Working Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  “Then why didn’t you go in? Were you afraid of Karen Owenby?”

  “No, I wasn’t afraid of her. What a ridiculous suggestion.”

  “Then it was your husband you were afraid of, perhaps?”

  “No, not that either.”

  Hurley shakes his head in disgust. “Face it, Mattie. Honesty isn’t your strongest suit.”

  “That’s not true! I’m a very honest person.”

  “Oh, really? Then how come your driver’s license says you weigh 130?” He steps back, eyeing me from head to toe. “Are you going to tell me that’s not a lie? You’re 150 if you’re a pound.”

  I gasp with shock before I can stop myself. Actually, 150 is a gift, but I’m sure as hell not going to let him know that.

  “That’s a low blow, Hurley. There isn’t a woman alive who has her real weight on her driver’s license. And I can’t believe you’re wasting your time investigating me while the real killer is running around loose. If the rest of the police force is as swift as you are, heaven help the citizens of Sorenson.”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining when I rescued you from your ex earlier.”

  “I didn’t need rescuing, you Neanderthal. It wasn’t what you thought. We were having an argument. That’s all. Nothing else. I hate to strip you of your armor, white knight, but all you did was butt into a minor squabble and jump to a bunch of wrong conclusions.”

  “That’s not how it looked to me. But then, maybe I did misinterpret things. Maybe you were just having a little fun, eh? Maybe you like it rough and you and your ex were just reliving old times. Was that it? Did I interrupt the grand reconciliation?”

  “I was not…we were not…Christ! I give up!” I don’t believe in physical violence, but I’ve never wanted to slap someone so badly in my life. Unless you count the time Desi told Greg Johnsen right before our first date that I never went on a second date unless the guy showed me his penis at the end of the evening.

  “Damn it, Hurley. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Do I? Big fancy house. Handsome and talented husband. Must be hard to give all that up after seven years together. You wouldn’t be the first woman to trade fidelity for some creature comforts and a cushy lifestyle.”

  I stutter with fury for a few seconds before I manage to spit out, “You’re a pig, Hurley.” I turn away from him to go back inside.

  “Mattie, wait. Please.”

  Something in his voice makes me stop, but I don’t turn back to look at him. I am afraid of what I might say, or of what I might see in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I didn’t mean all that. It’s just that…I mean I…oh, hell.” Suddenly he grabs my shoulder and spins me around to face him. Before I know what’s happening, his lips descend on mine, crushing, urgent, and wonderfully needy. It takes all of a millisecond for my irritation to give way to total forgiveness and pure, unadulterated lust.

  His tongue finds its way past my lips and I swear it reaches the bottom of my toes. One of my hands is pinned between us, the palm flat against his chest, the backside of it pushing against my breast. I can feel the rapid thrum of his heart and the incredible heat of his skin radiating through his shirt.

  When he finally lifts his lips from mine, it is all I can do not to whine and whimper, to beg him for more, to throw him down on the porch and rip his pants off him to see what treasures lay beneath. Because judging from the feel of the humps and bumps that are pressed up against my nether regions, it is quite a treasure to behold.

  He releases me so suddenly I almost fall over. “I gotta go,” he says. And just like that, he is gone. I watch in stunned disbelief as he walks away.

  “Well, well, well,” Desi says behind me as Hurley climbs into his car and starts it up. “Isn’t this interesting? A homicide detective with the hots for one of his suspects. A suspect who just happens to be barely married to his other suspect.”

  “What the hell was that?” I ask her, watching Hurley’s taillights disappear down the drive. “I mean what the hell was that? Was it a test of some sort?” I lick my lips and can still taste him there. “Was he collecting evidence? What?”

  Desi laughs. “Oh, man. You’ve got it bad. Mom isn’t going to be happy about this, you know. It’s bad enough you’re giving up a doctor, but for a cop? She’ll shit a brick.”

  “And then find some obscure reference to brick-shitting in one of her textbooks,” I add with a laugh. “Some bizarre disorder like pica, but with it coming out instead of going in.”

