The Stiff and the Dead

by Lori Avocato

  Jagger paused, then moved aside, sweeping his hand in the air. “After you.”

  I led him up to the master bedroom and didn’t tell him how I knew where it was so easily. Actually, I’d never made it up here, letting Goldie come while I snooped downstairs.

  When I opened the door, Jagger aimed the light inside. It was truly eerie now. The bed had been made up as if no one had ever lived there, but beneath, I could see a pair of bedroom slippers. Old Mr. Wisnowski’s bedroom slippers.

  A tear trickled down my cheek. Maybe this job really wasn’t for me.

  I sniffled and tried to disguise it as another cough.

  Jagger turned to me. Even in the dim light I could see concern in his eyes. “Did you know him?”

  “Mr. Wisnowski?”

  He nodded.

  “I think I met him at a party with Uncle Walt and Uncle Stash. But no, I really didn’t know him.”

  Suddenly I felt Jagger step closer. His arms were around me before I could sniffle again. “You can’t let all this get to you, Sherlock. You’ll never make it if you do.”

  He held me a few seconds.

  It felt nice, comforting, and this time not in a sexual way. I knew he was right, but it was so damn hard. So damn hard not to let personal feelings, emotions get in the way. Seeing those “old man” bedroom slippers made me think of my uncles. Especially Uncle Walt, whom I’d always had a special place in my heart for, since I’d grown up with him living in our house.

  “I know,” I mumbled. Then I eased free. “Thanks. It just reminded me too much of my uncles. Do you think, Jagger, that my Uncle Walt’s life could be in jeopardy?”

  “Whoa. Where’d that come from?”

  I told him about the conversation Uncle Walt and I had had about sex and the senior citizens. If I thought I was embarrassed talking to my uncle about that, right now I was mortified beyond belief.

  Jagger, however, kept his oh-so-cool exterior and listened without comment. “Gut instinct tells me this whole thing is tied together somehow. If your uncle and Mr. Wisnowski were buying the Viagra from the same person—most likely Leo—then we need to keep an eye on your uncle too. And see who replaces Leo.”

  I couldn’t speak. I stood there in the dark and felt my insides sink to knee level. Then, with Jagger looking at me and somehow building my confidence, I said, “Let’s get going then.”

  We looked in all of Mr. Wisnowski’s jacket pockets and pants too. Other than old receipts and more “love notes” from Helen, we came up blank. I started to fish around in the closet. Where else would an elderly person hide things?

  As if old Mr. W’s ghost had tapped me on the back, I swung around to see his very neat shelf of shoeboxes. Each box was labeled with things like Winter black, Summer beige and Spring tennis shoes. I had to smile. My Babci had done the same thing. Then I noticed one box marked Shoes. Odd. In what season did Mr. Wisnowski wear them?

  I reached up and took the box down.

  “Find something?”

  What I found was Jagger’s breath on my neck. Shit. I could barely open the box, but managed, along with, “I’m not sure.” I explained the labeling system and then opened the box.

  Five prescription bottles sat there.

  I lifted each one. Viagra. Viagra. All were prescriptions of Viagra. One in Mr. Wisnowski’s name, the others all in different names, filled by Leo Pasinski.

  “Goddamn,” Jagger said. “No one needs that much of a boost.”

  I looked at him and was speechless, then shook my brain until I was coherent again. “These must be the ones he was using to either trade or sell to the other men.”

  Jagger was already taking pictures of them. His camera, this time, was a tiny ring on his left hand.

  I followed suit with my camera/glasses, although this really wasn’t my case. Still, if my Uncle Walt’s life could be in jeopardy, I wasn’t taking any chances. I moved the bottles to the side to show their labels. Beneath were several photographs.

  Helen, smiling seductively as if she were trying to make Mr. Wisnowski horny. The other pictures were of Sophie and Leo. Family pictures. Odd that he kept them with his Viagra, but maybe this little box was filled with the “treasures” only an eighty-year-old could appreciate.

  “Open the bottles to make sure that’s what they are,” Jagger said.

