Frozen Stiff (20 page)

Chapter 30

M
y scream is an instinctive one, brought on by the shock of my discovery. Unfortunately it precedes my awareness of who the face belongs to, so by the time I realize I don’t have to scream, I already have. Hoover reacts instantly, leaping from the bed and barking like crazy, turning around in circles because he isn’t sure exactly what it is he’s barking at.

On the other side of my window, looking in, is Hurley. Though my scream was a short one, it was enough to make him wince and now he’s holding a finger to his lips to shush me. But it’s too late. All the hullaballoo has spooked Rubbish, who is no longer on top of the bed, though I have no idea where he disappeared to. David has awakened, too, and I can hear him out in the living room behind me, cussing and thrashing about as he tries to get up from the couch. I turn away from the window for a few seconds and holler out to him, “I’m sorry David. I didn’t mean to startle you. I had a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

When I turn back to the window, Hurley is gone. Letting the drapes fall back into place, I head out to the living room to make sure David is okay. I find him sitting on the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, walking over and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I had this nightmare and in it I was screaming, and then suddenly I was awake and I really
was
screaming. And of course that set Hoover off.”

David looks up at me through sleepy eyes and he reaches up and takes the hand I have on his shoulder. He sandwiches it in between both of his and says, “In all the years we were together I never heard you yell out like that in your sleep.”

Not knowing what to say since technically I
still
haven’t yelled out like that in my sleep, I simply shrug.

“I think it’s this new job of yours,” David says. “You’re dealing with death every day, crimes half of the time, and I know from my med school experience that cutting on dead people isn’t much fun. Plus what you’re doing is dangerous. You’ve already been attacked by killers a couple of times and that’s got to leave you feeling rattled.”

“I like my new job,” I tell him.

David shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be working at all. You know my feelings on the matter.”

I do indeed. We had several discussions during our marriage about whether or not I should continue working and often as not they ended up in a standoff. But how he felt about it then has no bearing on the here and now since he no longer has a say in what I do. I pull my hand away from his, suddenly uncomfortable with where this conversation is headed.

“At least then you were working because you wanted to,” he says. “Now you’re working because you have to.”

“Well, I have rent to pay, and food to put on the table,” I tell him. “They can be powerful motivators.”

“You shouldn’t have to work at a job that makes you miserable. Why don’t you go back to the hospital? I hear there are a couple of positions open in the ER.”

“I can’t go back to the hospital because everyone there looks at me with pity and embarrassment, thanks to you,” I tell him, growing irritated. “And my current job does
not
make me miserable.”

“Bull.”

“It doesn’t,” I insist.

“The true test of love for a vocation is whether or not you’d do it if you didn’t have to. So are you telling me that if you had enough money that you didn’t have to work, you’d still keep this stupid job?”

“Don’t call my job stupid,” I snap. “And yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re just being arbitrary because you’re mad at me. You didn’t even give the question any serious thought.”

He’s right about one thing. I’m pretty pissed at him at the moment. And it couldn’t be better timing. All of my earlier waning on the topic of our marriage had blinded me to the harsh realities of our relationship. No matter how attracted I might be to David physically, our incompatibilities are simply too big to overcome. Skirmishes like the one we are having now occurred off and on throughout our marriage, a series of passive-aggressive battles as each of us tried to bring the other around to our own point of view. Despite the fact that these skirmishes escalated considerably during the latter months of our marriage, that in and of itself might not have been enough to destroy our relationship. But David’s affair and the fact that he got his girlfriend pregnant, definitely is. Yes, I still find David attractive physically and yes, I still care for him as a person. But that’s where it ends. In a flash of clarity I know our marriage is over, as dead as any client on my autopsy table.

And with this realization comes a stroke of brilliance, an idea so perfect I can’t believe it took me this long to think of it.

“I do love my job, David, and I’ll prove it to you. As I recall, that house next door is worth close to a million in today’s market, and that’s just the house alone, not the contents that were in it. I also know what it and the contents were insured for. And I can guarantee you that I’m going to take my half of that insurance money and keep it for myself. That should give me enough to live off of for a good while if I don’t have a job.

