Scared Stiff mwm-2

by Annelise Ryan

“In layman’s terms?” Hurley says, wincing and massaging his jaw.

  “Basically he’s been a dead man walking for several months. Judging from what we know and what we can see here, I think it’s safe to say this was a natural death.”

  “Okay, then,” Hurley says, wincing again. “We’re out of here.”

  “You need to get that looked at,” I tell Hurley, watching him rub the now faintly discolored area on his jaw.

  “I’m fine,” he grumbles. “The guy just caught me off guard.”

  Realizing Hurley’s male pride has been damaged, I say, “Yeah, who knew he was going to go nuts like that?”

  Hurley eyes me warily, and I suspect he’s trying to determine if I’m busting on him or serious.

  “I think he had ’roid rage,” I continue. “That kind of physique isn’t found in nature. It had to have come from steroid abuse. And the strength it can give people is frightening.” I reach up and gently palpate along Hurley’s jawline. He has a day’s worth of beard stubble that is surprisingly soft, and as I move my fingers over his cheek I can feel the muscles beneath my hand twitching. He is watching me intently, and though I can feel his gaze on me, I don’t return it. I’m afraid of what I’ll say or do if I become entranced by those soft pools of blue.

  Arnie clears his throat and says, “Should we get you two a room?”

  Izzy snorts a laugh and I drop my hand from Hurley’s face. After shooting a death-ray look at Arnie, I tell Hurley, “I don’t feel any obvious fractures but you have quite a bit of swelling and bruising there. You should probably have it X-rayed.”

  I leave the room and head out to the dead man’s kitchen, where I open a few drawers and, after finding what I want, head for the freezer. A moment later I return to the living room with a plastic baggie full of ice cubes wrapped in paper towels and hand it to Hurley. “Put this on your cheek,” I tell him. “It will help reduce the pain and swelling.”

  He takes the baggie, does as I instructed, and says, “Thank you.” His voice is soft and tender and I don’t think it’s all because of his jaw. The way he is looking at me makes my skin hot and my toes curl.

  I realize Izzy and Arnie are already outside, meaning Hurley and I are alone together . . . well, that is if you don’t count the dead guy. It seems most of my moments with Hurley occur near a dead body, hardly the best setting for a romantic interlude. I head outside and join Arnie and Izzy at the van.

  “Are you coming back to the office?” Izzy asks. I nod. “Try not to bring a crowd with you, okay?” he adds with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Ha, ha.” I head back for the hearse and as soon as Arnie pulls out, I fall in behind him. Hurley is still inside the house and I mourn the fact that I’m leaving him there, vulnerable and alone. Then I curse the fact that the dead keep interfering with my love life.

  Back at the office, I settle into the library with a forensic textbook and spend some time reading about the analysis of stab wounds. It’s fascinating stuff but I’m still glad when my cell phone rings and offers me a break from the grim reality of how much damage sharp penetrating objects can do to the human body. A quick look at my caller ID tells me it’s Carla Andrusson calling.

  “Hi, Carla.”

  “Hi, Mattie.”

  “How did it go?”

  “I don’t know. Like all the other times, I guess. I did what you said.” Her voice sounds oddly flat and devoid of emotion.

  “Good. Thank you. Can I come by now to pick up the equipment?”

  “Sure.”

  I hang up, stop by Izzy’s office to let him know I’m going to run a quick errand, and then head for Carla’s house. She greets me at the door and smiles, but it comes across as a plastic, social nicety, an expression worn solely for appearance’ sake.

  “Thanks again for doing this, Carla,” I say as she waves me in and leads me to the kitchen.

  “Sure.” She sounds and looks like a Stepford Wife.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, seriously concerned.

  “Of course.” She flashes the plastic smile again. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. You seem different somehow. Subdued. Not your usual self.”

  She waves away my concern. “I’m just a little tired. My nerves kept me awake last night worrying about this appointment today.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s done now.” She hands over the digital recording device I gave her yesterday—the one Izzy gave me for recording my observations at death scenes. “I kept it in my purse during the appointment so I’m pretty sure Dr. Nelson didn’t suspect anything,” she says.

