Scared Stiff (28 page)
Chapter 41
T
he next morning I let the pup out again to do his business just before I head for work. We run into Izzy, who is backing out of his garage, and he stops and rolls down the window of his car.
he next morning I let the pup out again to do his business just before I head for work. We run into Izzy, who is backing out of his garage, and he stops and rolls down the window of his car.
“What is that?” he asks, pointing to the dog.
“It’s Hoover. I found him last night hanging out by a Dumpster behind the grocery store.”
“Hoover?” Izzy repeats.
“Well, yeah. It’s only temporary. I don’t know what his real name is. But given the way he sucks down food, I thought it appropriate. He was obviously hungry so I fed him and then he sort of insisted that I bring him home.”
Izzy shakes his head woefully. “Judging from his output, I’m guessing you fed him a lot.”
I look over at Hoover and see him in a grunting squat, his haunches quivering with the effort as he deposits a huge, steaming pile of dog doo-doo in the grass beside the cottage.
“I plan on taking out a lost-and-found ad in the paper. It’s only temporary,” I say again, worried that Izzy is upset about me having another pet in his cottage.
Having finished his morning ablutions, Hoover runs back to me and sits at my heels, his tail wagging.
Izzy studies the dog a moment and says, “He’s cute. And he seems well behaved.”
“He is,” I say hopefully.
“What are you going to do if no one claims him?”
“I haven’t given it much thought.” Actually, that’s not true. I’ve given it a lot of thought and sort of hope no one
will
claim him but I’m not about to fess up to that fact. “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “I guess I’ll deal with that if and when it happens.”
will
claim him but I’m not about to fess up to that fact. “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “I guess I’ll deal with that if and when it happens.”
“I see,” Izzy says, and I suspect he does. “Are you coming in this morning?”
I nod. “I’m right behind you. But if you don’t need me right away I thought I’d stop by Kohler’s and take care of the final paperwork for the car.”
Izzy’s gaze shifts to the hearse and a hint of a smile crosses his face. “No problem,” he says, shifting into drive and pulling away slowly. “Just keep your cell handy in case I need to get a hold of you.”
“Will do.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that Izzy didn’t have a major meltdown over the dog and head back inside. I instruct both Hoover and Rubbish to behave and guard the house, give them both an ample supply of food and water, and then head out.
Bobby Keegan comes outside to greet me as I pull into the lot of Kohler’s Used Cars. “So what do you think?” he says. “It’s in great shape, no?”
“It is,” I admit grudgingly. “It seems to run fine and it’s quite comfy inside.”
“So do we have a deal?”
“I think we do.”
He claps his hands together with glee. “Great! Come on inside and we’ll finish up the paperwork.”
It takes me the better part of forty-five minutes to finalize all the details. When I’m done, I start to head for the office but then decide to take a quick detour instead. After a stop at the bank to replenish my empty wallet, I pull into a strip mall that contains, among other things, a pet store. I head inside and quickly fill up a basket with an assortment of doggie items: a collar, a leash, a spray can of flea and tick repellant, tennis balls, a brush, a chew bone, and a box of treats. I carry the basket up to the counter and set it down, then head back into the aisles for a bag of dog food. I toss a twenty-pound sack over my shoulder and when I pass a stack of stuffed doggie pillows on my way back to the register, I grab the top one by the corner and drag that with me, too. My mind keeps telling me I’m insane since there’s a good chance Hoover belongs to someone and I may lose him in a matter of days. But I’m in total denial.
Close to a hundred dollars later, I load the dog food and the pillow into the back of the hearse and toss the bag containing my other treasures into the passenger seat up front. Just as I start the engine, my cell rings. I see from the caller ID that it’s Izzy and my first thought is that he somehow knows where I am and is about to lecture me on the foolishness of spending money I can’t afford on a dog that I likely won’t be able to keep.
“Hey, Izzy,” I say, answering the phone. “I finally got everything tied up with the car and I’m heading your way.” It’s the truth in essence, even if I am leaving out a few significant details. In case he knows where I am at the moment, I don’t want to lie and say I’m just leaving the used car lot, but if he doesn’t know, I see no reason to clue him in, either.
“We have a death over on King Street,” he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “It’s an elderly person and probably a natural, but we have to investigate. Want to meet me there?”
