Scared Stiff mwm-2

by Annelise Ryan

  “Okay, you’re on,” I tell him, secretly hoping I’m going to lose. “But I have to warn you. If William-not-Bill starts counting the swizzle sticks, I’m either going to kill him or bail.”

  Chapter 7

  Once we arrive at the office and secure all of our evidence, I take a quick shower in the unisex bathroom and put on the change of clothes I have in my office: a pair of jeans and a blue cowl-neck sweater.

  Beneath it all is my brand-spanking new underwear, much sexier than my old stuff. During the Karen Owenby case, a slight dressing mishap led to a pair of my old undies getting mistakenly tagged as evidence, but not before Hurley held them up before a crowd of cops and likened them to a schooner sail. There isn’t much I can do about the size, but at least my elastic is now intact and there are enough frilly enhancements to hopefully distract one from the quantity of cloth involved.

  I look in the mirror and decide I’ll pass muster. The blue in the clothes sets off the blue of my eyes, and my hair—thanks to the miraculous ministrations of my new hairdresser, Barbara—looks passable. As a final touch, I throw on a minimum of makeup and a tiny spritz of perfume to cover up any lingering smells of blood, formaldehyde, and death.

  By the time I’m done, Izzy’s life partner, Dom, has arrived at the office and Izzy is cleaned up and changed. Izzy looks understated in a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of black pants. In contrast, Dom, who is reed thin, fair-skinned, auburn haired, and not afraid to advertise his lifestyle, is dressed in a pair of skintight leather pants and a glossy shirt that looks like the lights on a disco ball. Dom’s flamboyance is a definite detriment to his and Izzy’s social life. While Izzy hasn’t ever tried to hide his sexual orientation, he is a government official and has a reputation and appearance to uphold. As a result, he and Dom rarely appear together within the town limits, more often hitting up spots outside Sorenson whenever they feel the need to trip the light fantastic.

  Dom, who is standing with one hip cocked to the side and his arms crossed over his chest, eyes me as I emerge from the ladies’ room. “You look fabulous,” he coos. “That Barbara truly is a miracle worker.”

  “Thanks, I think.” The flattery is nice, but Dom’s declaration of what a miracle worker my hairdresser is makes me wonder just how awful he thought I looked before. Barbara’s full-time job is doing make-up and hair for corpses at the Keller Funeral Home. She also does side work on live people in the basement of the place, and Izzy took me to her a few weeks ago after declaring me in need of a major overhaul. The whole thing was a bit creepy at first but I eventually grew comfortable with lying down—the only position Barbara is able to work in—to have my hair done. And the woman is truly a genius. Not only did she give my hair the best color, cut, and style it’s had in years while also helping me plan the perfect funeral, she introduced me to a whole new make-up regimen that, according to her, no longer makes me look like one of the undead.

  Thoughts of the undead remind me of my pending date. “I guess you can go ahead and call William-not-Bill,” I tell Izzy.

  He shakes his head. “I’ll get the number for you but you’re going to do the talking.”

  I frown at him but realize he’s right; the invitation needs to come from me. “What if he says no?” I ask as Izzy searches for the number in his Rolodex, wondering if my ego can handle being rejected by one of the dating world’s bottom feeders. “What do I do then?”

  “He won’t say no. You’re the first date he’s had in over two years that didn’t run screaming from the room after half an hour. Trust me; he’s desperate for female company. He’ll go out at anytime with anyone.”

  As Dom gives me an ouch look and mimes an arrow piercing his chest, Izzy hands me his cell phone and a card with William’s number on it.

  I dial the number on the card and wait as the call goes through. William-not-Bill answers on the third ring with a breathless, slightly annoyed-sounding, “Hello?”

  “Hi, William. I’m sorry for calling so late but I just got finished with the work I had to do and I was wondering—”

  “Who is this?” he interrupts, his breathing hard and heavy.

  “Oh, sorry, it’s Mattie. Mattie Winston? Your date from earlier this evening?”

