Off in one corner of the living room is a scraggly-looking Christmas tree decorated with mostly homemade ornaments and two sparse strings of lights, none of which are lit. Clearly, the Strommen family has fallen on hard times. I wonder if Donald was out fishing in an effort to put food on his family’s table.
Charlotte zeroes in on me for some reason—perhaps because I’m the only other woman in the group—with a stricken expression. “Did he drown?” she asks in a quiet, little voice.
“It doesn’t appear so,” I tell her.
Her eyes grow wide and she shifts her gaze to Izzy, then to Hurley, and back to me. “What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t appear so’? How did he die?”
Izzy jumps in. “At first blush, it looked as if he might have drowned, but the results of our subsequent examination ruled that out. He had a fairly significant head injury, but I don’t think that was the cause of his death, either.”
“Well, what else is there?” Charlotte asks, wringing her hands.
Hurley decides to take over at this point and deftly distracts her from the subject. “We’re not done with all the tests. It would help us if you could go over what happened the day he disappeared.”
“I already talked with the police about this,” she says in an exasperated tone. “Don’t you people share your notes?”
“We do,” Hurley says with admirable patience. “But we like to go over the facts multiple times. Sometimes people remember things they didn’t the first time, because they’re too upset or emotional. I realize this isn’t easy for you, but it would help us if you could just go over it once again.”
Hurley takes out a notebook and pen and stands poised and waiting.
Charlotte sighs heavily and leans back into the couch. “Donald took the boat out to fish around two in the afternoon the day after Thanksgiving,” she begins. “He liked going out at night because he said the fishing was better then. Usually, he came back by midnight, but that night he didn’t come back at all. I didn’t realize it until the next morning, because I was tired and went to bed around ten.”
“Do you know where he fished?”
“He usually put in at the launch down by Riley’s Corner. There’s a bait shop there he likes.”
A lot of folks like that shop because its name is a saucy double entendre: Bass Master Baits.
As Hurley scribbles some notes, I shift from one foot to the other, feeling the pressure of all the coffee and the hot chocolate I drank pressing on my bladder.
“Charlotte, would it be okay if I used your bathroom?” I ask.
“Sure. It’s the door straight ahead at the top of the stairs.”
I turn and leave the room, heading for the stairs. They creak loudly as I climb, plotting my progress for anyone who cares to listen. I find the bathroom, relieve myself, and wash my hands, noting that the only towel hanging in the room is as threadbare as everything else. When I’m done, I venture back out into the main hallway, pausing before I return to the living room. The stairway is located in the center of the house; and to the right of the landing down the hall, I see the doorways to two other bedrooms, one on either side, both of them closed. I move toward the first one and see the name Hannah painted on a piece of poster board and taped to the door. Under the name it says: KEEP OUT! in big red letters. The second door is plain and empty. Back toward the stairs, I see the entrance to a third bedroom, to the left of the landing. The door to this room is open and I can see the footboard for a double bed in the room. I assume this is the master bedroom. Curious, I tiptoe closer, grimacing as I hear the floorboards beneath my feet creak as loudly as the stairs had.
I step inside and stop short. The bed is neatly made and covered with an old-fashioned patchwork quilt. On top of the quilt are several piles of clothing—men’s clothing from the looks of them, plaid flannel shirts, blue work shirts, jeans, and T-shirts. All around the bed are boxes; some of them with clothes inside.
I walk over to the closet. It’s a small one, typical of these old farmhouses, some of which don’t even have closets in all the bedrooms. Hanging inside it are a half-dozen housedresses, some slacks and blouses, and a woman’s brown wool winter coat, which has a tiny slip of paper with a dry-cleaning number safety-pinned to the collar. On the overhead shelf are a dozen or so sweaters neatly folded and stacked, and lined up on the floor are six pairs of shoes—two pairs of women’s sneakers, one basic pair of pumps, one pair of semi-dressy flats, a pair of clogs, and some everyday casual flats. The closet isn’t overstuffed, but its tiny area is pretty much filled by what it contains.