  “Did you listen to it?” I ask. I know I would have found it close to impossible not to do so had our roles been reversed. My curiosity is insatiable. It’s not that I can’t keep a secret; I can and do all the time, and will probably take several of them to my grave. But I hate being out of the loop.

  She doesn’t hesitate at all with her answer. “No. I figured I’d leave that up to you. You will let me know what you find, won’t you?”

  “When I can,” I say evasively. Truth is, anything I hear on the recorder will probably be inadmissible as evidence. I didn’t have her do it to gather evidence but rather to bolster—or dismiss—my own suspicions about the man. But if I do find something that might be usable, sharing that information too soon might compromise the investigation.

  I’m eager to get back to the office and listen to whatever Carla recorded on the device, but I don’t want to seem too rude or ungrateful, so I force myself to be social and take a sip of the coffee she pours for me. Shockingly, it is ice cold.

  As I spit it back into the cup, Carla looks at me with that flat smile and says, “Is it too strong?”

  “No, it’s cold.”

  She blinks her eyes several times very rapidly. “Silly me,” she says in a goofy manner that seems very unlike the Carla I know. “I must have forgotten to turn the burner on.” For just a second her smile fades. She rubs both her temples and looks momentarily frightened and confused. But the change is fleeting and the smile is pasted back in place so quickly I start to wonder if I imagined it.

  “I’m going to head back to my office now, Carla,” I say, getting up from the table. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

  She laughs and there is a hint of the old Carla in the sound. “Let’s hope I don’t need what you have to offer,” she says.

  I thank her again for helping me and leave, but as I drive away I keep replaying the scene at her house over and over again in my mind. Her behavior was disturbing, and while something about it nudges at my brain, I can’t quite pull out the message my subconscious is trying to send.

  I arrive back at the office and plan to head straight for the library to listen to the recording. But in the main lobby I run into a crowd. Cass is seated at her desk and today she is dressed as a punk rocker complete with spiked, purple hair, striped tights, Doc Martens, an oversized shirt, and lots of piercings I assume are fake since I’m pretty sure she didn’t have any holes in those places before. Standing in front of the desk are Izzy, Aaron Heinrich, and Hurley, whose cheek looks more colorful but a little less swollen.

  “There she is,” Aaron says, turning to greet me. He flashes his thousand-watt smile and leans back against Cass’s desk.

  Izzy says, “Aaron stopped by to thank us for the work we did investigating his father’s death. And he also wanted to know if it would be allowable for him to ask you out for dinner, now that the case is closed.”

  “Dinner?” I say stupidly, caught off guard by the invite.

  Izzy says, “There’re no conflict-of-interest considerations anymore.”

  If looks could kill, Izzy would be reclined on one of the back tables right now judging from the way Hurley is glaring at him. Izzy appears not only oblivious, but amused.

  Aaron says, “Change of plans. I thought we could head down to Chicago instead of Green Bay. I know some great restaurants and there’s a show in town I’d like t
o see. So what do you say, Mattie? Will you do me the honor of joining me tonight?”

  I consider the invitation for a moment and my hesitation wins Izzy a momentary reprieve from his death sentence because Hurley focuses his glare on me instead. His attempts at intimidation annoy me, making me want to dish a little back. But I’m not sure I’m ready to go on a date with Aaron.

  “I’d love to,” I say, smiling at Aaron. I swear the thunderclouds on Hurley’s face make the barometric pressure in the room drop precipitously. “But I can’t do it tonight.”

  Aaron looks disappointed but he brightens quickly when I add, “Perhaps another time?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you later and set something up.” He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket, turns around to take a slip of paper from Cass, and then looks back at me expectantly with pen poised.

  I figure the phone number thing is a safe bet since, in my experience, most men who say they’ll call never do. Plus, I’m abiding by Rule Number Seven in Mother’s Rules for Wives: men are like mascara—they run at the first hint of emotion, so try to keep them guessing. Giving my number to Aaron should keep Hurley guessing, or at least squirming, for a while. There is one teensy problem, however: I don’t know my own number. As I open my phone and start scrolling through menus to find it, Aaron laughs.

