Working Stiff (16 page)

He walks over, brushes aside the hair on my forehead, and shines his flashlight on my gash. He is so close to me, I can feel heat radiating off his body in a cloud of steam. I realize he is soaked to the bone, his jeans dripping wet as a puddle forms at his feet. And the idea of suggesting he get out of those jeans flashes through my mind.

The rest of me may be in shock, but my hormones are working just fine.

“I think you're going to need some stitches,” he says. He walks into the bathroom and returns a moment later with a towel, which he uses to dab at the wound. “Want me to drive you to the ER?”

I nod. At the moment, I'd let him drive me pretty much anywhere. “What are you doing here?” I ask him. “Checking up on me?”

“Actually, it's your ex I'm checking up on. I followed him when he left the little hospital soirée and after a few blocks I guessed he was heading home. But then I saw him turn in here and got curious.” He pauses and gives me a sheepish look. “I confess,” he says, “I was trying to peek in through your windows but it was too dark to see anything. And then I heard you scream. When I opened the door I saw the two of you struggling and saw the torn stockings on the floor, the rip in your dress, your banged-up knees and that gash on your head…”

“And you thought he tried to rape me,” I conclude. Now that I am seeing it from Hurley's perspective, it all makes sense. Inexplicably, I feel a bubble of laughter build deep in my stomach. I fight like hell to keep it there, but it bursts out of me anyway. It has a brittle, demented sound to it and seconds later I start to sob. Hurley's expression as he watches this little Dr. Jekyll/Mrs. Hyde routine goes from startled to horrified, and then to something solicitous and tender that makes my toes tingle and my blood flow hot.

I suspect that when it comes to Hurley, my hormones are like a cockroach. Even a nuclear holocaust won't keep them down.

I
change out of what's left of my dress and slip on jeans and a sweater. I towel-dry my hair, run a comb through it, and then pull it into a ponytail—even Barbara's magical ministrations can't rescue it now. I'm putting on my jacket when I remember Rubbish.

“Oh, no!”

“What?” Hurley looks instantly tense as I run to the front door and pull it open. He follows me, asking, “What?” about three more times before his finely honed detective mind figures it out after watching me yell, “Here, kitty, kitty,” into the driving wind and rain. I'm heading into the woods when he grabs my arm.

“Come on,” he says. “You need to get to the ER and have that cut looked at. It's bleeding again. I'm sure the cat will be okay.”

“He will
not
be okay,” I yell back, shaking my arm loose from his grip. “And he's not a cat, he's a kitten. He's tiny and he's too young to be out in something like this. Plus, he hasn't lived here very long. He doesn't know his way around.”

I'm close to tears again, which apparently scares Hurley enough that he decides to help me look. But after half an hour of fruitless searching, I finally give in. Since I'm soaked, I change my clothes again, drying off as best I can. But even after donning a shirt and two sweaters, I still feel chilled to the bone. By the time I'm ready to leave, my teeth are chattering, partly from the damp cold and partly from the leftover adrenaline I have running around inside me. Hurley takes one look at me and disappears into my bedroom, reappearing a moment later with a blanket from my bed. He drapes it gently around my shoulders and then steers me out to his car.

The ride to the ER is a quiet one, at least in terms of conversation. The rain and thunder are too loud for normal talk, and given the way my teeth are chattering, I'll be hard-pressed to say anything that doesn't sound like a stutter from an evilly possessed typewriter.

At the hospital, Hurley pulls up by the ER entrance and escorts me inside, maintaining a light touch on my elbow. Halfway there I begin to feel a little woozy and I let my imagination go Victorian, imagining what would happen if I fainted. My eyes would flutter and I'd let forth with a dainty little whimper just before my knees give way. Hurley, warned by my delicate utterance, would catch me in his big, strong arms and hold me until…

Reality kicks in and my fantasy evaporates as I realize that my weight would likely be enough to break Hurley's arms or, at the very least, send us both crashing to the ground. That whole fainting scenario is the sole property of those genetically lucky women who shop at the five-seven-nine shops. It doesn't work well for someone like me, who makes sure to remove every stitch of clothing and jewelry, take in no food or water, and empty my bladder before getting on the scale each morning. Though actually, when I'm truly depressed, I'll spend a few days weighing with my clothes on, rationalizing in my mind that it isn't really
that
bad. Two socks, a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and underwear must weigh at least…oh…eighteen pounds or so, right?

