The Stiff and the Dead

by Lori Avocato

  “Take another step and you’ll have a hole through that pretty face.”

  “You think I’m pretty? My skin’s not too pale?” Shit! What the hell was I saying? My nerves had gotten the best of me. Remain cool. You are a professional. You beat death once before. You can do it again. Hey, at least I wasn’t in an elevator this time.

  Helen’s gun made a clicking sound.

  I jumped. She must have done something to take off the safety or something like that. Who the hell knew? All I knew was that I had to remain relatively calm and . . . lunge at her.

  The gun flew into the air. Helen landed on the couch.

  And her hair-sprayed purple hair ended up—in my hands!

  I looked down at her.

  Beneath the wig was plastered down black hair. And up close, her skin was pretty damn smooth. And that voice. Deep and sultry. Shit.

  She looked at me and started to swing her arms wildly.

  Lois Meyers?

  She smacked my right cheek. “Ouch!” Before I had time to comprehend that Helen, or Lois, had just tried to kill me, she had slugged me in the jaw. “Damn!”

  For what seemed like hours, we hit, pinched. Helen/Lois even bit me once, and I screamed so that maybe a neighbor would hear. But no one came. Then again, it was an end unit and pretty damn secluded. Good choice, Helen/Lois.

  “My uncle is going to come and . . . and he’ll fix you!”

  “Ha! Forget him.”

  I grabbed her by the black hair half expecting it to come off in my hand. “Did you . . . did you hurt him?”

  “I didn’t kill him, bitch. Not my sugar daddy.” She lunged at me and kicked me in the abdomen.

  My breath whooshed out. Earlier I had hesitated to hit an old lady, but now that Helen/Lois had maybe only ten years on me, I let her have it. Before she could slug me back, I got her on the floor and pinned her down with my knee.

  She flipped me like a pancake.

  Shit. Helen/Lois had probably never cooked a pancake in her life. Now she had me in the “missionary” position but her intentions were lethal. I noticed her eying the gun, which had landed under one wheel of the brass liquor cart. She pressed her fingers into my throat.

  I started to gag.

  With one hand, she bent as low as she could get and reached the gun.

  I had to think fast. The last time I was faced with artillery, I used reverse psychology on the guy to get a confession. Of course it’d be no good if I died. Still, not ready to give up, I looked at Helen with pleading eyes.

  She eased her grip and now held the gun in my face. “Get up.”

  While choking and rubbing my throat, I stood and flopped down on the sofa. “I’m guessing a cola is out of the question?”

  “Don’t give me any shit, Pauline. You ruined everything. Now I have to clean up your mess.”

  I chuckled. “Hey, I cleaned up your apartment.”

  She shot daggers at me from her eyes. “Shut up and let me think how to get rid of you.”

  I wasn’t about to give her any help on that issue. “Helen, I mean Lois, you don’t want to get into more trouble. I mean, marrying my uncle for his money is one thing, you smart cookie you, but murder? You don’t want to commit murder. Ever.”

  “Ever again, you mean.”

  Gulp. I think I read somewhere that the first kill was the hardest—then it was like riding a bike and got easier and easier.

  Or was that falling off a horse?

  Either way, I looked at Helen, thinking criminals like to brag when they are about to kill the person to whom they brag to. If I could get her to confess everything, she’d be nailed when I reported it all to Jagger.

  Of course, dead Pauline Sokols tell no tales. Couldn’t let that happen. My insides were in such knots, though, having a panic attack seemed like a walk in the park compared to this. I tried to nonchalantly click on my beeper camera. Even if I didn’t get good shots, I’d at least get her confession on tape.

  She looked disgusted.

  “I’m sorry I ruined it for you.” Maybe that would loosen her up.

  “Goddamn men.”

  “I hear you on that one.”

  She waved the gun at me. “Shut up. I need to concentrate. Couldn’t listen to me. He just couldn’t listen. We’d be in Rio right now living off millions. But no. He wouldn’t listen.”