  “Mattie!” he says, his breathing slowly returning to normal. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you when the phone rang.”

  I wince and utter a silent prayer that his breathlessness and thoughts of me occurred while he was running on a treadmill, or doing sit-ups, or using a rowing machine.

  I hear rustling noises and then what sounds like a zipper in the background as William-not-Bill says, “I’m surprised to hear from you. I figured you’d be . . .” He pauses, then says, “Busy all night.”

  “Nope, we’re done for the evening, and Izzy, Dom, and I are going out for a drink to unwind a little. I wondered if you might like to join us.”

  There is a long silence on the other end of the phone and for a moment I think the call has been dropped. “William? Are you still there?”

  “I am,” he says quietly. “Is this a joke?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is this one of those things where I get dressed and run out to meet you but you never show up?”

  “No, William, it’s not a joke.” Clearly the guy’s been stood up a time or two, and I feel a touch of sympathy for him. Then a wave of guilt washes over me as I remember that my own motives aren’t exactly pure. “I felt bad that our date got cut short and thought you might want to join us for a drink.”

  Another long silence follows before he finally says, “Okay. Where are you going?”

  There are three hole-in-the-wall bars located in downtown Sorenson, and even though they are all independently owned, at some point in time they decided to join forces when it came to names. As a result, we have the Nowhere Bar, the Somewhere Bar, and the Anywhere Bar. At times it leads to conversations that sound like an Abbott and Costello routine.

  Where should we go tonight?

  How about Nowhere?

  Aw, come on, we have to go to Somewhere.

  Well, we could go there, or to Anywhere, but I’d rather go to Nowhere.

  I tell William, “We’re going to the Nowhere Bar. We’re headed there now.”

  “You’re sure?” he asks. His voice has that breathless quality again and I can’t help but wince.

  “Yes, William, I’m sure.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  “See you then.” I end the call and hand Izzy back his phone. “It’s a go,” I tell him. “But I’m having second thoughts about this. Do you think the Nowhere Bar serves any drinks with saltpeter in them?”

  Chapter 8

  Lest I have any doubts about William-not-Bill’s level of excitement, it is eliminated when I see that he has beaten us to the bar and is already seated when we arrive. It’s a little scary when you consider that the bar is across town from William’s house but only a block from our office. I fear I may have bitten off more than I can chew and pray that Hurley really does show up so my efforts aren’t for naught.

  The Nowhere is doing a hopping business despite the late hour. Bars are one of the more stable staples of the Wisconsin economy. Wisconsinites love their beer, their Packers, and their cheese. Thanks to the proliferation of televised games and cable TV, bars have the ability to provide all three, making them a home away from home for many.

  Because it’s Halloween, the crowd tonight is a little scarier than usual, reminiscent of the bar scene in Star Wars. William, who has shed his Dracula persona for now, is seated at a small table in a back corner. He stands up and eagerly waves us over as we enter. After shaking hands with Izzy and muttering a hello to Dom, William shifts all of his attention to me. He pulls out my chair, a gentlemanly gesture I appreciate, but then scoots his own seat closer and settles in with his leg touching mine. I can feel the excitement radiating off him, which only enhances my guilt and anxiety
. As I start to squirm beneath the weight of William’s adoring gaze, I shoot Izzy a pleading look. And Izzy, bless him, sallies forth with the perfect solution.

  “Boy, they don’t do a very good job cleaning these tables, do they?” he says, rubbing at an imaginary stain.

  The reaction from William-not-Bill is instantaneous. His attention shifts from me to the tabletop and he starts flicking away at imaginary crumbs. The flicks are always done in sets of four and in a rectangular pattern. I grit my teeth and ball my hands into fists to suppress the urge I have to slap him out of it.

  Izzy flags down a waitress and we order: a gin-and-tonic for Izzy, a screwdriver for me, and a rum-and-Coke for Dom. William-not-Bill orders a bottled beer and asks the waitress to bring a glass on the side.

