Scared Stiff mwm-2

by Annelise Ryan

  Arnie, who is out of the van and standing beside Hurley, chuckles and says, “No kidding. That really reeks.”

  “A truly rank day,” says Hurley.

  “Utterly foul,” adds Arnie.

  The two of them are wearing shit-eating grins and I give Izzy a pleading look. For a split second he manages to look disgusted by the humor, but then he turns on me faster than a starving dog on a steak.

  “Totally putrid,” he tosses out, and then all three of them start guffawing like they’re at a hillbilly hootenanny.

  I fold my arms over my chest and glare at them with my best Look but it doesn’t even begin to penetrate. I fear I’m losing my touch. So I move on to threats instead. “I think I need to give each and every one of you a great big bear hug,” I say, jumping down from the flatbed and spreading my arms wide as I move toward them. Hurley and Izzy both back up without hesitation but Arnie stands transfixed for a moment, clearly weighing the nastiness of being stunk up against the sweetness of a possible cleavage nestle. Ignoring Arnie, I close in on Izzy and Hurley. Izzy, realizing he might get backed against the wall and no doubt aware of his inability to outrun me, holds his hands up, nods in the direction of the other two men, and says, “Do it and I’ll tell them your real name.”

  Hurley’s eyebrows shoot up with curiosity and I stop dead in my tracks, silently cursing Izzy. “I’ll make you pay, all of you,” I seethe. Then I stomp off toward the shower, leaving the boys behind me giggling like a gaggle of little girls.

  Chapter 18

  Tuesday morning, freshly scrubbed and showered for the fourth time since yesterday afternoon’s fiasco, I take the jacket Hurley loaned me the day before, which I have tied up inside two plastic bags to try to mask the odor, and drop it off at the dry cleaner. The same woman is on duty and the first thing she says when I walk in is, “Your dress isn’t done yet but it should be ready later today.”

  “That’s fine,” I tell her. I didn’t expect the dress to be done yet but I didn’t want to hang on to the jacket any longer than necessary, fearful it would stink up my car. “I’m here to drop something else off.” I toss the bag onto the counter, and when she starts to open it I stop her.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I caution. “It’s a bit pungent. You’ll want to wear gloves and such to handle it.”

  Her expression is a mix of intrigue and fright. “What is it?” she asks, trying to peer through the white plastic.

  “It’s a jacket. A man’s jacket. Unfortunately it was exposed to some pretty nasty stuff at a scene with some decomposed bodies.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “Was it that car accident thing that was on the news last night?” She leans closer. “Was it really the Heinriches in there?”

  “We don’t know for sure,” I tell her. “And I can’t say anything more until we can confirm the IDs.”

  She frowns, clearly disappointed. “This is going to cost extra,” she says, nodding toward the bag. “A lot extra.”

  I suspect she’s being punitive because of my unwillingness to share and is enjoying what little power she can wield over me. So I flash a smile of indifference and say, “That’s fine. And there’s no rush. Whenever you can get to it.”

  I leave the disappointed dry cleaner behind and drive to the office, where Arnie informs me that Izzy is out doing some follow-up tests for his physical and isn’t planning to do the autopsies on the Heinrichs until the afternoon. Preferring to spend time at home with Rubbish rather than holed up in the library—which is the closest thing I have to an office—I grab some textbooks and drive back to my house, where I spend a couple of hours studying up on how weather affects decomposition rates.

  At a little past eleven my cell phone rings and a look at the caller ID tells me it’s Lucien. I wince, knowing I have to talk to him in order to get an update on Erik’s situation, but reluctant to spend any time in conversation with the man who once declared himself a “vagitarian.”

  “How’s it going, Sweet Cheeks?” he says when I answer.

  “Fine. Have you had a chance to look at Erik’s case yet?”

  “I have. The case against him is mostly circumstantial at this point.”

  “Can you help him?”

