One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (15 page)

Jagger!

Had to be.

But it was my chance to get away, so I finished turning, looked back to see I was alone and made a quick left onto Main toward my condo since I no longer needed to head to the police station.

I realized I was driving with legs of Jell-O and shaking hands.

Maybe I wasn't cut out for this job after all.

I couldn't help looking at the bathroom door over and over, as if I expected the white van to drive in while I soaked in the tub, lathered in Miles's honeysuckle bubbles. Sure, it was ridiculous, but I'd never been followed like that before. People, but not vehicles, had followed me. In the hot water I shivered. I could have been killed!

Jagger must be furious, but probably not as angry as he would be when he found out later that I'd gone back to the Institute. I looked at the clock on the counter, two cupids leaping in the air—one with a clock in its tummy, the other with a barometer—and realized I'd have to hurry.

Fifteen minutes.

I would have to rush to catch my cab. I looked over my bubbly shoulder one more time and asked myself what the hell I thought I was doing going back there.

Margaret popped into my thoughts.

I snuck out of the house so that Goldie and Miles wouldn't be involved in my “Jagger deception.” When I turned toward the front of the parking lot, I froze.

“Seems as if you'd be recovering from your drive today, Sherlock.”

I gulped exaggeratedly. Damn him. “I'm . . . I'm going to my parents' for dinner.”

“Hmm. Monday. Meatloaf.” He licked his lips.

I swooned.

“I could eat—”

I looked past Jagger as he again started to invite himself to my parents' for supper. This was becoming a bad habit. Not that there wouldn't be enough food. No problem there. All of Hope Valley could come eat. But if I did go there with Jagger to cover my lie, I'd be late for my check-in at the Institute. Over his right shoulder I noticed the cab pull into the lot.

Damn it.

How to fool Jagger?

“I . . . shit.” I pushed at his chest, and relying on the element of surprise, succeeded in knocking him into the bushes.

“Aye!”

Without the spring leaves in full bloom, the sharp sticks had to hurt. I only hoped he hadn't cut himself, I thought, as I ran, flailing my arms, toward the cab.

I jumped in and yelled, “Get out of here! He has a gun!”

If I thought Dr. De Jong was a speedster, this cabby could make it from one end of Hope Valley to the other in a nanosecond. We were well onto Main Street when he looked over his shoulder, “Where to, babe?”

I gave him the address of the Cortona Institute of Life. He stared. “Don't look like no nutcase to me, babe.”

I curled my lips. “Looks are deceiving.” Then I gave him one that hopefully said to mind his own business and muttered, “Hm. Maybe
I'm
the one with the gun. Ha. Ha. Ha.” The ride continued in silence. As he turned into the gate of the hospital, I thanked Saint Theresa for having the cabbie leave me alone to my thoughts and prayers—because those I really needed yet again.

I never saw a cabbie drive off so fast. I had barely slammed the door shut. He didn't even claim his fare. I silently laughed to myself and then quickly stopped on the sidewalk to the main entrance.

Coming down the long, stone stairs that were bordered by white cement walls was my buddy, Spike, wearing a solemn—no, make that a mean—look. “Who the hell left you out here?”

Oops. “My mother had to run off. She was in a—”

He spit over the handrail. “Who cares? Get inside before you're late.”

I could have argued that I got there in plenty of time, but thought I'd keep my body intact for as long as I could. Besides, Jagger wasn't around to protect me.

As I stepped up the cement front steps with Spike at my heels, that thought scared the stuffing out of me. The one about Jagger not being there, that is. Spike at my heels was another matter, but I refused to waste any emotion on it.

It wasn't long before I was back in my room, dressed in my damn fashionless johnny coat and sitting on the edge of my bed with Sister Liz babbling on about my cut and how did it feel.

Thank goodness I'd kept a bandage on it or else she would notice there really weren't any stitches. I watched Sister Liz for a few seconds as she tidied up my bed. It hadn't been slept in—by me, that is—but she still found a few wrinkles to yank at.

Gave me a warm motherly feeling just watching her.

At least I knew she wasn't a suspect. No way could she, particularly as a nun, be involved in anything shady . . . especially murder.

I shivered.

