Frozen Stiff (4 page)

Chapter 5

I
manage to bite my tongue and not snap back at Alison’s snide comment. I’m assisted in this incredible show of restraint by Izzy, who wisely shoos Alison from the autopsy room and asks her to wait in the lobby or the library until we have the murder weapon removed.

It turns out that Callie’s body isn’t frozen but it is in full rigor—making it likely that the time of death was actually hours before we found her. Izzy carefully documents the wound trajectories and when that’s done, he removes the knife. It’s a wicked-looking thing, just over nine inches in length with a five-inch blade. There’s a small nick in the blade near the hasp, and the handle, which appears to be ivory, has a dragon carved into it. After taking his own pictures and cleaning the blood off the knife, Izzy sets it in a tray in preparation for Alison’s pictures.

When we open Callie up we discover that Izzy’s guess about the cause of death is correct. The knife pierced both her aorta and her left ventricle. Eventually the first wound alone would have been fatal as it caused massive bleeding. Since the second wound would have stopped the heart, the amount of blood lost suggests that some time elapsed between the two wounds, making me wonder if the woman was alive and aware she was dying during the interval.

The remainder of the autopsy is relatively uneventful. Colbert does himself proud by managing to not only stay upright throughout the entire thing, but also asking intelligent, thoughtful questions about our findings, which other than the knife wounds and the single hair, consist mainly of some tiny metallic-looking globs we find entangled in Callie’s hair. The metal pieces will need to be packaged and taken to the Madison crime lab where they can analyze them using energy dispersive X-ray spectroscopy. We also discover that Callie had caps on her teeth and breast implants, both of which will make it easier to confirm Alison’s tentative ID.

I let Izzy deal with Alison and the knife photography, and after cleaning up the autopsy room, I change into my regular clothes, and head home. I’m eager to get to Hurley’s place but need to stop by my own first to let my dog, Hoover, out for a break.

I’ve had Hoover for all of three weeks. I found him—filthy, frightened, and emaciated—hovering beside a grocery store Dumpster. Judging from his coloring, his ears, and the shape of his head, I’m guessing he’s part yellow Lab or golden retriever. Judging from the way he inhales food, I suspect the other part is vacuum cleaner, hence his name.

So far Hoover has proven to be gentle, friendly, and quite smart. He has already mastered the come, sit, and stay commands, and he and my cat, Rubbish, entertain themselves quite nicely when I’m gone. Hoover’s only negative is his predilection for eating the crotch out of any panties I leave lying around, a habit made even more annoying by the fact that I just committed a lot of money to a major underwear upgrade.

Hoover greets me now as he always does, with a happy yip and a wagging tail. This makes him the best companion and roommate I’ve ever had. My husband, David, never greeted me with that much enthusiasm, not even on our first anniversary when I met him at the door wearing nothing but some well-placed dollops of whipped cream.

After letting Hoover outside to do his business, I reward his devotion by indulging him in a few minutes of belly scratching. My cat, Rubbish, watches this with a look of disdain. Though he has tolerated the addition of a dog to our household, I sense there are times when he’s not happy about having to share my attentions. And he seems to be all about self-expression, often making his displeasure known by barfing up a hairball on my bed, or taking a dump just outside the litter box rather than in it.

Once the animals are fed, watered, scratched, and otherwise attended to, I spend a little time on myself. I take a quick shower and wash my hair to get rid of the lingering smells of death, decay, and formaldehyde. Then I don some peach-colored, lace-trimmed undies that have fortunately evaded Hoover’s teeth, and a matching bra. In case things go well at Hurley’s tonight, I want to be ready and look my best. I then try on several different outfits and study each one carefully in the mirror, trying to find the one that hides my flaws the best. This involves checking out the rear view as well as the front, as the wrong combination of slacks and top makes my butt look as wide as a house. I finally settle on a pair of forgiving gray slacks and a long, loose-fitting, baby-blue sweater with a cowl-neck collar.

After blow-drying my hair and taming the more cantankerous strands with a curling iron, I put on some makeup. Deeming the result as good as it’s going to get, I hop in the hearse and head for Hurley’s house. My heart is racing with anticipation, wondering what he wants to talk about, wondering what the night will bring, and wondering how far I’m willing to let him go if things should progress along those lines. Even though David and I have been physically separated for several months, I’m technically still married. Consequently I’m not willing to go for the home run with Hurley yet, though I’m open to letting him run the bases if the mood strikes.

