Working Stiff mwm-1

by Annelise Ryan

  “Okay, I’ll be listening. Hey, why don’t you come over and have breakfast with me in the morning?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”

  “Since when does that stop you?”

  Despite the vicious storm roiling inside me, I smile. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll be better off alone for now, Dom.”

  “I’ll make Belgian waffles.”

  Dom’s Belgian waffles are legendary, the stuff culinary wet dreams are made of. The fact that his offer doesn’t make me instantly start to salivate proves just how upset I am.

  “Please, Mattie? I’m kind of lonely with Izzy gone and I’d really enjoy your company, bitchy or not. Besides, I want to know what happens with Mr. Gold Star over there,” he says, nodding toward Hurley.

  I know Dom is no more lonely than he is straight, but I am touched by his efforts nonetheless. “Okay, fine. You win. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  As I step out of the garage and walk toward Hurley, I concentrate on keeping my face impassive. My breath clouds before me as I sigh, and I wonder why Hurley is sitting outside on my steps rather than in his car, given that the temperature is hovering somewhere in the midforties.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I ask him when I am a few feet away.

  “I seem to be rather hot at the moment,” he says, his voice tight. “I get that way whenever someone tries to make me for a fool.”

  “Who did that?” Pure innocence.

  “Give it up, Mattie. You sicced that…creature on me on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “Whatever are you talking about? You’ve lost me, Hurley.”

  “No, I’d say it was you who lost me. And nicely done at that. Distract me by having some she-male try to rape me in public and then sneak out the back door. Very clever.”

  “I left out the front door.”

  “It’s a figure of speech,” he says irritably. “And you know what I mean. Where’d you go?”

  “Dom and I stopped at another bar for a nightcap.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Have you ever lied to me?” he snaps back.

  Score one for his side.

  I don’t want to play any longer. Generally I enjoy Hurley’s presence, not to mention the opportunity to just look at him. And that kiss we shared is still hot on my mind. But discovering that the man I’ve been married to for the last seven years had a romantic liaison with not only another woman, but with an HIV-infected man, doesn’t exactly put me in the mood for romance. I need to be alone.

  “Go away, Hurley. I don’t want to play your games tonight.” I storm past him and onto the porch. I unlock the door, push it open, reach in, and flip the light switch. I am about to look back to make sure Hurley is leaving when I see what awaits me in the living room.

  “What the—”

  Hurley comes up behind me and leans in over my shoulder. The two of us stand there, staring, trying to make sense of what we are seeing.

  My living room floor is covered with dozens of white fluffy tufts, like some sort of cotton batting. It looks as if someone murdered a small mattress by blowing it to smithereens. Except most of these chunks of stuffing have strings attached. Scattered amidst the tufts are tiny pieces of shredded paper, some with blue writing on them. I tilt my head to read a fairly large piece near my foot, making out the letters t-a-m. And then Rubbish struts out from under the couch proudly carrying his latest kill in his mouth—more of the white cottony stuff. But this piece is as yet unchewed and unclawed and in its original form, the string trailing along the floor.

  Hurley reaches down and picks up one of the malformed tufts by its string. He holds it aloft, staring at it. “What the hell is this?” he asks.

  “It’s a tampon, Hurley. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one before.”

  He drops it as if it burned him and takes a quick step back.

  “Geez, Hurley, relax. They haven’t been used or anything.”

  His face turns a bright shade of crimson and suddenly I know how to get him to leave. I lean over and pick up the mutilated tampon he just dropped.

  “Want me to explain how it works?” I say, swinging it by the string like a hypnotist’s watch. I step closer.

  He backs up another step. “No, really. That’s not necessary. I…um…I just wanted to make sure you got home okay. Everything looks fine here so I guess I’ll be on my way. Good night.”

  He spins around and is gone so fast I start to wonder if he was ever really here. Seconds later his car engine fires up and I listen to the sound of it fading as he goes down the driveway. When he reaches the road, I hear him lay down rubber as he peels out.

  Oddly, the sound brings tears to my eyes. I brush them away and begin rationalizing to myself. It’s good that he left. I need to be alone. I need to think. The last thing I need around me tonight is some damned man.

  I hear a mew followed by a thump-ump. I laugh and then, as I start to pick up the mess on my living room floor, I cry.

  After tossing and turning most of the night, I give up on trying to sleep once the sun comes up. I feel edgy and hung-over, so I make a pot of coffee and sit on the couch, trying to figure out what to do next. I realize I’m going to have to confront David, and the thought of doing so fills me with both sadness and dread.

  A little after eight, I head over to the main house, knowing Dom will be up and about by now. Half an hour later we are seated at the kitchen table, our plates heaped with fluffy waffles smothered with fat strawberries and mounds of whipped cream. Bright morning sunshine streams in through the window in stark contrast to the darkness inhabiting my soul.

  “Thank you for insisting I come over here this morning, Dom. Being alone wasn’t as good for me as I thought it would be.”

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  I answer him with a weak smile.

  “Didn’t think you would.”

