“I wuv you, Mammy,” he says back to me.
“It’s bedtime, okay?”
“No.” This is said matter-of-factly, without any whining or pouting. “TV first.” He gets up from the floor, scurries into the living room, and picks up the remote control. A few seconds later, he’s flipping through channels.
As Emily and I get up from the floor, she says, “Mattie, I’m really sorry. I swear I wasn’t in the bathroom that long.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “Believe me, I know how fast that little devil is. He unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper the other day in the time it took me to brush my teeth. And then, while I was cleaning up the mess of paper and putting on another roll, he proceeded to paint the bathroom sink with toothpaste.”
“Are you sure it was Matthew who unrolled the toilet paper?” Emily asks. “I caught Rubbish in the bathroom the other day doing the same thing. That cat is fascinated with the toilet paper roll.”
“No, it was Matthew. And don’t tell Hurley about Rubbish doing it. He hates those cats enough already.”
Emily mimes locking her lips and tossing the key away.
I smile at her, and then hug her. “I love you, kiddo,” I say. “And your dad and I are so appreciative of what you do for us, particularly with watching Matthew. I hope you know that.”
She is a bit stiff in my arms for a second, but then she hugs me back. “I do. I love you guys, too,” she says, and I hear a faint hitch in her voice.
We have come such a long way with this child, now almost a woman, and I feel my heart swell over it. Before the hug can get too awkward, I release her, and she turns away quickly, swiping at her face, not wanting me to see her tears.
“Hey, I’ll make a deal with you,” I say. “If you’ll get Matthew into his jammies and into bed, I’ll start cleaning up the mess in the bathroom. Let me know when he’s tucked in and I’ll come and kiss him good night.”
“Deal,” she says, and then she fetches Matthew from the living room, turns off the TV, and leads him upstairs.
I stand in the kitchen for a moment, surveying the wet splotches and smears on the floor, the dining chairs and island stools knocked askew, the area rugs scrunched up and wrinkled, and the trampled remnants of the blanket tent. It can all wait until morning, I decide, and I make my weary way upstairs.
An hour later, my son is tucked into bed and already asleep—the evening’s events exhausted him, as well as me—and the bathroom is reasonably clean, straightened, and dry. There is no sign of Hoover when I go in my bedroom, and, fortunately, the bedcovers are dry and intact. I undress and slip into one of Hurley’s T-shirts and then slide between the sheets, stretching out luxuriously beneath the blankets. Despite my exhaustion, I toss and turn, my mind busily replaying scenes from the day, and worrying about Lily Paulsen. I always sleep better when Hurley is beside me, and I wish he were here now.
After an hour of restless tossing, I decide to turn on the TV and make another stab at watching a British murder-mystery series on Netflix, which I’ve been trying to watch for two months now. But I only watch it in bed so there is no risk of Matthew seeing it, and I always fall asleep in the middle of an episode. Tonight I’m actually hoping that will happen.
It doesn’t work. But it does distract me from all the other thoughts and images that keep racing through my mind, so I let Netflix count down for another episode, and then another, and then one more, binge watching the show. Finally Netflix stops the automatic loads and checks to see if I want to continue.
How sweet—at least someone is checking up on me tonight. I tell Netflix I’m still among the awake and living, but when the next episode starts, I pause it. I’m hungry, and I remember the treats Dom sent home with me. I get out of bed, grab my robe for warmth, and go downstairs to the kitchen. The containers aren’t on the counter where I left them, and in my sleep-deprived state of mind, I take a moment to play back my arrival. Had I put them somewhere else? No, I distinctly remember putting them here on the counter.
Maybe Emily found them and moved them. I search the cupboard, the refrigerator, even a drawer or two, though I can’t imagine anyone with half a brain putting the containers in them, but to no avail. I stand there, tapping my foot in irritation, trying to puzzle it out. Outside the house, the high-pitched keen of the wind rattles the walls, making me shudder, even though I don’t feel cold. I wonder if I only imagined bringing the containers in, visualizing it in my mind, but leaving them in the car. The idea of walking barefoot into the unheated garage makes me shudder a second time, but determination, curiosity, and the lure of a pecan tassie—or four—wins out.