  “So you killed him.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but threw that out for conversation enhancement.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Oh, boy. Helen/Lois may be snapping. “Well, depends on what he did.” I caught her attention as if taking her into my confidence, all the while praying she wouldn’t shoot the freckles off my nose.

  “First he kills his freaking uncle who found out too much and wouldn’t agree to be a player. Then, he nearly shits in his pants when he hears the police might be investigating—”

  “Mr. Wisnowski’s death,” I muttered.

  She shrugged. “Leo deserved it too. He could have made us a mint on the Viagra. Stupid shit.”

  I shut my eyes for a nanosecond. It couldn’t be good to shut your eyes when someone held a gun to your freckles, but in that nanosecond I realized Hildy was innocent.

  Thank God for small wonders.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Jagger.

  Jagger. Suddenly the situation slapped me in the face. Would I ever see him again? My parents? My siblings? Goldie? Miles? Spanky? My uncles? Nieces? Nephews? My future kids? God willing.

  I paused.

  If my life flashed back to my birth and fast-forwarded to today, I was a dead woman.

  Oh well, that possibility meant I had nothing to lose. “You killed your partner Leo?”

  “No, stupid.”

  I was ready to argue with her when she said, “My dick of a husband, Leo.”

  Yikes! That made Lois Sophie’s daughter-in-law. Small world.

  “My God. You killed your husband with the medication, committed insurance fraud and sold Viagra illegally to kids and the seniors.”

  “Look, Miss High-and-Mighty, I’m going to kill you too. When I left my Daddy and Mama at age sixteen, I said I’d never be poor again. Never. Never eat from trash bins. Never wear holes in my clothes.”

  If it wasn’t for the gun, I might have started to feel sorry for her.

  “All planned. Already rented out Leo’s and my house. So, you see, I’ve worked too hard and put up with too much shit to let years of planning go down the toilet because of some fucking niece of my fiancé’s.”

  “Medical fraud insurance investigator.” Oh . . . my . . . God.

  How and why did I say that?

  Helen leaned back. The gun waved in the air. “You little snitch. Damn you!”

  Pop!

  “Ouch!” I yelled, and then screamed until my lungs hurt worse than my arm.

  Crash!

  My mind started to whirl. Helen had fired, but I was still alive. At least I thought I was. The room grew darker and almost foggy. However, there was a nasty sting in my arm, which seemed a good sign since I didn’t think there was pain in the afterlife. I heard another crash. When I looked toward the French doors, I hallucinated that Joey the Wooer had just thrown a wrought iron patio chair through it.

  And, as if that wasn’t enough, Joey was armed.

  And just shot the gun out of Helen/Lois’s hand.

  “You’re gonna make it,” a deep voice said.

  I opened one eye to see Joey the Wooer gazing down on me. He held me in his strong arms. If I wasn’t in pain and groggy from obviously blacking out, I’d admonish myself for noticing.

  “Is this heaven?” I mumbled.

  Joey laughed.

  Sounded familiar.

  I shut my eyes.

  They say hearing is the last sense to leave a person.

  I could barely open my eyes, but heard some kind of commotion.

  “You could have gotten yourself killed. Don’t ever take a chance like that again, Sherlock.”

&nb
sp; Sherlock. Sherlock? Sherlock!

  No one called me that except . . . I looked up with blurry vision and blinked and blinked again. Helen/Lois stood near the kitchenette, getting cuffed by two cops at her sides.

  I blinked one more time to make sure I was seeing what I thought I saw.

  Joey had taken off his hair. Not really taken it off leaving him bald, but uncovered more hair. He actually had dark, black hair now. Maybe another wig. Who changed wig colors mid-shooting? I had to blink again. His mustache was gone. I looked to see his “old man’s” suit on, but this sure as hell wasn’t any old man holding me.

  He wiped a cloth across my bullet-riddled arm. Okay, it was only grazed, but shot in the line of duty had to be worth something.

  His gentle touch took me by surprise.

  “You. You’re Joey?”

  “Who else could make sure all the old geezers didn’t hit on Peggy?”

