Lucky Stiff

Praise for Annelise Ryan and the Mattie Winston Mysteries

FROZEN STIFF

“Ryan mixes science and great storytelling in this cozy series . . . The forensic details ring true and add substance to this fast-paced and funny mystery. Good plotting and relationship drama keep the mystery rolling, while Mattie’s humorous take on life provides many comedic moments.”

—
Romantic Times Book Reviews

“[Mattie’s] competence as a former ER nurse, plus a quirky supporting cast, makes the series intriguing. Ryan has a good eye for forensic and medical detail, and Mattie gets to be the woman of the hour in her third outing.”

—Library Journal

“Absorbing . . . Ryan smoothly blends humor, distinctive characters, and authentic forensic detail.”

—Publisher’s Weekly

SCARED STIFF

“An appealing series on multiple fronts: the forensic details will interest Patricia Cornwell readers, though the tone here is lighter, while the often slapstick humor and the blossoming romance between Mattie and Hurley will draw Evanovich fans who don’t object to the cozier mood.”

—Booklist

“Ryan’s sharp second mystery . . . shows growing skill at mixing humor with CSI-style crime.”

—Publishers Weekly

WORKING STIFF

“Sassy, sexy, and suspenseful, Annelise Ryan knocks ’em dead in her wry and original
Working Stiff
.”

—Carolyn Hart, author of
Dare to Die

“Move over, Stephanie Plum. Make way for Mattie Winston, the funniest deputy coroner to cut up a corpse since, well, ever. I loved every minute I spent with her in this sharp and sassy debut mystery.”

—Laura Levine, author of
Killer Cruise

“Mattie Winston, RN, wasn’t looking for excitement when she became a morgue assistant—quite the contrary—but she got plenty and so will readers who won’t be able to put this book down.”

—Leslie Meier, author of
Mother’s Day Murder

“
Working Stiff
has it all: suspense, laughter, a spicy dash of romance—and a heroine who’s guaranteed to walk off with your heart. Mattie Winston is an unforgettable character who has me begging for a sequel. Annelise Ryan, are you listening?”

—Tess Gerritsen,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Keepsake

“Mattie is klutzy and endearing, and there are plenty of laugh-out-loud moments . . . her foibles are still fun and entertaining.”

—RomanticTimes Book Reviews

“Ryan, the pseudonym of a Wisconsin emergency nurse, brings her professional expertise to her crisp debut . . . Mattie wisecracks her way through an increasingly complex plot.”

—
Publishers Weekly

Books by Annelise Ryan

SCARED STIFF

WORKING STIFF

FROZEN STIFF

LUCKY STIFF

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Lucky Stiff

Annelise Ryan

KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Praise for Annelise Ryan and the Mattie Winston Mysteries
Books by Annelise Ryan
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page

This one is dedicated with much love to my sisters:
Cathy, Laurie, and Amy.

Chapter 1

There are few things in life that smell as bad as a burnt human body. You’d think with all that flesh, which is really just another form of meat, it might smell like a pig roasting on a spit. But you’d be wrong. Your average roasting pig doesn’t have hair, intact organs, and vessels filled with blood. Unfortunately, the person whose death I now have to investigate comes with all those things, and the stench is nauseating.

Adding to the biological odors are the various household items that have burned: plastics, Styrofoam, building materials, and a variety of fabrics. This is a smell I know well, because I’ve been living next to another burnt-down building for the past couple of weeks: the house I used to share with my ex-husband, David Winston. The only person who was in my old house when the fire struck was my ex. Despite the fact that I’ve imagined him being tortured or dying in hideous ways many times over the past few months, he escaped from the fire unharmed. Unlike the person before me, who is burned so badly I can’t tell if the body is that of a man or a women, David is alive and healthy. And if his recent behavior is any indication, he’s also well into “manopause.”