Looking in the car proves to be a huge mistake. As soon as I open the door, I catch a whiff of the lingering smells inside: blood, amniotic fluid, and something else I don’t want to identify. The containers aren’t there and I slam the door hard in irritation and hurry back inside.
Resigned to not having anything, I start to head upstairs. As I pass the living room, I hear a sound like someone whimpering. I look toward the noise and see Hoover, curled up in a ball in the corner. He is sound asleep, the black ink spots on his fur dark and irregular, his legs twitching, an occasional whimper emanating from him as he dreams.
I have no idea what he’s dreaming of, but I have a good idea what’s fueling it. Beside him on the floor are the chewed-up remnants of the dessert containers. He hasn’t left so much as a crumb.
“Well played, Hoover,” I say, eyeing the sad remains. “You got your revenge. Except I’m not the one who turned you into a Dalmatian, or gave you the bath.”
I want to cry, but I’m too tired. Instead, I trudge upstairs and crawl back into bed, letting Netflix woo me once more.
CHAPTER 27
When I awaken the next morning, the bedroom is brightly lit with sunshine coming through the window. I glance at the clock on my bedside stand and see that it’s already after eight. A quick look to the other side tells me that Hurley didn’t make it home during the night, and the TV is glowing Netflix’s worried message, wondering if I want to continue.
It’s my day off, and the thought of luxuriating in bed tempts me. But when you’re the parent of a toddler, those luxuries come at too high a price. I fling off the covers, grab my robe, and put on some socks and slippers. After disconnecting my phone from the charger, I check it and see there are two text messages, one from Hurley and one from Hildy Schneider. Hurley’s message, sent at a little after three in the morning, says simply: Sweet dreams, luv you.
Hildy’s message is much longer, providing me with the name and phone number of a person who runs a grief support group in Necedah, except that while the group is advertised by doctors and others in Necedah—a small village with a population of less than a thousand people—the actual sessions are held in Mauston, a town some fifteen miles away. At the end of the message she adds, There is supposed to be a meeting tonight at seven, assuming the weather cooperates. Below that is the address where the meeting is being held.
My bladder demands where my first stop will be, but once I’m done with that, I head down the hall toward my son’s room. His bed is empty, and I experience a brief moment of panic, until I see that the door to Emily’s room is open and her bed is empty as well. I move toward the stairs and hear their voices from below.
For a moment, I seriously consider going back to bed, but even though it’s my day off, there are things I need and want to do. Best to get a somewhat early start.
When I reach the main hallway downstairs, I peek out the window in the top of the front door. Outside is a winter wonderland of glittering whiteness: The ground is humped and drifted with peaks here and there, like the frosting on a cake; the branches of the trees are dusted in flour; sugar crystals are everywhere, sparkling in the sunlight. It reminds me of the desserts I never got to eat, and my stomach rumbles with hunger.
Out in the kitchen, I find Emily and Matthew seated at the table. It is located in a nook that has windows on three s
ides, and the light is so bright around them it’s almost blinding. The sky outside is cloudless and a vivid blue that makes me think of Hurley’s eyes. Amazing that so much beauty can come out of all that meteorological fury.
“Hi, Mammy,” Matthew says. “We gonna make snowman!”
“Are you?” I say, heading for the coffeepot and pouring myself a cup.
“I promised him I’d take him outside to see if we can build one,” Emily says. “It’s the first decent snowfall we’ve had this winter and I think the snow is heavy and wet, so it should pack well.”
“Sounds like fun,” I say with a smile, sliding into a chair next to Matthew.
“Fun!” he says, thrusting his spoon-wielding hand into the air. A stray clump of oatmeal flies off the utensil and lands in my hair.
“By the way,” Emily says, her expression suddenly serious, “I think Hoover got into some more mischief last night.”
