“Listen, Desi, I promise I’ll stop by and see you. Tonight if I can, tomorrow at the latest, okay? But right now I have something very serious to deal with and I need Lucien.”
“Okay.”
“I tried calling his cell, but I got a recording saying it was disconnected. Did he get a new number?”
“He doesn’t have a cell right now. None of us do.” There is a bitter tone in her voice that tells me there is more to this story, but in the interest of time I let it go.
“Can you give me the number for the motel then?” I ask.
She does so and I commit it to memory, hang up, and redial. I’m expecting to get the main office, but Desi must have given me a direct line to a room because Lucien answers.
“Lucien, it’s Mattie.”
“Mattiekins,” he says, but the exuberance I’m used to hearing whenever he greets me with this nickname is missing. His flat, dead tone frightens me; I’ve never heard him so down before. “Have you talked to your sister? Is she willing to take me back?”
“I’ll be happy to talk with you about Desi a little later, but right now I need your help.” I explain what the situation is and he agrees to come over to the nursing home right away.
“In the meantime, call the police and get them started,” he says. “Just don’t let anyone talk to them until I get there.”
“Will do, and thanks.”
As soon as I disconnect the call Irene says, “You didn’t know about your sister’s separation?” She looks at me with disbelief, shaking her head. “I guess the rumors I heard about you were true.”
“What rumors?” I ask, cursing the free flow of information that seems to permeate this town.
“That you dug yourself into a hole and never climbed out of it.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, and before she can take the time to determine the veracity of my statement I tell her, “Get out your cell phone and call 911.”
“Why do I have to call? Can’t you do it?”
“They might have questions that only you will know the answers to,” I tell her. “Just remember that you are being recorded so don’t say anything that you don’t want to have come back to haunt you.”
“Okay, but if I’m going to call the cops, you have to go outside and let the others know.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, okay?”
“Fine.” With that I head out of the bathroom, down the hall, and back outside. When I come back through the gate in the fence, the people in the garden area who are smoking look at me with suspicion, as if they think I’m the cigarette police. I get an idea of why Irene wanted me to warn them when a whiff of their smoke reaches me. It isn’t an ordinary cigarette smell; it’s spicy and aromatic. I look closer at the cigarettes they are holding and see they are hand-rolled. Were the old folks smoking doobies?
“We’re calling the cops,” I say to no one in particular.
They exchange looks and a couple of them shrug. But then everyone moves to extinguish what they’re smoking—some in the birdbath, some in the fresh mulch of a flower bed where a few crocuses and daffodils are braving the early spring, and one thin-haired lady pinches her smoke off and stuffs it inside her bra.
A tall, gangly old man hanging out by the door to the dayroom turns to head inside, but he stops when a portly fellow with a full head of gray hair says, “That’s right. Run and hide because the cops are coming, Herb.”
“At least I can run, Ed,” Herb says. “With that gut of yours, it’s a wonder you can even stand up.”
Ed shrugs and grabs his gut in both hands, giving it a little shake. “Hey, when you have a big tool you need a large shed to store it in. At least I don’t have a fake tan that looks like I rolled around in a tub full of Cheetos.”
Ed’s description is spot on and Herb seems to realize it. His eyes narrow and his hands clench.
One of the women standing nearby reaches over and puts a hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Back down, you two. Now is not the time to wage your battles. Save it for the Op-Ed page.”
When she says this, I realize who Ed and Herb are. For years, Ed Turner and Herb Patterson have waged a battle of wits and words through letters to the editor of our local paper. Their debates have ranged from such weighty topics as health care reform and gun rights to more picayune matters like how many tractors should be allowed to park at the local VFW and what hours the liquor stores can be open.