“But I will have a job, David, the same job I have now. And do you know why? Because I like it. I like the puzzle-solving aspects, I like the scientific aspects, and I like the people I work with.”

Whereas before he looked amused by our conversation, he now looks mad as hell. “You’re just being spiteful,” he says.

“I think I’m being practical.”

He shakes his head, his face tightening with anger. “I can’t believe you’ve become such a vindictive bitch,” he snarls. “I just don’t get you anymore, Mattie.”

“I know you don’t. David. You never have.”

I spin on my heel and march back to my bedroom, Hoover following close behind. As soon as we are both in the room, I slam the door closed. I walk over to the window and part the curtains again, but Hurley is no longer there. A small part of me wonders if he ever really was there, or if my mind just conjured up his image. But I don’t really believe that. He was there, and I want to know why.

That’s when I realize I could call him on the throwaway phone, but it’s in my purse, which is out in the living room. And after the very dramatic and emphatic exit I just made, I can’t go back out there; it would undermine the entire performance. Besides, the walls of this cottage aren’t that thick and I’m afraid David would be able to hear anything I say on the phone, even through a closed door. It’s not that I care if David knows I’m talking to Hurley, I just don’t want the aggravation I fear will come with it.

Resigned to waiting until morning, I crawl back in between the covers and I’m happily sandwiched between my furry partners minutes later. Apparently decisive anger is good for me because I’m asleep in no time.

When I awaken early the next morning to bright sunlight trying to slink its way around the corners of my drapes, it seems a good omen. At least until I try to get out of bed. That’s when I discover that I can barely move. My back muscles feel tighter than the sphincters of Green Bay residents during a Packers-Vikings game, and my legs are achy, tremulous, and shaky. I roll onto my side and push myself into a sitting position, groaning the entire time. When I stand and try to walk, it feels like the year my mother made me wear my Halloween costume over my snowsuit because we got ten inches of snow the night before. I can hardly move.

I waddle my way to the bedroom door, open it with a grimace because reaching for the knob makes my upper back scream with pain, and look out at the couch. It’s empty and the sheets have been folded up atop the pillow and left in a neat little pile at one end. I shuffle out and look in the kitchen and bathroom, but they are empty too. Apparently David is up and gone, and I wonder if he’s already over at Izzy’s for breakfast. Then I remember that I never told him about the invite. I look out the window and see the hearse is still parked outside so I know he couldn’t have gone far.

I hobble over to the front door and let Hoover out for his morning ablutions, watching him from the porch and admiring his ability to squat and hunch. The warming trend we had is definitely gone and despite a bright, sunny sky, the air has a bitter bite to it. I glance through the trees toward my old house, wondering if David is over there, but all I can see are bits and pieces of the few charred parts of the structure that are still standing. When Hoover comes back inside, I head for the bathroom, hoping that a hot shower and a handful of ibuprofen will make things better.

They do, but only minimally.

When I arrive at Izzy and Dom’s for breakfast. Dom is putting a delicious-smelling quiche on the table along with hot cinnamon bread and fresh coffee.

“Where’s David?” Izzy asks.

“Don’t know and don’t care,” I say, easing into a chair at the table.

Izzy raises his eyebrows. “I take it the night didn’t go so well?”

“Actually it was quite enlightening,” I tell him. “It made me realize two things: that David’s and my differences go much deeper than I thought, and that I need to get laid soon.” Dom, who is putting coffee mugs on the table, drops one with a clatter. I see him and Izzy exchange looks. “To be honest,” I add as Dom carefully rights the dropped cup, “I’m surprised David and I lasted as long as we did. But we are definitely done and it’s time for me to move on. Shall we eat?”

The two men stare at me for a moment, clearly surprised by my outburst, but they recover quickly. Dom takes his seat and says, “By all means, dig in.”

I start to reach for the spatula in the quiche dish but my back muscles seize up with a ferocity that makes me gasp.

