The Stiff and the Dead

by Lori Avocato

  But stubborn Pole that I am, I said, “I’m doing fine on my own.”

  He looked me up and down. I felt Mrs. Honeysuckle’s support nylons constrict around my ankles where earlier they had bagged. Then I felt the blood shoot up my veins back to my heart where it caused my chest to burn. Damn. This man was a public nuisance. A health nuisance. No one should be allowed to follow someone around and pop up in her car to scare her—and then ask a favor.

  Or, more truthfully, point out the obvious.

  “Stop staring at me like that, Jagger. I have started this new case . . . and . . . and I’m almost done.” I had to fight the urge to stick out my tongue, because I knew it wouldn’t convince him anymore than the lie I’d just told.

  “So, you have Sophie Banko caught red-handed in prescription fraud? Good. Fabio will no doubt give you a bonus for such fast work. And here you only had to dress up in Mrs. Honeysuckle’s clothing a few times. Great. Perfect, Sherlock. Atta girl.”

  My mouth dropped open, despite the flecks of super-glue, which should have at least held it semi-closed.

  Sophie Banko?

  Prescription fraud?

  And Mrs. Honeysuckle!

  With the tip of my finger, I pushed my jaw up and said in a voice that reminded me either of my childhood or a Chatty Cathy doll, “Okay.”

  I stood in the boiling-hot shower to peel off the remainder of superglue only minutes after driving Jagger back to his car and rushing home. I made a mental note to tell Goldie that we needed more Vaseline or this stuff was going to take the outer layer of my skin off.

  I shoved my face toward the showerhead and shut my eyes.

  Jagger!

  My eyes opened, water forced soap in, and I yelped.

  But not at the soap. How could Jagger know all that he did? How could he keep up with my life and do any work of his own? And why did he keep up with my life?

  We didn’t keep in touch, since, well, it wasn’t as if we were best of friends—more like temporary coworkers.

  But now, how could I get out of working with him, when I knew damn well—as he knew I knew—that I needed him more than he needed me?

  With the soap washed out of my eyes, I shut the water off, grabbed my towel, yanked off my shower cap and stepped out. Miles was at work, and Spanky fast asleep on the floor next to the counter. I dried as fast as I could, wiggled into my powder blue panties and pulled my jeans on over them. After I had my bra and navy sweater on, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and looked in the mirror. Felt good to be dressed in clothes more appropriate for my age.

  My skin glistened. I needed blush and lipstick, but was too frustrated and in a hurry to care.

  I grabbed my purse, keys and jacket, and after a quick goodbye to sleeping Spanky, I hurried out to my Volvo.

  When I opened the door and got inside, I froze.

  His scent clung to my leather seats.

  I’d have to get one of those horrible peppermint air freshener cardboard tree thingies that you hang on your rearview mirror to get the scent out.

  But did I really want to?

  Sure I was angry with Jagger over butting into my case, but that scent could work wonders—just like my mother’s Renuzit did. As I pulled into the parking lot of the Scarpello and Tonelli Insurance Company, I told myself maybe this job wasn’t such a good idea.

  But I loved it, so far, and made great money for not having to get up at five and work an eight-hour shift.

  With my insides still knotted, I stormed in the front door.

  “Hey, chéri,” Adele called out.

  I waved to her and barreled down the hallway. Before I got to the end, I turned toward Fabio’s door and pounded my fist against it. “How could you, Fabio? How could you tell Jagger about my case? How do you even know Jagger?” I didn’t even let him say anything before I pushed open the door in a huff.

  Fabio leaned across his desk.

  Jagger turned around.

  I felt faint.

  Then I realized I didn’t have on any makeup.

  The pain in my feet reminded me that I was still standing in my huff state in the doorway of Fabio’s office in a weird position. Fabio, on the other hand, sat staring.

  The biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen formed across Jagger’s face.

  This was not good.

  The first thought that came to mind was to say, “Oops. Wrong office,” and then slink away.