I walk over to the bed and examine the clothes piled there and in the boxes. I see that my first assumption was correct; they all appear to be men’s clothes. If Charlotte Strommen thought her husband was still missing, and she was supposedly hoping he might be alive, why was she packing up all his clothes?
By the time I make it back downstairs, I can tell that Charlotte has realized what I might have seen. She watches me warily as I reenter the room, fidgeting with a loose thread in her sweater.
I say nothing and avoid looking at her. Hurley closes his notebook and shoves it and his pen back into his pocket.
“I think we have enough for now,” he says to Charlotte. “We’ll keep you posted and let you know what we find, once we’ve concluded all our tests.”
He thanks Charlotte for her cooperation, and then heads out the door with Izzy and me on his tail. When we reach the cars, I grab Hurley before he can get into his.
“Hold up,” I say in a low voice. I glance back toward the house and see Charlotte watching us behind the thin curtains hanging in the living room. “I think we need to take a closer look at Donald, because something isn’t right about this. Charlotte is lying to us. She knows more than she’s letting on.”
“What are you talking about?” Hurley says. Izzy leans in to hear what I’m going to say next.
“When I went upstairs to use the bathroom, I peeked inside Charlotte and Donald’s bedroom. The bed was covered with his clothes, and some of them were packed in boxes next to the bed.”
“Maybe she was just packing away the summer stuff,” Izzy offers.
“I don’t think so. There were heavy overalls, plaid flannel shirts, and a quilted vest packed in one of the boxes.”
“Interesting,” Hurley says.
“That’s what I thought,” I say. “Especially when I realized that the closet had only her clothes left in it. Why would she be packing up all of her husband’s clothes if she didn’t even know he was dead yet?”
Hurley sighs. “I thought this was going to be an easy one,” he says. “So much for buttoning things up before Florida.”
Izzy says, “I’ll put a rush on the tox screen.”
“You know,” I say, looking at Hurley, “with two kids in the house, I’m betting one or both of them might know something about what really happened to their father. Maybe you should talk to them?”
“Not a bad idea,” Hurley says, “but I think I’ll wait. Right now, Charlotte is cooperating with us, and I don’t have any real evidence to suggest foul play. And if Charlotte is hiding something, she isn’t likely to let us interrogate her kids. I could do it anyway, but it will just piss her off and make her less likely to work with us. So I think I’d rather hold off for now to see if you guys come up with anything new.”
We climb into our respective cars. As we head back into town, Hurley’s last words trigger an idea. Donald and Charlotte’s daughter, Hannah, is close in age to my niece, Erika, and the boy, Peter, is around the same age as my nephew, Ethan. The Sorenson schools are small and the kids all know one another and gossip like crazy. If we can’t talk to Charlotte’s kids directly, maybe I can find out something by taking a more indirect route.
Chapter 17
I check out of the office around four-thirty and stop at the bank, where I pull out five thousand dollars in cash and get another ten grand split between two cashier’s checks. My divorce settlement has me feeling prett
y flush cashwise, and I figure I can afford to play a little at the casino tables tonight. After how well I did at the blackjack table last time, I’m eager to try my luck again with some bigger stakes. If I can grow my savings enough, maybe I can afford to live without a job for a while and pursue my relationship with Hurley.
I head home to tend to Hoover and Rubbish, and to dress. After mulling through the contents of my closet, I opt for a pair of black stretch jeans, topped off with a russet-colored sweater. The jeans are new—one of the few items of clothing I’ve bought for myself of late—and before putting them on, I carefully cut out the label that notes the size. Though I know the W on the label means “women’s,” I can’t help but think it stands for “wide ass”; and I learned during my years working as a nurse in the ER that you never know when you might have some stranger stripping off your clothes.
Hoover seems to sense that I’m heading out again, probably because he knows my usual at-home garb is sloppy sweats. He follows me around the house, watching me with his big, mournful brown eyes, sighing periodically. When I take him outside to do his business, he quickly waters a nearby tree, then runs over to my car and stands there, wagging his tail in a not-so-subtle hint that he’d like to come along.