“Sure.” He gives me the exact address and I plot a course through town that takes me along Hanover Avenue toward King Street. I’m halfway there when I come up on the Johnson Funeral Home, which is located on the corner of Hanover and Chestnut, another well traveled street. Apparently there is a funeral in progress because just ahead of me I see a hearse pull out of the funeral home parking lot onto Hanover and then make a quick turn down Chestnut. Two more cars follow before I catch up, putting me momentarily in the midst of the procession. Apparently my presence causes some confusion because rather than turning onto Chestnut, the remaining cars all fall into line behind me. It takes a couple of blocks before I look in my rearview mirror and realize what’s happening.
I try to shoo the cars away by waving my hand in the air but the driver of the car immediately behind me merely waves back. So I roll my side window down and try more hand gestures, but to no avail. Half a mile later I turn onto King Street with a fourteen-car entourage at my heels.
There is an ambulance parked in front of the house along with two cop cars. I see the EMTs and two uniformed officers standing on the front porch of the house. As I pull up and park behind one of the squad cars, the cars behind me start pulling to the curb as well. In less than a minute, both sides of the street are filled with parked cars going back an entire block.
I climb out of the hearse and head back to the first car in the funeral procession to inform them of their mistake. But before I can get to them, an unmarked sedan pulls up with Hurley at the helm. And right behind him is our office van with Izzy in the passenger seat and Arnie driving. They stop in the middle of the street since there’s nowhere else to park, and Hurley gets out of his car in a huff, looking annoyed.
“What the hell are all these lookie-loos doing here?” he asks me, shooting an angry look at the cops on the porch. “Don’t those uniforms know their job?” He starts toward the clueless cops looking like he wants to rip them both a new one, so I stop him by grabbing his arm.
“Hurley, hold up a sec. These people aren’t lookie-loos. They followed me here and those cops had no idea they were coming.”
“They followed you?” he repeats. “What, you have a fan club now?”
“No, it’s this stupid car,” I say, gesturing to the menace behind me. “I drove into the middle of a funeral procession and it confused some of the drivers. They followed me instead of sticking with the rest of the motorcade.”
Hurley looks from me to the cars and back to me again. Izzy, who has rolled down the window in his van and overheard our conversation, is trying vainly to suppress a smirk. Several of the drivers in the funeral procession have rolled down their windows as well, including the car directly behind me.
Hurley says, “They think this is a funeral?”
“My thoughts exactly,” the guy in the car behind me snaps. “What kind of Mickey Mouse operation is this, anyway? Are we burying Charlie in somebody’s backyard?”
“Who the hell is Charlie?” Hurley asks, sotto voce.
“I’m guessing he would be the deceased,” I surmise. I make a sweeping gesture toward all the parked cars. “And they all think he’s in the back of my hearse.”
Funeral Guy hears this and says, “You mean he’s not in there? What the hell did you do with him?” He gets out of his car, walks up to the back of mine and peers through the window, then turns and storms toward us, making me back up a few steps. Judging from his physique, I’m pretty sure Funeral Guy is a weightlifter on steroids. His thigh muscles are so big he walks like he just came in from a month of riding herd on his cattle. His arms are slightly extended because he can’t put them down at his sides and his biceps look like they are about to burst out of the sleeves of his suit. He’s almost as tall as Hurley, and judging from the way his fists keep opening and closing, I’m guessing his patience will burn out quicker than a magician’s flash paper.
“Sir, you need to calm down,” Hurley says, planting a hand on the man’s chest to stop his approach. “There’s been some confusion here.”
Funeral Guy’s face is the color of a ripe plum and I’m guessing his blood pressure is rising faster than a retiree on Viagra. “Damned right,” he grumbles. “Where’s the casket? Where the hell is Charlie’s body?”
“You followed the wrong car,” Hurley tries to explain calmly. “There isn’t any body here.”
“Well, technically there is,” I toss out, earning an exasperated glance from Hurley. “Just not the one you think.”
Funeral Guy looks momentarily confused, then the one brain cell that wasn’t killed off by the steroids finally fires. “What the fuck!” he yells, his voice resonating like thunder. “You assholes put the wrong body in Charlie’s casket?”
“No, sir,” I say quickly, trying to ameliorate the misunderstanding. “That’s not what I meant at all. There is no casket. The body I’m talking about is in that house over there. The body you want is—”
“You dumped Charlie in a house? You sonofabitchingcocksuckingbastards!”
Before I can so much as blink, Funeral Guy rears back and plants his fist in Hurley’s cheek with a sickening, bone-crunching
thunk.
Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the policemen and both EMTs leap off the porch and start running toward us. Hurley staggers sideways and then crumples to the ground. I let out a little yelp and start to head for him to see if he’s okay, but Funeral Guy stands like an incensed bull between us and his attention is now focused on me.
thunk.
Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the policemen and both EMTs leap off the porch and start running toward us. Hurley staggers sideways and then crumples to the ground. I let out a little yelp and start to head for him to see if he’s okay, but Funeral Guy stands like an incensed bull between us and his attention is now focused on me.
I backpedal quickly, stealing a glance at the cop and EMTs heading my way. I can tell they aren’t going to make it in time, and judging from the crazed look on Funeral Guy’s face, the time for calm persuasion came and went some time ago. I turn, grab the handle to my car door, and pull it open. I dive across the seat and quickly turn to try to grab the door to close it, but Funeral Guy is too quick for me. He catches the top of the door in one of his meaty hands and yanks it wide open. Realizing that the idiot could kill me, I look around frantically for something I can use to forestall him until the cop gets to me. As Funeral Guy grabs hold of my leg and starts to pull me from the car, I let out a bloodcurdling scream, kick him with my free foot, and then fire off the only weapon I can find.
“Arrgghhh!” Funeral Guy screams, releases my leg, and clamps his hands over his eyes. “What the fuck!” He backpedals away from my car and straight into the arms of a uniformed police officer. “My eyes! My eyes!”
Hurley gets up from the ground, massaging his jaw, and makes his way over to me. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“I didn’t know you carried pepper spray.”
“I don’t. It’s flea and tick repellant.”
Hurley starts to smile but it fades to a grimace as he massages his jaw again. “I’d say he’s been successfully repelled,” he says. “Serves the bastard right.”
Chapter 42
A
second patrol car arrives and Funeral Guy is cuffed and hauled off to jail. It takes me a good ten minutes to explain to the other funeral attendees what has happened and to direct them back through the streets to the cemetery. Some of them are angered by the snafu, one guy is amused, and the others simply look embarrassed.
second patrol car arrives and Funeral Guy is cuffed and hauled off to jail. It takes me a good ten minutes to explain to the other funeral attendees what has happened and to direct them back through the streets to the cemetery. Some of them are angered by the snafu, one guy is amused, and the others simply look embarrassed.
As soon as Funeral Guy is safely away, Izzy and Arnie get out of the office van and follow Hurley into the house with the corpse.
By the time I join them, Izzy is on the phone and Hurley and Arnie are standing in the living room staring at the dead man, who is sitting in a recliner. The man’s face is pasty white and his hands, which are hanging at his sides, are swollen and purple with lividity, as are his feet. He looks peaceful, though very dead, and I’m guessing he’s been this way for several hours.
“Who is Izzy talking to?” I ask Hurley.
“His physician,” he answers, nodding toward the corpse. “A neighbor told one of the cops that the old guy was a ticking time bomb and it was simply a matter of time before he cashed in his chips.”
“Who found him?”
“The same neighbor. Apparently he and Dead Guy have breakfast together every day. When Dead Guy didn’t show, the neighbor came in to check on him and found him like this.”
Izzy hangs up his phone and turns to address the rest of us. “In addition to diabetes, he had an extensive cardiac history that included three myocardial infarctions, CHF, and an ejection fraction of fifteen percent.”
“In layman’s terms?” Hurley says, wincing and massaging his jaw.
“Basically he’s been a dead man walking for several months. Judging from what we know and what we can see here, I think it’s safe to say this was a natural death.”
“Okay, then,” Hurley says, wincing again. “We’re out of here.”
“You need to get that looked at,” I tell Hurley, watching him rub the now faintly discolored area on his jaw.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles. “The guy just caught me off guard.”
Realizing Hurley’s male pride has been damaged, I say, “Yeah, who knew he was going to go nuts like that?”
Hurley eyes me warily, and I suspect he’s trying to determine if I’m busting on him or serious.
“I think he had ’roid rage,” I continue. “That kind of physique isn’t found in nature. It had to have come from steroid abuse. And the strength it can give people is frightening.” I reach up and gently palpate along Hurley’s jawline. He has a day’s worth of beard stubble that is surprisingly soft, and as I move my fingers over his cheek I can feel the muscles beneath my hand twitching. He is watching me intently, and though I can feel his gaze on me, I don’t return it. I’m afraid of what I’ll say or do if I become entranced by those soft pools of blue.
Arnie clears his throat and says, “Should we get you two a room?”
Izzy snorts a laugh and I drop my hand from Hurley’s face. After shooting a death-ray look at Arnie, I tell Hurley, “I don’t feel any obvious fractures but you have quite a bit of swelling and bruising there. You should probably have it X-rayed.”
