Scared Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  When Izzy is done, Hurley closes his notebook, tucks it away, and says, “Nice work, Winston. Not only can’t we be certain of the time of death, we have a whole new list of suspects.”

  I can’t tell if he’s being sincere with his praise or sarcastic, and though I’d like to ask, I’m reluctant to speak. As hot as my face and certain other regions of my body feel right now, I’m afraid I’ll turn into a fire-breathing dragon if I open my mouth.

  Izzy, who always seems to be able to sense when I’m stymied by Hurley’s presence, saves the day. “Say, Steve,” he starts. “Do you know anything about car engines?”

  Hurley shrugs. “I’m fairly handy,” he says. “I rebuilt an engine a few years back. Why do you ask?”

  Izzy explains my car dilemma and five minutes later, Hurley and I are headed for Kohler’s Used Cars, which is located on the north edge of town. The first minute of our ride is in silence. Then Hurley breaks it with a loaded question.

  “So what do you think of Aaron Heinrich?”

  Trying not to smile, I simply say, “I like him. He seems to be the only one in that family—in either of those two families, for that matter—who has his head on straight.”

  Hurley contemplates my answer for a second and then says, “He seems to like you.”

  “Well, it’s mutual then.”

  In the periphery of my vision I see Hurley shoot a worried glance in my direction. I maintain my beatific Mona Lisa smile and say nothing. The remainder of the ride, which is a blessedly short couple of minutes, is utterly quiet until we pull onto the car lot.

  “Let’s take a look at what they have,” Hurley says. He drives around, checking out the inventory. Most of the cars are only a year or two old—no doubt a sign of the economic times—and they come with scary price tags that are way out of my league. After a run up and down each aisle, Hurley parks outside the office.

  Bobby Keegan, a classmate from high school, is on sales duty and he rushes out the door of the building to greet us. Back in the day, Bobby was a star player on our high school football team and he still looks like a jock. He’s dressed very casually in jeans, a Polo knock-off shirt, and a letter jacket—probably the same one he wore in high school. If I look close I can see a couple of white hairs mixed in with his natural blond, but overall Bobby has aged well and looks much the same as he did nearly twenty years ago.

  “Mattie Winston!” he says, greeting me with a big smile as I get out of the car. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  I’m not sure if Bobby actually remembers me from high school. I didn’t hang with him and the rest of the jocks-and-cheerleaders group, and wasn’t the memorable type in general. I probably would have been marked as a wallflower if not for my popularity at the slow dances.

  I haven’t kept up with most of my high school acquaintances; heading off for college severed many a relationship and a lot of the kids moved on to bigger and better towns. But I do occasionally run into old classmates who stayed in Sorenson or who, like me, returned here after their college years. Bobby is a classic example. We crossed paths at the hospital a few months ago after his wife convinced him to get a vasectomy following the delivery of their fifth child. Knowing I’d be among the crew wielding a scalpel in the area of his love spuds allowed Bobby and me to reconnect in no time.

  “I need a car,” I tell Bobby. “My other one was totaled and until I can get the insurance situation sorted out, I need some wheels to get me around, something cheap but reliable.”

  “How cheap are you thinking?” Bobby asks.

  “I have about three grand.”

  “That’s a decent down payment,” he says, turning to scan the parking lot inventory. He starts to head for a nearby row of cars.

  “It’s not a down payment,” I tell him, stopping him in his tracks. “That’s the total amount.”

  I see Hurley turn to stare at me, but I avoid looking at him. Bobby looks back at me and laughs. “That’s a good one,” he says with a chuckle. “Seriously, how much are you looking to spend?”

  “It isn’t a joke, Bobby. That’s all I have.”

  Hurley says, “Christ, Winston, you can hardly buy a bicycle for that kind of money these days. Can’t Izzy front you some cash?”

  “He already did,” I say irritably, shooting him a dirty look. I turn back to Bobby with my best pleading expression. “Look, Bobby, I’m in a tight spot. You know about my situation with David, don’t you?”

