Lucky Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

This comes as no surprise to those of us who know Arnie. He’s a conspiracy nut who believes homeless people are government spies, and all cell phones are secret monitoring devices created by aliens. “And there wasn’t one?” I ask.

  Arnie shakes his head. “We dismantled the entire TV and now we can’t figure out how to put it back together.” He shrugs again. “The ponytail seemed like a fair price to pay.”

  “The new do looks good on you,” Izzy says. Then he quickly gets back to business. “What have you got for me?”

  Arnie shows him the printouts he’s carrying. “I didn’t find anything too unusual, aside from his blood alcohol level, which was 402.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Impressive. That’s more than five times the legal limit.”

  “Would it be enough to render him unconscious, or kill him?” Hurley asks.

  “Depends,” I say. “When I worked in the ER, I once saw a couple of guys who were long-term practiced drinkers who were functioning quite well despite blood alcohol levels in the five hundreds. Over time you build up a tolerance.”

  “What was his carbon monoxide level?” Izzy asks Arnie.

  “Six,” Arnie says. “Typical for a smoker.”

  “Cyanide?” Izzy asks.

  “Cyanide?” Hurley echoes. “Why would you test for that? Are you having flashbacks to that other case we had recently?”

  “Certain types of foam and plastic give off cyanide gas when they burn, and the end effect is not unlike being in a gas chamber,” Arnie explains.

  Junior winces, and Hurley looks thoughtful. Arnie adds, “But that didn’t happen here. The cyanide test was negative. Also, Jack Allen’s dentist is local, so I sent over the X-rays we took and got a confirmation that the body is that of Jack Allen. The dentist said she’ll send us over a copy of the corroborating X-rays later today.”

  “Thanks, Arnie,” Izzy says. “And thanks for coming in today. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” Arnie sets his printouts on a side counter. “I didn’t have any big plans anyway.” As Arnie leaves the room, I can’t help but wonder how he spent his day. He’s a transplant from L.A. and doesn’t have any family here. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he spent his time online in a chat room with like-minded conspiracy theorists, all of them wearing their protective tinfoil hats and discussing how the emphasis on holiday spending is a government plot to subvert religion.

  We move on to Jack’s head and our examination of the brain reveals nothing more, ruling out any brain injury from Jack’s fall as a cause of death.

  When we’re done, Izzy looks over at Hurley with an apologetic expression. “I can’t give you a definite cause or manner at this point,” he says. “Nor can I give you a time of death. Hopefully, the stomach contents will help narrow that down, if we have any witnesses to when he last ate. If not, we might be able to get an estimate from the potassium level in the vitreous fluid. Though I know he died before the fire, there’s no way to tell if his death was a homicide or an accident. As I said before, the alcohol level alone might have been enough. Though if he was a practiced drinker, that’s less likely. He also might have succumbed to positional asphyxiation when he fell by landing in a position that blocked his airway. Or someone might have suffocated him.”

  “Well, whatever happened, we know arson was involved, and possibly robbery, too,” Hurley says. “So for now, we’ll treat this as a homicide, until we can prove otherwise.”

  “I think that’s wise,” Izzy says. “Those bruises inside the lips bother me. Based on the position of his body when we found it and the location of the nearby furniture, I find it hard to believe they were sustained in the fall, but I’ll have to review the scene photos again to be sure.”

  Izzy has replaced the calvarium, or skullcap, and pulled Jack’s scalp back into place. Then he pauses and stares at the body for a few seconds, his forehead furrowed with puzzlement.

  “What is it, Izzy?” I ask.

  He sighs and shakes his head. “There’s something bugging me, something I feel I’m missing, but I can’t put my finger on it at the moment.”

  “Well, if you figure out what it is, give me a call,” Hurley says. “In the meantime, Junior talked with some of the neighbors and rounded up our first list of suspects.” He nods at Junior, who takes out a small notebook and starts reading.