My kitten, Rubbish, who is about five months old and growing faster than the federal debt, is even less subtle. While he initially feigns indifference by ignoring me as I try on a variety of outfits, he lets his true feelings shine through by thwacking me with a paw when I walk by the dresser he’s sitting on.
Though it wouldn’t surprise me to discover Hurley’s car on my tail during the drive up, I don’t see any sign of him. When I arrive at the casino, I feel the lure of the gambling tables tugging at me. I’m fifteen minutes early, so I decide to make a quick trip into the casino and try my hand at the slots before heading into the restaurant.
I find an empty dollar slot and plug in two dollars at a time. On my first six tries, nothing happens. But on the seventh, I hit a combo that pays out thirty bucks. Feeling flush with my success, I pocket my winnings and head for the restaurant.
The eatery is a bustling place and a hostess greets me as soon as I walk through the door.
“Are you on your own?” she asks after giving me a quick up-and-down perusal and a look that suggests pity.
“I believe there will be three. I’m having dinner with two gentlemen,” I say, sounding a little smug as I emphasize the number. “Either or both of them may be here already: Joe Whitehorse or Steve Hurley?”
The hostess’s pitiful expression disappears, like Georgio’s flash paper, and is instantly replaced with a cordial smile. “Ah, yes,” she says. “Mr. Whitehorse is expecting you. Follow me, please.”
She leads me across a crowded room full of diners and through double doors on the other side that have the words WINNER’S LOUNGE stenciled above them in huge, green letters. Two “hunkalicious” bodyguard-looking types are standing at the doors, barring our entrance.
“This is the party meeting with Mr. Whitehorse,” the hostess tells them. They nod, open one of the doors, and make a sweeping gesture into the room in such a smooth, coordinated rhythm, it’s as if their bodies are controlled by a single brain. But then, with bodies like these guys have, a brain can be a frivolous accessory at times.
I follow the hostess across the room and through a second door into a smaller room that has a single large dining table at its center. “Please make yourself comfortable,” she tells me. “Mr. Whitehorse will be right with you. May I get you a drink while you wait?”
“That sounds great.” I think a moment, trying to decide what to order, and the hostess jumps in with some suggestions.
“We are known for our martini bar. Might I suggest an appletini, or if you like chocolate, the Godiva martini is positively sinful.”
Sin sounds intriguing, so I opt for the Godiva. The hostess offers to take and check my coat. As soon as she leaves, I scope out the room. It isn’t opulent, but there are obvious signs of wealth present. Mahogany wainscoting lines the walls; the carpet beneath my feet is thick and cushy; the table setting features a richly embroidered tablecloth, crystal stemware, and fine bone china. On the wall to my right is a large mirror with an ornate, gilded frame. I walk over and give myself a quick check, smoothing down a few flyaway hairs and fixing an eyeliner smudge. Then, since I’m alone in the room, I also make a quick adjustment of the girls, shifting them inside my bra cups.
After several minutes perusing the art hanging on the walls, most of which is nature paintings, the door opens and Joe Whitehorse walks in, with Hurley on his heels.
“Good evening, Mattie,” Joe greets, smiling broadly. His teeth appear stunningly white against his dark complexion. “You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say, blushing. Hurley watches this exchange from just inside the door; there is a faintly amused smile on his face. I notice that he and Joe are both carrying drinks; Hurley’s is already half gone.
Joe walks over to the near end of the table and sets down his drink. Then he shoves aside the place setting at the head of the table and sets down the briefcase he is carrying in his other hand. “Have a seat,” he says, waving me over and pulling out the chair next to the setting he claimed with his drink. I walk over and settle in, letting him scoot my chair toward the table for me. “Has anyone taken your drink order yet?” he asks, settling into the seat beside me, while Hurley takes one across from me.
“They have. I’m about to experience my very first chocolate martini.”
