Dead Ringer

by Annelise Ryan

  “Well, yeah,” I admit. “Though that does explain your knowledge of the symbolism behind the carnations,” I add with a feeling of unease.

  “My father died in a car accident at the end of my junior year in college. Very unexpected.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Yes, well, dealing with his death was tough. Dealing with the fact that he had a terrible addiction to gambling was a lot tougher, particularly when we learned that he’d gambled away all of his savings, his retirement money, and cashed in his life insurance policies so he could gamble that money, too.”

  I wince, not only in sympathy for what I imagine Todd went through, but because I have a little problem with gambling myself.

  “My mother was left destitute. She had no clue things were as bad as they were. She had to sell the house, and by the time she finished paying off all of Dad’s debts, there was nothing left. She had to get a job for the first time in her life, and since she has no formal training or education, and no experience, you can imagine the types of job options she had.”

  “How awful,” I say, feeling genuine empathy for the woman, even though I don’t know her.

  Her circumstances were similar enough to what mine had been after discovering David’s deception that I thought I understood some of what she’d experienced and felt. Granted, I hadn’t had to deal with David’s death . . . though there were times I fantasized about it. I realized early on that widows are looked upon with sympathy, empathy, and caring, whereas divorcées are looked at with suspicion, scorn, and a certain degree of fear. Both are pitied to some degree, but for different reasons, and the amount of support offered varies widely.

  I’d had one advantage over Todd’s mother, however; I had an occupation to fall back on, thanks to my nursing degree. This wasn’t as simple as it sounds, given that there is only one hospital here in Sorenson, and both David and I worked there at the time. Everyone and their uncle knew all the nitty-gritty particulars about the breakup of our marriage, including the salacious details of David’s mostly naked rendezvous with my coworker.

  I was humiliated, embarrassed, and too emotionally unstable to continue my employment there, particularly since it would mean seeing David on a regular basis. I’m still amazed that David can continue working there, given that most of the staff knows he has a heart-shaped birthmark on a certain part of his anatomy that I once heard a very drunk ER patient refer to as “some serious Jurassic pork, baby,” just before I pushed a catheter into his bladder.

  Fortunately for me, Izzy came to my rescue during the destruction of my marriage. I suspect Todd’s mother wasn’t so lucky.

  “What sort of job did she end up with?” I ask Todd.

  “Waitressing. She works at a Cracker Barrel restaurant. The money isn’t great, but she likes the work. And now that all of us kids are grown and off doing our own thing, it keeps her busy. We all help her out when we can.”

  “Good for her,” I say. “How did you end up in Eau Claire?”

  “Well, my education funds dried up literally overnight. I was looking at my senior year with no way to pay for things. I tried applying for financial aid, but the money situation was such a cluster that it took nearly a year and a half to get it all sorted out, so I couldn’t prove much in the way of financial need. I thought I was going to have to drop out. Then, just before school started, I saw an ad for a job as a diener. You know what that is, right?”

  I nod. The term is an old-fashioned one for a “morgue attendant.”

  “I didn’t know what it was at the time,” Todd admits with a cross between a smile and a grimace. “I had to look it up. And when I did, I didn’t think it was something I could do. But the money was good, the hours were at night, which worked well with my school schedule, and they were willing to train. So I applied for it and got it. The rest, as they say, is history. I took some classes and training to become a medicolegal death investigator and haven’t looked back. When they decided to start the training program for forensic pathologists in Eau Claire, I volunteered to come work it. I was tired of Milwaukee by then and there was a girl I was eager to get away from.”

  “Oh?” I say, curious to hear more and feeling that hint of unease again.

  “Just a relationship that didn’t work out. But it was a long-term one and a hard breakup for me. Getting away from all the places and people that reminded me of her was a good thing. I’m sure you can relate, given your divorce.”

