The Stiff and the Dead (3 page)

Uncle Walt, you dog.

He looked in the window. “Helen Wanat, this is my niece, Pauline Sokol.”

Helen. Helen something. So this was the woman Henry Wisnowski and now apparently Uncle Walt fancied. Hmm.

I reached my hand out to shake hers. Firm grip for a senior. “
Favorite
niece, that is,” I said.

Uncle Walt and I laughed. Helen looked at both of us as if we were whacko. “Family joke,” I added. I leaned near Uncle Walt while Helen went back to the mirror to wipe some fire-engine red lipstick from her tooth. Very white tooth. Original if I ever saw one.

Uncle Walt looked at his watch. “Oh boy, eleven fifty-five. You coming in for lunch, Helen?”

Never looking away from the mirror, she said in a rather deep voice, “We just ate at the restaurant, Walty.”

I could only stare. Walty?

He shrugged. “How about you, Pauline?” He released my grip and started to turn as if he thought if he didn't make it in by noon, Mother wouldn't serve him. Of course, that idea wasn't far from reality.

“Mom fixed me a sandwich earlier.”

He froze. “It's not noon.”

“You got me on that one. No telling what she was thinking. Anyway, I came here to talk to you.”

Before he could say anything else, Helen turned back, stuck her head out of the window and blew a kiss. I guessed it wasn't for me. She did nod in my direction, though, as I said, “Nice meeting you.”

Once inside, Uncle Walt must have remembered that he did in fact eat after the funeral since he didn't touch Mom's coleslaw with vinegar. He told us that the Wisnowski family put on a pretty nice spread at the Polish Falcon Club. He apparently reconsidered and began to eat a ham sandwich. I smiled to myself when he slipped the hothouse tomatoes out and, more clever than myself, shoved them into the pocket of his black suit jacket.

I only hoped he remembered them soon after leaving the table. Not like me.

Uncle Walt and I excused ourselves and went into his room under the pretense that we were going to look up Helen's vintage Thunderbird in one of his magazines. Once I walked through the doorway into the “brown” room, I slunk into the overstuffed chair by the window. Mom kept the room clean, and Uncle Walt was almost a neat freak, although not as bad as Goldie or Miles. No one was as addicted to clean as Miles was.

Uncle Walt methodically took off his suit jacket and removed the tomatoes, which he wrapped in a tissue and then set on the end table. He reached over and switched on a lamp whose shade was a still life of Niagara Falls. Any second now, I expected the water to cascade onto his brown carpet. I looked at the dresser near his bed.

Uncle Walt had saved me financially during my last case when he miraculously produced a wad—and I'm talking a four-figure wad of cash—from a secret drawer. That's how I bought my first surveillance camera.

“So, Pauline, need more money?” He hung his jacket over the wooden butler near the closet door.

“Hmm? Oh, no. I don't need money.” Well, I do, but this time I have to earn it. “No, Uncle Walt, I actually came to you on official investigator business.”

“You mean how I know Henry was murdered?”

If my teeth weren't “original,” I'd be wearing them on my lap. I reached up to push my jaw shut. “Well, actually, yes.”

Uncle Walt beamed. Suddenly, he looked as if he had a purpose in life—and that was to help me with my case.

Most times I didn't know what
I
was doing, but being a stubborn Pole, I persisted. I sure didn't need an eighty-year-old “helping” me out.

“He was cremated, you know.”

How could I? “No, actually I didn't.” I shifted in my seat at the thought. No body. Difficult investigation.

Uncle Walt settled on the bed and pulled at his suspenders a few times. “You need answers, Pauline, and I'm your man. But one thing I need to know is, why are
you
asking about Henry's murder?”

Just as Uncle Walt was about to spill the beans as to why he thought Mr. Wisnowski was murdered, my cell phone went off. Thank goodness, too, since, honoring the confidentiality of my case, I had no idea what I would tell him as to why I was interested in Mr. Wisnowski's death. It also gave me time to try to think of a lie about that. Lying was not in my top-ten mastered skills.

Catholic school and all.

A scratchy, pathetic voice wheezed from the other end. Goldie's appointment. I told Uncle Walt we'd talk real soon, scurried out the door before having to stop for a cup of tea and some kind of homemade dessert, and headed back to Scarpello and Tonelli Insurance Company.

