One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (18 page)

“Margaret,” I whispered.

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

“Margaret, it's me. Pauline. From the other unit. I came to find you. I know you don't belong—” I might as well have been talking to myself.

Margaret's eyes stared off into the distance, not really looking at anything. Damn. She was in her catatonic state, more than likely heavily medicated. Her pink lips were set as if she had never talked or laughed. The whites of her eyes were now pink. She had probably cried enough tears to flood the place when they'd moved her here.

And why did they?

Why had Margaret been moved?

I kept up my attempts of getting her to look at me, but to no avail. I rubbed the couch a bit harder until a hand covered mine. I turned to see Jagger with his cloth in hand.

“Need some help?”

“No” sat on my tongue because, after all, what dummy couldn't clean an imaginary spot off a couch? But before I could say anything, Jagger passed his rag over mine.

I felt something touch my fingers and lifted the cloth enough to see what it was.

My throat tightened and I lifted the object, then turned to look around the unit. Jagger had moved away and kept cleaning. A young man shouted to no one about Lincoln being assassinated. An older woman talked like a toddler as I bent to tuck the “gift” from Jagger into Margaret's hand.

At first I held my breath while she sat still. I worried she'd just let it fall to the floor, and we'd get caught.

But then . . . her finger moved.

It ran over the picture of her son a few times, then she lifted her eyes toward me. “Thank you,” she whispered in a voice much hoarser than usual. I figured that was the result of crying.

Suddenly I felt a tug at my arm. Ready to gently ease free of some patient's death grip, I turned to see Jagger motion toward the door. He leaned toward Margaret and said, “We'll be back to help you.”

When I turned to follow Jagger, I noticed the reason he had us leaving before I could talk more to Margaret. Two burly guys dressed exactly like us headed down the hallway with mops and buckets. Yikes! Our cover was nearly blown, I thought, as we hurried out the door and down the stairs. In our haste, Jagger hadn't even fumbled with the lock.

Things like that amazed me about him.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turned to go back toward my unit. Before I could take another step, I found myself upside down and slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—although the sacks I bought were much smaller.

“What the hell? What are you doing?”

“Shh!”

Damn, he was right. I couldn't make a scene, since several staff members were coming down the stairs. Our cover really would be blown. Margaret would be left in limbo, and so would who knew how many other patients. And what of Vito's killer? Was all of this really related?

When the footsteps got closer, Jagger, still holding onto me dangling upside down, ducked into an alcove. Being an old building, the place was filled with them.

He set me down and held his hand over my lips. When he'd done that before I had been tempted to lick him.

Right now, I wanted to bite him.

Nurse Lawson walked by with what looked like a doctor. She must have been on the evening shift, since it was starting to get dark. In our investigating, we somehow missed lunch. I was actually hungry.

My stomach growled.

Nurse Lawson stopped at the alcove and turned.

I lowered my head to hide my face.

She said, “You two cut it out and get back to work.”

Thank goodness she assumed we were fooling around instead of hiding.

Fooling around!

Jagger said, “Sure,” took my arm, unlocked the door and yanked me out of the alcove. A late winter breeze slapped at my face, sending strands of hair dancing loose.

I pushed at his arm.

He took my hand. “Stop it!”

Before I knew it, we were inside his Suburban with the Cortona Institute fading away in the distance.

“I'll never forgive you for this,” I swore. “Never.”

Jagger kept driving silently while I ranted on about his being a liar. His being a jerk. His being a traitor and not letting us finish our job.

Before I knew it, we had turned into the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru, and he was ordering me a Hazelnut decaf—my favorite. He also included my French cruller.

When he turned to hand it to me, he said, “Figured you'd be hungry by now.”

Not wanting to act childish, not to mention the fact that I was starving, I took them and bit half the donut off at once. “You lied,” I reiterated with my mouth still full.

Jagger pulled the SUV into a space in the back where only the employees parked. After he shut off the engine, he sipped his coffee a few minutes and said, “You're going back, Sherlock. After I've taught you a few self-defense moves and gotten you some equipment to keep you safe.”

