Stiff Penalty (A Mattie Winston Mystery)

by Annelise Ryan

  “Do you have anyone special in your life, a girlfriend, or a wife?” I asked, suddenly curious.

  “Not at the moment. I was engaged once, but she ended up leaving me for someone who she referred to as a real doctor.”

  “Ouch,” I commiserated. “I know how that goes.”

  “How about you?” he asked, finally putting Rubbish back on the bed. The cat looked seriously annoyed by this sudden rejection. He mewled plaintively and then hopped off the bed and started weaving himself around Henderson’s feet.

  “I’m divorced,” I told him. Then in a tone of disgust I added, “My ex is one of those real doctors.”

  “Ouch,” he said, and after a brief shared glance, we both broke out in laughter. I was beginning to think that maybe Henderson wasn’t such a bad egg after all. He helped me get the cats into their carriers, pack up food and toys for them and the dog, and haul everything I was taking with me out to the front porch. By then a state police car had arrived, and there were two troopers on-site talking with Junior, Richmond, and the others.

  “Are you going to have the state guys handle the investigation?” I asked.

  “For now. It makes the most sense. They’re objective enough and close enough to take over things. Wait here a minute so I can talk to them, and then I’ll drive you over to the motel. We can talk more about what happened here on the way.”

  I stood on my front porch and watched as Henderson delivered the news to Richmond and the others. They didn’t look any more pleased than Hurley had. Then Henderson went over and examined my shooter’s lifeless body for several minutes. Hoover watched, too, whining impatiently and looking around. I wondered if he was looking for Hurley. I was, but he was nowhere in sight.

  When Henderson was done, he had a couple of uniformed guys help him get the dead man into a body bag, and then he spoke to the state troopers, who had multiplied by then. When Henderson was done doling out his instructions, which sent two of the troopers through the woods, presumably to examine the shooter’s car and get it hauled away for evidence, he came back over to me, along with Richmond. “I’ll take the cat carriers,” he said. “Bob, can you manage the suitcases?”

  Richmond looked glum, but he didn’t say a word. He simply nodded, grabbed the two suitcases I had packed, and headed down the driveway. Henderson fell into step behind him with the two cat carriers under one of his lanky arms and a smaller bag that held my toiletries under the other. That left me with Hoover, my bag of pet food and toys, and one litter box, which I had cleaned and emptied. I had no human food with me, and I realized that since I also had no car, I was going to be hungry. The closest food source to the Sorenson Motel was Dairy Airs, whose main menu items were cheesecake, ice cream, and various cheese sandwiches. It was within walking distance, and I decided I would survive just fine on what the place had to offer. I also had my cell phone and could have food delivered if necessary, though my options there were limited to one sandwich shop, a pizza parlor, and Chinese . . . pretty much my pre-pregnancy diet.

  I had Hoover on a leash. Though he was generally reliable when it came to sticking around, I didn’t trust him not to run over and sniff at the dead body. I hoisted the litter box and the bag of pet stuff—which also had a container of litter in it, so it was heavy—in one arm and held Hoover’s leash in the other. As expected, Hoover whined and tried to pull me over to the body as we passed it, but after a firm, “No!” from me, he gave up and fell into step at my side. I made my way to Henderson’s car—an old Jeep Wagoneer with wood-paneled sides—and shoved my items in next to the other stuff.

  When everything was loaded, Henderson closed the hatch, and Richmond turned to me. “Want me to pick you up in the morning?”

  “That would be great since I won’t have any wheels. Do you still want to shoot for eight-thirty?” I asked, sparing a mourning glance toward my hearse. The thing was built like a tank, and other than the missing windows, it didn’t look too bad. Of course, that didn’t mean I was going to get it back anytime soon. I had no idea how long it would take them to process it for evidence.

  “How about seven?” Bob said. “Then we can grab a bite to eat before we head out.”

  Richmond was a foodie after my own heart, and since I no longer felt it necessary to check into the office first thing in the morning, I readily agreed. “Good idea. See you then.”

  I put Hoover in the backseat of Henderson’s car and then climbed into the front passenger side. Henderson had some final words for Richmond before he got in. “The funeral home should be here to pick up the body anytime. The troopers will see it back to the ME’s office. And I have a towing service coming to take both cars to the police garage so they can be processed for evidence. I’ll plan on doing the autopsy in the morning, but for tonight, the troopers will oversee the gathering of evidence here, including any bullets and casings. I’d appreciate it if you would see to it that your men cooperate.”

  “No problem,” Richmond said, his jaw tight. Then he spun around and headed back up the drive.

  Henderson got in behind the wheel and started the engine. Then he pulled out, driving me off into a future that was more uncertain than ever before.

  Chapter 18

  It took nearly fifteen minutes to get to the Sorenson Motel, a trip I can normally make in just over five. But Henderson was driving like an octogenarian, creeping along the streets at the speed of a snail. I wondered if he always drove that way or if he was purposely driving slowly to give us time to talk.

  “So tell me what happened tonight,” he said at the start of our crawl. “Give it to me in your own words.”

