Free Pick Your Poison by Leann Sweeney Page A

left Shade after the funeral, I’d hear some good old boy oohing and aahing over Willis’s car, saying things like, “That dog’ll hunt, and bring back the duck stuffed.” Then Willis would beam with satisfaction. After all, that was what he paid a small fortune for—those Mercedes Moments.
    The hearse carrying Ben’s body stayed close behind us on the interstate. I’d had no problem forking over the money for Ben’s transportation home. He deserved what little I could offer in that department.
    As if reading my thoughts, Willis said, “I still don’t understand why you’re paying a fortune to bury this man, Abby.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Why foot the bill for his funeral? I say let the widow pay.”
    “Like I can’t afford it.” I pushed the scan button on the radio, wishing I could turn the conversation in a different direction. I sensed a lecture in my imminent future.
    “If you want to run your father’s business and make a profit, you’d best learn to thoroughly evaluate each charitable impulse. You can’t pay through the nose for every employee who experiences a stroke of bad luck.”
    I looked at him, incredulous. “Is that what you call being murdered? A stroke of bad luck?”
    The familiar strains of “Hotel California” filled the car, and I reclined the seat, closed my eyes, and hoped the conversation was over.
    But no. He kept on talking. “Did you ever consider that the police might conclude you’re trying to ease a guilty conscience by going to all this trouble today?”
    “I am wrestling with my conscience, but not because I murdered anyone.”
    “But you don’t have an alibi, do you?”
    I glared over at him. If he wanted my attention, he had it now. “Like I told Aunt Caroline, I don’t need an alibi.”
    His heavy-lidded eyes held that legal glint I always saw when we’re reviewing contracts at CompuCan. He said, “If you say you don’t need an alibi, I believe you, Abby, but that doesn’t mean the police will.”
    “I didn’t have a reason to murder Ben. I don’t have a reason to murder anyone.” If he’d turned my way he would have been blinded by my stare.
    “Perhaps you should concentrate your efforts on your cash flow. Bail for murder is usually high. And you should be prepared to tell the police exactly what you were doing on the afternoon in question, should they ask.”
    “They already asked and I already answered. If that detective has even half a brain, he’ll realize Kate and I had nothing to do with Ben’s death. Now could we please drop this? I’m sure I’ll be called to testify before a grand jury, but I promise to let you know before I go to court. Does that make you happy?”
    He nodded, pleased at this small compliance, then abruptly switched radio stations. Much to my dismay, Wynonna’s contralto filled the car.

    After the service at the First Baptist Church, we drove to the cemetery. Willis and I joined those assembled for prayers at the grave site, and stood under the tent I’d arranged to shade us from the unbearable heat. Ben was being laid to rest next to his first wife.
    Daddy had died in the spring, and the day we buried him had been clear and cool—nothing like this. It was hot enough to sunburn the birds.
    I looked at Ruth, her head bent, her hands clutched tightly together at her waist. She was about the same age my mother would have been had she lived. Feeling a familiar ache in my gut, I whispered, “Was it this hot the day of Mom’s funeral?”
    Willis leaned toward me, looking confused. “What?”
    “You were there, right?”
    “Well . . . yes. But I don’t remember what the weather was like.”
    “Daddy never talked about her . . . service.”
    “Her death was not something he wanted to remember. Never saw a man so miserable as when she finally died.”
    “And what about our real parents? If they were buried out in El Paso, where the plane crashed, it was probably even hotter than this.” Kate and I were adopted