Lucky Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  “He was asking me out on a date.”

  “He was? I’m sorry. I didn’t pick up on that.”

  “The hell you didn’t.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and pout, staring out my side window. Hurley’s jealousy is flattering, frustrating, and understandable. I can’t deny that I’m attracted to him, and I remember my own feelings of jealousy as I watched Candy Kane flirt with him. But I also know that, painful as it may be, I have to find a way to let go of my feelings for him and move on. Hopefully, the sexual tension between us will evolve into a strong friendship over time. But if that’s going to happen, I need to commit wholeheartedly to exploring other romantic relationships, and a dinner with Joe Whitehorse seems like a reasonable place to start.

  “Look, Hurley,” I say with a sigh of resignation. “I think we need to agree that we are free to see and date other people. It’s going to be awkward at times, but I think it’s for the best. Don’t you?”

  Part of me hopes he’ll disagree, because I’m not totally convinced myself that this is the best thing to do. Or, rather, that it’s the thing I want to do. But I realize it’s what I have to do.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Hurley says, scowling. His acquiescence relieves me, but it also leaves a tiny hole in my heart.

  We ride in stony silence for the rest of the trip home. Along the way, an idea hits me. I suspect it will make Hurley angry, but it makes perfect sense.

  Half an hour later, Hurley drops me off at my place. “See you in the morning,” he grumbles.

  I watch him drive off, saddened over the death of our romantic future but determined to move on. After letting Hoover out to do his business, I change into a flannel nightgown and toss a load of laundry into the machine in preparation for tomorrow’s plan. When I finally sink into bed sometime later, I drift off quickly. It’s a fitful night of sleep, and my dreams are filled with roulette wheels, blackjack tables, and a pair of lacy, lucky undies.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning dawns with the weathermen predicting a high of 56 degrees. This weirdly warm weather is highly unusual in Wisconsin, where many believe there are only two seasons: winter and road repair. Between the frost heaves and all the salting and sanding on our roads in the winter, spring often brings potholes big enough to swallow a car whole.

  After a stop at the local coffeehouse—where I get stuck in line behind a woman who debates her coffee flavor decision as if it’s going to affect the fate of the world—I arrive at the police station at seven forty-five, a full half hour before the scheduled interview with Jack’s girlfriend, Catherine Albright. The day dispatcher, Stephanie, buzzes me through to the inner chambers and I make my way to the break room. Hurley is already there, seated at a table, reading the newspaper. He glances at me over the top of the paper and grunts, “Morning.”

  I have not arrived empty-handed; fortunately, there is no one else in the break room, since I only brought enough for Hurley and me. I walk over and set the two cups of coffee I have on the table. After digging around in the cabinets, I find a plate and set out the two cinnamon rolls I bought along with the coffees. “A peace offering,” I say, smiling. “I even got the rolls with double frosting, the way you like.”

  Hurley lowers the newspaper and rewards my efforts with a tired smile. “Thanks. I suppose I owe you an apology for last night.”

  I shrug. “I suppose you do.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. You were right to remind me that we’re a team.”

  Hurley makes a big production out of folding up the newspaper, even though it’s only half the size of a normal city paper and all of ten pages long.

  “Look,” I say, taking the seat across from him. I grab the smaller of the two cinnamon rolls, figuring that going for the small one justifies the fact that I’m eating it in the first place. “Things like last night are bound to happen while we work through this new relationship of ours. What do you say we put it behind us and move on, okay?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So what’s your plan with Catherine this morning?”

  Hurley details some of the highlights he plans to hit with Catherine. As I listen, I peel my cinnamon roll, eating one sweet, doughy layer at a time. Several times I stop to lick my fingers, but when I see how it distracts Hurley each time I do it, I stop.

  Hurley takes huge bites out of his roll and talks as he chews in true heathen-man style. I want to be disgusted by his behavior, but I find myself transfixed, instead. When he ends up with a little blob of frosting on his upper lip, I briefly fantasize about what it would be like to lick it off. But that takes my mind into very dangerous territory, so I gesture for Hurley to wipe the blob away by stroking my own lip in the corresponding spot.

