Working Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  Hurley looks momentarily stricken, but he recovers quickly enough. “Would your opinion change any if I told you that we have an eyewitness who saw your ex-husband leave Karen Owenby’s house around the time she was killed?”

  “An eyewitness?” I echo. If Hurley is hoping to catch me off guard, he has succeeded admirably. He nods; his eyes look cold. “Well,” I say, turning away from the intensity of his gaze and feeling horribly depressed all of a sudden. “That does put things in a different perspective. I guess I better hurry up and get those divorce papers filed.”

  Chapter 11

  Izzy and Dom invite me over for dinner and I gladly accept. For one thing, I’m not too keen on being alone. My thoughts are a tangled mess and I need someone to help me sort through all the strings. I also want to find out from Izzy if the autopsy on Karen turned up anything of interest. But the main reason I accept the dinner invite is because Dom is an outstanding cook. And while my personal relationship with food is downright cozy, my personal relationship with a kitchen is totally adversarial. Despite an odd fetish for kitchen gadgets, which has the drawers, cupboards, and countertops in my old home overflowing with such items, whenever I try my hand at cooking, the potential for disaster is even odds.

  One of the things Dom does best is Italian and tonight he has made one of my favorites—lasagna, layered with crumbled Italian sausage, tons of rich ricotta, and a mouthwatering combination of herbs and spices that is to die for. Every time I eat it I swear to show restraint but I always fail, leaving the table sated, stuffed, and feeling like a great white whale.

  Tonight is no exception, but my glowing sense of satiety turns to a stomach-curdling anxiety when Izzy fills me in on some of the findings from Karen Owenby’s autopsy. He’s been hinting all through dinner that he has some news, but he waits until Dom clears the table and disappears into the kitchen to tell me what it is. Then he just spits it out, as if it’s a piece of gristle.

  “Karen Owenby was pregnant.”

  My jaw drops. “Pregnant? How pregnant?”

  “Around twelve weeks.”

  I quickly do the math in my head; it doesn’t take me long. “Shit. You don’t suppose—”

  “That it’s David’s?” He shrugs. “No way to know for sure unless we do DNA testing and we send that to Madison. So even if David is willing to volunteer a blood sample, it will take at least a week to get the results back. And that’s if I put a rush on it. Normally it’s more like three weeks.”

  “Shit.”

  “There’s something else,” Izzy says, leaning back in his chair and looking smug. “Karen Owenby isn’t really Karen Owenby.”

  I stare at him, confused. “Come again?”

  “I said that Karen Owenby isn’t really Karen Owenby. The fingerprints of the woman in the morgue don’t match those on the nursing license application for Karen Owenby. What’s more, Arnie did a computer search and turned up a ten-year-old death certificate for one Karen Owenby, an RN in Kentucky. She died of massive head trauma following a car accident.”

  My mind struggles to wrap itself around this information, but it is boggled beyond belief. “Are you telling me that the woman we know as Karen Owenby was some sort of impostor?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. The woman who took her state boards and applied for a nursing license under the name Karen Owenby is not the same woman I autopsied this morning.”

  “Wow.” I sit back and try to digest Izzy’s revelations while my stomach struggles to digest a couple of pounds of mozzarella, ricotta, sausage, and pasta. “Does the hospital know this yet?”

  “I doubt it. I haven’t released the results. At least not officially.”

  “Unofficially?”

  “Unofficially I filled Steve Hurley in on what I found out.”

  “Including the pregnancy?”

  Izzy nods.

  “When? When did you fill him in?”

  “I don’t know. It was toward the end of the day but I’m not sure of the exact time. Why?”

  “I just wonder if he knew all this when we talked earlier. If he did, he didn’t let on.”

  “You’re too new for Hurley to trust you yet. And while I’m confident you didn’t kill Karen Owenby, or at least the woman we thought was Karen Owenby, Hurley’s not so sure. So don’t expect him to be too forthcoming with any information.”

  I smile, but on the inside I’m seething. Not at Izzy, but at David…and at Hurley and his suspicious mind…and at myself for caring a fig about either one of them.