  I certainly can. Reminders of my ex and the life we once shared pop up all the time. It’s not much of an issue for me anymore, because I have Hurley, Matthew, Emily, and a great life, but even with that, there are times when I catch a whiff of nostalgic loss.

  “Have you ever been married?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and smiles, but offers no elaboration as our waitress arrives with our food. The conversation dies for a while as we both dig in, and then our conversation takes a turn.

  “I really enjoyed our chat that night in the bar at the Milwaukee conference,” Todd says. “I could tell right away that you and I were two peas in a pod with similar career tracks, similar interests, and similar outlooks on life. We even had similar sad-sack love stories.”

  I have only a minimal, hazy recollection of discussing this topic with him, so I just smile.

  “Though yours was a marriage and mine never made it to that point,” he adds. “So I guess they were a little different. But a breakup is a breakup, right?”

  I smile and nod, my mouth full of omelet.

  “And both of us were cheated on,” he says. “Though at least I didn’t catch my girlfriend in the act.” He pauses and chuckles. “I know that had to have been an awful experience for you, and that the pain must have been terrible, but hearing you talk about it that night, well, you had me in stitches. I don’t know how you managed to find the humor in a situation like that, but I’m impressed that you did.”

  Great. In my drunken stupor, I was apparently witty and hilarious on a subject that nearly destroyed my life. I can’t remember most of that evening, but there are a few glimmers I can recall. I seem to remember referring to David’s genitals as his twig and berries, and thinking that this, and me for thinking of it, was hysterically funny. I recall Todd laughing uproariously, too, so he must have also thought it was funny. Although, now I’m wondering if he was laughing at what I said, or if he was laughing at me laughing at myself.

  It doesn’t much matter, I finally decide. I like Todd and he seems to like me. We worked well together in Eau Claire, and again this morning at my office, so I think our professional friendship will be good for the long run. We finish up our meal discussing some of our shared irritations with our jobs, and it turns out that we both hate collecting vitreous fluid and the tedious paperwork we’re required to do.

  I pay for the meal, insisting because Todd is my guest and it’s the least I can do to return the favor of him providing us with snacks yesterday. We return to the office intending to spend the next few hours reviewing the evidence in our case. But Chris and Todd start chatting about work-related stuff, and this eventually evolves into stories of unusual, interesting, or weird cases they’ve seen. The three of us take turns sharing our most memorable cases, reciting the stories in vivid detail and, I suspect, with a small bit of occasional embellishment. It’s a lot of fun and restorative to our working souls, though it isn’t particularly productive. When I look at the clock on the wall and see that it’s almost five already, I’m shocked.

  I haven’t heard word one either in person, by phone, or by text from my husband, so I step out of the library and call Dom to see if my son is still there, and if so, if Hurley has communicated any plans to pick him up.

  “Matthew is here, and your hubby said he’d be by to get him around six,” Dom informs me.

  “Was he wearing his superhero outfit this morning when they got to your place?”

  “Who? Your hubby or your son?”

  I laugh. “My son. Wait, does Hur
ley have a superhero outfit?”

  “When he strolls around in his jeans and his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and that gun holster of his tucked up under his arm, he looks pretty super to me,” Dom says a tad breathlessly.

  “Dom, I had no idea!” I say, laughing. “Should I be worried?”

  “Heck no, girl. That man has eyes for you, and you alone.” He lets out a wistful sigh.

  “Does Izzy know you have a secret crush on Hurley?”

  “He does. He lets me have my little fantasy, and I let him have his.”

  “Do tell,” I say, wondering who Izzy’s crush might be.

  “You have to promise not to tell anyone,” Dom says in a conspiratorial half-whisper.

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Izzy’s got a thing for our mayor.”

  “The mayor?” I say with disbelief. “Mayor Kirkland?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Hunh,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I never would have guessed.”

