Lucky Stiff (24 page)

“Right,” Syph scoffs.

“Being single has its perks.”

“Yeah, like having no one to kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve.”

“But I don’t have to clean whisker hairs out of the bathroom sink,” I counter. Something niggles at the back of my mind when I say that, but I’m too busy trying to defend myself to give it much thought.

“What about having someone to snuggle up to on these cold winter nights?”

“Two words: electric blanket. Plus I get the bed all to myself, and there’s no one snoring next to me, keeping me awake. If I feel like I need a warm body, my dog, Hoover, does just fine.”

Syph thinks for a few seconds and then says, “Okay, what about having someone to go out with, to the movies or dinner?”

I shrug. “No competition for the remote, so I can watch chick flicks all day long without having to suffer through football play-offs. And I can do it while eating ice cream for dinner, if I want.”

“You have to sit at the singles table at weddings.”

“As long as I get cake, I don’t care. And speaking of sitting, I don’t have to worry about whether the toilet seat is up or down,” I say in my best smug
“take that!”
tone.

“What about sex?”

Damn it, she’s got me there. I could always put on a disguise and head for the Garden of Eden, an isolated specialty shop a few miles outside of town that sells sex toys. But even if I buy a gas-powered, vibrating dildo with fifty attachments, I know it won’t be the same.

“Fine, you win,” I say, sulking. “If you’re done pointing out how miserable and lonely my life is, I’d like to get my cleaning supplies.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Syph says with a sly grin. “I’ll give you cleaning supplies and a phone number.”

“A phone number? For what? 1-800-GIGOLO?”

“No, for this guy I know. His name is Mike. He’s single, your age, and good-looking.”

“Divorced?”

“Nope, never been married.”

“So what’s the catch? No, wait, let me guess. He lives with his mother and has a secret fetish involving WD-40, his sister’s panty hose, and a weed whacker?”

“No,” Syph says, laughing. Then she stops and looks seriously thoughtful for a moment. “Actually, I think he does live with his mother, but it’s only temporary because he’s new in town and looking for a house to buy. He seems like a really nice guy. Plus he drives a Beemer.”

“I don’t think so, Syph. The last blind date I had ended up sleeping with my mother.”

“Oh, come on. Give it a chance. Put yourself out there. What have you got to lose?”

“You mean, besides my dignity, my sanity, or maybe even my life?”

She shoots me a give-me-a-break look.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh of resignation. “How do you know him?”

“Al’s been working with him to find a house,” she says, referring to her Realtor husband.

“What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a pharmacist at the drugstore downtown.”

Resigned, I agree to let Syph give me the number, but when she calls her husband to get it, she goes straight to voice mail.

“I’ll call you with the number when Al gets back to me,” she says.

“Fine, but wait a few days. I’m heading to Florida tonight for a conference, so I won’t be back until the thirty-first. And I’m not promising anything.”

“Aw, come on, give the guy a shot.”

“Why? Does he have an STD?”

“Very funny, but I’m serious. This could turn out to be fun. You know what they say about pharmacists.”

Against my better judgment, I bite. “No, what do they say?”

With a sly wink, she tells me. “They like to do it over the counter.”

Chapter 21

Five minutes later, as I’m stuffing my cleaning supplies into the back of the hearse, my phone rings. I half-expect it to be the pharmacist, but instead it’s Hurley.

“Hey,” I say into the phone. “Did you change your mind about the time?”

“Nope, we’re still on for one, but I have some news. Guess what I just found out?”

“What?”

“The Strommens are in serious financial trouble. The bank started foreclosure proceedings on both the farm and the house, and the Strommens were using credit cards for their day-to-day living. They are up to their necks in debt and facing bankruptcy. Donald sold off all their livestock last year and has been selling off equipment, here and there, to try to keep them afloat. With the economy being what it is, well . . .”

“Ooookay,” I say slowly, wondering why he sounds so excited about this information. “That’s a very sad story and all, but what does it have to do with his death?”

“Want to guess what one payment the Strommens did keep up to date?”

