Stiff Penalty (A Mattie Winston Mystery)

by Annelise Ryan

  “What about Charlie? Is she still an obstacle?”

  “Down the road, maybe, but right now Hurley has so much going on in his life I don’t think he’ll have the time or the emotional energy to start up any sort of new relationship.”

  “Thinking that way is a gamble,” Maggie warns me, and I’m glad she is the one who uses such a reference for once rather than me.

  “I know,” I tell her. “But right now it seems that Hurley having a relationship with any other woman is going to be a problem for Emily. Given that, I don’t think Hurley is likely to start dating anyone else until things are resolved.”

  “Have you considered that it isn’t necessarily another woman in his life as much as it is you in his life? You’re the one who was there when Emily and her mother came back into his life. You’re the one who is having the child that Emily may or may not perceive as a threat to her relationship with Hurley. So maybe it isn’t another woman as much as it’s you.”

  I shot her a perturbed look. “Aren’t you supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Not necessarily,” she said with a smile. “I’m here to help you figure things out, to help you feel comfortable with your decisions and the impact they will have on your life, and to help you deal with your insecurities and doubts.”

  “Telling me I’m the root of the problem doesn’t exactly make me feel secure or comfortable.”

  “But it may be a reality you have to face. You need to be aware of that and figure out how you’re going to deal with it.”

  “I know my limits. I know Hurley needs some time with Emily to sort things out, but I don’t want that to interfere with his relationship with our child. I don’t want my child growing up without a father the way I did. A part-time father is better than none at all. If Emily is too insecure in her relationship with Hurley to share him with another child, that’s just too bad. I’m not going to succumb to her emotional blackmail if it starts to compromise Hurley’s relationship with our kid.”

  “And exactly how do you plan to handle it?”

  I have no idea and tell Maggie so.

  “Let’s talk about your father some more. Maybe exploring your feelings on that topic more deeply will help you gain some understanding with the other situation.”

  “But they’re totally different.”

  “Are they? Granted, you had some time with your father when you were very young, and Emily didn’t have even that, but you’ve told me your memories are few and distant, so I think your experiences are more or less parallel to hers. And not only did you grow up without a father, you now have discovered that he’s a criminal. So take your feelings on the father issue and think about how you would feel if you didn’t have your sister, suddenly lost your mother, and then found out that your father had another whole family out there somewhere, a wife with kids who spent their entire childhoods with him.”

  I thought about it and realized I’d feel envious, insecure, and a little angry . . . okay, more than a little angry. Damn Maggie anyway! Sometimes it’s like the woman has a tiny periscope implanted in my brain. Every time she takes a peek she finds another flaw, another emotional turmoil, another embarrassing thought I have stashed away in there.

  “I get it,” I tell her, feeling irritable. “I understand why Emily is struggling. I understand why she’s angry. I understand why I’m angry. I’m mad as hell at my mother for not telling me the truth about my father all these years. And I’m mad as hell at my father for being who and what he is.”

  “Do you think your mother knew about your father’s past the entire time?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” I say, shifting in my seat in a futile effort to get comfortable. My back is aching something fierce, and it’s magnifying my already high level of irritation. “She claims my father had her hoodwinked in the beginning, that he was her first and one true love, and that once she did find out and confronted him, he swore he’d left his past behind and had turned over a new leaf. By the time she realized he was lying, they’d been married for five years, and I was already four. I know my father had to leave because he was in some kind of trouble, but she claims he didn’t say what the trouble was, and that he told her he’d only be gone for a short time until he could straighten things out. Then she didn’t see or hear anything from him for two years, and when she did finally hear something, it was divorce papers some lawyer sent her. Supposedly my father offered to make child-support payments, but after one payment, the money stopped coming. My mother tried to find him but couldn’t. A short time later she met and married Desi’s father, who adopted me. I took on his last name: Fjell, which is the name I grew up with.”