  At ten after eight, Stephanie buzzes over the intercom and informs us that our guest has arrived. One point to Catherine for arriving early, I think as I put a hatch mark in the “good” column of the mental tally sheet I’ll keep for each of today’s witnesses. I wait in the back hallway while Hurley goes up front to get her. Then I follow the two of them into the “interrogation room.”

  Since the Sorenson PD’s interrogation room also does double duty as the station’s conference room, it doesn’t look anything like the dingy, sterile ones you see on TV shows. In fact, other than the two-way mirror—which is almost never used because the opposite side of it is in a large closet that is rumored to have been a regular trysting place for a very randy ex-cop and his stable of women—the only thing in the room that hints at its use for interrogation is the video camera mounted near the ceiling. The most intimidating thing in the room is the décor. The floor is covered with an industrial-strength plaid carpet in shades of “liver failure” yellow and “cyanotic” blue. The walls are a shade of green I’ve only seen in mental hospitals, and the furniture is basic IKEA. Four pieces of “art”—framed Wal-Mart pictures, which I’m pretty sure were bought for a buck and a half apiece—hang crookedly on the walls. Sitting on the floor at one end of the room is a three-foot-tall, irregularly shaped vase that is royal blue and looks like a Smurf on steroids. Rumor has it, the decorator for the room was the wife of the chief of police. Given some of the garish getups I’ve seen her in, I believe it.

  Catherine Albright is a step or two above the chief’s wife. She’s a platinum blonde and her hair is perfectly coifed in a nice little chin bob tucked behind her ears. There is a shiny plastic look about it that makes me suspect she has sprayed it into rigid obedience and it wouldn’t move if she was standing in a tornado. Her ears are decked out with a pair of sparkly dangles bearing gems that I’m guessing, based on their size, are made of cubic zirconia. She is a short, thin woman who has a pinched face and a slightly snooty air about her. I’m pretty sure her coat, boots, and gloves are expensive designer duds and the clothes underneath are tailored and crisp. When she takes off her gloves, her nails are impeccable—each one long, perfectly shaped, and, perhaps appropriately, enameled in a blood-red hue. They appear to be professionally done. In contrast, her makeup is so heavily applied that it emphasizes the lines in her face rather than hiding them. The thick blue eye shadow clumped above her brown eyes screams “street whore.” The overall effect is that of a woman trying desperately to cling to her faded youth and a lifestyle of wealth and privilege. She is the quintessence of a pampered, high-maintenance woman. Given what we know about her last inheritance, I have to figure that Jack was a definite step-down for her moneywise. But it’s understandable. She might have been able to lure most men with her looks alone years ago, but at this stage of her life I’m guessing she’s forced to set her standards a little lower.

  Hurley steers her toward a chair. Once there, Catherine puts her leather gloves on the table, slips her coat a little ways off her shoulders, and then poses, looking back with a coquettish tilt of her head as she waits for Hurley to help her out of the coat. It’s a calculated move—one, I’m betting, she has practiced and employed hundreds of times
, no doubt successfully. So it’s all I can do not to smile when Hurley ignores the gesture and turns away.

  Catherine pouts demurely and opts to shrug her coat back on before settling into her chair and placing her laced hands on the table. I take the seat across from her, giving me an open, unobstructed view. Though she looks calm overall, a nervous tic in her left eyelid belies the outward appearance.

  Hurley takes a seat beside me and hits the button located under the table that starts the audio and video rolling. After brief introductions, he gets down to business.

  “I understand you were dating Jack Allen. Is that right?”

  Catherine nods slowly and looks genuinely grief-stricken. When she finally speaks, I’m surprised to hear a British accent.

  “He was such a sweet man,” she says. “It’s a terrible thing that happened to him.” She hesitates, appearing lost in thought for a moment, before she adds, “I heard the fire was started by a burning cigarette. Is that true?”