  “I’m willing to give it the old college try,” he says. “I told him I’d cut him a break on the fees as a favor to my favorite sister-in-law.”

  Not much of a compliment considering I’m his only sister-in-law.

  “His arraignment is tomorrow morning. I’ll update you when I know something more.”

  “Thanks, Lucien.” I’m about to disconnect, feeling relieved that my conversation with him was a relatively normal one this time, when he tosses out another tidbit.

  “Gotta run, Sweet Cheeks. I’m due in court. I’m representing an Australian woman who got slapped with a DWI.” That sounds normal enough until he adds, “She told me she’s a lesbian. That lends a whole new meaning to the term down under, doesn’t it?”

  After I hang up the phone, I turn my mental efforts toward Shannon’s murder by digging out a telephone book and looking up Luke Nelson’s address and phone number. I expect to reach a receptionist or an answering machine, but Nelson himself answers.

  “Hi, Dr. Nelson. This is Mattie Winston. I’m a deputy coroner with the medical examiner’s office.”

  There’s a bit of a pause before he responds. “I’m guessing this is about Shannon Tolliver?” he says rhetorically. “I heard about it yesterday. What a terrible thing.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “It is terrible. I’m wondering if you might have some time for me to come by and talk to you about it.”

  “I’ve already arranged to meet with a Detective Hurley on the matter. Won’t that suffice?”

  I mutter a curse under my breath at hearing that Hurley has beat me to the guy. “Well, while my office does work with the police, we also conduct our own, separate investigation into these matters.” This isn’t totally true but Nelson doesn’t need to know that.

  “I see,” he says, emitting a heavy sigh. “Can’t you do it together so I don’t have to set up two separate appointments? I’m a very busy man.”

  His tone, and the implication that his time is more important than the investigation into Shannon’s death, irks me, but I swallow down my ire, not wanting to alienate him this early in the process.

  “Perhaps we can accommodate you in that regard,” I tell him. “When are you meeting with Detective Hurley?”

  “He’s coming by this evening at six, after I’m done with my patient appointments.”

  “Darn,” I say. “I have plans this evening and won’t be able to make it then.” It’s a lie. I have no plans, and much as I would love to spend more time with Hurley, I can’t resist the chance to scoop him. “I don’t suppose you’d have any free time before then? Like now?”

  He rewards my request with another world-weary sigh, letting me know he thinks I’m a huge pain in the ass. “Fine,” he says, clearly perturbed. “I’m eating at my desk right now since I typically use my lunch hour to review the charts of my afternoon patients. I have forty-five minutes before my next appointment, and if you can get here before then, I’ll give you whatever time is left.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  I hang up and make a quick scan of my fridge for something of my own to take along and eat while I’m there, but despite my love of food, I’m not much of a cook. My idea of a home prepared meal is when I set the table before the delivery guy shows up. The best I can come up with for now is a half-eaten tub of cottage cheese and some strawberry jam. I hastily toss the two together in the cottage cheese container, and shove it and a spoon in my purse.

  Five minutes later I pull into the parking lot of a small strip mall that contains a karate school, a mail store, one of those dollar stores, and Dr. Luke Nelson’s counseling services. Not the most auspicious location but perhaps it’s only meant to be temporary.

  The front room of the office is set up as a small
waiting area with a smattering of chairs, a couple of end tables, and one coffee table bearing a dozen or so out-of-date magazines. A sign on the wall by the door at the back of the room instructs visitors to take a seat and wait for the doctor. The chairs look worn and used and it makes me wonder just how well Dr. Nelson is doing. Given his self-proclaimed busy schedule, I expected something a little classier.

  At the moment, the back room door is open and I get my first look at Luke Nelson as he gets up from behind a desk and walks out to greet me. He’s a tall and relatively handsome man, with a head of thick blond hair, blue eyes, and the slender build of a runner. He’s wearing glasses but, rather than making him look bookish or nerdy, they combine with his rather patrician features to lend him an air of sophistication and casual intelligence.