  “So,” William says, making another set of flicks as the waitress departs, “what did you guys have to do tonight? Is it anything you can talk about?”

  “Not really,” says Izzy. “But I can tell you it’s a murder investigation.”

  “Murder? Really? Was it someone local?”

  Izzy nods. “I’m sure you’ll hear something about it tomorrow.”

  “How awful,” William says with a shudder. “And on Halloween even. That’s kind of scary.”

  It is, and a moment of silence follows as we all contemplate that fact. Then I’m distracted by the feel of William-not-Bill’s leg rubbing against mine.

  “I’ll bet it’s messy work, isn’t it?” William says, breaking the silence and looking even more horrified than he did a moment ago.

  “Very,” I say. Then I look over at Izzy and add, “Even after scrubbing in the shower I don’t feel like I got all that blood off my legs.”

  William’s leg pulls away from mine like he just got burned. Izzy shoots me a puzzled look but I’m saved from having to elaborate any further when the waitress brings our drinks. Izzy pays for the round and as the rest of us sample our wares, William picks up his glass, eyes it a moment, and then pulls a hankie from his pocket. He starts wiping down the glass both inside and out and I roll my eyes at Izzy and take a big gulp of my screwdriver.

  Once he has his glass up to muster, William pours his beer and says, “I’m glad you asked me to join you, Mattie. I really enjoyed our time together earlier.”

  “So did I,” I lie. An awkward silence follows and after waiting futilely for several beats for Izzy and Dom to fill the gap, I sigh and jump in. “So, William, since I can’t talk much about my work, why don’t you tell me a little something about yours.”

  “Well,” he says, swiping at some imaginary dirt on his sleeve, “it’s not anywhere near as exciting as what you do, I’m sure. Basically I handle investments, do taxes, and provide accounting services to a few businesses.”

  “Does it keep you pretty busy?” Dom asks.

  William nods and I slug back more of my drink as he flicks away at imaginary dust motes. “I’ve got more work than I can handle most of the time,” he says. Then he turns his doe eyes to me and adds, “But I’d be happy to take a look at your portfolio if you like and make some suggestions.”

  I try to stifle a laugh and end up snorting screwdriver out my nose. The closest thing I have to a portfolio is a file folder in my kitchen drawer that contains my bills and one bank statement. The current balance in my new checking account is just over a thousand bucks, barely enough to feed my ice cream habit for a month. My ex has everything else though I’m hoping to find a good enough divorce lawyer that I can at least get half the value of our house in the settlement. It’s the only thing I have any hope of claiming since we have no kids and all of our other assets are either in David’s name alone or were excluded in a prenup I happily signed in my then, starry-eyed state.

  The house is worth close to a million, though, and since I have no desire to live in it anymore, I’m hoping to force David to either sell it or pay off my share of its value. Until then I am living more or less hand to mouth, the grateful recipient of Izzy’s beneficence in that he not only gave me a job, he is letting me rent a small cottage behind his house that used to belong to his mother, Sylvie. Unfortunately the cottage is next door to the house David and I once shared, a proximity that makes it difficult to let go of my old life, though it does make for easy spying, a fact that has already gotten me into trouble.

  “I don’t think I have enough assets to need an accountant or financial advisor,” I tell William. “Check back with me after my divorce is final.”

  William’s eyes drop from my face to my chest and he says, “I think your assets are just fine.”

  As I roll my eyes I hear a noise that sounds like a snort, and it takes a moment to realize it came from behind me. Then the voice I most want to hear says, “May I join you?”

  I look up and see Hurley standing there. Given that I was hoping to see fiery jealousy, his expression of bemusement is disappointing.

  “Sure,” Izzy says. “Grab a seat.”

  William frowns at the invitation and his expression darkens considerably when Hurley grabs a nearby empty chair and swings it around to our table, setting it right between me and William. His blatant rudeness annoys me and I decide to challenge him.

  “What could possibly bring you out here tonight, Detective?”

