The Stiff and the Dead Page 6

  I finally opened my eyes. Yep. I hadn’t been hallucinating. “Hi, Jagger.”

  “Again, what the hell are you doing here?”

  I inhaled and remembered. Remembered his familiar scent and had to control my urges, despite his being a few inches away. You are a professional, I told myself and looked up.

  Dressed all in black, which wasn’t unlike him at all, he looked good. Yum. He even had a five-o’clock shadow. I figured it was to aid in his breaking and entering disguise, but it also made him look sexier than usual.

  And that was hard to do.

  Even in this dim light I could see his dark eyes, noticed his hair a tad shorter and windswept in a delicious sort of way. His jacket was suede, and beneath it he wore a knitted shirt that had to show off the definition of his arms.

  One could only hope.

  “Move that damn light out of my eyes.” I swatted in the air, but missed. “And, you could at least ask if I’m all right. I mean, I could have a concussion.” I tried to sit up and felt strong arms aid me.

  “You landed on the braided rug, and you didn’t black out.”

  Hmm. He must have been watching me. Although a tantalizing thought, it also sent waves of embarrassment throughout me when I realized—I was still dressed like Peggy Doubtme—sans the wig and the Vaseline/super-glued wrinkles, which were now in my hand.

  I must’ve looked wonderful.

  I’m surprised he recognized me. I peeked at him staring at me. On second thought, no, I wasn’t surprised at all.

  His hand tugged on mine. “Get up.”

  He wore gloves, I realized. And I also thought he must have taken the key from under the mat. But why? Why would Jagger be snooping around here?

  And why hadn’t I thought of wearing gloves?

  “Don’t touch anything,” he said, as he helped me toward the door.

  So much for my golden opportunity to investigate.

  But then again, I was known for my persistence, even if it got me into trouble sometimes. Okay, lots of times.

  I shrugged free. “Ouch!” My head pounded.

  He stopped. “You all right?”

  I rolled my eyes. Even that hurt. “Yes, I’ll live. But I’m not moving from this spot until you tell me why you are here.” I even attempted to pull myself up straighter so that might make me look more formidable to Jagger. What the hell was I thinking? My five-foot-six body couldn’t hold a candle to his six three. “Well? What are you doing here? Remember, I’m not moving until you spill.”

  He grinned.

  I was surprised that he didn’t say, “Wanna bet?” I knew damn well that’s what his grin meant.

  “Pauline—” He leaned near and his grin deepened. “The real question is, why did you come crashing through the door?” He touched my arm. “Spill.”

  “Uncle Walt thinks Mr. Wisnowski was killed. Murdered.” Damn! Just ’cause he touched me didn’t mean I had to spill my guts.

  He leaned back against the wall and looked at me.

  Well, Jagger, I had learned, didn’t just look. He kinda pulled you into his stare and made you his slave. Not literally, although some nights that became the plot of my dreams.

  So, I rambled on. “I don’t know why, but I think Uncle Walt is right. And you . . . you insinuated as much . . . with that look. Just looking at me. And the grin. Why are you here? You don’t investigate murders.” I had no idea why I said this, because I’d never, in fact, learned whom Jagger worked for. He very well could be FBI investigating whatever the hell he felt like.

  “I have my reasons, and you, of course, know that I’m not good at sharing.”

  “I’ll bet you were a blast to play with as a kid.”

  “Loners don’t play with other kids. But, I will tell you this much since I know why you are here, I will share what I know with you . . . if . . .”

  I knew Jagger was talking. His firm lips, the top a bit thinner than the bottom, kept moving. Me, I couldn’t hear a thing since a cloud of doom rolled over me.

  Jagger was going to pull me into his web.

  And, me being me, would let him.

  Before I knew it, he did, in fact, manage to get me to the door. With his firm hand at my back, we walked through it. He locked it, bent down and stuck the key under the mat. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Once outside, he walked me toward the back of the yard and close to an old shed, where he sat me on a concrete bench, much like the ones in my church’s cemetery. A chill sped up my spine. I told myself it was from the morbid cemetery thought, but also realized it could have come from being so near.

