Page 1

ONE

three months before the funeral

At six feet eight, 360 pounds, Irv Hollingsworth was not only the biggest TV weatherman in Heartstone, New York; his larger-than-life personality and his flair for showmanship had made him the most popular in the county.

Which is why instead of reporting from a warm, dry studio that watershed June morning, Big Irv, dressed in bright yellow waist-high waders and a matching XXXXL slicker, was broadcasting live from Magic Pond during a torrential downpour.

“I’m here at Heartstone Medical Center,” he said, letting the rain lash his face for effect. “The hospital has been operating on auxiliary power for the last twelve hours. And I do mean operating. I spoke to the chief surgeon, Dr. Alex Dunn, and he told Channel Six that despite this nor’easter, it’s business as usual inside.

“But outside is a whole different story.” The camera panned to take in the rest of the medical center’s campus. Big Irv slogged across the muddy grounds to the swollen edges of Magic Pond, which had crested far beyond its banks.

“Normally, this is where hospital workers and locals would be sitting around enjoying their morning coffee,” he said, stopping at a partially submerged bench, its seat lost beneath the murky waters. “But as you can see, Magic Pond has?—”

And then, as if the media gods had come down to help the big man claim his place in broadcasting history, she appeared on camera. A woman. Floating face down on the surface of the pond.

For a second, maybe two, the only sound that could be heard was the white noise of the rain hammering on the water. Then Big Irv regained his composure and heralded her arrival with two words. Probably not the same two that most people would choose, but Irv was a TV pro. He knew what would resonate.

“Good Lord,” he said in a reverent hush.

Within seconds, the internet’s lust for the bizarre kicked into high gear, and the video of the hulking man in a yellow rain slicker gently guiding the sad remains of a woman in a lavender sweat suit to shore spread like a virus on steroids.

Within minutes, Big Irv, a local celebrity here in Heartstone, would be seen by millions of people around the world. I’m the mayor of Heartstone, and I’ll bet that the mayor of Helsinki saw the poignant footage before I did. It’s the curse of social media. Death and bad weather course through the ether with the speed of light.

As Irv’s star was rising, mine was rapidly sinking. Thirty hours of relentless rain had left my town with roads that were submerged, trash pickups that were suspended, power lines that were down, and emergency services that were stretched to the limit.

My inbox was also flooded. The emails were split between my being woefully unprepared or deplorably unresponsive. Either way, I expected the front page of the Heartstone Crier to be a photo montage of downed trees, mud-caked basements, and disabled cars in three feet of water. The headline might not say “This Mess Is All Mayor Dunn’s Fault,” but society needs a scapegoat, and I was the obvious front-runner.

And then came the coup de grace. Chief Vanderbergen called.

“Minna Schultz is dead,” he said. “Her body was found floating in Magic Pond.”

Immediately, my instincts as a former prosecutor for the DA’s office kicked in. “Foul play?” I asked.

“The ME isn’t here yet,” the chief said.

“But you are,” I said. “What’s your take?”

“There’s no obvious signs of trauma, but let’s face it, the woman had enemies.”

Enemies was an understatement. Minna Schultz had destroyed a lot of people’s lives over the years. Most of them would probably show up at her wake just to make sure she was really dead.

“Of course we can’t rule out suicide,” the chief added.

“Absolutely,” I said, although I doubted it. Anyone who ever met Minna would know that she wouldn’t have the common decency to whack herself.

“One more thing, Mayor Dunn. The Channel Six weather guy discovered the body while he was on the air. The video has gone viral.”

“Shit,” I muttered. “So we’re talking media frenzy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said, ending the call.

“Madam Mayor,” a familiar voice said.

I looked up, and there she was, standing in my doorway, a dripping-wet pink umbrella in one hand, the tools of her ugly trade in the other.

The Angel of Death.

She was blond, in her early thirties, and still holding on to her kick-ass high school cheerleader body and flawless skin. Her name was Rachel Horton, and like the six other phlebotomists who had come before her, her job was to draw my blood three times a year to make sure I hadn’t contracted the same fatal disease that killed my mother.

It had been a medical ritual for me and my sister Lizzie for over a quarter of a century. But this was the first time one of those smiling bloodsuckers ever showed up in my office unannounced.

“Rachel,” I said. “Whatever it is, I have no time for you.”

She flashed me a perfect smile and held up her blue soft-sided medical tote bag. “I only need a minute, Mayor Dunn,” she said, as perky as a Girl Scout delivering a box of Thin Mints. “Dr. Byrne needs some more blood.”

“What did he do with the blood I gave him last week?”

“He said the lab screwed up,” Rachel said, capping off the ominous news with yet another sunny smile that was so genuine I realized I’d misjudged her. Rachel was not the Grim Reaper. She was more like one of those lovable yellow Minions, gullible enough to believe that the lab actually bungled a routine blood test.

The lab screwed up . I’ve been married to a surgeon long enough to know medical malarkey when I hear it. It’s a classic doctor ploy. Rather than tell you straight up that your first set of test results looks suspicious, they give you the healthcare equivalent of “the dog ate my homework.”

But I knew the truth. My white blood cells were amassing the troops and were hell-bent on killing me just like they killed my mother.

“Make it fast,” I said, sitting back down at my desk.

“You’ll feel a little prick,” the sweet young thing said to me with a straight face, which never fails to make me wonder if she gets the sexual innuendo. She stuck the needle in my vein, and I closed my eyes.

It was a Thursday. I would have to wait till Monday before my hematologist made it official, but when you have a fatal disease hanging over your head for twenty-six years, you learn to arrive at your own medical conclusions before your doctor has the clinical proof and the balls to tell you what you already figured out.

I was dying.

“What’s so funny?” Rachel asked.

I hadn’t realized I was grinning, but I had to admit that my entire morning was rife with macabre humor. I was only a few weeks past my forty-third birthday, and I suddenly realized that I was going to be spending my forty-fourth with Minna Schultz. In hell.

Yeah, hell.

I’m a fairly popular mayor and a rather well-liked human being. On paper I look like a shoo-in to be ushered through the Pearly Gates and into the Kingdom of Heaven by St. Peter himself. That’s just because I’ve been able to hide the truth from the rest of world.

But I can’t hide from God, so I had no doubt that when my time was up, I was destined to spend eternity burning in hell for my sins.