One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (12 page)

“Shit!” I shouted, thinking I'd been shot. Then I looked down to see no red liquid oozing from any holes in me, nor was there any pain. I hurriedly spun around. The door to my room had slammed shut. That was the noise.

The question was, Who slammed it? And where had they been hiding?

And would I soon be following Vito to that big hospital in the sky?

After realizing someone had, again, been in my room, I actually did have to pee. Nerves. The door to the bathroom was fixed so that patients couldn't lock themselves in, so I shut it and kept my ears wide open. But what the heck would I do if I heard something? I had no idea.

I needed to learn to defend myself, and made a mental note to ask Goldie how.

That conclusion hit me as I finished up and washed my hands. Jagger had always been around and made me feel safe. It occurred to me that when I had asked Novitiate Lalli to call him, he was there in no time. I wondered if Jagger stayed somewhere in the Institution, but I knew he'd never tell me. I scanned the room with the thought that Jagger might be watching. Then I told myself he was not some pervert, and that I was acting as crazy as the staff might think I was.

I did not want anyone to think I was crazy.

My behavior, not mentally ill behavior, was all I had going for me to get me out of there. That, and finishing the job for Jagger. Thank goodness Fabio was away, or I'd have lost my job by now. Unless he worked with Jagger. I shook my head. No way.

Then again, Jagger's cases always did coincide with mine. One more mysterious Jagger tidbit.

As if I didn't have enough on my plate, now it seemed that someone was spying on me. I didn't need more bad news along with finding out who killed Vito, and why patients were being held here against their will. Damn.

Chills chased up my spine at the thought. I'd been followed before on another case—by a
murderer.
No great surprise, but it gave me pause.

What the heck had I done to get on someone's bad side at the Institute?

Then again, someone committing fraud for big bucks probably didn't have a good side. Still, I had to find out not only who it was, but why. Why target me?

I finished up and headed out to the dayroom. The place was bustling with activity, and Sister Barbie Doll was gone. Good. No pills for me. Across the room on the yellow vinyl chair with the crack in the back sat Margaret, staring into space.

I smiled at some of the other patients and staff, and nonchalantly, I hoped, worked my way over to her. Ruby wasn't around. Good, since I wasn't sure if she was friend or foe or just a very confused, drug-addicted teen. “Hi,” I said and sat down next to Margaret.

She turned but didn't really smile. A blank look covered her face, and I worried that she'd been heavily drugged or had an electric shock treatment. Damn. A wave of nausea floated inside my stomach at the thought. If it hadn't been for Jagger, I . . .

I made a mental note to remind him to be around for my next “treatment.”

I felt horrible for Margaret. She sat so still. I looked in the direction she was staring. Spike sat in a chair next to the nurses' station, reading a magazine.

Our jailor.

I leaned toward Margaret. “I know how you feel about him. He's a bit much. Isn't he?”

She didn't turn, but kept staring. “I . . . don't belong here.”

My heartbeat fluttered. I leaned closer but tried not to let Spike think I was chatting with Margaret. In order to do so, I had to call on my nonexistent acting skills. I started to twirl my hair over and over and hum the song “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I think Saint Theresa must have mentally nudged me that time and put that appropriate tune in my noggin. Amid choruses, I tried to communicate with Margaret. “ ‘When the saints go' . . . I don't think you belong here . . . ‘marching in.'”

Margaret leaned forward slightly, a hint of a smile on her face.

Great. She got my poor attempt at acting. We won't get into my singing ability, but I will say that in second grade, Miss Burdacki, the music teacher, told me to mouth the words while the other kids sang.

“Let's turn sideways . . . ‘go marching in' . . . so he can't see our lips.” I finished humming instead of using words.

Margaret turned toward the television.

There was my buddy Jerry on the screen. His large men in black were pulling apart two females. All I heard among the bleep-outs were “sister,” “baby's father,” “whore” and “hamburger.” I didn't know you could say “whore” on television and didn't even want to think about what the “hamburger” part was about.

