Lucky Stiff (15 page)

Wisconsinites don’t surrender easily to winter, and we are well used to the cold. I know people here in town who think any temperature above zero is warm enough to cook brats outside on the grill. When people south of the 42
^nd
parallel are bundling up in wool hats, long johns, parkas, and mittens, Wisconsinites might throw on a flannel shirt. And when hell freezes over, Wisconsin schools might open two hours late.

Joseph—in classic Wisconsinite form—shrugs, clearly unimpressed with the trumped-up drama from the TV reporters. He shifts his gaze from the tube to us. “Bunch of idiots,” he grumbles. “They’re only calling for ten inches or so. Hell, that’s nothing. It’s just a snowstorm for Christ’s sake.” He dons a pair of glasses, which were sitting atop the desk register, and picks up a pen. “You two looking for a room?” he asks.

I wish.

“No, sir,” Hurley says, whipping out his badge and holding it up. “I’m Detective Steve Hurley, with the Sorenson PD, and this is Mattie Winston, with the ME’s office.”

Joseph starts to scrutinize Hurley’s badge until he hears mention of my name. Then he shifts his attention to me. “Winston? You’re with that doctor down in suite twelve, right?”

I shake my head. “I’m not with him, no.”

Joseph looks confused. “I thought you were married to him or something.”

“Not anymore.”

“So you’re not here to help him move out?”

“No. He won’t be moving out of here for a while yet. Not until his house gets rebuilt.”

“I don’t think so, missy,” Joseph says, looking smug. “He gave me his notice two days ago. I assumed that blond woman helping him pack stuff into a car was you.” He pauses, peers out at me over the top of his glasses, and does a quick head-to-toe perusal. After a few seconds, he says, “Yeah, okay. I didn’t see her up close, ’cause they were down at the end of the wing, you know, and these old eyes ain’t what they used to be. I thought it was you because of the hair, but I can see now that I was mistaken. She’s got mosquito bites compared to you,” he concludes, leering at my chest.

I feel my face grow hot and imagine myself bopping Joseph on his head a few times, nice and hard, Moe Howard–style. Hurley clears his throat and diverts Joseph’s attention.

“We’d like to ask you some questions regarding a customer of yours who’s been staying here for some time . . . a Ms. Catherine Albright?”

“That fortune-hunting gold digger?” Joseph says with a snort of disgust. “What’s she done?”

“We don’t know that she’s done anything yet,” Hurley explains. “That’s what we’re trying to determine. I see you have security cameras here. Any chance we can take a look at your recent footage?”

Joseph shakes his head. “I don’t believe in invading people’s privacy like that. Those cameras aren’t real. I just put them up so it looks like we have security monitoring. Helps keep people honest.”

Hurley lets out a sigh of frustration.

Now that I’ve recovered from my homicidal thoughts toward Joseph, I ask him, “How much of your customers’ ins and outs are you aware of? Do you watch people as they come and go?”

He swivels his head and looks at me over the top of his glasses again. “I see most of what goes on during the day and on most evenings, but every Friday night I go down to the VFW for the fish fry and polka fest.” I make a disappointed face and Joseph seems to take offense at it. “Hey,” he snaps, “don’t underestimate the polka. When it’s done right, it’s a beautiful sight to behold.”

“I don’t care about the polka,” I tell him. “I care about your ability to tell us of Albright’s comings and goings.”

“Then why didn’t you ask that in the first place?” he grumbles. He flips back through his register and starts writing dates down on a piece of paper. “These are the nights that she’s stayed here since coming to town. She was real regular at first, but I heard she was making a play for that paralyzed man who won all the money up at the casino, the one who died in that house fire the other night. And I guess she was getting somewhere with him, because she wasn’t staying here much lately. Only about once a week or so.”

“Did she stay here this past Monday night?” Hurley asks.

“Sure did. Let me see. . . .” He flips forward in the register and runs a finger down the page, then across it. “She checked in at ten-thirty that night and checked out at ten forty-eight the next morning.”

“Any idea if she left the place between those two times?”

“Not before midnight, that’s when I went to bed. And no one rang the bell after that, so I slept all night, until seven the next morning. What she might have done between midnight and seven is anyone’s guess.”

