Heads You Lose Read online

  “What brought her to mind?”

  “I’m just thinking about reasons why one person might kill another. Crimes of passion are the most common, right?”

  “People kill each other for all kinds of reasons.”

  “Don’t you think it’s suspicious that Doc Holland went missing and then Hart’s body turned up?”

  “Doc Holland retired. I’m not sure that I see the connection.”

  “I’m just brainstorming here,” Lacey said.

  If she were in full disclosure mode, she might have mentioned that Hart always had a thorn in his side when it came to Doc Holland. In fact, whenever Hart needed minor medical attention, he’d visit the osteopath in Emery rather than drive a mile to Holland’s place. If Lacey asked about it, Hart would always change the subject in the special way that only he could.

  “Thank you for your time,” said Sheriff Ed.

  “You should look for the woman who smells like some kind of flower,” Lacey said.

  “I think that’s all for now, Lacey,” Sheriff Ed quickly replied, getting to his feet.

  Lacey remained seated.

  “Why do you think they took his head?” she asked.

  “Too soon to tell,” the sheriff replied. “Let me walk you out.”

  Lacey noticed the sheriff’s weary tone and slumped posture as he walked her out of the building. He looked as tired as she felt. She figured he’d been up all night. She wondered what theories he had been hiding from her.

  “Will you call me if you hear anything?” Lacey said as she got in her car.

  “Take care of yourself, sweetheart,” Ed replied as he returned to the station.

  Paul, deciding he’d better secure his alibi for the night in question, drove twenty miles to Tulac and knocked on Brandy Chester’s front door.

  “Paauul,” Brandy squealed when she saw her beau. “Why didn’t you tell me you were visiting? I would have made you a tuna casserole.”

  Paul had once made the mistake of complimenting Brandy’s signature dish. Truth was, he found it almost inedible, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Since then, she made the meal whenever she knew he was stopping by. That’s when Paul’s surprise visits commenced. Brandy and Paul embraced in the doorway; then he followed the woman in pink into her pink abode.

  Aside from the white carpet, which was stained from years of abuse, Brandy’s home looked like it had been decorated by a deranged ballerina. For the first few weeks they were dating, Paul wore sunglasses inside, but slowly he got used to it. Truth was, he liked Brandy. She had a good heart. A heart of gold, you might say. They’d met at Olmstead’s Hardware when Brandy asked for his help finding the right screw.

  Brandy was big-boned, full-lipped, and blond all over. She was the kind of woman who was always bleaching something. Brandy began most of her sentences with “Back when I was dancing …” although you could tell from her frame that she was never a Rockette. Three years ago, Brandy’s career was sidelined by a pole-dancing injury, which is far more common than you might expect. The accident left her with a permanent limp. Paul never minded the limp. In fact, he found it rather fetching.13

  Brandy prepared a grilled cheese sandwich while Paul explained his need for an alibi. It didn’t require too much explaining. Brandy agreed as if people asked her for an alibi every day.

  “Sure thing, sweetheart. I’ll tell the cops I made you a tuna casserole and we had a cozy night in watching Mythmatch.”

  “Let’s first make sure we know which episode was on that night,” Paul replied.

  “You think of everything,” Brandy said, smothering her man with a kiss.

  Lacey swung by the Timberline after her interview with Sheriff Ed. Hart used to kill hours at this place. He and Tate were tight. Lacey had never liked the man, but she figured she should give him the news.

  She went straight back to the office and knocked twice on the closed door.

  “Enter,” said the gravelly voice on the other side.

  Lacey caught Tate in his undershorts and T-shirt.

  “I would have waited until you put some clothes on,” Lacey said, averting her gaze.

  “My clothes are at the laundry-mat.”

  “All of ’em?”

  “If you must know, Lacey,” Tate impatiently replied, “my woman kicked me out with the shirt on my back. Those clothes got to be washed sometime.”

  Lacey noted that Tate’s couch was made up as a bed.