  Yikes. That’s why “Joey” acted so weird, almost possessive of me around Nick. Even in my fog of being shot, I wanted to ask him if we had . . . you know . . . that night in the shed, but oh, well. There was that time-and-place thing again. Waiting for an ambulance didn’t seem the time to talk about sex. What could one more mystery about Jagger hurt?

  He lifted my head and stuck his jacket under it.

  Nice touch.

  “She was a real looker that Peg.” Fabulous Jagger-grin.

  “Oh, God. Take me now,” I mumbled. If only embarrassment were a means to suicide I’d be growing wings right now.

  Jagger shook his head, oh-so very Jaggerlike. Warmed me inside. Then, he wiped my arm again and whispered, “You did good, Sherlock. Real good. You just might make it after all.”

  Excerpt from One Dead Under The Cuckoo’s Nest

  And don’t miss Lori Avocato’s next thrilling Pauline Sokol Mystery,

  ONE DEAD UNDER THE CUCKOO’S NEST.

  Please turn this page for a preview.

  One

  After my goodbyes to Adele and Goldie, I hurried outside. When I saw the black Suburban pull into the lot, my heart did a stupid happy dance.

  Too much caffeine in my decaf coffee. Had to be it.

  Jagger pulled up next to the curb and looked at me.

  “What?” I shifted from foot to foot. “I wore the damned scrubs like you said.”

  “No purse. I said don’t bring a purse for this job.”

  Shit. I’d forgotten. I really had to pay more attention to the details. Especially Jagger details. “I’ll go give it to Goldie—”

  “Get in.”

  He looked anxious to leave so I hurried around the other side of the car and got in. Nick always opened the door for me. Jagger, well, was Jagger.

  “Take out your essentials and leave the purse under the seat,” he said as we spun out of the parking lot.

  I gave him a dirty look, figuring his eyes were on the road, but he stopped at the light and looked at me. “Essentials. No crap like makeup, perfume, or money. You won’t need money.”

  “Fine.” I’d learned a long time ago not to argue with Jagger. Okay, what I really learned was when I argued with him, I lost. I opened my bag, took out a comb, lipstick, new key chain from Nick and tried to nonchalantly take out a Tampax—just in case.

  When he jammed on the brake, the Tampax flew out of my hand, harpooning itself on the lambskin collar of Jagger’s aviator jacket.

  He pulled to a stop sign, turned and shook his head.

  I reached over and grabbed the Tampax without a word. Somehow that made me feel empowered. If I’d broken down into hysterical sobs, as I wanted to do, or died of embarrassment, which was my second choice, Jagger wouldn’t respect me. One more shake of his head and we were off.

  Another thing I’d learned about Jagger was when he shook his head at me once, he was perturbed. Two shakes, well, no one would want Jagger shaking his head at them twice. Exasperated was the word I’d associate with two shakes.

  We turned onto Interstate 91 headed north.

  “You said this was only going to take a few hours. Where are we going?”

  “Airport.”

  “Airport!” flew out of my mouth so fast a hiccup followed. I ignored it like the harpooned Tampax. “I’m not flying anywhere.” Not being a frequent flyer, I needed a few doses of Prozac before stepping down the long jetway to confinement, and I didn’t bring any.

  “No, you are not.” He turned off the airport exit and before I knew it, we’d pulled up to the curb beneath the “Arrivals” sign.

  “You can’t park here,” I said after reading all the warning signs. “You know how tight security has gotten since 9/11.”

  This time he merely looked at me. No head shaking.

  Made my day.

  “That state cop is coming over. You better drive around the airport a few times.”

  The cop came near, leaned over, and looked at me. “No stopping—”

  Jagger bent forward.

  The cop looked at him, tipped his hat to me and said, “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

  Often when I was with Jagger, the same physical things happened. Heart arrhythmias. My high IQ tanked. And jaw problems. The “problem” was that my jaw would drop down to my chest when he’d say or do something oh so very Jagger-like.

  “What the hell? Why didn’t you have to—” No need to finish. It was foolish to ask Jagger anything. He was as closed-mouthed as a clam dug out of the Rhode Island beaches. I should have known and not wasted my words.

