“It does. I’m looking into a murder.”
“Whose?”
“A woman here in Sorenson by the name of Shannon Tolliver. Do you know her?”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell but my bell’s like the Liberty these days. A bit cracked.” She chuckles at her own joke. “Was she the one I heard about who got shot around Halloween?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I suppose I might have served her at some point in my career. The bar I work is a busy place. But I don’t know the woman.”
“She’s not the one I want to ask you about. I’m checking background information on someone the victim was dating, a psychiatrist here in town by the name of Luke Nelson.” When I hear a quick inhalation of air on the other end of the phone, I know I’ve hit pay dirt.
“Oh, yeah, I know him all right. What’s the asshole gone and done now?”
“What do you mean? What has he done before?”
She lets out a deep throaty chuckle that makes me suspect she’s a smoker. “How much time do you have, honey?”
“As much as you need,” I tell her. “How about if I meet with you later this morning so we can talk?”
She hesitates, then says, “I can meet you in a couple of hours, if you want. But you’ll have to come here to Smithville.”
“That’s fine. Do you want to meet somewhere public or should I come to your house?”
She names a small café and gives me directions. After agreeing to meet there at twelve-thirty, I hang up and watch Izzy’s back door through my window, while sipping my coffee. As soon as I see Izzy emerge, I head out to greet him.
“Looking for a ride to the office?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Actually I was wondering if I could take the day to follow up on some things in the Tolliver case.”
“I suppose,” Izzy says, looking pointedly at the empty parking pad beside my cottage. “But how are you going to get around?”
“Bjorn is willing to drive me for now. We worked out a deal. I’m going to need to buy a new car at some point since the other one is totaled, but I have no idea how long it’s going to take to get a check from the insurance company. Plus, there’s a complication.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“The insurance was in David’s name, so the check will go to him.”
“I saw him sitting on your porch last night, waiting for you. Is that why he was here? To discuss the car?”
“Hardly. He was looking for another chance, hinting at reconciliation.”
“And?”
“And I told him I’d give up food first.”
“Ouch,” Izzy says, flinching. “I guess you slammed that door shut for good.”
“I’m glad you see that, but I’m not so sure David does.”
“Time will tell, I guess. Do you think you’ll get into the office at all today?”
“It will be this afternoon if I do. Is that a problem?”
“Shouldn’t be, but take your cell and your pager with you just in case. If I need you I’ll give you a call. Want to share what it is you’re looking into?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. It’s just a theory for the moment. I need to check on some things first.”
The sound of an approaching engine makes us both turn and seconds later Bjorn pulls up. He parks the car, turns off the motor, and climbs out carrying his urine leg bag in one hand and the full bedside bag in the other, the connecting tubing snaking its way out of his trousers.
“I need my sack emptied really bad,” he says, proffering the full bag at me.
Izzy raises a brow, but before he can utter a word I hold my hand up and say, “Don’t ask. It’s part of my cab fare.”
I escort Bjorn inside and into my bathroom, empty the bedside bag, switch him over to his leg bag, and make a mental note to remember to order him the new ones with the easy-open valve.
“Where to today?” he asks me as soon as I have him clamped and ready to go.
“I want to start with Dairy Airs, then the police station, then the hospital, and after that I need to go to Smithville.”
“Pretty full day,” Bjorn says, licking his lips. “I think I need a piece of cheesecake to get me started.”
Cheesecake sounds good to me, too, but if I ate it as often as Bjorn does, I’d end up resembling the body suit Robin Williams wears in Mrs. Doubtfire.
Bjorn seems alert and aware this morning so I let him drive and, thanks to his eagerness for cheesecake, he manages to briefly hit the speed limit on a thirty-five-mile-an-hour street. The two-mile trip only takes a little over seven minutes, darned near light speed for Bjorn. We settle into a booth at Dairy Airs and order our respective items: a decadent-looking slice of turtle cheesecake for Bjorn and a bagel with cream cheese for me. Once again Jackie is our waitress—I knew she’d be working because I’d called earlier—and as soon as she brings our food, I tell her the reason I’m here.