Of course, that’s the optimist in me talking. My darker, more pessimistic side is still worried that Hurley might be planning to dump me because I uttered the “L” word. I’ve learned over the years that when it comes to men, emotions are like antimatter. Say anything that matters to them and they’ll obliterate you. So I need to keep my shields at the ready tonight in case Hurley hits me with a barrage of anti-emotion photon torpedoes.

Thanks to the end of daylight savings time, the day has turned dark already even though it’s only a little after five. Despite the shortened day, streetlights reflecting off the snow give the town a cozy ambience. I pull onto Hurley’s street, park the hearse in front of his house, and take a moment to check out the neighborhood. It’s an older area of town with towering oaks and well-preserved homes, most of which are close to a century in age. This is no cookie-cutter neighborhood either; the variety of styles among the houses is eclectic. Towering Victorians are sprinkled amidst Cape Cods, Italianates, Craftsmans, and Tudors.

Hurley’s house is one of the Craftsmans in the neighborhood and the front porch, with its tapered stone columns, reflects that. The door is a classic fit for the style: a heavy wooden affair with dentil molding and a stained-glass window at the top. I’m about to push the doorbell when the door opens.

“Come on in,” Hurley says. He looks past me to the curb, sees the hearse, and shakes his head. “You might as well have flashing neon signs on that thing, as subtle as it is.”

“Hey, you helped me pick it out so no fair dissing it now.”

“I know, I know. It’s a sound vehicle and given the price you didn’t have much of a choice. It’s just not very . . . aesthetically pleasing.”

I step into a foyer with beautiful wood wainscoting and dark, hardwood floors. There is a stairway on the left leading to the second floor, bordered by a rail and newel post that are both done in a classic Arts and Crafts design. Straight ahead is a hallway that ends in a kitchen; to my right is a living room. There is a delicious, spicy smell in the air that makes my stomach growl. Then I realize that the only thing I’ve eaten today is the one slice of pizza Richmond was willing to share.

As Hurley closes the door behind me, I undo my coat and shrug it off my shoulders. He takes it and hangs it in a coat closet beneath the stairs.

“Have you eaten?” Hurley asks me.

“Not since lunch. Something smells really good. Did you cook?”

“I did. Homemade lasagna and garlic bread, but it’s not quite ready.”

Hurley’s sexy quotient has just leaped several notches. A man that looks as good as he does, kisses as good as he does, and cooks, too . . . hell, that’s hitting the bell at the top of the carnival high striker game to me, especially since my idea of a home prepared meal is when I eat my food off of a real plate instead of the to-go container it came in.

“How about a glass of wine?” he offers.

I nod, thinking this is a good sign. Maybe he wants to get me relaxed and a little loose so we can pursue our relationship further. Then I think maybe he just wants to get me relaxed so I won’t freak out when he dumps me.

I follow him out to the kitchen, where he unearths a bottle of pinot noir and two wineglasses. He puts the glasses on the table, which is already set with simple white dishes, and as he uncorks the wine bottle, I settle into one of the chairs and decide to try to put an end to my daylong suspense.

“So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

His eyes shift briefly to me, then back to the task at hand. There is a moment of silence as he finishes pouring and takes the seat across from me. Then he completely ignores my question by asking one of his own. “How did things go at the scene this morning after I left?”

“It went fine. So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Have you identified the victim yet?”

“Yes,” I say with an exasperated sigh. “She’s some reporter from Chicago. Now can you please tell me what it is you—”

“She’s not
some reporter,
” he snaps, clearly irritated. “Her name is Callie Dunkirk.”

I stare at him and after a few seconds I realize my mouth is hanging open, so I shut it. He holds my gaze the entire time, waiting. “You knew her,” I say finally, realizing now why he acted the way he did when he first saw the body. He nods. “How?”

“We dated for a while.”

I’m stymied, not only by the revelation that Hurley once dated the victim, but by the fact that he dated someone that gorgeous. Then I realize how stupid it is to be jealous of a dead woman. I’m starting to get an inkling of why he wanted to see me and it isn’t making me happy. I have a sinking feeling that putting on my fancy underwear was a big waste of time. “How long ago?” I ask.

He shrugs and finally tears his eyes from mine, looking up at the ceiling instead. “It’s been about a year and a half since we split up.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to take the case, because you knew her?”

“That’s one reason.”

