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  When I was little she regaled me with horror stories about all the bizarre maladies that befell people, first highlighting symptoms that were always vague and general, and then telling me how she’d had just such a symptom herself. I spent the better part of my childhood thinking my mother would take to her deathbed any day. As I got older, I came to realize that Mom was actually quite healthy—she just didn’t have all her oars in the water. By the time I started nursing school, her little eccentricity turned out to be a benefit. Listening as Mom described all those diseases and disorders over the years imbued me with a good bit of knowledge, giving me an unexpected edge in the classroom.

  “Sit down, Mom. We need to talk.”

  She does as I instruct but continues to count her pulse, her lips moving slightly as she ticks off each number. I refill the saucer and accidentally pour some milk on the kitten’s head. It keeps on drinking with nary a pause.

  “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you about David.”

  The hand at my mother’s neck falls to the table with a pronounced thunk and she gapes at me, her mouth hanging open. “What now? Isn’t it enough that you’re divorcing him? I still can’t believe you’re doing that. He’s a doctor. You don’t divorce a doctor.”

  That is #4 in Mother’s Rules for Wives. It weighs in with only slightly less importance than Rule #3: marrying someone taller and heavier than you (easy for her to say since she’s thin and only five foot six) and Rule #2: never allowing your husband (or any man, for that matter) to witness, or even become aware of, certain bodily functions. There are seven more rules—like the Ten Commandments of Marriage—and Mother swears that if you follow them all religiously you’ll have a happy marriage. Whenever I remind her that her own track record of four divorces isn’t much of a reference, she’ll dismiss my objection by mumbling something about lessons learned.

  My response to my mother’s raising of Rule #4 today is the same one I’ve been giving her for the past two months. “He screwed around on me, Mom.”

  She pish-paws that with a wave of her hand. “That kind of stuff happens. You know how men are.” She narrows her eyes at me and says in her best Nostradamus voice, “You didn’t hold out on him, did you? Because I told you what happens if you don’t give them whoopee whenever they want it, didn’t I?”

  She’d told me, countless times. It’s Rule #5.

  “Get counseling or something,” she says. “It’s not worth throwing away a good marriage over.”

  “We don’t have a good marriage, Mom. In fact, we don’t have any marriage at all at the moment, except on paper.” I suck in a breath and then drop the bomb. “And the woman David was seeing has been murdered. David is a suspect.”

  Mom turns horribly pale—which for her means turning damned near invisible—and I think she might actually get her lifelong wish to become deathly ill. “You don’t seriously think he killed someone, do you?” she whispers. Despite her color drain, the look on her face suggests that she finds the idea kind of intriguing.

  “No, Mom. I don’t. At least I don’t think I do. But I know that he saw the woman only hours before she was killed and that they had a horrible argument.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Oops. “It’s not important how I know. Just believe that I do.”

  “Have you talked to David about it?”

  I shake my head and open my mouth to drop my next bomb—that I, too, might be a suspect—but stop when the kitten makes its presence known by leaping onto my leg and sinking its claws into my skin like a rock climber hammering home his pitons. Hissing through my teeth, I reach down and pry the creature loose, only to have it do this amazing wriggle-flip thing that transfers the pitons to my sleeve with lightning speed. It hangs on for dear life, looking panicked and mewling pitifully. I pull it off my sleeve, wincing as I hear claws rip loose of the fabric, and settle it in my lap on its back with its legs in the air where they will do less harm. With one finger I rub its stomach. It relaxes immediately and starts to purr.

  “Well, lookie here,” I say, squinting between its back legs at two furry little bumps, each one about the size of my prom night pimple. “You’re a boy.”

  My mother clucks her disapproval.

  “I need to think up a name for him,” I muse.

