The Stiff and the Dead

by Lori Avocato

  When I parked and went inside the building, the hallway was empty. The patients weren’t allowed in yet, so there were a few sitting on benches outside. The door to the pharmacy was open. Maybe I could pass through there.

  Kathy was at the counter. “We’re not open yet. What do you want?” She didn’t even look up.

  “I was just passing through, Kathy.”

  She looked up. “This isn’t a walkway. Go through the clinic door.”

  Behind her I noticed a shadow on the wall. It moved and before I could turn to go, the female pharmacist poked her head out from behind the shelf. “Something wrong, Kathy?”

  Damn. She sounded like a movie star instead of a pharmacist. Even had kind of a French accent. Wow. I envied women with those deep, sultry, scratchy kinds of voices. The ones that made men take notice. I soothed myself by thinking her voice came from smoking and my higher pitch was healthier.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Kathy said.

  I’d be back, I thought as I went into the clinic the correct way.

  The morning went along without incident, although I half expected each male patient to be Jagger in disguise. He seemed due to show up. Besides, neither of us was getting anything done about our cases since Leo’s death threw a wrench into our work.

  I wondered if Leo’s funeral was today, but then thought the body might not be released to the family yet if the investigation was ongoing. Guess no one jumped the gun on the police and cremated Leo, the way they had with Mr. W.

  When Dr. Handy gave Mrs. Tennenbaum a prescription for her psoriasis, I thought maybe I could go meet the female pharmacist and get it filled.

  “I’ll take this over to the clinic for you, ma’am,” I said. The poor woman was a mass of cracks, wrinkles and rashes anyway.

  She sat there scratching. “Thanks. I’ll be in the waiting room if you don’t mind. I don’t like folks to see me like this.” She put on her woolen coat although the clinic was kept quite warm since patients often had to disrobe.

  “No problem. It may take a few minutes.” I looked at my watch. Lunchtime. I had to hurry.

  Kathy turned toward me when I opened the back door and came into the pharmacy. “Lost again?”

  I bit my tongue. I might need her help someday, so I chuckled. “Actually, I have a prescription that needs to be filled before lunchtime.”

  She held her hand out.

  I gave it to her and sat down.

  Kathy looked at me. “Tell your patient we’re swamped and to come get it later.”

  Damn! “I could do that, but, Kath, the poor woman is in such discomfort. She is also hiding her condition under a very heavy, very hot coat. Poor, poor thing.” I leaned over and gave her my “empathetic” look.

  “Well, with one pharmacist short, it will take a while.”

  “I thought that woman was working more hours. The female pharmacist.” I pointed.

  Kathy looked around. “Lois Meyers is a pharmacy tech.”

  Damn.

  “But she can help. I’ll give this to her. With Leo gone, I guess Lois will be around a lot more.” She groaned.

  I leaned in closer, taking Kathy into my confidence, and hoping like hell that she’d do the same. “Doesn’t sound as if Lois is too popular.”

  Kathy stiffened. “No. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean anything.” She pushed me away. “Everyone is so upset since Leo died.” With that she scurried off.

  I stood there wondering why she hadn’t said, “Everyone is so upset that Leo died.” Seemed more appropriate—unless no one really was upset that he died. When I first met Kathy, she wasn’t.

  I knew Hildy wasn’t. I couldn’t get over her cold, unemotional reaction when Jagger had told her the news. And I really hated that, since it didn’t look too good for Hildy. I hoped to hell my gut was more accurate on this account than Jagger’s.

  I couldn’t let myself think about him now. So, while I waited for the psoriasis prescription to be filled, I thought about Nick. It really didn’t take too much effort. Our late date last night had turned out pretty darn good. Since I was so exhausted, we had had a bottle of wine and shared a pizza at an Italian place over in Hartford. Nick liked eggplant on his, just like I did.

  Cute.

  I thought we did make a cute couple. When the night was over, he took me home and . . . the kiss. It kept getting better as the novelty wore off. Nick’s kisses were starting to cause shimmers to turn to waves. Not tsunami-quality yet, but at least decent surfing ones.