I leave them to their debate and head back to the administrative wing. I have to knock on the outside door—it’s locked—and wait for Irene to let me in. Once inside, I halt for a few seconds like Irene and I did earlier so my eyes can adjust to the light. I’m about to ask Irene how the call went when the door behind her opens and a group of people stroll in. Two uniformed police officers enter and Connie, the nurse who was manning the desk out front, is close on their heels. I start to head toward them, but I’m stopped in my tracks when a fourth person walks in.
It’s my first sight of Hurley in over two months and it takes my breath away.
Chapter 5
Connie Lane stops and stares at us with a confused and panicked expression. “What are you people doing back here? And why are the cops here? They said someone is dead? I’m the charge nurse. I should know what’s going on.”
I ignore her, unable to take my eyes off Hurley. My chest hurts, and for a moment I’m afraid I’m having a heart attack. Hurley looks back at me and our eyes lock. For a few brief seconds, it’s as if we are the only two people in the room.
“Hey, Mattie. Good to see you,” says a voice that’s not Hurley’s.
I finally tear my eyes away from Hurley and shift my attention to Junior Feller, one of the local uniformed cops. I’ve known Junior since grade school.
“Can you tell us what’s going on here? The 911 center said some woman called to report a murder.”
“Yeah, can you tell us what’s going on here?” Connie echoes. The words seem to register with her and she pales. “Murder? There’s been a murder?”
It takes every iota of strength I have not to look back at Hurley. I want to stare at him, to drink him in, to lock that vision in my mind forever so I can torture myself with it for months or years to come. Instead, I try to focus on Junior and the situation at hand. “It appears someone killed Bernard Chase, the owner and administrator here. He’s in the bathroom.” I gesture toward the men’s room.
Connie gasps and clutches a hand to her chest. “That can’t be. Mr. Chase isn’t even here today. It’s Saturday. He would have let us know if he was here.”
“Trust me, he’s here.” I walk over and open the bathroom door. Junior and the other uniformed cop, a new guy I don’t know whose name tag reads P. FOSTER, push past me to enter the bathroom. Hurley starts to follow and I finally risk another look at him. Our eyes meet again and I feel a pressure in my chest . . . and an odd heat in my loins. My mind briefly flashes on the last time we were together and I feel my entire body flush hot. Then he turns away from me and focuses on the body of Bernard Chase.
Irene is standing close to me and she looks shaken. I slip an arm over her shoulders, as much for my support as hers. My legs still feel like jelly after last night’s S&M session with Gunther, and even the act of raising my arm causes a grabbing pain in my mid-back region.
Connie follows close on the heels of the cops and stops just inside the doorway with a gasp, staring at Bernie’s body on the floor. “Oh my God!” she says, her eyes huge. She looks over at Hurley. “I knew something like this would happen,” she adds, her voice decisive.
“Why is that?” Hurley asks, and just the sound of his voice makes my legs start to quiver.
“Because I had lunch with him yesterday and we ordered Chinese takeout. I was there when Bernard opened his fortune cookie.” Her voice drops to an ominous level. “The fortune was blank.”
There is a pause and then Junior says, “And?”
“And what?” Connie says, looking confused.
“What made you think something was going to happen to Mr. Chase?”
She stares agape at him, and then looks at the rest of us. “Really?” she says finally, with an expression of disbelief. “Come on, people. His cookie had a blank fortune in it for heaven’s sake. I mean, that pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?”
That it does, I think, though it says more about Connie’s mental status than it does Bernard’s victimhood.
“You had takeout?” Irene snaps. “Why is that? You didn’t want to eat the same crap that gets served to the patients here?”
Connie shoots Irene a menacing glare that makes me slip my arm off Irene’s shoulders and back away a step, fearing she might burst into flames.
“You should see what passes for food around here,” Irene says. “They’re constantly doling out all kinds of ground-up mystery meat that they hide under gravy so no one will notice the weird taste. The bread they use in their sandwiches is always stale. Plus they overcook everything. The vegetables they serve are limper than most of the wangers in this place.”