“And the other?”

He hesitates and I can tell that whatever is coming next won’t be good. “Before I tell you, I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“You have to promise me that you’ll keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself for the time being.”

I consider this, figuring he’s going to reveal some juicy tidbit of potential gossip. While gossip is a hot commodity in a small town like ours, one that can often be traded back and forth like money, I’ve spent most of my adult life working in a hospital, where confidentiality and privacy are absolutes. Thanks to HIPAA—a law that makes it easier to get your hands on top-secret government documents than medical information on a patient—I’m used to knowing the juicy stuff and not being able to share it. That’s okay with me. It’s the “being in the know” part that I value the most.

“Yeah, I promise,” I tell Hurley.

He sucks in a deep breath and winces, as if bracing himself for a blow. Then he delivers one to me.

“I’m pretty sure that knife you found in her chest is mine.”

Chapter 6

I
stare slack-jawed at Hurley, stunned.

“Say something,” he says, looking worried.

“You tricked me,” is all I can manage.

“How so?”

“You made me promise to keep whatever you told me to myself but you didn’t tell me it was going to be evidence in an ongoing case.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“I don’t believe you did,” I tell him, though at the moment I’m too confused to know if that’s true or not. “That’s not the point. By asking me to keep this under wraps you’re asking me to compromise my investigation,
and
my job. Not to mention the possible legal ramifications. Christ, Hurley, what the hell were you thinking?”

“That I need your help.”

“At the cost of my reputation and job?” I yell at him. I’m angry, not only because of the compromising position he’s put me in, but because I know now that the matter he wanted to discuss with me has nothing at all to do with our future relationship, which at this point I fear may take place with both of us behind bars.

“You’re upset.”

“Of course I’m upset. You . . . you . . . argh!” I push back from the table, stand up, and start pacing.

“Mattie, answer me honestly. Do you think I could murder someone?”

I shoot him a glaring glance and keep pacing, but say nothing. The truth is I don’t really know him well enough to answer. My gut—and perhaps a few untrustworthy nether regions of my body—are making me lean toward no, but my mind is cautioning me to think things through.

Hurley sighs, gets up from the table, and positions himself in front of me, forcing me to stop. He grabs my shoulders and holds me tight. “Mattie, look at me.”

I do, and those piercing blue eyes of his calm me.

“Think about things a minute. Why would I tell you about any of this if I did it? Why would I take myself off the case if I did it? I mean, wouldn’t it be easier for me to run the primary investigation so I could hide any incriminating evidence that turned up?”

He has a point.

“I need you to believe in me,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. “I’m out on a very shaky limb here. I’m not sure what’s going on yet but I promise you I didn’t kill Callie. I’m going to need someone on the inside to help me, and right now you’re the only person I trust.”

I suppose I should be flattered, but at the moment I’m too confused and frightened.

“Will you help me?” he pleads.

I shrug his hands from my shoulders and return to the table. I grab my wineglass, slug back several big gulps, and drop into my chair.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask him.

“I need you to keep me posted on the results of the investigation. I’m going to be doing my own, of course, but I want to keep it under the radar.”

“Tell me about the knife.”

“It’s one my father gave me years ago, before he died. I kept it in my boat outside. I checked this morning after I came back from the site and it’s gone.”

“Are you sure the knife is yours?”

He shrugs. “I can’t be one-hundred-percent sure, but I’m at about ninety-nine. It’s a pretty unique piece with a carved ivory handle. My father bought it over in Vietnam when he was in the service there. The man he bought it from was a villager who carved it himself. Supposedly it’s the only one of its kind.”

“Can you describe it in more detail for me?”

“Sure. It’s about nine inches in length. There is a small nick in the blade just below the hasp. And the figure carved into the handle is a dragon.”

“That’s it,” I tell him. “Show me where you kept it.” Hurley nods, picks up his wineglass, and heads for a door across the kitchen. Determined to keep my wits about me, I leave my own wine on the table and follow him. We enter a two-car garage that contains no vehicles and has been done over as some kind of workshop with a large table in the middle of the room and workbenches lining the perimeter walls. Hanging above and stored below the work areas are many sizes, shapes, and colors of sheet metal, and a variety of tools. The walls are insulated though unfinished, and a heater in the ceiling blows warm air onto my shoulders.

“What is all this?” I ask.

