Lucy’s comments about her experiences with Nelson get me to wondering, so I dig out my cell phone and give Hurley a call.
“Hey, Winston,” he answers. That whole caller ID thing still freaks me out. “What’s up?”
“I’m wondering if you could give me some information. You provided us with a list of names for Nelson’s patients but not the times of their appointments. Do you recall who it was that had the four o’clock slot on the day Shannon was killed?”
“You’re still focusing on him?” he says tiredly. “I know you don’t want to believe your friend could have done this but Nelson’s alibi is solid for the time in question. He didn’t do it. Even with your discovery about Shannon’s eating disorder and the change in the time of death, Erik Tolliver is still our most likely suspect.”
“Humor me, would you? There’s something about Nelson that bothers me. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can’t let it go yet, either.”
Hurley sighs and says, “Hold on a minute.”
I hear him set his phone down and shuffle some papers, and wait until he comes back on the line.
“Okay, here you go. The four o’clock appointment was a woman named Carla Andrusson. I’ve already talked to her and she verified that she kept her appointment that day.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, glad Carla is someone I know. She’s the wife of my dentist, Brian Andrusson, and also a former patient of mine. I was on duty eight years ago when she came into the ER after having a seizure and was diagnosed with a brain tumor. The tumor was surgically removed and fortunately proved to be benign. But during the surgery Carla suffered a small stroke that left her with some left-sided facial paralysis and right arm and leg weakness.
After getting Carla’s home phone number from Hurley, I hang up. It’s well past nine o’clock, so I decide to head for home. I stop at the Kwik-E-Mart on the way to pick up some treats and discover they are out of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. I settle on Cookie Dough instead, and by the time I lug it and my other treasures to the counter, my hands are nearly frostbitten.
When I get home, Rubbish greets me at the door, winding his way around my feet and purring contentedly. I scoop him up before he can trip me, and carry him to the kitchen, where I fix him up a nice plate of the tuna I just bought for him. While he eats I kick off my shoes and plop down on the couch with my ice cream, turn on the TV, and flip channels until I settle on an old episode of
Twenty minutes later, I’ve dug out all the cookie dough chunks and have nothing but melting ice cream left. I pour a little of the molten remains into a dish for Rubbish, who cautiously sniffs and then laps it up. Nice to know we share similar tastes. I wash the rest of the ice cream down the sink, feeling slightly virtuous for not having eaten the whole thing.
Sated, I head for the bathroom to take a shower but my cell phone rings. I curse, thinking it must be Izzy with a death call, but to my surprise it’s Hurley.
“Hey, Winston, what are you doing?”
“I was just getting ready to hop in the shower before bed. Why?”
“Can I interest you in joining me for a drink?”
My heart skips a beat and I start to feel all flushed again. “Sure,” I say. “Where?” Before he answers I start a mental chant:
“How about the Nowhere Bar in fifteen minutes?”
I hope this isn’t a sign our relationship is going nowhere. “Okay, see you there.”
I’m disappointed we’re meeting in such a public place, though I’m delighted to be meeting him at all for something that isn’t work related. But the suddenness of the call throws me into a frenzy because I’m far from date ready. I don’t have enough time to wash my hair because it takes me fifteen minutes just to blow dry and style it. So I pin it up and hop in the shower, washing everything from the neck down. I hesitate when I look at my legs. I haven’t shaved in nearly a week; when the weather gets colder and long pants become a daily fixture, I tend to get lazy. Now I’m regretting it. What if I get lucky tonight? What if Hurley and I end up somewhere in bed together? Can I risk grossing him out with hairy legs?
I decide I can’t and shave them in record time, leaving myself with two good-sized nicks that refuse to quit oozing blood. I get out of the shower and dab some toilet paper on them, praying that scabs are less of a turn-off than winter fur.
I do a quick fix to my hair and make-up, and then change my outfit five times in an effort to find a pair of pants that don’t make my ass look bigger than the fender on a Buick. Rubbish thinks I’m playing with him and each time I remove a pair of pants and toss them aside, he pounces on them, biting and clawing like it’s a life-and-death struggle.
I settle on a pair of pants I find the least offensive—black and made out of a very forgiving stretchy knit fabric—and smooth my blouse down over them. I grab my coat, purse and car keys, and head out with one minute to spare.
I find Hurley sitting at a table in a back corner. He waves to me when I enter and I meander my way through the crowd of people standing around the bar. When I get to the table, he stands and pulls out a chair for me. I catch a faint whiff of some exotic scent emanating from him and my hormones kick up a notch.
“Thanks for the invite,” I say.
He settles back into his own chair and motions at a barmaid. “Wait until you hear what I have to tell you before you thank me,” he warns, his expression taut.
He takes a swig of his Samuel Adams as the barmaid arrives to take my order. I settle on a Miller Lite on tap and the second the barmaid turns away I lean toward Hurley.
“What is it?” I ask.
“We found Erik Tolliver’s gun.”
He just drops it out there, like a bomb, with no further explanation. Judging from his earlier warning, I’m guessing that the circumstances surrounding this find won’t bode well for Erik.
“Where?”
“It was tucked in between some sheets in a linen cabinet in the radiology department at the hospital. One of the techs found it this evening when she was rotating the linens.”
“Fingerprints?” I ask.
Hurley shakes his head. “It was wiped clean. But that reminds me. We got the fingerprint evidence back from Madison and several of the prints we collected in the house belonged to Erik.”
“Of course they did. He lived there for a long time so I’d expect to find some of his prints. Were any of them found in blood, or in the mess in the kitchen?”
“No,” Hurley admits.
The barmaid brings my beer and I take a swig to avoid looking at Hurley, knowing my disappointment is probably showing on my face. “Have you done any ballistics yet?” I ask, grasping at straws.
“No, but given where we found it . . .” He lets the thought hang there, knowing I’m smart enough to come to the obvious conclusion. Then he further depresses me by adding, “I did some follow-up this evening on those women whose names you gave me and their alibis check out. So if you’re right about Erik, we have no suspects at all. I think it’s time to admit defeat.”
“I’ll wait for the ballistics report.”
Hurley smiles. “You are a stubborn woman, Winston.”
“It’s not stubbornness, Hurley, it’s my gut. I consider myself a pretty good judge of character and I truly don’t think Erik Tolliver could have done this.”
“Despite all the evidence?”
“It’s circumstantial, just like it was with David.”
An awkward silence stretches between us. When Karen Owenby was murdered, the primary suspect, at least in Hurley’s eyes, was my husband, David. But despite my anger and disappointment with David over his affair, I couldn’t make myself believe he was a killer, despite some pretty damning evidence. Hurley and I butted heads then much as we are now. That time, I prevailed, but I have to confess that this time I’m a little less sure. I know Erik fairly well, but not nearly as well as I know David. And despite what I just said to Hurley about my gut, I’m clearly not as astute as I might think, given that David managed to carry on an affair for a long while without my knowledge.
Hoping to lighten the mood and keep my hasty leg shaving from being a total waste of time, I challenge