  Why didn’t I think of that? With my damp, woolly gloves, I managed to pour out a few into my palm. Blue pills. “Yep. They are the real things.”

  Bang. Bang.

  We both froze. Jagger only for a second, me almost permanently. We finished taking pictures, shoved the pills back and returned the box to the shelf as if never touched.

  The noise sounded way too loud for those little mice to be making. Jagger shut off his flashlight and took me by the hand. I fumbled in the dark, trying to remember what was in the room so I wouldn’t bump into it. I’d be a mass of purple bruises tomorrow after knocking into so much furniture.

  By the glow of the moon, we made it to the kitchen. Sophie’s front porch light was on now. I motioned to Jagger, who looked as if he noticed too. With my hand in his, we made it out the backdoor, stopping only long enough for him to shut and lock it, and to stuff the key back under the mat.

  I stood silently—partly because I knew I had to be quiet and partly because I couldn’t believe how smoothly he had maneuvered around without making even the slightest sound. The mice were thunderous compared with Jagger.

  We were outside when we heard footsteps along Mr. Wisnowski’s driveway.

  “Who’s out there?”

  I recognized Sophie’s voice. She shined a flashlight toward the back porch. It would have caught us in its beams if we headed out the way we’d come in. Before I knew it, Jagger had yanked me toward the back of the yard. As far as I could remember, there was only the cemetery-type bench and Mr. Wisnowski’s old shed.

  The shed it was.

  Thank goodness it was unlocked.

  With the skill of a surgeon, Jagger opened the door silently and pushed me inside.

  “Who is there?” Sophie shouted.

  My hand flew to my face as Jagger pushed me further in. Sophie’s light flashed toward us.

  A gasp flew out of my mouth.

  Just as fast as Jagger’s did, up flew my other hand, which stifled any more gasps.

  Suddenly I felt something fall off my wooly chartreuse glove and end up in my mouth.

  I coughed and prayed it wasn’t some bug.

  I pushed Jagger’s hand away. Whatever it was slid down my throat!

  I looked down. Jagger seemed to realize something was wrong. He leaned near. “What the hell?”

  In my softest voice I said, “Something was stuck to my glove and went into my mouth. Maybe a bug.”

  “There aren’t any bugs in the winter time, Sherlock. Relax.” He took my hand and held it out. Then he aimed his flashlight on it.

  A blue pill was stuck there, nestled into the wool.

  “What the hell?” he said.

  As soon as he said it, Sophie’s light shone under the door. “Stupid yard boy. Can’t even lock up right after shoveling. I’ll get him in the morning.”

  With that she clicked some kind of lock on the other side of the door. “You mice are doomed when I set my traps tomorrow.”

  Jagger looked up at me. “Jesus. You really swallowed a Viagra?”

  And now I’m stuck in here with you.

  Seventeen

  I tried to vomit back up the Viagra in a very ladylike, very silent manner.

  No such luck.

  I made a mental note to carry syrup of ipecac from now on.

  Not that the Viagra had been able to work in those few seconds, but I sure as hell felt my skin burning while Jagger looked at me—grinning.

  Sophie had mumbled some more and apparently left.

  Jagger shined his light around the room. No window. No other door.

  I was locked in Mr. Wisnowski’s shed with my fantasy man—and I’d
just swallowed a drug used for sexual dysfunction.

  I knew it also worked on women, enhancing their “feelings.” And it worked in thirty minutes—and lasted up to four hours.

  This could be a long night.

  But a fun one.

  “How soon can we get out of here?” I asked when my mind snapped back to reality.

  Jagger looked at me. “We’re probably locked in till daybreak when the kid comes back, Sherlock.”

  Locked in.

  Oh, boy. All of a sudden my heart started to pound and beneath my gloves my palms sweated. Locked in. This was not good for my claustrophobia.

  Jagger must have noticed. “Oh shit. You’re not going to pass out like that time on the elevator.”

  “Pass out? Very funny.” I became woozy. “I’m fine.” The room spun. “No problem.” My knees wobbled like a rubber band.

  I ordered my brain to ignore the fact that we were locked in.