“There’s something about Shannon that’s bothering me and I’m wondering if you can help shed any light on the matter.”
She shrugs, looks a little nervous, and says, “I can try.”
“You mentioned that on the day Erik was here and got hit with the separation papers, Shannon ordered a bunch of food before going home. Is that something she did on a regular basis?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jackie says with a roll of her eyes. “That woman had a truly blessed metabolism. She ate like there was no tomorrow and never seemed to gain an ounce. Maybe it was her stomach problem.”
“Stomach problem?”
“She mentioned once that she had some kind of stomach problem and that was why she spent so much time in the bathroom.” She pauses a moment, thinking. “It did seem like she had to go pretty often, and sometimes she would stay in there for quite a while.”
“Did she usually eat here when she worked, or did she take stuff home with her?”
“A little of both, I guess.”
I thank Jackie for her time and she looks puzzled but relieved when she realizes I’m done questioning her. Apparently Bjorn is puzzled, too.
“How do eating and toileting habits help solve murders?” he asks.
“You’d be surprised,” I tell him, and though he still looks perplexed, he lets it go. We finish our meals in silence and as soon as we are done, we hop back in his car and head for the police station.
At the back of the Sorenson City Police Department are four jail cells. Most of the time they’re occupied by town drunks who need a place to sleep off their latest alcoholic stupor and the doors to the cells are often left ajar. But every once in a while the jail houses someone charged with an actual crime, like Erik Tolliver.
After getting clearance from the front desk and depositing Bjorn in the squad room with some change for the vending machines, I head for the cell area, where I find Erik sitting on the bunk in cell number two, reading the morning newspaper. There is a desk area in front of the cells where an officer would typically sit, but at the moment it’s empty. Erik is hardly alone, however. Cameras mounted near the ceiling are aimed at each of the cells and connected to monitors out at the dispatcher’s desk. There is also a button on the wall of each cell that connects a prisoner to an intercom system in case they need to call for help. I know from past conversations with the cops that the intercom system also allows for eavesdropping, should the need arise. Push a button on the other end and you can hear everything that goes on inside a cell.
Hearing my approach, Erik peeks over the top of his newspaper and then greets me with a weary “Good morning.” I return the greeting, grab the chair behind the desk, and wheel it over in front of his cell.
“I’m almost afraid to ask why you’re here,” he says, setting his paper aside.
“I have a few questions about Shannon.”
He gives me a wary look. “Is this part of your investigation? Shouldn’t I have Lucien here?”
“It is a part of my investigation but not anything official,
at least not yet. I’m following up on a hunch and just want to ask you a couple of questions about Shannon’s eating habits.”
Erik looks surprised. “Her eating habits? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I’m not sure yet. It might be nothing, it might be everything. If my suspicions are right it could work in your favor but I’m still only theorizing at this point. I don’t see any reason to call Lucien, but if it will make you feel more comfortable to do so, go ahead. I’ll wait.”
He weighs his options and decides to trust me. “Okay,” he says. “But if I start to feel uncomfortable about anything you ask, I’m going to call a halt.”
“Fair enough. To start with, can you tell me how Shannon’s modeling career was doing?”
He shrugs. “Okay, I guess. I mean it wasn’t anything huge and the work was pretty irregular. It was mostly local jobs. You know, modeling clothes for flyers and ads in the paper, that sort of stuff. She called the money she made from it her funny money.”
“Did she typically diet when she had a job coming up?”
“Hell, it seemed like she was dieting all the time. She was always saying she needed to lose a few pounds. I remember a couple of times when she consumed nothing but those diet drinks for a few days.” He grimaces and shudders. “I tried one of them out of curiosity once. I don’t know how anyone can subsist on those things. They’re nasty.”