  But I had every right to be here, I told myself, and I had every right to be annoyed. So, I sucked in the stale cigar air of Fabio’s office and stepped forward, leaving the door open.

  I wasn’t a fool.

  This way they’d have to be civil to me, or I’d have witnesses. I stepped closer. “Fancy meeting you here,” I said with a passing glance to the still-grinning Jagger.

  He nodded.

  Fabio stood. “What the hell is going on, Sokol? What’s got your panties in a—”

  Jagger flew up.

  I leaned back.

  But his furor was aimed at Fabio. “Is that any way to talk to a lady, Scarpello?”

  Wow. Had me blushing.

  I’d give him credit for manners.

  Fabio’s greasy complexion, the darker side of a cheap virgin olive oil, reddened. “What the hell are you storming in here about, newbie?” He gave a sideward glance to Jagger as if asking if that was better.

  Jagger ignored him. “Look, Pauline, leave Fabio out of this. There’s no use involving him anyway.”

  That I agreed with. Working with Fabio was like setting up a tent near a nuclear power plant. Any second and there could be a disaster.

  For a minute, I paused and thought. Jagger was right. He might have legitimate business here for one of his assignments—in which case I was betting that he worked for an insurance company, not the FBI. Then again, Jagger could have no good reason to be here other than to spy on me.

  I shook my brain. Why would Jagger waste his time on that?

  “Okay,” I said to him, “then you tell me what the hell is going on. Why are you here?”

  He turned toward Fabio. “Catch you later.” With that he took my arm and “guided” me out the door and down the hallway.

  When we passed Adele’s office, I heard her sigh. Loud.

  I felt the same way with his hand on my arm, but forced myself to ignore it and remain pissed. Once outside he aimed us toward his black Suburban. I’d had a few trips in that SUV. A family of four could live in the darn thing, and sometimes I thought Jagger actually did. Anything I needed, he had somewhere in the Suburban, and since no one knew where he actually lived, my mobile-home theory was entirely plausible.

  “Get in.”

  I looked at him and wondered if it was worth wasting my words to ask where we were going. So, I just got in with my mouth shut.

  Again, I always felt safe with Jagger—although every logical cell in my body said I probably shouldn’t. He could have killed me or done any number of things to my body—some of which I’d welcome—but he never did.

  We drove out of the parking lot and headed west.

  Dunkin Donuts.

  Our “hangout.”

  At the entrance he pulled up to the drive-thru window, ordered without asking me what I wanted and handed me my hazelnut decaf, light and sweet, followed by a French cruller.

  Exactly what I would have ordered.

  The January air was unusually mild today. The sun cast rays of gold across the dashboard to land on his now shaven face. Yum.

  And that wasn’t for the aroma of hazelnut decaf.

  He stuck his black coffee into the cup holder and pulled over to the side. This time there wasn’t any fear that someone was following us as there had been in the past, but I still felt a shiver of suspense run up my back.

  Again, being approximately thirty-three inches away from a hunk of a guy could have caused it.

  He shut off the engine and turned to me. “You need to take a job at the Hope Valley Clinic. Miles should be able to g
et you one.”

  Soon I’d need a huge elastic band to wear around my head if Jagger kept “surprising” me like this. This time the recovery of my jaw was much quicker. “What? What? What?”

  He shook his head. Twice.

  Since our first encounter a few months ago, Jagger could have easily suffered several cases of whiplash when we were together. I’d learned that one shake meant perturbed, two more like exasperated. “Look, Sherlock, I’m working a case . . . that is . . . in the same location—”

  I waved my hand in the air. “Hold it right there, buddy. I’ve heard this song before and it led me to . . . You’re going to tell me everything will be fine. Ha!”

  He sat silent. With Jagger, silence spoke volumes.

  “See? You’re speechless.” A bold-faced lie to be sure, but I gave it a shot. Anything to get him off this subject.

  “You’ll get done with your case much faster—and get paid faster—if you cooperate,” he said quietly, almost hypnotically.