  “What’s pica?”

  “It’s a craving that makes people eat weird stuff, like dirt or clay.”

  “Then I’d say that detective is the one with the pica. ’Cause it sure looked to me like he wanted to eat you.”

  “Mmm,” I murmur. “Kind of felt that way, too.”

  Take that, Alison Miller!

  Chapter 22

  My attendance at the hospital celebration was not only a sartorial disaster, it was only minimally successful in terms of getting any useful information about Karen. But Marjorie’s comment to Mick—about how he should talk to Molinaro about some nursing problems he was having—gave me an idea. I realize that the wives, some of them anyway, might know a fair amount about the business end of their husbands’ work. There is one wife in particular who I think will fit this bill, one who wasn’t at last night’s reception.

  Arthur Henley’s wife, Lauren, isn’t like many of the other doctors’ wives. Status and wealth seem to mean little to her. She attends most of the requisite social events and holds her own with the other wives, but she always seems apart from it all, never buying into the catty discussions or monetary pissing contests. She is tiny but strong, pretty, and well put together—one of those petite, graceful women I hate standing next to since it makes me look and feel like the abominable snowwoman.

  David and I have shared dinners with the Henleys a number of times, both at their house and ours. As a result, I’ve come to know Lauren a little better than I do most of the other wives. What’s more, I like her. She has an eager curiosity about her husband’s work and a good knowledge of medical facts and terminology despite no formal training. She is clearly intelligent, generally confident, and occasionally, often amusingly, outspoken—at least in matters of general interest. Since she has an MBA, she is involved in the business end of her husband’s practice and tends to it by going into the office a couple of days each week. The rest of the time, she busies herself making a comfortable home for Arthur and their two school-aged daughters.

  It all looks great on the surface, but unfortunately, Arthur and Lauren Henley don’t have the perfect marriage any more than David and I did. While Arthur isn’t exactly a philanderer, he does have a mistress named Ruth he has kept on the side for nearly five years that I know of. And there lays the heart of my dilemma.

  I’ve met Ruth a couple of times, and damn if I don’t like her, too. She is an earthy, warm woman who is quick to laugh and seems totally at ease with herself. What’s more, her interest in those around her seems utterly genuine—if it’s merely an act, it’s a damned good one. And she seems content to play second fiddle to Lauren whenever necessary.

  For a straying husband, Ruth is the perfect mistress; to a wife, she is an utter nightmare. For me, she is a never-ending ethical debate. As a wife, I feel compelled to place her in the enemy camp. After all, wives know that mistresses are conniving, manipulative, money-grubbing whores who will perform any sex act at any time and pretend to love it even if they find it as appealing as scraping five-day-old roadkill up from the highway during an August heat wave. Even wives who were once mistresses believe that, ignoring their inherent hypocrisy.

  But Ruth doesn’t fit the typical mistress mold. Of course, I have no way of knowing what her and Arthur’s sex life is like, but the rest of Ruth is as warm and personable as a woman can be. Which leaves me feeling like a traitor whenever I am around Lauren.

  Perhaps that’s why there is always a certai
n wall between Lauren and me; even though we get along well enough, we aren’t what I would call close. I know that if I’m to have any hope of getting personal information out of her, I’m going to have to strengthen the bond between us somehow. I need to find something that will tie us indelibly together as coconspirators.

  And the answer is obvious: Ruth. Lauren and I are both women scorned. Women betrayed. We are members of an elite and exclusive club, one that requires a banding together. But while the answer may be clear, my willingness to use it is shaky at best. Arthur isn’t obvious about his affair; in fact, he takes great pains to keep it under wraps. But in a town as small as Sorenson, secrets are hard to keep. Maybe Lauren already knows about Ruth, I surmise, but if she doesn’t, do I want to be the one to tell her? Not only does it feel kind of mean, the whole thing could backfire and blow up in my face. Telling Lauren something as explosive as this might make her so angry that I’ll lose whatever camaraderie we do have.