Fortunately I make it inside the ER without keeling over. The fact that I once worked here expedites my admission. The registration clerk lets me go on back right away, asking only for my driver's license so she can make sure the information in the computer is correct. I look to see if Hurley is impressed by this VIP treatment, but all he does is wave me on, take a cell phone out of his pocket, and mumble something about needing to make a call.

Syph is on duty and after one sympathetic look from her, I burst into tears. She hauls me, sobbing and stuttering, into the ENT room, one of the few areas of the ER where you can get privacy behind a real door as opposed to a giant shower curtain.

She has me lie down and preps my wound while I try to tell her what happened. Lucky for me, the doc on duty is Walter Copeland, who has a delicate touch and a talented hand when it comes to suturing. While I'm not that vain, the idea of having a big scar running across my face doesn't exactly appeal to me. It's hard enough on my ego that I've been compared to Bigfoot in the past, simply because my shoes are large enough to carry a small family downriver. I don't need to add Frankenstein comparisons to my repertoire.

By the time Walter places the first stitch, I have calmed considerably and am happily numb. That's when Syph says, “Boy, that whole thing with Karen Owenby is so weird, isn't it? I mean, it's bad enough she was killed, but then to find out she was some kind of impostor.”

“You heard about that?” I say. I'm surprised, remembering Izzy's earlier claim that no one seemed to know yet. I figure Molinaro is doing her best to keep the whole thing a secret for as long as possible.

“Celia,” Syph says, and if not for the fact that I am lying under a needle and thread, I would have given myself a
duh
slap on the side of the head. “I can't believe no one suspected anything,” Syph goes on. “Though I think her roommate knew something wasn't right. She kept saying she knew it was all going to fall apart sooner or later.”

I almost sit bolt upright on the stretcher. “That's right!” I say excitedly. “I forgot that the cops brought her in here that night. Susan something, right?”

“McNally.”

“Yeah, that's it. Larry said she was shocky.”

“Not really. Mostly she was just nervous as hell. You can hardly blame her. It isn't every day you come home and find your roommate shot to death in the middle of the living room floor. We got her calmed down pretty quick, though. A little vitamin V and twenty minutes later she was floating.”

“I'll bet she was.” The one and only time I had Vitamin V, our code word for either Valium or another fun mind-bending relaxant known as Versed, was right before I was wheeled into surgery with a case of acute appendicitis. I not only felt really,
really
good, I was convinced I could do the surgery by myself.
On
myself.

“Did Susan say anything else about Karen?” I ask. “Anything that might shed some light on who killed her?”

“Not to me,” Syph says. “Though I did hear her say something to one of the cops who was with her. Something about pushing things too far and how she knew it was all going to blow up in her face.”

“Any idea what she meant by that?”

“Not a clue.”

Walter finishes my stitches—three all together—and I sit up on the stretcher to make sure my dizziness has passed. I have Syph look up Susan McNally's ER record to see who she listed as next of kin. I figure the woman might not want to go back to the house she and Karen shared, assuming she even can since I'm guessing the cops have it locked up tighter than a drum at this point. So I want to know if she has any relatives living nearby she might stay with. Sure enough, there is a sister listed who lives in the nearby village of Parsons. I jot down the address and then go looking for Hurley.

The receptionist thrusts some forms at me and asks me to sign them—permission to treat even though it's already been done, and a statement of responsibility that essentially promises my first-born child, most of my organs, and all my earthly possessions to the hospital in the event that my insurance doesn't pay. When I ask for my driver's license back, she tells me Hurley has it. The only problem is, no one seems to know where Hurley is. I'm frowning—not an easy task considering that most of my forehead is numb—and debating what to do next, when a uniformed policewoman comes up to me and says, “Are you Mattie Winston?”

“I am.”

“I'm supposed to drive you back to your place,” she says. “Whenever you're ready to go, just holler.”

“Where is Hurley?”

She shrugs. “I have no idea. He said he couldn't stay here and wait on you and asked me to drive you home. Are you ready?”

I am crushed. Here I'd imagined Hurley sitting in the waiting area—actually I had him pacing—worried about whether or not I'd be all right. Instead, he has flown the coop and pawned me off on to someone else. And to think I was willing to faint into his arms just an hour before.

