jawline. He has a day’s worth of beard stubble that is surprisingly soft, and as I move my fingers over his cheek I can feel the muscles beneath my hand twitching. He is watching me intently, and though I can feel his gaze on me, I don’t return it. I’m afraid of what I’ll say or do if I become entranced by those soft pools of blue.
Arnie clears his throat and says, “Should we get you two a room?”
Izzy snorts a laugh and I drop my hand from Hurley’s face. After shooting a death-ray look at Arnie, I tell Hurley, “I don’t feel any obvious fractures but you have quite a bit of swelling and bruising there. You should probably have it X-rayed.”
I leave the room and head out to the dead man’s kitchen, where I open a few drawers and, after finding what I want, head for the freezer. A moment later I return to the living room with a plastic baggie full of ice cubes wrapped in paper towels and hand it to Hurley. “Put this on your cheek,” I tell him. “It will help reduce the pain and swelling.”
He takes the baggie, does as I instructed, and says, “Thank you.” His voice is soft and tender and I don’t think it’s all because of his jaw. The way he is looking at me makes my skin hot and my toes curl.
I realize Izzy and Arnie are already outside, meaning Hurley and I are alone together . . . well, that is if you don’t count the dead guy. It seems most of my moments with Hurley occur near a dead body, hardly the best setting for a romantic interlude. I head outside and join Arnie and Izzy at the van.
“Are you coming back to the office?” Izzy asks. I nod. “Try not to bring a crowd with you, okay?” he adds with a twinkle in his eye.
“Ha, ha.” I head back for the hearse and as soon as Arnie pulls out, I fall in behind him. Hurley is still inside the house and I mourn the fact that I’m leaving him there, vulnerable and alone. Then I curse the fact that the dead keep interfering with my love life.
Back at the office, I settle into the library with a forensic textbook and spend some time reading about the analysis of stab wounds. It’s fascinating stuff but I’m still glad when my cell phone rings and offers me a break from the grim reality of how much damage sharp penetrating objects can do to the human body. A quick look at my caller ID tells me it’s Carla Andrusson calling.
“Hi, Carla.”
“Hi, Mattie.”
“How did it go?”
“I don’t know. Like all the other times, I guess. I did what you said.” Her voice sounds oddly flat and devoid of emotion.
“Good. Thank you. Can I come by now to pick up the equipment?”
“Sure.”
I hang up, stop by Izzy’s office to let him know I’m going to run a quick errand, and then head for Carla’s house. She greets me at the door and smiles, but it comes across as a plastic, social nicety, an expression worn solely for appearance’ sake.
“Thanks again for doing this, Carla,” I say as she waves me in and leads me to the kitchen.
“Sure.” She sounds and looks like a Stepford Wife.
“Are you okay?” I ask, seriously concerned.
“Of course.” She flashes the plastic smile again. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. You seem different somehow. Subdued. Not your usual self.”
She waves away my concern. “I’m just a little tired. My nerves kept me awake last night worrying about this appointment today.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s done now.” She hands over the digital recording device I gave her yesterday—the one Izzy gave me for recording my observations at death scenes. “I kept it in my purse during the appointment so I’m pretty sure Dr. Nelson didn’t suspect anything,” she says.
“Did you listen to it?” I ask. I know I would have found it close to impossible not to do so had our roles been reversed. My curiosity is insatiable. It’s not that I can’t keep a secret; I can and do all the time, and will probably take several of them to my grave. But I hate being out of the loop.
She doesn’t hesitate at all with her answer. “No. I figured I’d leave that up to you. You will let me know what you find, won’t you?”
“When I can,” I say evasively. Truth is, anything I hear on the recorder will probably be inadmissible as evidence. I didn’t have her do it to gather evidence but rather to bolster—or dismiss—my own suspicions about the man. But if I do find something that might be usable, sharing that information too soon might compromise the investigation.
I’m eager to get back to the office and listen to whatever Carla recorded on the device, but I don’t want to seem too rude or ungrateful, so I force myself to be social and take a sip of the coffee she pours for me. Shockingly, it is ice cold.
As I spit it back into the cup, Carla looks at me with that flat smile and says, “Is it too strong?”
“No, it’s cold.”
She blinks her eyes several times very rapidly. “Silly me,” she says in a goofy manner that seems very unlike the Carla I know. “I must have forgotten to turn the burner on.” For just a second her smile fades. She rubs both her temples and looks momentarily frightened and confused. But the change is fleeting and the smile is pasted back in place so quickly I start to wonder if I imagined it.
“I’m going to head back to my office now, Carla,” I say, getting up from the table. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
She laughs and there is a hint of the old Carla in the sound. “Let’s hope I don’t need what you have to offer,” she says.
I thank her again for helping me and leave, but as I drive away I keep replaying the scene at her house over and over again in my mind. Her behavior was disturbing, and while something about it nudges at my brain, I can’t quite pull out the message my subconscious is trying to send.
I arrive back at the office and plan to head straight for the library to listen to the recording. But in the main lobby I run into a crowd. Cass is seated at her desk and today she is dressed as a punk rocker complete with spiked, purple hair, striped tights, Doc Martens, an oversized shirt, and lots of piercings I assume are fake since I’m pretty sure she didn’t have any holes in those places before. Standing in front of the desk are Izzy, Aaron Heinrich, and Hurley, whose cheek looks more colorful but a little less swollen.
“There she is,” Aaron says, turning to greet me. He flashes his thousand-watt smile and leans back against Cass’s desk.
Izzy says, “Aaron stopped by to thank us for the work we did investigating his father’s death. And he also wanted to know if it would be allowable for him to ask you out for dinner, now that the case is closed.”
“Dinner?” I say stupidly, caught off guard by the invite.
Izzy says, “There’re no conflict-of-interest considerations anymore.”
If looks could kill, Izzy would be reclined on one of the back tables right now judging from the way Hurley is glaring at him. Izzy appears not only oblivious, but amused.
Aaron says, “Change of plans. I thought we could head down to Chicago instead of Green Bay. I know some great restaurants and there’s a show in town I’d like to see. So what do you say, Mattie? Will you do me the honor of joining me tonight?”
I consider the invitation for a moment and my hesitation wins Izzy a momentary reprieve from his death sentence because Hurley focuses his glare on me instead. His attempts at intimidation annoy me, making me want to dish a little back. But I’m not sure I’m ready to go on a date with Aaron.
“I’d love to,” I say, smiling at Aaron. I swear the thunderclouds on Hurley’s face make the barometric pressure in the room drop precipitously. “But I can’t do it tonight.”
Aaron looks disappointed but he brightens quickly when I add, “Perhaps another time?”
“Sure,” he says. “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you later and set something up.” He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket, turns around to take a slip of paper from Cass, and then looks back at me expectantly with pen poised.
I figure the phone number thing is a safe bet since, in my experience, most men who say they’ll call never do. Plus, I’m abiding by Rule Number Seven in Mother’s Rules for Wives: men are like mascara—they run at the first hint of emotion, so try to keep them guessing. Giving my number to Aaron should keep Hurley guessing, or at least
