Pick Your Poison by Leann Sweeney Page B

car. His nose twitched and then he curled back down. Sniffing probably expended too much energy.
    “Didn’t Steven move his business down this way?” Kate asked.
    “Yes, and he’s agreed to assess the Victorian. See what needs repairing. I remember Daddy saying something about foundation and roof problems.”
    “Uh, Abby, was that a smart move? I mean, I know you say you’re friends now, but—”
    “If Steven stays sober, he’ll do a great job. Despite his other flaws, his ability with a hammer and saw is unarguable,” I said.
    “Like his skill with other tools?”
    I blushed. “He’s always been handy. I won’t deny that.”
    “Jokes aside, be careful,” said Kate. “He’s already hurt you plenty.”
    We turned onto P Street and stopped in front of the once-vibrant-blue Victorian, Charlie Rose’s first real estate purchase decades ago. The siding was buckling and peeling, the house shamefully defaced by the constant assault from the gulf mists. Even the ginger-bread trim had turned gray with mildew.
    I parked on the street, slid from behind the wheel, and started for the front door, turning back when Kate didn’t follow.
    It seemed she couldn’t convince Webster to join us. He sat at the end of the walkway like a statue. Usually he’d follow Kate to the ends of the earth, but the ends of the earth apparently didn’t include this particular house.
    “Come on,” she begged, tugging on his collar.
    Webster didn’t budge, so she attached his leash and dragged him down the walkway and up the broken steps.
    “I’ve never known him to be this stubborn,” she said.
    We walked up to the door and Kate’s fingers flew to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh! Look.”
    A broken padlock dangled off the latch.
    “Uh-oh,” I said.
    Kate took a step backward. “Whoever broke the lock might still be in there.”
    Webster lurched, freeing himself. He hightailed it off the porch, galloped to the car as fast as a hoop snake, and started clawing the car door. I was more convinced than ever that he had Cowardly Lion in his pedigree.
    “Stop that animal from ruining my paint job, Kate.”
    She hurried after Webster, saying, “I’m calling nine-one-one,” over her shoulder.
    “Don’t overreact. Let me check the place out first.”
    “You shouldn’t do that,” she yelled, cell phone in one hand, Webster’s leash in the other.
    I’ve always considered shouldn’t a fighting word, so I pushed open the door and stuck my head inside. The rooms on either side of the foyer were as dark as the bottom of a well, probably because the windows had wooden shades that completely obliterated all daylight. Kept the place cool in the summer heat.
    Once I propped open the front door with my purse, I had enough light to see the stairs directly in front of me. I tried the foyer light switch, knowing we kept the electricity turned on, but nothing happened. Might not even be a bulb in the socket.
    I stepped all the way in and edged my way along the wall until I could feel the molding of a door frame. I inched farther down to the window, hunting with my fingers for the centerpiece that controlled the slats until I found it.
    Daylight brightened the front living room, sending huge roaches scurrying in every direction. I shivered with disgust, thinking I should have anticipated their presence and brought a shotgun—I’m pretty good with a gun. Daddy raised real Texans, not Southern belles, thank you very much.
    This room led to the dining area, and to the right of the dining room was the kitchen. Straight past the stairs would get me to the kitchen as well, and there were four bedrooms and a couple bathrooms upstairs.
    “Abby?” Kate whispered from the foyer.
    “To your left.”
    Kate’s silhouette was framed in the light of the door and she held Webster by the scruff, an umbrella poised in her other hand. “My phone wouldn’t respond when I dialed nine-one-one, so a lady three doors down called the police.”
    “Between your