A Dose of Murder (6 page)

I dropped the camera onto my lap with a
thump
and expelled a whoosh of air from my mouth at the weight. I grabbed my bag and hauled out the 35 mm. Two shots left. Good thing I'd never had the film developed. Had to be because I was so sick and tired of
attending
wedding after wedding. With a quick prayer that two-year-old film doesn't go bad, I looked in the viewfinder. Foggy window. After a quick wipe of the glass, I leaned the camera near.

Tina resumed her shoveling.

My finger was poised on the shutter.

Behind her I noticed a light blinking. A blue light. I looked through the camera to see a cop car pull around the corner and slow near the SUV. Good. Maybe he'd get arrested for being a Peeping Tom. Despite my wacko thought that I wouldn't mind someone who looked like him peeking at me, I watched a few minutes.

The cop looked too friendly with him. Uh-oh. They were laughing! Then they both looked at me!

Oh no! Who
was
that guy? My finger slipped.
Snap
. Damn. A wasted shot.

I probably shouldn't hang around. Besides, hunger pangs reminded me it was after six. When all else fails, I think of food, and getting the hell away from here. Okay, when I sense the police are about to question me, I think of food. Tina'd have to wait.

My parents would be sitting down to eat right now. Mom always served at six, twelve and six. No matter the day of the week. When we were kids, she made us get up at 6
A.M.
for breakfast. As teens we'd sleepily shove something down, then sneak back to bed until around noon, when she'd wake us for lunch.

I hurriedly flung the stupid camera into the backseat and vaulted across to the driver's side. Thank goodness I was only blocks away from my folks' house, or I'd get there in time for only dessert.

The cop got back into his car, turned into a nearby driveway and started to back out—in my direction.

I started the engine, dusted the snow from the front window with the wipers at warp speed and watched Tina lift a statue with one hand. Ack! I shouted, “You damn camera! You just cost me big! A waste of time.” Boy, someone her size was strong.

As I drove past the SUV, I couldn't help but slow, smile and scoot away. Wow! That wasn't like me at all—but the look on the mystery man's face was all worth it.

Deliciously pissed.

In my rearview mirror I could see Tina, still shoveling, and cursed at my behemoth of a video camera.

I needed to talk to my folks—about my new job.

About buying equipment.

Making a mental sign of the cross so as not to take my hands from the steering wheel, I asked Saint Theresa for her help—yet again.

I added another prayer that she wouldn't get tired of me praying to her about all my causes and threw in that if she wanted to have the mystery man follow me and . . .

Never mind. Saints shouldn't get involved in things like that.

I spun out of the circa 1700s neighborhood before the cop could follow me.

“Why would you need a new video camera?” my father asked through a mouthful of potato pancake. “Didn't I give you my old one?”

I scooped a dollop of sour cream onto my pancake and added another of applesauce. It had to be Friday night. Mom always cooked meatless Polish meals on Friday. I hadn't realized today was Friday. Seems days ran together since I'd become an independent investigator—although I'd just started. But I didn't miss the daily nursing grind. “Yes, Daddy, you did. But I need something smaller.”

Uncle Walt scraped a forkful of potato pancake across his dish. Mother raised an eyebrow at him, but he ignored her. “Smaller is better these days. Ask all the chicks at the senior citizens center.”

My parents rolled their eyes. I lost my appetite, thinking they were going down
that
road with Uncle Walt. After I set my fork down, I made a mental note to call Doc Taylor again. He really, really needed to take me out to dinner soon.

My mother put the rest of the pancakes on my father's dish without even asking. Of course, after forty-three years of marriage, they had some kind of matrimonial mental telepathy between them. He started to eat them all.

“I still don't understand about this new job. I'm thrilled you found something, although you could have taken a break and stayed here with us instead of living with that homosexual man,” she said.

“We aren't ‘living together,' and Miles is my best friend.” She'd always called him that, but treated him as one of her sons soon after she'd found out his parents had died in a skydiving accident.