I choked on the donut, took a sip of coffee and then said, “You . . . I . . . why didn't you?” I stopped, composed myself and finished with, “It would have made it much easier if you had explained that to me back there.”

He remained silent, staring.

“And, Jagger, I'm not even going to give you the satisfaction of my feeling embarrassed that I got angry at you.” I turned toward the window, pretending to fix my cap so that he wouldn't see my face—which was hotter than his black coffee.

I heard him sip his coffee and say, “Easier, sure, but not as much fun.”

When we'd left the donut shop, I realized we were headed for my parents' house.

Jagger must have known I'd need a whiff of Renuzit.

He'd explained that he'd called Sister Barbie and lied about taking me out on another pass. Something about that fictitious plastic surgeon needing to see me again.

He was always a million steps ahead of me.

When we pulled into the driveway, Uncle Walt was getting out of his friend Henry's Oldsmobile. Walt's face lit up when he noticed us. I figured that was because he was so excited to see the SUV and not me. My uncle was a car nut and spent most of his time reading auto magazines, now that macular degeneration, causing some loss of vision, kept him from driving. I hoped he'd never lose his sight and not be able to read his magazines.

He hurried over and gave me a big hug after I stepped out of the Suburban. I wondered if he knew where I'd been. Then again, Uncle Walt and I had always been close so it made sense he'd be happy to see me. Henry waved and drove off.

“Where've you been, Uncle Walt?” I asked.

Uncle Walt gave me the once-over, and I remembered I was still wearing the janitor's outfit.

“Looks as if I should be asking you the same thing, Pauline.”

I gave a nervous laugh.

Jagger came around from the driver's side, and I wondered what we'd tell my parents. “Pauline's been helping me with—”

He was going to tell him! Tell Uncle Walt about our case?

“—a cleaning job. I do it in my spare time to help out a friend.”

Uncle Walt nodded and hugged me again. I'll never know if he bought that story or not, but he didn't seem to care. I myself had the feeling Walt knew more than he let on—all the time. After all, he did know about my last case since someone he knew had been killed. Murdered. He winked and I knew he enjoyed sharing the “espionage moment.”

We walked inside and darling Uncle Walt said, “Stella? Michael? You have to see these getups. Pauline is helping out Jagger in a cleaning service.” He winked at me and headed toward his room.

The house smelled of baking apple pie amid the scent of my mother's cabbage soup. Mother called it by its Polish name,
kapusta
soup. I loved the beef ribs that she cooked in it. When we were kids, my siblings and I used to fight over who'd get to whittle away at the meat on the last bone.

Daddy would always say, “The closer the bone, the sweeter the meat,” and we'd then have to draw straws to see who'd get the last piece.

I inhaled and was glad she was cooking something so aromatic, so nostalgic. I could use nostalgic.

When she came around the corner followed by my father, she stopped so fast he bumped into her back. “Sorry, Michael, but I thought Walt was kidding. Pauline Sokol helping out to
clean
?”

I ignored Jagger's chuckle and kissed both parents on the cheek. “Just temporarily.”

“What? No criminals to follow around today?” She didn't even smile at that one.

I only wish. “Sure there are, Mother. There are always bad people out there.” Hopefully none who would hurt Margaret—or me.

She clucked her tongue and said, “Come. Eat. You two are just in time.”

We all followed her into the kitchen. “Pauline, set two extra places.” She turned toward Jagger. “What can I get you to drink, Mr. Jagger?”

I shook my head and mumbled that he could help out too, but then realized she considered him company. Yeah, right. I went about my chore and soon we were sipping the savory soup and, not wanting to look bad in front of Jagger, I cut the meat off the bone instead of chewing it, as I had wanted to do.

I looked up to see him, bone in hand, gnawing away like my father and Uncle Walt.

“Michael,” Mother said, “we are not dogs.” She picked up the largest bone with a fork and set it on his plate with a nod.

He kept gnawing away.