  “What about your underwear?” Lacey asked. “Doesn’t that have to be washed?”

  “I bought another pair of shorts. Now what can I do for you, Lacey?”

  “Hart’s dead.”

  “Your Hart?”

  “He’s not mine anymore. Or anybody’s.”

  “What happened?”

  “Murdered.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Tate said. The news shook him, but he was the kind of man who tried not to let on what he was thinking, even in his underwear.

  “When was the last time you saw Hart?”

  “You investigating me?”

  “Just asking an innocent question.”

  “About three weeks ago, maybe,” Tate replied.

  “What did he want?”

  “A drink,” said Tate. “What else?”

  Lacey’s thoughts turned to the other mystery that had surfaced recently.

  “Do you know why Doc Holland skipped town so fast?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Wish I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he left town with an unpaid debt.”

  “He was gambling? What was his game?”

  “He had no game. It was just a friendly loan.”

  “Really? What’s your friendly interest rate?”

  “Why? You need a loan?”

  “No. Just curious.”

  “You might want to keep that in check,” Tate replied. “See you around, Lacey.”

  Lacey took the cue and left.

  Instead of grieving for Hart, Lacey figured she could do the next best thing: Find his killer. While Tate had an angle on everyone in Mercer, he wasn’t the talkative sort. But she knew who was.

  Lacey drove to Betty’s place to see whether a gossip exchange could uncover any new leads. Besides, on TV it’s always two disconnected clues that intersect in the end. Maybe there was some connection between Doc Holland and Hart Drexel.

  “I am so sorry, honey. Are you okay?” Betty asked, when Lacey told her the news about Hart.

  “I think so,” Lacey said.

  She had wondered why she felt nothing. She’d even repeated those three words in her head again and again to induce a reaction: Hart is dead. No matter how many times she said it, she still couldn’t feel that it was true.

  Betty served Lacey a mug of hot chocolate with a layer of miniature marshmallows.

  “This’ll make you feel better,” she said.

  Lacey was doubtful, but drowned the marshmallows in the brew and then let them dissolve in her throat.

  “Have you heard from Doc Holland since he left?” Lacey asked.

  Betty was surprised that the conversation leapfrogged over Hart so quickly. It took her a moment to comprehend the question.

  “No. I haven’t seen him since he left. Why do you ask?”

  “There’s just something suspicious about the way he skipped town without a forwarding address. Only the new Doc Holland knows where the old Doc Holland is living.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Who?”

  “Doc Egan.”

  “Oh yeah. He stitched me up.”

  Lacey pulled up her sleeve to reveal her bandaged arm.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Gardening accident.”

  “You should be more careful. How—”

  “Let me ask you a question. You handled Doc Holland’s bills. Was he hav
ing financial problems?”

  “He wasn’t flush.”

  “What does that mean?” Lacey asked.

  “Well, he had a lot of bills. Whatever came in every month, left. And then some.”

  “Did anything strike you as unusual?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think.”

  “Why are you so interested in Doc Holland?”

  “I’m trying to take my mind off Hart,” Lacey replied.

  “Let me see,” Betty said, consulting the back of her brain. “He had a thousand-dollar payment every month to Mallard Corp.”

  “What was it for?”

  “When I asked him, he said it was supplementary malpractice insurance.”

  “For Mercer!?” Lacey exclaimed.

  “Yeah, I thought it was on the pricey side,” Betty replied.

  “What does Doc Egan pay?”

  “Don’t know. He only asked me to handle his patient billing. He’s got his own computer program and stuff.”

  “Thanks for the cocoa,” Lacey said, standing abruptly.

  “Leaving already?” Betty asked.

  “Sorry to run. I forgot that I told Sook I’d pay him a visit this afternoon.”

  Lacey was out the door before Betty could offer her a slice of the lemon meringue pie she had just baked.

  “Lacey,” Sook said, slowly getting to his feet. He was wearing his usual tan cardigan that always smelled like mothballs. “Where have you been turtling yourself?”