“Oh, nothing against him, darling, he is a doll. It's just that family should be taking care of you when you have no money, although I told you numerous times you needed to start a vacation club savings account—”

“I have a job now. I told you that I'm going to help out at Miles's uncle's insurance agency.”

“I know, darling—” She started to stack the dirty dishes in front of her. “But when you said you'd be working there, I thought filing, answering phones. Not going out and spying on people. What is this world coming to?”

I wasn't going to share that I'd felt the same way about the job originally. Hell, I'd never be caught dead admitting that I thought like my mother. After a quick shudder, I said, “They need to be spied on, Mom. Some people cheat the insurance companies out of millions.”

Daddy looked up. His eyes widened. If he weren't such a pious man, I'd think he'd want to hear how they did that. Instead he said, “They should buy lottery tickets. They could win big and win honestly.”

After retiring, and playing the lotto 364 days of the year, he still hadn't won “big” on the daily numbers. He didn't buy a ticket on Good Friday, out of respect.

“Anyway, I need a very small video camera, a digital camera and a few more things. So—” The plea stuck in my throat. How I hated to ask my parents for money. It would be the third, fourth, and fifth degree until I described every detail of my new job. I'd
owe
them. Ack.

I looked up to see Uncle Walt waving at me while my parents ate. “What—”

He waved frantically, then laid a finger over his closed lips. Okay, I get it. He didn't want me to go on about asking for money. I'd humor him until dessert. Tonight had to be bread pudding. Not my favorite, though. My mother makes better desserts than Bellinski's Pastry Shop, but Friday night wasn't the time to come looking for good sweets.

Uncle Walt got up. “I need help . . . in my room.”

My father started to get up. Uncle Walt pushed a hand on his shoulder. “Pauline has smaller fingers.”

I looked at my hand and wondered if Uncle Walt was hitting the Vodka too much. But I stood and followed him.

Mother clattered the dishes as she must have gotten up to set them by the sink. She refused a dishwasher every Christmas from us kids. Said she could do a better job than any machine and didn't want to waste the cabinet space, although she had two empty drawers and one cabinet under the sink where she only kept a bucket in case of leaks. I've never known the sink to leak.

Uncle Walt waved me into his room. The old maple furniture always smelled freshly lemon polished. The drapes were a deep brown, matching the carpet. Beige doilies that my mother had crocheted sat under the lamp on his dresser. He walked near, turned to look at the door and again held his finger to his lips.

I smiled to myself and remained quiet.

He pushed in the small piece of molding above the top drawer. I was about to tell him that he might break it by doing that, but before I could, a little button appeared. He pushed it, releasing some mechanism that made the thing pop out like a drawer. On closer inspection, it
was
a drawer.

“Wow,” I whispered.

Uncle Walt turned around. I would have given every penny I had to get a snapshot of the pleased expression on his face. His watery blue eyes sparkled. The thin, cracked lips beneath the wrinkles of his face curled up on each end. Uncle Walt, the crafty senior. “How much you need, Pauline?”

He reached in and pulled out a wad, and I mean a wad, of money.

“Shit. Where did you get all that?”

Walt's gaze flew to the door. “Shush. Don't worry. It's all legal. Years of hard work.”

And poker games with highly pensioned widows, no doubt. “You should put that in the bank—”

“Bank shmank. How much?”

“I can't let you—”

“Humor an old man. I've never been able to do much for you kids, Pauline. Especially you, since you don't have any kids yourself. I get to buy for the little ones, but you . . . you're still single.”

Thank you very much for the reminder.

“You're the only reason your mother lets me eat an occasional cookie or piece of cake.”

I smiled, told him how much I needed and made him take my written IOU. I said I'd pay him back. He said he wouldn't take the money. We agreed I'd give it to Saint Stanislaus Church once I'd earned it back.

I left my parents' house with my stash, hurried back to my apartment and called Goldie at home to tell him about the money.

“Shit. Nice uncle. Wish I had one of those.” I could hear the sadness in his voice and found out he'd grown up shifted from one foster home to another. Didn't know any uncles, let alone parents. He sucked in a breath and told me where to order my spy equipment.