  Jagger. Damn it all! Now he would know I was parading around like an elderly lady. But then again, knowing Jagger—he probably already knew.

  I looked at him and ignored how the moonlight gave him an almost “Casablanca-type” haze. And, it looked damn good.

  “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

  Sherlock. Oh, boy. Jagger had given me that pet name when we first met. Although he could have meant it sarcastically, I always chose to view it as more of an endearing term. “I . . . well. Hey, I could ask you the same thing. What the hell are you doing here?”

  He shook his head twice and clucked his tongue. “You already did.”

  “Okay. Okay. I should know better than to question you. But, really, Jagger. Why would you be snooping—”

  He stared a typical Jagger-stare.

  “Mr. W really was murdered,” I mumbled.

  The closemouthed Jagger had not volunteered any info, but got me safely back to the church parking lot—without my even telling him that’s where my car was. Didn’t surprise me though. He also didn’t ask about my outfit, but when he’d tucked me into the driver’s seat, he had whispered, “We’ll talk. Soon.”

  Before I could open my mouth to ask about what, knowing damn well he was going to involve me in something I’d regret, he was gone. Again, no surprise. I knew he’d show up somewhere else, when I least expected it. All the unanswered questions of why Jagger was in Mr. Wisnowski’s house, was he really murdered, what did Jagger have to do with it and—ta-da—the $64,000.00 question, who the hell did Jagger work for, would only be answered when and if he wanted me to have that info.

  I was convinced he already knew why I had been there.

  I made it back to my condo without running into anyone in the parking lot who knew me—and had already repressed my feelings after meeting up with Jagger. Good thing, since I looked like my grandma, Babci. When I got inside, I grabbed Spanky—our five-pound shih tzu-poodle mix—who growled at my outfit. I kissed his furry head and said, “Why the hell did I tell Sophie I was moving here? I mean—” I sat on the couch.

  Spanky merely stared into thin air when I continued, “I just told Helen I’d be here a few months. Don’t ever lie, Spanks. Lies always jump up and bite you in the ass.”

  He curled up on my lap and this time looked at me as if he cared what I said.

  “I mean it is a good idea, the moving here thing, since it will give me access to the inside of Mr. Wisnowski’s house to see if he was murdered and if Sophie is in danger too. Or Uncle Walt! So, you see, I really need to know if he’s right, and while I’m a ‘senior citizen,’ I could probably find out. But how the hell am I going to snoop around with some realtor on my butt?”

  Spanky looked at me with his dark eyes that were far too big for his little squirrel-size head. “You bring along a diversion.”

  I stared at him. Had he talked? Then I realized I needed a Budweiser. I had talked while staring at Spanky. Damn. A diversion. Not a bad idea even if I was going nuts.

  The next afternoon, Goldie met me at Wisnowski’s house bundled up in his white fox coat. It was real, too, since Goldie was a wiz at investigating, and we got paid in proportion to our cases solved. “Gold, I really appreciate your help.”

  He smiled while the realtor, Ms. Barbara Lawrence, went to unlock Mr. Wisnowski’s door. It had taken me all morning to call around town to see whi
ch realtor had the listing and insist on a showing before the sign went up.

  “I’m feeling much better now, Suga. Anything to help. Besides, with Miles back at work and having watched Maury, and reruns of Jenny and Oprah until my eyes blurred, I needed to get out. Not ready for my own case yet, but love to help you.”

  Barbara, whom I had gone to Saint Stanislaus Grammar School with but, thank God, didn’t recognize me as Peggy Doubtme, turned to look at us. She held the door open while we stood by her black Chevy station wagon. “Do you and your aunt need any help, Ms. Goldie?”

  Gold and I looked at each other. If only poor Barbara knew.

  “No, darlin’, Auntie Peg and I are fine.” With that he slid his arm under mine, and we walked up the stairs—intent on distracting and snooping.

  When we walked inside the living room, I gasped.

  Goldie tightened his hold. “Everything all right, Auntie?”

  “I . . . I’m fine. Fine.”

  Barbara stood staring at me. “Can I get you something?”

  “Water,” I moaned.

