Scared Stiff (17 page)
“What kind of stuff did she buy?” I ask. Hurley hands me the bill he’s holding and I scan the contents. There are several orders from a health food company, which seems in total opposition to the contents of the kitchen. In addition I see charges for several visits to her personal physician and a whopping charge of several thousand to a cosmetic dentist located in Madison.
I make a mental note to chat with Shannon’s doctor, a woman physician I know from working at the hospital. And though I’m momentarily surprised that someone of Shannon’s obviously modest means would spend so much money on cosmetic dentistry, I then remember her side career as a model.
I hand the bill back to Hurley and venture into Shannon’s bathroom, which is just off her bedroom. It’s a typical woman’s bathroom, full of make-up, lotions, fancy soaps, and a variety of hair products. When I open the medicine cabinet I find the usual collection of over-the-counter medications: aspirin, Tylenol, cough syrup, laxatives, and an allergy drug. I also find the reason behind all of the health store charges. The rest of the cabinet is jam-packed with vitamins, minerals, and herbal supplements, most of them bearing labels that promise some type of assistance with weight loss.
Once again I feel a kinship to Shannon and every other woman who has ever had to struggle with her weight. It’s a constant battle and there are days when I swear I can gain weight simply by thinking of eating something, or sitting in the same room with it. When I do cave in and gain a few pounds, at least I can hide the results beneath my larger sized, loose-fitting, fat clothes. But Shannon didn’t have that luxury if she wanted to maintain her modeling career.
Also in the medicine cabinet is a supply of birth control pills, which reminds me of what Erik had said in his letters to Shannon about wanting children. Was Shannon’s obsession with her figure the reason she held out? Was she afraid of ruining her modeling career if she got pregnant? Or was it something else altogether?
Something is nagging at me, a little itch in the back of my mind, but I can’t seem to reach and scratch it. I move back to the bedroom and stand there a moment, trying to figure out what it is that’s bothering me. But it remains elusive so I head back to Hurley.
“Any chance you’re up for a drink?” I ask him.
“Are you asking me out on a date?”
“No, I just want to check out Luke Nelson’s alibi at the Somewhere Bar.”
“I already did. Several people verified that he was there.”
“Oh.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence before Hurley adds, “We can go anyway if you want, and have a nightcap. I don’t know if you found what you want here, but I’m not seeing anything too exciting.”
I put my hand on my hip and give him an injured look.
“Evidence-wise, I mean,” he adds, his eyes twinkling.
“Good, because I’m not that kind of girl.” One of his eyebrows arches and he gives me a smoldering look that makes my stomach go all squishy. “Although I suppose I could be,” I add as I head out the door.
Chapter 25
A
ll of the bars in town have their frequent fliers: the pasty-faced, doughy-looking, smoky-smelling, weekday regulars, folks who look like they live in the place. They’re the ones who have a “usual” seat, are greeted by the bar staff by name, and are served their drink of choice without having to ask for it. But on any given night there will also be some outsiders in the bars, the occasional drop-ins, the celebrators, the lonely, the bored, the out-of-towners, and others like us, who are simply looking for a brief break in the day.
ll of the bars in town have their frequent fliers: the pasty-faced, doughy-looking, smoky-smelling, weekday regulars, folks who look like they live in the place. They’re the ones who have a “usual” seat, are greeted by the bar staff by name, and are served their drink of choice without having to ask for it. But on any given night there will also be some outsiders in the bars, the occasional drop-ins, the celebrators, the lonely, the bored, the out-of-towners, and others like us, who are simply looking for a brief break in the day.
Even if you’re not a regular at one of the bars, Sorenson is a small enough town that a lot of the patrons know each other simply because they are neighbors. Both Hurley and I know the bartender on duty tonight, a redheaded, fifty-something woman named Cara. She greets us both by name and as we settle in at the bar, I order a Miller Lite on tap while Hurley opts for a bottle of Sam Adams. We also know several of the patrons, as well, though different ones for different reasons. In my case it’s because they are people I’ve grown up with or cared for when I worked at the hospital. Hurley, being relatively new in town, knows most of his acquaintances “professionally.”
