Lucky Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  “Looks that way,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better.” She flashes us a goofy smile and rubs her palm over her nose. “The meds they gave me are good ones. I don’t have any pain anymore, but my face itches like crazy.”

  “That’s the narcotics,” I tell her. “They trigger a release of histamine.”

  “You guys might as well head on home,” Candy says. “I’ll be fine. I called my family and they’re flying in from California as soon as the weather clears.”

  “We’ll stay long enough to make sure your surgery goes okay,” Hurley says. “It’s going to take a while, anyway, for the weather to clear, plus I’ve got to rent another car and file a claim for the wrecked one. And I think we can all use a good night’s rest.”

  A few minutes later, the nurses whisk Candy off to surgery, and Hurley and I head back to the waiting area. After an hour with a phone book and our cell phones, it becomes clear that there isn’t a motel within a twenty-five-mile radius of the hospital that has a vacancy, thanks to the weather. But a kindly registration person who overhears our dilemma comes up with a solution by calling the hospital supervisor, who arranges for us to sleep in an unused patient room, a semi-private with two beds in it.

  Hurley and I kill time reading magazines, pacing, and drinking hospital coffee. By the time we are notified that Candy is in recovery, it’s after two in the morning. We head for the patient room, which has been so kindly offered to us, and drop, fully clothed, into our separate beds. I’m so exhausted I barely have time to register the fact that I’m sleeping in the same room with Hurley. I fall instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 26

  It’s noon the next day before Hurley and I manage to get ourselves up and going, check on Candy, take care of the car issues, and get back on the road. The storm has blown through, leaving behind a winter wonderland of bright sunshine and sparkling snow. The remainder of our trip is uneventful and largely silent, and we are able to drop off the rental car at the Milwaukee airport and retrieve Hurley’s a little before eleven at night. By the time we arrive at my cottage, it’s after midnight.

  The place is dark and, with the curtains all pulled closed, it looks empty and abandoned. I unlock the door and flip on the lights, but it does little to dispel my feelings of isolation and loneliness. Hurley carries my suitcase inside, drops it in the living room, and looks around the cottage expectantly. I guess what he’s thinking.

  “Hoover is probably over at Izzy’s,” I say. “Dom took care of him while I was gone.”

  Hurley looks disappointed, and I have to say I’m feeling a bit letdown as well. There’s something about that wagging tail and warm nose rushing to greet you when you come in the door that’s kind of nice. I don’t know if dogs really are man’s best friend, but Hoover is definitely mine. He’s always happy to see me; he doesn’t care if I don’t shave my legs; plus he’s the only living creature I know who likes my cooking.

  On the heels of our trip and my close proximity with death—twice—I feel an overwhelming need for company, affection, and an affirmation of life. Suddenly I’m dreading being here alone, and then I feel sorry for myself when I realize that Hoover is the closest companion I have in my life right now. It all seems rather pathetic.

  My pity party is interrupted when Rubbish saunters out of the bedroom, eyes the two of us, and then sits and starts to groom himself. I walk over and pick him up, holding his soft, purring body close to my chest. It’s a comfort, but not much of one.

  “I guess I should feed the beast,” I say to Hurley, carrying Rubbish into the kitchen. I set the cat down on the floor and take a can of cat food out of the cupboard. Rubbish weaves himself in and around my feet as I dish up his food. But as soon as the bowl is on the floor, he’s on it, his affection for me forgotten.

  When I turn around, I’m startled to see that Hurley has followed me into the kitchen. He’s leaning against the doorjamb, watching me.

  “It was a hell of a trip, Winston, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Funny, even with all my years as a cop, this trip may be the closest I’ve ever come to dying.”

  “Me too.”

  “I don’t know what scared me more—the thought of dying, or the thought of losing you.”

  I’m not sure what to say to this, so I just stand there, looking back at him. Emotions well up inside me and I feel the sting of tears in my eyes. Embarrassed, I look down at the floor and try to make a hasty retreat from the kitchen. But Hurley grabs my arm and stops me when I try to walk past him. Against my better judgment, I look up at him.