  I leaned close to Goldie and whispered that the place looked exactly like Sophie’s, right down to the faded white doilies on the end tables. Weird.

  Then again, nothing should surprise me. Since leaving nursing, lots of weird stuff had happened in my life—Jagger being one of them. I was beginning to wonder if I was being punished for leaving a profession that had fallen into crisis.

  Barbara came up with a glass of water in her hand. “Here.”

  I looked at it and then remembered I’d asked for it. Seems when I got nervous I asked for water. This time I took it and drank it all down. Then I nearly spit it back up when I realized it was Mr. Wisnowski’s glass!

  Damn!

  “Since you seem all right, shall we continue with the tour?” She waved her hand as if we were to follow.

  “Fine.” I took Goldie’s arm as we went upstairs, and forced myself to forget that I’d just drunk out of a dead man’s glass.

  Barbara proceeded to point out the obvious. “This is the master bedroom. See the large window?”

  She must think Goldie and I were dumb bunnies. I was getting a bit anxious since we were wasting too much time and not finding any useful info. I gave Goldie a look and a wink—as best I could with superglued wrinkles near my eyes.

  Goldie, darling Goldie, swung into action. “Barbara, honey, is that a closet over there?”

  I took two steps back and was out in the hallway. As I heard Goldie “ooh” and “ah,” I scurried down the stairs. At the bottom I paused, feeling as if I might run into Jagger again.

  No such luck this time. As I told myself that was a good thing, I went into the living room. I ignored the creepy feeling and went to Mr. W’s desk.

  Then I opened the purse I’d borrowed from Mrs. Honeysuckle, and took out her white gloves.

  So there, Jagger.

  Once the gloves were on, I opened drawer after drawer to look for . . . something, but I had no idea what might help me with the truth. Bills, cancelled checks, and old letters from Helen, which I stopped reading when I came to the “last night was wonderful” part. I noted two prescription forms on the bottom of the pile. One was for a diuretic. Water pills. Real common with the elderly. Especially ones with congestive heart failure. Then I lifted up the other prescription, which had a tiny coffee stain on the left side.

  Viagra.

  I held it for a few seconds.

  “Mrs. Doubtme? Are you all right?” Barbara called.

  I froze.

  Goldie’s wonderful voice said, “She’s in the little old lady’s room, Babs. Don’t wait for her. Could be several minutes or longer.”

  “Oh . . . fine. Here is the hallway that leads to the spare bedroom. It would be great for you when you come visit your aunt, Goldie.”

  “Sure, great.”

  I unfroze and smiled to myself, picturing Goldie upstairs grinning like the Cheshire Cat. At least he’d bought me some time.

  I looked down and thought about what Uncle Walt had said. The old geezers were using Viagra. At least Mr. Wisnowski had a genuine prescription for it from the Hope Valley Clinic’s pharmacy.

  I wondered if Mr. W’s doctor had gone over the side effects and safety precautions of the drug. I knew if he was on any nitrate drugs, often used to control chest pain or angina, he shouldn’t have been taking Viagra. It also reduced the blood pressure, which could have suddenly dropped to an unsafe or life-threatening level. Or killed him. Maybe Mr. W wasn’t really murdered, but had suffered some effects of taking the Viagra?

  How the hell would I find that out?

  “There you are, Auntie,” Goldie called as, I’m sure, a warning before Barbara came down the stairs.

  “Oh, dear. I seem to have lost my way,” I said, pretty damn proud of my “elderly” voice.

  Barbara was fast on Goldie’s heels. “So, do you want to see the upstairs, Mrs. Doubtme?”

  “I . . . my nephew has better taste than little old me.” I brushed my fake forehead. “Stairs. Take the breath out of me sometimes. Did you like it, Goldie?”

  “It has potential. We’ll think about it.” He turned to Barbara while taking my arm. “We’ll probably need another look or two before making up our minds.”

  While we followed Barbara out the door, I marveled at Goldie’s foresight in leaving the opportunity open for more snooping if need be.

  Barbara let us off in the parking lot of the Century 21 real estate office. We said our goodbyes and promised to call when ready for another tour. She also said she’d be on the lookout for other houses that would meet my needs.

