Frozen Stiff

a huge collective gasp as everyone in the store within a mile radius of me turns to look to see what the commotion is about. One of the store clerks rushes toward me: a tall, skinny kid with a terminal case of acne.

“Holy crap, lady!” the kid says, his eyes hugely round. A plastic name badge pinned to his red vest says his name is Daniel. “You took down the whole display. That’s going to cost you.”

Since I expected the first words out of his mouth to be concern for my welfare, I’m momentarily stymied by this comment, enough so that I momentarily forget how I ended up in this predicament to begin with. Then I’m reminded when I hear Lucien’s voice holler out.

“Mattiekins!”

I look over my shoulder to find Lucien standing behind me, his blue eyes sparkling with barely contained amusement, his strawberry-blond hair slicked back with enough grease to lube a fleet of cars. He’s dressed in his usual worn and wrinkled suit—so threadbare it shines—and his pale blue shirt has a large mustard stain on the front of it. He helps me up, the two of us crunching bits of glass beneath our feet, and then he gives me a too-tight hug, his way of copping an easy feel. I squirm loose and push him away from me.

“Hello, Lucien. Fancy meeting you here.”

“I stopped by to pick up a new snowblower. The old one went tits up.”

I hear a few more gasps in the crowd milling around us and I’m not sure if it’s disgust over Lucien’s crass language, or mourning cries for a dead snowblower—an extended family member if you want to live through a winter in Wisconsin.

One of the men in the crowd yells out, “Hey, buddy, take my advice and get the Toro 1800. I cleared an entire acre of drive in one hour with that thing in the winter of oh-eight.”

Another guy pipes up and says, “Hell, no, go with Craftsman. It threw that heavy wet snow we had last year a good twenty-five feet or more.”

Within seconds, a rousing, chest-puffing debate ensues among the men in the group. Snowblowers are a measure of macho in Wisconsin and after any hefty snowfall you can find men on every block metaphorically unzipping and comparing blade size, horsepower, stages, and throw capacity. Any guy using a shovel is assumed to have gonads the size of a squirrel’s.

The pimply-faced clerk is joined by another red-vested dweeb wearing a badge with the name Dick on it. “Jesus Christ, lady, what the hell is wrong with you?” Dick says, living up to his name. “You’re going have to pay for this, you know.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “My foot slipped in some water and I—”

“Clearly these shelves weren’t constructed safely,” Lucien jumps in.

Dick shoots him a give-me-a-break look and rolls his eyes. Lucien quickly counters by whipping out a bent business card that still bears perforation marks along the edges, advertising the fact that it was printed on a personal computer. “This,” he says, waving one hand over the scene as he hands the card to Dick with the other, “is obvious negligence. Not to mention the fact that you don’t have any nonslip rugs in place. I’m a lawyer and my client here has been seriously traumatized by her injuries. Hell, her pain and suffering alone must be worth a good hundred thousand or so. Who’s in charge here?”

Dick’s red face pales. “I . . . he . . . I’ll call the store manager,” he says, grabbing a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

A heavyset woman off to my left drops to the floor and yells out, “Oh, no! The floor is wet here, too. I think I’ve twisted my knee. Can I have one of your cards?” she asks Lucien.

As other people in the crowd start taking a closer look at the floor beneath them, Dick scurries off at a panicked clip toward the front desk.

“Thanks, I think,” I tell Lucien.

“Anything for you, Sweet Cheeks,” he says. “And I know just how you can pay me back,” he adds with a lecherous wink.

My cell phone rings and I take it out, grateful I won’t have to hear the specifics of Lucien’s payment plan. He leans over and sneaks a peek at the face of the phone to see who is calling and smiles when Hurley’s name pops up.

“Ooh, a call from that hot detective,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Are you two bumping fuzzies yet?”

“Hardly,” I say, still bristling over Hurley’s distant attitude of late. “I think I scared him off by using the “L” word back when I thought he might be dying.”

“You told him you’re a lesbian?” Lucien says loud enough for everyone to hear. “Are you?” he adds, looking intrigued.

Someone in the surrounding crowd yells out, “Hey, lawyer guy, can I have a card, too?” followed by a chorus of “Me too, me too, me too.” I’m saved from any further Lucien humiliations as a swarm of people close in and I gingerly pick my way out of the lightbulb debris pile to answer Hurley’s call.

“Hey, what’s up, Hurley? Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine.”

I glance back and see Lucien completely surrounded by potential clients looking to make a buck the good old American way—by suing someone. So I take advantage of his distraction and disappear down a nearby aisle. “Are you sure?” I say to Hurley. “You were looking pretty peaked the last time I saw you, like maybe you’re coming down with something. ’Tis the season, you know. Did you get a flu shot?”

“My health is fine,” Hurley says. “Where are you?”

I tell him where I am and why, leaving out the details about the lightbulb display.

“I need to talk to you,” he says. “Can you come over to my place later?”

An invite to the inner sanctum! My day is starting to look better. I’ve never been inside Hurley’s house, though I did some snooping a while back and found out where he lives. The fact that he hasn’t invited me over has left me wondering if he has something to hide, or if I was reading a little too much into the few full-body ogles and curl-my-toes kisses we’ve shared thus far.

“Sure,” I tell him, trying not to sound as eager as I am. “I have to help Izzy post that body we found this morning, so it will probably be five or later before I can get there.”

“That’s fine.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

I end the call before he has a chance to change his mind. At first I’m pretty excited about the invite, hoping Hurley wants to talk about our future relationship. But then I recall the recent change in his attitude and wonder if I’m fooling myself. In my experience, most men’s understanding of commitment is limited to mental institutions and beer brand loyalty. Maybe Hurley’s planning to hit me with the let’s-just-be-friends discussion, or the oops-I-meant- to-tell-you-I’m-married discussion, or the I-thought-you-knew-I-was-gay discussion.

My cell phone rings and when I see it’s Hurley calling me back, panic rears its ugly head. Damn, he’s changed his mind already.

I wince as I answer, bracing myself for the blow. “Hello?”

“I thought you might want my address,” Hurley says. “Unless you somehow know where I live already.”

Busted!

I consider trying to lie my way out of it by saying something like, Oh yeah, silly me. I guess that would help. But I don’t. “Hey, Hurley, it’s a small town. And you’re not the only one with investigative resources, you know.”

“Good,” he says. “I plan to take full advantage of your resources.” Before I can respond to that he adds, “See you later,” and hangs up.

I’m left standing next to the nuts and bolts display feeling edgy and oddly titillated. I can think of several “resources” I possess that I’d love to let Hurley take advantage of, but I’m pretty sure that isn’t what he meant. Whatever his meaning, my curiosity is definitely aroused. As are several other parts of my body.

Chapter 3

I make it out of the store without any further gropes from Lucien or attacks from the