  “Look, Mattie, I know you’ve made it clear that there can’t be anything between us, but damn it, I can’t help what I feel. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but this trip and all the close calls we had made me realize just how much I want to be with you.”

  “But you are with me, nearly every day.”

  Hurley’s eyes darken. “You know what I mean.”

  Boy, do I.

  Hurley gently turns me so I’m facing him, but he does nothing more. I know he’s waiting for me to make the next move, to close the gap between us. And every inch of my being wants to, but I keep thinking back to my talks with Izzy, and the ramifications there might be if Hurley and I get together. One of us would have to quit our jobs, and it seems obvious that it would have to be me. There isn’t much else Hurley could do here in Sorenson, but I have options. I could go back to work at the hospital, though I don’t want to. I know I’d be the subject of pointed stares and whispered gossip, and I don’t want the humiliation. And while I couldn’t have anticipated how much I’d like my new job, the fact is, I do like it. A lot. And I’m good at it.

  As I weigh all these options in my mind, we stand there, mere inches apart, staring at one another with a soul-exploring intensity. Hurley finally breaks the spell by swallowing hard, releasing my arm, and diverting his gaze.

  “Okay,” he says, sounding resigned.

  I want to shout out that it’s not okay, but the words stick in my throat.

  After a few seconds, he looks at me again and smiles warmly. “I’m glad you’re all right, Winston. Get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  With that, he leans down and kisses me on the forehead. I close my eyes, resigned to our status and relishing his touch as a confirmation of life, our friendship, and our basic humanity. But then his kiss becomes something more when his lips linger a little longer than necessary. Eventually he pulls away, but not very far; I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face.

  It’s a pivotal moment, and some distant part of my mind recognizes this and warns me to back away. But the majority of my mind is still recalling how close we both came to dying, and my body is overcome by a need for closeness—a yearning for touch—that affirmation of life.

  Our hands touch, and I’m not sure which one of us made the move. Maybe we both did. Whichever it is, it’s enough to push me over the edge.

  “Stay with me,” I whisper, my eyes still closed.

  I hear a hitch in his breath, and he says, “I don’t think I can without taking this thing to the next level.”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  His breathing speeds up and his fingers lace themselves with mine. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low.

  I open my eyes then and look deep into his, knowing this is my last chance to back out. But I get lost in the dark blue depths of his eyes and my own burning need. “I’m sure.”

  He needs no further coaxing. His lips descend on mine, soft yet crushing in his need. He pulls my body into his and wraps his arms around me. One hand cradles the back of my head as his tongue gently parts my lips and traces over my teeth. My loins are on fire, and not in a bad, fire ant way. I grind my hips against him in feverish need, feeling the hardness of him.

  Our lips part and Hurley backs up enough to undo my jacket and slip it off. I do the same with his, and we let them fall to the floor. We
start sidling our way toward my bedroom as Hurley grabs the bottom of my sweater and pulls it over my head. He tosses it aside as I attack the buttons on his shirt.

  And then there’s a knock on the door.

  We freeze, both of us panting with desire. Exasperated, I holler out, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Izzy. I have Hoover. Can I come in?”

  “Just a minute.” I thrust Hurley back away from me, grab my sweater up from the floor, and hastily pull it on. Hurley clutches his shirt closed, looks down at the impressive pup tent in his pants, and beelines for the bathroom, shutting himself inside. I take a few seconds to smooth my hair, grab our coats, and toss them on the couch. I gather myself together before heading for the door.

  “Hello, Izzy,” I say. Hoover lets out a muffled woof and runs over to me. I squat down and wrap my arms around his neck, letting him lick my chin while his butt wags in delight.

  “Sorry to pop in like this, but I couldn’t sleep and I heard you guys pull up,” Izzy says. “So I thought I’d come over and see how you were.”