  “I consider myself a pretty good judge of character,” Izzy goes on. “And you’re not the killing type, at least not in reality. What you conjure up in your mind is another matter all together.”

  He knows me too well. And his unwavering faith strikes a chord of guilt. I am afraid his trust in me will have the life span of an orgasm once I finish sharing the revelations I now feel inclined to get off my chest.

  “There’s something I should probably tell you, Izzy. I haven’t said anything to anybody about this yet, but I need to tell someone, to make sure I’m handling things the right way.” I then tell him about my nocturnal spy mission and the fight I witnessed between David and Karen.

  “You haven’t told Hurley this?” he says when I’m finished.

  “Not exactly,” I confess, giving him a sheepish look. “I admitted to spying on David and seeing him with Karen, but I sort of implied that all they were doing was talking.”

  Izzy shakes his head. “Mattie, you have to tell Hurley what you saw. Jesus, you could be protecting a killer. Do you realize that?”

  “I can’t believe David is a killer.”

  “Can’t or don’t want to?”

  “Come on, Izzy. Is David a total bastard for sleeping with Karen? Absolutely. But a killer? No.” I punctuate my declaration by folding my arms firmly over my chest, thereby indicating the matter is closed to discussion as far as I’m concerned.

  Izzy leans toward me, concern marking his face. “Think about this, Mattie. Are you sure enough about your faith in David to stake your life on it? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

  His words hit right where he intends and I can’t deny that I have some doubt. Not much, but enough. “Damn,” I mutter.

  “Promise me you’ll tell Hurley that Karen and David were fighting.”

  I nod, trying to look properly chastised while I secretly hope Izzy isn’t going to attach a time limit to the promise. A quick change of subject is called for.

  “Um, there is something else I need to tell you. Something about the murder scene and the evidence we collected there.”

  Izzy sighs. “What now?” He looks at me in a way he never has before, as if he is only now seeing a side of me he didn’t know existed.

  “Do you remember the underwear Hurley found under the chair in Karen’s living room?”

  He nods.

  “They’re mine.”

  His eyebrows shoot up, two wooly caterpillars racing toward the peak of his bald head. “Yours?”

  “Um, yeah. Do you remember rousting me out of bed that night?”

  “How could I forget? The memory of it is burned into my brain, catalogued right beside my other all-time horrid memories, like the time I saw my grandmother naked.”

  “Gee, thanks. Well, if you hadn’t been so damned determined to drag me out of the sack in a big hurry, I might have had time to realize that my underwear was stuck inside the leg of my pants.”

  Izzy stares at me a minute, his expression puzzled. Then light dawns and his face splits into an ear-to-ear grin. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No.”

  He laughs and I lean back in my chair, scowling. “What’s so damned funny?”

  “This is,” he cackles. “Hey, Dom! Come here. You’re not going to believe this one.”

  “Noooo,” I whine. But it is too late. Dom breezes into the room, a dishtowel draped over one arm, his eyes bright, his face eager.

  �
�What?” he says, eyeing Izzy and breaking into a huge grin. “Oh, it’s a good one, isn’t it?”

  “It is that.”

  Dom claps his hands with glee and sidles into his chair. “Dish it. And hurry up. The suspense is killing me.”

  “You’re not going to believe what Nancy Drew here did during her first on-site investigation of a homicide.”

  Dom leans forward eagerly, his elbows on the table. His eyes dart back and forth, from my miserable, angry face to Izzy’s bemused one.

  “She contaminated the scene with a pair of her own underwear,” Izzy tells him while I silently wish him tortured, castrated, drawn and quartered. “Had them stuck inside her pant leg and didn’t know it until they fell out at the scene.”

  “Oh, no,” Dom giggles.

  “Wait, it gets better.” Izzy is crying now, he’s laughing so hard. “Hurley got a hold of them and had them bagged as evidence.”

