Dead of Winter Page 25

  I lick my lips and sigh. “Let’s get to it then, shall we?”

  CHAPTER 26

  The roads are still treacherous and the going is slow, but the plows are working diligently and the main city streets are navigable. As we get closer to the edge of town and Izzy’s house, however, things get dicier. The hearse slogs through it all with ease, though, and the only hiccup in our travels is a moment of slippery hesitation as I negotiate the slope of Izzy’s driveway. Well, that and the lingering smell of blood and amniotic fluid coming from the back of the car.

  “You should call Not a Trace again,” Izzy says, reading my mind. “They’ll get it cleaned for you.”

  “I’m sure they will, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to having to call them again. They aren’t cheap.”

  When I’d retrieved my car keys from Cass, she also handed me the bill of service, which nearly made me poop my pants all over again. Now I was not only going to have to pay again, I couldn’t help but wonder what the company’s employees would think of me. Cleaning up poop one day, and delivery excreta the next, would leave them wondering just what it was I did in my hearse.

  “Make David pay for it,” Izzy says. “He can afford it.”

  It’s a good idea, and I log it away for later consideration.

  When I pull up behind Izzy’s house, I don’t wait for an invitation to come inside, and Izzy doesn’t offer one. Based on experiences shared in the past, the assumption of my doing so is simply there. The kitchen smells like heaven, the rich scents of apples, pecans, cinnamon, nutmeg, and brown sugar all blending together in a mouthwatering lure. Underlying these aromas is the scent of chili powder, and I see a large pot of chili simmering on the stove, and a pan of unbaked corn bread ready to go into the oven.

  Clearly, Dom had no doubt about whether or not I’d stop in, either, because he already has a container of warm pecan tassies prepared for me to take home, and a huge chunk of apple pie in another container. His eyes are red-rimmed, a clear sign that he’s been crying, but at the moment, he appears calm and content, albeit busy as he bustles about the kitchen in his apron.

  Juliana is seated in her high chair at one end of the table, eating a small piece of sugar-dusted piecrust, and Izzy goes over and kisses her on her forehead. This elicits a huge smile from Juliana, followed by her attempt to push a piece of her piecrust up Izzy’s nose.

  “Those containers are for you,” Dom says to me. “I can fix you up another one with some chili in it, or if you want to stay and eat with us, you can do that.”

  “Thanks, Dom,” I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “My thighs hate you, but the rest of me adores you. I’d love to stay, but I really want to get home to Emily and Matthew.”

  “Juliana missed him today,” Dom says. “When I picked her up at your sister’s, she kept looking around for him.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet,” I say, giving Juliana a loving look.

  “Speaking of your sister, she invited us to Hurley’s birthday party on Sunday,” Dom says, stirring the chili. “I was thinking of getting him a nice bottle of wine. Think that’s okay?”

  “No gifts necessary,” I tell him, knowing he’ll feel obligated to get one anyway. “And, yes, the wine will be fine.” The smell wafting up from the stove is making my mouth water, and I’m rethinking my need to hurry home. Maybe just a small bowl before I go.

  I’m about to say as much to Dom, but then he says, “Any idea yet if someone killed Roger?”

  Izzy and I exchange a look. Dom, fortunately, is studiously stirring the chili, not looking at either of us.

  “We have to be very careful about discussing any of this,” Izzy says to Dom.

  Dom gives him an exasperated look. “Maybe it wasn’t any of us,” he says, tears welling. “Someone could have come in from the outside. Maybe Dalrymple was upset over something or someone not even related to the theater group. Everyone said he came back from lunch drunk, so couldn’t something have happened to him outside our group?”

  I realize Dom is grasping at straws, unwilling to consider the possibility that one of his fellow actors might be a murderer. His scenario, however improbable, isn’t impossible—the back door was unlocked when we got there—but the timing of the events as reported makes it unlikely.

