A Dose of Murder (3 page)

A shuffling sound from the other side of a door to the waiting room took my interest. There hadn't been a receptionist at the desk when I came in, so I politely sat in the waiting area, silently chanting,
I can do this. I can do this
. This became my mantra, although I really didn't know what “this” was. Miles had given me no specifics except that I should be here at nine in my suit and meet his cousin Fabio Scarpello of the Scarpello and Tonelli Insurance Agency.

Miles had told me there was no Tonelli, but Fabio thought it would bring in more business to have two names on the sign above the door.

I looked across the room that mirrored my mother's taste in fifties furniture and wondered about Fabio. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. That thought hovered in my mind as my legs stuck to the fire-engine red Naugahyde couch. The floor was black-and-white checked linoleum and I wondered if the same people installed it as had my mother's turquoise-and-white checked flooring.

Before I got too deep in thought, I smelled something. A cigar—a cheap one. I looked up. To say Fabio was handsome would be a mistatement. He had deep brown eyes like Miles, but Fabio's had sunk into their sockets, probably from years of reading insurance forms. His nose wasn't big, but it hooked over, very beaklike. Miles was adopted into the Scarpello family, and, looking at the ethnic Fabio, I said a silent prayer of thanks in honor of my roomy.

“So, you're going to work in . . . investigating.” He wasn't asking a question per se—more ogling me in wonderment.

I stood, held out my hand and blinked. I have no idea why someone thinks blinking can help clear up a misunderstood word, but I knew Fabio had meant
insurance
, even though it had come out as “investigating.” Odd. The man was odd. “I'm Miles's roommate, Pauline Sokol.”

Fabio's grip felt wet, although I'm sure his hands were dry. Perhaps oily was more like it. He had the nerve to wipe his fingers on his baby-poop brown (I was still having flashbacks of the pediatrician's office) polyester suit after shaking mine. Single-breasted polyester jacket with plaid pants, no less. Despite a shudder, I knew I was doing the right thing.

“So,” I said, “will I be doing filing or answering the phone or—” Something mindless, please, sir.

He scrunched his eyebrows at me. “Investigating. Need a hearing aid, doll?”

“I . . . no.” I thought better than to argue with my new boss. Miles had agreed to spot me the rent, but I couldn't ask him to pay the monthly payment on Jeanine's loan. In other words, oily Fabio Scarpello or not, I needed this job.

“With your medical background, you'll be perfect, doll.”

“You really did say investigating. As in snooping on people?” If he called me “doll” again, I'd borrow a filled diaper from one of my nephews and leave it in Fabio's office overnight.

“Snooping is exactly what it is.” He flicked the ashes from his cigar into a nearby ficus plant. I only hoped that if it was silk it was flame retardant. He grinned. “Yep, snooping.”

At the moment Fabio looked more intelligent than I felt. Oh God. What a thought.

“You'll get a video camera, some equipment. You buy them. If you need, I'll float you a loan. . . .”

Loan!
Oh . . . my . . . God ! I heard the word, saw his mouth keep moving, but all my brain could detect was the L word. Like I would ever sign my name on a piece of paper that had the L word on it ever again. No way! I had decided soon after Jeanine rode off into the sunset in her shiny, black Lexus that I'd never be able to buy a house for the rest of my life. Because no way could I force myself into applying for a loan.

Now Fabio was talking loan. I wanted to scream, but at least was able to control that action, since screaming during a job interview had to be a no-no.

“Got it?”

I looked at him. He was waiting for an answer, but I'd drifted off into “Nightmare on Loan Street” and hadn't heard a thing. I gave him my best smile and mentally scrambled for a lie. “I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't get what you said.” He glared at me. I knew he was thinking I couldn't do the job, so I added, “Recent ear infection and all.”

“Oh. Hope it gets better.”

And I hope God doesn't punish me with a real one. “How kind.”

“Anyway. Get me evidence of fraud from the cocksuckers who claim injuries, collect, cost me
mucho
and then go on about their merry way.” He now spoke so loudly my ears hurt, and I think I felt an infection coming on.

I stared at him. The words snuck out of my numb lips. “I'm going to be an insurance-fraud investigator.”

He clucked his tongue like my mother always did. “Only for the medical cases. I've got a beauty of a one too. Don't pay any attention to the bullshit about murder.”

I slapped myself in the head. “Duh. Medical cases. Of course. I knew that.”

Fake slap or not; truthfully, I didn't know what the hell I was getting myself into.

Wait a minute!
Murder?

I crossed and uncrossed my legs about a million times. Damn. I should have gone with the power red suit. That skirt was longer. This black one crept up my legs, and Fabio's slimy stare followed it every inch. Yuck. Conversation. I needed to say something to get his attention. My skin was starting to
feel
his staring, and I suddenly had the urge for a shower.

I'd get Miles for this.

No, I told myself, he knew exactly what he was doing. Miles knew his cousin and how the man's mind worked—one step up from the gutter. The job was mine on looks alone, and Miles knew that. Not that I considered myself such a looker, but I'd heard rumors since “developing” around age twenty. I suppose Miles knew I'd have a hell of a time changing careers in my early thirties with no other education other than in nursing, and that sending me to Fabio was the best thing to do.

The guy was a genius. Miles, that is.

The only thing I'd get him on was the suggestion to wear a suit. If I had pants on, Fabio wouldn't have such a view. I crossed my legs at the ankles like ladies are supposed to do.

Maciejko women—my mother's family—were known for their legs. My grandmother on Mom's side, who we fondly called
Babci
since it meant grandmother, had a set on her that looked as if she ran the New York marathon annually. Look out New York City Rockettes! Hardworking Poles could look damn fine if they didn't overdo the shots and beers and kielbasa.

