“At least then you were working because you wanted to,” he says. “Now you’re working because you have to.”
“Well, I have rent to pay, and food to put on the table,” I tell him. “They can be powerful motivators.”
“You shouldn’t have to work at a job that makes you miserable. Why don’t you go back to the hospital? I hear there are a couple of positions open in the ER.”
“I can’t go back to the hospital because everyone there looks at me with pity and embarrassment, thanks to you,” I tell him, growing irritated. “And my current job does not make me miserable.”
“Bull.”
“It doesn’t,” I insist.
“The true test of love for a vocation is whether or not you’d do it if you didn’t have to. So are you telling me that if you had enough money that you didn’t have to work, you’d still keep this stupid job?”
“Don’t call my job stupid,” I snap. “And yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re just being arbitrary because you’re mad at me. You didn’t even give the question any serious thought.”
He’s right about one thing. I’m pretty pissed at him at the moment. And it couldn’t be better timing. All of my earlier waning on the topic of our marriage had blinded me to the harsh realities of our relationship. No matter how attracted I might be to David physically, our incompatibilities are simply too big to overcome. Skirmishes like the one we are having now occurred off and on throughout our marriage, a series of passive-aggressive battles as each of us tried to bring the other around to our own point of view. Despite the fact that these skirmishes escalated considerably during the latter months of our marriage, that in and of itself might not have been enough to destroy our relationship. But David’s affair and the fact that he got his girlfriend pregnant, definitely is. Yes, I still find David attractive physically and yes, I still care for him as a person. But that’s where it ends. In a flash of clarity I know our marriage is over, as dead as any client on my autopsy table.
And with this realization comes a stroke of brilliance, an idea so perfect I can’t believe it took me this long to think of it.
“I do love my job, David, and I’ll prove it to you. As I recall, that house next door is worth close to a million in today’s market, and that’s just the house alone, not the contents that were in it. I also know what it and the contents were insured for. And I can guarantee you that I’m going to take my half of that insurance money and keep it for myself. That should give me enough to live off of for a good while if I don’t have a job.
“But I will have a job, David, the same job I have now. And do you know why? Because I like it. I like the puzzle-solving aspects, I like the scientific aspects, and I like the people I work with.”
Whereas before he looked amused by our conversation, he now looks mad as hell. “You’re just being spiteful,” he says.
“I think I’m being practical.”
He shakes his head, his face tightening with anger. “I can’t believe you’ve become such a vindictive bitch,” he snarls. “I just don’t get you anymore, Mattie.”
“I know you don’t. David. You never have.”
I spin on my heel and march back to my bedroom, Hoover following close behind. As soon as we are both in the room, I slam the door closed. I walk over to the window and part the curtains again, but Hurley is no longer there. A small part of me wonders if he ever really was there, or if my mind just conjured up his image. But I don’t really believe that. He was there, and I want to know why.
That’s when I realize I could call him on the throwaway phone, but it’s in my purse, which is out in the living room. And after the very dramatic and emphatic exit I just made, I can’t go back out there; it would undermine the entire performance. Besides, the walls of this cottage aren’t that thick and I’m afraid David would be able to hear anything I say on the phone, even through a closed door. It’s not that I care if David knows I’m talking to Hurley, I just don’t want the aggravation I fear will come with it.
Resigned to waiting until morning, I crawl back in between the covers and I’m happily sandwiched between my furry partners minutes later. Apparently decisive anger is good for me because I’m asleep in no time.
When I awaken early the next morning to bright sunlight trying to slink its way around the corners of my drapes, it seems a good omen. At least until I try to get out of bed. That’s when I discover that I can barely move. My back muscles feel tighter than the sphincters of Green Bay residents during a Packers-Vikings game, and my legs are achy, tremulous, and shaky. I roll onto my side and push myself into a sitting position, groaning the entire time. When I stand and try to walk, it feels like the year my mother made me wear my Halloween costume over my snowsuit because we got ten inches of snow the night before. I can hardly move.