  “Ms. Winston, I presume?” he says, and I note that his voice has the practiced smoothness I’ve come to associate with most people in his profession. It’s supposed to sound objective, encouraging, and soothing, but to me it always sounds as if there’s a hint of oily slickness in there.

  I walk over and extend my hand. He takes it, and though his handshake is just the right amount of firm and friendly, his skin is cool and clammy.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” I tell him, pulling my hand back and resisting an urge to wipe it on my pants. “I’ll try to be as brief as I can.”

  He glances at his watch and says, “Well, you have a little over half an hour. Come on into my office.”

  I follow him into the adjacent room, which is furnished with the same worn, well-used-looking furniture I saw in the waiting area. A desk—bearing the half-eaten remains of a Subway sandwich—and a high-backed office chair are set against the back wall. There is a computer on one side of the desk and the other end holds a stack of charts, leaving Nelson and his lunch in the opening in the middle. A smaller, upholstered chair sits on the opposite side of the desk, angled so that it looks toward the side wall of the room. A bookcase filled with a variety of hefty medical tomes covers the wall to my left, topped off by what appears to be an artificial plant. To my right there is an open door leading into another room. The glimpse I get of this adjacent area is a bit of a surprise. I see a cushy-looking stuffed leather chair, a comfy couch, what appears to be a Tiffany floor lamp, and a tasteful but expensive-looking Persian rug. Clearly the bulk of Nelson’s expenses have gone into his consultation room, which I have to admit looks cozy and welcoming.

  He gestures toward the chair in front of his desk and then settles into the larger one behind it. “I hope you don’t mind if I finish eating,” he says, picking up his sandwich and taking a bite, making it clear that it doesn’t matter to him whether I mind or not.

  “Not at all,” I say, setting my purse on the floor. “In fact, I brought along something myself and if you don’t mind, I’ll join you.” I fish my container of cottage cheese and my spoon out of my purse. Playing at his own game, I rip the top off the container and have a spoonful at the ready in seconds. I think I see the hint of a smile on his face as I shove the concoction into my mouth, but it’s there and gone so fast I can’t be sure.

  He swallows but my mouth freezes midbite as I realize my cottage cheese is one step away from being rancid. Belatedly I glance at the freshness date and see that it came and went well over two weeks ago. I force myself to swallow what I have and set the rest of it aside.

  “So,” I say, wishing I had thought to bring something to drink, “tell me about your relationship with Shannon Tolliver.”

  He arches one brow at me. “Well, no one can accuse you of beating around the bush. What happened to her is truly tragic.” He tries to look the part but it feels forced. “There isn’t much to say, really. I liked her. She was a very attractive lady. We went out a few times but it wasn’t a real steady thing. In fact, I hadn’t seen her for a week or so before her death.”

  “How long were you dating her?”

  He looks up at the ceiling a moment, then says, “Off and on for a couple of months.”

  “Were you intimate?” I expect to startle him with this question, but I’m disappointed.

  “Yes, though not at first,” he answers without hesitation.

  “And were you exclusive? Or were you seeing someone else?”

  He stares at me for a few seconds, then further delays his answer by picking up his sandwich and taking another bite. Given that he didn’t blush or hesitate in the least when answering the intimacy question, I’m curious as to why this one would throw him. It’s apparent he wasn’t expecting it.

  He chews slowly, swallows, and then says with a smile, “I don’t really see how my dating life outside of Shannon is material to your investigation.”

  “Where were you on the night Shannon was killed?”

  “Let’s see. That was Friday, wasn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “I came into work around ten in the morning and did my usual chart reviews. Then I had patient appointments every hour from noon to six. I took an hour for dinner here in my office and made some phone calls. I ordered a pizza, so I’m certain that can be verified, as can the phone calls. Then from seven to eight-thirty I headed up a group therapy session here. After that I went to Somewhere until one o’clock or so.”

