Nip, Tuck, Dead Read online

  Jagger took a sip and looked at me. He had this way of pulling words from my mouth with those damn dark eyes. Sometimes, I noted, they took on a deep brown-very much like my favorite chocolate. Other days and only in a certain light, they appeared more black with specks of gold. Then there were times when I saw a hint of hazel.

  Today was a chocolate day and no wonder the waitress was falling all over herself.

  “Well, I’ve only met Lydia once at The Market. Man, they have the best clam chowder-”

  Jagger glared at me. “I’ve had the chowder in every place imaginable around here, Sherlock. I don’t need a Zagat’s rating review.”

  “I…um…so…where’s the best?” I took a long sip of wine, which emptied my glass. The guy had my dander up, so I looked toward the waitress and held up my glass.

  She turned away without a glance.

  And I knew she saw me.

  I curled my lips and looked back at Jagger. “Get me another one.”

  He smirked and waved at the girl, who didn’t even have to come see what he wanted. Soon I had my third glass of wine in front of me, and as much as I told myself to go slow, that I wasn’t used to so much wine, the thing was half gone in a heartbeat.

  Yikes.

  “Show…so…” Oh, boy. Was the dock moving? I inhaled the fresh ocean air to clear my head. “So, why are you so interested in the aunt?”

  He shook his head-twice.

  No one ever wanted Jagger shaking his head at him or her-especially me. Then again, I think I was the only one he ever shook at. I’d scored the number of shakes from one to three with one being merely annoyed and three…suffice it to say, no one wanted three shakes.

  I got to buy some time when our dear waitress who just about threw my lobster in front of me (okay, the wine was blowing things out of proportion) went to help Jagger with his bib. She fussed and fussed tying and retying all the while I’m sure she was suffering-make that enjoying-some pheromone-induced episode.

  Jagger suddenly took her hand. “Fine. That’s fine, honey.”

  I’m sure she wouldn’t wash her hand that night.

  I stuck my bib on-crooked-while Jagger yanked his off and grabbed a claw from his dish. When he went to crack it with the tools set before us, he said, “Olivia Wheaton-Chandler owns…Highcliff Manor.”

  Nine

  Olivia owned Highcliff!

  I hadn’t had a chance to find out who the “money lady” and Lydia’s aunt actually was.

  I bit into a chunk of lobster, chewed but swallowed without thinking since the bombshell Jagger had just set off took all my attention.

  In seconds I couldn’t breathe and grabbed at my throat-the universal sign of choking. Jagger flew out of his seat, grasped me from behind and did the Heimlich maneuver. The piece of buttery lobster popped out of my mouth and onto my dish.

  Thank goodness it didn’t land on Jagger’s or I’d have been so embarrassed.

  I’d gotten pretty used to being humiliated in front of him (actually by him), so having it on my dish and having my life spared was no big deal.

  I pushed at his hands before he cracked a rib and breathlessly said, “I’m fine. Thanks. I owe you one.”

  He sat down and looked at me then grinned again.

  Yikes!

  I had to see if the adult ed classes back in Hope Valley offered a quick course on reading body language. Because in my book that look said “sex,” but probably in Jagger’s it was more like “you’re going to have to wash my laundry” or some stupid guy thing to do with housework in order to pay him back.

  I took a sip of water this time and gently pushed the wineglass away. One episode of near-death per night was my limit. “Okay. How do you…is she really? Mrs. Wheaton-Chandler is? Is the owner of Highcliff? Lydia didn’t say…I mean she would know that-”

  Jagger touched my lips.

  I chose to “read” it as sensual; however, my logical mind knew it was out of exasperation to shut me up. Forget the course. I was going to read him how I wanted, or I’d never be able to work with him, knowing the truth.

  “She owns it,” he said, very matter-of-fact. He lifted his fork and stabbed at the tail end of his lobster, recovering a gigantic piece. Jagger didn’t even dip it in butter, which didn’t surprise me-however, it did annoy me.

  I would probably gain anywhere from ten to thirteen pounds at this one meal tonight. Oh well, at least I was sticking Jagger with the bill. That gave me some justification for all the calories.