  “I just can’t believe it,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, forget the risk to me. David is a surgeon, for God’s sake. He’s routinely messing with other people’s bodily fluids and delicate organs. Doesn’t he realize what could happen? What the hell was he thinking?”

  “Sounds like he wasn’t thinking,” Dom says. There is a period of silence and then he adds, “Assuming he did what you think he did.”

  I look up at him, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re going to defend the bastard.”

  “Not defend necessarily, just give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Doubt? What doubt? There is no doubt, Dom. Cinder clearly identified him as the man who met Mike Halverson at the Grizzly. So what’s to doubt?”

  He shrugs. “I just think you might be jumping to conclusions. David never struck me as the type.”

  “You mean the type to screw around? Because I can assure you he is that type. I saw that with my own eyes.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Obviously he did the nasty with Karen. I meant I don’t think David is gay. My gaydar may not be infallible, but it’s pretty good. And David just doesn’t fit.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I scoff. “There’s solid evidence.”

  “Come on, Mattie. You’re usually more open-minded than this.”

  “Excuse me if having my life blow up before my eyes doesn’t do much to enhance my objectivity.”

  “Look, I know I’m acting on nothing more than a gut feeling. But I think you should try to talk to David, hear what he has to say before you jump to any conclusions.”

  “Oh, I intend to talk with him all right.”

  “Mattie.”

  “Oh, all right,” I say, tossing my fork down in frustration. “I’ll try to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  There is no conviction in my voice and Dom is too smart not to notice. “You should take someone with you,” he says. “That will help you stay calm. I’ll be happy to go along.”

  “I think I’d rath
er do it alone.”

  “You’re too emotional. Too close to it all. All you’ll end up doing is pissing him off. Besides, if you truly have doubts as to what David is capable of, it just makes sense not to confront him alone.”

  He is probably right, but I know that with him or anyone else there, David will never open up like he would to me alone. Besides, this is so very personal. Yet if I know Dom, he’ll insist on coming along and will badger me about it until I give in. I think fast, knowing what I have to do but not sure how to pull it off. Then I remember that it is Sunday and, being a creature of habit, Dom always does his grocery shopping before noon on Sundays. He swears it’s the best time to go if you want to avoid long lines because so many people spend the morning in church.

  I don’t want to make my capitulation look too easy, so I spend a few moments playing with different facial expressions, going from stubborn to conflicted, and finally, resigned. “You’re right,” I say with a sigh. “How about if I call David and see if he’ll be home this afternoon. We can go over there then.”

  “Great. That will give me time to get my grocery shopping done.”

  Bingo!

  We finish eating and after helping with the cleanup I head back to the cottage. Within the hour I hear the rumble of the garage door and watch as Dom backs out and heads down the driveway. As soon as he turns onto the road, I throw on a jacket and head off through the woods.

  The one flaw in my little scheme is that I no longer know anything about David’s on-call schedule and I’m not sure he’ll be home, so I’m relieved when I see his car in the drive. As I cross the yard I notice that the wheelbarrow is gone, though there is a small pile of mulch beneath the window, serving as a testament to my stupidity. I climb the porch steps and, out of habit, reach for the doorknob. Then I remember that I don’t live here anymore. Feeling awkward and oddly conspicuous, I ring the doorbell instead.

  David answers wearing shorts and a T-shirt. A fine sheen of sweat covers his body and a small towel is draped around his neck. I know from past experience that he’s just finished his morning workout on the treadmill. In the past, David’s obsession with fitness struck me as appropriate, considering that he is a surgeon and presumably, somewhat health-conscious. Now, it seems merely obsessive, one more fault in the ram-shackle construction of his personality.

  “Hi,” he says, his face registering surprise at finding me here. “Is this a social call?”

  “Not exactly. I need to get some clothes. The weather is getting cooler and I need warmer stuff.”

  “No problem.” He steps aside and waves me in with a magnanimous gesture that pisses me off. After all, this is my house, too. At least it used to be.

  While the clothes thing serves as a delaying tactic, it is also a legitimate need. Worried that we might end up at one another’s throats before my visit is done, though hopefully only in the metaphorical sense, I opt to gather the clothes first before saying anything. David tails me the entire time, indulging in inane chatter about the hospital, the OR, and a recent case he did. His incessant yammering annoys me and the way he follows me around everywhere I go, watching my every move, makes me wonder if he thinks I’ll try to take something I shouldn’t.

  After sorting through the closet and dresser, I pack a suitcase full of sweaters, slacks, and flannel jammies and haul it downstairs, parking it by the front door. Then I go to the foyer closet and dig out gloves, a scarf, a sweater jacket, and my best winter coat, tossing them atop the suitcase. Nervous and anxious to be done with it all, I turn to David and, with no segue or warning, launch my first missile.

  “I take it you know about Mike Halverson’s death,” I say.

  He nods. “Tragic thing.”

  I stare at him for several seconds, appalled. “That’s it?” I say. “That’s all you have to say? ‘Tragic thing?’”

  His brow furrows and he looks confused. “What were you expecting me to say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something a bit more emotional. I mean, you were sleeping with the guy, weren’t you?”

  He staggers back a step and all the blood drains from his face. “What?” he says, the word coming out like a gunshot.