  “Is your phone number top secret?” he asks.

  “Not exactly,” I say with a grimace of a smile, hoping I don’t look too stupid. “Izzy wrote it down for me once but since I never call myself and the key people who need it already have it, I haven’t managed to memorize the number yet.”

  I see Hurley shift uncomfortably and presume it’s because my implication—that Aaron is now about to become a “key” person—isn’t sitting well with him. Izzy is grinning from ear to ear.

  “Oh, hell,” Hurley grumbles. “I’ll give it to you.” He rattles off a string of ten numbers, which Aaron scribbles down and then tucks away into his pocket.

  Whoa. I didn’t see that coming and, frankly, the fact that Hurley would so glibly pass out my number to a potential rival annoys me. I thought our history of a spontaneous kiss or two and what might be construed as a second base hit in the parking lot of the Nowhere Bar meant he felt something for me. Now I’m not so sure.

  “Thanks, man,” Aaron says.

  Hurley just nods. His scowl is gone and in fact, he looks downright chipper. I focus on keeping my expression neutral, hoping not to show how devastated I am by his actions.

  “Yes, thanks, Hurley,” I echo, snapping my phone shut. “That was very sweet of you.”

  “Anytime. Now if you folks will excuse me, I have some business to tend to.” With that, Hurley strides across the lobby and out the front door.

  “I’m sure you folks have things to do as well,” Aaron says, “so I guess I’ll be going too. I’ll give you a call in a day or two, Mattie.”

  “Sure. Okay.” I try to force a smile onto my face but it isn’t easy. On the inside, I’m one hormone release away from crying. Aaron walks over, gives me a quick buss on the cheek, and then follows Hurley’s path to the parking lot.

  “Very interesting,” Izzy says as soon as the front door closes.

  He is still grinning and I give him a hurtful look. “I’m so happy my agony amuses you,” I whine.

  “Agony? Why are you in agony? You have two incredibly handsome, eligible bachelors interested in you. I should think you’d be dancing.”

  “Apparently Hurley doesn’t give a crap who I date,” I pout. “He was more than happy to help the matchmaking along. And I doubt Aaron is seriously interested. I know his type. They like to play with a new toy every week or so. I doubt I’ll ever hear from him.”

  “I doubt it, too,” Izzy agrees. “Especially since Hurley gave him the wrong number.”

  I settle into the library, which is empty, and shut myself inside. I’m not sure if Hurley wanted me to know what he was doing when he gave out my number but the fact that I do has boosted my spirits considerably. Now all I have to do is decide whether or not to let him know that I know.

  Putting those thoughts aside, I take out the recorder I retrieved from Carla and start playing it back. At first it seems pretty routine. I hear Nelson talking to Carla, offering her a cup of her favorite hot tea, and reviewing what they discussed at their last session. I feel a twinge of guilt, knowing how private this discussion is meant to be. Even though Carla has given me permission to listen to it, I still feel a little slimy doing so. Carla discusses the fact that she and her husband have been sleeping in separate bedrooms for several months, and when Nelson asks her how she feels about that, she offers up a one-word answer: “frustrated.”

  Less than a minute later, just as I’m beginning to doubt my motives and hate myself for what I’m doing, the tone of the session takes a dramatic shift. Carla’s voice becomes slurred and muted. I hear Nelson call softly to her but her only response is a grunt. And then all I can hear are background noises; rustling, a sliding sound, a wet sound, heavy breathing, and more grunting. After a few minutes there is an odd, rhythmic noise followed by a distinctly male sound that is unmistakable.

  I’m sitting on the edge of my seat now, my ear glued to the recorder. I start to feel ill and swallow hard, glad I haven’t eaten anything. The only sounds I can hear on the tape are more rustling and an occasional exertional type grunt. Then there are several minutes of relative silence where all I can hear are two people breathing.

  Finally, some forty-five minutes into the session, I hear Nelson call to Carla again and this time she answers. Then they pick up their conversation where it left off.