When Cara brings our drinks, we exchange some polite chitchat with her. But when there’s a brief lag in the conversation, I ask her if she knows Luke Nelson. I see Hurley shoot me a sidelong glance but pointedly ignore him.
“I do,” Cara says. “He comes in from time to time. He isn’t a regular or anything but he probably drops in a couple of times every month. I think he fancies himself some kind of Frasier Crane or something. Boring shit, if you ask me,” she concludes with a roll of her eyes.
Hurley snorts a laugh and Cara looks pleased that her commentary has amused him. She leans on the bar, shifts her attention to him, and asks, “So, are you seeing anyone these days, Detective?”
Hurley practically spews the beer he just sipped and turns cherry red.
“ ’Cause I’m free tomorrow night and have tickets to the opera in Madison,” Cara continues with an exaggerated wink.
Realizing she is merely yanking his chain, Hurley laughs, swallows his beer, and says, “Good one.”
“Hey, a girl can dream, right?” Cara says.
Indeed.
Since neither of us has eaten dinner, we order a couple of sandwiches and then I challenge Hurley to a game of darts baseball. Despite my competitive nature, I spend the entire time not caring if I ever hit the board, as long as I can watch Hurley walk up to retrieve the darts. In fact, I quickly realize the view is greatly enhanced when I miss altogether and he has to bend over to pick up my darts from the floor. He beats me handily and, by the time we decide to call it quits, I’m embracing my loser status and struggling to rein in my hormones.
We order two more beers and settle back in at the bar. I can feel the sexual tension growing tauter by the moment and we spend a few moments sitting side by side sharing another awkward silence. There is a foot of space between us but I can feel the heat radiating off his body and my mind is imagining how it would feel to nestle my head against the broad expanse of his chest and the soft flannel of his shirt. It’s Hurley who finally breaks the silence with a husky clearing of his throat before he speaks.
“So, Winston,” he says. “Can I ask where things are with you and David?”
“Nowhere,” I tell him. “He’s made some overtures about trying again but I’ve made it pretty clear I’m done with him. I can’t forgive him for cheating on me with Karen.”
“People screw up sometimes,” he says with a shrug. “You must have some residual feelings for the guy. Are you sure you want to throw away your marriage because David made this one mistake?”
I give him a disbelieving look. “It’s a pretty big mistake, don’t you think?” I say, angry that he’s defending the slime bag. “I mean, it’s not like he didn’t pick up his clothes, or came home late for dinner, or tracked mud in on the carpet. He risked everything we had, everything we’d built, everything I believed in. He showed a total disregard not only for my feelings, but for my life. So yeah,” I conclude, my ire hitting a crescendo. “I’m sure.”
Hurley has hit a nerve and the feelings I’ve been working so hard to suppress over the past few months come boiling to the surface. I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and swipe irritably at them, turning away from him and staring at the dwindling head on my beer.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice soft. “I just . . . I wanted . . . I wondered . . . shit.”
He lowers his head and starts scraping the label off his bottle with his thumbnail. The awkward silence returns, hovering between us like a noxious gas. After several, agonizingly long minutes of it, he pushes his bottle away and says, “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
Not trusting my emotional state enough to speak, I simply nod and climb down from my bar stool. I follow him to the car and when he gallantly opens my door for me, I nearly burst into tears. The drive is blessedly short but uncomfortably quiet, and as he turns into my driveway I feel the need to say something to try to salvage the moment, and my future with him.
“It’s not easy for me,” I manage, twiddling my thumbs and staring at my lap.
“I’m sure it’s not,” he says, sounding weary.
“But I’m very certain where I stand on the matter. David and I are through. I know I haven’t taken the steps to make it official yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m having second thoughts. I promise you, that part of my life is over. Done with. Finis.”