  Our newly elected mayor, Phin Kirkland, short for Phineas—which should tell you all you need to know about his genetic background, because what decent parent would name their kid Phineas in this day and age—is a thirtysomething mass of flesh. He is built just like a Mack truck. His shoulders are broad and muscled, his thighs look like giant bratwursts ready to burst out of his pants, and his hands are the size of one of those canned hams my mother used to always fix for Easter dinner.

  Mind you, my mother never ate any of said ham—it was there for my sister, me, and whatever husband was in residence at the time. That didn’t stop her from later believing that she had come down with trichinosis, a parasitic worm infection people can get from eating uncooked pork. Apparently, just being in the same household as a piece of pork—never mind that it was precooked and canned—was exposure enough.

  Dom forces my mind off canned hams and beefy hands. “If you’re referring to your son’s fixation with his older sister’s underwear, then, yes, he was wearing his superhero outfit. Though I must say,” he adds with a chuckle, “the idea of calling a brassiere a ‘futility belt’ seems highly fitting.”

  It does for some of us, I think, straightening up and pulling my shoulders back. “You don’t think the fact that he used Emily’s underwear is a sign of some kind of . . . issue, do you?”

  “Gosh, no,” Dom says. “I think all boys play with their mom’s or sister’s underwear at some point. I know I did.” Seeming to sense that this might be slightly less reassurance than what I’m seeking, he adds, “And so did my straight brothers. They made slingshots out of my mother’s bras.” He pauses and then speaks in a more thoughtful tone. “Of course they didn’t wear the underwear, like I did.”

  There is a momentary silence that stretches between our two phones. “Anyway,” Dom says finally, “Hurley should be here soon to pick up your son, so you are on your own.”

  “Great. If he doesn’t show for some reason, call me, okay?”

  “I will, but you know the little guy can stay here all night, right? Anytime. He and Juliana have so much fun together.”

  “Thanks, Dom. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I disconnect the call and think about the stretch of free time in front of me, time unencumbered with kids, hubby, or duties. Soon, with another kid added to the craziness that is often my life, such a thing will be more rare than a sighting of Nessie. I should make the most of it. What kind of trouble can I get myself into over the next few hours?

  CHAPTER 19

  I return to the library and find Todd engrossed in something on my desktop computer. “Christopher just left,” he tells me. “He said to tell you good night.”

  “Thanks. I think I’m going to call it a day, since it’s technically my day off. I’m not supposed to be here.”

  He leans back in the chair and stretches. “Is there a motel here in town where I could stay?” he asks. “I’d like to come back in the morning and work on this case some more. We got a little sidetracked today.”

  “Yes, we did,” I say with a smile. “But it was fun. I think it’s important to indulge in some professional bonding like that, from time to time.” I consider the idea of inviting him to our house for the night. The couch in the extra bedroom, which we use as a home office, is a sleeper sofa. But given the way things were left between Hurley and me, I decide it’s a bad idea to throw a stranger into what will likely be a tense mix at home. Particularly, one whom I had drinks with in a bar last fall.

  “There’s the Sorenson Motel,” I say, worried that I’m being rude by not inviting him to stay with us. “It’s owned and operated by a cantankerous old coot who is stuck in the 1980s, something that will be quite apparent when you see the décor of the rooms. But the place is clean and the prices are reasonable.”

  “Sold.”

  “I’ll drive out there and you can follow me, if you like,” I offer as a way of mitigating my lack of hospitality. “It’s not far. Just outside of town. I know the owner, so maybe I can wrangle a deal for you.”

  “That would be great. Are you planning on coming to work in the morning?”

  “I am,” I say. Tomorrow is supposed to be another day off for me, but the pull of this case is strong, and I know I won’t be able to resist.

  “I don’t suppose you’d let me hang with you again?” Todd says hopefully.

  I consider it and shrug. “Sure,” I say, unable to come up with any reason to say no. Plus, his insight into the case has already proven useful.

  Todd gathers up his coat while I shut down the computer, turn out the lights, and don my own coat. “Could we stop at a local grocery store along the way?” Todd asks. “I’d like to get some snacks and something for breakfast in the morning.”