“I know,” I say with a mournful sigh, scraping the oatmeal out of my hair. “I came down last night, looking for a snack, and found him in a food coma in the living room, the chewed containers on the floor beside him.”
“What was in them?”
“Pecan tassies in one, and apple pie in the other. Dom made them.”
“Oh, I love his pecan tassies,” Emily says with a little moan. “Darned dog.”
“Me too.” I look around for the food thief. “Speaking of ‘darned dog,’ where is he this morning?”
“In the laundry room at the moment. I shut the door because he was farting up a storm. When I let him out this morning, he pooped like three times.”
I smile, but it morphs into a frown. “I hope none of the ingredients in what he ate will hurt him,” I say. “I should probably call the vet and check on it.”
“So Dom made cookies and pie,” Emily muses. “That’s a lot of baking. Is he upset about something?”
I smile. Emily is a keen observer and a sly eavesdropper. She doesn’t miss much. “He is,” I say. “Something to do with his theater group. It will probably be in the paper next week.”
Knowing I’m not going to share any more details, Emily lets the matter drop.
“I’m going to try to go into the office for a while this afternoon,” I say. “It’s my day off, but there’s some stuff going on with a case I’m working, and I really want to be there for it. Assuming I can get in. Are you okay with watching Matthew? For the usual pay, of course.”
“Absolutely,” she says. “We’re going to make a snowman, and later we’re going to have hot chocolate. Right, Matthew?”
“Hot chock-it!” he cheers, once again raising his spoon. This time I manage to deflect the dietary debris.
* * *
From outside, I hear a scraping sound and the rumble of an engine. I get up and walk into the living room, carrying my coffee cup with me. I look out the window just in time to see Hurley coming around the last curve of the driveway in his truck, the plow hooked onto the front. Belatedly I see tire tracks leading to the shed and realize he’s likely been out there for a while already in order to come up the drive, hook up the plow, and then clear the driveway. I see now that this is his second pass on the driveway, and when he’s cleared the last bit, he turns and heads back to the shed.
A moment later, he comes walking along the sidewalk out front, pushing a shovel in front of him. I rap on the window and he looks up and smiles. After smiling back, I hoist my coffee cup in the air and point to it with a questioning look on my face. He nods eagerly.
I go back to the kitchen and prepare him a cup of coffee in an insulated to-go cup, and then I go to the hall closet and don boots and a winter coat. When I finally venture outside onto the front porch, he is in the process of clearing snow from the stairs.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” I ask him, handing him the mug.
He takes a sip before answering me, letting the hot liquid roll around in his mouth before he swallows. He closes his eyes to relish the taste and warmth for a few seconds.
“No,” he says after he finally swallows. “But I’m fine. And this helps,” he adds, proffering the mug. “As does the sight of you.” He bends down and kisses me on the mouth. His nose is frigid against my cheek, but his lips are warm and coffee flavored.
“I missed you last night,” I tell him once we part.
“Believe me, after being up all night with Richmond, I missed you, too.”
“Did you guys come up with anything on the Paulsen case?”
He shakes his head and makes a face. “No sign of O’Keefe. He’s gone to ground, and with this storm we had, who knows where that might be?”
“Are we still on for this afternoon with the meeting of Arnie’s online perp?”
Hurley smiles at me over his mug. “I love it when you try to talk cop.”
“Yeah, whatever. Are we?”
“Someone is a little grumpy this morning,” he teases.
“You would be, too, if you had the night I had. Don’t be surprised when you see Hoover. He’s apparently changed breeds overnight.”
Hurley gives me a quizzical smile as he swallows another swig of coffee. “Care to explain?”
“Later. Are we on for this afternoon or not?”
“Richmond, a couple of FBI agents, and I are,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “That’s the only we involved.”
“Aw, come on, Hurley,” I whine. “I want in on this.”
