Pick Your Poison Read online

  “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 anything about the yardman’s routine as far as those greenhouse plants were concerned?”

  “When I think about cyanide, I think of gold mining and rodent extermination rather than plants, so—”

  “Ms. Rose, I don’t have all day. Just answer the question.”

  “Sorry, yes, Ben took a special interest in those roses. He cut the most beautiful stems for the house, and we’ve had vases and vases in every room all summer.”

  He leveled a “lady, you have the IQ of a cactus” stare my way and said, “That tells me nothing about his routine. Who knew what he did out there?”

  “Well . . . I guess anyone who’s been around on a regular basis.”

  “Like who? How many people had access to your property?”

  “Since you’ve already established I’m not too efficient about securing the grounds, I guess just about anyone.”

  He nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Of course, I could give you a complete list of everyone I know, but . . . you don’t have all day.”

  He chewed his gum for a few seconds, never taking his eyes off me. “Keep up the jokes if this situation amuses you. But I intend to find out what happened here. There is nothing funny about someone sniffing enough cyanide gas to make him look like a bowl of boiled crawfish.”

  I blinked, genuinely sorry for my smart-ass attitude, but before I could apologize, he leaned toward me.

  “Maybe I need to point out that you had the most access to those roses and plant food around the time of the murder.”

  He smelled like cinnamon, and I might have liked his fine-looking face six inches from mine if I hadn’t just discovered he considered me capable of murder.

  The sound of his ringing cell phone interrupted the unsettling silence that filled the kitchen.

  “Excuse me.” He stood and unclipped
the phone from his belt, then turned away. He’d left his little notebook on the table, so I furtively turned it toward me, trying to peek at what was written there.

  But before I could read two words he whirled and snatched the notebook up. After offering single-syllable responses to whoever was on the other end of the conversation, he hung up.

  “Do you seriously believe I could have hurt Ben?” I asked.

  “We’ll pick this up another time, Ms. Rose.” He started for the back door.

  “But what about Ben?” I called after him.

  He stopped and faced me. “What about him?”

  “Have you located his family?”

  “That’s no concern of yours.”

  “I think it is. Has someone claimed his body?”

  “Maybe no one cares enough to claim the body of an accused killer. You see, Ms. Rose, this job reminds me every day that what goes around comes around.”

  He scanned the room, pausing at the late-model refrigerator with the see-through door, moving on to the grill in the island and taking in the antique trunk and Oriental rug in front of the fireplace before his gaze returned to me. “You were acquainted with the dead man, and by all appearances you and your sister can afford a casket—and maybe even a little prayer for the victim.”

  I felt my face redden, a mix of embarrassment and anger replacing my earlier irritation. “It doesn’t take a NASA engineer to see we have money, but that’s not the point. Even though I didn’t know Ben Garrison all that well, I cared about him, and I’m certain he had someone who cared a whole lot more than I do.”

  “If it’s that important, go find his people yourself. Just make sure your bleeding heart doesn’t ruin your fine foreign carpet when you head out the door.” His faded-denim eyes held mine for an instant before he whirled and strode the length of the kitchen.

  He paused, hand on the door, and said over his shoulder, “And by the way, if you plan to find his family, you might want to know his name wasn’t Garrison.”

  4

  Although Sergeant Kline had told me Ben’s last name wasn’t Garrison, I still had no idea what his real name was, and I would need that information to locate the family. Since Kate’s longtime boyfriend, psychologist Dr. Terry Armstrong, consults for HPD on occasion, I thought maybe he could help me out.

  So right after Kline left my house, I paged Terry. Though hesitant, he finally agreed to meet me at the office he sometimes uses at HPD headquarters. But when I arrived and went up to his floor, I saw him at the end of the hallway walking toward me, briefcase in hand.

  When we met halfway down the corridor, he said, “After I showed up here, I bumped into a cop who wants me to consult on a case, so I need to get downstairs for a prisoner interview.”

  “Did you find out anything about Ben?” I asked, matching Terry’s long strides as we headed back to the elevators. The man’s so tall, I practically need a stepladder to look him in the eye.

  “Same thing you could have learned if you’d waited for the five-o’clock news. I tried to call you, but you didn’t have your cell turned on. Ben’s real last name was Grayson.”

  “And he was Ben Grayson, then?”

  Terry nodded, stabbing the down button.

  “I was hoping you might help me with more than his name. See, Ben apparently had a criminal history.”

  Terry looked down at me, his usual bland expression replaced by concern. “And he was living right there with you and Kate?”

  “Both of us thought he was a genuinely nice guy, Terry. Sweet and gentle. I’d like to know more about that old murder charge, because I can’t believe we misjudged him that badly. Think you could find out for me?”

  “A murder charge? Uh, Abby, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “You have access to an HPD database, right?”

  “Limited access. I’m betting those Homicide dicks—pretty intense crowd, those guys—don’t want me messing around in this.”

  “All I need is Ben’s former address, maybe a little background information on the charges against him.”

  Terry looked down at me, still not convinced. “What does Kate think about your coming down here?”