  After my chocolate mousse dessert-with whipped cream-I decided we-at least I-needed to walk a bit. No, a lot.

  “It’s such a nice night, let’s take a walk,” Jagger said.

  Amazing, yet not surprising. The guy had some kind of power to read minds. My mind, that was. I only hoped he hadn’t suggested the exercise because he’d noted I’d already started to gain a few pounds.

  At the end of the wharf area we had to wait for the light to change before we could cross the street. America’s Cup Avenue was always busy with fast-moving traffic. I turned toward a lamp pole and noticed a sign.

  “Oh, Jagger!”

  He swung around-looking very much like he thought he was going to have to do some kind of emergency procedure on me yet again. “What the hell?”

  I waved at him. “I’m fine. That sign. Can we take it?”

  “You want to take the sign?”

  I groaned. “No, silly. What it says. Can we sign up for it? We have about six minutes before it starts.”

  He looked at the pole and remained silent a few seconds too long.

  Made me start to get nervous. “Jagger?”

  “I’m not going on some goddamn ghost tour around Newport. I can tell you all you want to know for free.” With that he started to cross the street, leaving me, with my mouth agape, in his wake.

  “Oh no you don’t, buddy,” I said, hurrying after him. Normally I was a jogger, but after three glasses of chardonnay, I wouldn’t make it a mile. Thank goodness I didn’t stumble as a Maserati sped past me and Jagger turned to yank me up onto the curb.

  “Damn it, Sherlock. You wanna get yourself killed?”

  Not while you’re holding my arm like that, I thought. Yikes. Then I pulled away. “You walked away from me, and why can’t we take the tour? I’ll bet it’s a hoot.”

  His chocolate eyes melted into me. Wow. Before I knew it I was on the other side of the street, standing on the sidewalk of Thames Street in front of the old Trinity Church. Tall white steeple. Set on the hill and very New Englandlike.

  I poked at Jagger’s chest. “Come on, Jagger. Live a little.”

  He growled at me. “Walking around Newport looking for ghosts is not living, Sherlock.” With that he swung an arm around me, pulled me closer, leaned me backward and pressed his lips on mine.

  Oh…my…God.

  “This,” he murmured, “is living.”

  Then I never want to die.

  If I thought three glasses of wine made my knees weak, they’d actually been like steel compared to how this guy made me feel. In a few seconds he had me upright and our lips were no longer in contact, but the feelings surging throughout me kept right up-thank goodness.

  “Now, walk.” He’d said it as if nothing happened.

  I stood speechless and, yes, still savoring the world-stopping kiss as I ran my finger around and around my lips. Ghosts schmosts, I thought.

  Jagger was nearly up the small hill to the church when he turned and looked at me.

  I yanked my hand from my face and sucked in a huge breath, which I let out very slowly all the way up the sidewalk-as if that would help me walk better.

  We headed up Mary Street past the Vanderbilt Hall Hotel, an imposing brick mansion that sat on the hillside. Lamplights flickered in the darkness, and Jagger walked close enough so that our shoulders touched-why the hell he didn’t put his arm around me I had no idea.

  But, believe me, I was sending mental telepathy suggestions to him nonstop and to no
avail.

  We rounded the corner and made a circle, ending back up where we started, at the base of the hill of the Trinity Church. It wasn’t a very long walk, but Jagger had been leading the way, and since I wasn’t familiar with the area, I couldn’t complain.

  Well, I could, but found out a long time ago that complaining to Jagger was like talking into the wind. Your words merely flew back at you unanswered.

  Since we’d remained silent the entire walk, I decided I’d had enough. “Okay, Jagger, spill about the ghosts. Are you talking Samuel here?”

  He stopped mid-stride, turned and gave me a look that had me shiver. Yikes.

  “Don’t go messing with this one, Pauline.”

  Oh, boy. When Jagger used my real name, he meant business. And most of the time-well, all of the time-I’d listen.

  But there were those damn glasses of wine that just made me not myself. So I said, “Messing with a ghost?” I laughed. “Come on, Jagger. Even you don’t believe-no, especially you don’t believe-in ghosts or spirits or anything woo woo.”