  Nick liked me.

  I smiled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  That voice. Jagger’s voice. I turned around to see the “doctor” from yesterday.

  My hormones stood at attention.

  Then, with the speed of light I ordered them “at ease,” and said, “I was just thinking of my date with Nick.”

  A pause.

  Good.

  Within seconds, Jagger said, “That good? Wonderful. So, what about your case?”

  That was it? Well, truthfully I wasn’t that surprised. I mean, what did I really expect? Jagger to fly into a jealous rage?

  “Nothing too new. The part-time pharmacy tech, Lois Meyers, is working more. Haven’t met her yet, but Kathy didn’t seem too thrilled with her. She tried to cover up that fact.”

  “I’m not even going to ask how you know all that, Sherlock. I’ll trust your observational skills this time.”

  I felt my chest poof up like a prize-winning peacock’s. “Thanks. You find out anything more?”

  “The fraud hasn’t stopped with Leo’s death.”

  “You mean because Sophie was back here so soon after his death?”

  “Atta girl.” He turned to walk away as Kathy came toward us.

  “Here you go, Pauline. Er . . . Lois said next time, you don’t get preferential treatment. They’re too busy.”

  Bitch. “Oh, no problem.” I looked behind her to see Lois staring at me. What did I do? Then again, this place was in a mess with Leo gone, so I decided to continue my “kind” streak and give Lois the benefit of the doubt. She probably didn’t want to be here so much lately.

  I waved to her.

  She ignored me.

  I hurried the medication over to Mrs. Tennenbaum, who kept thanking me over and over until I walked her to the front door. The poor woman was sweating and surely that wasn’t good for her condition.

  When I got back, I looked around for Jagger. No one was left except the bubble-gum-snapping receptionist. After a quick “have a nice weekend,” I was out the door.

  The ride home gave me time to think. First I thought of a nice, long, hot shower. Nick had business in New York City, so no date tonight. I was actually glad. Being two people forty years apart was getting to me, and I really needed to relax.

  The second thing I thought of was Hildy. It worried me that she might be involved. I wondered about going to her house, but figured Jagger would have my head.

  Beep. Beep.

  I reached into my purse and yanked out my cell phone. “Hello.”

  “Be ready at eleven. Wear dark clothes and bring gloves.”

  The caller ID had been blocked, but I recognized the voice.

  “How do you know I’m not busy tonight?”

  “Nick’s out of town. If it makes you feel any better, consider this a date.”

  My hands were still shaking when I pulled into the condo parking lot.

  A date?

  Jagger at eleven.

  Stay tuned.

  I dug deeper into my closet to find the sexiest black outfit that would seem appropriate. I knew Jagger was taking me on some surveillance mission, but damn, I wanted to look good. The only things I had were black stretchy leggings and a black turtleneck. With my pale skin, I looked like a mime.

  Then I realized what roommates were for.

  When eleven rolled around, I stood on the front porch in the dark until Jagger pulled in. I hurried to his SUV, opened the door and got in.

 
; “Hi.”

  He nodded.

  I wished I could see better in the dark because I felt pretty darn sexy in Goldie’s black leather jacket with the fitted waist. Although he was much bigger than myself, it still looked good, since I went with the leggings. I patted my pockets to make sure I had my beeper and glasses. Because I knew my blonde hair would stand out like a searchlight, Goldie had fixed me up with one of his turbans.

  I always marveled at how good he looked in them. The black one I had on now had tiny black gems along the front. Under Goldie’s insistence, I left several strands of my hair hanging out on the sides and as bangs.

  It was true what they said about clothes making the man, because this outfit made me feel so damn good. And so damn sexy. I looked over to see Jagger since he hadn’t pulled out of the parking space yet.

  “Something wrong?”

  It wasn’t like Jagger to not speak his mind, so I figured he didn’t have anything to say. He leaned over, touched my hair and said, “Tuck it all in.”