Fabio shuffled his foot. Got my attention.

“So, when would you like me to come back?” Now that I was going to be gainfully employed, I should go out and celebrate. Charge something on my credit card, with the “light at the end of the tunnel” theory that I'd be getting a paycheck soon to cover the bill.

He slid his gaze from my legs, lingered far too long for good taste on my chest and finally made it to my head. Something about Fabio I noticed right off the bat though: He didn't look me in the eyes. He had an annoying habit of looking over my head.

I actually turned to see if there was something behind me, but saw only tan-and-brown woven wallpaper peeling at the top near the corner wall. I turned around.

“Come back?” he said, and turned toward the door he'd slunk in from. “I need someone
today
, doll. Dick Stacey quit out of the fucking blue. If that ain't enough, Mike Morton is home with the gout. Gets it every few months because he won't lay off the sauce. That leaves you to pick up the slack, doll.” With that, he walked out the door.

Feeling a bit like Alice chasing the rabbit through Wonderland, I couldn't decide whether to follow or stay safely in the waiting room. This “doll” sat there dumbstruck.

Suddenly, like the Cheshire Cat, a head appeared behind the Plexiglas window of the reception desk. It belonged to a woman wearing a skintight white suit with black polka dots on the collar as well as the ribbon in her bright (and I don't use that term lightly) yellow hair, and on her gloves. Gloves? Hadn't seen them on anyone since 1979, except in the winter. These weren't wool though; they were a stark white with tiny black dots on the ruffles.

She looked at me and shoved the window door to one side. “Hi,
chéri
. What can Adele do for you?”

Motionless for a few seconds, I could only stare.
Adele could be a prostitute
, was my first thought. What?
Stop that, Pauline
. How snobbish of me to think that because her cleavage could hold an entire pencil box full at one time, and that her use of the endearment could be misinterpreted, she could be a streetwalker. Despite the overdone blue eye shadow, the fire-engine red lipstick and the cheeks that looked like, well, red polka dots, she would be rather attractive if she toned it down.

Shaking my confused, stupid thoughts out of my head, I smiled. “I . . . I'm going to be working here.”

She leaned over to get a closer look. That cleavage kept me staring at the wall behind her. Similar to what Fabio had done to me, but I wasn't showing cleavage today, and I figured, he'd stare anyway, at any woman.

“Work here?” she asked.

“Why, yes.” I managed to get back to some state of normalcy. Adele's outward appearance had confused me at first, but some kind of motherly warmth emanated from her. She had the best smile I'd ever seen, with teeth whiter than her suit. “Mr. Scarpello—”

“Fabio,
chéri
. ‘Mr. Scarpello' was used for his father, may his soul rest in peace. Using it for”—she motioned with her head toward the back door—“
him
is tantamount to disrespect for the dead.” She held out her hand. “I'm Adele Girard.”

I liked the way she rolled her Rs. “Nice to meet you.” I shook her hand. “I'm Pauline—”

She waved toward the door. “Come back here and get comfortable.”

As I walked to the door where Adele stood leaning against the dark brown paneled wall, Fabio stuck his head out of what I assumed was his office. The royal blue carpet smelled of mildew and had more spots on it than Adele's collar had polka dots.

“Miles sent her here. Have her fill out the paperwork for taxes and shit like that, then send her to me,” he said, and then pulled his head back into his office like a giant ostrich hiding in the sand.

I figured Fabio might have good reason to hide.

She waved a “don't pay attention to him” hand at me. “Come in here.”

Adele proved to be as warm as her smile. She got me coffee and a donut that resembled a
p
czki
. I took the coffee and passed on the donut and learned that Fabio had taken over the business when his father passed away two years ago. Everyone missed him, she'd said.

And by her tone and the actual things she said, no one was too fond of Fabio. Duh.

“But . . . Adele will give him credit for not running the place into the ground,” she said in her adorable Canadian accent, which she'd told me she couldn't shake, having spoken French since birth. “He's a shit most of the time, but so filled with greed,
chéri
, that he actually has this place making money. One thing his father wasn't too good at. No, Mr. Scarpello wasn't a greedy man. God rest his soul to all eternity.” She made the sign of the cross on her head.

I felt compelled to join her.

After mounds of paperwork had my John Hancock on them, I took the donut Adele had again offered, knowing what I needed was a good sugar high. Now I had to go see Fabio and find out what the hell I'd actually be doing.

“What?” My voice came out so high pitched I might need to change to soprano from alto in the church choir. Naw. It was only a logical gut reaction to Fabio's words. “I have to do
what
?”

His forehead wrinkled like the prunes my uncle Walt ate on a daily basis, claiming regularity is how he lived so long, and said, “Shit. Don't you listen . . . Oh , that's right. Ear infection.”

I was ready to say “What infection?” but remembered my earlier lie. I wasn't good at lying. Catholic-school-induced conscience and all. How good could I be at spying? And all by myself, as Fabio had just explained. Lord, what was I doing?

Fabio shoved a folder across the desk. Of course it had to make several detours on the way since his desk was covered in files, dirty napkins, filled ashtrays, old donuts on paper plates and who knew what else—I sure didn't want to find out.

“You read through the information in the file. Your first one stiffed Workers' Comp. Fake back injury. I need you to prove the fucker is faking it. You get yourself some detective equipment, like I said before. Video, camera, those kinds of things. No need for a gun yet—”

My throat constricted so I squeezed out, “Gun?!”

He shook his head. “Miles is going to owe me big time, doll, if you keep this up. No gun, I said.”

“But you also said ‘yet.'”

“Yeah, right. Some suspects don't want their little money-making schemes found out. They get a little testy about it.” He shrugged. “Sometimes you need protection.”