  “Good.” He grabbed a few burlap sacks from a pile and laid them out on the floor near the door. “Then make yourself comfortable.” He sat down and patted the floor next to him.

  I stood like a freaking mannequin.

  “Oh,” he said, grinning. “Maybe you want separate sleeping arrangements after you swallowed that . . . bug?”

  I could try to sleep somewhere else, but the shed was only about six feet by eight feet, and filled with tools, shovels, a lawnmower and a snow thrower.

  And, besides, if I tried to sleep somewhere else, Jagger would never let me live it down.

  Or I’d have a full-blown anxiety attack if I couldn’t be near the door.

  “Move over.” I flopped down, scrunched up a few burlap bags for a pillow. “Good night.” I turned with my back toward him.

  I knew he was still grinning.

  For several minutes I laid there, telling myself that one silly Viagra wouldn’t affect me.

  Then Jagger shifted.

  Only a little. A tiny little amount, but his leg brushed the back of my knee.

  Viagra was like adding gasoline to my already detonated Jagger explosion.

  Okay, time to pull out the Pauline Sokol, RN, ammo. I had to reach into my already confused brain to tell myself that the Viagra didn’t do anything to increase desire in women. I’d read a study that said when Viagra was used on women, it increased the blood flow to involved parts and did help, but that one tiny “bug” pill I’d swallowed shouldn’t do a damn thing to me—unless we “did it,” and I doubted it—especially because Jagger was snoring softly against my back.

  I’d never sleep a wink tonight, I said to myself.

  My eyes burned from being so overtired. My back ached from not being able—no, not daring—to turn around. If I faced Jagger, I would see him, watch him, ogle him and drool over him—that’d be my undoing.

  He shifted again.

  “Damn it,” I mumbled.

  He turned over!

  Now his arm had taken the liberty of resting on my shoulder. He moved closer.

  I didn’t know much about Jagger, but now I knew without a doubt that he was a “cuddler.”

  He started making some kind of moaning sounds. Not as if he were in any kind of pain, but more sexual in nature. More as if he were having a darn good time while he slept. At least that’s how I heard them in my Viagra-induced state.

  Yes, my Viagra had kicked in.

  I felt heat tear through my body, landing in the most important area that Jagger could ever affect. It wasn’t easy not to spin around, grab him, tear off his clothes, make mad love and keep kissing him until the damned medicine wore off.

  But I was a professional and told myself that I could withstand this torture—for the case.

  And, admittedly, for me to keep face in front of Jagger.

  So, I stayed put, ignored my traitorous body, now enhanced by some chemical, and shut my eyes.

  I felt as if I were being smothered after I realized we couldn’t get out. Phobias were not life threatening, I reminded myself. So, a little sweat. A rapid heartbeat. No one ever died from being locked in an old shed.

  I had to fall asleep to ignore my phobia—and Jagger.

  After a gazillion novenas to Saint Theresa, I felt my eyes start to shut.

  My nose was freezing. I opened my eyes to see Jagger’s face, inches away from mine. The cold night had seeped into the tiny, unheated shed. Shivering took over my body, and I tried to turn back. Obviously in my sleep, I’d shifted toward Jagger.

  This was not good.

  His hold tightened.

  I tried to ease free by sliding down toward our feet. It wasn’t easy by the way he held me, but I kept moving inch by inch.

  But for every inch I’d gain, his hold would shift, tighten or his legs would move closer, pinning me in. I took a deep breath, told myself the Viagra had to be out of my system now, when, in fact, I knew it must be at its peak.

  I made it down past his waistline, ready to pull free and turn. Shutting my eyes, I paused.

  “Viagra kicking in, Sherlock?”

  My eyes flew open to come face to “fly” with Jagger’s jeans—with him still in them.

  Oh . . . my . . . God.

  This didn’t look good at all.

  For a second, I couldn’t move. Then, thinking as fast as I could, I started to mumble. I mumbled and shifted, praying my acting abilities would have Jagger thinking I was still asleep and wriggled up until opposite his neck.

  Then my chin lifted toward his face.

  His lips touched mine.

  And my world would never be the same.