  I start to ask for clarification on the somewhere but then realize he means the bar.

  “Then I went home to bed.”

  I nod thoughtfully. “It should be easy enough to check on the bar and the pizza delivery,” I tell him, realizing his alibis cover our new window of time for Shannon’s murder, “but I’d like verification of the appointments from your patients.”

  He makes a frowny face and says, “Well, I’ll have to ask my patients for permission first. Confidentiality and all that, you know.”

  “Of course. I don’t need to know why they were here, just that they were, and that they saw you.”

  “I’ll see what I can do but it may take me some time. I don’t have an office assistant so I’ll have to contact each patient myself in between appointments.”

  Clearly he is running the office on a pretty tight budget. It makes me curious about his past. “You’ve been here what . . . six months or so?”

  He nods. “Yes, give or take a week.”

  “Where were you before you came here?”

  “Florida.”

  “Wow, that’s quite a change. What made you move up here?”

  “I didn’t like the heat and humidity. Plus I grew up in the Midwest.”

  “Here?”

  “Indiana.”

  He is being careful to answer my questions with the bare minimum of information, offering nothing extra. Though it could be nothing more than good old-fashioned Midwestern reserve, I suspect he is being intentionally cautious and wonder why.

  “Did you have a practice in Florida?”

  He nods, eats the last of his sandwich, and then says, “I got my degree down there and opened a solo practice right out of school. It was mostly elderly patients with the typical aging and depression issues. It got boring after a while and to be honest, it was a bit of a challenge trying to make a go of it with the pathetic Medicare reimbursements. I’m sure there were wealthy retirees down there but as the new kid on the block, I couldn’t seem to attract them.”

  “How is your practice doing here?”

  “Better than expected. I had forgotten what a hotbed of dysfunction a small town can be,” he says with a practiced smile. “I’m hoping to move into a better office soon and then I’ll be looking for an assistant. But I haven’t one yet, so . . .” He makes a pointed glance toward his watch and I decide to let him off the hook, knowing I’m not likely to get much more out of him anyway.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I tell him, scooping up my disgusting cottage cheese dish and slapping the lid on it.

  “No problem,” he says, though we both know he doesn’t mean it. “I suppose I’ll have to go over it all again when that cop comes by later.�
��

  “Well, I’ll try to share what you’ve given me with him and maybe that will help to expedite things.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In the meantime, if you could get me a list of the patients you saw that day and permission to talk with them, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll do what I can but I’m not making any promises.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” I say with forced sweetness. “You can assure all of them that I’ll keep the information in the strictest confidence.”

  “I’ll let you know when I have something.”

  “Please do.” I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he stalled on the matter, so I add, “And if I don’t hear from you in the next day or so, I’ll be back in touch.”

  Back outside in my car, I take a moment to reflect on our conversation. My gut tells me Nelson wasn’t as forthcoming as he could have been and I suspect he might be holding back critical information. But until I can follow up on his alibis, there isn’t much else I can do here.

  I can’t wait to talk to Hurley and let him know I beat him to the punch interviewing Nelson. Of course, I’ll do so under the guise of sharing information with him but that won’t stop me from gloating. I wonder if he’s planning on attending the Heinriches’ autopsies and decide to call and ask him.

  The light at the approaching intersection turns green and I speed up to go through it. Since I haven’t yet figured out how to put anyone on speed dial, I am momentarily distracted by trying to find the right numbers to punch on my cell. As a result, I never see the car hurtling toward me from the side, its driver oblivious to the red light.

  The impact knocks the wind out of me and my car is tipped up on the driver side wheels. It seems to teeter there for a second before it finally goes over the rest of the way, coming down hard on the roof, rolling and rolling like a barrel. I feel a blinding pain on the top of my head and then I don’t feel anything at all.

  Chapter 19

  I hear voices—one very loud one in particular—and the sounds of someone retching. The loud voice is yelling, “Get back! Move away, people. We need some space here.”