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

morning.”
    “Well, where’s the pattern in that?” Other than the fact that they were both patients of Dr. Straitham. And, of course, they were dead.
    “It’s how he died.”
    “Asphyxiation?” I asked, my voice mainly breath.
    Kyle’s lips pressed into a grim line as he watched the custodian push his bucket down the empty hall. I would have bet my first paycheck Kyle had just remembered something he didn’t want to share.
    His gaze hardened, his pupils constricted to the size of peppercorns. “Mr. Jeppesen’s wife was sleeping in a chair by his bed. She woke up to the sound of her husband suffocating.”
    My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh God!” I didn’t think I was going to spew, but the morning was young and anything was possible.
    The pager on his hip buzzed. He read the display and then turned back to me. “God didn’t have anything to do with this.”
    * * *
    Three hours and a pot of coffee later, I was buzzing with more than anticipation in Frankie’s office while I waited for her to finish reading my notes from my early morning meeting with Kyle Cardinale.
    Frankie’s mouth tensed for a split second. “I can see where Dr. Cardinale would have some concerns.”
    Some concerns! If he was right, three people had been murdered. Including Rose, four.
    “So what should we do next?” I asked. “Get a statement from Mrs. Jeppesen? Find out what else she might have seen?”
    Frankie’s lips thinned. “I understand that you flew solo with the Cardinale statement yesterday, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
    I felt an invisible leash tighten around my neck.
    “We need to find out what Dr. Zuniga has to say before talking to anyone else,” she added, meeting my gaze.
    “Dr. Zuniga?”
    “Henry Zuniga—a forensic pathologist who works out of Seattle. He’ll be doing the autopsy tomorrow.”
    “At the hospital?”
    She shook her head. “There’s no morgue here, so we have a contract with Curtis Tolliver to use his facilities at the mortuary.”
    Three years ago, I’d seen Tolliver’s Funeral Home up close and personal when I’d helped Gram make the arrangements for my grandfather’s funeral. This included the sight of Curtis’s cousin Eileen, the embalmer, emerging from a back room while I was on my cell phone with my mother and pacing the hallway. Behind Eileen I’d caught a glimpse of a metal operating table.
    I shivered. No doubt that same room would be the site of Trudy’s autopsy.
    “Then, once we get the report of his findings,” Frankie continued, “we’ll know if we need to launch an official investigation. Until then, we’ll just sit on this.” She closed the manila file folder.
    “And wait,” I added without mentioning the four to six weeks. I didn’t want her to know I’d received my information from Steve.
    She flashed me a humorless smile. “You’ll find we do a lot of that around here.”
    I was more of a stir, bake, and serve kind of girl, who had never been very good at sitting and waiting for six minutes, much less for six weeks.
    This job was going to be tougher than I thought.
    * * *
    I spent most of the following morning with Ben in Judge Witten’s courtroom at the far corner of the third floor, where I’d been introduced as a Special Assistant to the Prosecution. The semi-lofty title meant that I could sit at a long wooden table with Ben and one of the assistant prosecutors, Lisa Arbuckle, during jury selection—my assignment for the next two days.
    Earlier in his office Ben had made his expectations for these two days crystal clear: I was to sit quietly and observe the process, and if I had a strong opinion on any prospective juror I should pass Lisa a note. I got the message, the same one Duke had delivered on Monday. Keep your yap shut .
    And that’s exactly what I did. That was, when I wasn’t yawning.
    Two hours and a twenty-minute recess later, we broke for lunch early because the defense attorney had a meeting. Fine by me. With the mystery