  “We’re fine,” I say. “Tired, but okay.”

  “Where’s Hurley?”

  “He’s in the bathroom. It was a long trip.”

  Izzy nods. “I take it you managed to avoid any further disasters?”

  “Fortunately, yes,” I say, thinking that his arrival helped me to avoid a big one. “Everything good at the office?”

  “It’s been quiet. I’m still waiting on the results of the tox screen on Donald Strommen, but the Madison office is backed up because of the holiday. I’m hoping we’ll have something in the next day or two.”

  Hurley comes out of the bathroom then and I’m relieved to see that evidence of our recent encounter is no longer visible.

  “Hey, Steve,” Izzy says. “Thanks for delivering our girl here back home, safe and sound.”

  “My pleasure,” Hurley says. He gives me a look laden with innuendo.

  “I’m glad I caught the two of you together,” Izzy says, making my heart skip a beat. Hurley lets out a nervous, little cough. “Dom and I are planning a small party tomorrow night for New Year’s Eve and I wanted to invite you both. Dom plans to serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres and we’ll have champagne to toast at midnight. Can I count on you both to be there?”

  “Of course, I’ll be there,” I say.

  “Me too,” Hurley says. “What time?”

  “We’re planning to start around nine, but you’re both welcome to join us earlier for dinner, if you like. Say around seven?”

  “I’d love to,” Hurley says.

  I smile and shrug. “You know me. I rarely pass up a chance to eat Dom’s cooking.”

  “Sadly, neither do I,” Izzy says with a laugh, patting his belly. “Well, I’m sure you both want to get settled, so I won’t keep you any longer.” He looks at me and adds, “See you in the morning at the office?”

  “Bright and early,” I say, giving him a snappy salute.

  “Okay, then. Good night.”

  I see Izzy to the door. As soon as he’s gone, I close the door and lean back against it, with a sigh. “That was close,” I say.

  Hurley grins wickedly. “It sure was. I felt like I was back in high school.” We stare at one another across the room for a moment before he adds, “I guess I’ll be going home?”

  Izzy’s arrival has had the effect of a cold shower on me, squelching my hormonal hot spot faster than the fire hoses squelched the fire in Jack’s house. “I think that’s best,” I say, wondering if it’s true. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  He looks disappointed, but he nods, gets his coat from the couch, and puts it on. Hoover waddles his tail-wagging butt over to the couch and sticks his nose in Hurley’s crotch, making me sigh. Hurley gives him a scratch on the head and a pat on the rump, making me even more jealous of my dog. Then, as Hurley approaches the door, I step aside to put a safe distance between us.

  “See you in the morning,” he says. And then, sadly, he’s gone.

  Chapter 27

  I wake to the screech of my alarm clock the next morning at seven sharp. My head feels logy and dull. Every time I blink my eyes, it’s as if they’re lined with sandpaper. A shower helps minimally, but two cups of strong coffee make things better, as does the sugar jolt I get from the gigantic pastry I buy from the local bakery, Swedish Sweets. It’s New Year’s Eve and I resolve to get serious about my diet, but that starts tomorrow. I decide that today I’m going to indulge myself one last time.

  The meteorological Armageddon that’s been all over the news for the past couple of days has left its mark here as well. Outside the temperature is 19 degrees, with a predicted high of 23. And that’s without the windchill. Sharp gusts of cold, stinging wind howl from every direction, sculpting the foot of snow on the ground into artistic drifts. I drive past a house that has a snowblower parked on the roof and a snowman built atop a bench, a noose around its neck tied to an overhanging branch. The sky has an odd yellowish gray tint to it, which reminds me of the skin color on a renal-failure patient, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s more nasty weather on the way.

  When I check in at the office, I’m delighted to discover that the entomologist in Madison we consulted has faxed his report to us, making the same identification of the worm we found in Donald’s trachea that Ethan did.