I think a moment, but nothing leaps to mind that would cause the sort of self-satisfied tone I can hear in Hurley’s voice—a tone I know from past experience means he’s hooked into something big. Then it hits me. “A life insurance policy?”

“Bingo. And not just any life insurance policy, either. Donald Strommen was insured for half a million bucks.”

“Wow!”

“Yeah, wow,” Hurley echoes. “That translates into some serious motive for Charlotte.”

“You think she killed him for the insurance money?”

“Why not? You saw how they were living. The creditors were going to put them out on the street. Charlotte saw only one way out and took it. You were the one who saw her packing away her husband’s clothes before she was supposed to know he was dead.”

“Yeah, I did.” I frown because—despite what I saw, and my certainty that Charlotte wasn’t being totally honest with us when we talked to her—I’m having a hard time seeing her as a cold-blooded murderer.

“I’m going to look into this insurance policy a little more. I’ll let you know what I find out when I see you at one.”

“Okay, see you then.” I disconnect the call and glance at my watch. I still have a little over an hour left, so I head to my sister’s house.

When I pull up out front, I find my niece, Erika, hanging out on her front porch. She’s enjoying the unusually warm weather with a couple of girlfriends and two guy friends. She leaves the group and runs over to greet me as soon as I pull into the curb. Erika is going through a bit of a Goth phase, as evidenced by the blue-black hair surrounding her brown roots, a pair of black leather boots, which each have a dozen metal buckles, and makeup that includes kohl eyeliner and black lipstick. But beneath that grim appearance, Erika is really a sweet kid at heart. And given her fascination with blood and gore, I think she might make a crackerjack surgeon when she grows up. Still, while it’s easy for me to imagine her someday saving lives, her current fascination is with death. Because of that, the hearse intrigues her.

“Hi, Aunt Mattie! Can I show my friends your car?”

So much for the social niceties.

The other kids hang back on the porch, watching us.

“Sure,” I say.

“Cool! Hey, guys, come check this out. It’s so rad! They used to put dead people in here.” Erika’s eyes grow wide with delight as she says this, as if a car for dead people were the coolest hangout on earth.

The other kids squirm and shift uncomfortably, looking at one another. Clearly, they aren’t quite as enamored with the hearse as Erika is, though their expressions do indicate a certain level of curiosity. I suspect they are waiting for one person in the group to make the first move; it doesn’t take long for a blond-ponytailed girl named Becky to take the plunge. The others wait a few beats and then follow, meandering over to us in that unrushed
“I’m cool”
manner that teenagers are so good at.

I stand off to one side and let the kids do their thing with the car. They open the tailgate and doors, run their hands over the leather seats, and check out the rails in the back, where the caskets used to lock into place. The two boys check out the gauges on the dash, while Erika climbs into the back and lies down between the rails, staring up at the ceiling, her hands folded on her belly in perfect repose.

“I’m dead,” she says. “And you guys are my pallbearers. Can you carry me out?”

Nervous laughter follows, but no one makes a move. Erika is a spooky kid sometimes.

“Hey, guys,” I say, deciding the time has come, “let me ask you something. Do you know Hannah Strommen?”

“‘Charmin’ Strommen’?” Becky says.

“Not so much these days,” one of the boys comments.

Erika gives up on her pretend death and scoots out to sit on the back edge of the rear compartment. “Hannah’s been kind of off lately,” she tells me.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, ever since her father disappeared, she’s been acting all weird and stuff. She won’t talk to anyone, and her eyes are always red and puffy, like she’s crying all the time. I guess that makes sense, since her dad is gone. But she doesn’t ever eat anything at lunchtime now, and she keeps muttering strange things to herself.”

“Like what?”

Becky says, “Well, like the other day, she was talking to herself about how she was going to burn in hell, and how her mother would be there with her. It was really creepy because she was saying it like she was talking to someone, but she was all alone. It was a total
Carrie
moment, you know?” she says, all wide-eyed and wary. “I mean, I’m sure it’s a bad thing to go through, but seriously? The girl’s creep factor lately is off the charts.”

The other kids all nod in agreement.

“Is there someone at school Hannah is close to?” I ask them.

