Pick Your Poison Read Free Page A

gate was unlocked today, is that right?”
    “Right.” This guy probably thought I was born dumb and went downhill from there.
    “One more question. Did you notice the burn on Mr. Garrison’s hand during your last conversation with him?”
    “The burn?”
    “A large burn on the side of his right hand, from his small finger down to the wrist.” He demonstrated the spot.
    “I never saw any burn.”
    His lips tightened and he started writing more notes in his book. “Thank you, Ms. Rose. I would appreciate it if you keep today’s conversation with the victim to yourself until I’ve had a chance to finish my interviews. That’s all.”
    “That’s all?”
    He didn’t look up. “You have something important to tell me, ma’am?”
    “Well, no, but—”
    “Then that’s all.”
    Maybe in his mind. But that wasn’t all. Not by a long shot. And you could write that on the wall in ink.

2
    After I left the cabana, Kate and I exchanged a hug, and she went in for her little chat with the curdled detective. Meanwhile, Willis Hatch stood behind the crime-scene tape strung between the oaks lining the driveway. He waved for me to join him.
    The uniformed cop at the cabana door apparently noted my hesitation to acknowledge Willis’s presence, because he said, “Want me to get rid of him? I’d like to tell a lawyer where to go.”
    I sighed. “No, I’ll talk to him. Are we allowed in the house?”
    “Far as I know.”
    A short man with graying hair and glasses, Willis wasn’t looking too lawyerlike this afternoon. He wore a T-shirt, gym shorts, and tennis shoes. Must have come straight from the health club. Though in his sixties, he’s in better shape than I am.
    “What are you doing here?” I said, ducking under the tape.
    “I’m minding my business on the treadmill thirty minutes ago, and what do I see on the television above me? A news-chopper shot of your house, the lawn full of patrol cars. Your house, Abby. Does that answer your question?”
    Oh, yes. Question answered. I’d have to send a thank-you card to Channel Five. “Let’s go inside, Willis. The mosquitoes are preparing for their evening feast and I don’t want to be on the menu.”
    He followed me up the driveway and along the winding brick path to the front door, jabbering about the outrage of the police invading Daddy’s property and how Charlie wouldn’t have let them run rough-shod over the place if he were still alive.
    The policewoman previously stationed at the entrance earlier was gone, and we went inside.
    “Why didn’t you phone me right after you called the police?” Willis asked.
    “Because I didn’t need to call you.”
    I crossed the marble foyer—you could hold a political convention in the entry alone—and went into the study. Daddy had done all the household business in this room.
    The heavy forest-green drapes were drawn, and the small study—small by the standards of the rest of the castle—still smelled like Old Spice and cigars. Since his death, I’d come in here just to sit where Daddy had spent so much time. With his scent still so strong and his stacks of books, computer CDs, and disks piled in the barrister shelves, I could feel his presence, catch in my mind’s eye a glimpse of his wide, free smile.
    Today, however, I went straight to the giant mahogany computer desk, plopped down in the red leather chair, and booted up the machine. I’d done this only one other time since his death. It had felt then like an invasion of his privacy, and today was no different.
    “What in God’s universe are you doing?” Willis said.
    “Helping the police locate Ben’s family, or at least I hope so.”
    “On Charlie’s computer?”
    I typed Daddy’s log-in password, and the icons on his desktop started to pop up.
    “At least he told you his password,” Willis said, pulling up an upholstered side chair. “I planned to ask you about that—see if you wanted me to clear out anything I have duplicated in my office