I waddle my way to the bedroom door, open it with a grimace because reaching for the knob makes my upper back scream with pain, and look out at the couch. It’s empty and the sheets have been folded up atop the pillow and left in a neat little pile at one end. I shuffle out and look in the kitchen and bathroom, but they are empty too. Apparently David is up and gone, and I wonder if he’s already over at Izzy’s for breakfast. Then I remember that I never told him about the invite. I look out the window and see the hearse is still parked outside so I know he couldn’t have gone far.
I hobble over to the front door and let Hoover out for his morning ablutions, watching him from the porch and admiring his ability to squat and hunch. The warming trend we had is definitely gone and despite a bright, sunny sky, the air has a bitter bite to it. I glance through the trees toward my old house, wondering if David is over there, but all I can see are bits and pieces of the few charred parts of the structure that are still standing. When Hoover comes back inside, I head for the bathroom, hoping that a hot shower and a handful of ibuprofen will make things better.
They do, but only minimally.
When I arrive at Izzy and Dom’s for breakfast. Dom is putting a delicious-smelling quiche on the table along with hot cinnamon bread and fresh coffee.
“Where’s David?” Izzy asks.
“Don’t know and don’t care,” I say, easing into a chair at the table.
Izzy raises his eyebrows. “I take it the night didn’t go so well?”
“Actually it was quite enlightening,” I tell him. “It made me realize two things: that David’s and my differences go much deeper than I thought, and that I need to get laid soon.” Dom, who is putting coffee mugs on the table, drops one with a clatter. I see him and Izzy exchange looks. “To be honest,” I add as Dom carefully rights the dropped cup, “I’m surprised David and I lasted as long as we did. But we are definitely done and it’s time for me to move on. Shall we eat?”
The two men stare at me for a moment, clearly surprised by my outburst, but they recover quickly. Dom takes his seat and says, “By all means, dig in.”
I start to reach for the spatula in the quiche dish but my back muscles seize up with a ferocity that makes me gasp.
“What’s wrong with you this morning?” Izzy asks. “You’re moving like my mother.”
Given that his mother is in her eighties and has severe spinal kyphosis and more artificial joints than a robot, his comment doesn’t paint a very pretty picture.
“I worked out at a gym yesterday and I’m paying dearly for it now. I always knew exercise could kill you.”
“You went to a gym?” Izzy says, clearly shocked. Dom quietly takes my plate and serves me up a huge slice of quiche and some cinnamon bread.
“Why does that fact surprise everyone so much?” I say, picking up my fork as Dom sets the plate down in front of me. “I’m not above trying to maintain a healthy lifestyle. Plus I figure if I’m going to get back into the dating scene, I need to get into better shape.”
Izzy digests this answer for a few seconds and then says, “What’s the real reason?”
“Bob Richmond basi
cally blackmailed me into going with him.” I stab a piece of quiche onto my fork and wince with pain as I raise it to my mouth, but my efforts are rewarded when it melts on my tongue with a delightful burst of flavors.
Dom, who is naturally slender—a trait that would make me hate him if he wasn’t such a damned good cook—serves up Izzy’s breakfast and says, “I think it’s a great idea. You should go with them, Izzy.”
Izzy gives Dom a look that makes it clear what he thinks of this suggestion.
We spend the rest of the breakfast discussing the recent murders and the burning of my old house.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Izzy says. “The most likely culprit for the arson is a past patient of David’s who was unhappy with his surgical outcome. Has David had any malpractice incidents recently?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I say, pretty sure this theory is wrong. Reminded of the secrets I’m keeping, I focus on the food on my plate and avoid looking at Izzy. Fortunately this task is made immeasurably easier when Izzy’s cell phone rings and he gets up to answer it.
He stands in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, taking the call, and both Dom and I remain quiet, hoping to eavesdrop. Though Izzy says little beyond the occasional “No” and “Really?” I can tell from the expression on his face that the news isn’t good. When he hangs up and returns to the table, he looks seriously troubled.
