The Stiff and the Dead (25 page)

I pointed to the pantry. “Don't make any messes. Miles can't take it. I'll be right back.” I gave Spanky a pat, but the dog ignored me and nuzzled Jagger's arm.

Smart dog.

Once in the bathroom, I started to undress, then thought about Jagger being downstairs. Like a fool, okay a wishful fool, I rechecked the door lock. Yep,
unlocked.

I got into the shower and turned the handle on full blast. The water felt wonderful after last night. Not that I got that dirty, since I had on my winter clothes, but on principle I felt cleaner afterward.

When I headed into my room to change, I remembered how long it had taken me the other night to pick out an outfit for my date. Then it dawned on me that I hadn't even thought about Nick all night.

That was not a good sign.

My “Nick likes me” mantra ran through my head until I was dressed in my jeans, long blue sweater and had my hair pulled up. There wasn't time to wash and dry it, so I went with the casual look. I reapplied my makeup and headed downstairs.

Something smelled good. Certainly wasn't plain old toast. Famished now, I opened the swinging door to the kitchen. Spanky sat on the floor watching.

Me, I leaned against the wall and joined the dog.

Jagger moved about as if he owned the place. Coffee perked. Bacon sizzled. On the griddle were two gigantic pancakes. He stood over them, slicing bananas onto them. Without looking up, he said, “Hope you like bananas.”

For a second I thought he was talking to Spanky. “Oh . . . yes. But I've never had them in my pancakes.” I managed to move away from the wall, take a mug from the table Jagger had set and filled it with coffee. After several yawns, I needed the caffeine.

I had to smile when I set the mug down on the table to put in my cream and sugar. He'd used Miles's everyday white pottery dishes. But instead of using napkins, Jagger had folded paper towels and set them next to them. The fork, knife and spoon all sat on the left side of the dish. I had the urge to correct it, but held back.

Did it really matter?

Obviously Jagger did things his own way—and that's what made him Jagger.

“This is so nice of you,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. “I thought we were going out to eat.”

He looked at me. “Not before I showered.”

I smiled, knowing he did it 'cause I was upset. “Touché. Who knew you could cook?” I sat at the table and took another sip of coffee.

“Jack of all trades.”

I'll bet you are.

He turned around and set a plateful of bacon on the table, which he followed with the two pancakes too large to fit on a plate. Those he juggled on the spatula and pan while hurrying over to the table. My pancake he set down, folded in half.

“Thanks. This looks wonderful.” I would
not
allow myself any “homey” or “sexy” thoughts of us sharing breakfast on a cold winter's day. So, I took the heated maple syrup and poured way too much over my pancake.

We ate in silence, which didn't surprise me. After taking the last bite, even though I was stuffed, I said, “I'm so full. You did a great job, Jagger.” I had to get up and move around, or else I'd gain twenty pounds just sitting there.

He got up and started taking his dish to the sink.

“Oh no. House rules. Whoever cooks doesn't clean up.” I stifled another yawn and got up.

He set the dish back on the table. “Good rule. So how long has Goldie been here?”

“Just moved in.” After another yawn, I could feel him staring at me, probably wondering why the hell I was still there. “I'm planning on moving out.”

He nodded. “Where to?”

I couldn't get the words “my parents' house” to come out of my lips, so I just shrugged. “Haven't looked around yet.”

“Rent gets expensive . . . alone.”

What? Was Jagger insinuating that we should move in together or had the Viagra rebounded?

“Tell me about it. You know of any cheap places? Oh, I don't mean cheap as in crummy. I mean nice, safe places that aren't too expensive.”

“Do you think I'd set you up in an unsafe place?”

I let out a sigh. “I'm overtired and not responsible for what I say all day today.”

Ring. Ring!

We both looked at the phone together. “Funny how sometimes even the ringer sounds impatient.” I picked it up. “Hello.”

“Pauline?”

“Yes, Mother. Who else would answer when you called my number?”

“Pauline, where have you been? I've been trying to get you all morning!”

I was about to tell a lie, but her voice sounded too concerned about something. “What's wrong, Ma. Daddy all right? Uncle Walt?” Oh, no! Had something happened to Uncle Walt like Mr. W? “Uncle Stash?”

“That one.”

“Something is wrong with Uncle Stash?”

“Get over here right away, Pauline.” She sniffled.

“Oh, my God, Mom! Call an ambulance!”

Her voice stiffened. “An ambulance couldn't fix this, Pauline.” She hung up.

Jagger had already picked up the rest of the dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher while I had been on the phone.

“My mother—”

“I'll take you over there.”

“I . . . I'll go alone. She sounded strange.”

“You can't drive.”

I grabbed my purse and keys from the table. “Yes I can.” My vision blurred. Another yawn. He was right. I hadn't slept enough last night. “You're probably as tired as I am.”

He walked to the front door, opened it. “I slept, Sherlock.”

All the way to my mother's house, I kept thinking of Jagger sleeping and me a wreck all night. I vowed never to go on a “midnight mission” with him ever again.

Then again, I'd also vowed I'd never take a nursing job again, and here I was. If I learned anything, it should have been not to make any vows to myself where Jagger was concerned.

He turned down Pleasant Street, taking the back roads. He'd been to my parents' house last Christmas.

My mother liked Jagger.

No telling what was going on now, or what she'd say when I showed up with him at this time of the morning.

When we pulled into the driveway, I hurried out. Jagger was right behind. On the way over, I'd assured myself that Uncle Stash couldn't be sick or an ambulance would be needed.

Then again, if he were dead . . .

“Mom!” I shoved open the front door and ran inside.

“In here,
Pączki,
” my father called out from the kitchen.

Running in, I said, “Daddy, what is going on?”