Uncle Walt did too, and occasionally took his piece of fresh rye bread, smothered with real butter—Mother abhorred margarine—and dunked it in his soup. Thank goodness Mother didn't notice.

My mother cut her meat off the bone with a knife and fork, so I kept doing the same with mine. Occasionally she'd give me a look that said she didn't believe I was really cleaning anything.

“So, Mr. Jagger, did Pauline do a good job?” Mother asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

I nearly choked on my
kapusta
soup.

He smiled and then said, “Well, to be honest, Mrs. Sokol, I had to show her a few things.”

Mother grunted and continued sipping.

Daddy looked at me in sympathy.

Uncle Walt kept eating and not really paying attention. I think he was waiting for Jagger to give him another ride in his SUV.

As I helped to clean up after being given the order by Mother, I wondered why Jagger had brought me here. Why now? We could have stopped to get something to eat at a diner. I looked to see my mother watching me. Her eyes held concern, but she didn't say anything except, “Be careful not to chip my good dishes, Pauline,” while I stacked the soup bowls.

Jagger had taken Uncle Walt and Daddy outside and, in fact, I saw them drive out of the driveway. How sweet. Surely that wasn't the reason we had come here.

Maybe, since he'd said I was going back to the Institute, he had wanted me to see my parents—in case it was the last time.

I gasped.

A bowl fell to the floor but only bounced softly on the indoor/outdoor carpeting Mother had insisted on installing in the kitchen. I could remember being a toddler and never getting hurt when I fell on this floor.

“Pauline, just what are you up to?” Mother stood above me as I bent to get the bowl.

“Oh. It slipped.”

She bent down and touched my hand. “That's not what I mean. What are you doing dressed like that, and don't give me some baloney about helping Jagger
clean.
I mean,
really
.”

I couldn't lie to her. Not from this distance. Over the phone would even be a long shot. “It's . . . I'm all right, Mother. It's part of the job.”

“The criminal one?”

I stood and helped her straighten. “Yes, Mother. The criminal one. But I'm fine. Jagger—” How could I tell her that he would keep me safe? I felt it in my heart, but hearing the words come out might sound foolish. Unbelievable. Before I had to say any more, the front door opened and the three men came back inside.

The grin on Uncle Walt's face made my concerns fade.

“He let me drive,” he said and turned toward his room where I knew he'd take his daily nap.

Mother looked more horrified than I felt. I turned to Jagger. “He has macular—”

He waved his hand. “It was only in an empty parking lot. I'd do it again.”

Mother and I looked at each other and for a minute I felt some kind of connection. Something I'd really never felt with her, although I loved her to pieces. I hugged her and realized how tough all of this was on her.

Maybe she was ready to admit that I was an adult.

After we left my folks' house, Jagger drove me to my condo. As we pulled into the lot, I could barely remember my mother trying to get me to move back in with them, although I know those had been her parting words. Something about not having to clean.

In fact, she wasn't ready to admit that I was an adult.

Suddenly I couldn't wait to see Miles, Goldie and Spanky, as if I'd been away for months instead of days. Neither of their cars were in the lot, but I figured a tussle with Spanky would make up for it.

Once we headed toward my door, I realized I didn't have a purse or any key. “Damn, Jagger. We can't get in—”

He stood with the door open. A key dangling off his finger.

“How . . . ? Where did you . . . ? Oh, never mind.” It wasn't worth asking about, so I chalked it up to a Jagger moment.

When we got inside, Spanky flew out of the kitchen into Jagger's arms. I hesitated, then Jagger turned and handed him off like a football. “Hey, my little guy, how have you been?” He nuzzled my neck, licked my face about seven times and then squirmed until I set him down. He followed Jagger, who was heading into the kitchen.

“I'll get some beers. You start moving the furniture to the side.”

For a second I only stared. Beer? Me move the heavy stuff? Okay, maybe Jagger was too into equal rights here. But then again, he treated me as a partner so I shoved my knee against the ottoman and pushed it to the side. At first I wondered what the heck we were going to do, and that
kiss
nagged at my brain.