Connie and Irene engage in a stare-down that lasts an uncomfortable length of time. It’s obvious there is history and no love lost between the two women.
Hurley turns suddenly and exits the bathroom. He takes me by the arm and pulls me a little way down the hall, making my aching muscles protest. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So it would seem. Why haven’t you called me?”
“I needed some time.” I look away.
“And now you’ve had it. We need to talk. Don’t go anywhere.” With that, he heads back into the bathroom.
Irene has apparently released Connie from her dark-side death glare because the woman is scurrying off to the main part of the building, no doubt to act as the town crier. Irene walks over to me and says, “What’s going on with you and Hurley?”
“Nothing.”
“The hell you say.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Anyone can feel the sparks coming off the two of you. What’s up?”
I sigh. “Not now, Irene. I’ll tell you later.” I step over to hold the bathroom door open so I can watch and get a little more eye time with Hurley.
Junior Feller says, “How is it you’re involved with this, Mattie?”
“Irene nabbed me and had me come by.”
“Why did she do that?” Hurley asks, looking from Bernard to me.
“We just happened to run into one another,” Irene says.
Hurley narrows his eyes at her. “You just happened to run into Mattie here at the nursing home?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in later.”
Hurley opens his mouth as if to say something more, but after a moment he apparently decides otherwise. He turns his focus to Bernard’s body and cocks his head to one side as he studies it. “What is that in his mouth?” he asks of no one in particular, squatting beside Bernard’s head.
“I think it’s isolyser powder,” I say. “It’s that stuff that turns a liquid into a solid.”
Hurley looks at me with a grimace. “You mean that stuff we use in the back of the squad cars if someone pees or pukes in there?”
“Probably,” I say with a shrug. I’m not sure what the cops use for those purposes, but since health care facilities use it the way Hurley just described, I imagine it’s all the same stuff.
“Eww,” Junior says with a shudder. “Is that what killed him? If it was, it couldn’t have been a nice way to go.”
“I’m not sure if that’s what killed him, but it looks like it might have been,” I say.
“Who found him?” Hurley asks.
Irene shoots me a panicked look and after a moment’s hesitation I say, “Irene did.” Technically it’s the truth as far as I know since we don’t know if Bernie was dead when Bjorn fled the restroom.
Hurley doesn’t miss the exchange of looks. “So Irene, what reason did you have to enter the men’s bathroom?”
Crap! Clearly I hadn’t thought my answer through. But Irene is saved from having to answer by the arrival of several more people who enter the administrative wing from the front inside doorway: Izzy, another uniformed cop named Brenda Joiner, and my brother-in-law Lucien.
Lucien’s arrival, as usual, is problematic. I know there will be awkward explanations of how he knew to come here at all. Plus, because of my history with him, I’m always nervous whenever he’s around, anticipating some obnoxious comment or leering look. His appearance usually adds to the level of discomfiture because it’s never what anyone would call professional. His clothes are always wrinkled, stained, and frayed-looking, and his strawberry blond hair has a vigorous natural wave that Lucien tries to tame with enough grease to deep fry cheese curds for the entire town.
Today he looks worse than I’ve ever seen him. His clothes are messier than usual, his hair is weeks past the need for a cut, and his chin is covered with several days’ worth of stubble. Plus his face looks haggard and tired. There are large, dark circles under his eyes, and his skin has a pale, sagging look to it. He looks ill and that frightens me. Lucien may be a big pain in my ass much of the time, but he is my brother-in-law and in some small part of my heart, I feel affection for him. I’ve long suspected that his obnoxious behavior and apparent misogynistic attitudes are nothing more than a cover he uses to protect his true feelings and to scare the bejesus out of everyone he meets. It’s part of what makes him such an effective and successful lawyer, and such an annoying human being.
Hurley, not surprisingly, moans in frustration at the sight of Lucien. “What are you doing here, Colter?”
“Mattie called me to represent certain folks here who feel they need someone to look out for their best interests.”