  “Cooperate with you?” I took a sip of my now lukewarm coffee. We hadn’t been here that long, but I liked so much cream in it, it cooled fast. I figured Jagger didn’t have a microwave in his SUV. “Cooperate. Yeah, right.”

  There went that grin again.

  Nonchalantly I crossed my legs, as if that would take the emphasis off his effect on me. Pheromones gone wild. Might make a good reality TV show.

  His grin deepened.

  I let out a deep sigh. Inside I felt as if something was slipping. Slipping from my grasp. Then the words, “What, as if I don’t know, do I have to do?” came out. Damn! I summoned every ounce of assertiveness I could and only came out with, “And how do you know Miles can help me?” As soon as I said that second part, I realized how foolish that was. This was Jagger I was talking to. “Forget the second question.”

  He smiled. Best teeth I’ve ever seen and white enough to do commercials.

  “Take a temporary job in the clinic. The pharmacy is next door. Staff floats back and forth getting medication for the patients. Easy to check on prescriptions that way.”

  “Did Fabio tell you about my case?”

  His look told me that Fabio, or anyone else for that matter, didn’t need to tell him anything.

  “I said I have a case of my own there. Leo Pasinski, one of the pharmacists.”

  Hmm. “I’m guessing you’re not going to tell me what it is about, who hired you or how my helping you will get my case solved faster.”

  He stared at me.

  I swallowed and wiped my now sweaty brow.

  “Trust me, Sherlock.”

  As soon as I’d left Jagger, I called Miles to ask his friend at the Hope Valley Clinic to get me a job there. Miles had friends and connections all over town. That’s how I’d gotten hooked up with Fabio. Miles had come through again, I thought the next morning as I yanked my mauve scrub pants up over my white bikini panties. Damn, but it felt good to be dressing appropriately for my age—even if I was in scrubs.

  Once dressed, I headed to the kitchen for a quick breakfast, hating getting back into a routine. I loved the freedom of my investigative job and although I was technically still working it, I was also technically back in nursing.

  Jagger was going to owe me big time . . . again.

  With that X-rated thought on my mind, I managed to make a cup of tea in the microwave and throw a slice of wheat bread into the toaster. If I was going to get to work on time, I had to put Jagger out of my thoughts.

  Then again, once I got there, I had no idea what I was going to do to help him—yet. I knew he’d tell me when he was ready.

  “And over there is where you hang your coat,” Randy Johnson said. She was the nurse who’d been assigned to “orientate” me to this job. I’d been hired to fill in for Maggie Pepperwhite, who was out on maternity leave. Thank goodness I didn’t have to deal with the bubble-gum-snapping, blonde bombshell of a receptionist—the one who must have owned stock in Dubble Bubble.

  I said a silent prayer that my case would be solved before the Pepperwhite kid was delivered. My feet already hurt and the clinic hadn’t even opened yet.

  The old cliché of riding a bicycle after not riding for years is true of nursing too. It didn’t take long before I was schlepping patients in and out of examining rooms, taking blood pressures and temps along with taking histories and reasons for the patients’ visits. I had to keep reminding myself that I was working a case and not become complacent as I fell back on my nursing skills.

  Several times I’d tried to snatch the patient charts of ones whom I thought would need prescriptions. Since the clinic was attached to the pharmacy, often the nurses would help out the patients and get their meds for them just as Jagger had said. I’d at least get to meet some pharmacy personnel and maybe even snoop a bit.

  But no such luck.

  Soon there were only a few minutes left before the clinic closed. Thank goodness the pharmacy stayed open two hours longer. Not sure how I’d manage, I was determined to get over there today and see what I could find out. So far, with no Jagger in sight, I was not getting my case solved.

  I grabbed the last chart on the rack. A young man with some kind of rash. It would be a welcome relief after all the elderly patients I’d met today. Oh, I did love the elderly, but since becoming Peggy Doubtme, I was having a personality crisis.

  Last night I actually tried to take my teeth out to soak in a glass.