  “It seems that Jack has a girlfriend, a woman named Catherine Albright, who conveniently appeared on the scene right around the time Jack won his money. I’m going to do a little research on her and see what I can dig up. There’s also a housekeeper, who comes several times a week, and a nurse, who comes once a day. Jack never married, had no children of his own, and had only one sibling, an older sister named Megan Denver. The sister had one child—a son named Brian, who’s now twenty—and the sister and her husband were both killed in a car accident a couple of years ago. That leaves the nephew, Brian, as Allen’s closest surviving family member.”

  Junior closes his notebook and Hurley looks over at me. “We’ll need to talk with all of these people, and there are more neighbors I want to canvass, too. I have names I can run, and I’ll set up some interviews for tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

  I glance over at Izzy, who nods his approval. “That should be fine,” I tell Hurley. “How about I meet you at the police station around eight?”

  “That’ll work,” Hurley says. “In the meantime, do you have any plans for tonight?”

  I’m puzzled by the question because it sounds suspiciously like a date request. But Hurley quickly adds, “I think we should visit the casino where Jack won his money and check out the employees who were on duty that night. Are you up for a little investigative gambling?”

  “Tonight? It’s Christmas. Are they even open?”

  “You bet they are,” Hurley says with a wink. He’s very “punny” today.

  “Okay, sure. I’ve never been to a casino before. It should be interesting.”

  “Never?” Hurley says, sounding skeptical. “You’ve never gambled?”

  “Oh, I’ve gambled plenty, just not at a casino.” I’m pretty familiar with most games of poker because one of my stepfathers—my mother’s third husband—used to have a bunch of friends over once a week to play. I’d often sit in and watch, studying the facial expressions and body language of the players as they considered their cards. I’d ask questions whenever I didn’t understand the rules, and sneak the occasional sip from my stepfather’s alcoholic drinks.

  “Well, you’re in for a treat, then. How about I pick you up at your place at six?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “See you then.” He turns to leave, but he hesitates and looks over at me. Then, with a sly grin, he walks over and whispers a parting shot in my ear: “Be sure you wear your lucky undies.”

  Chapter 3

  I manage to escape from the office a little after five, which doesn’t leave me much time to get ready for my trip to the casino with Hurley. After letting my dog, Hoover, outside to do his business, I top off the food and water bowls for both him and my cat, Rubbish, and then watch as Hoover lives up to his name by sucking his bowl clean in about a minute flat. I take another quick shower to wash away any lingering dregs of the “eau de formaldehyde” cologne that seems to permeate my workplace. Then I use the rest of my time trying to come up with something to wear. I don’t have a whole lot to choose from. I didn’t bring many clothes with me when I fled my marriage, and I only went back once to get more stuff. I didn’t have far to go. Izzy has been my neighbor for the past seven years.

  Any clothes I had left at the old house were destroyed in the fire, and I haven’t spent much on new stuff because my funds have been a bit limited lately. When my marriage fell apart, I hid out in Izzy’s cottage for two months, wallowing in my humiliation and misery, and putting on a few pounds as I became a preferred customer at all the take-out joints in town. In doing so, I spent most of my severance pay, and all the credit cards and accounts I had access to be
fore I left were in David’s name. Izzy giving me a job certainly helped; and while things are better now, thanks to my divorce settlement, I haven’t had the time or the motivation to go out and do much in the way of clothes shopping. It’s an activity I hate because finding stuff to fit a buxom, six-foot-tall, short-waisted woman, with arms that come frighteningly close to knuckle-dragger length, and legs that are not only long but full-bodied, is an exercise in frustration. Most of the pants and slacks I try on end up being capri length, not much fun in the winter.

  As I contemplate the contents of my closet, I realize I have no idea what constitutes proper casino attire, not that I really care. What matters most is finding something that looks a bit sexy without making my butt look bigger than my house. After all, just because I can’t have Hurley doesn’t mean I can’t tempt him.

  The first outfit I try involves a pair of red slacks and a favorite black sweater I like because the sleeves are actually long enough for my arms. The red-and-black combo seems like a smart choice for a casino, where card suits and roulette wheels bear the same colors. But when I put my boots on and glance in the mirror at my backside, it looks like a baboon’s ass. I peel off the red slacks and settle on a pair of blue jeans, instead. I have just enough time to put on a bit of makeup when I hear a knock on the door.