It warmed my insides thinking that Sister Liz had become a friend, in a way. There was that patient/nurse relationship, but I figured if we were on the “outside” she'd be my friend.

“You cold, Pauline?” She went to reach for the blanket that she'd just refolded and laid at the foot of the bed.

How sweet.

“I'm fine.” I wanted to ask if anything happened while I was gone—like any more murders, but that would send up a gigantic red flag, even to Sister Liz. “You know, I kinda missed this place.” I chuckled.

She gave me an odd look and a weak chuckle. “I would think you'd be happy to spend time with your family. Unless—” She looked at me a few minutes. “Oh, my, Pauline. Do you have problems with your family?”

I knew she was talking abuse or abandonment, but I thought of the same meal each day of the week, the house that the Cleavers built, and my mother's frequent offers to have me move back into that house. “Yeah, I have some problems with them. But . . . I'll make sure and tell my doc about them.”

Then, it dawned on me.

I was utterly alone. I didn't have my “doc” around to save me from . . . whatever. I swallowed.

I could do this, I told myself. I was a professional and a strong, intelligent woman. I really could do it. After my little pep talk, I felt much better.

Sister gave me a pious smile and headed out the door.

I told myself to relax and work one step at a time. I would come up with some excuse so that whichever doctor treated me, he wouldn't medicate me into oblivion, fry my normal brain, or have me wrapped like a birthday present, only in wet sheets instead of fancy colored paper.

Without allowing myself to shiver again at any number of those thoughts, I went into the bathroom to wash off my face and perk up. When I shoved the door open, a clattering filled the room. I looked down in what had to be an expression of horror.

Spread across the black-and-white tile floor was . . . a broom handle.

A brown metal broom handle.

Like the one we'd seen harpooned into Vito's body.

I knew screaming in a mental hospital was frowned upon. Yet, when I saw the brown metal broom handle in my bathroom, I couldn't keep the noise from blaring out. Thinking quickly, I shoved my hand over my mouth.

I reminded myself that I was a professional. So I shut my lips beneath my grip. Then I took ten slow, deep breaths. I looked out the bathroom door to see if anyone was coming into my room. The hallway was empty. Good. They must have figured my half-scream had been on television.

The damn broom handle glared at me.

Attached was a yellow Post-it note.
Wanna bee next
?

I didn't think they meant the flying insect. I also don't think the note writer meant anything good was about to happen.

I stared at the broom handle a few seconds, then stood silently. There. I could remove my hand now. As I did, I heard a shuffling of footsteps in the hallway. Quickly I shoved the metal culprit toward the wall and dropped two towels on it. The note stuck to my shoe. Great. I wiggled and danced a bit until I could reach my foot and grab it. Then I shoved it into my pocket and hurried out of the bathroom.

“Everything all right in here?” Sister Barbie asked from behind me. I turned to see she held a tray of medication and was doing that squinting thing like my mother.

I wondered if that really helped someone see better like holding a book miles away from your face does once you hit forty.

Now, in my flustered state, I'd have to remember Jagger's instructions on how not to swallow a pill. “Yes . . . Sister. Everything is fine. I was about to go to sleep. Tired after my pass. You know, my cut and all.” I prayed she wouldn't ask to see it.

Thankfully her hands held a tray filled with psychedelic colored pills. Seemed like hundreds of them. As usual, she was in a hurry to shove them at patients. When she gave me the little green one, Novitiate Lalli appeared at the door, flashlight in hand.

Damn.

With my mouth shut, I wiggled my tongue to get it exercised enough to do the trick. Sister started to turn.

“Take it
now
, Pauline.”

Novitiate Lalli moved closer like some private dick investigating a case and not some novitiate nurse about ready to scrutinize my mouth. The woman gave me the willies. I mentally moved her up higher on my list of suspects. Tied with Spike now.

Hmm. A
new
nun. How convenient. Maybe she had pretended she really wanted to be a nun just to get this job to . . . commit fraud. My gut and my experience said she was a nursing student, but the nun part was still in doubt.

“Take the pill,” Lalli reiterated. “We have plenty of patients to medicate.”

I'll just bet you do. I opened my mouth, said a silent prayer and popped the pill in. Then I did the Jagger trick while swallowing.