  An examining room door closing behind me pulled my attention back to my job. I looked at the chart in my hand and walked toward the waiting room. Only two patients remained. One, a heavily pregnant woman, and the other a throwback from the sixties. Although not much older than myself, the guy had hair longer than mine, dark glasses on and a mustache that hung down past each side of his lips. Didn’t look bad even if not my type.

  Then again, I reminded myself, anyone with my “dance card” shouldn’t have a type other than breathing male.

  I looked at the guy and called, “Mr. Lance Feathermoon.”

  He didn’t look American Indian but could be, with a name like that. Actually, he looked more like Johnny Depp, and that alone was reason to pick him instead of the pregnant lady.

  He set down his magazine and came toward me.

  My heart skipped—twice.

  I mentally pulled out my list of no-nos and added, No caffeine at lunchtime. Had to be the cause of my cardiac arrhythmia.

  I waved for him to enter Exam Room #3. “Have a seat on the table. So, what brings you here, Mr. Feathermoon?”

  He remained seated on the edge of the green enamel table, looked around the room several times, paused, then finally said, “Rash.”

  Oh, boy. Last patient of the day and I’d picked a doozie. Not only was I certain he wasn’t going to be too cooperative, but I had to keep my wits about me since every time he looked at me, I felt his gaze undress me through his Foster Grants.

  I had to get a date soon.

  Deciding it’d be a waste to add that to my mental list, I smiled at him. “Where?”

  “Foot.”

  “Please remove your shoes then.”

  “Foot,” he repeated and slipped off one well-worn Nike running shoe from his left foot. “Not feet, doll.”

  Doll? Suddenly the weird attraction to Lance drained out of me. I actually looked down to see if I was standing in some sort of puddle of hormonal insanity. My feet were dry, and when I looked up, so was Lance’s left foot. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t see a rash at all.

  I stared at him a few minutes. Really studied him. I’d been working on honing my investigational tools, and this guy seemed a good study. There was something familiar about him, but I was fairly certain that I’d never met Mr. Feathermoon. It’d been a long day so I ignored the familiarity and proceeded with my job.

  Now my head started to pound as it did so often when I was frustrated, overworked or horny. The last obviously not the cause at this moment. I shook myself and wondered how I’d let myself
be talked back into this profession. Even if it would help my case, I figured it wasn’t worth it to have patients like this. I was losing precious time heading over to the pharmacy.

  “I don’t see any rash, sir.” Maybe I should just chart what he said and leave it up to poor Dr. Handy, who was working my section today. No. I couldn’t do that. First of all, he was the oldest physician here, and second, the most experienced. I figured if I wrote “rash” down on the chart when I didn’t see one, Doc Handy would have me fired immediately before the end of my shift for wasting his time.

  Mr. Feathermoon gave a loud sigh. “You have to look closer.”

  I looked at the foot again, rolled my eyes, and turned back. “I actually have very good vision, sir. Twenty-fifteen. But even if I wore magnifying glasses, I couldn’t see a rash that wasn’t there. Perhaps it went away before you came here?” Please, let him go now.

  He grinned.

  My eyebrows rolled up to my forehead. Wait a minute. I studied him. I looked at his face—closely. I inhaled. The familiarity hit me. Jagger—in his “arrival upon a new case” disguise.

  But I bit back my urge to yell his name.

  Seven

  My observational investigating skills were sharpening.

  At the moment, my gut instinct was not to let on that I knew he was Jagger. As a nurse, I was always quick to notice signs and symptoms and now the knack had paid off. I looked at him and gathered my thoughts.

  What made it most difficult was, “Lance” looked damn tasty.

  Hey, if aged Joey the Wooer could float my boat, then why not some spring chicken who appeared years younger and sexy as hell?

  Then again, this was Jagger.

  “Well, Lance. It seems the rash is very faint. Almost can’t see it. I’ll have to . . . do a check before the doctor comes in.”

  He looked at me a bit skeptically. I wondered if he was ready to fess up.

  Apparently not. So I decided to pull one over on Jagger. At least give it the old college try, since it’d surely be an accomplishment. I turned to the counter and took a wad of cotton from the jar.