  Hurley nods, even though this theory isn’t right. But it’s the story we let out to the media, so for now we have to pretend it’s the truth.

  Catherine shakes her head sadly. “I told Jack to give up those damned cancer sticks.”

  “You’re British?” Hurley asks, sounding as surprised as I feel.

  “Oh, yes. Born and raised in London.”

  “What part of London?” I ask.

  Her laced fingers start squirming. “Um, Notting Hill.”

  “That’s a nice area,” I say. “What part were you in? Were you by the London Bridge or the Tower Bridge?”

  “London Bridge,” she says without hesitation.

  “And how long have you been here in America?”

  “Nearly ten years. I came here because I fell in love with an American man, who had asked me to marry him. Sadly, he died six months later of a heart attack, but I fully embraced his country and my new life. I’m an American citizen now.”

  Hurley and I exchange looks over the news that there is yet another dead husband in Catherine’s past.

  Hurley asks her, “How long have you known Jack?”

  “About three months. We kept bumping into one another at the coffee shop downtown, and over time we got to talking. Jack was fascinated with anything British. We would talk for hours while I told him about growing up in London.” She shifts her gaze from Hurley to me and says in her most haughty voice, “I used to lunch with royalty on a regular basis, you know.”

  I’m pretty sure this is pure bullshit, but I say nothing. Instead, I just smile back, not willing to tip my hand yet.

  “Were you and Jack living together?” Hurley asks.

  As Catherine stares at my smiling, silent face, her arrogant expression collapses into a worried one just before she turns her attention back to Hurley. “We were living together for the most part, I suppose. I spent the majority of my nights at his place, but sometimes I preferred to be alone. When that happened, I stayed at the Sorenson Motel.”

  “It sounds like your relationship progressed rather quickly.”

  She smiles, revealing a set of teeth that are so perfect and white I figure they must be veneers. “We connected,” she says.

  “Yes, I’ll bet you did,” Hurley retorts. “Did you sleep at Jack’s the night before the fire?”

  Catherine shakes her head. “We had dinner together, a pepperoni pizza from Pesto Change-o.” She pauses and flashes a flirty smile at Hurley. “Not the sort of fare my delicate constitution is used to, you understand. But Jack absolutely loved those pizzas, so I indulged him whenever I could.” I glance over at Hurley, who looks utterly unsympathetic. Seeing that her feminine wiles aren’t having the desired effect, Catherine’s smile fades. “Anyway,” she continues, “after dinner we watched a movie and then I went to the motel.”

  “What was the movie?” I ask.

  “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Jack said it’s one of his favorites and that he watches it during the holiday season every year.”

  “What time did you leave?” Hurley asks.

  Catherine scowls, tilts her head, and narrows her eyes at him. “What’s with the third degree, Detective? I thought you said the fire was an accident?”

  “Did I?”

  Catherine looks from him to me, and back again. “Are you saying it wasn’t?”

  Hurley ignores the question and repeats his own, instead. “What time did you leave Jack’s place the night before the fire?”

  Catherine engages in a short-lived attempt to stare Hurley down, but she’s no match for him. Finally she caves in with a shrug. “I think it was around ten or so, but I’m not sure. I’d have to ask the motel clerk what time I checked in.”

  “No bother, I’ll do that for you,” Hurley says quickly. “Where were you yesterday morning between the hours of seven and eleven?”

  She gazes toward the ceiling and furrows her brow. “Let’s see, I checked out of my room around eleven, and then I headed to the store to get some groceries for Jack. I planned to go to his place after that, but I couldn’t even get close to the house because of all the fire trucks.”

  She looks back at Hurley and tries to assume an overwrought expression, though her efforts fall comically short. I’m disappointed; I expected better acting from such a practiced charlatan.

  “The entire street was blocked off. I could see that it was Jack’s house that was on fire and I kept asking people if he was okay, but no one would tell me anything.” Her voice is escalating—no doubt trying to make up for her lack in expression. “Finally a woman firefighter named Kane talked with me. She told me they found a body in the house next to a wheelchair. She couldn’t verify who the victim was, but I knew it was Jack.”