“Only cops,” he says. “We’re letting Arnie come along so he can listen in on the wire, but that’s only in case the guy shows up and asks questions we can’t answer. He was up most of the night exchanging e-mails with this guy to make sure the meeting would still take place. He’ll be in a van parked a few blocks away from the pizza restaurant.”
“Why can’t I be in the van?”
“For one thing, I believe you’re supposed to be off work today, no?”
“Technically, yeah, but this is my case, Hurley. The thought of that young girl still out there haunted me all night. I barely got a wink of sleep. I need to be involved. I need to do something.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Hurley says, shaking his head and then taking another drink of coffee.
“You’ve let me participate in other stuff that was dangerous.”
Hurley stares at me over the top of his mug, a frown creasing his brow, steam coming out of his nose as he exhales in the frigid morning air. “Let me think about it,” he says.
I break into a big smile. I know that this tiny capitulation is just the first step in his conceding the battle. Before he can think about it, or talk about it anymore, I change the subject. “How are the roads this morning?”
“They’re fine in town, but the outlying roads are spotty. The guys on the plows have been working hard all night, and we didn’t get quite as much snow as they predicted. But the drifts are impressive. I actually ran a couple of miles on our road with the plow this morning to clear it.”
I think about Izzy then, and his car that wouldn’t start. “I should go and call Izzy to make sure he has a way into the office this morning. I’m guessing that if his car wouldn’t start yesterday, it’s not going to start today, either. He might have Dom’s car to drive, but maybe I should check and see. He’ll need to go into the office to do the autopsy on Roger Dalrymple.”
“Why don’t you let me call him,” Hurley suggests. “If he needs a ride, I can pick him up in my truck. At least it has four-wheel drive.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather take the hearse into town. I need to have it cleaned again, what with Patty delivering her baby in the back of it last night and all.”
Hurley sighs, creating a cloud of steam around his head. “I assume Emily is okay with watching Matthew all day?” he says.
“She is. They have plans to go outside and build a snowman, and then have hot chocolate in front of the TV later. Matthew is quite excited about it.”
Hurley nods approvingly. He takes one more swig of coffee, draining the mug, and then
hands it back to me. “Thank you. I needed that. I best get to it.”
* * *
An hour later, Hurley has gone back to the police department, and I am showered, dressed, and on the road headed for my office. The roads aren’t great, but they are leagues ahead of the condition they were in last night. I called Izzy before my shower to see how he was doing, and he was already in the office, having taken Dom’s car.
By the time I arrive at the office, Izzy and Christopher are in the autopsy suite and are working on Roger Dalrymple. I make my first order of business a call to Not a Trace, informing them that I am once again in need of their services for my hearse. This time, I tell them I will leave the car unlocked in the garage and ask them to call me when they are done.
Next I call the number Hildy Schneider gave me for the grief support group in Necedah. The contact is a woman named Michaela Watkins, but when I get her voice mail I decide not to leave a message, and to try again later. With that done, I head up to Arnie’s lab area to see if he is there. He is not, so I go back down and enter the autopsy suite to see how things are coming along there and to ask if anyone needs any help.
“What are you doing here?” Izzy and Christopher both ask at the same time.
“I figured I’d take advantage of Emily’s snow day and come in to get some paperwork caught up while she watches Matthew. Need help with anything?”
“We’re okay for now,” Izzy says. He looks at me over Dalrymple’s body, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you really in here?” he asks after a moment.
“I told you. Paperwork.” He gives me a look that says he isn’t buying a bit of it. “Okay, I’m also here because we’re organizing a sting of sorts this afternoon that we hope will catch one of the guys involved in a human-trafficking ring.”
“We, who?” Christopher asks, intrigued.
“Well, Richmond and Hurley, of course, but there are also some FBI guys in on it. In fact, they have a female FBI agent with a small build who wears her hair super short, and she’s going to play the role of an eleven-year-old boy. Arnie arranged the whole thing by exchanging messages and chats with a bunch of people online. He gets to go, too, assuming he shows up. He wasn’t in his office.”
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