“How about Tuesday morning, before she checked out?” I ask. “Did you see her leave here at all?”

“Sure did. She was in and out of here a couple of times that morning. Went out and came back around eight, carrying a bag from McDonald’s.”

“Imagine that,” I mumble under my breath, remembering her snobby claim that pizza was subpar to her usual meals. “Last of the big spenders.”

“Then she left again, about an hour after that, and didn’t come back until just before she checked out.”

Hurley and I look at one another. “She lied to us,” I say.

“Is she here now?” Hurley asks.

Joseph shrugs. “She checked back in on Christmas Day, just a few hours after she checked out. Far as I know she’s still here, but I see her car is gone.”

“Mind if we take a look at her room?” Hurley asks.

Joseph narrows his eyes at us. “Yeah, I kind of do mind. People have enough invasions of their privacy these days. I don’t want to be adding to that crap.”

Hurley starts to say something, but I beat him to it. “Is she paid up on her bill? Because she’s a suspect in two murders, and if she hasn’t flown the coop already, I suspect she will soon.” This isn’t exactly true—at least not that we know—but Joseph doesn’t need to know that.

The gambit works. In a matter of seconds, Joseph’s expression goes from worried, to doubtful, to angry. Apparently, a threat to his wallet is enough to make him toss aside his moral indignation. He grabs a key and leads the way.

It seems I’m an excellent predictor of behavior. Catherine’s bed is neatly made, and the room is devoid of any personal items.

“Has a maid been in here?” Hurley asks Joseph.

“Naw, she said she didn’t want maid service,” Joseph answers. “Said she’d come and ask me personal if she needed towels or some such. Damn.”

I gather from Joseph’s reaction to the empty room that he did let Catherine slide on her room payment. No doubt she used her feminine wiles on him—the same way she did with Jack and every other man she’d ever met. Joseph is wilier than most, but even a crusty, old bachelor has to have a soft spot in there somewhere.

To be thorough, we search the room’s drawers and closet, but Catherine is clearly a pro at covering her tracks. Even the trash cans are empty. When we’re done, we thank Joseph for his cooperation and head back to Hurley’s sedan.

I’m about to get into Hurley’s car, when movement catches my eye from the end of the building to my right. When I look, I see David standing behind an SUV with its hatch up. Standing next to him is a trim woman, with blond hair. I recognize her as Patty Volker, our insurance agent.

“Can you believe that?” I say to no one in particular, though Hurley is the only one within hearing distance. “I’ll bet he’s moving in with her already.”

Hurley responds with a total non sequitur: “I’m going to put out an ATL on Catherine.”

“And to think I almost fell for his sad, little plea for reconciliation,” I mutter.

“Ignore him,” Hurley says. “He’s not worth your time.” With that, he takes out his cell phone to place a call.

I consider Hurley’s advice and turn away from David and Patty, reaching for the passenger-side door. Something holds me back, though; and as Hurley starts talking into his phone, I let go of the car handle and look back again. The two of them are standing at the rear of the SUV, laughing, talking, and periodically touching one another with an unmistakable intimacy as they arrange items inside the car. Feeling like a lemming drawn to the cliff’s edge, I start walking toward them, though I have no idea why I’m doing it, or what I’ll do when I get to them. It’s Patty who notices me first.

“Mattie,” she says, looking very nervous all of a sudden. She has a hand on David’s arm; and a second after she recognizes and acknowledges me, it drops down to her side. David turns to face me.

“Hello, Patty, David,” I say. “What’s going on?”

In true alpha-male surgeon style, David takes charge. “I’m moving out of here, and in with Patty, until we can get the new house built.”

I hesitate a moment, wondering who the “we” is in this statement. Then I quickly decide that it doesn’t matter. “You’re moving in with Patty?” I say, looking at David. I shift my gaze to Patty. “I didn’t realize you were renting out.”

Patty shifts her feet nervously and looks up at David for help.

“She’s not renting to me. We’re a couple,” David says with the same level of nonchalance he might use to describe the weather. Then he adds, “I thought you knew that.”

I had known it, but that doesn’t make me want to let them off the hook without a little more squirming. “How would I know, David? You didn’t tell me, nor did Patty.”

