One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (13 page)

I was going with that theory.

I set my forkful of chicken down and took my roll into my hand. Despite it feeling like a month-old sponge, I ripped tiny pieces off and ate them. Occasionally, I smiled, laughed, looked at Novitiate Lalli and nodded to throw off any suspicions. “Tell me more,” I mumbled.

“When I got to the airport, I expected a limousine. Instead, a nun—a huge nun—”

“Vito?”

“Hmm? Oh, she never said her name, but she was odd-looking. Very hairy. Maybe Italian.”

I nodded. “Okay, he . . . she . . . what happened next?”

Margaret took a sip of her milk, swallowed and continued, “The nun wasn't very nice. I wasn't used to being treated that way.”

“Where are you from, Margaret?” Why that mattered, I had no idea.

“New Orleans. My husband is a lawyer. We live on Saint Charles Avenue.”

Impressive. I'd seen tours of houses on Saint Charles Avenue on the travel channel. Margaret must come from money. Now it made sense. Garden club. Martinis. Saint Charles. And, of course, a lawyer and golf. That's why I had asked. Yes! My investigative instincts were sharpening.

Someone was pretty desperate (or dumb) to mess with a lawyer's wife. Hope he did criminal law.

Margaret's accent had first made me think she was from New York, but there was a softness, a Southern gentleness, which I now picked up on.

“Anyway,” she said, biting into a chocolate-chip cookie (store-bought), “that nun took me to get my luggage. After we went outside the doors, I expected a limousine, but she shoved me into a white van. I didn't want to be rude or seem uppity, so I didn't say anything. Also, I knew I was coming to a Catholic-run resort, so it made sense that a nun would pick me up.

When we got here, she—the nun—and I think Spike took my luggage, purse, cell phone and airline ticket. Before I knew it, I was medicated and all my personal items were gone. Even my hand-embroidered linen handkerchief that my grandmother had given me.”

I smiled at that. How dainty and Southern. “When did all of this happen?”

She stared into space. I knew it was hard to tell around here what day it was, but I could see her trying to think. She turned toward me. “I'd say a month.”

I choked on my roll.

Novitiate Lalli came running over and Heimliched me. I think she bruised a few ribs—and enjoyed it. When I spit the piece of roll out into the air, it sailed across the table and landed on Jackie Dee's head. I turned away before I had to watch her snatch it up and eat it. Then again, it wasn't blonde.

“You all right?” Sister Liz called, running over. “My, my.”

I coughed a few times and waved my hand in the air. “I'm fine . . . fine.” I looked to see the staff starting to pick up the sharps. Margaret had retreated into her catatonic state of safety.

Since Novitiate Lalli had saved me, although I don't think I was knocking on the door of the pearly gates, I wondered if she was innocent of the fraud scam. She seemed really concerned. Then again, I had learned in this business that there are all kinds of people in this world and maybe she saved me so it wouldn't seem obvious in front of the entire room that she didn't like me.

I knew I had to see Jagger soon, but Novitiate Lalli's lecture from the last time I'd asked for him stuck in my head. I'd have to think of some other way to get in touch with him even though he'd left specific orders that I could call for him anytime. I just didn't want to listen to her again.

Damn.

Sister Liz and Novitiate Lalli left my side to help with counting the sharps. We had to remain seated until the all clear was given. I turned to Margaret and smiled despite my rib pain.

“They told my husband it'd be better not to contact me for four weeks when he thought I was coming to the special resort. Except for emergencies, of course. They said guests needed their R & R without the stress of home life. Four weeks.” Tears ran down her cheek. “I didn't want to be here that long.”

I didn't want to be there at all. I touched her hand.

“All clear,” Novitiate Lalli yelled out. “Everything's accounted for.”

The room exploded into patients shoving chairs and scurrying out, and my hand tightened on Margaret's arm.

I'd lost Margaret in the shuffle, but decided we needed to cool it so she wouldn't get into trouble. A few patients (surprisingly though, not Jackie Dee) grabbed at my arms, johnny coat and even my hair as I walked along the hall to the dayroom.

