“Where’s Hurley?” Alison asks, looking over at me.
“Sick. A stomach bug or something,” I tell her, despite my knowledge to the contrary. “Richmond is going to handle this one.”
Alison turns back to Richmond. “You might want to be careful yourself then,” she tells him. “People who work with Mattie have an uncanny way of ending up injured or dead.”
Chapter 5
I manage to bite my tongue and not snap back at Alison’s snide comment. I’m assisted in this incredible show of restraint by Izzy, who wisely shoos Alison from the autopsy room and asks her to wait in the lobby or the library until we have the murder weapon removed.
It turns out that Callie’s body isn’t frozen but it is in full rigor—making it likely that the time of death was actually hours before we found her. Izzy carefully documents the wound trajectories and when that’s done, he removes the knife. It’s a wicked-looking thing, just over nine inches in length with a five-inch blade. There’s a small nick in the blade near the hasp, and the handle, which appears to be ivory, has a dragon carved into it. After taking his own pictures and cleaning the blood off the knife, Izzy sets it in a tray in preparation for Alison’s pictures.
When we open Callie up we discover that Izzy’s guess about the cause of death is correct. The knife pierced both her aorta and her left ventricle. Eventually the first wound alone would have been fatal as it caused massive bleeding. Since the second wound would have stopped the heart, the amount of blood lost suggests that some time elapsed between the two wounds, making me wonder if the woman was alive and aware she was dying during the interval.
The remainder of the autopsy is relatively uneventful. Colbert does himself proud by managing to not only stay upright throughout the entire thing, but also asking intelligent, thoughtful questions about our findings, which other than the knife wounds and the single hair, consist mainly of some tiny metallic-looking globs we find entangled in Callie’s hair. The metal pieces will need to be packaged and taken to the Madison crime lab where they can analyze them using energy dispersive X-ray spectroscopy. We also discover that Callie had caps on her teeth and breast implants, both of which will make it easier to confirm Alison’s tentative ID.
I let Izzy deal with Alison and the knife photography, and after cleaning up the autopsy room, I change into my regular clothes, and head home. I’m eager to get to Hurley’s place but need to stop by my own first to let my dog, Hoover, out for a break.
I’ve had Hoover for all of three weeks. I found him—filthy, frightened, and emaciated—hovering beside a grocery store Dumpster. Judging from his coloring, his ears, and the shape of his head, I’m guessing he’s part yellow Lab or golden retriever. Judging from the way he inhales food, I suspect the other part is vacuum cleaner, hence his name.
So far Hoover has proven to be gentle, friendly, and quite smart. He has already mastered the come, sit, and stay commands, and he and my cat, Rubbish, entertain themselves quite nicely when I’m gone. Hoover’s only negative is his predilection for eating the crotch out of any panties I leave lying around, a habit made even more annoying by the fact that I just committed a lot of money to a major underwear upgrade.
Hoover greets me now as he always does, with a happy yip and a wagging tail. This makes him the best companion and roommate I’ve ever had. My husband, David, never greeted me with that much enthusiasm, not even on our first anniversary when I met him at the door wearing nothing but some well-placed dollops of whipped cream.
After letting Hoover outside to do his business, I reward his devotion by indulging him in a few minutes of belly scratching. My cat, Rubbish, watches this with a look of disdain. Though he has tolerated the addition of a dog to our household, I sense there are times when he’s not happy about having to share my attentions. And he seems to be all about self-expression, often making his displeasure known by barfing up a hairball on my bed, or taking a dump just outside the litter box rather than in it.
Once the animals are fed, watered, scratched, and otherwise attended to, I spend a little time on myself. I take a quick shower and wash my hair to get rid of the lingering smells of death, decay, and formaldehyde. Then I don some peach-colored, lace-trimmed undies that have fortunately evaded Hoover’s teeth, and a matching bra. In case things go well at Hurley’s tonight, I want to be ready and look my best. I then try on several different outfits and study each one carefully in the mirror, trying to find the one that hides my flaws the best. This involves checking out the rear view as well as the front, as the wrong combination of slacks and top makes my butt look as wide as a house. I finally settle on a pair of forgiving gray slacks and a long, loose-fitting, baby-blue sweater with a cowl-neck collar.
After blow-drying my hair and taming the more cantankerous strands with a curling iron, I put on some makeup. Deeming the result as good as it’s going to get, I hop in the hearse and head for Hurley’s house. My heart is racing with anticipation, wondering what he wants to talk about, wondering what the night will bring, and wondering how far I’m willing to let him go if things should progress along those lines. Even though David and I have been physically separated for several months, I’m technically still married. Consequently I’m not willing to go for the home run with Hurley yet, though I’m open to letting him run the bases if the mood strikes.
Of course, that’s the optimist in me talking. My darker, more pessimistic side is still worried that Hurley might be planning to dump me because I uttered the “L” word. I’ve learned over the years that when it comes to men, emotions are like antimatter. Say anything that matters to them and they’ll obliterate you. So I need to keep my shields at the ready tonight in case Hurley hits me with a barrage of anti-emotion photon torpedoes.
Thanks to the end of daylight savings time, the day has turned dark already even though it’s only a little after five. Despite the shortened day, streetlights reflecting off the snow give the town a cozy ambience. I pull onto Hurley’s street, park the hearse in front of his house, and take a moment to check out the neighborhood. It’s an older area of town with towering oaks and well-preserved homes, most of which are close to a century in age. This is no cookie-cutter neighborhood either; the variety of styles among the houses is eclectic. Towering Victorians are sprinkled amidst Cape Cods, Italianates, Craftsmans, and Tudors.
Hurley’s house is one of the Craftsmans in the neighborhood and the front porch, with its tapered stone columns, reflects that. The door is a classic fit for the style: a heavy wooden affair with dentil molding and a stained-glass window at the top. I’m about to push the doorbell when the door opens.
“Come on in,” Hurley says. He looks past me to the curb, sees the hearse, and shakes his head. “You might as well have flashing neon signs on that thing, as subtle as it is.”
“Hey, you helped me pick it out so no fair dissing it now.”
“I know, I know. It’s a sound vehicle and given the price you didn’t have much of a choice. It’s just not very . . . aesthetically pleasing.”
I step into a foyer with beautiful wood wainscoting and dark, hardwood floors. There is a stairway on the left leading to the second floor, bordered by a rail and newel post that are both done in a classic Arts and Crafts design. Straight ahead is a hallway that ends in a kitchen; to my right is a living room. There is a delicious, spicy smell in the air that makes my stomach growl. Then I realize that the only thing I’ve eaten today is the one slice of pizza Richmond was willing to share.
As Hurley closes the door behind me, I undo my coat and shrug it off my shoulders. He takes it and hangs it in a coat closet beneath the stairs.
“Have you eaten?” Hurley asks me.
“Not since lunch. Something smells really good. Did you cook?”
“I did. Homemade lasagna and garlic bread, but it’s not quite ready.”
Hurley’s sexy quotient has just leaped several notches. A man that looks as good as he does, kisses as good as he does, and cooks, too . . . hell, that’s hitting the bell at the top of the carnival high striker game to me, especially since my idea of a home prepared meal is when I eat my food off of a real plate instead of the to-go container it came in.
“How about a glass of wine?” he offers.
I nod, thinking this is a good sign. Maybe he wants to get me relaxed and a little loose so we can pursue our relationship further. Then I think maybe he just wants to get me relaxed so I won’t freak out when he dumps me.