That's where I found Goldie curled up in the fetal position on his zebra couch, looking very much like a baby boy—no, girl. I leaned near. No, boy. His mascara—okay, girl—had smudged off onto the sleeve of his gold-and-white-striped blouse. Either way the guy looked pitiable.

I wrapped him in a faux fox jacket and hurried him out to the car, whispering to Adele on the way what I was doing. I didn't want Fabio to come bustling out of his office and insist Goldie stay to do some stupid work. That'd be like Fabio. As for me, my nursing instincts collided with my womanly intuition, which bombarded my motherly desires every time I ran across someone who was ill, and I had to help.

And darling Goldie was a mess.

I pulled up to the entrance of the Hope Valley Clinic and told him to get out and wait for me on the bench outside the door. Of course, with the number of elderly that frequented the place, he'd be lucky to get a seat. Still, it was a perfect clinic when you felt like crap. Not only could you get treated, but they also had a pharmacy and medical supply store on the same floor, owned by the same crafty conglomerate.

“Am I gonna die, Suga?”

I smiled at him before he stepped out. “Yes—”

“Oooooooh!”

I grabbed the faux fur sleeve. “Gold, joking. I was joking. We are all going to die, but not soon.”

He stepped out slowly and shuffled his gold spike heels on the pavement until he slumped onto the bench between two senior citizen ladies. They each smiled at him.

I readied to park and saw Helen Wanat pulling into a space. Made me think of Henry Wisnowski and how I hoped to hell death wasn't going to be knocking on my door very soon. I made a mental note to call Uncle Walt from my cell phone while I waited for Goldie.

I hurried out of the car and took him by the arm. “Come on, Gold.” As we ambled toward the revolving door, I noticed a giant red circle with a red line across a cell phone much like the no smoking signs. Damn. I'd have to wait a bit to call Uncle Walt.

The receptionist, a twenty-something bimbo with blonde hair and glasses halfway down her nose, was snapping bubble gum. She looked up without blinking an eye. I assumed she saw plenty of odd characters while working at this clinic and had learned to accept everyone, or she was so jaded that she didn't notice “not normal.” She shoved a clipboard onto the countertop. “Sign in.”

Goldie managed to fill in his information. I shoved the clipboard back at her. “How long does he have to wait?”

She looked over the glasses at me without a crack of a smile. “Until he's called.”

I curled my lips so she could see, but figured I was wasting my time. “Duh,” I whispered to Goldie. “Come sit over by the window in the nice sun.”

He nodded and followed along. When he sat down, the nurse stuck her head out of the door and called, “Goldie Perlman.”

“Wow. Good timing.” I got up and gave him a hand. We walked to the door, where the nurse took a look at both of us.

“Who's Goldie?”

“The sick one,” I said, patted his arm and turned to go. I swung back before the door closed. “I'll wait out here after I make my phone call, Gold.”

He muttered something that sounded like “okay.” The nurse interrupted with “No cell phones on inside the building.”

Some days I just wanted to scream.

I went outside and sat on the bench, where I dug around in my purse. The cell phone was hidden on the bottom. I pulled it out and pushed the
on
button.

Nothing.

“Cripes.” I'd forgotten to charge it. This was a major thorn in my paw. I pulled myself up and headed to my car to find the charger that Jagger had given me.

Next to my car an old rattletrap of a Buick pulled in as I walked to the passenger side, where the charger was in the glove compartment. I was thinking about how Jagger had threatened to have a microchip put on my tooth so he could always find me, when the driver's side door of the rattletrap swung open—and slammed into my chest.

“
Whoosh!
” Air flew out of my mouth, which had to be a good thing or I might have been really hurt.

An older gentleman jumped out of the car. Very spry for a man who had to be in his seventies. “Oh, my,
Bellisima
young lady, are you-a all right?”

His heavy Italian accent fit perfectly with his black pinstriped suit, heavy mustache and head of gray hair. Looked as if he'd stepped out of Don Corleone's parlor after doing “business.” He was rather tall for an elderly gentleman, but I figured he held himself upright with perfect posture and that's what made him look tall, and very handsome and—I'm sorry to say this, but I noticed—built.

Helen Wanat passed by and gave an award-winning smile to the guy who'd just winded me. “Hello, Joey.”