  I turn the recorder off and sit stunned for a moment, considering what I just heard. Suddenly Carla’s odd demeanor starts to make horrifying sense. I toss the recorder into my jacket pocket and quickly head for the parking lot.

  Less than five minutes later I’m at Carla’s house but she doesn’t answer when I ring the bell. I peek through her garage windows and see that her car is gone. Frantic, I pull out my cell phone, ready to call Hurley. But before I can dial, the phone rings. It’s Izzy.

  “Hello?” I answer impatiently.

  “Where are you?” Izzy asks. He sounds a bit testy himself and I can’t say I blame him since I didn’t tell him I was leaving the office.

  “I had an errand to run,” I say vaguely. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

  “Well, drop whatever you’re doing. We have a death to investigate and I figure you’ll want in on this one since it’s at the office of that shrink you dislike so much.”

  Chapter 43

  I drive the hearse as fast as I can toward Luke Nelson’s office. I’m in a state of panic and kicking myself for believing Carla when she told me she hadn’t listened to the tape and not recognizing the meaning behind her mood change. Of course she listened to the tape. How could she not? I’d been a fool to believe her.

  Now I fear she has killed Luke Nelson, and while I am no fan of the man, particularly after what I heard on the tape, I feel somewhat responsible.

  The usual crowd of onlookers and emergency vehicles are already on the scene and the entrance to Nelson’s office is being guarded by a uniformed police officer. There are two ambulances parked out front. One of them is empty and I assume the EMTs are inside, but the crew for the other rig is lounging around outside their rig.

  I pull in behind the loungers and as I get out of my car, one of the EMTs says, “You’re a bit premature, aren’t you?”

  I know most of the EMTs in town from working at the hospital, but this guy is a new face. I give him a puzzled look and say, “Why do you say that? Isn’t there a death here?”

  “Well, yeah,” he says in a manner that makes it clear dumbass should follow. I adore our local EMTs but this newbie clearly has a bit of an attitude. “But the ME’s office hasn’t even arrived yet so I don’t think they’re going to let you take the body.”

  “I am the ME’s office,” I
tell him, using my own you nitwit inflection.

  He looks confused for a moment and glances from me to my car and then back to me again. And suddenly I understand. I keep forgetting that my car is now a hearse.

  “That’s a little tasteless, isn’t it?” he says, nodding toward the car.

  Newbie has picked the wrong time to screw with me. “You want to know what’s tasteless, buddy?” I snap at him. “Tasteless is hanging around a crime scene when you’re obviously not needed just so you can gawk at the dead bodies. Now why don’t you get your ass out of here? Your village is missing its idiot.”

  Newbie looks stunned by my outburst, causing me a nanosecond of regret before my larger misgivings take priority. As Newbie backs away from me and climbs into his rig, Izzy pulls up and parks behind my hearse. My guilt over Carla must be apparent because as soon as Izzy gets out of his car, he says, “What’s wrong?”

  “I think it may be my fault that Luke Nelson is dead,” I tell him sotto voce.

  “He’s not,” he says, closing his car door and heading for Nelson’s office. This response is so far from what I expected, I’m rendered speechless. I fall in behind him and, because the length of my one stride equals nearly three of his and I’m so wildly distracted by all the questions racing through my mind, I nearly run him over twice along the way.

  Even though I now have reason to believe the world would be a much better place if Nelson wasn’t in it, I’m relieved he isn’t dead. Not only because of my own guilt but because I want to see him suffer. Death would be much too easy an escape for him.

  I start to relax a little when I realize I’ve jumped to some pretty incongruous conclusions about Carla. I assumed that if she wasn’t home, she would be here. But she could be anywhere. Maybe she didn’t listen to the tape after all. Maybe her strange attitude earlier really was due to a lack of sleep, like she said.

  As we enter the office’s anteroom, I see Hurley standing just inside the far door that leads to Nelson’s office area, staring grimly into the room where Nelson sees his patients. Off in the corner to my left, three EMTs are huddled around someone in a chair. I push past Izzy, taking care to avoid the trail of bloody footprints I can see leading from the office into the anteroom, and take a stand beside Hurley, who acknowledges me with a quick glance. Then I look into the counseling room.