  “Sure. Just follow me.”

  “Easy enough to do. That car of yours is hard to miss. I’m parked out on the street a block over from your garage, so wait for me, okay?”

  Four minutes later, I pull out of the garage and idle on the street, waiting for Todd to pull up behind me in the black Honda SUV he drove us in yesterday. I see headlights about thirty feet back on a black SUV and assume it’s Todd, but then realize the car isn’t moving. Then another set of headlights appears from around the corner and this car comes up behind me—also a black SUV. I’m not great at telling cars apart by their make and so many of these SUVs look alike, so I’m still unsure which one might be Todd. Fortunately, once the car closing in on me gets close enough I can see that it is Todd.

  I pull out, noticing as I do that the other car with the headlights on also pulls out into the street, falling in behind Todd’s car. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I place a palm there, gently kneading the skin, telling myself I’m being silly. But I’ve been followed before—that homicidal stalker from my past—and the fact that we are investigating a murder case that has made a lot of people very unhappy is uppermost in my mind. I recall Maggie’s words earlier, questioning us as to who had access to the knowledge necessary to frame Ulrich. Clearly, we hadn’t made many friends in Eau Claire yesterday, but why would anyone be following me?

  Certain that I’m overreacting, thanks to my past and the way my day started, I take a circuitous route through town, instead of sticking to the main drag. Todd follows dutifully behind me and the other SUV stays right behind him. The hairs on the back of my neck rise again.

  When I get to the grocery store, I head for a parking spot that has another empty one beside it. Todd pulls into it, and to my relief, I watch the other car drive past the lot, continuing down the main road until it’s out of sight. Todd raps on my window and I roll it down.

  “Want to come inside? You can help me find stuff.”

  I consider declining, thinking I should watch to see if the other black SUV returns. Then I realize how stupid that idea is, given that there are at least six black SUVs of similar shape and size parked within sight of me right now. If one pulled into the lot, I wouldn’t be able to tell if it was the same one
that was following me before anyway. If only everyone drove something as distinctive as the hearse.

  “Sure,” I say to Todd. I get out and lock my car.

  Inside the store, Todd grabs one of the hand baskets and makes a beeline for the bakery. “I have a bad sweet tooth in the mornings,” he says. “I love sweet rolls for breakfast with my coffee.” He looks over at me with a guilty expression and winks. “If I’m going to be honest, I love sweet rolls any time of day.”

  “You’re a man after my own heart,” I say with a smile.

  Twenty minutes later, we return to our respective cars, Todd laden with a bag of snacks, some sandwich-making materials, a couple of bottles of cheap wine, and a bag of sweet rolls. He opens the box of sweet rolls as we walk through the parking lot, takes one out, and hands it to me. I consider a polite decline, a demure “No, I couldn’t,” but quickly dismiss it and take the roll.

  “Thanks.” I bite into it and moan a little as I taste the sweet cinnamon goodness. I get in the hearse, start it up, and back out, using only one hand, since the other is holding the sweet roll. And I drive that way to the motel, finishing off the roll just as we arrive. I pull up in front of the office and Todd pulls in alongside me.

  I scan the parking lot, which only has four other cars in it. That’s a good sign. “It doesn’t look like he’s superbusy.”

  We head inside, where we find Joseph Wagner sitting behind the desk, his head encased in a cloud of smoke from a cigar he’s puffing on. He’s wearing denim overalls, the only thing I’ve ever seen him in. I wonder if he has a closet full of them, or if he only changes the shirt and, hopefully, the underwear beneath the same pair each day. His hair, which only grows on the sides of his head, is thick, curly, and gray. He bears a strong resemblance to Larry Fine from the Three Stooges, albeit without the Stooge sense of humor. I’m pretty sure Joseph had his sense of humor surgically removed when he was a kid.