  “I’m sure none of this was easy for your mother,” Maggie says, as my back stabs at me again.

  “Must you always play the devil’s advocate?” I snap at her. “Do you always have to interject other people’s feelings into these discussions? Why can’t you just let me wallow for a little while in my self-pity, or anger, or whatever the hell it is I’m feeling at the moment?”

  “Because I don’t feel it’s productive or beneficial to your mental health.”

  “If you believe that, then you’ve never had yourself a good old-fashioned pity party. Granted it’s not a good long-term strategy, but in the short term it can do wonders for one’s soul.”

  Maggie wisely says nothing.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “the thing that makes me the maddest about all this is that my mother not only didn’t tell me the truth, she went out of her way to hide it.”

  “Maybe she was trying to protect you.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, it didn’t work.”

  A few seconds of silence pass between us. Eventually Maggie sets her notebook aside and says, “You are about to embark on parenthood for the first time. There will be an endless parade of painful circumstances that will come up, difficult decisions you will need to make, and awkward situations you will react to. Do you think you will always make the right decision, or react in the appropriate way, or say the best thing?”

  “No,” I admit with a huff of irritation.

  “Then is it fair to hold your mother to such a standard?”

  “Okay, I get it,” I say, shifting my position again.

  “So where do you go from here?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”

  Maggie shakes her head. “That’s not for me to say. They have to be your decisions. But from everything you’ve told me, Hurley seems like a smart, straight-thinking guy who cares about you a lot, and that’s worth trying to keep and preserve.”

  “I know, but I just don’t know if that’s enough.” I push myself up from my chair and wince as my back aches. “I have to pee again and I guess I should be getting back to town. Thanks for making time for me and hearing me out today. I appreciate it.”

  “I’m happy to help. I’m here anytime you want to talk. Let me know what you decide, and let me know when the little one puts in an appearance.”

  “Will do. What do I owe you for this marathon session?”

  Maggie smiles and says, “This one is on the house. Consider it a baby gift.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” I tell her, fighting back tears. “Thanks again, Maggie, for everything.”

  I hurry out, or at least I go as fast as my lumbering body will carry me, afraid that if I stay any longer I’ll start to cry and have another one of my hormonal moments. It seems that the tiniest act of kindness makes me cry these days. I got teary-eyed last week when someone yielded to my car at an intersection, and I wasn’t even driving—Junior was. And I burst into full-out sobs two days ago when I ordered five cases of disposable diapers from a mail-order maternity store and they offered to throw in a sixth case for free. It’s things like that that make me think my kid is doomed.

  But it will be what it will be.

  Chapter 40

  Brenda Joiner drives me back to Sorenson and my cottage. It’s a quiet half-hour ride
, and we’re pretty comfortable with the silence at this point. Brenda and I have spent a lot of time together riding around over the past four months. For a while Hurley tried to be my escort all the time, but the issues with Emily put a serious crimp in that, leaving us at the mercy of Brenda, Junior, and two other uniformed cops who have picked up shifts that we pay for. The expense has added up over time, and I don’t know how much longer we can continue to do it. I would have insisted that we stop it months ago, but the phone calls have continued to come, and everyone pretty much agrees at this point that Roscoe Schneider wasn’t working alone. It isn’t easy living under this shadow. My nerves are frayed enough already just from the pregnancy and the situation with Hurley and Emily. Add to that the constant feeling that someone out there wants me dead, and it’s a wonder I have any sanity left at all.

  We arrive at the cottage a little after four in the evening. It’s a beautiful fall day, with a sky as blue as Hurley’s eyes and the faint smell of wood smoke in the air. My reinforced hearse is parked in its usual spot; I haven’t been able to drive it much lately since I’m never allowed to go anywhere alone. A few times I’ve insisted and had one of the cops guarding me ride along, but for the most part it’s just as easy to let them drive me, especially now that I can barely fit behind the wheel. The repair shop did a great job. The hearse looks as good as new, and you’d never know it had ever been smashed, dented, and shot up.

