One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (3 page)

“Nope.” I got out and yanked my Steelers jacket tighter. Although the March weather had turned milder, I still needed a jacket, and my favorite football team came in parkas, windbreakers and sweatshirts.

Could a girl be any happier?

Inside the building I gave a nod to the receptionist. “Hey, Adele, how's it going?” I walked into her cubbyhole of an office. She'd been with Fabio for years, but he'd never given her a bigger space. Schmuck that he was.

“Morning,
chéri.
Adele is wonderful today.” She leaned back in her chair and gave me a wink, a smile and a wave of her white-gloved hand.

Adele was an ex-con from Canada who'd gotten her hands burned in the joint and always spoke of herself in the third person. When I first learned this, I was appalled, intrigued, and sometimes weirded out about that third-person thing, not to mention the ex-con part.

I'd never known anyone who'd gotten more than a parking ticket. As a matter of fact, when the hospital was building a new parking garage and we had to be shuttle-bussed into work, I myself had gotten fifty-one parking tickets because I stubbornly insisted on parking closer to the hospital in a stupid space that had a meter. I'd run out as often as I could to shove coins in, but often got caught up in patient care and forgot.

But Miles knew a cop . . .
Poof.
There went my tickets.

I took a sip of my coffee. “You certainly seem in a good mood, Adele.”

“He's out of town. Two weeks. Two glorious weeks.” She motioned with her head toward Fabio's office. Black tendrils bounced with her movement and her black, very low-cut dress allowed the cleavage to jiggle.

I think Adele shopped at Frederick's of Hollywood.

I smiled to myself and thought it a shame that someone like Adele had to go to prison when she had stolen only to get enough money to help her dying mother. A modern-day, kick-ass female Robin Hood. Damn shame.

Then it hit me.

“Fabio is gone already?”

“Two weeks,
chéri
!” She swung around, and the wire from her headset caught on my arm. coffee spewed from the cup onto the floor. Not that it mattered on the already stained royal blue rug. It looked like some kind of modern art.

“Damn! Are you all right, Adele?” I grabbed a tissue from a box, covered with a crocheted cat, on her desk.

“I'm fine.” She puffed up her black hair. She liked to change the color several times a year. I liked her in red, myself.

Adele was always managing to get hung up on some wire when I was around. But she always made me laugh and had welcomed me to the job so graciously and warmly that I considered her a second mother.

Stella Sokol would not like that.

I couldn't even imagine what she'd say or do about it, although penance, prayers and pine-scented Renuzit surely would have something to do with it.

“I hope Fabio left my file for me. I thought he'd still be here to give it to me and fill me in on the details.” I sat on the edge of her desk, careful to stay clear of any Adele wires.

She pointed to a manila envelope beneath the cat tissues. “He was in such a hurry to go, he left it here. He said luck would stay with him at the casinos after he mumbled something about getting lucky last night.”

We looked at each other and let out a collective “Eeeeeeyew!”

Goldie came around the corner. “What the hell? What'd I miss? Tell me, girlfriends. Tell me!”

We laughed and filled him in.

Goldie added a few “yucks” and a screech, and then said maybe Fabio had won the daily lottery and not . . . what we were thinking.

“That's more than I like to think about Fabio at this time of the day—or any time for that matter.” I looked at the cat clock above Adele. One paw was on eight. One on the ten. “Shit. I have to go.” I'd almost forgotten about meeting Jagger.

I only hoped his little “chaperone” deal was finished by noon. I looked at my envelope.

Because I had my third case to begin.

After my goodbyes to Adele and Goldie, I hurried outside. When I saw the black Suburban pull into the lot, my heart did a stupid happy dance.

Too much caffeine in my decaf coffee. Had to be it.

Jagger pulled up next to the curb and looked at me.

“What?” I shifted from foot to foot. “I wore the damned scrubs like you said.”

“No purse. I said don't bring a purse for this job.”

Shit. I'd forgotten. I really had to pay more attention to the details. Especially Jagger details. “I'll go give it to Goldie—”

“Get in.”

He looked anxious to leave, so I hurried around the other side of the car and got in. Nick always opened the door for me. Jagger, well, was Jagger.

“Take out your essentials and leave the purse under the seat,” he said as we spun out of the parking lot.

I gave him a dirty look, figuring his eyes were on the road, but he stopped at the light and looked at me. “Essentials. No crap like makeup, perfume, or money. You won't need money.”

“Fine.” I'd learned a long time ago not to argue with Jagger. Okay, what I really learned was
when
I argued with him, I lost. I opened my bag, took out a comb, lipstick, tissue and tried to nonchalantly take out a Tampax—just in case.

When he jammed on the brake, the Tampax flew out of my hand, harpooning itself in the lambskin collar of Jagger's aviator jacket.

He pulled to a stop sign, turned and shook his head.

I reached over and grabbed the Tampax without a word. Somehow that made me feel empowered. If I'd broken down into hysterical sobs, as I wanted to do, or died of embarrassment,
which was my second choice, Jagger wouldn't respect me. One more shake of his head and we were off.

Another thing I'd learned about Jagger was when he shook his head at me once, he was perturbed. Two shakes, well, no one would want Jagger shaking his head at them twice.
Exasperated
was the word that came to mind for two shakes.

We turned onto Interstate 91 headed north.

“You said this was only going to take a few hours. Where are we going?”

“Airport.”

“Airport!” flew out of my mouth so fast a hiccup followed. I ignored it like the harpooned Tampax. “I'm not flying anywhere.” Not being a frequent flyer, I needed a few doses of my Xanax before stepping down the long jetway to confinement, and I didn't bring any. Sadly, Pauline Sokol was not a world traveler.