I leave the room and head out to the dead man’s kitchen, where I open a few drawers and, after finding what I want, head for the freezer. A moment later I return to the living room with a plastic baggie full of ice cubes wrapped in paper towels and hand it to Hurley. “Put this on your cheek,” I tell him. “It will help reduce the pain and swelling.”
He takes the baggie, does as I instructed, and says, “Thank you.” His voice is soft and tender and I don’t think it’s all because of his jaw. The way he is looking at me makes my skin hot and my toes curl.
I realize Izzy and Arnie are already outside, meaning Hurley and I are alone together . . . well, that is if you don’t count the dead guy. It seems most of my moments with Hurley occur near a dead body, hardly the best setting for a romantic interlude. I head outside and join Arnie and Izzy at the van.
“Are you coming back to the office?” Izzy asks. I nod. “Try not to bring a crowd with you, okay?” he adds with a twinkle in his eye.
“Ha, ha.” I head back for the hearse and as soon as Arnie pulls out, I fall in behind him. Hurley is still inside the house and I mourn the fact that I’m leaving him there, vulnerable and alone. Then I curse the fact that the dead keep interfering with my love life.
Back at the office, I settle into the library with a forensic textbook and spend some time reading about the analysis of stab wounds. It’s fascinating stuff but I’m still glad when my cell phone rings and offers me a break from the grim reality of how much damage sharp penetrating objects can do to the human body. A quick look at my caller ID tells me it’s Carla Andrusson calling.
“Hi, Carla.”
“Hi, Mattie.”
“How did it go?”
“I don’t know. Like all the other times, I guess. I did what you said.” Her voice sounds oddly flat and devoid of emotion.
“Good. Thank you. Can I come by now to pick up the equipment?”
“Sure.”
I hang up, stop by Izzy’s office to let him know I’m going to run a quick errand, and then head for Carla’s house. She greets me at the door and smiles, but it comes across as a plastic, social nicety, an expression worn solely for appearance’ sake.
“Thanks again for doing this, Carla,” I say as she waves me in and leads me to the kitchen.
“Sure.” She sounds and looks like a Stepford Wife.
“Are you okay?” I ask, seriously concerned.
“Of course.” She flashes the plastic smile again. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. You seem different somehow. Subdued. Not your usual self.”
She waves away my concern. “I’m just a little tired. My nerves kept me awake last night worrying about this appointment today.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s done now.” She hands over the digital recording device I gave her yesterday—the one Izzy gave me for recording my observations at death scenes. “I kept it in my purse during the appointment so I’m pretty sure Dr. Nelson didn’t suspect anything,” she says.
“Did you listen to it?” I ask. I know I would have found it close to impossible not to do so had our roles been reversed. My curiosity is insatiable. It’s not that I can’t keep a secret; I can and do all the time, and will probably take several of them to my grave. But I hate being out of the loop.
She doesn’t hesitate at all with her answer. “No. I figured I’d leave that up to you. You will let me know what you find, won’t you?”
“When I can,” I say evasively. Truth is, anything I hear on the recorder will probably be inadmissible as evidence. I didn’t have her do it to gather evidence but rather to bolster—or dismiss—my own suspicions about the man. But if I do find something that might be usable, sharing that information too soon might compromise the investigation.
I’m eager to get back to the office and listen to whatever Carla recorded on the device, but I don’t want to seem too rude or ungrateful, so I force myself to be social and take a sip of the coffee she pours for me. Shockingly, it is ice cold.
As I spit it back into the cup, Carla looks at me with that flat smile and says, “Is it too strong?”
“No, it’s cold.”
She blinks her eyes several times very rapidly. “Silly me,” she says in a goofy manner that seems very unlike the Carla I know. “I must have forgotten to turn the burner on.” For just a second her smile fades. She rubs both her temples and looks momentarily frightened and confused. But the change is fleeting and the smile is pasted back in place so quickly I start to wonder if I imagined it.
“I’m going to head back to my office now, Carla,” I say, getting up from the table. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
She laughs and there is a hint of the old Carla in the sound. “Let’s hope I don’t need what you have to offer,” she says.
I thank her again for helping me and leave, but as I drive away I keep replaying the scene at her house over and over again in my mind. Her behavior was disturbing, and while something about it nudges at my brain, I can’t quite pull out the message my subconscious is trying to send.
I arrive back at the office and plan to head straight for the library to listen to the recording. But in the main lobby I run into a crowd. Cass is seated at her desk and today she is dressed as a punk rocker complete with spiked, purple hair, striped tights, Doc Martens, an oversized shirt, and lots of piercings I assume are fake since I’m pretty sure she didn’t have any holes in those places before. Standing in front of the desk are Izzy, Aaron Heinrich, and Hurley, whose cheek looks more colorful but a little less swollen.
