“I’m guessing he would be the deceased,” I surmise. I make a sweeping gesture toward all the parked cars. “And they all think he’s in the back of my hearse.”
Funeral Guy hears this and says, “You mean he’s not in there? What the hell did you do with him?” He gets out of his car, walks up to the back of mine and peers through the window, then turns and storms toward us, making me back up a few steps. Judging from his physique, I’m pretty sure Funeral Guy is a weightlifter on steroids. His thigh muscles are so big he walks like he just came in from a month of riding herd on his cattle. His arms are slightly extended because he can’t put them down at his sides and his biceps look like they are about to burst out of the sleeves of his suit. He’s almost as tall as Hurley, and judging from the way his fists keep opening and closing, I’m guessing his patience will burn out quicker than a magician’s flash paper.
“Sir, you need to calm down,” Hurley says, planting a hand on the man’s chest to stop his approach. “There’s been some confusion here.”
Funeral Guy’s face is the color of a ripe plum and I’m guessing his blood pressure is rising faster than a retiree on Viagra. “Damned right,” he grumbles. “Where’s the casket? Where the hell is Charlie’s body?”
“You followed the wrong car,” Hurley tries to explain calmly. “There isn’t any body here.”
“Well, technically there is,” I toss out, earning an exasperated glance from Hurley. “Just not the one you think.”
Funeral Guy looks momentarily confused, then the one brain cell that wasn’t killed off by the steroids finally fires. “What the fuck!” he yells, his voice resonating like thunder. “You assholes put the wrong body in Charlie’s casket?”
“No, sir,” I say quickly, trying to ameliorate the misunderstanding. “That’s not what I meant at all. There is no casket. The body I’m talking about is in that house over there. The body you want is—”
“You dumped Charlie in a house? You sonofabitchingcocksuckingbastards!”
Before I can so much as blink, Funeral Guy rears back and plants his fist in Hurley’s cheek with a sickening, bone-crunching thunk. Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the policemen and both EMTs leap off the porch and start running toward us. Hurley staggers sideways and then crumples to the ground. I let out a little yelp and start to head for him to see if he’s okay, but Funeral Guy stands like an incensed bull between us and his attention is now focused on me.
I backpedal quickly, stealing a glance at the cop and EMTs heading my way. I can tell they aren’t going to make it in time, and judging from the crazed look on Funeral Guy’s face, the time for calm persuasion came and went some time ago. I turn, grab the handle to my car door, and pull it open. I dive across the seat and quickly turn to try to grab the door to close it, but Funeral Guy is too quick for me. He catches the top of the door in one of his meaty hands and yanks it wide open. Realizing that the idiot could kill me, I look around frantically for something I can use to forestall him until the cop gets to me. As Funeral Guy grabs hold of my leg and starts to pull me from the car, I let out a bloodcurdling scream, kick him with my free foot, and then fire off the only weapon I can find.
“Arrgghhh!” Funeral Guy screams, releases my leg, and clamps his hands over his eyes. “What the fuck!” He backpedals away from my car and straight into the arms of a uniformed police officer. “My eyes! My eyes!”
Hurley gets up from the ground, massaging his jaw, and makes his way over to me. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“I didn’t know you carried pepper spray.”
“I don’t. It’s flea and tick repellant.”
Hurley starts to smile but it fades to a grimace as he massages his jaw again. “I’d say he’s been successfully repelled,” he says. “Serves the bastard right.”
Chapter 42
A second patrol car arrives and Funeral Guy is cuffed and hauled off to jail. It takes me a good ten minutes to explain to the other funeral attendees what has happened and to direct them back through the streets to the cemetery. Some of them are angered by the snafu, one guy is amused, and the others simply look embarrassed.
As soon as Funeral Guy is safely away, Izzy and Arnie get out of the office van and follow Hurley into the house with the corpse.
By the time I join them, Izzy is on the phone and Hurley and Arnie are standing in the living room staring at the dead man, who is sitting in a recliner. The man’s face is pasty white and his hands, which are hanging at his sides, are swollen and purple with lividity, as are his feet. He looks peaceful, though very dead, and I’m guessing he’s been this way for several hours.
“Who is Izzy talking to?” I ask Hurley.
“His physician,” he answers, nodding toward the corpse. “A neighbor told one of the cops that the old guy was a ticking time bomb and it was simply a matter of time before he cashed in his chips.”
“Who found him?”
“The same neighbor. Apparently he and Dead Guy have breakfast together every day. When Dead Guy didn’t show, the neighbor came in to check on him and found him like this.”
Izzy hangs up his phone and turns to address the rest of us. “In addition to diabetes, he had an extensive cardiac history that included three myocardial infarctions, CHF, and an ejection fraction of fifteen percent.”
“In layman’s terms?” Hurley says, wincing and massaging his jaw.
“Basically he’s been a dead man walking for several months. Judging from what we know and what we can see here, I think it’s safe to say this was a natural death.”
“Okay, then,” Hurley says, wincing again. “We’re out of here.”
“You need to get that looked at,” I tell Hurley, watching him rub the now faintly discolored area on his jaw.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles. “The guy just caught me off guard.”
Realizing Hurley’s male pride has been damaged, I say, “Yeah, who knew he was going to go nuts like that?”
Hurley eyes me warily, and I suspect he’s trying to determine if I’m busting on him or serious.
“I think he had ’roid rage,” I continue. “That kind of physique isn’t found in nature. It had to have come from steroid abuse. And the strength it can give people is frightening.” I reach up and gently palpate along Hurley’s jawline. He has a day’s worth of beard stubble that is surprisingly soft, and as I move my fingers over his cheek I can feel the muscles beneath my hand twitching. He is watching me intently, and though I can feel his gaze on me, I don’t return it. I’m afraid of what I’ll say or do if I become entranced by those soft pools of blue.
Arnie clears his throat and says, “Should we get you two a room?”
Izzy snorts a laugh and I drop my hand from Hurley’s face. After shooting a death-ray look at Arnie, I tell Hurley, “I don’t feel any obvious fractures but you have quite a bit of swelling and bruising there. You should probably have it X-rayed.”
I leave the room and head out to the dead man’s kitchen, where I open a few drawers and, after finding what I want, head for the freezer. A moment later I return to the living room with a plastic baggie full of ice cubes wrapped in paper towels and hand it to Hurley. “Put this on your cheek,” I tell him. “It will help reduce the pain and swelling.”
He takes the baggie, does as I instructed, and says, “Thank you.” His voice is soft and tender and I don’t think it’s all because of his jaw. The way he is looking at me makes my skin hot and my toes curl.
I realize Izzy and Arnie are already outside, meaning Hurley and I are alone together . . . well, that is if you don’t count the dead guy. It seems most of my moments with Hurley occur near a dead body, hardly the best setting for a romantic interlude. I head outside and join Arnie and Izzy at the van.