  “I come bearing gifts,” he says, flashing me an enigmatic smile and handing over a large manila envelope stuffed with papers. I give him a puzzled look and he explains, “They’re copies of those letters you found. I kept the originals for evidence. You said you wanted to read them.”

  I’m surprised, even though I suspect he made the copies so quickly only so he would have an excuse to venture out and find us. “Good detective work, Hurley,” I say. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy tracking us down here, and so quickly, too.”

  For a second Hurley looks guilty, making me suspect that Izzy was right—Hurley was watching me to see where I’d go, and who I went there with. Then Hurley shrugs. “It wasn’t that hard,” he says with great nonchalance. “This is the closest bar to your office so it made sense to look here first.”

  “Well, thank you for these,” I say, folding the envelope full of letters and tucking it into my purse. And though I know I’m being petty, I can’t resist tossing off one last jab. “But really, couldn’t it have waited until morning?”

  “It could have but I also found out a few things about our chief suspect that I thought you might be interested in,” Hurley counters.

  “Such as?”

  He shrugs and tips back his chair, his hands laced behind his head. “I can’t elaborate right now.” He glances around but avoids looking at William. “This is too public a place, with too many ears.”

  William blushes a bright shade of red, and I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed, angry, or both. Guilt washes over me as I realize I set William up for this, and I feel a sudden surge of anger, part of it aimed at Hurley, part of it at myself.

  “Seeing as how you’re busy, I guess it will just have to wait,” Hurley says, dangling the bait a little closer. “Unless you can free yourself up tonight.”

  William looks down at his shirt and starts plucking away at imaginary lint with a ferocity that’s frightening. “I . . . I can leave, if you like,” he stammers.

  He looks so wounded, so pathetic, that I hate myself for what I’ve done. And Hurley’s smug expression is just screaming at me for a slap-down.

  “That’s okay,” I say, shooting a scathing glance at Hurley. “It can wait.” I reach over and place my hand on William’s arm. “What do you say you and I go back to my place for a nightcap?”

  William’s jaw drops and his plucking fingers freeze on his sleeve. Hurley leans forward, the front legs of his chair meeting the floor with a loud thump. I hear Dom mutter, “Whoa!” under his breath. Izzy doesn’t say a word, but it’s obvious from his expression that he’s amused.

  William finally snaps his mouth closed, swallows hard, and says, “I’d love to.”

  “Good.” I push my chair back and stand. �
��Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us. Izzy, I’ll see you in the morning. Is eleven-thirty okay?”

  “That will be fine,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

  Hurley opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water, but says nothing. I smile at him and then crook my arm at William. “Shall we?”

  William almost trips over his own feet in his rush to get to me. He takes my arm in his and I can feel him trembling as he leads me out of the bar. I start to have second thoughts about what I’m doing, and pray I haven’t gotten myself into a situation I can’t get out of gracefully.

  Chapter 9

  When we reach the parking lot I ask William, “Do you mind giving me a ride home? I don’t have my car.”

  “Of course.”

  He is a perfect gentleman, opening the car door for me and making sure I put my seat belt on. I note that his car is a Toyota Prius and my estimation of him, and his financial status, jumps up a notch. I’m starting to think I didn’t give the guy a fair shake when he climbs behind the wheel and says, “There’s some mouthwash in the glove box. Can you get it out for me?”

  I do so, then sit and watch, stunned, as he gargles and spits out his window. I half expect him to offer me a slug but realize that this sharing of germs is probably high on his list of phobias. Then I consider telling him I have a canker sore or some other infection, in hopes of warding off any attempts at a kiss.

  My house is less than a mile away so it takes only a minute or two to get there. Along the way William glances at himself in the rearview mirror several times—taming his comb-over with a lick of spit, examining his teeth, and looking up his nose once, presumably for stray hairs.

  He follows my directions and parks in front of my cottage. I climb out of the car quickly, not wanting to encourage the suitor scenario any more by waiting for him to open my door. Once we get inside he stops, looks around, and assumes an expression of obvious distaste.