloved Cloris? Was this the Connie mentioned in the newspaper article? The one who had disappeared? Seemed a logical conclusion. So what happened to Connie? And why would an article about her be packed away with Cloris’s belongings?

I quickly boxed up Ben’s things and hurried back to the house, anxious to research the newspaper article. I took the clipping into Daddy’s study and booted up the computer. The byline in the Marysville Sentinel clipping belonged to a Larry Kryshevski. The small newspaper did have a web site, but the archives went back only a year. I called the phone number provided on the site, but the young woman who answered had never heard of the author. Heck, the article was probably written before she was born.

With so much time having passed, the writer seemed like my best bet to learn more than what meager facts were provided in the article, so I plugged Larry K’s name into a search engine. It seemed he was a syndicated freelancer, and I found pages and pages of Web articles from newspapers all over the country. And I also found his mother’s obituary, which offered the name of his hometown. Finding his phone number was as easy as catching fish with dynamite.

After I dialed, he answered with, “Kryshevski here. I don’t want any.”

“I’m not a telemarketer,” I said quickly. “I’m calling about a story you wrote years ago.”

“Years ago I might remember; just don’t ask me about anything I wrote yesterday.” His raspy, gruff voice sounded like he was a smoker.

“My name is Abby Rose, and the article in question concerned a teenager’s disappearance. Very brief story in the Marysville Sentinel. I’m hoping you know more than what appeared in the paper.”

“Hold on a second.” He didn’t bother to cover the receiver when he started yelling at whoever was in the room with him. “Can you tell I’m on the phone? Or have you added deaf and blind to the hypochondria list?”

I heard a female respond, but couldn’t make out what she said. Larry answered her with, “Now I understand why you sneeze all the time. To remove the dust from your brain.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Ms. Rose. Continue.”

“The teenager’s name was Connie Kramer,” I said, hoping to end this conversation quickly. Larry K wasn’t exactly my kind of guy.

“Yeah. Connie. She disappeared.”

“So you do recall the story?”

“The kid, more than the story. In places like Marysville you get to know people.”

“And what do you remember about her?”

“Hold on again,” he said, then barked, “Chicken again? Are you hoping to put enough salmonella in my system to kill me, Phyllis?”

Sounded like a decent plan to me, I thought.

This time the woman’s response was audible. “Kryshevski, you’re living proof there are more horse’s butts than horses. Eat your dinner and shut up.”

It seemed she didn’t need anyone’s help to handle this jerk.

Larry said, “I’m having a conversation with someone far more interesting than a fucking chicken. She wants to know about something I wrote, which of course would never interest you.”

“Uh, maybe I should call you back later?” I said.

“No. Me and the chicken will go in the other room—if that’s okay with you, Phyllis?”

Another muffled response that I was glad I couldn’t understand.

“Women,” said Larry K, and then I heard a door squeal shut. “Okay. Blessed privacy. Now why are you asking about Connie Kramer?”

“I was cleaning out an attic after a friend died and found the article. Looks like it came from one of those ‘police beat’ sections,” I said. “The last line is what caught my interest. You wrote, ‘Foul play is not suspected.’ ”

“Ah, yes,” said Larry K with a laugh. “Snuck that past the night editor and got in trouble with the big boss when he read the copy.”

“Why would that get you in trouble?” I asked.

“Back then,” he answered, sounding like he had a mouthful of food, “you weren’t supposed to confuse gossip with the news. See, I was ahead of the times.”

“And do you remember the gossip?”

“Depends on why you’re asking. Dispensing information is my bread and butter, and it sounds like you want me to work for free.”

“How much?” I said, stifling my irritation and hoping there really was salmonella in his chicken.

“You tell me why this is important to you and we can work something out. If it’s a good enough story, it won’t cost you a dime. My newspapers will pay me.”

No use shooting myself in the foot just because I didn’t like the man. What harm could it do to tell him the truth? So I began with Ben’s murder and ended with finding the inscription in the Bible.

“Hmm. Interesting,” he said when I was finished. “Maybe we can work together on this. You say you found sketchbooks?”

“Yes, but I’m more interested in—”

“And you have a photograph of this woman, Cloris?”

“I do.”

“Can you scan one of the drawings and the photo and send it to me, along with a signed commitment that I get first shot at doing a piece on this?”

“Okay, sure,” I said. Obviously the guy knew something, and I wanted what he had. He gave me his fax number and I hung up.

Thirty minutes later I had him back on the line.