“That was Bob Richmond,” he says. “He wanted to know if I’d seen or heard from Hurley recently. He’s going to be calling you next.”
“Why?” I ask with what I hope seems like innocent curiosity, even though I have a pretty good idea of the answer.
“Richmond says they processed the gas can that was found in your house and they got some fingerprints off it. They ran them through AFIS and got a match.”
“That’s great,” I say, trying to look relieved even as my gut tries to tie itself into knots. I can tell from Izzy’s scrutinizing stare that he isn’t totally buying my feigned reaction.
“No, it’s not so great,” he says, “because the prints belong to Hurley.”
“Hurley? That’s odd,” I say, frowning. Then I pretend to hit on an idea. “Or maybe not. He told me he was there the night of the fire, so maybe he handled the can then.”
“Maybe,” Izzy says, unconvinced. “But there’s more. Richmond said he has several witnesses who overheard Hurley and David having a rather heated discussion at the grocery store the other day. The topic was you.”
“Me?” I ask, all innocence.
“Yes, you. Apparently David gave Hurley an ultimatum, saying that if he didn’t stay away and give you and David a chance to save your marriage, there would be hell to pay.”
“David had no business doing that,” I say, irritated all over again by my ex’s chutzpah. “He’s assuming I want to save our marriage, and I don’t.”
“A minor point,” Izzy says, still looking troubled, “because there’s more. There’s the fact that Hurley is a neighbor of Harold Minniver’s and had this property dispute going on.”
“Yes, but Hurley said he’d already decided to move the fence, making the whole thing a nonissue.”
“How about the fact that Hurley used to date Callie Dunkirk?” Izzy spits this latest revelation out like a piece of used-up chewing gum.
“Oh, my,” Dom says.
Shocked that this fact has been found out already, I say nothing because I’m pretty sure my surprise shows on my face. Better to stay quiet and let Izzy think I’m taken aback by the fact itself rather than because it’s now common knowledge.
“No one knows where Hurley is and attempts to reach him have been unsuccessful,” Izzy says. “Do you know where he is?”
“No,” I say without a hint of hesitation or guile, glad that this, at least, is the truth.
“Well, Richmond has obtained a search warrant for Hurley’s house and I’ve been invited to attend, in case they find any evidence to suggest that Callie was killed there.”
“That’s just ridiculous,” I say, feeling my breakfast congeal in my stomach. “Hurley wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You seem awfully defensive.”
“I’m just being realistic. I know Hurley and he wouldn’t do something like this.”
“Look, I know you like the guy, Mattie, but we have to face the facts here. He has ties to two murders and one attempted murder. What’s the likelihood that it’s mere coincidence?”
I sigh, because I know it’s not a coincidence. “I want to go with you,” I tell him.
Izzy shakes his head and frowns. “I gave you some time off so you can recover from the fire incident,” he says. “And you’re obviously not moving very well this morning.”
“I’ll be fine as soon as my ibuprofen kicks in.”
Izzy’s frown deepens. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be a part of this.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re personally involved on several levels and I’m not sure you can be objective enough.”
“I can keep an open mind,” I argue. “And I promise you that if Hurley is responsible for any of this, I will personally make sure that he gets what’s coming to him.” This much is true. If I find out Hurley has been playing me all this time, I’ll kill him myself.
Izzy eyes me with a troubled expression. “I don’t know, Mattie.”
“Izzy, I promise you I’ll be as objective as anyone else there. Please don’t leave me out of this.”
He sighs heavily and I know I’ve won. “Okay,” he says, looking like he’s not convinced it’s the right decision. “But I want you to work solely as my assistant. Let me and Richmond direct the handling of any evidence. With all this police corruption paranoia that’s floating around, the last thing we need is to have our evidence compromised in any way, particularly if a cop is involved.”