  There isn’t much going on in our office—so far, no one is checking out on the last day of the year—and because tomorrow is a holiday, I figure Hurley will want to tie up as many loose ends as possible today. I head over to the police station a little before nine, where I find him holed up in the break room with the newspaper.

  “Great picture of you on the front page,” he says. He hands me the newspaper and chuckles. There I am, in full color, front and center, just above the fold, on the edge of the river, wearing my waders and the underlying Tyvek suit. My hair and face are smeared with mud, and my body is bent over at a slight angle that makes the waders billow out around me. I look like a grubby Teletubby.

  Alison Miller may have given up on her pursuit of Hurley, but she’s clearly still holding a grudge. The headline reads, BODY FOUND IN RIVER; and as I scan the article, I see that Alison has remained true to her word. There is no speculation on the cause of death or the identity of the body, outside of a mention of the gender. Nor is the body visible anywhere in the picture. It’s of little consolation.

  I toss the paper onto the table in disgust. “I have some news,” I tell Hurley. “The entomologist in Madison faxed his report over and he identified the worm we found in Donald’s throat.”

  “Judging from the smug expression on your face, I’m guessing he agreed with Ethan?”

  “That he did.”

  “Well, good for Ethan. But what does it mean in terms of our case?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Or maybe my theory about Charlotte drugging Donald and shoving a scarf in his mouth to suffocate him is right. I want to go back out to the house and look around some more.”

  “Can do. Thanks to the storm, my officers reported that Charlotte didn’t leave the farm at all until yesterday, when she went grocery shopping and then returned home.”

  “Are they still watching her?”

  “They are.”

  “So we know she’s home. Let’s drop in for a visit. Should we give her a heads-up or just surprise her?”

  “I like surprises.” He gets up and grabs his coat; but before he puts it on, he turns to me and says, “Listen, about last night—”

  I hold my hand up to stop him. “Let’s just put it behind us for now, okay?”

  He frowns at that, but nods. “Okay.”

  As usual, Hurley insists on driving. He cranks up the heat as we head out of town. By the time we pull up outside of the Strommen house a few minutes later, it’s snowing and a stiff wind has blown in. When we get out of the car, I pull my collar close to me, against the cold; but out here in the open country, the gusts that blast us are hard and frig
id.

  Charlotte Strommen opens the door as we approach, and she doesn’t look all that surprised to see us. She doesn’t look happy, either, and I suspect there won’t be any kindly offers of a hot drink at this stop.

  “What now?” she asks, exhaling one of those weight-of-the-world sighs.

  So much for the country welcome.

  Hurley says, “We need to talk to you some more about your husband’s death.”

  “This isn’t a good time,” Charlotte says. “My kids are here.”

  All the better, I think. I’m already plotting a way to get Hannah Strommen off to myself so I can talk with her.

  Hurley quickly clamps down on any more objections by saying, “We know about the life insurance policy.”

  I half-expect Charlotte to play dumb, but to her credit, she doesn’t. Instead, she goes on the offensive. “So? Just what do you think that proves?”

  “It proves you had a motive to kill your husband,” Hurley says.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charlotte says, her voice rife with skepticism. “You want to take the only piece of dumb luck I’ve had over the past few years and use it to frame me for something I didn’t do?”

  “Dumb luck?” I echo.

  Charlotte shifts her angry gaze my way, her eyes ablaze. “Yes, dumb luck,” she snaps, stepping out onto the porch and letting the screen door close behind her. “Don’s father died of a brain aneurysm when Don was only fifteen, leaving him and his mother, who was handicapped from multiple sclerosis, destitute because Mr. Strommen didn’t have any life insurance. As a result, Don’s mother ended up in some rat house of a nursing home, where she died five years later. Because of all that, my husband was a firm believer in life insurance. We argued many times about that damn policy and what it cost, but Don refused to cancel it. I thank my lucky stars that he didn’t, because now my children and I have a future. You people trying to make that into something sinister is just cruel.”