Stiff Penalty (A Mattie Winston Mystery)

by Annelise Ryan

  I realize I’m rambling, so I pause and suck in a breath. Maggie, who is normally such a master of the impassive facial expression that I’ve wondered at times if she’s a cyborg, has completely lost her smile. Now she’s staring at me with a slightly frightened, wide-eyed look.

  “Sorry,” I say, feeling embarrassed. “That was probably TMI. I guess I went on a bit of a rant there.”

  “That’s okay. I’m here for the rants just like I’m here for the other stuff.”

  “Do you have kids?” I ask her, realizing I know almost nothing about her.

  “No, that one wasn’t in the cards for me.” There is a hint of wistfulness in her voice that tells me this is an emotional topic for her. “But I’d rather talk about you,” she adds quickly, getting the subject matter back on course with a classic professional maneuver. “You’ve said that you always planned to have kids, but I imagine this isn’t the way you expected to go about it.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” I say with a full dose of sarcasm. “I hate to admit it, but I was as naïve and stupid as they come. All my life I’ve had this image of my perfect family: me, my doting, loving husband, our two kids—one boy and one girl—living out my days in heavenly, soccer-mom perfection.” I scoffed. “What an idiotic dream.”

  “It’s one that’s attainable for many.”

  “Thanks for the reminder of what a failure I am.”

  “Is that how you feel, like you’re a failure?”

  “Well, yeah, at least with regard to that silly-assed dream.” Maggie answers this with silence, another classic ploy. I’m determined to wait her out, but I buckle quickly and blame it on the hormones. “Being a single parent wasn’t what I had in mind . . . ever.”

  “You don’t know for sure if that’s what will happen, do you?”

  I think long and hard before I answer this one. “I don’t know for sure,” I admit. “But here’s what I do know. Hurley griped and carried on about how blindsided he was when he found out about Emily. I believe his exact complaint was that he was ‘hoodwinked and duped into fatherhood.’ He said he wasn’t cut out to be a father, and with the crazy hours he works, and the number of years he’s been on his own, he doesn’t have the time or the patience to be a father . . . or the desire, for that matter. That seems pretty damned clear to me.”

  “Except he said those things about Emily, a daughter who was literally sprung on him overnight, a nearly grown young woman whose childhood he wasn’t involved in. She’s essentially a stranger to him, and yet now he is the only parent she has. So he was going to be a parent whether you got pregnant or not.”

  “The fact that another woman left him feeling duped and trapped doesn’t make it okay that I’ve now done the same thing.”

  “Didn’t you say Hurley was not only okay with this, but that he seemed delighted?”

  “Sure, at first. But I don’t think the reality of it had sunk in yet. Besides, he’s probably putting on a happy face for my sake. Hurley’s too kind to say something he knows will hurt me.”

  “So you don’t believe him when he says he’s okay with it?”

  “No . . . yes . . . I don’t know.” I feel exasperated and it shows.

  “The situation he has with you is certainly different from what he had with Emily and Kate. At least with you he’s had time to adjust to the idea. And he knows he’ll be involved with the child’s upbringing.”

  I don’t say anything for a bit, and that makes Maggie suspicious. “You are planning on letting him be involved with the child’s upbringing, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. He can be as involved as he wants.”

  “Are you prepared for what will happen if he says he doesn’t want to be involved?”

  I shoot her a glance, wondering if she’s talked to Hurley behind my back and knows something I don’t. “I have plenty of help available,” I say with a tone of indifference. I sound convincing enough that I almost believe the idea of Hurley jumping ship doesn’t bother me. “Dom is home all the time, he lives right outside my door, and he’s dying to babysit. My sister has offered, too, though I don’t think I’ll use her unless Dom can’t do it for some reason. She and her husband are working on their own issues with their marriage, and I don’t want to complicate things by throwing a new kid into the mix, however temporary or short-term.”

  “How are things going with them?” Maggie asks.

  “Okay, I guess. Desi says Lucien is behaving himself, and it’s obvious he’s a changed man. In fact, he’s like a different person when I talk to him these days. But I can tell Desi is still angry. Frankly, it’s all a little scary.”

  “What’s scary, that your brother-in-law has changed, or that their marriage may be on the rocks?”

  “Both,” I say, wishing a second later that I could take it back. I know where Maggie is going next, and she doesn’t disappoint.

  “Your personal experience with happy marriages is rather limited, isn’t it?”

  “Just because my mother has been married and divorced four times, and my own marriage fell apart because my ex couldn’t keep Mr. Turtle in his shell doesn’t mean I’m incapable of having a normal, healthy relationship.”

  “What’s your definition of a normal, healthy relationship?”

  For some reason, this question irks me. Maybe it’s because I’m unsure of the answer. “It’s when two people have mutual respect and love for one another,” I say, taking a stab at it. “It’s sticking together through the hard times. It’s an unconditional acceptance of one another, both the good traits and the bad. It’s sharing things, but also allowing one another room to grow. And it’s trust. Trust is a big one.”

  “I can see why it would be, given your history with David. Do you feel you can trust Hurley?”