  No matter how I look at it, it is a gamble, but one that offers the promise of worthwhile rewards. I figure I’ll meet with Lauren and try to get the information out of her without playing the Ruth card, maybe by hinting around the idea of Arthur as a suspect in Karen’s murder. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to decide how far I want to push the issue—a decision I know I won’t relish making.

  Though I figure Lauren is my best chance at getting to some facts, I briefly consider adding some of the other doctors’ wives to my mental interrogation list. I mull over and discard Marjorie Dunn; even if she does know something about Mick’s business interests, getting it out of her will be damned near impossible. Then I consider Gina. She knew what Robert Calhoun was going to discuss with Sid last night and seems to be up to speed on Sid’s business dealings in general. And she’d all but begged me to call her and do lunch, so why not take her up on it? I’m not sure if I’ll get anything useful from her but I figure it’s worth a try.

  I get out of bed early on Saturday morning and plan my strategy over coffee and a half-dozen oatmeal cookies. First I call Lauren, explaining that I want to drop by to discuss something with her. She graciously extends an invitation, as I knew she would, and I arrange to come out around ten. I then place a call to Gina to set up a lunch date. Knowing how busy Gina’s schedule is, I expect to have to wait several days before we can meet. But Gina surprises me by suggesting we get together that day. Sorenson only has a handful of restaurants and nothing that might be called fancy. So after a brief discussion, Gina and I agree to meet at noon at Carver’s, a sit-in family restaurant that is one step above the typical fast-food outlet and serves the most wonderful turtle sundaes.

  I head out for Lauren’s house a short while later, my nervousness making me feel restless and fidgety. I arrive fifteen minutes early, and to kill time, I drive around the neighborhood, noticing as I make the first circuit that a burgundy-and-gray van seems to be following me. It stays far enough back that I can’t see who is behind the wheel, but something about it strikes me as familiar. I watch it in my rearview mirror, trying to remember if I know someone who drives such a van.

  On my third time around the block, just as I’m thinking about pulling over and waving the van past me, it hangs a left when I turn right and disappears. Then, as I pull my car into Lauren’s driveway and think about the meeting ahead, my rising level of anxiety erases all thoughts of the van from my mind.

  If Lauren suspects an ulterior motive or harbors any concern about the reason behind my visit, she hides it well. She greets me with a quick but warm embrace and a cheerful smile.

  “You look great,” I tell her. And she does. Her cheeks are rosy, her blue eyes sparkle, and her skin bears the remnants of a healthy summer tan. She’s been working in the yard and even though the air has an autumn bite to it, she’s managed to work up a bit of a sweat that makes the curls in her hair spring to life.

  “Thanks. You look pretty good yourself, though perhaps a bit worse for wear,” she says, eyeing the bandage on my head.

  “Oh, this,” I say, touching it. “No big deal. Just a freak accident, actually. I broke a glass and a piece of it ricocheted up and cut my forehead. Took three stitches.”

  “Ow,” Lauren says, grimacing. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit your eye. It looks like it came close.”

  “It did.”

  “Well, come on in. I just put on some coffee and I have a sour cream coffee cake that’s been calling to me all morning.”

  I follow her inside to the kitchen, where the smells of just-brewed coffee and cinnamon permeate the air. Lauren pours two mugs full, slices two generous helpings of the cake, and sets us up at the kitchen table. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and I can see dirt beneath her fingernails. That’s one of the reasons I like Lauren. There is no pretense, no sense of falseness about her. She is who she is and makes no apology for it. I taste the cake, which melts in my mouth, compliment her on it, and then set to devouring the rest of it.

  “Thanks for inviting me over on such short notice,” I say between bites. “As I mentioned on the phone, I have something I need to talk to you about, something related to my new job. I work at the medical examiner’s office now.”

  “So I’ve heard. Arthur told me about it last night. It sounds exciting. Do you like it?”

  “So far. Though I haven’t been at it long enough to encounter anything too awful yet.”

