I walk over and settle into the chair closest to me while Patty heads around behind the desk and sits in hers. The only items on top of the desk are a laptop and a peacock-blue pencil holder that looks completely out of place in the otherwise gray room. As I examine the pristinely clean glass top of the desk, I can’t help but imagine what it would look like in my house, covered with Matthew’s sticky fingerprints and the remnants of whatever was on those fingers, Hoover’s nose prints, and trails of tiny cat prints crisscrossing the glass. That’s not to mention all the stray fur that would likely be adhering to every surface.
“How have you been doing?” Patty asks me once we’re both settled. “It’s been a while.”
She, like her house, is modern. She is sporting one of those stacked, layered haircuts with one side longer than the other, and it looks great on her. Her clothing is chic and sophisticated: narrow black slacks topped by a red T-shirt, and a red-and-black jacket with a mandarin collar that has a narrow strip of material across the middle front that brings the two sides together. She has earrings and a bracelet in the same black and red. I feel a little frumpy by comparison. Okay, a lot frumpy.
“I’m doing great,” I lie. “Life is busy, what with the job, the kids, and whatnot.”
“Yes, I imagine it is,” Patty says. She smiles, but this time, it looks a little forced.
“How are things with you and David?”
“They’re great,” she says quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. “We’re great.”
I narrow my eyes at her, my gut alarm clanging loudly. She looks back at me, and that smile falters a smidge. She opens her mouth, and then shuts it again, looking away. Something is bothering her. I’m certain of it.
“I have some news,” she says with an edge of wariness in her tone.
“Oh?” I say, unsure if she’s referring to her and David, or my inquiry into the insurance policy.
“I’m pregnant,” she says, the words rushing out. Her face blushes. “I mean, we’re pregnant,” she adds.
She rolls her lips inward and stares at me, sitting poker-straight in her seat, waiting for my reaction.
It’s a mixed one. On the one hand, I’m very happy for her and David and think it’s great that their relationship has moved on to this next step. But there is also a lingering part of me that still mourns the loss of the future hopes and dreams that David and I once shared, which included a family.
“Congratulations, Patty!” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “I’m very happy for you.”
She sags visibly, so I gather my enthusiasm must have seemed genuine enough. “Thank you,” she says, sounding relieved. “I was worried how you might take the news. David didn’t want to tell you ahead of time, but I felt it was only fair.”
“I appreciate that, Patty,” I say. “I confess that some small part of me feels a little shocked . . . and sad, I guess, that this final seal has been applied to the story that I once thought was mine. But David and I are long in the past, and I’m very happy now with Hurley and my son.”
“As well you should be,” Patty says with a warm smile. “He’s adorable.”
“Who?” I say in a teasing tone. “Matthew or Hurley?”
“Both,” she answers without hesitation, punctuating it with an arch of one brow. “Your son is the cutest little rug rat I’ve ever seen—I hope my kid looks half as adorable. And let’s face it, your husband is pretty easy on the eyes.”
“He is that,” I say. And just like that, all the tension leaves the room. “When are you due?” Like I said, it’s hard not to like Patty. She’s genuine, kindhearted, and sweet by nature.
“Not until early February,” she says, an unconscious hand rubbing her tummy. “I’m a little over twelve weeks at this point, so we’re past the danger zone.”
“Oh, but there are many more dangers to come,” I say with a wink. “There’s the whole peeing every five minutes thing, and having boobs that leak all the time, and feeling like a beached whale.”
She smiles and nods, but she looks eager rather than wary to experience these problems. Naïveté can be a blessing.
“But it’s all worth it in the end,” I add.
She nods again, more eagerly this time. “So what can I do for you?” she asks, having gathered her sunny persona around her again.
“I’m interested in a couple of life insurance policies you issued. One for Craig Knowlton and one for Meredith Lansing. I’m sure you’ve heard about their deaths.” It dawns on me then that I never read the rest of the paper this morning to see if the murder-suicide had been mentioned. I was so taken aback by the alien body headline that I forgot about the other case. But even if the deaths weren’t mentioned in the paper, odds are Patty has heard about them. Sorenson is small enough that news like this leaks out faster than blood from a ruptured aortic aneurysm.
Patty nods, a soberer action this time. “I did,” she says. “I heard it was a murder-suicide thing.”
I don’t affirm or deny this. “Have either of the spouses contacted you yet to cash in on the policies?”
“As a matter of fact, John Lansing called me right before you got here,” she says.
This doesn’t surprise me. “I saw that the policy on Meredith was taken out fairly recently,” I say. “She and her husband both got one. I’m curious as to what you can remember about that. Were they here together? And what, if any, discussions took place regarding the policies?”
Patty frowns. “Why are you asking?” she says. “Were the deaths not what they appeared to be?”
Add not dumb to Patty’s list of attributes. I don’t answer her right away, debating how much to tell her.
“I’m sure the company investigator will be looking into it,” she adds during my silence. “That’s customary.”