“It’s my workshop. I dabble in metalwork on my off time, creating the occasional artsy piece, like wall hangings and some jewelry.” He walks over to a side table, opens a drawer, and pulls out a small square of folded paper. He sets it on the workbench and carefully unfolds it, revealing a pair of filigreed earrings that look like elongated silver lace doilies. “Stuff like this,” he says, handing the earrings to me.

“These are beautiful,” I say, holding them up to the light. “I had no idea you did anything like this.”

“I don’t do a lot of the small stuff anymore. Mostly I do bigger items, like that thing over there.” He points to a piece leaning against the wall. It’s a large rectangular chunk of varicolored metal strips woven together like a rug.

“What do you do with what you make?”

“I sell most of it, at flea markets mainly.”

I try to give the earrings back to him but he pushes my hand away. “Keep them,” he says.

“Are you trying to bribe me?”

“Absolutely.” He smiles at me and adds, “The color suits you. Please take them.”

“Okay, thanks.” I remove the pierced earrings I’m wearing, fold them up inside the paper on the workbench, and put the whole thing in the pocket of my slacks. I then slip the new ones, which are done in a French hook style, through my ears.

“What do you think?” I ask him when I’m done. I turn my head from side to side to show off the earrings.

Hurley doesn’t answer right away. He looks at the earrings and smiles, then his eyes shift to my hair, my face, my throat . . . his gaze softening as he goes. Then, as if someone flipped a switch, his smile disappears and he turns away. “They look great,” he says, his voice catching slightly. Hurley’s signals lately are about as clear as a broken traffic light and I can feel my level of frustration grow another notch. “I’m glad they found a good home.”

There is an awkward moment as Hurley rearranges some tools on the center worktable that were just fine where they were and I try to figure out what the hell just happened. While I love the fact that Hurley has just given me jewelry, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll need Daniel Webster to defend me in the near future.

Hurley has left the earring drawer open and after glancing inside it, where I see neat little rows of folded paper envelopes that I assume hold more pieces of jewelry, I close it. The sound seems to shake Hurley loose and he walks over and opens a door in the far wall. “Come on out here,” he says. “My boat is parked alongside the garage.”

I follow him outside into the cold night air and there, hidden beneath a tarplike cover, is a small jon boat atop a trailer. He pulls the tarp off near the back of the boat and says, “I kept the knife in this little cubby here, beneath the seat.”

I look where he’s pointing and see a hollowed-out area under a metal seat that spans the width of the boat. “When’s the last time you know it was there?”

“The last time I had the boat out, which was in mid-September.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just misplace it? Maybe you stuck it somewhere else and don’t remember doing it.”

“I thought of that,” he says. “Even though I can’t imagine why I would have taken it out of the boat, I spent a good part of today looking in every logical place as well as a few illogical ones. I can’t find it anywhere.”

“You need to tell Richmond.”

Hurley’s jaw clenches, the muscles in his cheeks twitching. “I can’t, Mattie. Not yet anyway. Don’t you see? Someone took my knife from my boat—a unique and distinctive knife, no less—and used it to kill someone I was once close to. I think I’m being set up.”

I shiver, though I’m not sure if it’s because of the cold or his words. “By whom? And why?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I need your help. That’s why I want you to share any evidence you find with me.” He rakes a hand through his hair as he speaks, and as I watch it fall back into place I remember the short, black hair we found in Callie’s wound. I consider telling him about it but something makes me hold back. I’m not ready to share everything with him, at least not yet.

“You’re putting me in a very difficult position, Hurley.”

“I know that. Believe me, if I could think of a better way to handle this, I’d do it. But I can’t. I’m up the proverbial creek with no paddle
and
I’m taking on water. Please, Mattie, I need you.”

This final plea both heats my loins and melts my heart. As I look into the blue depths of his eyes, I realize I’m helpless to refuse him even though it may mean the premature death of my new career. My gut is screaming at me that it would be a huge mistake to agree to what he’s asking of me, yet my heart is whispering,
Go for it
.

And go for it I do, though I decide to keep back a little something for myself, just in case. “I’ll help you for now,” I tell him, “but only if we can get back inside. It’s freezing out here.”

“Of course,” he says, flashing me a relieved smile.

With a hand at the small of my back, he steers me back inside. I can feel the heat of his touch radiating through my sweater, and it makes me shiver again.

“I’m sorry, Mattie. I shouldn’t have kept you outside so long without a coat.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “I got a little chill but I’ll shake it off in a minute.”