I think she purred.

Suddenly I wondered if purring at a nice, elderly, handsome Italian man could be construed as cheating on my uncle. She looked at me. I looked down. The print of the door handle of the rattletrap was imbedded in my Steelers' parka. I was a diehard Steelers fan along with Uncle Walt and hated to see anything happen to my parka. “Accident. It was an accident,” I managed while still a bit short of breath. “How are you, Helen?”

“Fine.” She looked at me again as if to say that accidents like this probably always happened to me—and she wouldn't be far from the truth. I turned toward the man who was ogling Helen. “My uncle is a friend of Helen. I'm Pauline Sokol.”

He held out a gray-gloved hand. I had visions of Adele, wearing her gloves. I shook Joey's hand. Firm grip. Geez. I hoped my muscles still held up like his and Helen's when I got to be their age. I figured Joey wore gloves as a statement of his past. He looked very traditional.

“Joseph Tino.” He bowed.

Wow. No one ever bowed at me. How cute. I found myself liking this guy already and wondered if about forty years difference would be a no-no for dating him. I mentally shook my hormone-driven thoughts out of my head and said, “Nice to meet you.”

He looked at my parka. “I can-a get that fixed for you?”

“Oh. No, I'll just hang it in the bathroom when I shower and the steam will iron it out.”

Joey grinned!

Joey, you dog, you.

“And you are sura you are not hurt,
Bellisima?
”

I got stuck on the bellisima part and could only stare for a few seconds.

“He asked if you were hurt, Pauline.”

Wow. That got my attention. Helen's voice packed quite the punch. Uncle Walt might be barking up the wrong tree with this one. I turned to her and said, “I'm fine.” Then I turned back to Joey. “I am fine. Thank you for asking.”

He excused himself and walked into the clinic. I hoped he didn't have a serious illness. Helen stared at him as if he were a prime roast of beef and then nodded and went off toward the pharmacy. What a waste of a vintage set of wheels, I thought, looking back at her car. Suddenly I really didn't like Helen.

Which reminded me of why I came out here in the first place.

Once the cell phone was connected to the charger, I called Uncle Walt. After a few minutes of chatting and telling him I'd seen Helen here, and Joey, Uncle Walt paused. “Joey the Wooer. Sheeeet.”

I mentally pictured the dapper Italian man. Okay, he probably could woo a woman over sixty since there was something almost sexy about him. Eeyeuuw. That was a pathetic thought. I didn't even want to get into a mental argument with myself about how long it'd been since I . . .
That
I blamed on my ex-boyfriend, old Doc Taylor, and his shenanigans. Instead of allowing my mind to go down that road, I asked, “Wooer?”

“Yep. Old Widow Bivalaqua gave him the nickname after she met him in the clinic.”

“Is he sickly?” He certainly didn't look it.

“Joey? Sheeeet. I would guess he's the Italian version of Jack LaLanne. You remember that old fitness guru who had the TV show Pauline?”

I pictured the man in the jumpsuit who ate healthy, exercised on TV and sold one of those juicer machines. Then I pictured Joey the Wooer. Hmm. Guess he could do his own over-seventy program. “I do remember, Uncle Walt. But back to why I called.”

“Henry?”

I held the phone close to my mouth and whispered. “Yes, Henry. Tell me about why you think he was . . . murdered.”

“Okay, but you're going to have to speak up.”

I looked around the car. No one in sight. “Why do you think that Mr. Wisnowski was killed?”

Pause.

“Uncle Walt?”

“I had to shut my door, Pauline. You know how your mother is. And, besides, Stash is due in any minute. Your father went to get him at the airport.”

I mentally groaned. Now we'd have a whole set of new problems to deal with. “Okay, so now you can talk.”

“Yes. Henry first met Helen at the senior citizens center. Bingo night. No, wait—”

I heard a shuffling, then a cough. “Uncle Walt? Are you all right?”

“Your mother passed by my door. Maybe we should meet somewhere. Somewhere inconspicuous.”

I mentally laughed. Imagine a thirty-four-year-old blonde in some clandestine meeting with an eighty-one-year-old bald man. Yeah, no one would notice. Maybe in LA or New York City, but in Hope Valley we'd stand out like the proverbial sore thumb. “I really have to get going on my case. Can't you just tell me now?”