I peeked over to see Spike. Still reading. He seemed

engrossed in it, so I turned to the television but said to Margaret, “I'm in this place against my will too. How did you get here?”

For several seconds she hesitated. I noticed her fingers folded on her lap with the two thumbs twirling around each other.

I twirled my hair in unison in case old Spike looked up.

“I have a drinking problem. Or . . . at least my husband said I did.” She sucked in so much air, I thought my body would be pulled toward her. As she blew it out in a gust, she added, “I drank martinis at lunch with my garden club. But Stephen said I needed to get some help. More like a rest from the stresses of my life. Stephen's friend was a travel agent and said he'd heard about this place . . . and here I am.”

I blinked. Didn't help to digest the words any better. “I thought you said you didn't come here on your own?” I was getting darn good at talking with my lips firm.

“I was told I was coming to a resort.”

“To get rest and relaxation.”

“Massages, facials and eat healthy,” she whispered.

And here she'd ended up at this Ritz.

“So, what happened that you couldn't call Stephen and go home?”

Despite our jailor sitting a few feet away, Margaret turned to me. “I don't belong here,” she reiterated, then went into statue mode.

“I . . . wait, Margaret!” I looked at Spike, who had set down his newspaper and stood.

Damn.

I'd have to reconnect with Margaret some other time. I really didn't want her to suffer from something because of what I did. Before I knew it, Sister Liz had bustled out of the nursing station toward us.

“How are you today, child?” she asked, looking at me.

“I . . . okay.” Why'd I say that? I needed to see Jagger. “Okay. Okay. Okay,” I started to sing. Margaret looked at me. I think there was a hint of a grin on her lips, but Sister Liz merely frowned. For some reason, I think she liked me.

“Oh, dear,” she muttered.

“Okay. Okay. I need to see my doctor. Okay?” This last part I sang so loudly, Spike was over in a flash, holding my arms behind my back as if I were ready to attack Sister Liz's rosary beads again.

I tried to pull free. Wasted effort. Before Sister could stop Spike, Dr. Plummer zoomed around the corner.

“Let her go!”

I wanted to wrap my arms around Jagger's neck and whisper a “thanks” in his ear. Okay, I wanted to wrap my arms around him for the hell of it, but did neither.

Spike looked at Jagger and then let me go. “She needs the wet packs,” he mumbled and walked toward the nurses' station.

My eyes widened at that thought. Staff stripping me to my undies and wrapping me in wet sheets. That was one experience I did not want to have. The thought alone was claustrophobic. Calming. Yeah, right.

Darling Sister Liz said, “I think she's settled down now, Doctor. Do you want to speak to her?”

“I'll take her to the office,” Jagger said, taking me by the arm.

Now that touch felt . . . good. Safe.

Once in the office, he sat on the chair and motioned for me to sit on the couch. Why the hell didn't we go into the exam room? I obeyed and flopped down.

“Margaret was talking to me.”

“And?”

I hesitated, thinking I really didn't have much to report, but what I thought and what Jagger thought could be very different. So I shared with him what she'd said, finishing with, “Then Spike attacked.”

I think Jagger winced.

“Find out more.”

“It's not easy with old Spike watching.”

Jagger brushed a strand of red hair from his forehead. I was getting real used to seeing him as Dr. Plummer. But, then again, Jagger as a janitor made me hot on a past case.

“We need to get a move on things here. If Margaret is being heavily medicated, we might not get much out of her.” He stood. “Also, I wrote an order not to medicate you, but if that damned efficient nun insists, you have to protect yourself. I don't have to remind you that this is a private place and they can do what they want in some instances.”

He was protecting me. My heart warmed. Then I realized Jagger would always look after the innocent. “Great, but she's got that novice nun, who, by the way, is first on my list of suspects—”

“Why?”

Yikes. I knew it would not be a good idea to tell him it was because I plain didn't like her, so I said, “She's . . . nosy.”

He shook his head . . . once.

Phew.

Then he said, “She's a nun and a nurse in a mental hospital. I'd think being observant would be a good trait.”