“There she is,” Aaron says, turning to greet me. He flashes his thousand-watt smile and leans back against Cass’s desk.
Izzy says, “Aaron stopped by to thank us for the work we did investigating his father’s death. And he also wanted to know if it would be allowable for him to ask you out for dinner, now that the case is closed.”
“Dinner?” I say stupidly, caught off guard by the invite.
Izzy says, “There’re no conflict-of-interest considerations anymore.”
If looks could kill, Izzy would be reclined on one of the back tables right now judging from the way Hurley is glaring at him. Izzy appears not only oblivious, but amused.
Aaron says, “Change of plans. I thought we could head down to Chicago instead of Green Bay. I know some great restaurants and there’s a show in town I’d like to see. So what do you say, Mattie? Will you do me the honor of joining me tonight?”
I consider the invitation for a moment and my hesitation wins Izzy a momentary reprieve from his death sentence because Hurley focuses his glare on me instead. His attempts at intimidation annoy me, making me want to dish a little back. But I’m not sure I’m ready to go on a date with Aaron.
“I’d love to,” I say, smiling at Aaron. I swear the thunderclouds on Hurley’s face make the barometric pressure in the room drop precipitously. “But I can’t do it tonight.”
Aaron looks disappointed but he brightens quickly when I add, “Perhaps another time?”
“Sure,” he says. “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you later and set something up.” He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket, turns around to take a slip of paper from Cass, and then looks back at me expectantly with pen poised.
I figure the phone number thing is a safe bet since, in my experience, most men who say they’ll call never do. Plus, I’m abiding by Rule Number Seven in Mother’s Rules for Wives: men are like mascara—they run at the first hint of emotion, so try to keep them guessing. Giving my number to Aaron should keep Hurley guessing, or at least squirming, for a while. There is one teensy problem, however: I don’t know my own number. As I open my phone and start scrolling through menus to find it, Aaron laughs.
“Is your phone number top secret?” he asks.
“Not exactly,” I say with a grimace of a smile, hoping I don’t look too stupid. “Izzy wrote it down for me once but since I never call myself and the key people who need it already have it, I haven’t managed to memorize the number yet.”
I see Hurley shift uncomfortably and presume it’s because my implication—that Aaron is now about to become a “key” person—isn’t sitting well with him. Izzy is grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, hell,” Hurley grumbles. “I’ll give it to you.” He rattles off a string of ten numbers, which Aaron scribbles down and then tucks away into his pocket.
Whoa.
I didn’t see that coming and, frankly, the fact that Hurley would so glibly pass out my number to a potential rival annoys me. I thought our history of a spontaneous kiss or two and what might be construed as a second base hit in the parking lot of the Nowhere Bar meant he felt something for me. Now I’m not so sure.
I didn’t see that coming and, frankly, the fact that Hurley would so glibly pass out my number to a potential rival annoys me. I thought our history of a spontaneous kiss or two and what might be construed as a second base hit in the parking lot of the Nowhere Bar meant he felt something for me. Now I’m not so sure.
“Thanks, man,” Aaron says.
Hurley just nods. His scowl is gone and in fact, he looks downright chipper. I focus on keeping my expression neutral, hoping not to show how devastated I am by his actions.
“Yes, thanks, Hurley,” I echo, snapping my phone shut. “That was very sweet of you.”
“Anytime. Now if you folks will excuse me, I have some business to tend to.” With that, Hurley strides across the lobby and out the front door.
“I’m sure you folks have things to do as well,” Aaron says, “so I guess I’ll be going too. I’ll give you a call in a day or two, Mattie.”
“Sure. Okay.” I try to force a smile onto my face but it isn’t easy. On the inside, I’m one hormone release away from crying. Aaron walks over, gives me a quick buss on the cheek, and then follows Hurley’s path to the parking lot.
“Very interesting,” Izzy says as soon as the front door closes.
He is still grinning and I give him a hurtful look. “I’m so happy my agony amuses you,” I whine.
“Agony? Why are you in agony? You have two incredibly handsome, eligible bachelors interested in you. I should think you’d be dancing.”
“Apparently Hurley doesn’t give a crap who I date,” I pout. “He was more than happy to help the matchmaking along. And I doubt Aaron is seriously interested. I know his type. They like to play with a new toy every week or so. I doubt I’ll ever hear from him.”
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