Pick Your Poison

Oh, brother. That “unflattering” picture in the hands of reporters? A true social emergency.

“The Chronicle said it was a murder, then?” I said, focusing on the one interesting thing she’d managed to say. “Because the police wouldn’t confirm that yesterday.”

“I’m not sure it’s confirmed even today. You know how vague newspaper reporters get when they don’t possess all the facts. And who died, may I ask? Because apparently his identity is being withheld.”

“Remember the yardman, Ben Garrison?”

“Oh. Him. Well, then this murder theory makes no sense. Gardeners work with poisons all the time. Do you have a rodent problem? Is that how this cyanide affair played out?”

Cyanide? Yes! That’s what I’d smelled in the greenhouse. Almonds. “I didn’t even know about the cyanide. Did the article say anything else of interest?”

“Are you saying a man dies violently on your property and you know nothing? And you don’t bother to call me?”

“We were kind of overwhelmed by all the police searching the place, collecting evidence, asking questions. Then a slew of reporters hung around outside the gate even after the police left. You’ll be pleased to know we didn’t talk to them, by the way.”

“At least you have some sense left, but you still should have contacted me. We may not be blood relatives, but I have cared for you all your life, and with Charlie gone, I’m the only person you girls have left in this world.”

I bit my lip to keep from saying something I might regret. Would a day go by when she would not remind me that Kate and I were adopted?

“You’re right,” I said. “I should have filled you in.”

“Yes, you should have. Have you brought Willis in on this?”

“He came by yesterday.”

“And you have an alibi, I take it?”

“You think I need an alibi?”

“Abigail, your temper has caused you plenty of problems in the past.”

“Oh. So you think Ben didn’t prune the wax ligustrums to my liking, so I cooked him up a pot of cyanide soup?”

“No need for sarcasm. You have my unwavering support no matter what the outcome of this sordid affair.”

I had to change the subject—either that or slam the receiver down in her ear. In my best fake-sweet voice I said, “By chance did Daddy talk to you before he hired Ben? Say anything about him? Like where he came from, maybe?”

“No, Charlie didn’t share anything with me. Why should he? I must say, I found Ben to be an impertinent sort. Probably upset the wrong person and got himself killed.”

“Impertinent? With you?”

“Not with me. I hardly knew the man,” she said quickly. “But he always seemed to be lingering around the windows when I would drop by, or I’d see him hanging about where Charlie or Willis or other visitors were gathered. Not exactly a trait you like in your hired help.”

I thought the “hired help” was supposed to do exactly that—hang around and do their jobs. Time to move on again. “Aunt Caroline, since you’ve had some experience with divorce, I was wondering if you ever used a private detective.”

“A private detective? Why?”

Her lack of a yes or no told me she probably had used one during the course of her three divorces. “I’m asking because I owe Ben’s family an expression of sympathy. The man died in our greenhouse, working for me, and if I hire a detective, maybe I can locate his kin and somehow explain what happened here.”

“Isn’t that the responsibility of the police? I mean, you pay plenty of taxes. Seems ridiculous to waste your money on a private investigator.”

“Just considering my options. Listen, I desperately need a shower. We’ll talk later, okay?”

She said good-bye and I hung up, concluding she was right about one thing: I didn’t need to pay a detective for a job I really would rather do myself.

Half an hour later, I padded into the combination kitchen-family room with Diva close at my heels. Once my favorite spot, this section of the house held unpleasant reminders of my marriage to Steven. Almost every quarrel had ended here, with him running out the back door to drink away his anger. My bitterness had stayed trapped inside me since we split, ticking away. Always ticking.

But this morning the breakfast alcove, the fireplace yawning back at the chintz-covered easy chairs, and the long row of luminous oak cabinets welcomed me like a returning friend. For the first time in months, I felt as if I had a purpose.

Sections of the morning paper littered the kitchen table, which meant Kate must be awake. As if on cue, the back door opened.

“Hi, kiddo,” she said in her smiley morning voice. Webster ambled in behind her. She was dressed for her intern sessions at the university, wearing a crisp white blouse and tailored beige slacks.

“Did I ever mention you’re too damn cheerful to be related to me?” I said.

“You have,” she answered. “Always in the morning, before coffee.”

Though Kate and I are twins, no one ever guesses. We both have brown eyes, but Kate stands two inches taller and has lustrous dark tresses, while I doctor my own short brown hair to what those creative geniuses at Clairol call Evening Claret.

I dumped tuna onto a saucer and Diva purred her appreciation when I set the dish in front of her. She swiped at Webster’s inquiring muzzle before starting in, and he whimpered and sat down. Always the optimist, he was sure one day she’d share. Never happen, I wanted to tell him. Not in any of her nine lives.

Kate took a container of yogurt from the refrigerator. “That policeman called while you were in the shower. He’s coming over.” She glanced at her watch. “In fact, any minute. He said you were the one he wanted to talk to, but I could stay if you need support.”

I opened the tall pantry next to the refrigerator. “I can handle him. Working on your D.D. takes priority.” Kate is almost a clinical psychologist, and D.D. stands for Damned Dissertation. We never say those words aloud.

“Call if you need me,” she said. “If I’m not in session, you know which corner of the library I occupy. Probably for the remainder of my natural life.”

When I was sure Kate was gone, I replaced the bran flakes I’d been holding for her benefit and traded them for the brown-sugar Pop-Tarts stashed behind the raisins. Kate’s “healthy choices,” as she likes to call them, would gag a sword swallower. I’d just finished popping my tarts into my mouth when Sergeant Kline arrived.

I led him back to the kitchen and we sat at the table.

He folded several sticks of gum into his mouth, stuffing the wrappers in his pocket. “I’ll get right to the point. After we ran your gardener’s prints last night, we learned he supposedly offed his wife fifteen years ago. He ever mention that little detail?”

I leaned back in my chair, stunned. “You’re saying a man who thought AMDRO was too harsh on the fire ants killed a woman?”

“You sure do shoot from the lips,” Kline said, pulling out his notebook. “So tell me about the guy’s routine. He took care of those roses in the greenhouse, right?”

“Of course. He cared for all the plants. That’s what gardeners do.”

“Anyone else ever dabble around in there? Maybe feed those roses?”

“Not me. I wouldn’t know rose food from rose hips.”

He gave me one of those “that figures” looks. “So what about your sister? She have a green thumb?”

“What does this have to do with anything? I understand Ben may have died from cyanide poisoning, so why are you focusing on the roses?”

“You’ve been reading the newspaper, I see.” He sighed. He seemed to have an unlimited supply of sighs. “Since the local TV stations will be running the story this afternoon, I can confirm this was a cyanide poisoning—and not accidental. Now back to my question. You know