  Hurley is standing on my porch, bearing three wrapped gifts. It triggers a moment of panic because I only have one present for him. “You shouldn’t have,” I say, eyeing the packages.

  “It’s not as good as it looks,” he says, coming inside. “Only one of these is for you. I also got something for Hoover and, against my better judgment, for that other beast of yours.”

  I’m touched. Hurley doesn’t like cats, and his introduction to Rubbish was nothing short of a disaster. Not only had Rubbish stalked and killed an entire box of tampons, leaving the bodies all over my living-room floor, he then climbed Hurley’s pant leg and tried to play a game of bocce ball with the Hurley family jewels.

  “I have a little something for you, too,” I say, closing the door.

  Hurley hands me two of the packages, one bearing a tag with my name on it and the other with a tag that says simply, For the beast. He then goes over to Hoover, gives him a scratch on the head, and gets down on the floor with him.

  “Here you go, boy,” he says, offering the third gift to Hoover, who sniffs it as if he’s a K-9 dog and the package is filled with drugs. Hurley gives him a prompt by ripping one corner of the paper wrapping and then teasing Hoover with it in a game of keep-away. It takes less than a minute for the two of them to decimate the wrapping, exposing a large, beef-basted rawhide bone. Hoover snatches it up and dashes off to one corner of the living room, where he settles down, nestles the bone between his front paws, and starts gnawing.

  “I think he likes it,” Hurley says, looking pleased.

  “I’d say so. That was very sweet of you.”

  “I’ll let you open up the one for Rubbish,” he says, looking around the room warily. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Last I saw him, he was curled up on my pillow in the bedroom. I can get him if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Hurley says quickly.

  I set down the gift with my name and rip open the one for the beast. Inside is a package of catnip-filled mice toys. “He’ll like these,” I say. “And maybe it will distract him from my tree.”

  My Christmas tree—a small Charlie Brown–looking thing—is standing in one corner of the living room. Only the top half of it is decorated, as Rubbish made it his goal in life to bat everything within reach of his paws off the branches. I learned that decorating with breakable ornaments and those icicle tinsel things is not a smart idea when you have a cat. I’ve been cleaning up shards of glass for days now; and when I last emptied the litter box, I found little cat turds embedded with shiny tinsel.

  I walk over to the tree and grab the only wrapped gift remaining beneath it. “Here you go,” I say, handing it to Hurley.

  Wearing a huge, little-boy smile, he takes my gift and shakes it. “It’s big, but light,” he says. “Interesting.” He starts to rip at the paper, but he stops and says, “You first.”

  “Okay.” I settle onto the couch and undo the wrappings. Inside I find a woolen scarf done in varying shades of blue and gray. “Wow, it’s beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “It’s handmade,” Hurley says. “A lady I know in Chicago makes them. I thought the colors would go nicely with your eyes.”

  I wrap the scarf around my neck, flipping one end of it over my shoulder with a bit of Hollywood flair. “How does it look?” I say, posing.

  Hurley doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he just stares at me with a warm look in his eyes, which makes my nether regions tingle. “I like what I see,” he says finally.

  I swallow hard; and after clearing my throat, I say, “Okay, now it’s your turn.”

  Hurley finishes tearing off the wrapping paper on his gift, revealing a large box. He rips the box open and pulls out tons of shredded paper packing before he reaches the envelope at the bottom. He looks at me with a goofy grin and a puzzled expression before opening the envelope. Then his expression changes to one of awe. “Are these for real?”

  “Very much so. Two open tickets to a Green Bay Packers game, with seats on the fifty-yard line.”

  “How did you manage this?”

  “I know someone,” I say cryptically. Actually, it’s Izzy who knows someone, a plastic surgeon with season tickets who is currently doing a two-month stint in Chechnya for Doctors Without Borders.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. But there is a small catch. They’re only good for this season, so you’ll have to use them sometime in the next couple of weeks.”

  “Not a problem.” Hurley stuffs the tickets into his wallet.

  After I clean up the gift aftermath, we give Hoover one last pat on the head and head out. I’m wearing my new scarf, even though the outside temperature doesn’t warrant it.