  He nods even though it’s a rhetorical question. In a town this size, hot gossip is the one thing that disproves the theory of relativity by traveling faster than the speed of light. Plus, Alison plastered my private life all over the paper when she wrote up the article on Karen Owenby’s death and the other murders that followed.

  “David and I don’t have any kind of official agreement between us yet so the whole money thing is a bit complicated for me right now. Plus, the insurance and title on my wrecked car are both in David’s name. So all I have is three grand. Do you have anything for me?”

  Bobby stares at me with an expression of disbelief and starts to shake his head but then he snaps his fingers and his face lights up. “You know what, I just might,” he says. “Follow me.” He leads us inside the showroom and directs us to a couple of chairs by a desk. “Have a seat. I need to talk to my manager but I’ll be right back.”

  Hurley and I settle in as Bobby disappears through a door.

  “Are you crazy, Winston?” Hurley says to me. “Do you have any idea what kind of heap you’re going to end up with for that amount of money?”

  “What do you want me to do, steal a car?” I snap back. “I thought my marriage to David was for a lifetime so I didn’t worry much about the financial end of things. I have virtually no credit in my own name; everything we own is in his name. Not very savvy of me, I’ll grant you, but I was in love and trusting. I got blindsided and now I’m paying for it.” I pause, realizing the irony of my last statement. “No pun intended,” I add.

  He gives me a sympathetic look and shakes his head. “Can’t you borrow money from your sister or something?”

  “No. She’s got two kids to raise and a husband who makes good money but who also spends it with abandon. Probably on porn,” I add, rolling my eyes.

  We fall silent for a few moments and then Hurley says, “I don’t have a lot saved up but I can probably loan you another thousand or two if that will help.”

  I shoot him a look of gratitude. “That’s very sweet of you,” I tell him. “But I don’t like borrowing money from friends. At least with Izzy it’s being treated like an advance against my wages. He’ll take a little out of each paycheck until I’ve paid it all back. If what I have isn’t enough, then I’ll go plead my case to the bank. There’s a local banker I know who might loan me a few grand in exchange for some sexual favors.”

  Hurley doesn’t respond but he studies me hard enough to make me blush, no doubt trying to determine if I’m joking or not.

  Bobby returns, saving me from having to clarify. “Mattie Winston, this is your lucky day,” he says with a big-assed grin. “It just so happens we have an older-model car in stock that just came in, and my boss is willing to let you have it for three grand. It’s not real pretty, mind you,” he cautions, “but it’s been well maintained and the engine is solid. And it’s never been driven hard. It should be good for another fifty thousand miles or so.”

  This is good news. Fifty thousand miles is a long time when you live in a town whose perimeters are only a few miles apart.

  “What make, model, and year is it?” Hurley asks.

  Bobby hesitates before answering. “It’s a ninety-two Cadillac.”

  “You’re going to sell her a car that’s nearly twenty years old?” Hurley scoffs.

  “It’s old, yes,” Bobby says quickly, holding up a hand to Hurley’s objection, “but it’s a Caddy. And it’s got low mileage for its age, just over a hundred thousand.”

  Hurley frowns. “I suppose you’re g
oing to tell us next that it belonged to some little old lady who only drove it around town.”

  “Well,” Bobby says with a sideways nod, “it has had only one owner and primary driver all these years. Lots of passengers, though,” he adds with a wry chuckle. “Let’s go take a look at it, shall we?”

  After Bobby takes us into the back mechanic’s area and shows us the car, Hurley pops the hood and starts looking over the engine. An hour later he wipes the grease from his hands and delivers his verdict. “He’s right,” he says. “It’s in pretty good shape. I think you should buy it.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not. I know it’s not the most beautiful vehicle in the world but the engine is sound and the interior is in decent shape. Plus, the price is right.”

  I fold my arms over my chest and pout, knowing he’s right but none too happy about it.

  “Hey,” Hurley says, “you can always stay with Bjorn.”