  Hurley had said at one point that we couldn’t rule Dom out totally because it was within the realm of possibilities that he could have done it. In theory, he could have entered the building, gone straight up onto the catwalk, shoved Roger, and then just as quickly exited the building, only to reenter a moment later and make it look like he was just arriving. None of us considered Dom as a serious suspect, but in an effort to rule him out more permanently, I made a point of looking at the time stamps on the receipts Dom had given to Hurley. Between the time on those receipts and the time of his phone call to me, only twelve minutes had gone by. When you took into account the amount of time it would have taken him to drive from the stores in question back to the theater, park, and go inside, plus the time taken to assess the situation when he found the others crowded around Roger Dalrymple’s body, it was hard to believe he had managed to do what he said he did, much less commit a murder on top of it.

  As for some stranger doing the deed instead, based on Helen Niehls’s story, there likely wasn’t time enough from when she heard the thud of Roger’s body hitting the floor, to the time of her scream, for someone to have fled the scene without Dom seeing him or her exit the building. Of course, that’s assuming Helen Niehls was telling the truth.

  Whether or not Dom wanted to face it, the odds were good that if Roger Dalrymple was murdered and didn’t just stagger off that catwalk, drunk, it was someone in the theater group who pushed him.

  “Let’s wait until we have a chance to do the autopsy before we get too worked up, Dom,” I say. Then, in what I hope will be a distraction sufficient to get Dom off the subject, I ask, “How’s Sylvie doing today? Is she coming over for dinner?”

  Dom shoots a guilty look at Izzy. “I fixed a plate up a little while ago and took it over to her. I hope that’s okay.” He pauses, puts the back of his hand on his forehead, and stares at the ceiling for a moment. “I just don’t think I have the strength to put up with her snide comments tonight.”

  Izzy, who knows all too well how deeply his mother’s barbed comments can wound, walks over to Dom and hugs him. “It’s fine,” he says.

  He’s rewarded for his efforts with a sobbing Dom draping himself over his shoulder. There are times when I find such emotional drama entertaining, but now isn’t one of them. I take two seconds to weigh my need for escape with my desire for some chili, and for once, food doesn’t win out. Of course that’s probably because I have other food besides the chili.

  I clear my throat loudly and gather up the containers of food Dom has fixed for me. “I’m going to go before the roads get any worse. Thanks again for these, Dom.” I make a hasty retreat without waiting for a response, and I’m behind the wheel of my hearse less than thirty seconds later.

  * * *

  The country roads still haven’t been plowed, and it makes for slow going for two reasons. The first is that the snow is accumulating fast. There is a good four inches of new stuff on the ground, and it’s still coming down hard and fast. This makes it hard to see where I’m going and hard to see where the road ends and the fields begin. In addition, the wind gusts have created some unusual and unexpected drifts. Twice I nearly go off the road when I hit drifted accumulations of snow that are a foot or more deep. But the hearse plugs along through it all, and forty minutes after leaving Izzy’s, I find myself at the turn for my driveway. Getting up it proves challenging, but after a few wheel spins and sickening sideways slides, I make it to the top and pull into the garage. After turning off the engine, I send Hurley a text to let him know I’m home safe, and then I sit for a minute to give myself time to unwind.

  It’s been a hell of a day, starting off with my Mount Vesuvius incident, being shot in the arm by Rob
erts, the death of Roger Dalrymple, the progress we made in the Paulsen case (though I would have liked to see more of that), and the delivery of Patty’s baby. As my mind replays an abbreviated version of all these events, I feel my body grow wearier with each passing image. I’m exhausted, I realize, and suddenly my legs feel too tired to move.

  I look over, see the containers of pie and tassies, and grab the pecan treats. I pop the lid and take a big whiff, hoping a little sugar inspiration will get me moving. It works, but not in the way I think. The smell of the pecan treats mingled with the lingering smells coming from the back of the hearse makes me nearly gag. I snap the lid back in place, gather up the other container, and haul my butt out of the car and into the house.

  There’s no sign of Emily and Matthew downstairs anywhere, though the blanket tent is still up in the living room, strung between a chair, the couch, and the coffee table. I glance at my watch and see that it’s going on eight, and figure Emily is upstairs getting Matthew ready for bed. I set my goody containers on the counter, shuck off my boots, and then strip off my coat and scarf as I’m walking to the front hall closet. When I reach the base of the stairs, I hear Emily upstairs talking to Matthew.