“Stick out your tongue,” she ordered.

The moment of truth. Suddenly fear gripped my insides when I realized there'd be consequences if I got caught. What they'd be, I had no idea. I only assumed I wouldn't like them, and, they could blow my cover. I looked to see Novitiate Lalli glaring at me, lit flashlight aimed high.

I wiggled my tongue, did as Jagger had said and opened.

As if digging for gold, she leaned so near I could smell the scent of cologne. Hmm. Nuns wear cologne? It was some kind of musk oil, light but sweet.

“Lift up your tongue.”

Yikes.

After a sneeze, I did as I was told, praying at record speed that the pill was safely out of sight.

“Clean,” she pronounced, shut off her light and turned toward the door.

Unfortunately, Sister Barbie Doll hesitated.

Soon the pill would start to melt. Melt mind-altering drugs right into my system, and I'd be a basket case. So, again with the nonexistent acting skills, I smiled at her and yawned. “My head is starting to hurt from my cut.”

She looked at me a few seconds. “Then, my child, you should get some rest.” Following Novitiate Lalli, she turned and went out the door.

Poof
!

I spit the damn pill out across the room before it could leak anymore into my system. Quickly I grabbed it, hurried into the bathroom and flushed the pill into oblivion. Had to keep a clear head around here now that I was alone.

Oh, my God! I was
alone.

After what not only seemed like hours but must have been, I tossed and turned for the last time. In between tosses I had dozed but kept waking up. Deciding to get up and get a drink of water, I shoved off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. An eerie silence filled my room.

Nighttime in a mental hospital is what scary movies are made of. I sat for a few minutes then shoved on my slippers and grabbed my robe. I started to head to my private bathroom and then realized—the broom handle was still in there.

Great.

A feeling of doom grabbed me inside, as if the metal object were some snake or other venomous reptile. I told myself to get over it. It was an inanimate object. Sure, one that was put there to scare the stuffing out of me. I decided to toughen up or I'd never be able to do a good job.

I stood, let my blood pressure stabilize and walked into the bathroom.

Empty.

No towels.

No broom handle.

Hmm. I didn't recall there being a maid service in this place. So who took it all?

I grabbed at the sink as if the absence of the damn thing was more horrifying than the presence of it earlier. The idea that someone had snuck in and took it while I dozed was a frightening thought. I took a deep breath and decided I'd go out into the ward.

I turned, walked to the door, opened it and looked down the hallway. Empty and quiet. In the distance, faint snoring filled the air. Had to be from the patients who actually swallowed their meds. While I made my way toward the nurses' station to inform them I'd be sitting out in the dayroom for a while, I thought of Margaret. I really needed to be there to help her, and Jagger would soon realize that I was gone.

He'd come. I knew he would. Jagger was always there in a pinch—and sometimes I wanted to pinch his . . . never mind those kinds of thoughts. Preservation and growing old had to be my first priority.

A lay nurse sat at the desk. I hadn't been out here during the night before but figured with the shortage of nuns, there had to be plenty of laypeople working in this place. She looked pleasant enough in her floral scrubs while she bent over a computer keyboard.

I cleared my throat when I stood near the window of the glass-enclosed (shatterproof, I assumed) nurses' station. “Excuse me, ma'am.”

She looked up and smiled. “Nurse Lindeman. Sharon Lindeman. Can I help you, Mary Louise?”

Not that again. Okay, I'd cut her some slack since she wasn't around during the days and probably had only seen my chart and me asleep most nights. “Yes and no. First, please call me Pauline. My doctor said to. Second, I can't sleep—”

She got up. “I'll check your orders for a sleeping pill.”

“No!” I smiled. “No, thank you, Nurse Lindeman. I only want permission to sit in the dayroom for a bit. Then I'm sure I'll go back to my room and fall asleep like a baby.” I'd been at my sister's during naptime and always wondered why the comparisons were made to sleeping like a baby. None of my nieces or nephews ever
wanted
to go to sleep. They cried until wiped out. Maybe there was too much on my mind to sleep tonight, but that couldn't possibly be the problem babies had. I figured crying around here would only get me heavily medicated or wrapped in the wet sheets like a tamale.