  Since it’s a half-hour drive to the casino, there is plenty of time to talk. Hurley fills me in on what he discovered after leaving the morgue.

  “I spoke with Jack Allen’s girlfriend. She’s coming to the station at eight-fifteen tomorrow morning to talk to us.”

  “Why are you having her come to the station? I thought you preferred going to people’s houses to get a better feel for what they’re about.”

  “I do, but Catherine Albright doesn’t have one. She was bunking at Jack’s place most of the time. Now that that’s out of the question, she’s renting a room at the Sorenson Motel.”

  “She sounds like a freeloader.”

  “She might be a lot more than that. I did some digging into her background. A little over four years ago, she married a well-to-do widower up near Duluth, who was twenty years older than she was. He died six months after the wedding, conveniently leaving Catherine all his money. Based on what the cops up there told me, Catherine went to work spending her inheritance as quickly as she could. She moved to Chicago, bought a million-dollar penthouse suite and a brand new Ferrari, ate out at the fanciest restaurants, got fitted with expensive new clothes, and took several trips abroad.”

  “Must be nice,” I mutter. “Anything suspicious about the husband’s death?”

  “Possibly. The cops in Duluth said he died from injuries sustained in a fall down some stairs in his home. Catherine had an ironclad alibi and wasn’t even in town when it happened, but the cops couldn’t rule out a hired gun. Unfortunately, they couldn’t come up with any evidence to support one, either.”

  “Interesting.”

  “And it gets more so. Turns out Catherine filed for bankruptcy two months ago. Apparently, she blew through nearly two million bucks in a year and a half, and ran up a staggering load of debt. She had to sell off the penthouse and the Ferrari, and these days she’s tooling around in an old BMW.”

  “A BMW’s not so bad.”

  Hurley scoffs.
“Not to you. You drive a used hearse.”

  This is true. The hearse was the only thing I could afford right away after totaling my car, and before I knew David was going to give me any insurance money. I have to admit it took a bit of getting used to at first, but I’ve grown to like the thing. It runs well and has plenty of room. Plus, despite being nearly twenty years old, it has relatively low mileage. There is the issue of a lingering chemical smell I can detect when it’s humid, but Hoover is in dog-sniffing heaven whenever he rides in the back. Also, I like the car’s midnight-blue color; it complements my eyes.

  “Anyway,” Hurley goes on, “I think Catherine had plans to make Jack Allen her next sugar daddy.”

  “Except they weren’t married. So how would killing Jack now benefit Catherine?”

  “I suspect marriage may have been part of her original plan, but what if Jack did keep his winnings in his house? So far, we can’t find any bank or investment accounts in his name to indicate otherwise—just one checking account, which has about twenty grand in it. If Catherine found out about Jack’s stash, she wouldn’t have to wait to marry him. All she’d have to do is steal the money and run.”

  “Then why kill Jack at all? Why not just take the money and head for South America or something?”

  “Because Jack would know who did it and could report her to the police. By killing Jack and trying to make it look like an accident, Catherine might be able to get away clean with the money and not have to hide from the authorities for the rest of her life.”

  “Smart,” I admit begrudgingly. “So this Albright woman might be both a serial marrier and a serial murderer.”

  “It’s possible.” There is a long moment of silence; then Hurley says, “Speaking of marriage, how does it feel to be single again?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  I ponder the question seriously for a moment before answering. “To be honest, I’m relieved to have it all over and done with. I finally have some financial security, and David has found himself a new hussy to take my place. But I’m also a little saddened by it. Not because of David, per se—I’m long over him. But the whole thing seemed so . . . I don’t know . . . anticlimactic. I never even saw David to say, ‘Good-bye,’ or ‘It was great,’ or ‘Screw you for screwing someone else.’ One minute I’m married, and then I sign a few forms and I’m not. Seven years of my life wiped away with little to no ceremony. It’s definitely not the future I saw for myself. And now everyone looks at me with this pathetic expression on their faces.” I sigh. “Sometimes I wish David had died so I could be a widow instead of a divorcée. It has much more panache, and you get sympathy instead of pity.”