  “There.” Jagger motioned his head toward the far door. “There she is. Mary Louise Huntington. Go get her.”

  I looked up to see a young woman with blonde hair about my length coming out of the door. I stepped out of the car and squinted. “Holy shit. She looks like me!”

  “Ata girl, Sherlock.”

  Pleased that I’d figured something out, but having no clue as to what, I started walking towards the woman who was now followed by a nun. Another state cop came out of the far door near the baggage claim amid a crowd of people. A flight must have recently landed.

  When I got closer to the woman, I said, “I’m here to escort you.” To a mental institution, but I didn’t say that out loud. “I’m with him.” I turned around and pointed.

  That jaw thing happened again.

  No black Suburban.

  No Jagger.

  No idea what the hell I was doing.

  I only hoped the woman, who looked even more like me close up, wouldn’t freak out and give me a hard time.

  “I need to pee,” she said and turned around. The nun was nowhere in sight now.

  “Oh, wait,” I shouted as I followed her inside. She hurried toward the ladies’ room near the baggage claim carousels. “I’m supposed to stay with you.”

  I bumped into an elderly woman, coming out of the ladies’ room.

  “Watch it, bitch!” she shouted.

  Appalled that a granny would speak that way, I offered an “Excuse me” and went inside. Mary Louise must have gone into a stall. I leaned against the sink and waited. “Er . . . you all right?”

  Silence.

  Jagger surely would be back from driving around the airport by now. He would do more than shake his head if I messed this case up.

  “Look, Mary Louise, is it? I need to know that you are all—”

  The door opened.

  My jaw dropped to my nipples this time.

  Mary Louise Huntington stood in front of me as if I were looking in a mirror.

  “I . . . did you notice how much we—”

  She took off her jacket. Beneath she wore drab blue scrubs.

  Just like mine.

  What the hell?

  Before I could say a word, she hurried out the door again. I followed close behind. “Oh, no, lady. You are not getting me into trouble with Jagger.”

  The nun approached, dropped her black carry on bag and bumped into me. “Oh, sorry, Sister. I’m not usually . . . ouch!”

  I looked down at my arm. A syrin
ge was pulled out. A syringe that the nun was now tucking into the sleeve of her robe. It gave me a chill.

  A haze started to cloud the room. Or maybe it was . . . my . . . mind. My mind was . . . fuzzy. Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Stop that, Pączki. I laughed. The fuzzy nun pushed me into the bathroom. “Ouch.” I bumped my head on the wall. “Daddy calls me Pączki. I giggled, stumbled. “It’s a Polish prune-filled donut.” Jagger.

  Where the hell was Jagger?

  I rubbed at my arm. Make that three arms. I saw three arms attached to me on one side, four on the other. “You pinched me. That hurt. Nuns shouldn’t . . . pinch . . . what did you give me? I hope to hell that syringe was sterile!”

  Without a word, she pulled off her veil.

  He?

  He pulled off his veil, and he wasn’t at all like Goldie. It didn’t seem as if he usually dressed like a nun. I pushed at his chest and made it to the doorway of the rest room. Thank goodness there was no door that I had to open. My three arms felt as if they were made of rubber. Whatever was in that shot had kicked in, and I felt like crap.

  My mouth dried.

  My skin prickled.

  My heart raced until the room spun, turned dark and started to wink out.

  In the distance, on the other side of the glass door, watching—stood Jagger.

  About the Author

  Photo by Sal Avocato

  After serving in the Air Force as a registered nurse, LORI AVOCATO decided to give up nursing to write fiction. She lives in New England and is a member of Mystery Writers of America, PASIC, The Author’s Guild, and Sisters in Crime. She’s raising two teenage sons, one husband, and two dogs. Spanky, pictured above, has made his way into the Pauline Sokol mystery series as the joint-custody pup of Pauline, Miles, and Goldie. Lori believes that in today’s world we all need a great entertaining read, and humor always helps. You can visit Lori’s website at www.loriavocato.com. She loves to hear from her readers.

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