Izzy doesn’t answer. He just sighs and gives me a sympathetic look that sucks all the wind from my sails.
“Okay,” I say, feeling defeated. “I realize it’s not looking very good for Erik, and I admit that if the ballistics report comes back showing that the gun they found was the murder weapon, it will be pretty damning. But let me have my presumption of innocence until all the evidence is in, okay?”
Izzy smiles and pushes back from the table. “Okay. Now let’s go take a look at this car of yours. Dom, are you coming?”
Dom turns off the water in the sink and grabs a dish towel. “Right behind you,” he says. I lead the way to the back door and as soon as I open it, there is my car, displayed in all its morbid glory. Dom and Izzy stand quietly for several seconds taking it in. Izzy’s face slowly breaks into a wide grin. Dom clucks his tongue and tosses his towel over his shoulder. “Well, hell,” he says. “There goes the neighborhood.”
Chapter 35
After thanking Dom again for breakfast and hearing Izzy say he’ll be right behind me, I drive into the office, one of three places in town where the sight of a hearse pulling in doesn’t raise an eyebrow. As soon as I verify that there aren’t any autopsies pending, I head for the library and take out the phone number Hurley gave me for Carla Andrusson. I get an answering machine and leave a vague message stating who I am and that I want to talk with her about something important.
As I’m doing so, the door to the library opens and Arnie walks in.
I finish my message and then give Arnie a cheery “Good morning” as I hang up.
“You’re sounding chipper today.”
“I had breakfast at Izzy’s this morning. Dom made blueberry pancakes.”
“Ah,” Arnie says, nodding knowingly. “Being the recipient of anything Dom cooks is enough to cheer anyone up. That man should have been a chef.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, starting to drool again from the memory.
“Where is Izzy?” Arnie asks. “In his office?”
“I guess so. He said he had a bunch of paperwork to catch up on.”
“Well, then, you get to hear the news first,” he says, smiling enigmatically. I see that he’s holding some papers behind his back and he looks like a cat inside a room filled with clipped-wing canaries.
I brace myself, thinking he is about to pound another nail in Erik’s coffin by sharing the results of the ballistics report with me, but instead he says, “You’ll never guess what I found in that briefcase we retrieved from the Heinriches’ car.”
I think for a moment, trying to guess what kind of find would have Arnie looking so excited. “Proof of alien life?”
“Nope.”
“A top-secret government document?”
He shakes his head.
“A million bucks?”
“No, but you’re definitely getting warmer.”
I shrug. “I give up.”
He pulls the papers from behind his back and tosses them onto the table in front of me. “These are copies of the real ones,” he says.
I turn the papers around and see that they are the wills for Gerald and Bitsy Heinrich. I scan what follows but it seems to be pretty routine legalese. I shrug again, failing to see why Arnie is so excited.
“Look at the last page,” he says.
I do so and see a page full of signatures and what looks like a notary stamp at the bottom.
“Check out the date,” he says.
I do so, noting that the signatures were made on October twentieth of this year. The meaning starts to dawn on me and I quickly flip through the rest of the pages, scanning the text.
Arnie is shifting from one foot to the other, his face alight with delight, his excitement barely contained.
“Oh, my,” I say when I’ve read enough. I look up at Arnie. “Is this for real?”
“The original papers seem to be in order. And I contacted the notary. She verified everything.”
“Wow,” I say, smiling and sliding the pages back to Arnie. “This certainly changes things.”
“I know. I can’t wait to see the reactions.”
My cell phone rings and as I grab it, Arnie takes the papers and says, “I’m going to show this to Izzy. Catch ya later.”
“Don’t do anything with them until I’m there to watch,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t want to miss this for anything.”
He nods and heads out as I answer my phone. “Hello?”
“Mattie? This is Carla Andrusson, returning your call.”
“Hi, Carla. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
“Well, you said it was urgent. Are you having some kind of dental emergency? Because if you are, you’re better off just calling the office. I don’t have—”
“No, this is about you,” I tell her, interrupting her spiel. “I need to talk to you about something personal and I wondered if we could meet somewhere?”
She hesitates, then says, “Well I’m trying to get ready for a dinner party I’m having tonight. Can this wait for a few days?”
“Not really.”
She lets out a sigh to let me know she’s perturbed and I decide I’ll need to be more forthright if I’m going to get her to cooperate. “I don’t know if you heard or not but I’m working for the medical examiner’s office now.”
“No,” she says, sounding genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know that.”
“I need to ask you about something related to a murder investigation and time is of the essence here.”
There’s another pause before she caves. “Okay, but you’ll need to come over here. I have too much to do to afford any time away from home.”
“Not a problem. Can I come over now?”
“Fine,” she says, sounding as if it’s anything but. And then she hangs up without so much as a good-bye.
I head for Izzy’s office to let him know I’m leaving and find him talking on the phone. Arnie is pacing outside the door, waiting for Izzy to hang up so he can share his latest news. Though I’m dying to see Izzy’s face when he hears about the wills, I don’t want to keep Carla waiting. So I tell Arnie where I’m headed and make him promise to give me a blow-by-blow description of Izzy’s reaction later.