“No, you are not.” He turned off the airport exit and before I knew it, we'd pulled up to the curb beneath the “arrivals” sign.

“You can't park here,” I said after reading all the warning signs. “You know how tight security has gotten since 9/11.”

This time he merely looked at me. No head shaking.

Made my day.

“That state cop is coming over. You better drive around the airport a few times.”

The cop came near, leaned over, looked at me. “No stopping—”

Jagger bent forward.

The cop looked at him, tipped his hat to me and said, “Have a nice day, ma'am.”

When I was with Jagger, the same physical things often happened. Heart arrhythmia. My high IQ tanked. And
jaw problems. The “problem” was that my jaw would drop down to my chest when he'd say or do something oh-so-very Jaggerlike.

“What the hell? Why didn't you have to—” No need to finish. It was foolish to ask Jagger anything. He was as closemouthed as a clam dug out of the Rhode Island beaches. I should have known and not wasted my words.

“There.” Jagger motioned with his head toward the far door. “There she is. Mary Louise Huntington. Go get her.”

I looked up to see a young woman with blonde hair about my length coming out of the door. I stepped out of the car and squinted. “Holy shit. She looks like me!”

“Atta girl, Sherlock.”

Pleased that I'd figured something out but having no clue as to what, I started walking toward the woman, who was now followed by a nun. Another state cop came out of the far door near the baggage claim amid a crowd of people. A flight must have recently landed.

When I got closer to the woman, I said, “I'm here to escort you.” To a mental institution, but I didn't say that out loud. “I'm with him.” I turned around and pointed.

That jaw thing happened again.

No black Suburban.

No Jagger.

No idea what the hell I was doing.

I only hoped the woman, who looked even more like me close up, wouldn't freak out and give me a hard time.

“I need to pee,” she said and turned around. The nun was nowhere in sight now.

“Oh, wait,” I shouted as I followed her inside. She hurried toward the ladies' room near the baggage claim carousels. “I'm supposed to stay with you.”

I bumped into an elderly woman, coming out of the ladies' room.

“Watch it, bitch!” she shouted.

Appalled that a granny would speak that way, I offered an “excuse me” and went inside. Mary Louise must have gone into a stall. I leaned against the sink and waited. “Er . . . you all right?”

Silence.

Jagger surely would be back from driving around the airport by now. He would do more than shake his head if I messed this up.

“Look, Mary Louise, is it? I need to know that you are all—”

The door opened.

My jaw dropped to my nipples this time.

Mary Louise Huntington stood in front of me as if I were looking in a mirror.

“I . . . did you notice how much we—”

She took off her jacket. Beneath she wore drab blue scrubs.

Just like mine.

What the hell?

Before I could say a word, she hurried out the door again. I followed close behind. “Oh, no, lady. You are not getting me into trouble with Jagger.”

The nun approached, dropped her black carry-on bag and bumped into me. “Oh, sorry, Sister. I'm not usually . . . ouch!”

I looked down at my arm and saw a syringe.

A haze started to cloud the room. Or maybe it was . . . my . . . mind. My mind was . . . fuzzy. Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Stop that,
Pączki.
I laughed. The fuzzy nun pushed me into the bathroom. “Ouch.” I bumped my head on the wall. “Daddy calls me
Pgczki
.” I giggled, stumbled. “It's a Polish prune-filled donut.” Jagger.

Where the hell was Jagger?

I rubbed at my arm. Make that three arms. I saw three arms attached to me on one side, four on the other. “You pinched me. That hurt. Nuns shouldn't . . . pinch . . . what did you give me? I hope to hell that syringe was sterile!”

Without a word, she pulled off her veil.

He?

He pulled off his veil, and he wasn't at all like Goldie. It didn't seem as if he usually dressed like a nun. I pushed at his chest and made it to the doorway of the restroom. Thank goodness there was no door that I had to open. My three arms felt as if they were made of rubber. Whatever was in that shot had kicked in, and I felt like crap.

My mouth went dry.

My skin prickled.

My heart raced until the room spun, turned dark and started to wink out.

In the distance, on the other side of the glass doors, watching—stood
Jagger.

Talk about cottonmouth.

My eyelids refused to open and my mouth felt as if the dentist had left reams of cotton between my gums and my cheeks. Cool air swirled around me and I heard the hum of an air conditioner.

And there was a familiar, medicinal smell in the air.

My forehead wrinkled as I tried so damn hard to open my eyes. Maybe I'd overslept, and Goldie had left for work without me. Why did Miles have the A/C on in March? Was it really March? What the hell was that smell?

Just because I'd turned thirty-five didn't mean I should be losing my memory. Airport. I thought about the airport. What was that all about? I sucked in a breath and decided I wanted to sleep for about a year.

But I had a case to start.

That's right. I had a case to start. Open, eyes. Open, says me.

My eyelids moved in slow motion, until I could see through a haze. Stark white. Miles's condo was done in designer white. White beanbag chair. White leather sofa and love seat.

I lifted my head. White walls. No window. Twin bed
with some kind of iron footboard. Not Miles's condo by a long shot. More like a hospital. Yeah. A hospital bed.

Had I been in an accident?

Frightened, I tried to push up to a sitting position. Hm, nothing hurt more than a few sore muscles and my arm. If I'd been in an accident, I'd expect more pain. I went to grab the iron bedrail.

My hands were shackled to it!

The “scream heard round the world” came out of my mouth with such force, I thought I'd damaged something important in my throat.

Silence.

My head flopped back down. I shut my eyes to try to think. Airport. Me. Woman. Man. Nun. Male nun. Jagger.

Jagger.

Jagger watching through the glass doors—and doing nothing to help me!