“What’s wrong with you this morning?” Izzy asks. “You’re moving like my mother.”

Given that his mother is in her eighties and has severe spinal kyphosis and more artificial joints than a robot, his comment doesn’t paint a very pretty picture.

“I worked out at a gym yesterday and I’m paying dearly for it now. I always knew exercise could kill you.”

“You went to a gym?” Izzy says, clearly shocked. Dom quietly takes my plate and serves me up a huge slice of quiche and some cinnamon bread.

“Why does that fact surprise everyone so much?” I say, picking up my fork as Dom sets the plate down in front of me. “I’m not above trying to maintain a healthy lifestyle. Plus I figure if I’m going to get back into the dating scene, I need to get into better shape.”

Izzy digests this answer for a few seconds and then says, “What’s the real reason?”

“Bob Richmond basically blackmailed me into going with him.” I stab a piece of quiche onto my fork and wince with pain as I raise it to my mouth, but my efforts are rewarded when it melts on my tongue with a delightful burst of flavors.

Dom, who is naturally slender—a trait that would make me hate him if he wasn’t such a damned good cook—serves up Izzy’s breakfast and says, “I think it’s a great idea. You should go with them, Izzy.”

Izzy gives Dom a look that makes it clear what he thinks of this suggestion.

We spend the rest of the breakfast discussing the recent murders and the burning of my old house.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Izzy says. “The most likely culprit for the arson is a past patient of David’s who was unhappy with his surgical outcome. Has David had any malpractice incidents recently?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” I say, pretty sure this theory is wrong. Reminded of the secrets I’m keeping, I focus on the food on my plate and avoid looking at Izzy. Fortunately this task is made immeasurably easier when Izzy’s cell phone rings and he gets up to answer it.

He stands in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, taking the call, and both Dom and I remain quiet, hoping to eavesdrop. Though Izzy says little beyond the occasional “No” and “Really?” I can tell from the expression on his face that the news isn’t good. When he hangs up and returns to the table, he looks seriously troubled.

“That was Bob Richmond,” he says. “He wanted to know if I’d seen or heard from Hurley recently. He’s going to be calling you next.”

“Why?” I ask with what I hope seems like innocent curiosity, even though I have a pretty good idea of the answer.

“Richmond says they processed the gas can that was found in your house and they got some fingerprints off it. They ran them through AFIS and got a match.”

“That’s great,” I say, trying to look relieved even as my gut tries to tie itself into knots. I can tell from Izzy’s scrutinizing stare that he isn’t totally buying my feigned reaction.

“No, it’s not so great,” he says, “because the prints belong to Hurley.”

“Hurley? That’s odd,” I say, frowning. Then I pretend to hit on an idea. “Or maybe not. He told me he was there the night of the fire, so maybe he handled the can then.”

“Maybe,” Izzy says, unconvinced. “But there’s more. Richmond said he has several witnesses who overheard Hurley and David having a rather heated discussion at the grocery store the other day. The topic was you.”

“Me?” I ask, all innocence.

“Yes, you. Apparently David gave Hurley an ultimatum, saying that if he didn’t stay away and give you and David a chance to save your marriage, there would be hell to pay.”

“David had no business doing that,” I say, irritated all over again by my ex’s chutzpah. “He’s assuming I want to save our marriage, and I don’t.”

“A minor point,” Izzy says, still looking troubled, “because there’s more. There’s the fact that Hurley is a neighbor of Harold Minniver’s and had this property dispute going on.”

“Yes, but Hurley said he’d already decided to move the fence, making the whole thing a nonissue.”

“How about the fact that Hurley used to date Callie Dunkirk?” Izzy spits this latest revelation out like a piece of used-up chewing gum.

“Oh, my,” Dom says.

Shocked that this fact has been found out already, I say nothing because I’m pretty sure my surprise shows on my face. Better to stay quiet and let Izzy think I’m taken aback by the fact itself rather than because it’s now common knowledge.

“No one knows where Hurley is and attempts to reach him have been unsuccessful,” Izzy says. “Do you know where he is?”