Pick Your Poison (25 page)

31

“No one ever got bit by a dog’s shadow,” I said to Jeff as we headed to Galveston. “But that doesn’t mean I want to visit that house again. Ever. Can’t we just stop at Landry’s and eat crab and shrimp until we pop?”

“Nope. Not yet.” And that was all Jeff said until we pulled up in front of the Victorian.

He started to get out of the car, but I didn’t move. “I see no reason to revisit this crime, literally or figuratively. I’d rather have a realtor assess what the place needs, and hire someone to fix the damage. I want this house out of my life.”

“That’s why I brought you here. Don’t you see that Steven has control, even from his jail cell? This place is worth saving, Abby, and you had plans to make it something special.”

“Every time I come here I’ll remember tumbling from the second floor, sharing space with a wrapped-up corpse in a closet, and—”

“We’re going in.”

He got out of the car and was up on the porch before I could argue further, so I followed.

Crime-scene tape tied to the doorknob fluttered in the breeze.

I unlocked the door and stepped back, still reluctant. Jeff, however, had no qualms, and disappeared inside.

“Come on in here and tell me about this room,” he called from the parlor. “How would you fix it up?”

I trudged in after him, knowing he was right. This was nothing more than an old house. Feldman’s corpse was long gone. And Steven’s betrayal wasn’t written on the wall. Daddy’s deceit wasn’t hiding in the corner, either. Willis’s and Aunt Caroline’s lies weren’t lurking behind a closed door. Those painful reminders were still inside my head, where they would always be. Maybe someday they could be filtered by a more reasonable voice, but for now the pain was as fresh as it needed to be. Running from the truth, avoiding this house because I didn’t want to deal with the pain, wouldn’t change anything.

So after I showed Jeff around downstairs, I said, “Want to see the upstairs mess?”

“Sure,” he said.

His hand rested protectively on my back as we climbed, and his touch felt strong and right. Once on the landing, he pulled back the plastic sheet covering the destroyed bathroom.

Nothing had changed. Nothing except my whole life. “I’m still selling the place,” I said, “but I’m glad you made me come here. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself. I’ve been roaming through life without knowing what trail to follow. But I have a good idea the direction I should take now.”

“Am I supposed to guess?”

“You may think this sounds stupid, but I want to help people find their pasts. Adopted people like Kate and me, people who have twists and turns in their childhoods they may know little about.”

“An adoption detective?”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “And I’ve got relatives I know nothing about. My inquiry to the adoption registry came back today, and no one ever registered looking for Kate and me. But we may have a father who’s still alive and one day I plan to find him.”

“Good. Investigating is well suited to your whirling-dervish personality,” he said.

“Whirling dervish?” I replied. “Is that sort of like a tropical storm?”

“You could say that.”

I peered past the plastic covering the door and saw pecan trees in the backyard, their lush green leaves bright against an unclouded azure sky.

“Let’s talk about other things now,” I said. “For instance, how much I like you, Sergeant Kline. I even liked you before you saved my life.” I smiled and outlined his lips with the tip of my finger, then traced the angle of his jaw.

“You know damn well I didn’t save your life.” He pulled me to him. “You had things under control before I arrived in that boat.”

I grinned up at him. “Remember how you promised we could get to the personal stuff?” I leaned into him, draping my arms over his shoulders.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” he said softly. He took a wrapper from his pocket and emptied his gum into it, then took my face in his strong hands.

His mouth met mine, and I remember thinking how I had always favored cinnamon, but never more than at that moment.

Read on for a preview of
Leann Sweeney’s next
Yellow Rose Mystery

A Wedding to Die For

Coming from Signet in January 2005

My daddy always said if you want to round up some liars, head to a wedding or a funeral. So as I sat in a back pew at Seacliff First Baptist, I got to wondering how many liars were in attendance this afternoon. Since I’d had the benefit of being at the rehearsal dinner for this little shindig, I was certain I’d already met a few candidates.

I shoved my hands in my coat pockets—most of the hundred people in attendance were wearing coats—and leaned toward my sister Kate, who had reluctantly agreed to come with me today. “Remind me never to get married in January,” I said.

“You did get married in January,” she whispered.

“That never really happened,” I shot back.

“Oh, I forgot. Denial is Abby’s best friend.” Before I could deny the denial, a bridesmaid swathed in Christmas green rustled down the aisle so fast you’d have thought she was trying to catch her own echo. This would be Courtney, the bride’s cousin. She liked margaritas. And beer. And wine. And studly groomsmen. Next came the other cousin, Roxanne, a stripped down model of her sister—pale as the moon, skinny as a bed slat and suffering from a very bad hair day. She looked ready to cry, her spider mum bouquet trembling at her waist. If I had hair like that, I’d be ready to cry, too.

Just then, a woman in beige tip-toed into the church behind the bride and her father. After the woman slipped into an empty pew on the groom’s side I realized she had not signed the bride’s book on the lectern. Didn’t she know you had to sign in at weddings? I had been tagged to oversee that book, a small task I suppose Megan felt I could handle after failing at what she’d hired me to do. The bride had wanted her biological mother here, but though I’d been successful with other cases in my new profession as an adoption P.I., I’d never gotten a decent lead on Megan’s background.