  “Mom is going to be so mad at you,” she says in a voice that is sympathetic rather than chastising.

  This has my curiosity piqued, and I tiptoe up the stairs. I hear water splashing and see the light on in the bathroom and figure Emily must be giving Matthew a bath. Still tiptoeing, I approach the bathroom door, which is halfway shut, and push it fully open.

  I’m partially right. Someone is getting a bath, but it isn’t Matthew. He and Emily are standing next to the tub, which has several inches of water in it. Inside the tub, in the water, is Hoover, looking like a drowned rat. Then I have to rethink the image because the dog in the tub looks like a Dalmatian.

  “What in the world?” I say, making Emily start.

  She drops the sponge she’s using on the dog, whirls around, and claps a hand to her chest. “Oh, my God, you scared me!” she says, her voice a mixture of relief and annoyance.

  Before I can apologize for my sneakiness, Hoover makes a mad dash to escape, scrambling out of the tub, and causing a mini tsunami of water and soap. Emily yelps and tries to grab him, but the dog is quicker, despite his paws doing a cartoon scramble on the bathroom tiles. He’s also collarless and slippery. The second his feet get a holding, he darts past her and me, and hauls butt down the hallway, leaving a trail of sudsy water in his wake.

  “Damn it,” I hear Emily say, and she goes after the dog.

  “Damn it,” Matthew echoes, and then he, too, takes chase.

  Hoover gallops down the stairs, both kids in pursuit. I stand in the bathroom, looking at the mess, and trying to understand why my yellow Labrador retriever is now covered with black spots. Shrieks rise up from below, and then I hear both Emily and Matthew laughing. There is the sound of running, of furniture getting shoved, and more shouting and laughter.

  I weigh my options, and then grab a towel from the bathroom cabinet. I head downstairs in no particular hurry, and when I reach the front hallway, I see Hoover go hurtling by from the living room into the kitchen. Close on his heels is Emily, who is holding a blanket from the now-destroyed tent. Three seconds later, I see my son go running by, his face bright with laughter.

  I want to be angry. I’m much too tired to deal with the mess I’m going to have to clean up, and my dog doesn’t look right. But the ongoing shrieks of laughter are contagious, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve joined the chase, the towel held in front of me with both hands.

  In the kitchen, Emily has Hoover somewhat trapped between the island and a wall of cabinets. Every time Hoover tries to escape, Emily heads him off. If she went around the island to Hoover’s side, he could easily make a run for it, so the two of them stay on their respective sides doing the doggy version of a Mexican standoff. Matthew is standing at one end of the island, watching and telling his sister whenever Hoover moves in one direction or the other.

  “Emily,” I say, walking up to the scene slowly. “You go around the far end of the island and I’ll take this end. We’ll flush him out.”

  Emily looks at me and then nods.

  I speed up my approach a little, and when Hoover sees me, he freezes for a moment, tensed and ready. “Hoover, come on,” I say, speeding up some more. That’s enough to make him spring into action. He spins away from me and heads around the opposite end of the island.

  “Here he comes!” I yell to Emily.

  Matthew squeals with delight and claps his hands, jumping up and down.

  Emily throws the blanket at the dog, wrapping one arm around his shoulders, and wrestling him to the ground. Hoover struggles to get upright, and I can see Emily is in danger of losing her grip, so I hurry over to help. I fling one leg over the dog, straddling him, and issue a stern command. “Hoover, sit!”

  Amazingly, he does, the blanket still draped over his body. Emily gets herself into a more stable position and repositions her grip on him. Between her and me, we have him held for the moment, her sitting on the floor beside him with her arms wrapped around his neck, me bent over with my arms wrapped around his torso right behind his front legs.

  We need to get his collar back on him, and I’m about to ask Matthew to get it, when I hear him shriek with delight. I catch movement out of the corner of one eye and look to see my son barreling toward me.

  “Get Hoovah!” he yells, and then he leaps, flinging his entire body at me.