  “You’re actually going to keep that creature?” my mother says, aghast.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “I already told you why. Cats carry diseases. And those litter boxes are so…” Her eyes grow wide suddenly. “Do you even have a litter box?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  “Well, what…how…if…oh, my.” She sputters for a few seconds as she considers the possibilities. I can almost see the images in her head—a montage of slasher-movie scenes where everything that would normally be covered with blood is covered with cat shit instead.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I say, watching her turn apoplectic. “I’m leaving. Your house is safe.” I pluck the kitten from my lap, stand, and head for the door, my mother close on my heels.

  “You really should get rid of that thing,” she says. “Are you going to see David?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Well, please give him my regards and let him know I’m not responsible for the insanity that has obviously overtaken you. That comes from your father’s side of the family.”

  Next to obsessing about her health, my mother’s other favorite hobby is trashing my father and his family. My parents divorced when I was in kindergarten and my only memories of my father are vague and misty. They bear such an unreal quality that I often wonder if they’re real memories or something I conjured up during my lonelier hours.

  My mother has remarried three times and divorced three times since my father—she’s not an easy woman to live with. And while I have no idea where my “real” father is and haven’t seen or heard from him in thirty years, I have a trio of delightful stepfathers, two of whom still live nearby.

  “Your father’s family has Gypsy blood in the line. You know that, don’t you?”

  “How could I not, Mother? You remind me of it several times a year.”

  “Yep, Gypsies,” she goes on. “A bunch of expert con artists, stricken with wanderlust. The whole lot of them.” Then, as she realizes I’m leaving, she hits me with a last-minute wave of maternal concern. “Are you doing okay, Mattie? Do you need anything?”

  “No, I’m fine, Mom. Thanks.”

  “Be sure and wash those cat scratches well with some strong antiseptic. You don’t know where that cat’s been.”

  “Sure I do. I found him in a Dumpster.”

  My mother clutches at her chest and I think she might pass out. But she rallies, as she always does. “How are you set for money?” she asks.

  “Great,” I lie. “I’ve got a job now.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful.” This is said with a forced tone of fake delight since my mother’s idea of a perfect life is to marry a wealthy doctor or lawyer (though the doctor is imminently better) and never work again. She never understood my desire to continue working after I married David. “What kind of job is it?” she asks.

  “I’ve gone to work with Izzy, as his assistant.”

  Her expression turns to puzzlement. “Izzy? But isn’t he a coroner or something like that?”

  “Yes, he’s the medical examiner.”

  “But that means he works with dead bodies, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, he does, Mom. So do I now.”

  Mom’s shoulders sink and she looks at me with a woeful expression. This news is irrefutable proof that I have fallen about as low as I can go on her ladder of success. “Oh, Mattie,” she says with a tone of sadness I might expect if I’d told her I was living on skid row. “Has it really come to this?”

  “It’s a good job, Mom. I like it. Granted, it’s not for everyone, but it suits me just fine right now.” Then I think of something that might sway her opinion. “Plus, I’ll get to see all kinds o
f interesting diseases and disorders. I’ll be able to see how they affect the body in a way I never could when I was nursing.”

  I see a gleam in her eye. “You’d tell me if you saw something…worrisome, right?” she asks. Coming from anyone else, I might think the question reflected a fear that some pestilence or plague of community-wide, if not global, proportions might pop up one day. But in my mother, it’s merely a sign of her excitement over finding a new source for symptom and disease information she can use to expand her repertoire.

  “Of course I would, Mom,” I assure her, winning a smile of approval.

  “Do you have a phone yet? You need to have a way to keep me informed.” She hesitates a second and seems to realize her comment needs something more. “Informed about how you’re doing,” she adds.

  I flash on the cell phone Izzy gave me earlier. It’s in my purse, along with the slip of paper that has the number on it. But frankly, the past two months without a phone have been rather enjoyable, the only downside to it all being that I have to drive to get my takeout rather than having it delivered. I know that if I give my mother the number, she’ll be calling me several times a day to share her latest crop of symptoms.