The day in the life of a patient in a mental hospital is very long and boring. I found this out right off the bat. I reread my magazines until the pages curled. I listened to every tape until Miss Myra told me not to sing along. If I had to watch TV any longer, especially Jerry S., I'd die.

Looking around the windowless room, I decided that dying was not a good analogy to make. Some of these folks could, in fact, be murderers here on an insanity plea.

On two of the red couches, several folks sat talking—but not to each other. From the cracked yellow chair, Ruby stared at the television as if interested. Lord only knows what was on her mind. And a few argued about nothing. Spike sat on his “throne,” a tall brown stool near the doorway, and Novitiate Lalli glared at me through the glass wall of the nurses' station.

What the hell did she have against me?

And there was something about Spike that didn't set right with me. I moved him up above Novitiate Lalli on my mental list of suspects.

I decided I'd go to my room. Not that there was anything to do there. I couldn't even read a book, since I didn't have any, but at least it was a change of scenery. When I got up, Spike looked at me.

“What the hell are you up to?”

“I'm going to my room.” I started to turn.

“What the hell for?” I'm pretty sure he growled.

“I . . . I want to lie down. I have a headache.”

I heard him stand and stiffened. Before I could turn, I heard Sister Liz, darling Sister Liz, say, “Let her go.”

Without turning, I hurried down the hallway and shoved open the door to my room and stepped inside.

Ouch! What the hell? A pain started at the base of my neck. Confused, I started to turn around while I automatically reached my hand up to my head to feel for blood. A second pain seared through my left ear.

Someone had smacked me!

I tried to turn, but my arm was grabbed, shoved behind my back and tightened while my head was forced forward so I couldn't see my attacker. All I could see was a flash of my bed then the floor of my room. “Ouch! Let go!”

Nothing.

Only more pain.

A kick to my right calf. A yank on my arm until I thought my shoulder was dislocated. And a bite on my neck.

A bite? Who bites when attacking except kids?

Only this was no kid.

This time I shook with all my strength and started to scream. Sure I was scared, but I was also determined to get free and fight back.

Outside in the hallway, footsteps clattered along. I actually wanted Spike to show up, so I yelled his name a few times.

My attacker eased up his hold. Before my room door could swing open, my arm was freed. The pain shot through my shoulder. I rubbed it and slowly turned, but not before vomiting on the floor. Damn it! Same thing had happened when I'd gotten my arm broken . . . by a killer.

I looked toward the door to see it swinging on its hinges, then Spike, Sister Barbie, Sister Liz and Sister Lalli ran in.

My attacker was gone.

Thank God. I was still alive.

A pungent taste filled my lips. I wiped them with my good arm, only to see red. I was bleeding. Nausea welled inside me like a shaken soda, but I swallowed it down, refusing to get sick again—especially in front of this gang.

I looked at them and weakly managed, “I need my doctor.”

“That's a hell of a way to get in touch with me.”

I didn't have to open my eyes to know Jagger was near. Suddenly the pain in my entire body subsided for a second, and then came back full force. “Shit. Ouch.”

My eyelids fluttered. I forced them to open and hoped that seeing Jagger would take my mind off my attack.

He looked delicious, wonderful, hot—and pissed.

Pissed? Oh, great. Here I was assaulted in my room, nearly murdered, and he was going to be pissed at me. “I couldn't help it,” I mumbled, realizing we were in my room and alone. I grabbed my pillow and hugged it to my chest. Small comfort. I really wanted Spanky.

“Help what, Sherlock?”

My eyes searched his. I'd never heard such a soft tone come from between his lips. And, having never been able to read Jagger's body language—this time I could see real concern in the depths of brown. Deep, chocolate brown. Reminded me of eating chocolate—warm, sweet chocolate.

“Hmm? Oh, I couldn't help getting attacked. No lecture please.” I rubbed my ribs, then my cheek, which must have been the cause of the blood. “Ouch again.”

Jagger remained still. He looked, well, insulted. “I'm not going to lecture you. Only get you out of here.”

“This is my room.”

“That's not what I mean.”