  My first instinct is to try to stop him so he doesn’t hurt himself or the dog, and I release my grip on Hoover and put an arm out to slow Matthew’s flight. Matthew hits me with a full-body slam on my left side, making me yelp in pain when he hits my injured shoulder. The dog, sensing a distraction in his prison guards, heaves himself forward. Emily loses her grip on him, and Hoover knocks one of my legs to the side in his scramble to escape. Seventy-five pounds of dog muscle is hard to contain, and he’s gone in a flash. I grab Matthew around his waist to keep him from falling to the floor, gritting my teeth against the pain in my arm, and then do a demented version of the Watusi as I try to keep myself upright. It’s a valiant effort on my part, but my balance is too precarious. I go down, breaking my fall the best I can with my good hand, knocking Emily off her knees, and pulling Matthew along with me.

  Emily and I end up in an ignominious heap on the floor, breathless and panting, with Matthew sprawled on top of us, laughing.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Emily, rolling my head toward her.

  She nods. “Are you?”

  “I think so.” I wiggle some appendages and squirm a little to make sure everything moves. My shoulder is throbbing, but aside from that, nothing hurts too much.

  Matthew shifts his position so that he’s straddling my waist. “Horsey!” he yells.

  “No, no horsey,” I say, picking him up and setting him on the floor beside me. Overhead I hear the gallop of Hoover’s feet running down the hall toward my bedroom. I pray that he stays off the bed with his wet, soapy fur. I look over at Emily, eyebrows arched in question.

  “Yeah,” she says with a guilty smile. “It’s a long story.”

  “Wrong story,” Matthew says beside me. Then he leaps toward me again, landing in my lap. I wrap my arms around his wriggling body and hold him tight.

  “Give me the short version,” I say to Emily.

  She rakes her top teeth over her lower lip and gives Matthew an exasperated look before she begins. “I was doing some homework in my room, and Matthew was in there with me, on the floor, coloring.”

  Upon hearing his name, Matthew stops squirming and rivets his attention on Emily.

  “Hoover was in there with us, too,” Emily goes on. “I had to go to the bathroom, so I told Matthew to keep coloring and went down the hall. I wasn’t in there that long, I swear. And I had the door open the whole time. When I got back to the bedroom, I saw that Matthew had gotten up on my desk, grabbed
my black Magic Marker, and was using it to draw spots on Hoover’s fur.”

  “Spots for Hoovah!” Matthew says with a big smile.

  “No, Matthew, we don’t do spots on Hoover,” I chastise.

  “Spots for Maff-you!” he tries instead, uttering the words with great seriousness.

  “No, we don’t do spots on Matthew, either,” I say, a bit more sternly.

  “Uh-huh,” Matthew argues, pouting a little. Then he lifts up his shirt. There, all around his navel, is a big black circle, drawn on his skin with Magic Marker.

  “Matthew, no!” Emily says, clearly shocked. She shoots me a confused, somewhat fearful glance, then shifts back to Matthew with a scowl. “You are a naughty boy,” she scolds. “How on earth could you have done all that so fast?”

  “Maff-you fast!” he says, and he starts to scramble off my lap. Sensing the potential for more mayhem, I grab him, ignoring the pain in my arm, and start kissing him on his neck, his face, his head, and then his belly. He laughs, wriggles, squirms, and squeals, and before I know it, we are on the floor, rolling and wrestling, laughing and yelping. The play session lasts a few minutes before all of us run out of gas. The three of us stretch out on the floor—me on one side, Emily on the other, Matthew between us—and stare at the ceiling, our chests heaving a little less with each breath, contented smiles on our faces. Eventually I roll over onto my side toward Matthew, propping my head in one hand. I lift Matthew’s shirt, looking at his black hole.

  “Matthew, markers aren’t to be used on people, or animals, or walls, or furniture,” I say. “It makes Mommy mad and also sad when you do that, because it doesn’t come off very easy, if at all. So no more markers for you, young man.”

  I half expect him to throw a tantrum, or pout, or argue the point, but he rolls over, instead, on his side and mimics my position, one arm propped beneath his head to hold it up. Our faces are inches apart, and he looks directly, and deeply, into my eyes. “Okay. I sorry,” he says.

  My heart melts, and I can’t help but smile. “I love you, buddy,” I tell him, and then I lean over and kiss his nose.