  Lacey knitted her brow and froze it there for full effect.

  “Sook, I don’t care how many times Terry or my brother say ‘turtling.’ It’s not a word in the dictionary, so stop using it.”

  “Terry says if you use it enough, it becomes a word. And since it’s a word based on a word, how bad can it be?”

  “What if we all started making up words all the time, Sook? Then nobody would understand what anybody else was saying.”

  “Did you come here to tell me to stop using the non-word ‘turtling’?” Sook asked.

  “No. I’m taking you on an excursion.”

  “Count me in,” Sook said. “Closest we have to drama around here is the latest escapee from We Care down the street. Poor old gal in her nightgown woke up the whole damn place banging on our front door at two a.m. last night. Half the We Care staff were out looking for her. You ask me, something must be messed up over there if people are trying to break into this place.”

  “Well, beats prison, right?” Lacey asked.

  “Let me get back to you on that,” said Sook. “Anyway, I do believe I’m up for an outing. Are we going to the movies?”

  “Nope.”

  “Diner? I could use some of those fries. Wouldn’t mind a chocolate shake, either.”

  “No, we’re not going to Diner.”

  “Then where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you to the doctor,” Lacey explained.

  Sook sat back down in his chair. “That sounds about as fun as a bee sting.”

  “Would you rather stay here?”

  On the drive to Doc Egan’s office, Lacey informed Sook of his symptoms.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Doc Egan asked when Lacey and Sook arrived in his waiting room.

  “I have no appetite and my ears are ringing,” Sook said.

  “What’s your last name, Sook?” Doc Egan asked on the threshold to the examination room.

  “Felton,” Lacey answered.

  “Hang on a second,” Doc Egan said, “I’ll get your file.”

  Egan disappeared behind the door only to return empty-handed.

  “Were you a patient of Doctor Holland’s?”

  “Nope,” Sook replied.

  “You weren’t?” Lacey asked.

  “No. I used to go to that osteopath in Emery.”

  While Lacey tangled with the idea that both Sook and her ex (or the ex-Hart) were patients of an inconveniently located osteopath, Doctor Egan attached a pen to a clipboard and passed it to Sook.

  “Once you fill out the questionnaire, we can start the exam.” Doc Egan turned to Lacey. “Have you cleaned and re-dressed your wound yet?” he asked.

  “What wound?” Sook asked.

  “I got into a knife fight with Big Marv Babalato,” Lacey said, pulling up her sleeve.

  “Come into my office,” Doc Egan said.

  While Sook reminisced about his medical history, Doc Egan re-dressed Lacey’s wound and she interrogated him about his financial responsibilities.

  “Just out of curiosity,” Lacey asked. “How much is malpractice insurance?”

  “Depends on where and what kind of practice.”

  “Well, for example, how much would malpractice insurance be in a town like Mercer, with your current patient load?”

  “Can I ask why you’re asking?”

  “Will you answer if I don’t?”

  Matthew Egan sighed, washed his hands in that special way that only doctors do, and removed Lacey’s old wound dressing, tossing it in the bin.

  “I think it runs around three thousand,” he replied.

  “A month?”

  “No. A year.”

  The patients then swapped places. During the half-hour that Sook was getting poked and prodded, Lacey excused herself to make a phone call and slipped into Egan’s private office. Technically, it was a closet converted to an office. Her first day on the job, Betty lasted a full two hours in the four-by-six-foot space before her claustrophobia took charge. After that she worked from home, accessing Holland’s voicemail and scheduling appointments.

  Eventually Lacey located Egan’s check register and saw a payment to Kimbell and Company for $750.00, which was listed as a quarterly insurance payment. Just when Lacey was about to start hunting for the bill in the file cabinet, she heard voices in the waiting room.

  Lacey checked the office for signs of disruption, adjusted the calendar, and closed the desk drawer. She exited the office just in time to take a seat on the threadbare couch.

  “So, how is he?” she asked.

  “Starving,” Sook replied.