  My brain summons up the smell of stale urine and my objections begin to ease. Then Bobby makes me an offer I can’t refuse.

  Chapter 31

  Bobby says, “I’ll tell you what. Go ahead and take it for a day or two. Drive it around and see how it feels before you decide.”

  The offer makes perfect sense and thirty minutes later I drive out of the parking lot in a slightly used, midnight blue hearse, compliments of Sven Keller from the Keller Funeral Home. According to Bobby, Sven decided to upgrade his fleet with cars that look more like mini vans than traditional hearses, thinking it would be less offensive to the bereaved whose loved ones were being transported inside. I’m not sure where that leaves me, though I’m pretty certain it’s going to be hard to get around town incognito if I buy this thing.

  On the flip side, the car handles smoothly and the interior is nicely done up with leather and a faux wood grain. And the price is very reasonable, making it the only car I can currently afford. Still, it’s a hearse. It looks like a hearse and it’s had who-know-show-many dead bodies in it. The pine-tree-shaped scented thingy dangling from the rearview mirror only partially masks the lingering scent of formaldehyde.

  I’m not ready yet to show Izzy what his money can buy, and I’m eager to share my newfound theory about Shannon with Lucien. Given the hour, I suspect he will be home rather than at the office and it’s always safer to be around Lucien when Desi’s there, too. He tends to tone things down when his family is present.

  I turn off the road to head for my sister’s house. I wave at Hurley, who has been following me and laughing his ass off since we left the car lot. As soon as his car is out of sight, I convert my wave into a one-fingered salute.

  When I pull up in front of my sister’s house a few minutes later, I see my twelve-year-old niece, Erika, standing on the front stoop with a couple of her friends. Though the other girls are wearing items that are rather conventional, Erika is adorned in black tights, a long black shirt that hangs halfway down her thighs, black high-top shoes, and heavy black eye make-up. Her hair, which is naturally brown but has ranged in colors from pink to blue over the past year, is a matching shade of ebony. All three girls spare me a glance as I pull up and park at the curb, but when I step out of the vehicle, Erika stares at me with a slack-jawed expression, her eyes wide with amazement.

  “Holy crap,” she says as I approach. “That car is so rad.” Erika has always been attracted to things dark and deathlike, so to her a hearse is the ultimate in cool. “Is it yours?” she asks.

  “Possibly,” I tell her. “I’m test driving it to help me decide.”

  “You have to get it,” she says, walking over to the car and running her hand down the side of it. “Will you let me drive it when I get my license?”

  “Sure.” It seems a safe promise given that she’s still several years away from a learner’s permit, much less a license. “Is your dad here?”

  Erika nods, her eyes focused on the car. “He’s inside with Mom and Ethan,” she says. “Can we look at the inside of the car while you’re here?”

  “Sure, just be careful. Technically it’s not mine yet, so don’t do any damage.”

  “We won’t.” She heads for the car, waving at her friends to follow, but they all hang back looking wary.

  Inside the house I find my sister, Desi, in the kitchen cooking something that smells garlicky and delicious. Lucien is there with her, sitting at the breakfast bar with a glass of wine in his hand.

  “Mattie!” Desi greets me, smiling. “What brings you here?”

  “Mainly I’m here to talk to Lucien, but it’s always good to see the rest of you, of course.”

  Lucien wiggles his eyebrows at me and gives me a quick head-to-toe ogle, but says nothing.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” Desi asks. “I’m making baked ziti with Italian sausages.” I’m about to accept when she adds, “Though I should probably warn you that I also invited Mom. She’ll be here any moment.”

  Knowing my mother is coming almost changes my mind. Mother is a die-hard hypochondriac and spending time with her typically consists of listening to a recitation of her latest symptoms, followed by speculation on what her dreaded disease of the week might be. And Mom does her homework. She knows all the signs and symptoms for some of the world’s most obscure diseases. I spent the better part of my childhood expecting the woman to drop dead at any moment. Then I got old enough to realize her only illness was a mental one.