“Were there ever times when she ate a lot? You know, way more than usual?”
Erik smiles. “Don’t we all?”
I wisely decide to take the Fifth on that one.
“She called them her binges,” he goes on. “Some days she’d eat as if it might be the last food she’d ever see. And boy, did she have a sweet tooth. Her job at Dairy Airs was quite the challenge for her at times, what with all the ice cream and cheesecake and such.”
“Did she ever show any remorse over her binges?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes she’d blame it on her hormones. You know, say it was that time of the month and all.”
I nod. I’m familiar with that excuse since I’ve used it myself rather often, ignoring the fact that if it was true, my time of the month would be nearly every day.
“Sometimes she’d moan about what a pig she was and complain about her lack of willpower, but no more than any other woman I know.”
I smile, pausing a moment as I try to find a delicate way to ask my next question. “Do you think that she spent an unusual amount of time in the bathroom?”
“Well, yeah,” he says, giving me one of those duh looks. “But that was because of her IBS.”
IBS is an acronym for irritable bowel syndrome, a condition that can cause frequent bouts of diarrhea, constipation, and abdominal pain. It’s not rare but it’s not all that common either. And I’m pretty sure Shannon didn’t have it, unless she developed it within the last six months.
“How long had she had IBS?”
“The whole time we were married.” I frown and Erik picks up on my confusion. “What?” he asks. “I can tell something is bothering you.”
“It’s just that I remember when Shannon had that emergency appendectomy a few months back. I was the scrub nurse on her case and she never mentioned having IBS. It wasn’t in her history.”
“Maybe she forgot,” Erik says with a shrug. “Or maybe she was just too embarrassed to mention it. I know she didn’t like to talk about it.”
“Maybe,” I say, but I don’t believe it. I had an up-close and very personal view of Shannon’s bowels during that surgery. In fact, I held them in my hand. And there was no indication of a disease of any kind, much less IBS. Nor was there any sign of it during her autopsy.
“Why does it matter?” Erik asks. “Where are you going with all of this?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to say just yet,” He gives me a look of exasperation so I try to explain myself more. “It’s for your own good, Erik. If I tell you what I’m thinking and I’m wrong, it will get your hopes up for nothing. And if I’m right, telling you too soon could compromise the investigation. But it might also exonerate you. So I’m asking you to sit tight, be patient, and trust me on this one.”
He makes a sweeping gesture around the inside of his cell. “It’s not like I have much choice.”
“I promise you that as soon as I have anything solid, I’ll let both you and Lucien know, okay?”
He studies me through the bars of his cell, seeming to weigh my trustworthiness. Apparently I pass muster because he sighs, nods, and says, “Okay, Mattie. My fate is in your hands.”
I should feel relieved to hear him say this, but I’m frightened instead. The weight of this investigation is beginning to press hard on me, and Erik’s fate is a responsibility I’m not sure I want.
Before I have time to consider it further, I hear a familiar voice coming down the hall, one that prompts me to prepare for a hasty exit. Seconds later Lucien enters the room accompanied by a uniformed officer and Bjorn.
At first glance Lucien appears to be a normal, decent-looking guy. He has an average build, strawberry-blond hair, blue eyes, and wears suits, button-down shirts, and ties when he’s working. But his clothes always have that slightly rumpled, slept-in look, and often as not the colors he wears clash violently. His hair, which is just wavy enough to be a bit unruly, is usually slicked back with a ton of greasy gel that makes it look perpetually wet. It all works together to lend him an air of slick sleaziness, an image he manages to reinforce every time he opens his mouth.
The officer gestures toward Bjorn, whose hands and face are smeared with chocolate. “Does he belong to you?”
“He does,” I say, taking Bjorn by the arm and steering him toward a chair. I grab some tissues from a box on the desk and start trying to clean off the chocolate. From the corner of my eye I see Lucien watching me with that grin, the one that means something crass is coming, so I brace myself.