“Ah, you are a woman of indulgent tastes. I like that,” Joe says. I see Hurley roll his eyes.
The door to the room opens and a waiter enters carrying a domed platter. He sets it down on the table—which seems ridiculously huge with only three of us sitting at it—and then removes the dome with a flourish, revealing an assortment of scrumptious-looking hors d’oeuvres.
“I have taken the liberty of arranging a meal for us tonight. I hope you don’t mind,” Joe says, looking from me to Hurley. “I think you’ll find the food to your satisfaction. But if there is anything you don’t like, just let me know and I’ll see to it that you get something else.”
“I’m sure anything you chose will be fine,” I tell him. It’s a pretty safe statement, given that I can count the number of foods I don’t like on the fingers of one hand.
Hurley shrugs. “I’m not picky,” he says, looking faintly amused in a way that makes me nervous.
Hurley and I back up our comments by grabbing at least two of everything on the platter: delicately fried butterfly shrimp, some kind of cheese and sprout stuff on toast points, melon and prosciutto on sticks, bagel chips with a chickpea and radish topping, crostini with tomato and feta cheese, and tiny puff shells stuffed with a crabmeat salad. Before we are done heaping up our plates, the waiter returns with a plate of fresh fruit.
While Hurley and I chow down, Joe takes a handful of grapes and eats them one at a time, watching us. “The food here is good, yes?” he says.
“So far, it’s fantastic,” I say.
“Superb,” Hurley agrees.
“Good! I think you’ll find the rest of the meal follows suit,” Joe says, looking like a proud papa.
My chocolate martini arrives, and after one sip, I’m pretty sure I want to move out of my cottage and into the casino.
Joe opens the briefcase he had set on the table earlier and removes a stack of paper-filled folders. “I have information on the employees who were on duty the night Mr. Allen won his jackpot. We can look them over during dinner, if you like. Several of the employees are on duty tonight, as well, and if you want to talk with any of them, I will make them available to you.”
“I appreciate that,” Hurley says. “It’s a start, but I might need to look at all of your employee files. The fact that an employee wasn’t working the night Jack won his jackpot doesn’t necessarily rule out that person. I’m sure word of something like that travels fast.”
“Thos
e files are the property of the casino, of course,” Joe says. “But I can provide you with copies of any or all of them that interest you, just as we are doing with the tape.”
“The tape?” I say between bites, looking confused.
Hurley says, “I called earlier and asked Joe to pull the security tape from the other night to see if Denver was telling us the truth.”
“Oh, right,” I say, recalling Denver’s alibi. “How much of his time here will we be able to verify from the tape?”
“All of it,” Hurley says. “There are cameras aimed at every square inch of this place, and they record everything that happens and everyone it happens to.” Hurley points toward the ceiling. “See, they even have cameras in here. We were upstairs in the control booth watching things right before we joined you.”
I look up where he’s pointing and spy a small dome-shaped camera. A quick scan of the rest of the ceiling reveals three more of them. Then it hits me . . . the little adjustment I made in front of the mirror back when I thought I was alone in the room. I look back at Hurley, who is watching me with a self-satisfied grin on his face. I realize why he has looked so amused all along; my face blushes hot from my chin to the roots of my hair.
Joe says to me, “As I explained to Detective Hurley earlier, I went ahead and scanned our tapes this afternoon before you arrived. So far, it seems Mr. Denver was telling you the truth. But we’re talking about a nearly twenty-hour period of time here. I can tell you he was in the casino from ten o’clock on the night in question until about four o’clock in the morning. But I haven’t had time to scan the hours between four A.M. and five P.M. on Christmas Day. You’ll have to finish that on your own.”
Over the next hour, Hurley and I wade through the employee information sheets we have, looking for anything that might scream “suspect!” while Joe keeps the food flow going. We enjoy a light squash soup, followed by a main meal of beef tenderloin, garlic and cheese-whipped potatoes, and broccoli florets bathed in a scrumptious herbed butter sauce.
Lucky Stiff Page 16