  “What the hell is woo woo?”

  “You know,” I leaned closer. “Woo woo. Spiritual stuff. Horoscope stuff. Anything that sounds woo woo.”

  He shook his head, but thankfully only once. “I believe that we shouldn’t be so self-absorbed on this earth to think we are the only ones here. I believe there are spirits out there.” He looked into my eyes. “And they don’t like to be messed with.”

  The ride back to the lodge was pretty dull. Jagger kept his eye on the road and played a Tim McGraw CD while I looked out the window, fascinated by the historic houses in Newport, by how I could peek inside ones whose lights were on and the fact that Jagger really believed in ghosts.

  Who would have thought?

  I might have found that hysterical if it weren’t for the fact that I actually felt someone or something push me into his arms earlier. A shiver chased up my spine and I gasped.

  “What?” he asked, not even looking.

  “Oh. Nothing. Just cold,” I lied and kept looking out the window. I had to switch my thoughts from imaginary beings, so I let myself remember The Kiss. I gasped again-only this time it was followed by an “Ah.”

  “Jesus, Sherlock. If you keep up those orgasmic noises I won’t be able to drive.”

  My face had to be redder than the damn lobsters we’d devoured for dinner. But my memories were fun to relive-and, okay, not far off from delicious Jagger’s accusations.

  We pulled into the parking lot. I looked up to where my room was and noticed the light on. Maybe the innkeeper’s helpers were turning down my bed and leaving me chocolate. One could only hope!

  I said good-night to Jagger. Gave him a quick peck on the cheek since I was chicken to take his face into my hands and give him a real kiss on the lips-even though I really, really, really wanted to.

  He mumbled something akin to “Good night” and turned toward the kitchen. Certainly he wasn’t hungry.

  Deciding to ignore Jagger and get some sleep to work on my case tomorrow-since now I needed to find out a hell of a lot more about Olivia Wheaton-Chandler-I walked up the carpeted staircase.

  My door was locked, so I fished around in my pants pocket for my key. Old places like this still used real metal keys and not the key cards of the more modern hotels. After jiggling the key in the lock, I pushed my shoulder into the door to get it to open.

  And I gasped again.

  A maid would not have left my room in such disarray. Someone had been in here looking. Looking for what? A cool gust of air flew into my face. I tried to scream but nothing came out. As if it were swirling around me, I reached my hands up to my face.

  “Sam…u…el?” I asked as meekly as Dorothy speaking to the Wizard. “Is…that…you?”

  Nothing.

  Although my heart was in tachycardia (speeding like a demon) I eased my hands from my face, pulled my shoulders straight and said, “I am not afraid of you.” But inside my head I was the lion saying, I do believe in ghosts. I do believe in ghosts. I do. I do. I do.

  The curtains flew toward me. I stepped back ready to die. Then I noticed that behind them the window was open. “Great, Sokol. There’s your ghost.” I walked to the window, tucked the curtains back and pushed the frame until it closed out the night and the sea breeze pretending to be a spirit.

  “Thank goodness no one saw me,” I mumbled and laughed-more out of relief than humor. I decided to relive the earlier part of the evening and ignore my recent visitor.

  Tonight was wonderful having dinner with Jagger. Fabulous food. Delicious wine (which now had my head pounding) and, well, the company, the kiss.

  Nice.

  Still, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, someone had been in there. Someone had opened the window. And someone had opened my drawers. Couldn’t have been the maid.

  Right about then I’d love to have known that it actually was a ghost’s shenanigans. I wouldn’t mention someone being in my room though because it might tip the culprit off that I was investigating the fraud.

  It took some doing, but I was beginning to convince myself that I couldn’t let threats and a sense of danger interfere-and paralyze me from my job.

  I had work to do so I slipped off my shoes and jeans and thought I’d forgo a shower until the morning. When I unbuttoned my shirt, took it off and left on the camisole, I decided I at least needed to wash up. I turned toward the bathroom and walked into the doorway-and screamed.

  Ten

  Go home.

  Just as my eyes were rereading the lipstick-written message on the mirror I heard a crash and felt arms around me.