  I consider this for a while before I answer. “I trust him with my life. And I trust him with our child’s life. I’m not sure if I trust his emotions, though.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I don’t know if he wants to be with me because he loves me, or if he feels a duty to be with me because of the kid.”

  “You’re afraid that if you trust him he’ll turn around and leave you, the way your father did.”

  I shoot her an angry look. I have a sickening feeling she is very right about this, and I don’t like it.

  “Your father left when you were how old?”

  “Four, almost five.”

  “And you don’t know why he left.”

  “I assume it was because my mother’s many idiosyncrasies drove him crazy.”

  “That might be why he left your mother, but what I meant was you don’t know why he left you.”

  Now she’s not only hit a nerve, she’s plucking it. I try to fight back the tears I can feel building and burning at the back of my eyes, but it’s a lost cause.

  “You don’t feel lovable because all of the men in your life have left you for reasons you don’t understand. First your father left you, then David did the same thing. And I assume there were some stepfathers in there also?”

  I nod, wiping the tears from my face with my palms.

  “So who in your life serves as a strong, reliable, healthy male role model?”

  “Izzy,” I say with an ironic chuckle. “I know he’s gay, but when it comes to being a strong, warm, loving, patient, understanding, forgiving man, he’s the best one I know. He’s probably the closest thing I have to a father. Not only do I adore him, he and Dom are my best friends.”

  “And if this child you’re having is a boy, will Izzy and Dom be his primary role models for all things male?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “And not because Dom and Izzy are gay. There are many different types of men in the world, and I would want any son or daughter of mine to be exposed to as many of them as possible. The same goes for women.”

  “Do you think Detective Hurley will be a good male role model?”

  “Of course he will, assuming he sticks it out and plays a part in the chi
ld’s upbringing.”

  “You say that as if you and Hurley are no longer a couple.”

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  “Are the two of you still seeing one another?”

  “Well, we see each other at work all the time.”

  “What about outside of work?”

  “Sometimes, though not as much lately. Like I said, things have gotten complicated.”

  “Do you still live alone?”

  I nod.

  “Are you still having sex with him?”

  I feel myself blush. “We were sneaking it in wherever we could up until about a month ago. I’ve gotten so big I feel like I should call him Ahab. And then there’s the Boobzillas here,” I add, waving a hand in front of my chest. “They leak if anyone so much as looks at them. Not that any of that matters anymore because Hurley has become reluctant to have sex now. He’s afraid he’ll poke the kid’s eye out or something.”

  “The two of you are sneaking around because of the conflict of interest job issues?”

  “No, that sort of resolved itself. But there are other issues.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, Emily, for one.”

  “Why is she an issue? Do you resent the amount of time she has with Hurley?”

  “No, it’s more the other way around. I think Hurley does a pretty decent job of splitting his time and attention between the two of us, but it doesn’t seem to be enough for Emily. And I have a feeling that’s only going to get worse after the baby comes.”

  “Are you concerned Hurley won’t have enough love left over for your child?”

  “Not at all. Hurley’s a kind, generous, thoughtful man. He has plenty of love to go around.”

  “And yet you doubt his love for you.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m not his child. The love someone feels for their child is completely different from the love they might feel for a sexual partner.”

  “Is that how you see yourself with Hurley? As his sexual partner?”

  “No,” I snap. “Not totally anyway.” Maggie’s probing questions feel like fingers thrust deep into a raw wound. It’s making me irritable, and the kid seems to sense this. I feel a hard punch—a foot, a fist, a head butt?—and shift my position again. Then I take a deep breath and try to make myself relax. “Clearly Hurley and I have a shared affection for one another. And we also share this,” I say, rubbing a hand over my Buddha belly. “But that doesn’t mean we have what it takes to spend a lifetime together as a couple.”

  “Has Hurley asked you to marry him?”

  Once again, I wonder if she has some sort of insider knowledge. “Why would you ask me that? Don’t you think I would have told you if he had?”

  “Honestly?” she asks, and I nod. “No, I don’t think you would tell me, at least not right away.”

  Damn, Maggie is better at this than I realized. Either that or she has me bugged.

  “So has he?”

  I sigh, knowing it’s no use trying to lie to her. “Yeah, he has.”

  “And how did you answer?”

  “I told him no.”

  She sighs, nods, and shifts in her seat, getting comfortable. She holds her pen poised over the tablet in her lap and says, “Tell me how it happened. And don’t give me the abridged version. I want all the details as seen through your filters.”

  I glance at my watch. “I don’t think we have enough time, do we? My hour is almost up.”

  “As it happens, you’re my only patient today,” Maggie says with a smug smile. “I typically take Tuesdays off, but I made an exception for you because I know how complicated your schedule can be. So I’m all yours for as long as you want.”

  Oh goody.

  Chapter 11

  I tell Maggie how I went from interviewing the Ames family, to killing someone, to getting a marriage proposal, all in the space of twenty-four hours.

  Before I left the police station on the Saturday night that Derrick Ames was killed, and after I was able to stop sobbing long enough to speak understandably, I assured Richmond that everything was fine; it was just my time of the month.