  I smiled and thought it would be wonderful if I really was looking for a house—and could afford it. Goldie and Miles were getting closer in their relationship and about ready to move it to the next level. I really thought they belonged together, but I was in the way.

  Goldie opened the door of his banana yellow Camaro. Sixties vintage. Looked as if he’d just driven it off the lot. “That was fun, but I’m bushed.”

  “I really appreciate your help, Gold.”

  “I know you do, Suga, but you really need to get back on your case. Fucking Fabio has little patience.”

  “And I need the money. Besides, Mr. Wisnowski was one of my original suspects for prescription insurance fraud. The opportunity was too great to miss to see if my Uncle Walt was correct, too.”

  “What did you find?”

  I sighed. “Nothing really. Guess I should stick to investigating medical insurance fraud and leave the murders up to the professionals.”

  Goldie stared at me. A thin grin wanted to appear. Classy as he was, he held back.

  “Okay. Okay. I don’t know shit about investigating anything!”

  “But you’re a damn fast learner and persistent as all get out. Then there’s that balls thing you got goin’ on.”

  “Thanks. I need to get back to work.” I turned and paused. Then I looked back at Goldie who stood there watching me. I had no idea what to do next.

  “You gotta keep up your charade to get in good with Sophie and find out about her medication claims.”

  I knew he was right, so I nodded and absentmindedly unlocked my car door and slumped inside.

  In my haze, I watched Goldie drive off.

  “Seems as good a time as any to have that talk I’d mentioned,” Jagger said from my backseat.

  Six

  It isn’t every day that one is startled nearly to death. But when someone pops up in your backseat your time has come.

  I don’t think that I was able to catch my breath, or had taken a breath since hearing Jagger’s voice, but a tiny sound of some kind did pop out of my mouth.

  “Sherlock?”

  I could feel him leaning over the back of the front seat near me, his heat on my neck. His hand rubbed against my shoulder. “Didn’t think I had such a startling affect on you.”

  Being the levelheaded, organized person that I was, I summoned my f
aculties and turned slightly. His hand remained in place. Thank goodness my mouth still worked when I noticed he hadn’t moved his hand yet. “What the hell? You nearly scared me to death, Jagger.”

  After a pause, he removed his hand. “Hold it.”

  With that he opened the back door, got out, and got into the front. “Drive out and head toward Pleasant Street.”

  For a second I looked at him, then my damn body did as he said. When we turned the corner onto Pleasant, he said, “Pull over. Not near any houses though.”

  Hmm. I found the most deserted section of the street I shut off the engine. “Okay, why all the secrecy?”

  At first he stared at me, and then he said, “I need your help.”

  My heart wanted to flutter, but I wouldn’t let the stupid thing act so, well, stupid. “My help? Again?”

  He didn’t even nod, but merely stared as if I’d spoken in Greek.

  I knew I should shut my mouth. I knew I should ignore him staring at me, and I knew I should start the car and take off—after I’d thrown him out the door.

  But, I said, “What kind of . . . help?” It only took a few more seconds of his staring at me to know. Scrubs. White clogs. It would definitely involve donning my never-wear-again scrubs! He was going to get me back into my old career. I still had those before-mentioned scorch marks on my butt from burning out of nursing, and he was going to throw me right back in without any fire retardant protection.

  Now I knew how a cow felt standing in line at the slaughterhouse.

  Jagger wasn’t going to hurt me—not physically. But my mental state around him was always in question.

  I looked him straight in his eyes. Eyes that had a way of capturing my soul. Well, okay, that was a cliché, but sometimes clichés seemed a way of life with Jagger around. Gorgeous, sexy guy and all. After several blinks, I figured I might have escaped his influence unscathed and said, “No. No. No!”

  He did that head thing again. “You need me.”

  True. But I couldn’t let him think I was so needy in my new job. Okay, his help had gotten me my last paycheck—and maybe I’d still be working on that case if Jagger hadn’t “bargained” with me. You know, one of those “I’ll help you if you help me” kinds of things.