“Well, given the way gossip spreads in this town, I just assumed. . . .” He trails off and shrugs.

Patty blushes and says, “I’m sorry, Mattie. You’re right. I should have said something to you.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Patty,” David says. “Mattie has made it very clear that I have no claims on her and she has no claims on me. We’ve both agreed that our romantic relationship is a thing of the past.”

He’s right, of course. So why does this little scene bother me so much?

Patty drops her gaze and stares at her feet, looking embarrassed. David turns to her, and in doing so, he effectively dismisses me. He lifts her chin with a finger, forcing her to look up at him. It triggers an odd, hollow sensation in my chest as I recall how sweetly romantic I thought that gesture was whenever David used it on me.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” David says to Patty. “I think Mattie’s feeling left out—that’s all. It’s hard to see happy couples, when you’re not a part of one.”

The hollow ache inside me quickly turns to fury. I open my mouth to defend myself, but then realize I don’t have a defense. On some level, I know David has just hit a bull’s-eye. All my other levels are trying to figure out how I can go all Lorena Bobbitt on his ass and make it look accidental. Then all the thoughts slip away as I feel a warm arm snake around my waist and find Hurley standing beside me.

“Hello, Doc,” Hurley says, pulling me close. “Long time, no see.”

“Hello, Steve.” David’s face darkens; I’m not sure if it’s because Hurley is here, or because Hurley called him “Doc.” It’s probably both. These two have a complicated history—both as competitors for my affection and as doctor and patient. But even though David’s face doesn’t mask his true emotions very well, his voice is all professional and polite. “How are you?” he asks.

“I’m doing just great, Doc. Thanks for asking.”

David’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough for me to notice, telling me he doesn’t like Hurley’s little endearment. Hurley’s next question makes me suspect Hurley noticed it, too.

“Who’s your friend, Doc?”

David’s cheek muscles twitch and he glares at Hurley for a second longer than necessary before making the introductions. “This,” he says, gesturing toward Hurley, “is Detective Steve Hurley, with the Sorenson Police Department.” Then he wraps an arm around Patty’s waist the same way Hurley has done with mine. “And this is Patty Volker, my girlfriend and my insurance agent.”

“Technically, she’s
our
insurance agent,” I toss out.

Hurley answers with a “Hmph”; then he says, “That must be awkward.”

Patty smiles uneasily and says, “It certainly is at the moment.”

“Well, then, we don’t want to make things any worse than they already are,” Hurley says. He looks at me and squeezes me tight before letting go and taking one of my hands in his. “Come on, babe,” he says. “We need to get going.”

As Hurley steers me back toward his car, leaving David and Patty in our wake, my mind momentarily turns to mush, unable to focus on anything other than our intertwined fingers and the fact that Hurley called me “babe.”

“You can’t let him get to you like that,” Hurley says in a low voice, bringing me back into focus.

The sharp retort of the SUV’s hatchback closing behind us makes me jump. “I know,” I say. “I don’t know why it irks me so much that he’s jumped into someone else’s bed already. I shouldn’t be surprised, given our history.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t. So why does it bother you so much?”

“I don’t know,” I say, letting out a breath of exasperation. “I guess it’s because it makes me feel duped, discarded, and insignificant.”

We have reached Hurley’s sedan when I hear both doors of the SUV slam closed and the engine start up. Hurley pulls me around in front of him and leans me back against the side of his car, locking me into place by positioning an arm on either side of me, his hands on the roof. He leans in close until his face is only inches from mine.

“What do you say we show them you couldn’t care less what the two of them are doing?”

With Hurley’s body hovering inches above mine, and his baby blues staring clear down to my soul, I can barely breathe. I manage to mutter, “How?”

Hurley bends his elbows, bringing us into full-frontal contact. His lips descend and settle on mine. For a second or two, I’m vaguely aware of the SUV driving by us very slowly. Then my mind is incapable of focusing on anything but the delicious sensations running through my body. Hurley is careful not to use any tongue, but he graces my lips with a dozen tiny butterfly nips and nibbles. Then he kisses the tip of my nose. My body feels like hot molten lava. I reach up to place my hand at the nape of his neck, determined to keep him right where he is, but he backs off before I can. Just then, the SUV guns its way out of the parking lot.