  “Don’t try to deny it, David. I have a witness who saw you at the Grizzly Motel. You met Mike Halverson there. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it all out.”

  “The Grizzly?” Then dawning spreads across his face. “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh.”

  “It’s not what you think,” he says quietly. “You don’t understand.”

  “Damn right I don’t. You did know Mike Halverson was HIV positive, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I knew.” He crosses his arms over his chest and tightens his lips. His calm complacency infuriates me.

  “Jesus Christ, David. Wasn’t screwing around with Karen enough for you? Didn’t that pose enough of a risk to me? Not to mention your patients? My God, don’t you realize what you’ve done?”

  “Mattie, you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Oh, really? Then pray tell, David. What’s the story? Did you kill Mike Halverson, too?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he says. “Mike Halverson committed suicide.” He pauses a second, looking at me. “Didn’t he?” he adds.

  “No. It was staged to look like a suicide, but he was murdered.”

  “Christ,” David says, raking his fingers through his hair and staring at the floor. I watch the muscles in his cheeks twitch and leap. When he looks back up again, I see resignation in his face. But I have no idea what he’s resigned to do. “I think you better come and sit down,” he says.

  The look in his eyes frightens me and suddenly I remember Dom’s cautionary advice. Have I just made a fatal error in judgment? “If you have something to say to me, say it here,” I tell him. I want to stay close to the door, just in case.

  “Fine. Have it your way.” He shifts uncomfortably and stares off into space for a second, seeming to gather his thoughts. “Yes, I knew Mike Halverson,” he says finally. “And yes, I did meet him at the Grizzly one evening. Just once, and he didn’t know I was coming. And it wasn’t for what you think. All I did was talk to them.”

  “Them?”

  I see a montage of emotion flash across his face: doubt, indecision, fear, and sadness. “Yes, them. Mike and his lover.”

  “His lover,” I repeat, thoughts racing through my mind. “His lover? What, were you jealous? Is that it? You wanted him for yourself?”

  He groans in frustration, his hands clenched into fists. “Christ, Mattie. Do you seriously think I’m gay? Or a murderer?”

  “I don’t know, David. I don’t know what to think anymore.” Hearing the shrill tone in my voice, I take a deep breath and try to calm down. “Everything is so confusing. People are getting killed and I have no idea why or who’s doing it. But it’s hard for me to ignore the facts, David. And an awful lot of the facts point to you.”

  “Well, I’m not a killer,” he says, calmer now. “Nor am I gay.” He sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes closed. “But,” he adds, “Sidney Carrigan is.”

  Chapter 31

  At first I’m not sure if David means Sidney is gay, a killer, or both. As it turns out, David isn’t sure either about the killer part. That Sidney is gay, he is certain of. That Sidney is a killer, he doesn’t want to believe. Nor do I. No way, I think. But one look at David’s face and I know he has spoken the truth. The tragedy of it is written there, plain to see.

  I finally take the seat David offered earlier and sit in stunned silence as he tells me everything he knows. It is a puzzling, sad, and sordid tale, one that makes me wish I’d kept my damnably curious nose out of things.

  David explains how he first became aware of something going on when he overheard Sidney and Karen having a heated argument in an on-call room one night a couple of weeks ago. “I couldn’t hear everything they said, but certain words came out quite clearly,” David says. “I understood that Karen was asking Sid
for money and threatening to reveal something about him if he didn’t. The next day I confronted Karen and, after first trying to deny it all, she just broke down and sobbed. That was when she told me about Mike, that he was her brother, that he was gay, and that he had AIDS.

  “She told me how they were orphaned when Karen was nineteen and Mike was still in high school. She assumed responsibility for him then and has felt she has had it ever since. Apparently, it’s been quite a struggle, emotionally and financially. When Mike was diagnosed with AIDS, things really got bad. They had no health insurance and the cost of the drugs he needed to take to keep the disease under control was astronomical.”

  Something clicks into place in my mind. “How long ago was he diagnosed?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. But I gather it was a number of years ago. Karen said he came close to dying once before. That was before the current protease inhibitor treatments became available.”

  “That might explain why she took on that nurse’s identity,” I muse. “If she was hurting for money, the difference in pay between an OR nurse and an assistant could have made a significant difference. Plus, it might have given her access to supplies she would have otherwise had to buy for him.”

  “I don’t know,” David says. “I suppose it’s possible. I didn’t know Karen wasn’t who she said she was until after she was killed. All I knew was what she told me, that she’d been trying to care for Mike for the last twenty years. She was buying his drugs, paying his rent, and she also set him up in his business.”

  “You mean the medical supply company? Karen set that up?”

  “So she said. Apparently it’s organized under a fairly convoluted corporate structure that hides the real owners’ names behind a series of dummy companies, with the main one looking like a sole proprietorship owned by Mike Halverson. In truth, the place is owned by Karen. That’s why she was trying to talk some of the docs into investing in the place. She had it set up so that they could become blind owners, their names never appearing anywhere in any official capacity. Then the docs could refer business there and convince their associates to do so, too, profiting from the revenues their referrals generated.”