“Know what?” I say to the officer. “I'll just call my sister. There's no need for you to wait around or take me home. She can do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Thank you anyway.”

“Well, if something happens and you can't get a ride, just call the station and tell them to contact me. Name's Brenda Joiner.”

“Thanks, Brenda.”

One phone call and ten minutes later, Desiree arrives with my niece and nephew in tow. No one would ever guess that Desi and I are sisters, though technically we're only half sisters since she has a different father. Desi's hair is raven colored, her brown eyes are so dark they look black, and she has an olive complexion and a short, wiry build. Erika inherited her mother's looks and coloring whereas Ethan, with his reddish-brown hair, fair skin, and freckles, favors Lucien.

“I didn't mean for you to make a family outing of this,” I say as they all come trooping through the door. “Sorry to drag you out in this weather.”

“Not a problem,” Desi says, smiling. “The storm has abated for the most part anyway. Just some lingering drizzle now. And the kids wanted to come along. They haven't seen their aunt in ages and they haven't seen your new digs at all.”

While I believe Ethan's motivation to tag along might be that he simply wanted to see me, I suspect it is something else altogether for Erika. As soon as she enters the ER, she scans the waiting room eagerly, no doubt hoping to see a severed limb or someone with an ax in their head. When the pickings prove to be utterly mundane, she tries hovering by the automatic doors that lead to the treatment area, peeking in when they open in hopes of catching a glimpse of something gory. When that fails to produce anything, she settles sullenly into a chair, gazing out the window with a wistful expression on her face.

Erika loves gore. She loves medical shows, horror movies, televised surgeries, and those medical forensic shows—the bloodier the better. Her fascination with blood and guts occasionally gives her mother pause, but it doesn't bother me at all. In fact, I think my niece has all the makings of a first-class trauma surgeon—as long as the patients don't mind having a doctor who looks like the Grim Reaper's kid sister.

Erika's current style of dress is a cross between Goth and Grunge. Tonight's outfit is typical: black leggings, black sweatshirt, and, beneath that, a man's black shirt with the tail hanging nearly to her knees. Her feet are encased in high-top black boots, and I have no doubt that beneath those is a pair of black socks. Desi recently gave Erika permission to wear makeup and her choices are kohl-black eyeliner, pale foundation, and black lipstick. Topping off this ensemble is her hair—jet black and poker straight—which hangs nearly to her waist.

Ethan is a stark contrast to his sister in more than just looks. He is oblivious to his surroundings. He follows his mother like a little robot, his eyes glued to the electronic game he has in his hands. He mutters the obligatory greeting but never once looks at me. In fact, he never looks at anything other than his game, apparently using some form of internal kid radar to keep from running into things. Not surprisingly, when I manage to sneak a peek at his game, I see some sort of multilegged bug thing racing around the screen.

After we're settled in the car on the way to my cottage, I give Desi a brief encapsulation of the night's events, though I gloss over a few items knowing that, despite their attempts to appear disinterested, the kids are hanging on my every word. They always do, something I've learned the hard way more than once. Tonight they give themselves away when I mention Rubbish.

“You have a cat?” Erika says.

“When did you get a cat?” Ethan asks at the same instant, though there is nary a pause in the bleeps and whistles coming from his game.

“I got him a few days ago. He's only a kitten. I think he's about twelve weeks old.”

“Cool.” Coming from Erika, this is high praise indeed.

“I found him in a Dumpster,” I tell them.

“Way cool,” Ethan judges. “Is that why you named him Rubbish?”

“Yep.”

“And he ran away?” Erika says, suspicion lacing her voice.

“I hope not, but when I tried to find him, I couldn't. Will you guys help me look for him when we get home?” Both kids answer with an enthusiastic “Sure!” though I can't help but wonder how much help Ethan will be if he doesn't take his eyes off that game.

As Desi pulls into my driveway and parks in front of the cottage, I see that the power is still out. But the cottage isn't totally dark. The light from several candles glows through the front windows, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise since I know I only lit one and I distinctly remember extinguishing it before heading to the ER. I also remember that, once again, I didn't bother to lock the front door.

Then I see one of the candles move across the room as if it's floating on air, and I gasp. Either my cottage is haunted or someone is inside.