I curled my lips at him, knowing damn well it would be. “I don't think she's a real nurse, and anyway I've never seen her giving out the meds. She's always given the job of checking everyone's mouths with a flashlight when pills are given out.”

“Open up.”

I stared at him.

“I said open up.”

After a few hesitant seconds, I opened my mouth and Jagger proceeded to show me how to hide a capsule under my tongue, flip it up and out when she looked under and then back again to spit it out later. Somewhere along the line there was a sneeze involved, an occasional cough or some other variety of distractions. Damn. He was ingenious and good at just about everything.

The process was tricky, so he'd taken out a Tic Tac from his pocket and we practiced for several minutes. I wondered what the nuns would say if they saw my “doctor” teaching me this trick. I kept harboring that question because Jagger was getting closer. Touching my cheek. Breathing his faintly coffee-scented breath at me . . . and making me feel as if I'd been drugged again.

The pheromones jumped from Jagger to me like some mystical, magical crickets. Similar to tiny Jiminy himself. Only these had the power to make a fairly intelligent woman lose her mind.

During the entire process, I swallowed seven Tic Tacs—whole.

Finally I pulled my coherent thoughts forward and said, “I've got it.” I popped a Tic Tac into my mouth, shut it, and eased back so as not to be too noticeable when it was the real thing and the nuns were watching.

Damn it but he grinned.

And, as usual, my face burned, letting me know I was redder than the emergency call bell light. Oh well, I told myself, at least red goes with this stupid white hospital johnny coat.

“Talk to Margaret,” he said as he stood. “And, by the way, Ruby Montgomery's doctor is Dr. De Jong.”

I sat stunned. “Really?”

He looked at me, walked to the door. “Use her for your case,” he said and opened it.

I forced myself up as if I were twice my weight, walked to the door and turned. All I could think to say was, “There's a difference between ‘observant' and ‘nosy.'”

I had my work cut out for me, I thought, as I walked into the dining room for lunch, took my tray and got my food. Rubbery chicken. Yuck.

The room held three long dining-room tables parallel to each other with uncomfortable straight chairs for us to sit on. Guess the Institute didn't want the patients taking their time eating while the staff had to stand around and watch. Food was served cafeteria style so we each had to get in line and grab a brown plastic tray at the end of the room near the door.

Although the wallpaper was a bright white with green flowers, this room was my least favorite one—not that I really liked
any
rooms in this place. But too many of the patients looked sicker—sadder—while trying to eat. This place didn't give the atmosphere of any restaurant I've ever been in.

Ruby was across the room, and Margaret sat near the window with the dark green drapes that matched the wallpaper. Who should I pick to interrogate first?

And what would I ask Ruby?

I wimped out and went with the “easier” job. “Hi, Margaret,” I said, sitting down next to her. “Chicken doesn't look too good today.”

“Never does,” she said, spiking a cherry tomato with her fork and nibbling at it.

I chuckled, then leaned near. “Look, I know you don't belong here, but I need to know more.”

She held the tomato out in front of her lips. I looked to see Novitiate Lalli standing watch. Smart Margaret. She hid her lips very nicely. “Need to know?”

“I . . . well . . . I'm here against my will too. I have friends on the outside that maybe could help.”

Margaret turned and looked at me. Her hazel eyes watered. “I have a nine-year-old son.”

I felt my forehead wrinkle, but didn't say, “So what?” Instead, I picked up a forkful of the rubber chicken and held it near my mouth. “You must miss him terribly.”

She nodded. “I brought my tennis racket and golf clubs.” With that, she shoved the tomato into her mouth.

I almost grabbed her hand and yanked the tomato back so she could explain that tidbit of info. What the hell? Had Margaret turned into a “real” patient? Maybe she was shy of a full deck. Damn.

“Golf clubs?”

“They said it was a resort when my husband signed me up,” she told me again.

I wondered if her husband had something up his sleeve. Maybe he knew that she'd be kept here like this and wanted to get rid of Margaret for a while. Then my Christian side said not to judge him, and that he had innocently sent Margaret here for R & R.