  Speechless, I could still feel his fingers on my hair, although I knew hair strands didn’t have any feelings. I did as he said, but I knew in my heart that Jagger thought I looked good.

  No, looked sexy.

  He pulled into the Dunkin Donuts lot and drove up to the window.

  “May I help you?” said a disembodied female voice.

  “Two coffees. Black.”

  “Please pull up.”

  “Black? And not decaf. I’ll be up all night, Jagger.”

  He looked at me. “That’s right, Sherlock. That’s the idea.”

  He handed me the coffee. I looked at him over my cup and took a little sip.

  Black coffee is bitter. For the life of me, I couldn’t see how anyone could enjoy it. Jagger had insisted I should enjoy the true flavor of the beans, but I insisted a half cup of cream and three sugars would taste a hell of a lot better. Like melted coffee ice cream.

  As I busied my mind with the stupid coffee, I looked to see that we had pulled up past Mr. Wisnowski’s house and stopped on the next corner.

  Oh, boy.

  My heart started pounding so loudly, I wanted to blame it on the caffeine, but knew better. Knew Jagger and how he worked. Knew the amount of caffeine in a little cup like this wasn’t enough to cause an arrhythmia in my heart, and knew . . .

  We were going to break in.

  Sixteen

  Jagger took my coffee cup away. As well he should, I thought, as I’d been watching the liquid splash about in my shaking grip.

  “Look, Sherlock, we’ve never been here. You got that?”

  I wanted to say we had, in fact, been there before, but he wouldn’t let me in to look around once I’d sprawled out on Mr. Wisnowski’s floor. “Okay. We’ve never been here. Now can we go?”

  He shook his head.

  “I got it. I can’t tell anyone, not even Goldie or Miles that we’ve been here.”

  “Or Nick.”

  I nodded. “Look, I’m all for investigating medical insurance fraud, but as much as I want to solve my case, breaking and entering isn’t in my job description.”

  He dangled a key in front of me.

  Semantics.

  Knowing it was Mr. W’s, I opened my side door ever so gingerly and stepped out. Next door, the lights were on in Sophie’s upstairs room. I figured that it had to be her bedroom since I’d already “toured” this house and remembered the floor plan. I sure didn’t need Sophie looking out the window and seeing me.

  Jagger looked around and walked up the sidewalk toward the back of the house. I followed close behind, biting my lips until I tasted blood. Okay, it was only saliva, but with my insides in a panic, I could have gnawed them down until they bled. It was either that or say something stupid to Jagger.

  Thank goodness the moon was full tonight. No doubt Jagger had figured that into his plans. He moved around as if it didn’t bother him in the least—and nothing frightened Jagger.

  I felt a comforting warmth at the thought.

  I really did feel safe with him, but hoped I didn’t do something to ruin this night. I had been on surveillance with him before, but always on the outside looking in. As I walked into Mr. Wisnowski’s kitchen and inhaled the dampness of a closed house in a New England winter, I now knew how it felt to be on the inside with Jagger.

  For a second, I stood and watched him. He’d already put on his gloves outside, so I stuck my hands into my pockets and grabbed mine.

  When I pulled them out, he looked at me.

  “What?”

  “Invest in some thin, black gloves.” With that he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  I looked down at the chartreuse wool gloves my sister Mary had given me for Christmas four years ago and made a mental note to buy a new pair for work, although I could dispute the contention that chartreuse would leave prints. They were still damp from a snowball fight I’d had with Goldie and Miles the other day. Smelled like wet neon sheep.

  Walking as silently as I could, I followed Jagger into the living room. “This is so creepy,” I whispered.

  He looked at me. In the dim light from the moon’s reflection, I could see his smile. “What’s the matter, Sherlock? Afraid of ghosts?”

  I shuddered. Damn him. I hadn’t even thought of ghosts until then. “No. That’s ridiculous—”

  Squeak.

  I froze.

  Jagger motioned for me to stay put. I didn’t argue, but when he started to walk out of the room, my feet had other things on their minds. “Jaaaaaagger,” I whispered and stepped forward. Little baby steps until I could see his shadow in the kitchen.