  Dom looks at me, his mouth hanging open with wonderment for a second before he, too, bursts into laughter. “Oh…my…God, girlfriend.” He snorts. “Were they clean at least? And were they good ones? Lacy and frilly and sexy? Or were they the cotton white ones with the worn elastic?”

  I pout and scowl and otherwise try to shut Izzy and Dom down with scathing looks, but it only makes them laugh that much harder, leaving me to wonder how Dom knows so damned much about the state of my underwear.

  “It’s not funny, guys.”

  “Aw, hon,” Izzy says as he tries to catch his breath. “It is on our side of the equation.”

  “Fine,” I say with feigned indifference. “Have a ball. Laugh all you want. I’m going home.” With that, I head out the door and back to the cottage. Once inside, I head straight for the freezer, grab a carton of Cherry Garcia, and settle on the couch with it and a spoon. It doesn’t matter that I’m already stuffed to the gills from dinner, I can always find room for ice cream.

  One pint later, I toss the carton, rinse the spoon, and head to bed. As I undress, I take care to fold my clothes neatly, not wishing to repeat my prior sartorial disaster. As I fold my slacks, a white rectangle and a clump with a string attached fall out of one of the pockets. I pick up the clump first, recognizing the remains of a tampon. I toss it in the garbage, then pick up the rectangle; it’s the business card I found inside David’s tobacco pouch. I study the card a moment, still pondering the significance of it, if any. But my brain refuses to work, probably because all the blood and oxygen in my body is centered on my stomach, where it is busily trying to process enough food to feed a small, impoverished nation for a week.

  I set the card on my dresser, figuring I’ll look at it again later. Then I drop into bed, falling asleep almost instantly and dreaming that I am five-foot-five, thin, and a gorgeous redhead.

  Chapter 12

  I report to work the next morning feeling bloated and cranky. Since there are no autopsies pending, Izzy gives me some forensics textbooks to read and settles me in a small library that is part of the office complex. I spend the morning being alternately fascinated and disturbed by the many ways there are to die, learning all about gunshots, stab wounds, hangings, drownings, explosions, and suffocations.

  It’s easy for me to grasp the physiological stuff; I’ve seen all sorts of physical damage to the human body in my work as a nurse. But I am overwhelmed by the total science of death, which incorporates physics, chemistry, biology, and even entomology. Ethan would be in seventh heaven.

  After a couple of hours of reading I need a break, so I wander upstairs using the new key card Izzy finally gave me. I find Arnie bent over a microscope in his lab, intently studying whatever he has beneath the lens. He appears totally focused and engrossed, so I’m surprised when he says, “Hello, Mattie,” without looking up.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “By the sound of your footsteps, the way you walk. Also the smell.”

  “What smell?” I ask, fearing his answer will be a cross between garlic and Cherry Garcia ice cream.

  “None.”

  I shake my head. “I’m confused.”

  “You don’t have a smell.” He pulls away from the microscope, takes off his glasses, and massages the bridge of his nose. Then he puts his glasses back on again, blinks several times, and looks at me as if I’m some sort of apparition. “That’s the key, you see,” he says. “You don’t have any smell. Izzy has a smell, some aftershave he wears. And Cass has certain perfumes she wears.”

  “Cass? Who’s Cass?”

  “Cass Zigler.”

  I shrug and shake my head, letting him know I have no clue who Cass is.

  “The secretary-slash-file-clerk-slash-receptionist?”

  “We have a receptionist?” The idea seems rather silly to me when I consider that the bulk of our visitors are DOA.

  “Cass only works part-time. She files our reports, answers the phone, types up dictation…that kind of stuff. I take it you haven’t met her yet.”

  “Nope.”

  “Boy, are you in for a treat. And speaking of treats, I have one for you.”

  He rises from his chair, walks over to a counter, picks up a brown paper bag, and hands it to me. I open it and peer inside; at the bottom is my underwear. My face flushes red and I quickly close the bag back up. “Thanks. I think.”