My ex is a surgeon. He cuts people open in an effort to better or save their lives. My name is Mattie Winston. I’m a nurse, and I used to do the same thing, working side by side with David in our local hospital’s OR. But after catching David using his pocket rocket as a tongue depressor on one of my coworkers, I left my job, my home, and my marriage rather abruptly. Fortunately, my best friend and neighbor, Izzy, threw me a lifesaver by offering me both a job and the mother-in-law cottage behind his house. Since Izzy is the county medical examiner, my new job as a death investigator still involves cutting people open, but with two significant differences: all of my patients are a certain distance past their freshness dates, and rather than trying to save their lives, I’m trying to figure out how they lost them.

The ME’s office is located in the small Wisconsin town of Sorenson, where we cover deaths for a countywide area. I grew up in Sorenson, and that makes my job very difficult at times, since I know most of the people I have to autopsy. Today the death I’m investigating is right here in town—a body discovered in a home that is now little more than a burnt-out shell. As a result, I’m not sure yet if our victim is someone I know. Adding to the tragedy is the fact that it’s Christmas Day, as evidenced by the empty tree stand and a dozen or so broken glass ornaments in one corner.

Very little in the room I’m standing in is recognizable. Heat from the flames melted the foot or so of snow that was on the roof. The melt-off, combined with the fire damage and all the water from the fire hoses, brought down most of the modest ranch’s upper structure, leaving the scene a soggy, exposed, piled-up mess. An early-afternoon sun is shining down on us, and the outside temperature is already 48 degrees—very atypical for December here in Wisconsin. Fortunately, there was plenty of snow on the ground before today, allowing us some semblance of a white Christmas.

Izzy is beside me as we carefully pick our way through the charred remains, which are still smoking in places, despite the heroic efforts of the fire department. It’s a bit easier for me to maneuver than it is for Izzy, because I’m six feet tall and have very long legs. Izzy, on the other hand, stands right around five feet tall; his legs aren’t much longer in their entirety than my shinbones.

Several of the firefighters are still working on-site, spot-quenching little flare-ups and guiding us through the debris field. They were the ones who called us when they found the body. Also here are several cops, including Steve Hurley, the tall, dark-haired, blissfully blue-eyed homicide detective I lust after, but can’t have.

“Are you guys sure this is arson?” Hurley asks a woman firefighter standing nearby.

“Positive,” she says. She is a cute blonde, with a large, fluorescent name label across the back of her fire coat that says: KANE. Her cheeks are flushed and there are smudges of ash on her face, but they’re not enough to hide her prettiness. If anything, they enhance it, giving her an impish, pixie look. Even with all her fire gear on, it’s easy to tell she has a trim, petite figure. I want to hate her on sight, especially when I see Hurley give her the once-over . . . twice. My figure has never been petite, not even in the womb. My mother once described giving birth to me as akin to crapping out bowling balls for twenty hours straight. I have what Izzy’s life partner, Dom, calls a Rubenesque figure—a comment that makes me both want to hate Dom and ask him to make me a Reuben sandwich. Dom is a killer cook.

Speaking of cooking, Kane points over toward the couch and says, “There’s a pour pattern over there. If you look at the alligator pattern on the wall above it, you can tell that’s where the fire started, even though someone tried to make it look like it started here by our victim. There’s this other, smaller pour pattern next to the body leading from this overturned drink glass. Judging from the empty vodka bottles we found in the trash, and the ashtray beside this glass, I’m guessing someone wanted us to think the victim caused the fire by reaching for a drink, spilling it, and tipping over in the wheelchair while holding a cigarette.”

“Any idea who our victim is?” Hurley asks.

“For now, we’re assuming it’s the man who lives here, a thirty-eight-year-old paraplegic by the name of Jack Allen.”

“Oh, no,” I mutter, looking aghast at the blackened mass.

“You know him?” Izzy asks.

“I do. I’ve taken care of him at the hospital several times. In fact, I took care of him when he had the car accident that paralyzed him. It was back when I was working in the ER, about seven, maybe eight years ago. I also saw him when we took his gallbladder out last year, and again more recently when he came in to have a bedsore debrided.”

Kane cocks her head to one side. “I’m sorry, I thought you were with the ME’s office,” she says, eyeing me with a puzzled expression.