  Any second now I knew the ghost of poor Mr. Wisnowski was going to come flying at us, accusing us of breaking into his house.

  A light flew past the window.

  A ghost!

  “Jaaaaaagger!”

  Suddenly he was in front of me. “Nice staying put, Sherlock. And keep it the hell quiet.”

  “Whaaat . . . was—”

  He put his arm around my shoulder. “Relax. Mice have taken up residence in the place.”

  Another light flew by the window. I readied to yell “incoming!” but realized it was a car’s headlights as it passed by. “Little mice make noise like that?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a screeching banshee, Sherlock. A few mice decided to try and get through the old cat door in the kitchen. Guess the door could use some WD-40.” He chuckled, squeezed me tighter, and then let go.

  I did not tell him that I thought I had seen the ghost of Mr. W. Experience told me info like that should be kept to myself where Jagger was concerned.

  Jagger opened drawers and looked behind every picture, knickknack and even under the braided red throw rags. I joined in, not certain what I was looking for. I figured if it was medically related, I’d give a holler.

  Actually we kept our voices to a soft whisper. His sounded sexy. Mine sounded hoarse, like a post-op tonsillectomy patient’s. When we got to the bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet and shined his flashlight at the contents.

  It appeared as if nothing had been disturbed since Mr. Wisnowski’s death. I wondered if he didn’t have any family other than Sophie to come clean out the place. And she didn’t seem all to eager to do any kind of physical labor. But when Jagger took several prescription bottles off the shelf, I was glad the place had been left “as is.”

  With my camera glasses in hand, I hoped I could get a huge leap in my case.

  Fat chance.

  “They all look legit for a man in his eighties. Heart meds, blood pressure meds. All with his name on them,” I continued in my hoarse tone, wishing I could sound more like Lois the pharmacy tech.

  Jagger put them back and closed the door. He stood there for a few seconds, and I assumed he was thinking. I said, “We need to think like an old man.”

  Even in the dim lighting I could see Jagger’s eyebrows rise. “What?”

  Damn. He thought I was crazy. “What I mean is, we nee
d to think where an old man would hide something. My Uncle Walt has a secret drawer in his dresser where he keeps money.”

  “Thanks for sharing that info. Now if Walt gets robbed, I’ll be the number-one suspect.” He ran his gloved hand through his hair.

  I sighed, and then turned it feebly into a cough.

  “You all right?”

  “Um.” I couldn’t talk because it had dawned on me that I was in this house, it was the middle of the night—and most important, I was alone with Jagger.

  Nick likes me. Nick likes me. “Nick likes me.”

  Jagger turned. “So I figured, since he asked you out.”

  Oh . . . my . . . God.

  The words had somehow snuck out of my lips in the hoarse tone, making me feel like a fool. It was such a dumb thing to say. Jagger now turned away, and I figured that was so I could melt into a puddle of embarrassment.

  But, I pulled myself taller—well, as tall as I could with him towering several inches above me. “My mind wandered. I was . . . thinking of Nick.” I coughed. “What next?” Good. That had come out convincingly nonchalant. I really was getting to be a better actress/liar.

  Jagger motioned for me to follow. Once in the hallway he asked, “Okay, Sherlock. Where would you hide something if you were eighty years old?”

  For a second, I had a flash of Peggy. Peggy would know where old Mr. W. would hide something even if only in her seventies. Then, fearful of becoming schizophrenic, I told myself that I really wasn’t Peggy. Or, in fact, that I really was Peggy. To keep my sanity, I decided to think more like my Uncle Walt since I knew him so well. “Okay. Like I said, Uncle Walt has that secret drawer. Then there was the time he hid his hothouse tomatoes in his jacket pocket.”

  Jagger glared at me.

  “What? They were wrapped in a napkin.”

  “So you think we should look in all the jacket pockets of Mr. Wisnowski’s suits?”

  I started to shake my head, then stopped. “Yes. Yes, I do.”