I start to tell Izzy he has nothing to worry about because I’m certain Hurley is innocent. But I don’t because I realize it would belie the very objectivity I just swore to. I realize that I’ve dug myself in about as deep as I can go at this point by lying to both Izzy and Richmond, and blindly committing myself to Hurley. I pray my faith in Hurley is justified and I’m not just some gullible girl in heat, as desperate as fluffy Antoinette. If it does turn out that Hurley’s been lying to me all this time, I’m done for. I’ll not only lose my job and my best friend, I’ll probably end up in jail, convicted as Hurley’s accomplice. And the last thing I need is to end up in jail. Those horizontal stripes on the jail outfits are extremely unflattering for a figure like mine.
I tell Izzy I need a few minutes to feed and water Hoover before we go, and then head back to the cottage. As soon as I’m inside, I grab my purse from the end table by the couch, dig out the throwaway phone, and dial Hurley’s number. While waiting for his answer, a small warning niggles at the back of my mind, telling me something isn’t right. But I don’t have any time to figure it out because Hurley picks up on the second ring.
“Hurley?” I say before he has a chance to speak.
“Mattie, listen, about last night—”
“Never mind last night. We can talk about that later,” I say, standing by the door and watching for Izzy in case he decides to come over and into the cottage while I’m talking to Hurley. “I don’t have much time and I need to tell you something. Richmond knows about the connections to both Callie and Minniver, and they found the fingerprints on the gas can from my house. He’s obtained a search warrant for your place and Izzy and I are headed there now.”
“Izzy is with you right now?” he says, sounding panicked.
“No, I’m in my cottage but I’m supposed to meet him outside in a sec. I wanted to call you first to give you a heads-up, so I told him I had to feed Hoover.”
That’s when it hits me what’s wrong. Whenever I come home, Hoover always greets me at the door and follows me throughout the house. But this time he didn’t and when I whip around to look for him, I see why. Hoover is in t
he kitchen snacking on some kind of food. And standing beside him, looking shocked and mad as hell, is David.
Chapter 31
“I have to go,” I say into the phone, and as I hear Hurley start to protest, I hang up.
David, who is smudged from head to toe with soot and ash, is staring at me like I’m evil reincarnated.
“I take it you’ve been over at the house?” I say, trying to act innocent.
“What the hell was that?” he asks, scowling.
“What was what?”
“That phone call.”
“I was just talking to a friend,” I say nonchalantly. After dropping the phone back into my purse, I turn to open the door, planning to leave before he can ask me anything else. The movement makes my back muscles scream in agony but I swallow down the pain, determined to escape.
“Mattie!” The stern tone in his voice freezes me to the spot. “Did I just hear you say they found fingerprints on the gas can that was in our house?”
“I don’t want to discuss this with you, David. In fact, I can’t discuss it with you since it’s part of an ongoing investigation,” I add, thinking it a brilliant rejoinder. “And since you seem to be doing so much better, I’d appreciate it if you would find yourself somewhere else to stay from here on out. Don’t let Hoover out when you leave.”
Before he can say another word, I exit the cottage, closing the door firmly behind me. There’s no sign of Izzy yet and I curse to myself, afraid that David will follow me outside and try to pursue the conversation. If he does so in front of Izzy, the resultant fallout could prove devastating for me.
Fortunately Izzy appears a second later and I wave him over to my car. “I don’t think I can squeeze myself into yours this morning,” I tell him. “So can we take mine instead?”
Izzy shrugs and climbs into the hearse. I get behind the wheel quicker than I thought myself capable of doing and hit the gas.
“Slow down,” Izzy says, fastening his seat belt. Though I’m quite religious about wearing my own, I don’t hook it up now for two reasons. One, I don’t think I can reach it without causing myself undue agony, and two, I don’t want to stay at the cottage a second longer than necessary with David there. As soon as I reach the street, I slow down to a more reasonable speed and Izzy relaxes a little.
Frozen Stiff Page 22