I glared at him while still rubbing all my sore spots as if that would help. It didn't, but I ignored the pain and said, “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, Sherlock. The nuns think you did this to yourself.”

“What? Are they crazy?”

“No, they think you are. Lots of patients self-mutilate—”

“Are you crazy too? Is everyone but me crazy?”

“I don't think you did this to yourself, Pauline. I know it has to do with the case. My case. I never meant . . . ”

Jagger's lips kept moving, but my mind didn't comprehend that he was talking. Maybe because it had started out as an apology. A rarity with Jagger. Or maybe it was because somewhere deep inside, my gut instinct told me I didn't want to hear what he was going to say.

“Case is over for you. You're going home—for good.”

I reached up, took his silver-and-black art deco tie into my grasp and eased him closer. “Over my dead body.”

“That's what I'm trying to prevent.”

I couldn't believe I was saying this, but somewhere, obviously in my subconscious, I knew I had to stay. Margaret, and perhaps others, needed me. Needed
my
help.

And I needed Saint Theresa's help and a bodyguard.

“No arguing, Sherlock. I'll have them bring your clothes.”

I yanked.

He gagged.

“I'm
not
going.”

And when I released him—I saw pride in his eyes.

Pride! Pride for me!

At least I vowed to go to my grave thinking that.

And, hopefully, that wouldn't be too soon.

“Nice try, but you are done here,” he said.

If I felt horrible physically, then mentally I was shattered after arguing with Jagger.

What was I thinking?

Sigh. I was thinking people needed me and if I was going to succeed at this career—and I damn well planned to—I had to stick out the tough ones. Besides, I needed to help Jagger—so he'd help me with my case. One hand washed the other and all that.

Jagger touched my arm. “You'll at least go out on a pass, so I can teach you some basic self-defense.”

Let's see. Now I had another of fer of help. Goldie had offered to teach me a while ago. Hmm. Jagger. Goldie. Jagger. Goldie. Although I loved Goldie as a dear friend, having Jagger help me with physical contact seemed like more . . . fun . . . er . . . in a business sort of way. “Fine. Then you'll let me come back?”

He looked at me.

Jagger didn't like being questioned. He'd said he was going to and that should be good enough for anyone.

“I'll have to make up a good reason why I'm letting you out on a pass again so soon.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I suppose it's a good thing that I'm not part of the regular staff. Maybe I can get away with more, find a legit reason to convince the sisters that you need to get out of here.”

Well, the nuns
were
women. “How about, say . . . my mother needs me. How's that?”

He looked at me. “For what?”

“Geez. You're the doctor. Why do you have to explain anything?”

“Because, Sherlock, I don't want anyone suspicious. If we don't fit in here, our case is screwed.”

Our
case? If he'd said we were screwed, I'm afraid I would have pictured us . . . never mind. I sucked in some stale air and blew it out. “Okay, make something up. I'll be ready to go.” I touched my cheek and winced.

“A plastic surgeon needs to attend to that.”

My eyes widened and my hand flew to my injury so fast, I yelled, “Ouch!” Then I hurried to the metal cabinet in the bathroom since we weren't allowed mirrors. “Where? What? Is it going to scar?” I leaned near. “Oh . . . my . . . God. I'm hideous!”

There was a bit of blood on my face, but in reality, it wasn't very bad, and I knew the cut was small. Still, when seeing yourself bleeding, one's perception sometimes got a bit skewed.

Jagger grabbed my arm. “Calm down or you'll be yanked off to solitary before I can say . . . that's the freaking excuse I'm going to use to get you out of here, Sherlock. I'm going to say I'm taking you to the emergency room for a plastic surgeon to stitch you up. You look . . . fine.”

I looked fine.

That became my mantra since I, again putting my own spin on Jagger's words, decided it meant I looked damn good and close to “hot.” Also, if I didn't keep repeating it, I would concentrate on Jagger's hand still holding my arm.

When I came back to reality, I said, “Oh. Gotcha. Good one. Good excuse.” I chuckled. “Yeah, good excuse. No one should question—”

His finger touched my lips. Wow.

“Calm down or they'll never let you out of here.” With that he was gone.