  David, being a physician, caught the brunt of Mom’s hysteria whenever we were with her, plus she would call him several times a week to give updates. Marrying a physician was the one thing I did that made the woman proud of me. Now that he’s out of the picture, my mother often looks at me with shame, disbelief, and disgust. She regards having a physician for a husband as the height of a woman’s ambition. The mere fact that he screwed around on me is not enough to outweigh that fact.

  Knowing I’ll have to face both Mom’s disappointment and her health paranoia makes me want to turn tail and run. But I do love Italian food, and the smells in Desi’s kitchen have already seduced me. Besides, I have an idea of how to derail my mother tonight, or at the very least, shift her focus.

  “I’d love to stay,” I tell Desi. “And at the risk of sounding rude, do you think you have enough for me to invite someone else over? I’d be happy to go buy some extras, if need be.”

  “No need,” Desi says, dismissing my concern with a wave of her hand. “I have enough here to feed an army. Is it that hunky cop of yours?”

  I wish.

  “What hunky cop?” Lucien asks, perking up. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Mattiekins? Have you been bumping uglies with someone?”

  “Lucien!” Desi chastises. “That’s a bit personal.”

  “Relax, I’m not dating anyone,” I tell them both. “The person I want to invite is a friend that I think might be a perfect match for Mom.”

  “Ooh,” Desi says, raising her eyebrows. “That could be interesting. Give him a call.”

  I don’t have William’s number so I ring Izzy instead. “Having second thoughts about letting that one get away?” he asks.

  “Hardly,” I snort. “I’m going to invite him to dinner at Desi’s so he can meet my mom.”

  I hang up and call William. The phone rings several times and I’m about to hang up when he finally answers, sounding impatient and out of breath.

  “Hey, William, it’s Mattie Winston.”

  There’s a long silence before he says, “Okay,” rather cautiously.

  “I’m wondering if you’re free for dinner.”

  There’s another pause followed by a sigh. “I don’t think I can survive another trip to your house,” he says.

  “You don’t need to. It’s at my sister’s house, over on East Street. And while her daughter sometimes looks like she should have fangs, there are no animals here. My mother is coming and I’d like you to meet her. I think the two of you will hit it off.”

  He considers the pro
posal for a few seconds and then says, “Okay. What time?”

  “Now. Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.”

  “Should I bring anything?”

  “Just your handsome self,” I say. I hear him suck his breath in so fast he whistles.

  As I’m hanging up the phone I hear the front door open and my mother’s voice holler out, “Lucien? Desi? Is everything okay?” Her voice sounds frantic and she enters the kitchen at a fast clip, looking paler than her usual color, which is about as pale as a living human being can be. When she sees me she stops cold and stares for a moment, blinks hard several times, and then looks around the room. “Is everything okay?” she asks again, clapping a hand to her chest. “There’s a hearse parked out front.”

  “A hearse?” Desi says.

  “That’s mine,” I explain. “I wrecked my other car and needed to find something else to get around in for a while.”

  “You’re driving a hearse?” my mother says, her eyes wide.

  “Well, I haven’t actually bought it yet, but it seems to be in pretty good shape and it’s about the only thing I can afford right now.”

  My mother shakes her head, clucks her tongue a few times, and looks at me as if I’ve just died and someone is getting ready to load me into the back of the hearse. It’s bad enough that I’ve let a doctor get away and have taken a job cutting up dead bodies; in my mother’s eyes, that’s tantamount to sleeping in an alley with a screw-top bottle of wine wrapped in a brown paper bag. With the hearse I’ve hit an all-time low.

  Desi pours a glass of wine and slips it into Mom’s hand, no doubt hoping it will take the edge off her. Mom takes a sip and then settles onto a stool at the breakfast bar next to Lucien. She turns and looks at me with an expression of keen disappointment.

  “Mattie, if you need money I can help you out a little,” she says.

  “Thanks, but I can manage. It’s about time I established some credit in my own name anyway. I was a fool to give David the financial reins in our marriage.”