Stiff Penalty (A Mattie Winston Mystery) (10 page)

I
headed home and fell into bed on Saturday night just before one in the morning. I cuddled up with my cat Rubbish at my chest, my cat Tux at my back, and my dog, Hoover, nestled alongside my legs. The four of us filled the bed quite nicely, but just before I fell asleep, I reminded them all that things were going to change once the baby arrived. The cats ignored my warning, knowing they’d sleep wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted, baby or no baby. Hoover thumped his tail twice and eyed me lovingly. It’s hard to beat doggie love.

On Sunday morning, I slept in until just after eight and awoke feeling better than I had in a long time. I had a leisurely breakfast of toast, soft-boiled eggs, and orange juice. I also had a half cup of coffee despite the fact that a pregnant food Nazi named Saffron, whom I met in the waiting room of my OB doctor, said coffee was an absolute no-no. Also on Saffron’s list of no-nos was nitrates (which meant no bacon, pepperoni, hot dogs, or salami), deli meats, alcohol, sugar, processed foods of any kind, cheese, and a sense of humor. I was puzzled by the cheese inclusion, and as a joke I told her I thought avoiding cheese was against the law in Wisconsin. She looked at me with this pitiful, pained expression, as if I was a drooling idiot, and then said the reason to avoid cheese is because it might not be pasteurized.

As Saffron eliminated my entire diet while warning me of all the potential hazards, she was eating something that looked like the piece of plaster that got knocked out of our kitchen wall when Desi and I were kids and decided to make a tower out of our kitchen chairs. I have no idea what Saffron eats on a regular basis, but based on her waiting room fare, I wouldn’t be surprised if her kid developed a hellacious case of pica, an odd malady that makes people eat weird things, like dirt, clay, and paper. There was a kid named Hal in my third-grade class who had it, and our teacher had to resort to keeping all the chalk under lock and key so Hal wouldn’t eat it.

I figured that if my mentally unhinged mother managed to have me despite the fact that she was living on a diet of coffee and wine at the time, a little coffee now and then wasn’t going to hurt me or the baby. Just to be sure, I ran it by my OB doctor, who okayed it with that vague term we medical people love so much: in moderation.

Richmond called just before ten to say that Arnie had struck out with AFIS, and the Ames family had lawyered up with some hotshot from Milwaukee. They weren’t going to talk to us at all that day because the soonest Mr. Hotshot could make it to Sorenson was Monday. Richmond also said he was working on getting a search warrant for the Ames house so we could look for those shoes in the video, but that it wasn’t likely to come through until Monday, either.

He’d also struck out with Blake Sutherland, who wasn’t answering her phone and hadn’t yet returned his call. “I’m thinking she’ll get back to me sooner rather than later, though,” he said, “because the message I left said I needed to speak to her regarding Wendy Ames, and if I didn’t hear from her today, I was going to call her husband tomorrow to track her down.”

“I suspect she already knows why you’re calling. I’m sure Wendy called her the first chance she had to fill her in.”

“Could be, but I reviewed the tape last night after you left, and the only call Wendy made before we joined her was to her parents in California. She did text someone after that, but at this point there’s no way to know who that went to.”

“My money’s on Blake,” I said, wincing at the gambling metaphor as soon as I said it. I don’t know if I’ve always used a lot of gambling metaphors and have only recently become aware of them after my little casino binge, or if the occasional desire to binge some more has led to a subconscious gambling fixation that is manifesting itself in my speech.

“While we’re on the subject of phone calls,” Richmond went on, “Junior looked over the call history for Derrick’s cell. Most of the calls were to his wife and kids, and the others Junior was able to track down were to businesses, the school, and some of his coworkers. Nothing jumped out. There were a number of text messages, too, both sent and received, most of them to family and coworkers. Only five were from yesterday, including the four to and from Mandy that we know about, and one from Sam Littleton later in the evening, just before ten. Littleton is a teacher at the high school and he was one of the names Mandy gave us, the one I couldn’t reach last night. I called him again this morning and explained the situation, and he offered to let me read his text message on his phone, but he’s in Madison until later tonight. So I told him we’d catch up to him at the school tomorrow. We still don’t know where Derrick’s phone is, but I don’t think the phone or text records are going to be of much help.”

“Then why did the killer take Derrick’s phone?”