  “Not yet, Mom. But when I get one, you’ll be the first to know.” And in saying that, I am abiding by Relationship Rule #9: Try to Avoid the Truth When You Know It Will Hurt.

  One hour later I pull up in front of the cottage, my car laden with $136 worth of cat supplies. I have four kinds of cat food, a cat bed, a dozen cat toys, cat vitamins, cat grooming supplies and a cat collar big enough for four kittens. I also have three large containers of cat litter: one that is guaranteed to clump for easy cleaning, one that’s a bunch of blue and white crystals, and the other the ordinary clay kind. I’ve gone all out on the litter box, getting one of those huge, elaborate gizmos that looks like a feline apartment building. It has a top on it and a door so the kitten can do his business in private. The pimply-faced kid at the pet store assured me it’s the cream of the litter box crop.

  I set it up, put down some food and water, and give the kitten—whom I’ve decided to name Rubbish in honor of where I found him—the run of the place. I toss twenty dollars’ worth of cat toys down in front of him, but after a few curious sniffs, he sticks up both his nose and his tail at them. Hungry, I head for the kitchen and nuke a can of chicken noodle soup. I’m standing by the sink eating it when I hear an odd thumping noise, like a screen door banging in the wind. Thump-ump. And again. Thump-ump.

  Curious, I set my soup down and head out to the living room to look around. I wait for the sound to come again and am about to give up when I hear it—thump-ump—coming from the bathroom. I walk in and see Rubbish pawing at the door to the cabinet beneath the sink. He opens it an inch or so but lacks the strength and coordination to squeeze through to the inside. Instead, he keeps bashing his head against the door just as it closes. Thump-ump.

  As soon as Rubbish sees me, he sits down and meows. I walk over and open the cabinet door, then laugh as he bounds inside. “You think this is something special, eh?” I say to him. He ignores me and starts sniffing around like he’s looking for something. Did I have a mouse in there, perhaps?

  I kneel down in front of the cabinet and look inside. There is a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner, a bar of soap, a couple rolls of toilet paper, and a box of forty tampons. I push everything around to make sure there are no critters hiding in there, then shrug and stand back up. Rubbish continues to sniff, then zeroes in on the box of tampons. I’d torn the top off the box for easy access and the outside wrappers on the individual tampons are made out of some kind of crinkly paper that rattles when Rubbish swats at it. He seems to like this and does it again.

  I head back to the kitchen to finish my soup and by the time I’m ready to leave, Rubbish has fished one of the tampons out of the box and is batting it around the bathroom floor in a game of kitten soccer. I spend twenty dollars on cat toys and all the little beast wants to play with is a twenty-five-cent tampon.

  Watching the kitten is entertaining, but I have places to go and things to do. Before Hurley shows up and has a chance to question me, I want to talk to David. Because one way or the other, I have to find out if my husband is a killer.

  Chapter 9

  David’s office is located next to the hospital in a building that serves as home to several physicians’ offices. There is a small parking lot in back intended for staff and a much larger one out front for patients. I pull into the back lot; I still have a key that opens the back door to David’s office and I don’t want to announce my presence by stepping into the front waiting room. Besides, David’s receptionist, Glenda, considers herself David’s gatekeeper and it’s a job she takes very seriously. Getting by Glenda is like trying to sneak past a pack of hungry dogs wearing an outfit made out of raw beefsteaks.

  The first person I meet is Colleen, David’s nurse. As office nurses go, Colleen is perfect in my eyes. She’s smart, capable, and easy to get along with. At the age of sixty-something, she shows no signs of slowing down, much less retiring.

  Colleen doesn’t so much as arch a brow at the sight of me even though she knows exactly what the situation is between David and me—or at least what it was before we both became suspects in a murder case. Colleen has always liked me and I’m counting on that to work in my favor. But I know I have to tread carefully, for if Colleen is forced to choose between me and David, I feel certain her loyalties will fall on the side of her employer.