“Aw, Sweet Cheeks,” he says to me in a pathetic tone. “I know you’re probably yearning for a churning now that David’s out of the picture, but this guy’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”
“I’m not dating him,” I say, adding a mental you moron tag to the statement. “Bjorn is a cabdriver, and since my car was totaled the other day, he’s driving me around until I can find a replacement.”
Bjorn doesn’t help the situation when he adds his own two cents, which turns out to be more like a halfpenny. “We worked out a deal,” he explains. “I take her where she needs to go and she takes care of the tube in my peter.”
Silence fills the room and Bjorn senses that he might have said something dicey. He tries to remedy the situation but only makes it worse. “She handles my sac when it gets too full and I need to drain my tube.”
“Hey, Sweet Cheeks, you can handle my sac anytime you want.”
“Nice, Lucien. Are you forgetting about your wife, who also happens to be my sister?”
“Of course not. We can include her, too. I’m always up for a threesome.”
The uniform snorts a laugh at that one and even Erik manages a smile. I’m about to snap off another comeback but I bite it back, realizing it’s a waste of time. I know from past experience that Lucien has no shame. And while he talks a good talk, as far as I know that’s all he does. Someday I’m going to take him up on one of his challenges just to see what happens. But for now, I think the wisest course is to ignore him.
“Come on, Bjorn,” I say, walking over and hooking my arm through his. “Let’s get going.”
“Where to now?” he asks as we head out of the police station.
“I want to make a quick stop at the hospital, to order you those other bags I was talking about.” That’s only part of the reason I want to go there but Bjorn has no need to know the other. “After that I need to go to Smithville, but if you don’t mind lending me your car I can drop you off at the cab office and you can spend the afternoon driving around some real customers for a change.”
He shrugs and says
, “A trip to Smithville sounds like fun. I don’t get out of town much anymore.” I start to protest but before I can get a word out he adds, “Besides, what about my bag? You said you’d keep me empty all day.”
I sigh, wondering why his forgetfulness never includes this promise. “Okay, Smithville it is then, right after the hospital.”
There’s a brief moment of awkwardness when Bjorn and I both head for the driver’s side door of his car, but I acquiesce and move to the passenger side. As he climbs in behind the wheel and shuts the door he says, “When we get to the hospital I think I’ll head for the cafeteria while you order your stuff. I’m kind of hungry.”
“Fine, but you have to promise me you’ll eat some real food this time. No more sweets for now, okay?”
He shoots me a sidelong glance that is a mix of disappointment and calculation. “How about just one tiny dessert after I eat something healthy?” he tries.
I shake my head. “No, Bjorn. You’ve already eaten more sugar today than most people eat in a week. It’s not healthy.” He opens his mouth in preparation for his next protest and I cut him off, delivering my coup de grâce. “Besides, all that sugar makes you pee more so your bag is going to fill up faster.”
He clamps his mouth shut and stares out the windshield for a moment, contemplating. I can tell he’s suspicious about my claim but I also know he isn’t likely to know if it’s true or not. When I see a look of resigned acceptance on his face, I know I’ve won, at least this round.
“Okay,” he says, turning the key. He carefully backs out of his parking space and into a light post. The one advantage of his snail’s pace is that these little fender benders don’t cause too much damage or injury. A definite disadvantage is the road rage he triggers among those forced to share the streets with him. His driving skills, or lack thereof, create pockets of chaos everywhere we go. At least five cars honk angrily at us and I lose count of how many drivers make obscene hand and finger gestures. Bjorn is blessedly oblivious to it all as we crawl our way along.
I, however, am not. I take every glare, every gesture, and every unheard uttering personally. So when we finally pull onto the street where the hospital is located, I breathe a sigh of relief. But when I see the crowd of people and vehicles gathered in front of the building, I realize the chaos has followed us here.
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