I nod. “You might put a bug in his ear to stall paying on the policies for now. There are some things about the case that don’t quite add up. I would suggest that the investigator—or investigators, as the case may be—take a long, careful look at both cases.”
“Good to know,” Patty says. She gets up and walks over to the credenza, opening one of the drawers. A minute or so later, she returns to her desk carrying two manila folders. “As I recall, Craig’s policy has a suicide preclusion,” she says. “Most such policies do. I assumed that was why I hadn’t heard from his wife yet.”
I sigh and give her a warning look. “The bad news is the policy, at least the copy we saw, has a one-year suicide exclusion, and it was signed one year and a day ago. Although it may turn out to be a moot point.”
Patty looks confused. “Are you saying Craig Knowlton didn’t kill himself?”
“We’re not clear yet,” I tell her. “Like I said, there are some things that don’t add up just yet. We’re still investigating.”
Patty scans Craig’s policy, reads the suicide clause, and then leans back in her seat, her eyes wide. “Interesting timing, all right,” she says.
I nod. “What, if anything, can you recall about either couple and the establishment of these policies?”
“Well, I remember the Knowltons came in together. They said their business was doing well, and they felt it was important to ensure the business survived if either or both of them didn’t. The decision to insure themselves seemed like more of a business decision than a personal one. They debated over the amounts some. At one point, they were considering a higher amount in case they started a family. But I talked it through with them and assured them they could increase their coverage later on if necessary. They were both young enough that they still had plenty of time to do that before the rates grew prohibitive.” She pauses, shaking her head for a second as if trying to shrug off a chill.
“I have to say,” she goes on, “that when I heard about the murder-suicide thing with Craig, it surprised me a little. Granted it was a year ago when I saw them, but I wouldn’t have pegged either of them as the type to have an affair. They seemed very happy together. They were affectio
nate with one another, casting doe eyes and touching one another all the time; their body language suggested a strong intimacy between the two of them. Plus, they both seemed very uncomfortable whenever the death of either of them was mentioned.”
“A lot can happen in a year,” I say, thinking about how quickly my marriage to David had imploded. Then I remember who’s sitting across from me and immediately regret having said it. If Patty picked up on my train of thought, she doesn’t show it.
“With regard to the Lansing policy,” she went on, “John came in by himself to talk with me initially, and he opted for both policies that same day. He said he used to work in the industry and knew the importance of having adequate insurance. I had to make a separate appointment for Meredith to come in and sign her paperwork. They both treated it like it was an everyday thing in the beginning, but that changed recently.”
“How so?”
“John is no longer the beneficiary on Meredith’s policy.”
“What?” I say, leaning forward. “Tell me!”
“Meredith came in a couple of weeks ago and changed things up. She seemed upset, but she didn’t say much. Just that she wanted to change the beneficiary.”
“And who did she change it to?” I ask, reaching for the folders on the desk.
“Her niece and nephew,” she says.
For a moment there, I thought she was going to say it was Craig Knowlton. “Wow, that’s interesting,” I say, digesting this information. “I don’t think John was aware of that change.”
“You’re probably right. Meredith said she wanted me to keep a copy of the policy here in my office but declined to take one with her.”
This information has me rethinking our case. Why had Meredith changed the policy? What had triggered her decision? “I’m curious,” I say. “When John called here a bit ago, did you tell him that?”
Patty shakes her head. “I told him he would need to come into the office. I also told him that it would take some time to process the policy, that we needed certain things, like a death certificate, and that we would need to wait for the police investigation to be officially closed.”
“That was smart thinking,” I tell her.
She shrugs my compliment off. “It’s standard procedure.”
“Can you give me copies of these policies?”
“Sure. I can scan them and e-mail them to you later today, or if you want to wait around while I copy them, I can do that now.”
“E-mail is fine,” I say. I rise from my chair and hand her a business card with my work e-mail address on it. Then I turn toward the door as she comes around the desk to see me out. When we reach the main hallway, I take another look at the décor of the place and turn to her.
“Patty, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to feel free to say no if it makes you at all uncomfortable.”
“Okay,” she says, her smile tentative.
“Would you give me a tour of the house? Normally, I wouldn’t ask, given our history and all, but Hurley and I are just now starting on building a house, and I’m still trying to put together ideas for the interior. And you clearly have a great eye with a good sense of both space and design.”
Patty looks relieved at my request, and I can’t help but wonder what she thought I was going to ask. Even so, I feel a twinge of guilt. While it’s true that I’m still trying to put together some of the interior design for our new house, Patty’s sense of style is the polar opposite of mine, and little in this house is likely to help me much. I’m simply curious. Some might call it nosy.
“I’d love to,” she says, and if she has any reservations at all about my request, she is hiding them well.
“Can we start with the kitchen?” I ask. “That seems to be my biggest bugaboo when it comes to planning.”