“I believe you,” Hurley says, pulling up in front of my cottage and shifting his car into park. “But based on what I see here, I’m not sure David does.”
Confused, I look over at him but his eyes are focused on my front porch, his expression grim. I follow his line of sight and understanding glimmers. There, sitting on the porch, is David.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
“Do you need me to stay or will you be okay?”
Every fiber of my being wants him to stay but I know that now is not the time. Reluctantly I shake my head. “I’ll be okay,” I tell him. Keenly aware of David watching us, I make an impulsive decision. I lean over and kiss Hurley on the cheek. His skin is soft and warm on my lips, and his smell is heavenly. “Thanks for driving me tonight,” I whisper in his ear.
He turns to look at me and the normal blue of his eyes has darkened into something edgy, smoldering, and electrifying. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to open the car door and get out.
As I approach the porch, Hurley turns his car around and heads down the drive. I hear his wheels squeal as he pulls out onto the road, and a terrible sense of loss washes over me. Part of me wants to go running after his car and beg him to take me away. Part of me wishes I’d asked him to stay. But I do none of those things. Instead I climb my front steps and brace myself for whatever David has in store.
Chapter 26
“H
ello, David.”
ello, David.”
He stares at me with an annoyed expression. “Just what the hell was that?” he grumbles.
I ignore him, open my front door, and head inside. David follows, firing questions in machine-gun fashion.
“What the hell was that, Mattie? Did you just kiss that guy? Is there something going on between you two? Are you dating him? Are you
sleeping
with him?”
sleeping
with him?”
This last question piques my ire enough to make me whirl on him and fire back. “Who are
you
sleeping with these days, David, now that Karen’s gone?”
you
sleeping with these days, David, now that Karen’s gone?”
He pulls back, blinks hard several times, and then his whole body sags. “Okay,” he says miserably. “I had that coming. I’m sorry.”
He plops down in a nearby chair and stares at his hands, picking at a cuticle on one of his fingers. I study him, taking in the waves of his blond hair, the taut patrician angles in his face, and the tall, lean lines of his body. I still find him handsome, but its effect on me at this point is nil.
“Why are you here, David?”
“I heard you were in a car accident. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am, as I’m sure the ER staff told you. So if that’s all you want, you—”
“I wanted to talk to you about something else, too.”
“What?”
“Us.”
“There isn’t any
us
anymore, David.” The words come out harsh and angry, and he shoots me a wounded look that momentarily softens me. Then I remember what he did and my spine stiffens again. “For a relationship to work there has to be trust. And I don’t trust you anymore. That’s it in a nutshell.”
us
anymore, David.” The words come out harsh and angry, and he shoots me a wounded look that momentarily softens me. Then I remember what he did and my spine stiffens again. “For a relationship to work there has to be trust. And I don’t trust you anymore. That’s it in a nutshell.”
He nods wearily. “I understand that, and I deserve it,” he says. He leans forward with his arms on his knees and looks up at me with that wounded, puppy-dog look again. “What I did was wrong, but I’ve learned from my mistakes, Mattie. I’m asking you to consider forgiving me and to maybe, just maybe, give me . . . give us a second chance. I know it will take time and I’m not here to push you, but I don’t want you to rush into anything else either.” He pauses and I know the “anything else” he is referring to is Hurley. “Don’t close all the doors yet, Mattie,” he says, making his final appeal. “Don’t throw away everything we had.”
I stare at him a moment, and even though I feel bone-weary tired, I remain standing, not wanting to give him the impression that this discussion is going to continue. “What we had was a façade, David. It wasn’t real. I can’t forgive what you did, at least not to the degree necessary to make things work between us.”
“Not now, maybe,” he appeals. “But if we give it some time I’m sure we can—”
“I don’t love you anymore, David.” The words stop him dead, and as I utter them, the truth of the statement rings through to my core. It’s oddly releasing, but it also leaves me feeling terribly sad. “I’m sorry,” I say honestly.