  “Is Izzy home?” Brenda asks as we get out of the car.

  “No, he’s still at the office. He doesn’t usually get home until five-thirty or so. And it’s Tuesday, which means Dom is downtown with his acting group rehearsing. So it’s just you and me. Want to come in for a cup of coffee?”

  Brenda makes a face. “Is it that decaf stuff you usually drink?”

  “I have a stash of the leaded variety in the back of one of my cupboards. I sneak a real cup every now and then. Don’t tell on me.”

  “I won’t.”

  I unlock the front door, and as soon as I’m inside I punch in the code for the security system. Then I drop my purse on the couch and head for the kitchen.

  That’s when the first pain grabs me.

  “Ooh,” I say, grabbing my tummy and nearly doubling over.

  “Are you okay?” Brenda asks.

  The pain passes, and I straighten up. “I think so. But either Junior just kicked much harder than usual or that was a contraction.”

  “Is it time?” Brenda asks, her eyes wide.

  “Let’s wait and see.” I head the rest of the way into the kitchen and grab two mugs, then I reach up and open the cupboard where my real coffee is hidden. Another pain rips across my belly, and this time when I touch it, it feels as hard as a rock.

  “Wow,” I say when the pain passes. “Definitely a contraction.” I turn around and walk back into the living room and plop down on the couch. “The coffee might have to wait.”

  “Maybe we should head to the hospital,” Brenda says, looking a little scared.

  I shake my head. “It’s early yet. Typically first babies take hours to come. Let’s just monitor the pains for a bit and see how often they come.”

  Two minutes later another pain hits me. I breathe through it, and when it finally lets up I say, “Okay, maybe we should go now. Can you grab the bag I have packed at the foot of my bed? I think I need to pee first.”

  I hit the bathroom and try to pee, but I’m so afraid of another pain coming that my bladder balks at doing anything. After a couple minutes of trying, Brenda yells through the bathroom door. “Are you okay in there?”

  “I’m okay.” I give up, flush out of habit even though there is no reason, and waddle back out into the living room. Brenda is standing by the door with my suitcase in her hand. Hoover is sitting between us, looking at me with this pleading expression.

  “Oh, hell,” I say. “I forgot to walk Hoover. Can you take him outside for a quickie?”

  Brenda gives me a look of impatience. “Are you sure we have time for that?”

  “We have plenty of time,” I tell her, hoping I sound convincing, because I really have no idea.

  Looking exasperated, Brenda drops the suitcase, grabs Hoover’s leash, and hooks him up. “Come on, boy, let’s go. And do your business fast.”

  She heads out the door, leaving it open. I pace the floor a couple of times and debate whether or not I should call Hurley yet. Finally I decide to go ahead and do it. I take my phone out of my purse and speed-dial his number. Clearly he was waiting for the call because he answers with, “Is it happening?”

  “I think so. I’m having pains about”—I stop and grit my teeth as another one rips through me.

  “Mattie? Mattie? Are you there?”

  “Just a minute,” I seethe. I puff my way through it, and when I can breathe halfway normally again, I say, “Sorry. I had a contraction.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “No, Brenda is here. She’s going to drive me to the hospital. Meet us there.”

  “Will do.”

  Brenda comes back inside with Hoover and lets him off his leash. I tell him to stay, arm the security system, and then head out the door with Brenda behind me carrying my suitcase. As I open the car door and toss my purse onto the floor, I feel this sudden warmth between my legs. Then I feel wetness. When I look down, I see that the entire inside portion of my pant legs is soaked.

  “Damn!” I mutter. “I had to pee but couldn’t, and now I’ve wet myself.”

  Brenda tosses my suitcase in the backseat of her car and says, “That’s okay. Let’s go.” She heads for the driver-side door.

  “I don’t want to show up at the hospital having peed myself. Let me go in and change real quick.”