“Maybe they didn’t,” Richmond said. “Maybe Derrick lost it, or dropped it in a lake somewhere, or ran over it with his car. Who knows?” I heard him sigh with frustration. “I did have one positive outcome this morning. I was able to convince Mrs. Fitzpatrick to let me come by and talk to Sean today. I’m about to head out there now. Want to come along?”

“Sure.”

Half an hour later, we were standing on the front porch of the Fitzpatrick home, which was in the same neighborhood as Wendy and Derrick’s houses. “Jacob could have walked to his father’s house from here in a matter of minutes,” I noted as Richmond knocked on the door. “It’s just around the corner.”

A woman with red, frizzy hair answered the door. “You the detective?” she asked in a weary voice. There were dark circles under her blue eyes, and she was dressed in gray sweatpants and a pink T-shirt with a breast cancer ribbon logo over the heart that was partially covered by a large brown stain of some sort.

“Yes, ma’am,” Richmond said. “I’m Bob Richmond, and this is Mattie Winston from the ME’s office.”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick shot me a curious look. “Come on in,” she said. “Sean is in the kitchen.”

We followed her inside through a living room where a heavy, balding man in a stained T-shirt and worn jeans was sitting in a recliner aiming a remote at the TV. The kitchen was cluttered and messy: crumbs and a partially used stick of butter on one countertop, three open boxes of cereal on another countertop, three dirty cereal bowls on the table, a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, and a trail of muddy dog paw prints across the floor. The raucous sound of children fighting and playing came from beyond the room. From the backyard came the baying of hound dogs.

Sean was seated at the table, eating a bowl of cereal and studying the back of a cereal box like he was about to be quizzed on it. He had his mother’s red hair, though without the frizz. Instead he had one stubborn cowlick near the crown of his head that made him look like Alfalfa.

“Sorry about the mess,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “With four kids, two dogs, and a husband who thinks Sundays are for sitting in the recliner and drinking beer, it’s hard to keep up at times.”

Sean hadn’t acknowledged our presence, and his mother cuffed him on the back side of the head and said, “Pay attention, Sean. You have company.”

“Company is invited, and I didn’t invite them,” he said, never taking his eyes off the cereal box.

“Sorry to intrude on your Sunday brunch,” Richmond said, “but we need to ask you a few questions.”

“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” Sean said.

Richmond shot me a look; Mrs. Fitzpatrick gave Sean another whack on the back of his head, which earned her a surly side glare from the boy.

“They aren’t here to talk about you,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “They’re here to ask some questions about Jacob.”

That got Sean’s attention. For once he wasn’t the one in trouble. He looked at us with curiosity, dropped his spoon in his bowl with a loud clatter, and leaned back in his chair, tossing one arm over the back of it.

“What do you want to know about Jacob?” he asked.

“He was here last night,” Richmond said.

“Yeah, so?”

“So I need to know what hours he was here, and whether or not he left at any point in time.”

“You guys think he offed his dad, don’t you?”

“Why would you say that?” I asked.

“It makes sense,” Sean said with a shrug. “That’s when his dad was killed, right?”

“It is,” Richmond said. “So can you answer my questions?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said in a cocky tone, giving Richmond a sad look. “My memory isn’t so good these days.”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick had a dish towel in her hands, and she snapped it at her son. “Damn it, Sean! This is serious business. This isn’t one of your pranks or little misdemeanor violations. A man is dead. So quit playing games.”

Sean rubbed at his arm where the towel had snapped him and scowled at his mother. “Yeah, he was here last night,” he grumbled. “But I don’t recall the time. We were in my room playing video games. I don’t know what time it was.”

Richmond walked over and stood across the table from Sean. Then he bent down, put his hands on the table, and leaned forward, pinning Sean with his eyes. “You better be telling the truth, Sean,” he said.

Sean stared back at him with an expression full of teenage rebellion. “I told you what I know,” he said, his lips tight, his tone even tighter. “Next time you want me to squeal on someone, let me know ahead of time, and I’ll try to keep a better timeline.”

The two of them stared at one another for several seconds until Richmond finally turned away.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, “I know it was around eight because Kelly works a three to eight shift over at the grocery store, and she got home minutes after Jacob left.”

“Kelly?” Richmond said.

“That would be Miss Goody Two Shoes,” Sean said with a sneer.

“It’s his twin sister,” his mother said with a much-put-upon sigh.