There must be something in my expression that drives home the truth of my claim because his shoulders sag with resignation.
“So that’s it then,” he says.
“Yes.”
He digests things for a few seconds, then pushes himself out of the chair and takes a last look around the small confines of my cottage. Rubbish appears from the bedroom, strolling languidly into the room, pausing for one of those luxurious cat stretches. He eyes David then dismisses him as handily as I have, walking over to me instead and winding himself around my feet. He purrs contentedly and when David takes a step in my direction, I quickly reach down and pick Rubbish up, holding his warm, soft, vibrating little body close to my chest. As barriers go, he isn’t much of one, but the action has the effect I want; David stops moving toward me.
“Are you seeing that detective who drove you home?” he asks.
“That’s none of your business.” The words come out harsher than I mean them to but if it bothers David, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he smiles.
“You’re still hurting and angry with me,” he says, turning toward the door. “But despite what you’re feeling now, I think your feelings will change over time. And I’m willing to wait.”
For a brilliant surgeon, he’s pretty clueless. Not wanting him to feel encouraged in any way, I blurt out a last parting shot. “I’m filing for a legal separation and, as soon as our waiting period is up, I plan to file for a divorce. I hope you’ll be fair in the settlement rather than spiteful.”
I see a tiny shudder course through his body, but he doesn’t look back at me. After a moment he says, “We’ll see.”
I’m not sure if his equivocation is referring to my threat of a divorce or my plea for him to be fair, but I let him go without asking for clarification. As the door closes behind him, I nuzzle my nose in Rubbish’s fur and whisper, “It’s just you and me now, kiddo. Just you and me.”
I make my way to the kitchen and treat Rubbish to a plate of tuna. Then I search the fridge for a treat of my own and, finding nothing of interest, I move to the freezer where I find a brandnew pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. I take it and a spoon back out to the living room and settle in on the couch with the remote control. After flipping through the channels I settle on an old episode of
Frasier.
It reminds me of Cara’s statement about Luke Nelson and that gets me to thinking about the name and address I have for the woman who owns the HOT 44D license plate. I make a mental note to try to find her tomorrow and figure out what her connection to Nelson is. Something about the man just feels wrong to me and maybe this woman is the key.
Frasier.
It reminds me of Cara’s statement about Luke Nelson and that gets me to thinking about the name and address I have for the woman who owns the HOT 44D license plate. I make a mental note to try to find her tomorrow and figure out what her connection to Nelson is. Something about the man just feels wrong to me and maybe this woman is the key.
By the time
Frasier
ends I realize I’ve eaten the entire carton of ice cream. Feeling disgusted with myself, I set the empty container aside and silently wish I could go back in time and undo all the calories I just consumed. The thought niggles something in my brain and a seemingly unrelated montage of images flashes through my mind: the food in Shannon’s kitchen, a pathetically skinny teenager I took care of once in the ER, the clothes in Shannon’s closet, the contents of Shannon’s medicine cabinet, Jackie’s description of Erik’s visit to Dairy Airs, the discovery that Shannon had a hiatal hernia, and the abrasions I found on her right hand when I first examined her body.
Frasier
ends I realize I’ve eaten the entire carton of ice cream. Feeling disgusted with myself, I set the empty container aside and silently wish I could go back in time and undo all the calories I just consumed. The thought niggles something in my brain and a seemingly unrelated montage of images flashes through my mind: the food in Shannon’s kitchen, a pathetically skinny teenager I took care of once in the ER, the clothes in Shannon’s closet, the contents of Shannon’s medicine cabinet, Jackie’s description of Erik’s visit to Dairy Airs, the discovery that Shannon had a hiatal hernia, and the abrasions I found on her right hand when I first examined her body.
It all comes together in a startling explosion of insight. I explore this new path some more, taking all the detours, considering the various implications, and examining the potential outcomes. And in the end it leads me to a stunning conclusion . . . one that will very likely change everything regarding the investigation into Shannon’s death.
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