Trudy, Madly, Deeply (Working Stiffs Mystery Series) by Wendy Delaney

turned to watch him rejoin his baseball buddies and noticed a willowy woman in her mid-forties entering the bar. She had straight reddish-brown hair that brushed the collar of her dusty rose, linen blouse. Designer jeans hugged her slim hips. The man with her wore chinos and a pressed, white cotton shirt. Casual, yet not completely casual.
    They were on a date.
    “Who’s that?” I asked Rox as the couple sat at a table in the far corner.
    She followed my gaze. “You don’t recognize Nell?”
    The only Nell I knew had thick glasses and mousy brown hair pulled back in a long braid and spent her evenings at home taking care of her mother, who had become a shut-in after she’d had a series of heart attacks.
    Tonight, nothing about this woman seemed mousy. “That’s Nell Neary?”
    Rox nodded. “It was a shame about her mom, but maybe that was a blessing in disguise.”
    With everything I’d learned today, that blessing was feeling more unholy by the minute.
    The crowd gathered around the flat screen roared. Something big had just happened. I came to the same conclusion when I saw Bernadette Neary’s daughter lean into her date’s shoulder, laughing, happy—probably for the first time in years.
    Before I’d met Dr. Cardinale, I wouldn’t have given this date a second thought. But now, Jayne Elwood, Ernie Kozarek, and Nell Neary appeared to have something in common besides a dearly departed loved one.
    * * *
    After four sleepless hours of cursing the invention of the hide-a-bed, I headed for the upstairs bathroom like a punch-drunk boxer staggering to a neutral corner. One steamy shower, two cups of coffee, and three aspirin later, my back still ached like it had been pummeled by the Crippler , but at least I felt capable of stringing together a couple of coherent sentences.
    I blasted my hair with my blow dryer, then applied a few swipes of mascara, a dab of concealer to minimize the circles under my eyes, and a swish of my mother’s bronzer to add a little glow to my chipmunk cheeks. Not that I should care that much about how I looked this morning.
    Although if Kyle Cardinale were to give me another once-over like yesterday, I might care.
    After smoothing on a layer of copper glaze lip gloss and checking my look in the mirror, I shrugged into a black and blue plaid tunic, which matched how I felt. Fortunately, I could still zip my black cotton twill fat pants. Barely. All the more reason for me to change into a pair of sweats and go for a jog instead of heading over to the hospital in the middle of the night. Of course, that meant I’d have to do the hair and makeup thing over again in an hour. Not happening. It was enough effort the first time around. Instead, I opted to burn a few calories by going on the hunt for a hot doctor.
    Ten minutes later, I found Kyle Cardinale in the hallway outside the ER. No chocolate pudding stains on his white lab coat this time.
    The corners of his mouth curled into a charming smile as he watched me approach. “You’re up early.”
    “Couldn’t sleep.”
    “There’s a lot of that going around.”
    I pointed at the deserted ER lobby. “Could we talk for a few minutes?”
    “Sure, it’s pretty dead right now.”
    Dark humor? Considering Dr. Cardinale had taken it upon himself to report the suspicious nature of Trudy’s death, if he were joking, this whistleblower was one cool cat.
    “So to speak,” he added sheepishly.
    I took a moss green vinyl chair next to a sparsely stocked magazine rack. He sat to my left, facing the ER desk. His knee grazed mine as he stretched out his legs.
    He didn’t say anything about the knee contact, and I shifted in my seat to give him a little more room, which drew a little flash of amusement.
    Reminding myself I’d just divorced an Italian and had no intention of hooking up with another one, even if he was a charming doctor, I pulled out a pen and my list of potential victims from my tote bag to get down to business. “You mentioned a