  This last was a quaint, odd turn of phrase that made me wonder if he thought I might speak in tongues or channel the soul of some deceased person.

  “It started yesterday when I went to get something to eat,” I began. Then I corrected myself. “Or maybe it started two months ago. I’m not sure.” I then filled him in on the phone calls, and the car I’d seen pull out of David’s driveway, and my suspicion that it was following me. He stopped me to question how I came to be living next door to my ex, and to ask if it bothered me any.

  “No, not really,” I lied. “I like the cottage. It’s just the right size for me.”

  “Will it be big enough when you have your baby?”

  This shocked me. “Who told?” I asked, staring at him and mentally plotting revenge on the squealer, whoever it was.

  “I figured it out,” he said. “I saw you packing those clothes from The Mother Hood bags, and there was one of those books on your bedside table about what to expect when you’re pregnant. I asked the officers you work with just to be sure, and Officer Feller confirmed it for me.”

  “I think the cottage will do fine for now,” I said. “My bedroom is big enough to fit a crib along with my bed. And since Izzy’s partner, Dom, is eager to provide me with babysitting services, it will be convenient for whenever I have to work. As you know, the hours can be odd at times, so having Dom right there will be handy.”

  Henderson nodded. “So back to this car that was following you last night,” he said.

  “I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was following me the first time I saw it, but the way the driver hesitated when I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant sure made it look that way. I thought I might just be paranoid, but then later, when I saw a car following me from the crime scene, I zigzagged through some neighborhoods, just driving randomly with no destination in mind, and the car kept up with me turn for turn until I pulled into a strip-mall parking lot.”

  “What did the car look like?”

  “It was a boxy, dark sedan of some sort. I never got a very good look at it because it was dark and the headlights obscured my vision.”

  “The car they found on your ex’s property is a dark sedan, so it seems your instincts may have been spot on. Why didn’t you report it to someone, so they could look into it?”

  “Well, for one, I didn’t want to look stupid if I was imag
ining things. And to be honest, I thought it might have been my father.”

  “Your father?” He shot me a questioning look, so I told him about my history, or lack thereof, with my father, the incident of the man spying through my windows, Emily’s drawing, and my mother’s declaration that it was my father. I then told him I thought my father might have been behind the odd phone calls I’d been receiving.

  “The cops can run those calls to see where they came from,” Henderson said. “The guy who shot you had a cell phone on him, but it got smashed when you drove over him, so it might take a while to figure out if he was the one making those calls.”

  While it didn’t bode well for a quick resolution to my case, I did see a light at the end of the tunnel with regard to my being able to continue with the Ames case. “If the guy who shot at me was also the guy who was following me, then it couldn’t have anything to do with our current murder investigation because I was being followed before that case existed. Right?”

  “I suppose,” Henderson said. “Tell me about tonight. What led up to you running that man over with your car?”

  “I didn’t know I was running him over. I was just trying to get away.” I then gave him a detailed explanation of the events leading up to the shooter’s death.

  “Any idea why someone would want to kill you?”

  I thought long and hard but came up with nothing. “No idea at all,” I told him.

  “What about your father? Do you think he would want to kill you?”

  “My father?” My skepticism and horror were clear in my tone. “Why on earth would he want me dead?”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “I wish I knew. But he never told me or gave me any clues that he was leaving. Or if he did, I don’t remember it. And my mother refuses to talk about him.”

  “Why is that, do you think?”

  “If you knew my mother, you wouldn’t have to ask that question. My father was one of her four husbands, and at the moment she’s living with a man I once dated.”

  Henderson shot me a look of horror.

  “It’s not as twisted as it sounds,” I said. “In fact, I’m the one who fixed the two of them up. Trust me; they’re perfect for one another.”

  We had arrived, finally, at the Sorenson Motel, and rather than respond to my latest revelation, Henderson simply stopped in front of the office entrance, shifted into park, and said, “Go ahead and book a room. I’ll wait here.”

  I rolled my eyes, told Hoover to stay, and got out.

  The owner of the Sorenson Motel is a sixty-something curmudgeon by the name of Joseph Wagner, who is best known in town for his constant flow of letters to the editor criticizing the local government. Joseph and our mayor, Charlie Petersen, have been battling one another for about forty years now, all because of a girl the two of them met back in their heydays. Charlie won the battle, though knowing what the girl they fought over is like today, I think Joseph won the war.

  I found Joseph parked behind his desk, reading a large-print issue of Reader’s Digest. He had large, loose bags beneath his eyes, and he was wearing a pair of overalls with a worn, denim shirt underneath. His head was bald on top, but he had thick, curly, gray hair on the sides, making him look like Larry Fine from the Three Stooges.

  The Sorenson Motel is nearly as old as Joseph and hasn’t fared much better in the looks department. The place is clean enough, but the décor is straight out of the eighties. It’s a typical sixties-era, roadside motel: a long, narrow building with two wings of units—front and back—divided by an office in the middle. Joseph does what he needs to in order to keep the place running, but not much more. The upside of this is affordable rates. And he does offer a few modern conveniences, such as free Internet access, cable TV, and pay-per-view porn.