Hurley shoots me a venomous look, to which I shrug.
“All I did was track him down for Irene,” I say. “It was her idea and at her request.”
Izzy looks in the bathroom and then at me. “How did you get here already?”
“Irene got a hold of me. Long story.”
“Have you done anything yet to process the scene?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t know what I was walking into,” I explain, “so I had Irene call the cops first thing when I saw the body.”
Izzy sets down his scene kit, opens it, takes out a camera, and hands it to me. “Why don’t you start shooting pictures while I do the preliminary exam.”
I step into the bathroom and quickly fire off several shots of Bernie’s body and the bathroom. When I’m done, Izzy gloves up and kneels next to Bernie to begin his exam. I’m about to join him, but Hurley grabs me by the arm and hauls me out into the hallway again, letting the bathroom door close. He drags me closer to the outside exit and away from the huddle of Irene and Lucien.
“Hey,” I protest, shaking my arm loose. “What the heck?”
“Exactly my thoughts,” Hurley says. “What the heck has been going on with you? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks. The only phone number I had was your work cell phone and Jonas Kriedeman ended up with that. I came by a couple times, but you were never home and I haven’t seen you anywhere around town.”
“Well, now that I’m back on the job, you’ll be seeing me plenty.”
“What about us?”
“There isn’t any us.”
“How can you say that after our . . . after we . . . you know.” An exasperated breath practically explodes out of him. “Come on, Mattie, you can’t tell me that our time together wasn’t magical and amazing.”
“That it was,” I admit, “at least up until the moment where your wife and kid showed up.”
Hurley sighs and his shoulders sag. “I told you, I had no idea Kate didn’t go through with our divorce. That was almost fifteen years ago. I don’t have any feelings for her anymore. Nor did I know we had a kid together. I promise you, this was as much of a shock to me as it was to you.”
Somehow I doubt that. “Are they still st
aying with you?” I ask, though I know the answer already. I’ve done my share of spying on Hurley’s house over the past couple months.
“Yes,” Hurley admits. “But only until Kate gets back on her feet. I can’t just throw her and Emily out on the street. That’s where they’d be if they weren’t staying with me.”
“That’s very kind of you.” I turn away to head back to the men’s room, but Hurley stops me by grabbing my arm again and hauling me into Bernard’s office. He shuts the door behind us, and whirls me around so that my back is against the door. He leans toward me, one arm on either side of me.
I’m vaguely aware of my aching body screaming at me, but something about Hurley’s body coming in full frontal contact with mine makes it seem vague and distant. “That was a bit rough,” I tell him, trying to sound angry though the truth is I’m rather titillated. “And this is a crime scene.”
“We’re not disturbing anything and I need to talk to you. I can’t take this anymore, Mattie. I’ve been going crazy, thinking that you’re so angry about what happened that you’ll never see me again. Please tell me that isn’t the case.”
“Obviously not, since we’re going to be working together again.”
“You know what I mean,” he says, his voice rife with frustration. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
“I’ve been avoiding everybody, Hurley, not just you.”
“Where have you been all this time? Every time I went by your place your car was gone.”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time at the North Woods Casino.”
Hurley frowns and I anticipate a lecture about the evils of gambling. Instead, he moves his body in closer to mine. “Are you seeing someone else? Is that it? Are you and Joe Whitehorse an item?”
Joe Whitehorse is an investigator for the Indian Gaming Commission. Hurley and I met him during the last case we worked together and Hurley’s suspicion that Whitehorse and I might be an item is understandable since there was some serious flirting going on. I did try to get something going there, but after one short, awkward date during which Whitehorse told me, “I’m really not that into tall women,” I knew it was a bust. I later found out from some of the staff at the casino, some of whom now know more about me than my family does, that Whitehorse is a compulsive flirter and a serial dater.
Board Stiff (Mattie Winston Mysteries) Page 4