  Arnie grins. “Izzy told me what happened. Pretty funny.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Why didn’t you just fess up when Hurley first found them?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, turning away. I’m not sure what is worse—having everyone know the underwear are mine or having them know I was too embarrassed by their size and condition to lay claim to them. “First-night jitters, I guess,” I tell him. “I wanted to make a good impression, and having my underwear fall out of my pants at the scene of a homicide didn’t seem like the best way to do that.”

  Arnie snickers. “No, I don’t suppose so.”

  A thought hits me. “Does Hurley know about them?”

  Arnie nods and I start ticking through a mental list of other cities where I can live. Big cities. Where anonymity reigns.

  “I had to tell him,” Arnie explains. “They were logged in as evidence. And all evidence has to be carefully tagged and tracked with a solid chain of possession. Otherwise, it becomes tainted and any decent lawyer will get it discounted. But I got news for you,” he adds, his grin widening. “It doesn’t matter that I told Hurley because he already knew.”

  “What!”

  “He knew the panties were yours and how they got there. He saw it when it happened. He just took advantage of the situation to mess with you a little bit. Sort of a hazing, I think.”

  “A hazing,” I repeat, feeling my anger—and my humiliation—build. “What a cheap shot.”

  “Aw, come on,” Arnie chuckles. “You have to admit, it’s kind of funny.”

  “I have to admit no such thing.” I switch my mental list from cities where I can hide to some of the more heinous methods of dying I’ve learned about, trying to decide which one I’d most like to use on Hurley.

  Arnie eyes me warily and says, “Uh-oh, I don’t like that look on your face. Right about now I’m really glad I’m not Hurley.”

  “As well you should be. Because somehow, some way, he’s gonna pay.” When it comes to paybacks, I have a very long memory.

  “Forget about Hurley a minute and look at this,” Arnie says, tapping his microscope. He slides over to make room for me. “This is a slice of Karen Owenby’s liver. Take a look.”

  I put my eyes to the microscope and peer in at a reddish purple smear that looks like the aerial view of an odd-shaped swimming pool. “Is this something unusual?” I ask, clueless.

  “Very. It’s a liver cyst caused by polycystic kidney disease, a rare, congenital disorder.”

  “Karen had polycystic kidney disease? Doesn’t that usually manifest itself in infancy?”

  “Usually. But there is one type that is inherited in an autosomal dominan
t pattern which doesn’t generally make itself known until middle age.”

  “And that’s the type Karen had?”

  “Yep. She was apparently asymptomatic, although there are indications she might have had some problems with high blood pressure.”

  “Interesting,” I say, stepping away from the microscope. “That woman is just one surprise after another.”

  “Ah, so I gather Izzy filled you in on the identification issues.”

  “He did. Any leads as to who she really is?”

  “Not yet. Her prints don’t match anything on file anywhere, so it may take a while. Hurley’s working on it.”

  Hurley. The mere mention of his name makes my stomach tighten. It makes a few other muscles tighten as well.

  “If anyone can figure it out, Hurley will,” Arnie says. “The guy’s as tenacious as a pit bull when he’s on a case. He has an amazing record.”

  “How do you know that? Izzy told me Hurley was new here, that he moved up from Chicago a few months ago.”

  “That’s true, but I have connections in Chicago,” Arnie says cryptically. “And those connections told me that Hurley is something of a loose cannon. He’ll pester and annoy people until he gets what he wants from them. He has little respect for authority, doesn’t care whose toes he steps on, and is indefatigable when he’s investigating a case. Apparently he can also be difficult to work with. Down in Chicago he went through partners faster than a legal firm full of hundred-year-old lawyers.”

  “Do you know why he left?”

  “Yep. He harassed some rich, influential muckety-muck one too many times because he was convinced the guy was a murderer. When he wouldn’t leave the guy alone, he was told he could either quit or be fired.”

  “And?”

  “And he quit. One month later the muckety-muck was arrested for a double homicide but it came about too late to do Hurley any good. I imagine it must have been a blow to his ego. The guy takes his cases very seriously and he’s competitive as hell. It’s like a game with him. He needs to solve the puzzles, finger the criminals, and get everything tidied up before anyone else can.”