Richmond looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “Okay, I think we’re done here. Thank you for your time.”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick showed us out. We walked right past her husband again, who had not acknowledged our arrival and appeared equally oblivious to our departure. Like father like son, I thought. And then I wondered what might be different in this household if there was no father figure at all. Would it be better or worse? Was I dooming my child to a warped upbringing if I tried to raise him or her by myself? I didn’t think so because there were plenty of single-parent households that produced perfectly fine kids, and I essentially grew up without a father, though I did have a few intermittent stepfathers along the way. Then again, I wasn’t sure I should put myself forth as a paragon of good mental health and emotional stability either.

“Man, I’m glad I don’t have kids,” Richmond said as we walked back to our cars. “That was an exercise in frustration. I’m going to head to the gym and work some of it off. Want to come along?”

I did battle with myself. I knew I should work out, but I had so much on my mind with the pending dinner tonight and Hurley’s return tomorrow that I felt I needed some alone time to prepare myself. “I’m going to rest for a day or two,” I told him. “I’ve been feeling a little off. I think I might be coming down with something.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up later today; otherwise, I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Okey-dokey. Have fun at the gym.”

“I will. Feel better.”

Too late for that. There was no cure for coming down with a bad case of pregnant.

W
ith a free day ahead of me, I settled in on the couch and put my feet up on a pillow I set on the coffee table. I tried to read a book—some heavy family drama thing I’d had on my to-be-read pile for months, but it struck a little too close to home and made my anxiety worsen. So I tried to watch TV instead, but my mind kept going back to the two things that were keeping me on edge: my upcoming dinner and talk with Izzy, and Hurley’s return the next day. I turned the TV off and spent an hour mentally playing out dozens of scenarios with the two men, imagining awkward conversational moments, rehearsing my speeches and responses, and chewing on my fingernails out of nervousness, a dietary item I felt sure would give Saffron a stroke. I was hoping the mental practice would calm my nerves, but instead it had the opposite effect. Even eating the cheesecake I had in the fridge from the night before didn’t help. In fact, it made things worse because now I felt guilty about not going to the gym.

To burn off some calories and hopefully some of my nervous energy, I took Hoover for a walk. We ventured into the woods, and I let him lead me wherever he wanted to go for the first ten minutes. But after standing by and watching him sniff and then mark every leaf, stick, and clod of dirt, I started tugging him in a different direction so I could take another peek at David’s new house. I thought I might see a dark sedan parked there—and realized later that I had no idea what I would have done if there had been one—but I struck out. I chalked up my car paranoia to yet another hormonal quirk of pregnancy, and after walking around the place and building up a good case of resentment over David’s palatial structure, Hoover and I headed back home.

I was bored, and even after my walk my fattest fat pants were feeling uncomfortably tight, so I decided it was time to bite the bullet and pay a visit to The Mother Hood, the only store in town that carried maternity clothes. I knew I risked word getting out about my condition, but I figured I was safe given that Hurley would be back in town soon and Izzy and Dom already knew. I made a mental note to call and give the news to my sister and my mother later tonight so they wouldn’t hear it from someone else first.

The Mother Hood was owned by a woman in her mid-thirties named Priscilla McDaniel, a native Soren-sonian who because of her skinny genes often wore skinny jeans and looked good in them. I’d known Priscilla—or Miss Priss, as we used to call her in high school—since we were both kids. Her choice of businesses seemed like a logical progression in her life. She had earned the nickname Miss Priss because of the remain-a-virgin-until-I’m-married mantra that she’d started spouting in the sixth grade. Unfortunately, Billy McDaniel had other ideas, and Miss Priss had missed her senior year in high school because Billy got her pregnant. They got married, and Priss spat out five more kids over the next six years. Since she always managed to return to her rail-thin state after each one, I could only assume that she had elastic in places where the rest of us have skin. Sadly, I think my body is made up of something that more closely resembles memory foam.

My arrival at The Mother Hood was announced by the tinkle of a little bell over the door and the sound of Brahms’ Lullaby filling the air.

Priscilla was seated behind a counter reading a magazine, and when she looked up at me, her expression was one of incredulity, as if she couldn’t believe what her eyes were seeing. She blinked real fast several times and then broke into a big smile. “Mattie Winston! Long time no see.” She tossed the magazine onto the counter and jumped up. She was wearing a tailored white blouse over . . . you guessed it . . . skinny jeans. Her straight, brown hair shone with high- and lowlights, and it was cut at shoulder length and tucked behind her ears. “What brings you in today?” Then she cocked her head to one side and put her hands on her hips. “Is your sister pregnant again?”