Making a mental note to corral the woman after the ceremony, I refocused on Megan. She had become my friend as well as my client and today she looked breathtaking in ivory silk. When we’d met, I figured she was sixteen, but she had a birth certificate proving she was twenty. That piece of paper would be my only clue in the adoption search, seeing as how I’d been banned from questioning Megan’s adoptive parents. She did not want them to know she’d hired me and I had to abide by her wishes.

But before I could make any more excuses the wedding march began and we all rose to watch Megan and her father walk down the aisle.
Here’s where the lying starts,
I thought to my cynical self.

A half hour later, I drove while Kate directed us to the reception at the Beadford house. We wound through an upscale neighborhood ever closer to the ocean until we saw people in their Sunday best walking toward a huge house. After I parked, Kate and I followed their lead up an incline.

Kate said, “How did Megan explain your presence at the rehearsal dinner last night? Has she changed her mind about telling her parents?”

“She introduced me as a new friend—which I am.” My nose began to run. My nose always runs when it’s freezing out. The wind off the bay was cold enough to make a lawyer put his hands in his own pockets today.

Kate offered me a tissue. “But she’s still keeping a secret from her family. Not a good idea.”

“I agree, but she’s the boss.” I wiped my nose.

As we got closer to the house, the sounds of stringed instruments drifted out and when we reached the steps. Then a white limo arrived. Groom Travis helped his new bride out of the car and they started up the steps.

Not only was the photographer busy, the beige lady was snapping pictures behind him. I’d missed her at the church and seeing her now reminded me of my mission: to seek out signatures and well-wishes for the book clutched at my side. “Come on, Kate. I have to catch up with that woman.” But she disappeared into the crowd that followed the bride and groom inside.

Megan’s mother Sylvia greeted us at the door and took over the book duty, asking if Kate and I would finish up some wedding favors instead. We agreed and she led us into the kitchen where Kate and I began putting birdseed in squares of netting and tying each packet up with ivory ribbon.

From the table where we worked, I could see into the family room. The strings played on, their music both calming and gentle above the din of crowd noise. Silver trays of canapes kept leaving the kitchen on the raised arms of the wait staff. I even snagged two glasses of champagne for Kate and I, which made the job much more fun. We were nearly done when the best man, Holt, came into the room with bridesmaid Courtney. He planted one on Courtney, a kiss that left no doubt saliva was being exchanged. But he drew away when he spotted me.

Kate hadn’t had the honor of meeting the wedding party as I had last night—if you want to call it an honor—but I’d met Holt.

“Well look who’s here,” he said, addressing me, though his gaze kept sliding over to Kate. He sauntered to the table.

“Hello, Holt,” I said. “Nice wedding.”

“Care to introduce me to your friend?” he said.

“My sister, Kate Rose,” I said.

“Thank God the wicked step-sister brought Cinderella to the ball.” He offered Kate the peroxided smile that went with his super size ego.

The forgotten Courtney was none too happy with his flirting. She swore like a sailor and left the room.

But before he could make another move on Kate, Travis appeared and said, “Holt, we’re cutting the cake. You need to say something first.”

Holt pointed a finger at Kate and winked. “Later.”

After he was gone I said, “I’ll bet that guy’s got a mirror on the ceiling so he can watch himself gargle.”

She laughed and continued with the favor-making and seemed to be doing a damn fine job, so I decided to say hello to Megan and her new husband before we took off. I wandered into the family room, champagne in hand. The strings were taking a break and I noticed bridesmaid Roxanne talking to the violinist, whose instrument was clutched to his chest like a life jacket. Roxanne’s stringy brown hair made me wonder if she’d sprayed her head with Pam rather than Final Net, and the violinist’s body language brought the image of a treed ’possum to mind. Nothing pretty about that scene.

But James and Travis had them beat. I saw them through the picture window that offered a view of the deck and ocean beyond. Either the wind had stung their faces an angry crimson, or both their blood pressures were sky high. James kept poking his finger into Travis’s silver-vested chest. Then Travis caught my eye. He took hold of his father-in-law’s elbow and the two turned their backs and walked out of my line of vision.

I immediately scanned the room for Megan, feeling protective all of a sudden. No bride should have her wedding day ruined by some silly dispute that probably could have waited until the appropriate time. That’s what Thanksgiving and Christmas are for, right?

I spotted her in the adjoining great room talking to her Uncle Graham, so I wove through clusters of guests and joined them just as Megan’s uncle proclaimed he was related to Thomas Jefferson by way of a damn prettier slave girl than Sally Hemmings. For Megan’s sake, I hoped no one was video taping this embarrassing moment. Uncle Graham was probably so drunk he’d grab a snake and try to kill a stick.

“Hi, Abby,” Megan said. “I was hoping to convince my uncle to try the coffee. We rented this huge silver urn and it’s filled to the brim, but no one seems interested.”