When I hung up, I booted up Miles's computer and searched the Web for detective equipment. Amazing what someone could buy online with a credit card. After spending all the money from Uncle Walt, I was set.

As soon as the UPS man arrived in a few days, I'd be out the door on the tail of Tina Macaluso once again.

Back injury—yeah, right.

Another Saturday night sitting home alone eating a delivered pizza with mushrooms, eggplant and sausage was beginning to look better and better as I shoved on my black patent-leather heels.

Spanky sat on the bed, watching. Smiling. I'm sure he smiled when I slid the shoe over my foot. Men.

The shoes went perfect with the slinky black dress Miles had insisted I buy on our last shopping trip to Lord and Taylor before I quit my job. Seemed like years ago.

Even though the shoes made my “Maciejko” legs look damn good, I couldn't bring myself to get excited. Seemed a waste of good sex-appeal equipment to be waiting for Doc Taylor to arrive.

Because, I had to admit, my thoughts were for the occupant of a black Suburban with a tiny silver cross hanging from the rearview mirror. Oh, yes, I noticed the small things.

As if my life wasn't complicated enough.

Now I lusted after a stranger. Albeit a gorgeous one.

“You look . . . sexy tonight,” Doc Taylor said when I opened the door and he walked in. I think a tiny bit of spittle seeped out of his lips.

It wasn't that Vance wasn't appealing. He, too, was sexy as hell in a professional sort of way. Not professional like a gigolo, but more a doctor or lawyer sort of way. The good-looking kind you'd see on the soaps. Vance could win an Emmy on appearance alone.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I should be jumping his bones right now. If I broke one, it wouldn't matter. He was an orthopedic surgeon and, I'm sure, could fix himself right up.

I reached up and kissed his cheek. He looked taken aback, as if it should have landed on his lips. “It's been a long time—”

He grabbed me in a bear hug.

“Hey, watch those precious hands of yours,” I said.

He released his grip as if I might break one of his highly insured fingers. Vance's sense of humor—actually lack of—never failed to astonish me.

“I'm kidding, hon.”

He laughed. Forced it.

“It
has
been too long. My secretary called you many times. Doesn't Miles's machine work?”

I wanted to ask if she was going to take me out, but looking at his face, I knew there was no other way to work things. She made all his calls for him, social
and
business.

Vance had grown up in a family of doctors, living in a ritzy neighborhood in Greenwich. I'd met him during his residency at Saint Greg's. His family never laughed at my jokes either. For that matter, I'm sure they didn't root for me to become Mrs. Doctor Vance G. Taylor.

Still, Vance had this notion in his head that we were in love. At least he said he was. I cared about him deeply and would nurse him back to health if, God forbid, he should become ill. Yet, I couldn't see myself as Mrs. Doctor Vance G. Taylor any more than his parents wanted me to be.

“I guess Miles's machine is on the blink,” I out and out lied. Next, I made a mental confession followed by good reasons why I had to lie. If God didn't buy it, I'd be sunk. I knew Vance's secretary had called several weeks ago, but until lately, I hadn't felt the urge for . . . that. So, I ignored the calls. “Good thing I called you.”

He leaned near, nuzzled my neck.

For a few seconds, hormones readied to dance throughout my body—but they fizzled out as usual. “I'm starved. Where we heading?” I knew better than to try to make plans for us. Vance did all the “man” stuff, and, right now I didn't have the desire or the strength to argue. A few years back I tried, but to no avail. He played by a different set of rules. Ones written in some good ol' boys' yacht club in the days before feminism. So, who was I to argue?

“Thought we'd head over to Harbor Bay. I'm in the mood for surf and turf.”

Vance was always in the mood for surf and turf, and his version was Maine lobster (at outrageous market prices) and prime rib. Harbor Bay was a damn pricey restaurant with the best seafood in Hope Valley, located on the bank of the Connecticut River.

“Sounds like a plan.” When he lifted my black coat off the chair to help me put it on, I asked myself if I really should be going. I mean, it might seem as though I was using Vance. In some respects I guess I was, but I'd never once lied to him about my feelings. I never used the L word with him, although he'd told me that he loved me plenty.