Mother stepped forward with a coffeepot in her hand. “Why didn't you tell me you were bringing company, Pauline? For heaven's sake, where are your manners?” She set the coffeepot on a hotplate shaped like a strawberry in the middle of the table. “How are you, Mr. Jagger?”

She always insisted on adding the “mister” and I couldn't explain that he only had one name—which I knew of anyway.

“He's fine, Ma. I didn't tell you because you had me so upset. What the hell is going on?”

Jagger touched my arm. “Relax, Sherlock.”

“That's right, Pauline. Mind your manners and get Mr. Jagger a chair, and let him answer for himself.”

“I've been fine, Mrs. Sokol.”

Uncle Walt and my father sat at the table. I nodded to them and grabbed the chair near the wall phone. I looked at Jagger. “Here. Sit.”

Mother shook her head. “Let me fix you some scrambled eggs.”

“We already ate, Ma. What is going on?”

“What did you eat? Coffee? A donut?” She got up and went toward the refrigerator.

“Jagger made us pancakes!” I couldn't control myself now. Being summoned here for some emergency and then being fed again (because I didn't want her to know that we'd spent the night together no matter how—hopefully—platonic it was) was too much to take.

My entire family locked eyes with me. Mother's were the strongest, pulling the truth out of me.

“He came . . . we had work to do. After the work he made breakfast. Now why the hell am I here?”

Mother wiped her hands on her favorite winter apron. The one with red cardinals sitting on naked brown branches highlighted with snow. She looked me in the eye.

At first I thought she was going to go on about breakfast, pancakes and Jagger. But instead she cleared her throat. “Your uncle is getting married.”

My eyes bugged out. I swung around to Uncle Walt. “Congratu—”

“Not him,” Mother said. “Uncle Stash.”

I felt my knees weaken. Jagger must have noticed, because his arms were on mine. I leaned into his chest for support. “Uncle Stash. Uncle Stash is getting married to someone he knows from back home in Florida?”

“No,
Pączki,
” Daddy said. “Stash is marrying that woman. Helen Wanat.”

I turned to see a tear run down Uncle Walt's cheek.

Through clenched teeth I managed, “Uncle Stash is marrying Helen? Helen?” That last word came out as a screech.

Jagger pulled me to the side. “Easy, Sherlock.”

I know he meant to watch out for Uncle Walt's feelings, and I surely did care about them, but right now I was also worried about Uncle Stash.

Since I'd never liked Helen, I could only assume she was marrying my uncle for his money. Damn woman. Poor Uncle Walt never had as much as Uncle Stash, and Helen must have found that out.

I looked at Uncle Walt. He winked at me. He'd be fine, I knew then. But I eased away from Jagger, went to Uncle Walt and bent near his ear. “Her loss.”

He took my hand and then looked at my mother. “Pauline and I have some business to attend to.”

We do?

“I'll make up some sweet rolls,” my mother said.

Daddy had gone back to reading the paper.

Uncle Walt motioned for Jagger to join us. We headed down the hallway toward his room.

“Sssh.” He walked in and held his finger to his lips. Then he looked out the door as if my mother had followed us. Which, by the way, wasn't that far-fetched an idea.

But she hadn't. I told Jagger to sit in the stuffed chair by the window while I dropped down onto the bed. Uncle Walt stood near the door as if standing guard.

I looked at Jagger. We shared a smile. My uncle was so cute. I really hoped his feelings weren't that hurt.

“So, Uncle Walt. What do we need to talk about?”

“Helen,” he whispered.

Jagger looked at Uncle Walt. “Sorry about that.”

Uncle Walt waved a hand in the air as if dismissing Jagger's words. “Thanks for the condolences, son, but they are not needed.”

“I'm confused,” I said. “I thought you were . . . were ‘involved' with Helen.”

Uncle Walt moved closer to us. He sat on the edge of the bed next to me, but kept looking from Jagger to myself. “Oh, don't get me wrong. I had some ‘fun' with the woman. I liked her. At first, that is. But, no way would I marry at this age.”

I patted his hand. “You're never too old, Uncle Walt.”

“Yes. Yes you are, Pauline. I wouldn't marry someone so much younger and have her stuck taking care of me. Why, Old Man Westerly married Hannah Carmichael when she was in her sixties. He was seventy-five. Now she spends her days visiting him in the nursing home. Done it for six years now. He doesn't even know who she is. No kind of life. No kind of life.”

“So,” Jagger asked, “you're not heartbroken that your brother is marrying Helen?”

“I'm upset all right, but not for the reasons you two young ones think. No siree. Stash and I have never been close.” He turned toward me. “You know that, Pauline.”

“Hey, we all have our favorites.” I patted his hand.

He smiled. “True. You are my favorite niece. Well, I have a special fondness for you since you never married and had children. The others are all so busy with their families. But not you.”

Thank you for the reminder, Uncle Walt.

I decided to ignore that comment, since, in fact, it was all true and there was nothing to argue about. I also chose not to look at Jagger—but knew damn well he was grinning.

“So why bring us in here? What is so secret, Uncle Walt?”

“I think Helen can't be trusted.” With that he leaned back a bit, and waited.

I looked at Jagger.

He shrugged.

“Okay, Uncle Walt. Helen obviously can't be trusted since she went behind your back and dated your brother. But what does that have to do with us?”

He leaned near, grabbed Jagger's and my arms and pulled us closer. “Don't you two youngsters understand? She can't be
trusted.
” He looked at the door as if expecting someone to crash through it. “I'm surprised at you, Pauline. You too, Jagger. I thought you both were better at your jobs. A smart nurse, Pauline. Helen . . . is in on it.”

Jagger and I looked at each other again. I wondered if I looked as confused as he did. “In on what?”