  I’m bummed to hear that Catherine talked to Candy. Hurley will need to verify Catherine’s story, and that means he now has an excuse to see Candy again.

  “Did you shop for Jack often?” Hurley asks.

  Catherine nods and dabs at her bone-dry eyes with a linen hanky she pulls from her coat pocket. “God love him, Jack tried to stay as independent as possible,” she says. “He used money from an insurance settlement to have his house remodeled to something more handicap-friendly, and he also got one of those wheelchair vans with the hand driving controls so he could get around. But he hated the way people stared at him whenever he went out in public. And he hated even more having to ask for help at the store when he needed stuff from the higher shelves. The minute he told me that, I knew I had to take over the grocery shopping for him. I’ve been doing it ever since.”

  “How sweet of you,” Hurley says with no small amount of sarcasm. I suspect he’s wondering, like I am, how much stuff Catherine skimmed for herself during her shopping sprees. “How is it you ended up here in Sorenson, Catherine? My research shows you were living in Chicago not too long ago.”

  “I was. But circumstance led to some hard times for me, and I had to leave. The cost of living there is outrageous.”

  “Really?” Hurley says. “I would have thought you were pretty well off after you inherited your ex-husband’s estate. Are you saying all of that money is gone?”

  Catherine blinks twice in rapid succession—the only sign that she’s surprised by Hurley’s knowledge of her past life. “I made some bad choices,” she says, avoiding a direct answer. She is clearly growing nervous and starting to squirm, so I decide the time is ripe to jump in and ratchet things up a bit.

  “How often did you stay at the Sorenson Motel?” I ask.

  Catherine turns to me, looking momentarily puzzled by the sudden shift in topic. “Once a week or so.”

  “That must have pissed you off, having him kick you out that often.”

  “He did not kick me out,” she snaps. She straightens up, her back rigid and her eyes spitting sparks of indignation at me. “It was my choice.”

  “Really?” I respond.

  Catherine opens her mouth to answer. Before she can get a syllable out, I ask, “Who paid for your room when you s
tayed at the motel?”

  “I did.”

  “With what, may I ask? Do you have a job, Catherine?”

  “I don’t have any regular employment at the moment, if that’s what you mean,” she says, her voice tight.

  “That’s exactly what I mean. I’m trying to figure out if you were supporting yourself at all, or if you were freeloading off Jack for everything.”

  She narrows her eyes at me and shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “I resent your implication.”

  “I’m not implying anything, Catherine. I’m stating facts. It seems you have a bit of a history for hooking up with wealthy men who later end up dead. And you can drop the phony British accent. You no more grew up in London than I did.”

  Hurley turns sharply toward me. Catherine sputters for a few seconds and then says, “I most certainly did.”

  “No, you did not,” I counter. “First of all, your accent is as phony as a three-dollar bill. One of my stepfathers was born and raised in London, so I’m pretty familiar with the way Brits talk. And, aside from your accent, which you lose when you get defensive, by the way, you possess none of the little dialectal idiosyncrasies someone raised in London would have. I know, because I’ve been there several times. When I was a teenager, my stepfather took us there once a year for five years running. That’s also how I know that Notting Hill isn’t anywhere near the London Bridge or the Tower Bridge—something that anyone who has ever been to London, much less someone who lived there, would know.”

  Catherine’s lips constrict into a hard line and her stare turns flinty. She leans back, taking her hands from the table and dropping them into her lap. “Fine,” she says, her accent suddenly gone. “So I embellish my history a little to make myself seem more appealing. Where’s the crime in that?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I tell her.

  “Jack and I were in love. We were planning to get married.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” I quip. “It worked out so well for you the last time.”

  Catherine’s eyes narrow and the two of us stare at one another, waiting to see who will blink first. I can almost see the steam coming from her ears. After a few seconds, she turns to Hurley, pouts prettily, and says, “I don’t like her.”