  So I did what any normal girl would do. I slammed my foot onto his toes and jabbed my elbow back-into a very soft spot that made him yell.

  “What…the…hell! Pauline?”

  “Jagger!” I swung around to see him double over in pain.

  Oh, boy. Guess he wasn’t in any mood or condition to congratulate me on my quick self-defense reflexes-which I’d learned from him.

  He looked up at me with his forehead wrinkled and his lips pursed. “Put on some clothes.”

  Put on some clothes? That was all he could say after I’d been scared to death by a ghostly open window, a lipstick threat, and the door to my room being busted open? As a matter of fact, it did feel cool. In my current brush with fear I’d forgotten that I had been getting ready for bed. I looked down. Oops. I went to yank a towel from the rack, which pulled out of the wall and clattered to the floor, taking said towel with it. When I bent to grab it, I looked up.

  Jagger was still staring.

  Since I couldn’t get the towel fast enough, I decided to follow my earlier advice and act nonchalant. Act as if nothing had happened. Hell, I’d have on less in a bathing suit. However, I would not be standing in a hotel room (very close quarters with a bed in it) with Jagger ogling me in a bathing suit. I’d be in the wide-open spaces of a public beach where male ogling wouldn’t be so personal.

  I did manage to walk into the other room and say, “Stay there until I change.”

  “How the hell…can I move…after your…attack?”

  Good point. I hurried to throw my jeans and top back on. I didn’t worry about the outside shirt since I probably should be running down to the kitchen to get a bag of ice for Jagger.

  Without my shoes on, I went back into the bathroom. “I’ll go get you some ice.”

  He glared at me, freezing me on the spot.

  “Okay…no…ice. Geez.” Well, obviously I had no idea how a guy felt or at least how Jagger felt and he surely wouldn’t listen to my medical/ nursing voice of reason. “Here. Let me help you to the bed.”

  When I went to take his arm, he didn’t pull away but merely sat there. I couldn’t have budged him if I’d wanted to. “Okay. Stay there.” I went to the sink and poured a glass of cold water then turned to hand it to him. “Here.”

  He shook his head and winced. This time I know he winced because I at least co
uld read anyone’s body language when it came to pain. Lord how I prayed Jagger was not really injured. Really prayed hard.

  For no permanent damage.

  “What the hell is a glass of water going to do, Sherlock? Get me some scotch or tequila. That is what I need, not freaking water.”

  I set the glass down on the sink. “Sorry. I’m fresh out.”

  “Go ask Arlene.”

  “You’re serious?”

  He pushed himself up to stand, and when I reached out to help, he raised his hands in the air. “Stay away. Go.”

  “Well. I was only trying to help,” I mumbled on my way out, but when I looked over my shoulder, I saw Jagger ease himself very slowly onto my bed.

  I leaned against the door frame and sighed.

  The kitchen was dark and empty, but no surprise. It was late and I knew Arlene lived in the carriage house behind the lodge. When I walked to the back door, I thought I heard someone behind me. “Arlene?” Had to practice on speaking more assuredly with possible “Sam sightings.” “Arlene, is that you?”

  A shadow appeared at the door.

  My hands flew to my face. I was getting very used to living in this B movie and gasping every other scene. Geez.

  “Not Arlene, little lady. It’s me. Mr. Cooper. Just arrived this afternoon and got lost. Looking for the stairway to my room.”

  I slung myself against the door frame and pointed. “Behind you, through the dining room and off to the left.”

  “Thanks, little lady.”

  I smiled although Mr. Cooper probably couldn’t see well enough in the dim lighting to discern that I was not a little lady. Pretty soon I was going to have a séance and summon damn Samuel to confront him-and tell him to leave me the hell alone.

  The screen door slammed behind me, hitting me in the butt.

  “Give it your best shot, buddy. I’m ready for you now.”

  All the way to Arlene’s door I kept looking to the sides, behind me, and behind me again. No footsteps sounded on the gravel drive, so I figured I was alone. Still, I walked carefully, since my feet hurt, and headed onto the grass, where I was able to bite back a scream after a darn cat had darted out in front of me. “Shoo,” I whispered, looking around for its owner.