  “Hello, Mattie,” she says. She has one hand on an exam room door, a patient’s chart in the other.

  “Hi, Colleen. Is David in with a patient?”

  “Actually, he’s not here at the moment. He was called over to the hospital for an emergency consult. But he’s due back any second. Why don’t you wait in his office?”

  I nod and breathe a sigh of relief. Access to David’s office is exactly what I want. I thank Colleen and turn to enter the inner sanctum.

  The room is nicely furnished, befitting a surgeon of some skill and reputation. The desk is mahogany and massive, though piles of patient charts obscure most of its surface. The chair is tufted leather in a rich burgundy color and behind it is a credenza, also mahogany and also covered with charts. A few feet in front of the desk are two more burgundy leather chairs that are comfortable enough but much more austere than David’s. The walls are painted a cream color that is safely neutral without being cold and two bookcases and a trio of healthy-looking potted plants give the room a certain professional warmth.

  My eyes linger at the top of one of the bookcases where I can see a framed photo of David and me at our wedding. A fine patina of dust covers it like a death shroud and I wonder if it is there due to some conscious effort on David’s part or if it’s so much a part of the background that he’s totally unaware of its presence.

  I move toward David’s chair and settle into it, hearing the leather creak comfortably. David’s skinny little ass has carved a slight depression in the seat in the shape of his cheeks. My derriere, being somewhat…fuller, shifts uncomfortably trying to find a fit. A smell, one that I have come to associate with David, wafts up to me: a mix of old leather, Ivory soap, and a tinge of pipe tobacco.

  The pipe is David’s one and only vice…if you don’t count his penchant for playing hide the snake with someone other than his wife. He keeps a pipe along with a small pouch of tobacco at the back of his middle desk drawer and sometimes at night, after everyone has gone home, he’ll take it out, light it up, and indulge himself. I’ve been allowed the privilege of being in his presence during this little ceremony on a few occasions. I smile at the memory and feel an aching tug of nostalgia for what we once had, for the dreams and hopes that now seem gone forever.

  I open the middle drawer as far as it will go, reach toward the back of it, feel the pipe and the little leather pouch, and grab them both. I’ve always loved the smell of a pipe. In fact, it is one of the things that drew me to David. When I first
caught the scent of it on him I found it both oddly familiar and surprisingly comforting, though I had no idea why at the time. Later, my mother told me that my father had smoked a pipe.

  After tossing the pipe back in the drawer, I unroll the pouch to get a better whiff and a business card falls out of it onto my lap. It’s for a Mike Halverson, owner and manager of Halverson Medical Supply. I’ve heard of the place before; it’s one of a handful of local supply companies that provide stuff to both the hospital and the doctors’ offices. For David to have the card is not unusual, but finding it wrapped up inside his tobacco pouch strikes me as a bit odd.

  I hear the squeak of the back door opening and quickly roll the tobacco pouch back up, tossing it in the drawer next to the pipe. I ease the drawer closed and then throw my legs up on David’s desk, leaning back to stare at the ceiling, trying to look nonchalant. When I realize I’m still holding the business card, I slip it into my slacks pocket.

  David walks in a second later and stops short when he sees me.

  “Mattie.”

  “In the flesh,” I say. “Not that you would remember what my flesh looks like.”

  It’s a low blow, one I didn’t intend to make, and the effect on David is instant. He winces as if I’ve slapped him.

  “I suppose I deserve that,” he says.

  “I suppose you do.”

  He sighs heavily; it’s a gesture I know well and it irritates me. “Sorry to bother you,” I say with a hint of sarcasm, “but I need to talk to you about Karen Owenby.”

  His face flushes red and he looks away, over toward the bookcase with the wedding picture. “It’s terrible. A terrible thing.”

  “Yes, it is. What do you know about it?”

  He looks at me then, his expression a mix of sadness and suspicion. “What do I know about it? Not much. Just what the cops told me.”