  Brenda stares at me over the roof of the car, looking like she wants to kill me. I ignore her and head back inside. I unlock the door, leaving it open, and make a lumbering dash into my room to grab some clean pants. Then I head for the bathroom so I can clean up. As I pull down my pants, a smell hits me, one that takes me back to my nursing school days. That’s when I realize I didn’t pee myself. The liquid isn’t urine, it’s amniotic fluid. My water has broken.

  I kick off the wet under and outer pants and pull on dry ones. I have my slacks halfway up my legs when another pain hits. This one is even harder than the one before, and I have to grab the edge of the vanity to keep from sinking to my knees. It seems to last forever, and I keep expecting to hear Brenda’s frantic voice yelling at me to hurry up.

  Instead I hear a gunshot. And a few seconds later I hear another one.

  Panting and still bent over, I pull my pants the rest of the way up and reach over to open the bathroom door. When I look toward the front door my heart leaps out of my chest as I see a figure come running through it. In the next second I realize it’s Brenda, but before I can say a word, she slams the front door shut and throws the locks.

  “Brenda?” I say, wondering what the hell is going on.

  “Hush, and stay where you are,” she says. She takes her phone out of her vest pocket and starts to dial, then curses and throws it on the couch. “He hit my phone, damn it!” she says.

  “Who hit your phone? Did I just hear gunshots?”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  I look around the bathroom as if I expect to find it there. Then I remember tossing my purse on the floor of the car. “It’s outside in the car,” I tell her. And then another pain comes.

  This one is much worse than the ones before, and this time it does take me to my knees. I grit my teeth and try to breathe through it, but the pain is too great. I finally let out a yell.

  Brenda looks over at me with a panicked expression. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head, unable to speak for a few seconds. As the pain finally eases, I sit down on the side of the bathtub. “What’s going on?” I ask Brenda.

  “There’s a man out there in the woods who shot at me. I think it might be your caller. If it hadn’t been for my vest, I’d be de
ad right now.”

  I don’t know what’s worse, the panic I feel about Brenda’s information or the panic I feel about the pressure that’s building between my legs.

  “Don’t you have a radio or something?” I ask Brenda.

  “I’m not on official duty. All I have is my cell.”

  I look around the bathroom, hunting for a weapon. There is a pair of scissors on the vanity, the ones I use to trim my hair in between visits to my hairdresser, who happens to work out of the basement of a funeral home. For a second I see her in my mind’s eye fixing my hair the way she always does—with me lying on an embalming table—only this time I’m really dead, not just pretending the way I have at times in the past. I shake off the morbid thought and start to grab for the scissors. Then I realize that the scissors are useless against a gun. In fact, pretty much anything I have in the house that could be used as a weapon will be useless against a gun. So I switch my strategy and quit weapon hunting and start looking for a place to hide. A second later it’s a moot point because two gunshots hit the front door right where the locks are.

  Brenda dashes over to the bathroom, says, “Stay in here and stay quiet,” and then she shuts the door.

  I reach over to lock it, but I have to stand to get to it. When I do, another pain hits, and my mind becomes singularly focused on that. In an effort to obey Brenda, I grab a washcloth and stick it in my mouth, biting down as hard as I can to stifle the scream that wants to come out of me. Somehow, in the midst of my pain haze, I manage to stand, take a tiny step, and throw the lock on the door.

  I hear glass breaking beyond the door and two more gunshots. The pain is so severe I’m afraid I’m going to pass out or rip in two. The pressure between my legs is immense now, and I know that the kid is going to be here any moment, like it or not. I wait for the pain to ebb, but this time it won’t. Somehow I manage to take my pants off, and then I pull a towel off the rack and lay it in the tub. I hear yelling, another gunshot, more yelling, and some pounding noises, but they might as well be in another universe. For me the only thing that matters is the pain and a sudden overwhelming urge to push.