“Not anymore,” Erika says. “She and Danny Olsen were a thing for a while, but they broke up. He said she’s kind of demento lately. And she doesn’t hang out with her usual girlfriends much anymore, either.”

“I take it this is a change in her behavior?”

They all nod and Becky says, “Totally. It’s like she doesn’t care anymore. Hannah is kind of pretty, but lately her hair has been all stringy and greasy, and sometimes she wears the same clothes to school for days in a row.” Becky pauses and wrinkles her nose. “She kind of smells.”

With that, I thank the kids for their candor, leave them to explore the hearse, and head inside. I find my sister, Desi, in the kitchen; she’s whipping up some kind of batter in a big mixing bowl. There is chili simmering on the stove, so I suspect the batter will be turned into Desi’s mouthwatering corn bread.

“Hey, sis,” she says when she sees me. She pours the batter into a glass baking pan and sticks it in the oven. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“I missed my little sister,” I say with a smile, settling onto one of the stools at the counter.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she says. Then with a wink, she adds, “What’s the real reason?”

“I wanted to pick the kids’ brains about one of their fellow students. Something related to a case I’m working on.”

“Lucien’s case with that kid?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s another one, not something I can talk about yet.” I get up and walk over to take a spoon from the silverware drawer. Then I decide to risk my life for the greater good by doing a quick “poison test” on the chili. It’s delicious, with just the right amount of spice.

“How is it?” Desi asks.

“Perfect, as usual. Clearly, you inherited cooking genes from your father, which I didn’t get from mine.”

Desi and I are technically half sisters. Though we share the same mother, we each had different fathers—neither one of which is still married to Mom. Our mother goes through husbands faster than I can go through a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. At least Desi’s father, who was only married to my mother for a little over a year, is still somewhat involved in Desi’s life, unlike my father, who escaped faster than Ellie the horse. Since our mother’s idea of cooking involves nuking food into hard blocks of sterility to make sure it is free of both germs and taste, it’s pretty obvious where Desi’s cooking abilities come from.

“Is Ethan here?” I ask.

Desi nods. “In his room.”

I toss my chili spoon into the sink. “I’m going to pop my head in and say hi.”

Ethan is a peculiar kid in a different way from his sister. He’s extremely bright, socially awkward, and a bit of a loner. It’s probably just as well, since most folks don’t take well to the hobby that is Ethan’s greatest passion: bugs. The kid has a thing for insects of all kinds—the creepier and crawlier they are, the better. Fortunately, most of them are dead and pinned into cases, safely secluded behind glass fronts. But he has a few live ones. In addition to an ant farm, he has a terrarium that holds a tarantula, with the unfortunate name of Fluffy. Ethan is always quick to point out to anyone who mistakenly calls Fluffy a “bug” that he’s actually an “arachnid.” But few people hear this explanation because they are either running, screaming, from the room or passed out cold on the floor.

Ethan recently acquired a new pet: a Madagascar hissing cockroach. It’s a hideous looking thing, a giant cockroach that measures about three inches in length and has an alarming habit of rearing back on its legs, waving its long antennae in the air, and hissing. Ethan bestowed the creature with the unimaginative but frighteningly apt name of Hissy. I don’t know how the hell Desi does it. Living with Ethan and his pets would give me nightmares.

I find Ethan sitting at his desk, holding a magnifying glass, head bent over a display of beetles. Both Fluffy and Hissy are safely ensconced inside screen-topped terrariums atop a side dresser, so I venture in.

“Hi, Ethan,” I say.

“Hi, Aunt Mattie.”

“What are you up to?”

“Just studying some of my collections,” he says.

His collections are all over the room: covered glass boxes that are filled with various creepy-crawlies, and flying bugs pinned onto white paper, with tiny, neat labels beneath each one bearing the critter’s scientific name, the date it was obtained, and where it was found.

“I brought you something,” I tell him, rummaging through my purse and pulling out the paper I stuck in there earlier. I unfold it, lay it on the desk, and smooth it out.

Ethan glances over at it, shrugs, and goes back to his beetle collection. “It’s
Tineola bisselliella,
” he says.

“Is it a grub for some kind of water bug?”