  I was hoping to snag one of the end units: suites that included a kitchenette and sitting area. It would make my temporary living situation a little more tolerable.

  “Hey, Joseph, how are you?”

  He lowered the magazine, squinted at me, and frowned. “Are you here to look for a killer among my guests again?”

  “No, I’m here to become one of your guests.”

  “Really?” He dropped the magazine, and his expression turned happy.

  I figured telling him I was a fresh-off-the-block killer myself wasn’t going to win me any points, so I gave him a vague reason for my need. “I’m having some work done on my place, and I need somewhere to stay for a few days. Do you have one of the end suites available?”

  “Just so happens I do. It’s the one down on the east end. Same one your ex stayed in, in fact.”

  That figured.

  “Some doctor guy has the one on the west end.”

  “That would be Dr. Henderson. He’s filling in for Izzy for a while.”

  “Did Izzy finally take a vacation?”

  “No, Dom’s father died, so he went with him to Iowa.”

  “Oh. Too bad.” I assumed he meant it was too bad that Dom’s father died, but his next words clarified things. “That man works too hard.”

  He had a point. I couldn’t remember the last time Izzy took time off for any fun stuff. He’d occasionally take a day or two over a holiday if we had someone who could cover, but other than that, he worked every day.

  “How much for the room?” I asked, taking out a credit card and sliding it across the desk.

  “How long you going to be needing it? You can get a cheaper rate if you go by the week.”

  “I don’t think it will be that long.” Truth be told, I had no idea how long it would be. “What’s the daily rate?”

  “Fifty a day.”

  “And the weekly rate?”

  “Three hundred. You basically get a day for free.”

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  “It is, assuming you don’t have any pets or anything.”

  I grimaced at that. “I do have pets. A dog. And a cat.”

  “Is the dog housebroken?”

  “Of course. And the cat is litter-trained. I brought a litter box with me.”

  “Pets are an additional twenty a day, or an extra fifty a week.”

  “That seems steep.” Lord knew what he’d charge me if he found out I had not one cat, but two.

  “That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

  I was pretty much stuck taking it, but I didn’t like it. I tried another gambit. “You know, I send business your way all the time, Joseph. Like that doctor who’s staying here. I recommended this place to him. Shouldn’t that earn me a discount of some sort?” I prayed that Henderson hadn’t mentioned that it was actually Izzy who recommended the place, but I needn’t have worried. Joseph wasn’t going to budge.

  “I don’t do discounts for referrals,” he said. “I just return the favor instead.”

  “Really? Well then, you make sure you refer the next dead person who tries to check in to me, okay?”

  Joseph just smiled.

  “Come on, can’t you give me a better rate than that? I’m a local. You know I’m good for it.”

  “I’m trying to run a business here, you know? So the rate is what it is. If you don’t like it, you can head over to that other place in town, but I can tell you that their rates are even higher. Plus they don’t allow pets of any kind, and they don’t have any suites.”

  I had one last gambit to try. “I’m pregnant, you know. Don’t you think that should entitle me to a special rate?”

  “You’re preggers?” he said, and I nodded, rubbing my tummy and for once trying to pooch it out rather than suck it in. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Joseph said with a smile.

  “I just did,” I countered with my own smile.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you the special knocked-up rate then. That will be three-forty-nine ninety-nine for the week.”

  My smile morphed into a glare. I knew he wasn’t going to budge, so I caved, but not without one last question. “If I pay the weekly rate but check out
early, do I get a refund?”

  “What do you think?”

  We engaged in a stare-down that lasted at least fifteen seconds.

  “Fine,” I said, letting my irritation show. “Let me have a week.” I shoved my credit card over to him, and he ran it through his little machine.

  The card was brand spanking new, the first one I’d gotten since my divorce from David. All the cards I had before that were in his name, with me as an authorized signer. Prior to getting married I’d worked on a strictly cash basis, using a debit card that pulled money from my bank account. It was a good way to budget money, something I had to do in order to pay off my school loans. Seven years of living high on the hog with a well-to-do surgeon had given me a taste of how simple and, yes, fun a credit card could be. Unfortunately, I wasn’t smart enough to have built any credit in my own name, so once we split I was back to working on a cash basis again. Now that I had a steady income—at least I hoped it would prove to be steady—and a healthy savings account that would have been a hell of a lot healthier if I hadn’t spent so much time and money at the blackjack tables recently, I decided it was time to apply for a credit card in my own name. It had a five thousand dollar limit on it, and I’d spent more than a fifth of that already at The Mother Hood.

  When Joseph was done running my card and I’d filled in the appropriate paperwork, he slid a key over to me. I was about to head back out to Henderson when Joseph stopped me. “You didn’t fill in a license plate number,” he said, shoving the card back across the desk at me.

  “I don’t have one to fill in. My car is also having some work done, so at the moment I don’t have any wheels.”

  “Hmph,” Joseph said. “That’s not very good planning, if you ask me.”

  He had no idea. Though I kind of wished I had the hearse with me. Parking it right out front might scare away some potential business, which would serve Joseph right.