  My eyelids fluttered open. I looked around and felt my forehead wrinkle. What a dream. This place was freezing, dirty and . . . Jagger stood near the door.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  More a nightmare.

  The last thing I remembered was Jagger’s lips on mine. I looked under the burlap to see that I had all my clothes on—but no jacket. I know I went to sleep with my jacket on.

  Did that really mean we had . . .

  Knowing Jagger, he would have helped me back into my clothes after . . .

  Then I remembered the Viagra and said a silent prayer that it hadn’t gotten out of hand last night. I felt pretty tired, but that could be since this wasn’t the Ritz, and I hadn’t slept much.

  If I’d made love to Jagger—surely I’d be floating on a cloud right now—not lying here on a dirty floor.

  And Lord knows, if we really had sex, I’d want to have lived through every tiny second of that experience with him.

  I decided I’d go with the theory we hadn’t and never breach the subject with him.

  He turned toward me. “Hey.”

  “Morning.” My voice came out a raspy tone. Sounded a bit sexier than it had last night, but I knew my breath needed some help. First thing I always did in the morning, no matter who I was with, was brush my teeth and tongue.

  Pauline Sokol, creature of habit.

  With my hand over my mouth, I asked, “Did you get it unlocked?”

  He gave me one of those looks.

  “Okay. How are we going to get out if the yard boy doesn’t come back?” I sat up and ran my hand through my hair. Medusa, look out. Trying to tame the strands, I said, “Should we call someone?”

  “We’ve never been here.”

  “Oh, right.” I got up, brushed myself off and touched my lips. They felt a bit swollen. Maybe we had shared more than one kiss? And why was my jacket off?

  Damn, how I wished I could remember.

  Not only to know whether I should be properly embarrassed, but there was that thing of if I’d had sex with Jagger, I’d want to relive it moment by moment, or maybe even have video—for my own use only.

  I couldn’t be that unlucky to have done “it” and not remember.

  Goldie’s jacket hung from a hook above my head. Not a good sign. I reached into the deepest recesses of my brain to see if I remembered hanging it there. Nada. Jagger could have hung it up for me.

&n
bsp; I shook my head to get all these stupid thoughts out of it, stood, grabbed the jacket and put it on.

  He watched me, silently.

  Great.

  “So, how do we get out of here?” I walked toward the door.

  Jagger had pushed open the double doors only about three inches. The old padlock still did its job, holding them shut.

  I pushed at one door. It creaked. “Can’t you just push it until the lock pops?”

  Jagger looked through the small opening. “Not until Sophie is gone.”

  I bent near to look. His breath heated my cheek, and the bastard didn’t move away. As a matter of fact, I think he somehow managed to make his breath . . . hotter.

  During the night, snow had fallen. Not much, thank goodness, but enough that the roads might be a bit slippery. I wondered if the neighbors had noticed Jagger’s SUV parked down the street. At least he didn’t stop it right in front of Mr. W’s house.

  The guy was on the ball.

  “Oh. Good thinking about Sophie. Can you—” I pulled back. “She’s coming!”

  Jagger took a fast peek, then grabbed my arm. As he pulled me toward the back of the shed, he held a finger to my lips. I got it that I had to shut up, but didn’t move his hand away.

  Pauline Sokol, pathetic woman.

  “Clean both driveways today, Todd. Someone is coming to look at the house,” Sophie said.

  “Yeah,” a teen’s voice answered. Obviously Todd. The yard boy.

  Jagger and I looked at the shovel together. Todd had to come get it. The lock started to jiggle.

  Jagger pushed me behind the lawnmower. I fell, but before I could conk my head, his arms were around me, easing me to the floor with him on top of me.

  Todd, a lanky kid with acne and a black woolen cap, stuck his arm into the shed and grabbed the shovel. “Yeah, bitch-lady. I’ll shovel real good. Wouldn’t want your fat ass skidding down the drive and breaking the cement.” He turned to look, probably to make sure Sophie was gone. Then he let out a howl of laughter.

  I held my breath, which wasn’t difficult since Jagger was squashing the daylights out of me.

  A mouse walked across my leg!