“No, I am.” There. I’d said it. The news was officially out.

Again Priscilla blinked several times really fast. It was like the blinking somehow powered her comprehension. “Are you?” she said with a tone of puzzlement. “Well, congratulations! I didn’t know you’d remarried already.”

“I haven’t.”

“Oh.” She dragged the word out into two syllables—oh-oo—and her eyes got really big. “You have a new beau then?”

“No, I’m not seeing anyone right now.” This was basically the truth, although before he left town, Hurley and I had “seen” each other in every way possible.

“No one knows yet,” I said, anxious to move on and willing to tell this little white lie. “I’ve been keeping it to myself up until now.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. Priscilla’s eyes grew huge. Being the first person to know a juicy tidbit of gossip is like instant fame in Sorenson. I knew that the first chance she got, Priscilla would be triggering a phone tree that spread news faster than a packed room full of sneezers can spread a cold. “Please don’t tell anyone yet,” I begged. “Can you wait until Tuesday at least?”

She gave me a noncommittal smile and shrugged. “Who’s the lucky daddy?”

Like I’d tell her that now
. “No one you know,” I said with a dismissive wave, thinking this one might not be a lie. I mean there was a teeny, tiny, snowball’s chance in hell that she didn’t know Hurley, though I suspect his arrival in town was widely known minutes after his first appearance. A handsome, single guy like Hurley would have better luck sneaking into Fort Knox unnoticed than he would into Sorenson. I was willing to bet that within days of his arrival, all the single women in town were looking at him as if they’d been starving for months and he was a huge hunk of cheesecake, all the married women in town were looking at him as a potential dalliance or some entertaining eye candy, and all the men in town were probably looking at him like they wished they could either kill him or be him.

“Well, let me show you some things,” Priscilla said, letting the prying go for the time being. She propped her elbow in one hand, her chin in the other, and eyed me from head to toe. “You are so . . . tall. I might have to special order some stuff for you. But let’s see what we can find.” She spun around and headed for the racks of clothing. Then, proving that Priss knew a big challenge when she saw one, she said, “Let’s start with some tops before we try to tackle the pants.”

The first tops she showed me were made from stretchy, knitted fabrics that clung to the body. “Priscilla, I never wore clingy stuff before I was pregnant, and I don’t want to start now. Don’t you have something that hangs loose?”

Priscilla eyed my ample chest with a frown, and after a few seconds, she said, “Maybe we need to get you some new bras first. You always were big-busted, and being pregnant only makes them bigger.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, rolling my eyes. I put my arms in a chicken dance position and ran the backs of my hands along the sides of my boobs. “And they’ve been aching lately,” I said. “Is that normal?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “And it will get worse.” Priscilla dragged a measuring tape out of her pocket and proceeded to hug me as she tried to get the tape around my chest. To say it was awkward would be an understatement, but I held my breath and forced myself to tolerate it, knowing that in a few months I’d be losing any sense of privacy and dignity I ever had when I hit the delivery room.

Priscilla then steered me into a back area where there were dozens of different bra styles on display. It was quite an assortment, with materials that ranged from soft and stretchy to sleek and shiny. There were colored ones and patterned ones, and most were bedecked with tiny flowers or ribbon decorations of some type. They were very feminine and sexy-looking. Unfortunately, Priscilla zipped right past all of these and went straight for the industrial-strength, no-nonsense bras that came in basic white and looked like they could contain a nuclear blast.

“Here we go,” she said, grabbing something that looked like the slingshot Goliath should have had when he met David. “You might as well invest in a good nursing bra.” Then she arched her brows again and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume anything. Are you planning on breast feeding?”

“I hope to,” I said.

“Oh, good.” Priscilla sounded relieved. “Breast milk is so healthy for newborns. It gives them immunity and nutrition that no formula can provide.” She leaned and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And nursing will help you shed those pregnancy pounds so much faster.”

That alone was reason enough for me. But I hadn’t sorted out all the logistics yet. “I’ll be able to take some time off after the birth, but eventually I’ll need to return to work, so I suppose I’ll need one of those breast pump thingies.”

“Got you covered,” Priscilla said, and then she disappeared through a door that led into a storage area at the back of the store.