“Dinner will be ready soon,” he says as we enter the kitchen. “That should warm you up, but you can use this in the meantime.” He grabs a heavy flannel shirt off a hook by the door and drapes it over my shoulders. I thank him and pull it close, catching a whiff of a scent from it that is distinctly Hurley, something spicy, masculine, and a little bit dangerous. It sends my hormones into overdrive and suddenly I’m not the least bit cold anymore.

“I’d like to wash up before we eat. Where’s your bathroom?”

Hurley directs me to a room at the top of the stairs and leaves me to find my way while he checks the lasagna in the oven.

The bathroom, which is done in blue and white tile with a hexagon tile floor, is small but sparkling clean, a surprising find in a bachelor pad. At first I fear it is too clean, but I finally find what I want when I snoop inside the medicine cabinet. There on the bottom shelf is a hairbrush. I remove the folded paper from my pocket and take the earrings out of it, dumping them loose into my other pocket. Then I carefully remove several hairs from the brush, place them on the paper, and fold it back up. After slipping it back into the pocket it came from, I flush the toilet, wash my hands, and head back to the kitchen.

I settle into the same chair I had before, just as Hurley sets a bubbling, delicious-smelling pan of lasagna on the table. A basket full of garlic bread is beside my plate and the heady aromas make me feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. I’m practically drooling as Hurley cuts a generous square of lasagna from the pan and sets it on my plate. But just as I pick up my fork, my cell phone rings. I curse under my breath when I see that the caller ID says it’s Izzy, which most likely means work for me.

“Hello, Izzy,” I answer. “What’s up?”

“There’s been a death over at the hospital in the ER. EMS brought in an elderly gentleman with a cardiac history as a PNB.”

PNB is medical speak for a pulseless nonbreather, meaning the patient was already dead when EMS found him. And given that he’s now my patient, it’s safe to assume that the efforts to revive him were unsuccessful.

“It sounds like your basic coronary,” Izzy goes on, “but we still need to examine the patient, review the chart, and obtain a history. It should be pretty straightforward, and given your nursing background, I think it will be a good one for you to do for your first solo. Are you up for it?”

The delicious smells of garlic, mozzarella, and tomato sauce are making my stomach rumble, which makes me want to tell Izzy no. But I owe him on many levels, not the least of which is his giving me this job when I so desperately needed it.

“Sure,” I tell him.

“Fabulous,” Izzy says, and I can’t help but smile at his choice of words. Even though he is openly gay, Izzy doesn’t broadcast his proclivities much. But every once in a while he does or says something that screams gay to me. The way he says the word
fabulous
is one of those things. “How soon can you be there?”

“I’ll head over now,” I say, looking longingly first at the lasagna, then Hurley.

“Call me if you have any questions.”

“Will do.”

I end the call and give Hurley a woeful look. “I have to head over to the hospital to look into a death they had in the ER.”

I’m hoping he’ll look disappointed, or at the least, chagrined, but instead he looks contentedly resigned and says, “I understand. It’s part of the job. We can have dinner some other time.”

Easy for him to say. It seems like every time we try to get together in a nonwork-related way, somebody dies. I feel like I’m trying to date the Grim Reaper. And to make matters worse, I detect a distinct lack of conviction in Hurley’s voice that makes me nervous.

I scarf down two quick bites of the lasagna, which tastes utterly divine, and then take a bite of garlic bread. When I’ve swallowed I tell him, “This is heaven. You’re a very good cook.”

He beams at me. “Thanks. How about I fix you a little to-go container and you can take some of it with you?”

“That would be fabulous,” I tell him, echoing Izzy. I watch as he quickly packs up a meal of lasagna and garlic bread in a plastic container, giving it, some napkins, and a fork to me when he’s done. It’s a sweetly domestic scene and it’s easy for me to imagine a lifetime of such moments with him. It fortifies my faith in the future of our relationship . . . until I remember that he’s been implicated in a nasty murder and solicited my cooperation with a secret investigation.

“Thanks,” I say, carrying my food out to the foyer and setting it on the lowest step of the staircase. He retrieves my coat from the closet while I take off the shirt he gave me and drape it over the newel post. Then he holds the coat for me so I can slip it on. After he settles it onto my shoulders, he turns me around to face him. Our eyes lock for a pregnant pause and I brace myself for the kiss I hope is coming.