  Lauren nods knowingly.

  “What I want to discuss with you is…well…it’s a bit…awkward.”

  Lauren smiles. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve listened to Arthur talk about some of the stuff he’s encountered in his work and I know it can get pretty gruesome at times. I’m used to it.”

  “Well, it isn’t your tolerance for gruesome that I’m concerned about, Lauren. It’s your privacy. I need to ask you about some very personal stuff.”

  That seems to give her pause but she recovers quickly. “Do what you need to do,” she says brightly.

  “You’re aware of the Karen Owenby murder, aren’t you?” It is more or less a rhetorical question, an icebreaker of sorts, since I have no doubt everyone in Sorenson knows of it by now.

  “I am.”

  “Well, I spoke with a woman who knew Karen and she said that Karen mentioned some sort of business dealings—investments she called it—with some of the surgeons. It may have nothing to do with Karen’s death, but it doesn’t hurt to check everything out. I thought you might be able to tell me if you knew of anything like that, any business dealings that Karen might have had with Arthur or any of the other surgeons.”

  Now it is Lauren’s turn to look hesitant. “Have you asked David about this?”

  “I have. He won’t tell me anything.” I hesitate, then decide that a shared confidence from me might make Lauren more likely to reciprocate. “I don’t know if you’ve heard or not but we’re separated. He…um…had an affair.”

  Lauren nods and looks at me sympathetically. “I had heard. I’m sorry, Mattie.”

  I shrug it off, trying to pretend it’s not a big deal. “Anyway, since David knows I intend to file for divorce, he refuses to discuss anything to do with money or business, fearing it may somehow affect the outcome.”

  “Divorce,” Lauren says, making a face like she just tasted something disgusting. “Why does it always have to be so nasty?”

  I wonder if Lauren’s attitude toward divorce will be any different by the time I leave. I also sense the merest hesitation, the barest flicker of doubt in her voice.

  “People do some strange things when they’re emotionally wrought,” I say, watching her face closely. “Particularly when there’s money involved. I don’t know if David’s reluctance to talk to me about business stuff means he’s hiding something or not. But I’m going to try to find out.”

  “Well, I don’t know about David, but Arthur wouldn’t do anything like that,” Lauren says, sounding as if she is trying to convince herself as much as me. “And since I do the books and financial reports
for his office, I’m intimately familiar with all of his business dealings.”

  “So there’s no unexplainable income you’ve noticed, or any expenses that seem odd.”

  “Of course not. And if there were, I’d be the first to know about them.”

  I make my first tentative foray into delicate territory. “Does Arthur have a checking account of his own?”

  “He does. But I don’t see how that figures into any of this.”

  “Where does the income for that account come from?”

  “From his practice, of course. That, and a few investments. Why?” She frowns at me. “I mean, I really want to help you here, Mattie, but I’m not sure I see the relevance. Why are you asking me about this?”

  I hesitate, carefully considering my response. “It’s important that we investigate any aspect of Karen’s life that might be significant, and there could be a connection between her murder and her business dealings.”

  Lauren pales. “You think…do the police think…” She tightens her arms even more and shakes her head vehemently. “No. No way. Arthur couldn’t do anything like that.”

  “Arthur is a good man,” I say.

  “Yes,” Lauren says quickly. “Yes he is.”

  “But even good men can stray,” I add gently. I expect her to object but she says nothing, just eyes me with a wounded expression. A long silence stretches between us and then I make the decision to jump in with both feet. “Lauren, are you certain, absolutely certain you can trust Arthur?”

  She flashes me an indignant look, opens her mouth, and then just as quickly snaps it shut again. Her whole body sags and her eyes dull just before she looks away from me. It is an awful, sad thing to watch.

  “You know, don’t you?” she says quietly. I don’t answer, still reluctant to be the one to spill the beans in case I’m on the wrong wavelength here and Lauren is talking about something else. “About Ruth,” she clarifies. “You know about her, don’t you?”

  My face flushes hot and I nod.