Belatedly I realize that pulling up in front of Carla’s house in a hearse isn’t likely to help my cause any. Apparently she was watching for me because she is at the front door wearing a panicked expression before I can turn the engine off. She is a cute, petite, redhead with exquisite porcelain skin that is quite pale under normal circumstances. Right now, standing in her doorway, she looks like a ghost. But as soon as I climb out of the car, her face relaxes and a bit of color returns to her cheeks.
“You scared the life out of me,” she says as I approach. Then she seems to realize the irony of her statement because she slaps a hand over her chest, giggles, and says, “Oh, my.”
“I know,” I say, nodding and smiling. “It’s not the most inconspicuous ride, is it?”
“Hardly. Do you have to drive that thing as part of your new job?”
“No, that thing, as you call it, is my new set of wheels. I totaled my regular car, and for now, this is all I can afford.”
She looks confused for a second, then dawning hits her face. “I see. Things with David aren’t going well then, I take it?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, come on in. I have some great coffee and some fresh-baked muffins that might cheer you up.”
I follow Carla inside, realizing that the hearse might not be the curse I originally thought it was. It has helped to break the ice and lighten her mood, rather than darken it. She leads me into her kitchen, points to a chair, and then goes about setting up her coffeemaker. While her back is to me, I take a moment to examine my surroundings. The kitchen looks brand-spanking new and judging from the travertine floor tiles, granite countertops, cherry wood cabinets, and high-end, stainless appliances, her husband’s practice must be doing well.
“I was sorry to
hear about you and David,” she says over her shoulder, measuring coffee into a basket. “You two always seemed like the perfect couple.”
“Yes, well appearances can be deceiving,” I say. “I imagine most marriages look good on the outside, but what goes on behind closed operating room doors is another matter.”
The statement is a test to see if Carla has heard the sordid details behind my breakup with David. Her next statement tells me she has because she knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Yes, an unfortunate choice for David,” she says, shaking her head. “You have to wonder what the hell he was thinking doing something like that at the hospital.”
“Thinking with the wrong head, I imagine,” I say. She lets forth with a warm, throaty chuckle and I decide to take advantage of her relaxed mood. “How are things going with you and Brian?”
She hesitates for a beat longer than necessary, and even though she still has her back to me, I know whatever she says next will only be a part of the truth.
“We’re doing okay.” She shrugs. “I wish his practice didn’t take up so much of his time, but I’ve learned to adjust.”
She has finished setting up the coffee, and after turning on the machine, she grabs a plate of muffins from the counter and sets them on the table in front of me. I note that even though her mobility appears fine, she does very little lifting with her right hand, making me suspect she still has some residual weakness on that side.
“How are the kids?” I ask.
“They’re doing great.” I can tell from the change in her tone that this is a huge source of pride and joy for her. “They’re both attending the U of Dub down in Madison. Carrie is a freshman majoring in business and Tom is one year away from finishing medical school.”
“You must be very proud,” I say, taking one of the muffins from the plate—raspberry with a crumb topping—and picking a chunk off the top. I pop it in my mouth and relish the flavors.
“I am,” She beams for several seconds, and due to her lingering facial paralysis, the smile is slightly lopsided. She takes a muffin for herself but she doesn’t eat any of it. She peels the paper cup from around it and then sets it on the table. Her smile fades and her expression turns sad. “I miss them.” Her gaze wanders about the room. “The house feels kind of big and empty these days.”
“Is that why you’re seeing Luke Nelson?”
It’s an abrupt segue and Carla’s slight flinch reflects that. She shoots me a wary glance and then quickly looks away. “Something like that,” she says vaguely. “I’ve been a bit depressed lately. You know . . . the kids being gone, Brian working so much, being alone all the time, getting older, losing my looks . . .” She lets out a mirthless laugh and makes a dismissive wave with her hand. “All the usual midlife crap I suppose.”
I sense her shutting down and scramble to find a way to reconnect. “Tell me about it,” I say over a mouthful of muffin. “My marriage has fallen apart, my finances are a wreck, and I’m living in a friend’s cottage that he had built for his ailing, aging mother. I’m at an age where I thought I’d either have, or be starting a family, but instead I’m facing reentry into the dating game.” She smiles sympathetically. “And to be honest, the whole idea of dating terrifies me. I can feel all my insecurities and the pressure of time bearing down on me. I jiggle in places that I never used to have, gravity is getting the better of several of my body parts, and in just a few more years I can expect my hormones to start taking extended vacations, which means my chances of ever having children grow smaller every day.” I pause and flash a wan smile. “So I think I understand what you’re going through, Carla. Growing old alone seems like a very real, very scary possibility to me these days.”
“So what’s the answer?” she asks. “How do we deal with all this stuff?”
