Pick Your Poison

division. Very creative.”

“Oops.”

“I could have come here with a warrant for your arrest.”

“How did you find out?”

“All you care about is how I found out?” he said. “You’re not even sorry? Not even grateful you won’t be arrested? You’re just bothered by getting caught?”

“Arrest me if you think I’ve committed a crime,” I said, surprised I had the energy to raise my voice. “But if you’d done your job, I wouldn’t have been at Feldman’s house in the first place.” I snatched up the snifter and downed the rest of the brandy in one gulp. And choked.

Not content with my failed attempt at self-destruction earlier in the day, I now threatened to drown in my own secretions. What an attractive picture I must have presented—bruised and scraped practically beyond recognition, and now turning blue from lack of oxygen.

Jeff pounded my back, and when it was obvious I’d survive another brush with death, he switched to rubbing circles and massaging my neck. I relaxed against his strong, kneading fingers.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “Kate said you didn’t break anything, but you look miserable.”

“I’m okay. And I’m sorry for flying off the handle. I should never have taken Terry’s business cards, and I probably deserved to fall off the house, and—”

“Quiet, Abby.”

“But Jeff, you don’t understand. I can’t drop this investigation until I find out—”

He reached down and took my face in his hands. “Hush.”

I met his eyes and blinked hard, fighting tears.

“Slow down.” He brushed my hair away from the cut on my forehead before pulling back—a withdrawal that came a tad soon for my liking. He said, “Feldman phoned the precinct and complained that an officer harassed him about Ben’s murder investigation. Guess who they routed that call to?”

“Again, I’m sorry.” A few deep breaths eliminated the threat of tears.

“If you suspect this man is a murderer, what’s to keep him from hurting you?”

I didn’t tell Jeff that I wasn’t sure it mattered at this point whether Feldman hurt me or not. I didn’t say anything.

He took my hand. “I’m stuck with an unacceptable emotional involvement in this case and—”

“What do you mean, unacceptable?”

“As the lead detective, I need... No, let me rephrase that. I must remain objective. Emotions block the truth. They cloud my instincts. Did it cross your mind that someone could have arranged your tumble today?”

“Arranged it? What makes you think that?”

“Paranoia goes with my job. Seriously, could Feldman have figured out you weren’t a police officer? Could he have tampered with those boards that gave way?”

“He didn’t know I was playacting. If you didn’t tell him any different, he may still think I work for the police. And remember, he called you. Why draw attention to himself by phoning the police if he planned to kill me?”

“Okay. You’ve got a point.”

“And besides, I overheard Feldman on the phone before I left his house, telling someone the police had visited.”

“Okay, so he believed you, but he may have killed a man right here a couple weeks ago—a well-publicized crime, with you and your sister’s pictures in the Chronicle. What’s to say he didn’t snap to who you were after he called us?”

“I suppose he could have, but that still wouldn’t have given him time to mess with those boards. He would have had to follow me,” I said. “But I never considered the publicity. His wife, Helen Hamilton, the woman who runs Parental Advocates, may have realized who Kate and I are because—” I stopped. I couldn’t tell Jeff about Daddy’s lies until I told Kate.

“Go on.”

Damn. Now I had to tell him something. I decided on a watered-down version of the truth. “Kate visited Hamilton, pretending to be a prospective client. And, well... she gave Hamilton a check. We got it back, but Hamilton made a copy.”

“This check had her real name on it?” he said.

I nodded.

“I can’t believe this.” He uttered a sarcastic half laugh and shook his head. “If Feldman and his wife are involved in Ben’s death, they now know your sister was scrounging for information—probably know you were, too.”

“Yes, but—”

He withdrew his hand from mine. “This check scam was your idea, right?”

“Please let me—”

“That first time I saw you, I told myself you were trouble. Pegged you as stubborn and driven from the beginning, despite your damn seductive eyes. But did I keep my distance? No, I had to go—Oh, forget it.” He turned away, chewing ninety to nothing on his gum.

Seductive eyes? Wow. “Go on. I think I was going to like the next part.”

He looked at me, unsmiling. “We’ll deal with personal matters later. Stop messing in police business. You and Kate could be in danger.”

I leaned against my pillow. I’d already figured that much out, so why did he have to remind me?

“No more meddling,” he continued. “I’m still working this case and you’ll have to be patient, understand?”

“I understand. Now... how about the personal stuff?” I nudged the fingers that rested tantalizingly close to my thigh.

He took a deep breath. “Later.” He stood, emptying his wad of gum into a wrapper. “Patience, Abby. Lie here tonight in the dark and concentrate on becoming more patient.”

But after he left I asked myself why would I think about patience when the memory of his fine blue eyes was the only thing capable of distracting me from the disturbing truths about the past?

25

The next morning I learned the term rude awakening held genuine meaning. I felt like a parakeet that got caught in a badminton game. Every atom hurt. After easing out of bed, I stood under the shower until my prunish fingers warned me to cease and desist. It seemed to take five full minutes to get down the stairs, and when I finally shuffled into the kitchen, Kate was preparing to leave for school.

She smiled. “Need a wheelchair?”

“Yeah, go ahead and smile. You can use your facial muscles without feeling like you’ve been pulled through a knothole backward.” I slowly approached the coffeepot.

“It’s a good day to stay home in bed anyway, because tropical storm Carl has stalled above us and we’ll see nothing but rain.” She opened the refrigerator and said, “Before you have coffee, drink this shake to soothe those achy muscles.” She poured something thick from the blender into a glass and brought the concoction over to me.

It was green. My sister expected me to drink a green milkshake at ten o’clock in the morning. “Can I tackle this after my coffee?”

“I suppose. But don’t go dumping it down the sink,” she warned. “And I expect you to relax while I’m gone.”

Webster barked at the door as she left, then turned to me, tail wagging, rear end wiggling.

“How’d you like a nice, big milkshake, fella?” I asked, holding the glass near his nose.

He sniffed briefly, then ambled to the back door, where he lay down and pretended to be asleep. If our canine garbage disposal wasn’t tempted, I wasn’t risking it either.

I spent the next two hours on-line researching Jane and Morris Mitchell, the people who were supposed to