  “She’s the one who sent me. One of your ‘intense’ Homicide guys practically accused us of murder.” Okay, so maybe I was manipulating the facts a little, but Terry adored Kate. He’d be more inclined to help if he thought she’d sent me here.

  The ploy worked. A minute later we were in Terry’s cramped little office, and he was typing commands on his computer while I looked over his shoulder. But after he hit a few keys, the dreaded window demanding another password appeared.

  Terry swiveled in the chair and looked up at me. “I don’t think I’d better press my luck. I doubt the lead detective—Sergeant Kline, right?—would offer me access unless I was officially on the case.”

  “Can’t one of your cop friends lend you their password?”

  “If I want to keep a nice hunk of city change coming my way for consultations, don’t you think I’d better respect my limits?”

  I picked up Terry’s phone and held it under his nose. “Would you call Homicide for information, then? Kline won’t tell me anything.”

  Terry gently took the phone and replaced the receiver. “HPD has plenty to do without being hounded with requests from the curious public.”

  “I am not the curious public! We’re talking about locating a dead man’s family. That old murder file would give me names and addresses of people who should be informed about Ben’s death.”

  “Abby, leave this alone. Just because HPD isn’t doling out information doesn’t mean Kline hasn’t notified Ben’s family.” Terry backed out of the program and turned off the computer. “I may have to work with the guy on a case sometime, so I don’t want to get on his bad side.”

  “Oh, I can understand not wanting to get on his bad side. But back to Ben. Aren’t you wondering why he was using an alias?”

  “Maybe Ben thought your father wouldn’t hire him if he had a shady past.”

  “Okay. But aren’t you rankled the police think I might have killed Ben? Or that Kate might be involved?”

  He smiled. “Now you’re exaggerating. What possible motive could either of you have to kill Ben?”

  I opened my arms. “See? That’s what I mean.”

  Terry stood, gripped my shoulder, and squeezed. “Be patient, Abby. From what I’ve heard, Kline has a reputation as a smart cop. He’ll solve this. Meanwhile, I have a job to do. A man claiming to be General Patton strolled around a local elementary school with a loaded gun yesterday, and he needs to prove exactly how crazy he is if he wants to avoid that big, bad jail up in Huntsville.”

  I stepped back, feeling like I’d been trying to eat soup with chopsticks for the last ten minutes. “So all I get for my trip down here is this touchy-feely apology?”

  He laughed. “Here’s a better apology. Give me twenty minutes for this observation; then we’ll pick up Kate and I’ll buy you two lunch at Houston’s restaurant. I could go for one of those giant Caesar salads . . . or maybe I’ll have that prime-rib sandwich I love so much.”

  His eyes reflected that love. How a man like Terry, who was as thin as a broom handle, could eat like a hog on a holiday and never gain an ounce was beyond me. “As long as you don’t bring General Patton along to share our meal, lunch sounds great.” With effort, I smiled, thinking that the next time I needed help, I should ply him with Hershey’s Kisses.

  He grabbed his briefcase and I watched him walk to the elevators. Terry may be kind, intelligent, and good-looking, but he had a lot to learn about me before we penned his name into a slot on the family tree. I knew plenty of password tricks, and I couldn’t think of a better way to use them.

  As soon as Terry disappeared into the elevator, I turned the computer back on. I’d already memorized his Windows log-on and the first password—he hadn’t really tried to hide them from me—and when the access-denied screen popped up, I sat bac
k in the chair. Daddy’s password had been tough to crack. Were the police as smart as a lifelong computer nerd? I was about to find out.

  When the first hacker code didn’t work, I prayed I wouldn’t have to go the alphanumeric route. That might take days. But most programmers build in an override feature, and I had a method or two more to get me past this barrier. With persistence, all things are possible.

  Sure enough, after five minutes of creative finagling, I pulled up Ben Grayson’s file. I was so engrossed, I didn’t realize Terry was standing in the doorway until he said, “What in hell do you think you’re doing, Abby?”

  I jerked around and glanced at my watch. “Gosh. If it only takes you a few minutes, I hope you’re never called upon to judge my sanity.” I stood, flipped off the monitor, and faced him, hoping my cheeks weren’t as crimson as they felt.

  He stared at me, unsmiling.

  “Can’t seem to keep my hands off a computer when I’m around one.”

  “Right,” he said. “What’d you find out?”

  “Quite a bit, actually.”

  “Good. Glad to accommodate my future sister-in-law,” he said sarcastically. “You didn’t hear anything about Grayson from me, understand?”

  I nodded vigorously. “Sure. No one will ever know.”

  “Let’s get out of here. I need lunch.”

  “Good idea, and I think salad will work for me. I ate a platter of nachos last night like I was skinny, so it’s time to atone.”

  I steered away from any discussion of Ben during lunch, but once Kate and I were home, I filled her in on the little bit I’d learned about Ben, how his wife had been murdered and how he had been the one and only suspect, but was never tried, much less convicted. “And remember when I went to the rest room at the restaurant? Well, I called the sheriff of that small town where Ben lived . . . where he supposedly committed this murder.”

  “And?” Kate was sitting near the fireplace brushing Webster while I hunted through the kitchen desk looking for the Texas map.

  “Nothing—yet. He said he could see me today, and I agreed to drive up there.”