myself a
I almost sit bolt upright on the stretcher. “That’s right!” I say excitedly. “I forgot that the cops brought her in here that night. Susan something, right?”
“McNally.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Larry said she was shocky.”
“Not really. Mostly she was just nervous as hell. You can hardly blame her. It isn’t every day you come home and find your roommate shot to death in the middle of the living room floor. We got her calmed down pretty quick, though. A little vitamin V and twenty minutes later she was floating.”
“I’ll bet she was.” The one and only time I had Vitamin V, our code word for either Valium or another fun mind-bending relaxant known as Versed, was right before I was wheeled into surgery with a case of acute appendicitis. I not only felt really,
“Did Susan say anything else about Karen?” I ask. “Anything that might shed some light on who killed her?”
“Not to me,” Syph says. “Though I did hear her say something to one of the cops who was with her. Something about pushing things too far and how she knew it was all going to blow up in her face.”
“Any idea what she meant by that?”
“Not a clue.”
Walter finishes my stitches—three all together—and I sit up on the stretcher to make sure my dizziness has passed. I have Syph look up Susan McNally’s ER record to see who she listed as next of kin. I figure the woman might not want to go back to the house she and Karen shared, assuming she even can since I’m guessing the cops have it locked up tighter than a drum at this point. So I want to know if she has any relatives living nearby she might stay with. Sure enough, there is a sister listed who lives in the nearby village of Parsons. I jot down the address and then go looking for Hurley.
The receptionist thrusts some forms at me and asks me to sign them—permission to treat even though it’s already been done, and a statement of responsibility that essentially promises my first-born child, most of my organs, and all my earthly possessions to the hospital in the event that my insurance doesn’t pay. When I ask for my driver’s license back, she tells me Hurley has it. The only problem is, no one seems to know where Hurley is. I’m frowning—not an easy task considering that most of my forehead is numb—and debating what to do next, when a uniformed policewoman comes up to me and says, “Are you Mattie Winston?”
“I am.”
“I’m supposed to drive you back to your place,” she says. “Whenever you’re ready to go, just holler.”
“Where is Hurley?”
She shrugs. “I have no idea. He said he couldn’t stay here and wait on you and asked me to drive you home. Are you ready?”
I am crushed. Here I’d imagined Hurley sitting in the waiting area—actually I had him pacing—worried about whether or not I’d be all right. Instead, he has flown the coop and pawned me off on to someone else. And to think I was willing to faint into his arms just an hour before.
“Know what?” I say to the officer. “I’ll just call my sister. There’s no need for you to wait around or take me home. She can do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Thank you anyway.”
“Well, if something happens and you can’t get a ride, just call the station and tell them to contact me. Name’s Brenda Joiner.”
“Thanks, Brenda.”
One phone call and ten minutes later, Desiree arrives with my niece and nephew in tow. No one would ever guess that Desi and I are sisters, though technically we’re only half sisters since she has a different father. Desi’s hair is raven colored, her brown eyes are so dark they look black, and she has an olive complexion and a short, wiry build. Erika inherited her mother’s looks and coloring whereas Ethan, with his reddish-brown hair, fair skin, and freckles, favors Lucien.
“I didn’t mean for you to make a family outing of this,” I say as they all come trooping through the door. “Sorry to drag you out in this weather.”
“Not a problem,” Desi says, smiling. “The storm has abated for the most part anyway. Just some lingering drizzle now. And the kids wanted to come along. They haven’t seen their aunt in ages and they haven’t seen your new digs at all.”
While I believe Ethan’s motivation to tag along might be that he simply wanted to see me, I suspect it is something else altogether for Erika. As soon as she enters the ER, she scans the waiting room eagerly, no doubt hoping to see a severed limb or someone with an ax in their head. When the pickings prove to be utterly mundane, she tries hovering by the automatic doors that lead to the treatment area, peeking in when they open in hopes of catching a glimpse of something gory. When that fails to produce anything, she settles sullenly into a chair, gazing out the window with a wistful expression on her face.
Erika loves gore. She loves medical shows, horror movies, televised surgeries, and those medical forensic shows—the bloodier the better. Her fascination with blood and guts occasionally gives her mother pause, but it doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I think my niece has all the makings of a first-class trauma surgeon—as long as the patients don’t mind having a doctor who looks like the Grim Reaper’s kid sister.
Erika’s current style of dress is a cross between Goth and Grunge. Tonight’s outfit is typical: black leggings, black sweatshirt, and, beneath that, a man’s black shirt with the tail hanging nearly to her knees. Her feet are encased in high-top black boots, and I have no doubt that beneath those is a pair of black socks. Desi recently gave Erika permission to wear makeup and her choices are kohl-black eyeliner, pale foundation, and black lipstick. Topping off this ensemble is her hair—jet black and poker straight—which hangs nearly to her waist.
Ethan is a stark contrast to his sister in more than just looks. He is oblivious to his surroundings. He follows his mother like a little robot, his eyes glued to the electronic game he has in his hands. He mutters the obligatory greeting but never once looks at me. In fact, he never looks at anything other than his game, apparently using some form of internal kid radar to keep from running into things. Not surprisingly, when I manage to sneak a peek at his game, I see some sort of multilegged bug thing racing around the screen.
After we’re settled in the car on the way to my cottage, I give Desi a brief encapsulation of the night’s events, though I gloss over a few items knowing that, despite their attempts to appear disinterested, the kids are hanging on my every word. They always do, something I’ve learned the hard way more than once. Tonight they give themselves away when I mention Rubbish.
“You have a cat?” Erika says.
“When did you get a cat?” Ethan asks at the same instant, though there is nary a pause in the bleeps and whistles coming from his game.
“I got him a few days ago. He’s only a kitten. I think he’s about twelve weeks old.”
“Cool.” Coming from Erika, this is high praise indeed.
“I found him in a Dumpster,” I tell them.
“Way cool,” Ethan judges. “Is that why you named him Rubbish?”
“Yep.”
“And he ran away?” Erika says, suspicion lacing her voice.
“I hope not, but when I tried to find him, I couldn’t. Will you guys help me look for him when we get home?” Both kids answer with an enthusiastic “Sure!” though I can’t help but wonder how much help Ethan will be if he doesn’t take his eyes off that game.
As Desi pulls into my driveway and parks in front of the cottage, I see that the power is still out. But the cottage isn’t totally dark. The light from several candles glows through the front windows, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise since I know I only lit one and I distinctly remember extinguishing it before heading to the ER. I also remember that, once again, I didn’t bother to lock the front door.
Then I see one of the candles move across the room as if it’s floating on air, and I gasp. Either my cottage is haunted or someone is inside.
