Beneath it all is my brand-spanking new underwear, much sexier than my old stuff. During the Karen Owenby case, a slight dressing mishap led to a pair of my old undies getting mistakenly tagged as evidence, but not before Hurley held them up before a crowd of cops and likened them to a schooner sail. There isn’t much I can do about the size, but at least my elastic is now intact and there are enough frilly enhancements to hopefully distract one from the quantity of cloth involved.
I look in the mirror and decide I’ll pass muster. The blue in the clothes sets off the blue of my eyes, and my hair—thanks to the miraculous ministrations of my new hairdresser, Barbara—looks passable. As a final touch, I throw on a minimum of makeup and a tiny spritz of perfume to cover up any lingering smells of blood, formaldehyde, and death.
By the time I’m done, Izzy’s life partner, Dom, has arrived at the office and Izzy is cleaned up and changed. Izzy looks understated in a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of black pants. In contrast, Dom, who is reed thin, fair-skinned, auburn haired, and not afraid to advertise his lifestyle, is dressed in a pair of skintight leather pants and a glossy shirt that looks like the lights on a disco ball. Dom’s flamboyance is a definite detriment to his and Izzy’s social life. While Izzy hasn’t ever tried to hide his sexual orientation, he is a government official and has a reputation and appearance to uphold. As a result, he and Dom rarely appear together within the town limits, more often hitting up spots outside Sorenson whenever they feel the need to trip the light fantastic.
Dom, who is standing with one hip cocked to the side and his arms crossed over his chest, eyes me as I emerge from the ladies’ room. “You look fabulous,” he coos. “That Barbara truly is a miracle worker.”
“Thanks, I think.” The flattery is nice, but Dom’s declaration of what a miracle worker my hairdresser is makes me wonder just how awful he thought I looked before. Barbara’s full-time job is doing make-up and hair for corpses at the Keller Funeral Home. She also does side work on live people in the basement of the place, and Izzy took me to her a few weeks ago after declaring me in need of a major overhaul. The whole thing was a bit creepy at first but I eventually grew comfortable with lying down—the only position Barbara is able to work in—to have my hair done. And the woman is truly a genius. Not only did she give my hair the best color, cut, and style it’s had in years while also helping me plan the perfect funeral, she introduced me to a whole new make-up regimen that, according to her, no longer makes me look like one of the undead.
Thoughts of the undead remind me of my pending date. “I guess you can go ahead and call William-not-Bill,” I tell Izzy.
He shakes his head. “I’ll get the number for you but you’re going to do the talking.”
I frown at him but realize he’s right; the invitation needs to come from me. “What if he says no?” I ask as Izzy searches for the number in his Rolodex, wondering if my ego can handle being rejected by one of the dating world’s bottom feeders. “What do I do then?”
“He won’t say no. You’re the first date he’s had in over two years that didn’t run screaming from the room after half an hour. Trust me; he’s desperate for female company. He’ll go out at anytime with anyone.”
As Dom gives me an ouch look and mimes an arrow piercing his chest, Izzy hands me his cell phone and a card with William’s number on it.
I dial the number on the card and wait as the call goes through. William-not-Bill answers on the third ring with a breathless, slightly annoyed-sounding, “Hello?”
“Hi, William. I’m sorry for calling so late but I just got finished with the work I had to do and I was wondering—”
“Who is this?” he interrupts, his breathing hard and heavy.
“Oh, sorry, it’s Mattie. Mattie Winston? Your date from earlier this evening?”
“Mattie!” he says, his breathing slowly returning to normal. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you when the phone rang.”
I wince and utter a silent prayer that his breathlessness and thoughts of me occurred while he was running on a treadmill, or doing sit-ups, or using a rowing machine.
I hear rustling noises and then what sounds like a zipper in the background as William-not-Bill says, “I’m surprised to hear from you. I figured you’d be . . .” He pauses, then says, “Busy all night.”
“Nope, we’re done for the evening, and Izzy, Dom, and I are going out for a drink to unwind a little. I wondered if you might like to join us.”
There is a long silence on the other end of the phone and for a moment I think the call has been dropped. “William? Are you still there?”
“I am,” he says quietly. “Is this a joke?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is this one of those things where I get dressed and run out to meet you but you never show up?”
“No, William, it’s not a joke.” Clearly the guy’s been stood up a time or two, and I feel a touch of sympathy for him. Then a wave of guilt washes over me as I remember that my own motives aren’t exactly pure. “I felt bad that our date got cut short and thought you might want to join us for a drink.”
Another long silence follows before he finally says, “Okay. Where are you going?”
There are three hole-in-the-wall bars located in downtown Sorenson, and even though they are all independently owned, at some point in time they decided to join forces when it came to names. As a result, we have the Nowhere Bar, the Somewhere Bar, and the Anywhere Bar. At times it leads to conversations that sound like an Abbott and Costello routine.
Where should we go tonight?
How about Nowhere?
Aw, come on, we have to go to Somewhere.
Well, we could go there, or to Anywhere, but I’d rather go to Nowhere.
I tell William, “We’re going to the Nowhere Bar. We’re headed there now.”
“You’re sure?” he asks. His voice has that breathless quality again and I can’t help but wince.
“Yes, William, I’m sure.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
“See you then.” I end the call and hand Izzy back his phone. “It’s a go,” I tell him. “But I’m having second thoughts about this. Do you think the Nowhere Bar serves any drinks with saltpeter in them?”
Chapter 8
Lest I have any doubts about William-not-Bill’s level of excitement, it is eliminated when I see that he has beaten us to the bar and is already seated when we arrive. It’s a little scary when you consider that the bar is across town from William’s house but only a block from our office. I fear I may have bitten off more than I can chew and pray that Hurley really does show up so my efforts aren’t for naught.
The Nowhere is doing a hopping business despite the late hour. Bars are one of the more stable staples of the Wisconsin economy. Wisconsinites love their beer, their Packers, and their cheese. Thanks to the proliferation of televised games and cable TV, bars have the ability to provide all three, making them a home away from home for many.
Because it’s Halloween, the crowd tonight is a little scarier than usual, reminiscent of the bar scene in Star Wars. William, who has shed his Dracula persona for now, is seated at a small table in a back corner. He stands up and eagerly waves us over as we enter. After shaking hands with Izzy and muttering a hello to Dom, William shifts all of his attention to me. He pulls out my chair, a gentlemanly gesture I appreciate, but then scoots his own seat closer and settles in with his leg touching mine. I can feel the excitement radiating off him, which only enhances my guilt and anxiety. As I start to squirm beneath the weight of William’s adoring gaze, I shoot Izzy a pleading look. And Izzy, bless him, sallies forth with the perfect solution.