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.
I follow him out to the kitchen, where he unearths a bottle of pinot noir and two wineglasses. He puts the glasses on the table, which is already set with simple white dishes, and as he uncorks the wine bottle, I settle into one of the chairs and decide to try to put an end to my daylong suspense.
“So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
His eyes shift briefly to me, then back to the task at hand. There is a moment of silence as he finishes pouring and takes the seat across from me. Then he completely ignores my question by asking one of his own. “How did things go at the scene this morning after I left?”
“It went fine. So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Have you identified the victim yet?”
“Yes,” I say with an exasperated sigh. “She’s some reporter from Chicago. Now can you please tell me what it is you—”
“She’s not some reporter,” he snaps, clearly irritated. “Her name is Callie Dunkirk.”
I stare at him and after a few seconds I realize my mouth is hanging open, so I shut it. He holds my gaze the entire time, waiting. “You knew her,” I say finally, realizing now why he acted the way he did when he first saw the body. He nods. “How?”
“We dated for a while.”
I’m stymied, not only by the revelation that Hurley once dated the victim, but by the fact that he dated someone that gorgeous. Then I realize how stupid it is to be jealous of a dead woman. I’m starting to get an inkling of why he wanted to see me and it isn’t making me happy. I have a sinking feeling that putting on my fancy underwear was a big waste of time. “How long ago?” I ask.
He shrugs and finally tears his eyes from mine, looking up at the ceiling instead. “It’s been about a year and a half since we split up.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to take the case, because you knew her?”
“That’s one reason.”
“And the other?”
He hesitates and I can tell that whatever is coming next won’t be good. “Before I tell you, I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“You have to promise me that you’ll keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself for the time being.”
I consider this, figuring he’s going to reveal some juicy tidbit of potential gossip. While gossip is a hot commodity in a small town like ours, one that can often be traded back and forth like money, I’ve spent most of my adult life working in a hospital, where confidentiality and privacy are absolutes. Thanks to HIPAA—a law that makes it easier to get your hands on top-secret government documents than medical information on a patient—I’m used to knowing the juicy stuff and not being able to share it. That’s okay with me. It’s the “being in the know” part that I value the most.
“Yeah, I promise,” I tell Hurley.
He sucks in a deep breath and winces, as if bracing himself for a blow. Then he delivers one to me.
“I’m pretty sure that knife you found in her chest is mine.”
Chapter 6
I stare slack-jawed at Hurley, stunned.
“Say something,” he says, looking worried.
“You tricked me,” is all I can manage.
“How so?”
“You made me promise to keep whatever you told me to myself but you didn’t tell me it was going to be evidence in an ongoing case.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“I don’t believe you did,” I tell him, though at the moment I’m too confused to know if that’s true or not. “That’s not the point. By asking me to keep this under wraps you’re asking me to compromise my investigation, and my job. Not to mention the possible legal ramifications. Christ, Hurley, what the hell were you thinking?”
“That I need your help.”
“At the cost of my reputation and job?” I yell at him. I’m angry, not only because of the compromising position he’s put me in, but because I know now that the matter he wanted to discuss with me has nothing at all to do with our future relationship, which at this point I fear may take place with both of us behind bars.
“You’re upset.”
“Of course I’m upset. You . . . you . . . argh!” I push back from the table, stand up, and start pacing.
“Mattie, answer me honestly. Do you think I could murder someone?”
I shoot him a glaring glance and keep pacing, but say nothing. The truth is I don’t really know him well enough to answer. My gut—and perhaps a few untrustworthy nether regions of my body—are making me lean toward no, but my mind is cautioning me to think things through.
Hurley sighs, gets up from the table, and positions himself in front of me, forcing me to stop. He grabs my shoulders and holds me tight. “Mattie, look at me.”