“Maybe he and I could sample the coffee together,” I offered.

Graham attempted to focus on me, his head wobbling with the effort. “Don’t I know you?”

“We met last night. Abby Rose.”

“That’s right. Megan’s little rich friend. So you want to force feed me some caffeine? I’ll bet you could ante up for a whole Starbucks if you wanted. Gold mine, those Starbucks.”

“Uncle Graham, forgive me, but there are guests I haven’t even spoken with yet,” said Megan.

He gulped the last of whatever he’d been drinking. “Well, forgive me for monopolizing you.” But Uncle Graham didn’t move and Megan seemed reluctant to leave him, though I would have done so in a heartbeat. So I took Graham’s arm.

Megan mouthed a “thank you” once he seemed willing to depart with me. I wasn’t being a total good Samaritan. He’d called me the “rich friend,” and I wanted to know how he’d learned about my financial status considering I hadn’t mentioned my background to anyone last night nor had I ever told Megan.

“So, Mr. Beadford,” I said, my hand on his upper arm. I guided him in the direction of the dining room. “What’s your line of business?”

“Not computers like you. Computers are like goddamn cars. High maintenance and can’t do with out them.”

I no longer worked for CompuCan, my late daddy’s company. I wanted to focus on the new job. But obviously Graham Beadford thought I still worked there. “So what do you do, Mr. Beadford?” I repeated.

“Plenty. I do plenty. I’ve owned my own business. I’ve worked with my brother James on the oil equipment supply side. But if you need a computer man, I can do that, too.”

“Sorry, but I’ve changed jobs,” I said.

“Really? The internet is behind on their information, then.” It was his turn to pull me toward the dining room. “But even so, you inherited some big bucks, Ms. Rose.”

What else had this guy had turned up on me? Probably plenty to be found considering the home I’d recently vacated in River Oaks had been turned into a crime scene last summer. But more important, why was he plugging my name into some search engine in the first place?

I must have looked concerned because Graham patted my back. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about you and your sister and your mountains of money.”

“Who says I’m worried?”

He stopped in the dining room entry and lifted my chin with his index knuckle. “Uncle Graham knows people. I’ll bet you’re scared I’ll blab to all these upper middle class schmucks about how filthy, stinking rich you are. And you’re afraid if I do, people will be hanging on you like snapping turtles. Asking for favors . . . donations . . . handouts. Happened to me before.”

Enough about this, I decided, closing in on a coffee urn that looked like it could have provided enough java for a cruise ship breakfast. It sat at the far end of a teak table bearing the weight of a weeping ice sculpture and platters of crab legs, pate, boiled shrimp and plenty of fancy finger food. The chubby photographer, his camera strapped behind him, was parked in a corner sucking the meat out of a crab leg.

I filled two scalloped china cups with coffee and when I gave Graham his, he pulled out a pint of Southern Comfort and spiked the steaming brew, sending liquid sloshing onto the saucer. After re-stashing his pint, he lifted both cup and saucer to his lips and slurped off the top.

“Starbucks could learn a thing or three from me,” he said. “Make a bigger killing if they had more than those sissy-ass drinks on the menu.”

I sipped my coffee, then glanced back over my shoulder to make sure Megan had made a good escape. She had. “Listen, Graham, I need to get home. Maybe I’ll see you again soon.”

“Stay and keep me company a little longer?”

“Sorry. I came with my sister and she has a client.”

“On Saturday?”

“She’s a shrink. Crazy people sometimes don’t know if it’s Saturday or Wednesday.”

“Come on. I could use some intelligent conversation. Every idiot here belongs to my brother James. His clients. His line of credit. His
wonderful
life.” Graham’s tone told me more than all his previous words or actions—bitter noise from a guy whose blood to alcohol ratio was probably permanently off kilter.

I’m a sap when it comes to drunks and almost felt sorry for the guy, but being a sap was a flaw I had vowed to fix. So I said, “Sorry Graham. Nice meeting you, but I can’t stay.”

I turned and hurried to the kitchen where Kate was just handing her artfully arranged basket of birdseed favors to the bride’s mother when I returned to the kitchen.

That’s when a hair-raising scream ripped through the house. Kate and Sylvia lost their grip on the basket and all those pretty little pouches scattered over the tile floor. Some of the netting opened, sending tiny seeds bouncing in every direction.

Sylvia whispered, “Oh my God!” then took off in the direction of the scream.

I followed, Kate close behind me. We pushed by people who looked frozen in time, their collective silence almost oppressive. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush that heightened my senses, but the mix of seafood and booze and flowers seemed like an ocean I had to swim through.

Sylvia was about three feet ahead of me, but had ditched the high heels somewhere. She snaked through the crowd with ease, heading toward a closed room. When she reached the double doors, she pushed them open but then stopped in the entry. Unable to get past her, I stared over her shoulder.

Megan was sitting on the floor by a fireplace, ivory satin billowing around her like a soft cloud. Her father’s head was in her lap, a huge and vicious Merlotcolored stain damning that once-lovely dress.