  Once Richmond felt confident that I wasn’t going to have a complete meltdown on him, we went into his office to make some phone calls.

  “I want to speak to as many of these people as I can before our pool of suspects has a chance to get to them,” Richmond said.

  He placed a phone call to Blake Sutherland’s cell phone number first. There was no answer, so he left a message asking her to call him back as soon as possible.

  We had better luck with Donna Martin, who answered her phone in a sleepy voice and verified the fact that Wendy Ames had been at her house earlier, giving a time frame that matched the one Wendy had provided.

  We were able to reach two of the three men that Mandy named as interested suitors. One of them, the family friend, was in New York for a week on business, a fact easily verified by calling the hotel where he said he was staying. The second man, a music teacher at the high school, said he had been at a band concert during the time of Derrick’s death and gave the names of several schoolkids and parents who would verify this. The third man, Sam Littleton, who was also a teacher at the high school, didn’t answer his phone, so Richmond left a message.

  Richmond’s last planned call of the night was to the home of Jacob’s friend, the one he supposedly had dinner with. “I know the Fitzpatrick kid,” Richmond told me. “He’s a troublemaker. They busted him last year for dealing pot, and he did some time in juvey, so if Jacob is hanging out with him, heaven knows what they were up to.”

  Richmond put the phone on speaker, and when a sleepy-voiced woman answered, he said, “Is this Mrs. Fitzpatrick?”

  “It is. I see from my caller ID that this is the police. What’s Sean done now?” she asked, her tone resigned and tired.

  “Nothing that I’m aware of,” Richmond said, and the sigh of relief on the other end of the line was easily audible. “I’m calling to verify some information about someone else. Jacob Ames said he was at your house with your son for dinner this evening. Is that true?”

  “Sort of,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “He came over, and then he and Sean locked themselves in Sean’s bedroom to play video games for several hours. They didn’t even come out for dinner.”

  “What time did Jacob leave?” Richmond asked.

  “Hmm, I think it was around eight, give or take.”

  “Mrs. Fitzpatrick, do you know for sure that the boys were there the entire time?”

  “Well, I could hear the sounds of the game being played through the door to Sean’s room. And I did holler at them a couple of times about dinner, and Sean kept saying they weren’t hungry.”

  “Did you hear Jacob say anything during that time?”

  There was a long pause before Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, “You know, I don’t recall that I did. But then Jacob tends to be a quiet boy. He gets moody at times, but I’ve always found him to be a well-mannered young man. I’ve been hoping he might have a positive influence on Sean. Why are you asking so many questions about Jacob? Is he in some kind of trouble? Should I try to keep him and Sean apart?”

  Apparently the Sorenson gossip mill hadn’t made it to the Fitzpatrick household yet. Richmond skillfully avoided answering the question by saying, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I’ll let you know if I have any other questions.” Then he disconnected the call. I felt pretty sure Mrs. Fitzpatrick would sit stunned for a few seconds, staring at the phone, and then she would start making calls to find out what was going on.

  “Do you really think Jacob killed his father?” I asked Richmond, trying to imagine what it would feel like to know you raised a patricidal son. Had the divorce thing messed him up that much? And if so, what chance did a kid of mine have if Hurley and I didn’t end up together? It was an unsettling thought, and for an instant I had this image of my future son’s face plastered across TV screens n
ationwide with a CNN banner running across the bottom detailing some horrific crime he’d committed. This parenting stuff was some scary shit.

  “I don’t know,” Richmond said. “But I think it’s possible.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s late. Why don’t we pick up again tomorrow? I’ll call you.”

  That sounded fine to me. I was tired, a state of existence that seemed to be my norm of late. My OB doctor had checked my blood and iron levels, both of which were fine, and suggested that perhaps my exhaustion was a combination of emotional stress and the physical effects of all the vomiting I’d done during the past few weeks. And since I hadn’t confided half of what was going on in my life, she had no idea just how much stress I was under at the time.

  As I was about to leave, Richmond’s phone rang. “Hold on,” he said, glancing at the screen. “It’s Izzy.”

  He answered the call, told Izzy I was there though we were about to call it a night, and then switched the call to speakerphone.

  “I didn’t turn up anything more with Derrick’s autopsy,” he said. “It’s pretty much what we expected and what I told Mattie earlier regarding the broken bloody nose and the bruises. The knife wound was the ultimate cause of death, though the barbecue fork might have done the deed if the knife hadn’t since it was lodged in his heart. I’ve got Arnie sampling and typing the blood on the knife on the off chance that some of the killer’s DNA might be there.”

  “So we got nothing,” Richmond said, his frustration from earlier still clear in his voice.

  “Not so fast,” Izzy said. “Arnie has something for you. Hold on.”

  A few seconds later, Arnie’s voice came over the phone. “I was able to lift a partial print off both the knife and the barbecue fork,” he told us. “I’ll run them against our suspect pool samples and through AFIS tonight to see if I get any hits. If not, I’ll go back to the crime scene first thing tomorrow morning and continue processing the scene with Jonas. Maybe we can lift some prints from elsewhere in the house that will be a match.”