Patty leads the way, and I follow her into a magnificent kitchen that looks like it belongs to an award-winning chef. There is a huge cast-iron stove with two ovens, a griddle, and six burners. A cylindrical chrome tube with a black flange at the bottom hangs over it—presumably the exhaust fan. The refrigerator doors are masqueraded to match the white upper cabinets that run along two walls. The lower cabinets are done in a dark wood, and there is a gigantic island—nearly as big as my entire kitchen was in the cottage—in the middle of the room with a huge slab of gray-and-white granite on top of it, more cabinets beneath, and a small prep sink. Six stools line the side closest to us, sleek black-and-chrome affairs with scooped seats. They are facing the sink, a stainless behemoth set beneath a window that looks out into the backyard and the woods beyond. Lining the walls along the countertops, which are some sort of white, slick-looking material, is a gray, black, and white backsplash. The flooring is a dark-colored wood—almost black—done in wide planks.
All this monochromicity would be boring if not for the touches of color: yellow pendant lights over the island, red towels hanging by the sink, a bright red Keurig machine, yellow oven mitts hanging beside the stove, and on the countertops, a set of red canisters, a giant bowl of lemons, and a colorful array of cookbooks. Off to one side is a breakfast nook that is built out from the house as a sort of sunroom, with three big windows and a glass roof. It’s furnished with a black wooden table surrounded by four white cushioned chairs that make me grimace when I think about Matthew’s grubby little hands touching them.
It’s a beautiful space, no denying that, but I wonder how practical it will be once Patty and David start raising a family.
I make all the necessary complimentary comments, taking note of a few items that I think I might want to incorporate into my own kitchen design. I hardly ever cook, so the stove holds little appeal to me, but I love the pot-filling faucet built into the wall behind the stove. And when Patty shows me a few of her cabinet features—a nifty, narrow little spice rack that rolls out, shelves that pull out, a pot cabinet with both racks and hooks, a pull-out pegboard organizer under the sink for gloves, sponges, dish soap, dishrags and cleaning supplies, and bins designed for trash cans as well as storage of things like onions and potatoes—I start building a mental wish list.
We move on to a guest bathroom, a second, less-formal living area where the furniture is a little less starkly modern in design, and then to David’s office.
“I’m guessing David had a say in the design of this room,” I tell Patty as we stand by the heavy wooden desk.
Patty gives me a tolerant little smile. “You could say that,” she says. “He’s not a huge fan of my modern tastes, and he said he wanted a room that he could call his own. So he got to pick everything in here, from the flooring to the wall color and all of the furnishings.”
As she talks, I’m scanning the top of David’s desk. There is one of those large blotter calendars on it, something David always had on his desk in our old house. Scribbled in on the days are various surgeries, meetings, and appointments, all of it in David’s angular scrawl that is so familiar to me. For the first time, I feel a twinge of nostalgia. Then I zero in on today’s schedule and see that David has three surgeries planned, including a late one that won’t start until four o’clock. These off-hour surgeries are something David has always done to accommodate his patients—patients who have kids they need to pick up and drop somewhere, people who need to wait until a spouse is off work, patients who simply aren’t morning people. David has never minded working these late hours, and sometimes he schedules surgeries this way simply to get his quota of procedures done all in one day and have a free day before or after. Neither the OR staff nor the hospital administrators are overly fond of these weird hours, but given that David is the only general surgeon on staff—a fact that is likely to continue, given that the hospital has been trying unsuccessfully for two years to recruit a second surgeon—the hospital is willing to bend and cater to him in this regard.
I used to staff a lot of David’s evening surgeries; unlike the other nurses, I didn’t mind the hours since it gave me more time with my husband. And I kind of liked the off hours beca
use all of the administrative dinks and department managers were gone for the day, and this gave the hospital a more informal, relaxed feel.
As this memory hits me, so does an idea. And like a lightning strike, something else comes to mind, an idea that is both frightening and exciting at the same time.
CHAPTER 19
When Patty and I reach the living area of the front hallway, I glance at my watch and thank her for her time and her tour. I don’t know if she’s willing to show me the upstairs part of the house, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve decided that would be too much of an invasion of privacy. Besides, I’m eager to pursue the idea I had while we were in David’s office.
Once I’m underway in my car, I call Hurley and let him know I’m on my way back to the station. He arranges to meet me behind the station, and he’s already in his car, idling, when I pull in. I park my hearse, grab my scene kit, toss it into the backseat of Hurley’s car, and then climb into the front seat.
“Ready to do some Grizzly Motel reconnaissance?” he asks me.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say as he pulls out of the police station lot.
“Heard anything on the bones yet?”
I shake my head. “It might take a while.”
“The contractor called me a bit ago and asked how long it was going to be before they could resume work,” Hurley says with a pained expression. “I told him a day, maybe two. Think that’s possible?”
“I doubt it,” I say with a grimace. “The DNA testing alone will probably take a week.”
Hurley sighs.
“We’re just going to have to be patient,” I tell him. “I know it won’t be easy. Believe me, no one wants to see that house built more than I do, but it is what it is.”
He nods, looking morose. “How did things go with Patty?”
“It was easier than I thought it would be. She’s such a nice person, and she was not only gracious, but helpful. And she had some interesting news to share. She and David are expecting.”
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