  Lacey shot him a hostile glance.

  “Your friend is fine,” Doc Egan said. “Maybe he could get a little more exercise.”

  “We’ll work on that. Oh, before I forget,” Lacey said, reaching into her bag, “Here’s your shirt. It’s clean and everything.”

  “I’ll see you in eight days, Lacey.”

  “Why?”

  “To get your stitches out.”

  “Right. See you later, Doc,” Lacey said, ushering Sook out of the office.

  Sook and Lacey sat in the corner booth of Diner, feasting on chocolate shakes and french fries.

  “How come you never went to see Doc Holland?” Lacey asked.

  “Don’t know,” Sook replied. “Habit, I guess.”

  “No, that’s not it,” Lacey said, sliding Sook’s fries out of arm’s reach. “You should tell me the truth. Otherwise, these Diner visits might become very infrequent.”

  Sook drained the last bit of shake from his tall glass, making that annoying sound. He put the glass down, consulted the ceiling, and finally spoke the truth.

  “Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.”

  “Get to the point, Sook.”

  “Doc Holland wasn’t a real doctor.”

  NOTES:

  Dostoyevsky,

  Back to you. Just a quick refresher: We have a murder to solve—a dead body and a killer on the loose. I’ve been looking back at some of your previous chapters. Your storyline with Terry Jakes is bordering on incoherent. How about we keep him out of the picture for a while and work on creating more viable suspects?

  Also, let’s work on making this more cinematic, but not like The Fop. There was way too much drinking and talking in that script. In fact, that sounds like a fitting description of our whole relationship.

  Lisa

  Lisa,

  You know what would help me create suspects? If yo
u stopped turning all my potentially threatening characters into stuffed animals for Lacey to play with. Tate, for example, is supposed to be a menacing badass. Now he can’t even manage to wear pants or pronounce “laundromat”? Also, I seem to remember introducing Sook as a multifaceted war veteran, not a cuddly grandpa. I’d retaliate, but I wouldn’t even know where to start. Actually, I do, but I’d hate to see Dr. Dreamy end up in a ditch somewhere.

  It’s funny that you remember our relationship as consisting entirely of drinking and talking. I remember it as drinking and listening.

  You want cinematic, keep reading.

  Dave

  CHAPTER 10

  Leaving Brandy’s Sunday night, Paul decided to confront her the next time they met. He’d been hoping she respected him enough to divulge her secret, but it was getting to the point where it was either stop with the charade or good-bye. The first sign was the biography of Wittgenstein he’d found under her bed. Then it was the game theory podcasts on her iPod. Her computer even had a bookmark for the Quorum Group, apparently a club for brainiacs who didn’t deign to mingle with the dim bulbs of Mensa.

  On his way out of Tulac he stopped in an underlit park and slid the folded-up tarp into a trash bin. Lacey would be pleased to know he’d spared the ozone by not burning plastic. On the highway back toward Mercer, his mind wandered to Brandy again. Did she even like Mythmatch, or was she just patronizing him? She probably liked it, he decided. It was pretty sophisticated if you thought about it.

  Paul’s cell phone interrupted his thoughts with the opening riff of “American Woman.” That could mean only one thing.

  “Terry.”

  “Don’t use names,” Terry said.

  “You’re calling my personal cell phone from your personal cell phone.”

  “We’ll have to do something about that,” Terry said. “You’ll never believe this, but while I was gone twenty beautiful Kush plants and a dozen Trainwrecks spontaneously germinated in my grow room. I shit you not. Somebody up there likes me.”

  “Ha ha,” said Paul. “I’m coming by.”

  “I’ll be here,” said Terry.

  When Paul arrived, Terry was at work in the basement, trimming Paul’s plants. Wearing a Tulac Titans cap and a chipper expression, he bore no resemblance to the babbling mess he’d been the previous morning out at the tower. But that was typical. Terry could do a complete emotional 180 faster than anyone Paul knew. In another twenty-four hours he could be fetal again.