Despite all my years of working as a nurse, I’ve never done obstetrics other than a rotation in nursing school that lasted a few weeks. For many of my fellow students, obstetrics was the ultimate dream job. To me it was the last place on earth I’d want to work. The women in labor screamed. The newborn babies screamed. Working an obstetrics unit was an endless cycle of screaming and crotches. I did help my sister some after each of her children were born, but it was mostly a token effort. Desi seemed born for motherhood, and she took to it as naturally as I took to ice cream. Consequently, I had no idea how to use a breast pump. I knew they existed because other women I’d worked with had taken breaks to go and pump, but beyond that I was clueless.

So when Priscilla returned armed with several boxes that had pictures of scary-looking contraptions on the front that resembled miniature versions of the life-sucking machine from
The Princess Bride
, I felt more than a little intimidated.

Priscilla grabbed a box and held it out to me. “This double pump is my top-of-the-line model and the one I used with my kids. It retails for three-ninety-nine, but I can let you have it for three-seventy-five.”

“Four hundred bucks for a breast pump?” I said aghast.

“If you prefer the manual type, they’re less than a hundred. But they don’t get the job done nearly as well.”

“I think I’m getting ahead of myself here,” I said. “Let’s stick to clothing for now. I’ve got plenty of time to think about breast pumps.”

“Very well,” Priscilla sniffed. She looked hurt. I didn’t care. “Why don’t you go into the dressing room and try that bra on?”

I did as instructed and took the bra she’d given me into the dressing room. Surprisingly, it fit quite well, although the little trap doors in the cups threw me for a few seconds. I kept it on, pulled my blouse back on, and stuffed my old bra into my purse. Then I headed out to try and appease Priscilla’s hurt feelings. “This is perfect,” I told her. “Do you have another one?”

“Not here in the store, but I can order you as many as you like,” she said. “You might want to wait before buying too many of them, though, because your cup size is likely to change several times in the coming months.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Let’s go look at some more tops.”

She gathered up some cute tops with empire waists that had plenty of free-flowing material beneath the bust line. But by the time I found one that fit my bust, the bottom part looked like a tent. “Look at this,” I said in a disgusted voice, grabbing handfuls of all the free-hanging material around my gut. “I could hide a Bedouin, his harem, and all his camels inside this thing.”

Priscilla gave me a patient, tolerant smile. “It’s not that bad,” she assured me. “Right now it looks like a lot of excess, but by the time you get into your third trimester, it’s going to seem downright snug.”

Snug? Really?
I stared at the billowing yards of material in horror.

I finally opted for four tents, one tight, stretchy screw-it-I’m-pregnant-and-not-afraid-to-show-it T-shirt that I wouldn’t wear until my pregnancy was more obvious, and a double tank top so I could continue my workouts. I also tried on and bought one dress. I don’t have too many occasions to dress up, but I thought I should have at least one option to start with.

We moved on to the pants. Priscilla had an impressively varied selection, including a number of tall sizes. She wisely started me off with some elastic-waist jeans that had the little front panel that’s made to expand along with one’s tummy. When I tried these on with one of the tops I’d picked out, the panel was well hidden, and the overall look wasn’t too bad. Then I made the mistake of trying on a pair of dressier slacks made out of some thin, stretchy material that clung to every nook and cranny of my legs. When I turned around to look at the rear view and lifted the top I had on, I nearly cried.

I headed out of the dressing room and displayed myself to Priscilla. “I’ve been working out at the gym for months in an effort to manage my weight and get in shape. And this,” I waved a hand around my butt, “is what I get for my efforts? My ass is so big if they shot me into space I’d trigger an eclipse.”

“That’s just pregnancy butt,” Priscilla said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It happens to everyone.”

I looked at her with an expression of disbelief, trying not to cry.

“That particular material might not be the best choice,” she admitted. “Go try the gray ones. I think they will work better for you.”

I scuttled back into the dressing room and stripped off the offending pants, tossing them onto the built-in seat. I also took the top off and hung it on a hook. When I bent over to put on the gray pants, I felt a gas bubble shift in my gut. As I pulled on the second leg and straightened up, the bubble shifted again. But it felt different somehow, more intentional, more purposeful, less random. And then it hit me. I’d just felt my baby move for the first time.

Goose bumps raced down my spine, and a swell of love and amazement overcame me. Smiling like an idiot, I burst out of the dressing room and practically yelled to Priscilla, “I just felt it move for the first time!”