“Hell if I know. I’m long on questions and short on answers these days.” I hesitate for the merest beat of a second before taking the plunge. “I’ve given some thought to getting therapy,” I lie. “But I’m a little wary. I’ve never done anything like that before and it seems kind of, I don’t know, scary.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I know what you mean. The whole idea of it scared me, too. But I figured it was worth a try and these days there isn’t as much of a stigma associated with that sort of thing the way there used to be. Hell, half of Hollywood boasts about their problems and their shrinks. It’s given psychotherapy a whole new cachet.”
The coffee has finished brewing and she gets up and makes herself busy pouring two mugs full. I finish decapitating my muffin and peel the paper away from the body of it as she sets the coffee cups on the table—one at a time since she apparently doesn’t trust her right arm to hold one of them—along with a little pitcher full of cream and a sugar bowl.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say, topping my coffee off with a dollop of cream. She leaves hers black and takes a sip of it. Her muffin is still sitting in front of her, naked but otherwise untouched. I pinch off a section of the body on mine, but hesitate before popping it into my mouth, not wanting to lose my momentum. “But even though therapy is more acceptable these days, it’s hard for me to shake off this belief I have that it’s all a bunch of hocus-pocus. Has it helped you any? Has Dr. Nelson given you any tips or tricks or wonder drugs to try?”
Carla frowns. “Maybe,” she says hesitantly. “I’ve only seen him a few times so far, so it’s a little early yet to tell if it’s really helping.”
“What does he do? What kind of therapy does he offer?”
She looks away from me, her expression thoughtful. “It’s a bit . . . unusual,” she says, staring at the wall.
I sense there is more to come so I scarf down the bite of muffin I’m holding and wait. It doesn’t take long.
“He uses some kind of hypnosis or something. Most of the time when I leave his office it’s as if I was there, but I wasn’t. It’s hard to explain. I can remember talking with him and feeling very relaxed, but something about it always seems surreal, like I was dreaming it, or watching it in a movie.”
“I’ve heard that hypnosis can be very therapeutic. How does he do it? Does he dangle a watch or something, like you see on TV?”
“No. Though he does have a wall clock that ticks rather loudly” she adds, managing a quick smile. She prods her muffin but still doesn’t eat any of it. “He has me sit back on this big comfy couch he has and gives me a cup of warm herbal tea to help me relax. Then he just lets me talk.”
“About what?”
“My life, I guess. He asks me what I like about it, what I don’t, what I feel about people, things, myself. And then at some point he takes over the talking.”
“What does he say?”
“He calls it ego building. You know, telling me I’m a bright, intelligent, attractive woman and that I have the power to be whatever I want. That kind of crap.”
“Crap?”
She shrugs. “In some ways it does make me feel better about myself when I leave there. But when I play it all back in my head it just seems so . . . I don’t know . . . fake. Like a cheap come-on or something, you know?”
I do, and I can’t help but think that Carla’s discomfort with Nelson somewhat mirrors my own, though apparently it hasn’t been enough to make her stop seeing him.
My cell phone rings, and after glancing at the caller ID and seeing that it’s Izzy, I apologize to Carla and explain that I need to take the call. She nods, and politely excuses herself from the room.
“Hey, Izzy, what’s up?”
“Can you get back here to the office?” he asks. “I just called Hurley and told him about Arnie’s find. He’s on his way here and plans to call the various family members in to give them the news. I thought you might want to be in on it.”
“Heck, yeah,” I say, relishing the thought. “I wouldn’t miss that for all the money in the world.”
I hang up and Carla’s timely reappearance makes me suspect she was eavesdropping despite her appare
nt attempt to give me some privacy.
“Do you have to go?” she asks.
“I do. But maybe we can get together again sometime and chat some more.”
“I’d like that,” she says, giving me a feeble smile.
I grab the last of my muffin and proffer it toward her. “These are phenomenal,” I tell her.
“Thanks. Why don’t you take a couple with you? I have more than enough,” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I still bake as if I have a whole family living here.”
There is something painfully sad in the way she says this, and I almost walk over and hug her. But my gut tells me it would be the wrong thing to do, so I hold back and take the muffins instead. Carla shows me to the door and I thank her for letting me stop by. As I turn to step off the porch she calls me back.
“Mattie?”
“Yes?”
“What’s the real reason you’re so interested in Dr. Nelson?”
Busted.
“It’s part of a routine investigation,” I say vaguely, but Carla isn’t about to let me off that easily.
“What kind of investigation?”
“He used to date Shannon Tolliver. That makes him a person of interest in her case.” It’s the truth, though not the whole truth. Still, I’m hoping it will suffice.
Carla weighs what I’ve told her for a few seconds, scrutinizing my face. I try to keep my expression placid but Carla is savvier than I gave her credit for.
“There’s more to it than that,” she says. It’s not a question.
“Maybe.”
She leans against the door frame and looks up at the sky. “There’s something about him that bothers me.”
“What?”
“I don’t know exactly. I can’t put my finger on one specific thing. On the surface he seems professional, affable, and kind. But . . .” I want to grab her and shake her to make her spit it out. But I manage to restrain myself. “Something just feels wrong,” she says finally. “Every time I leave there I feel . . .” She hesitates and then shrugs. “I feel wrong. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
Scared Stiff Page 22
