A Dose of Murder
This book is dedicated to my dad, Stanley Gansecki, whom I miss very much
.
T
o Sal, Mario, and Greg, for all their support throughout the years, and for staying out of my office when asked to.
For my mom, Helen Gansecki, my sister, Margaret Braddon, cousins Alice Meattey, Liz Nawrocki and Barbara Nawrocki (all descendents of the
real
Pauline Sokol and supportive family members).
To Stanley Gansecki, my dad, who is watching from heaven.
And Pauline Sokol, my babci (grandma) who, too, has passed through the Pearly Gates.
To the late Eileen Hehl, fellow writer, who encouraged me to use my nursing background in my work.
To Jay Poyner and Erica Orloff, fabulous agents who believed in this series from the query letter to the final draft.
To Erin Richnow, editor, whose suggestions only improved this work and who “gets” my sense of humor.
To Kimberly Peterson Zaniewski, my best cheerleader and writer friend.
And to Barbara L. Hodgins, a real-life investigator, who helped with my research of a field I knew little to nothing about. So, any errors are solely my fault.
To all CTRWA, NEC/RWA, NJRW, LIRWA and Rom-Vets members who rooted for me throughout my career. Thanks.
And to anyone else that I forgot. Thanks and sorry.
I plowed headfirst into the elevatorâand smack dab into . . . him
!
I've never fainted in my life, but sure as hell tried to right then.
Still coherent, I heard the doors close behind me and turned to see no other soul had gotten in.
Damn!
I pushed myself away from his granite chest and stood tall. Well, as tall as my five-six could get next to what had to be his six-three. I shut my eyes and asked Saint Theresa to have the elevator get down in warp speed.
The damn thing stopped!
My eyes flew open. There he stood . . . with his hand on the emergency stop button.
Guess Saint Theresa was busy.
“Open wide.” If I had to repeat that order to this kid one more time, I'd stick my head into the autoclave and roast my brain until it popped like a kernel of corn. Of course, first I'd have to remove all the instruments that are sterilized in the darn thing. That's how my day was going. That's how this damn career was going.
No, that's how my
life
was going.
I glared at the closemouthed kid sitting in front of me in the pediatrician's office I'd offered to work in for a weekâand groaned.
What the hell was I thinking?
I had a permanent job at the Hospital of Saint Greg's. I didn't need this. Why did I insist on doing favors for others all the time?
Stinky Lapuc, the little boy sitting in front of me with his mouth clamped shut tighter than a clam facing a pot of boiling water, glared at me from his perch on the examining table. I called him “Stinky” because the dear must have eaten beans prior to his visit at the office. His real name on the chart was John. Boring. I liked “Stinky” better. It had character. He had gas.
I waved the throat swab in front of his beady, watery eyes. “Open wide, my dear,” I repeated in my best Cinderella's Fairy Godmother voice. “Open wide and let Nurse Pauline Sokol take a peek at those handsome tonsils you have.” If not, kiddo, this swab gets poked into your tummy until you open. Okay, I'd never poke a five-year-old, but the way I felt right now, I enjoyed a moment of thinking I was capable of child poking.
Today while my feet hurt worse than Stinky's possible strep throat, I stood there and looked at the swab in my hand. Before I stuck it into his bacteria-laced throat, I wished, for a second, that it was a magic wand and I could whisk myself away to Club Med.
Because, although I don't have a mercenary bone in my body, I also didn't have any money in my savings account, and a magic wand was the only way I'd get there. Admittedly, I'm a shopoholic, but hey, I'm singleânot something I'm proud of by the way, and don't get my mother started on thatâand could shop till I dropped. But not today. Today even shopping didn't pique my interest. Hell, I was tired of taking odd jobs on my vacations. I was tired of my regular job as a unit director in Labor and Delivery who hired and fired staff. I didn't have the stomach for the firing. Frankly, I'd been considering the fact that I was . . .
burned out
.
Nursing had been my life, yet now . . . I needed a change. But I couldn't afford to just quit with no future plans.
Stinky looked as if he needed to cough or yawn or something, so I aimed my swab. “Open wide, sugar-doll.”
His mother, Mrs. Lapuc and cousin to Andrea Lapuc, who went to high school with me and stole my boyfriend Stephen, gave me an odd look. “You think you could get him to open?” I asked in my most professional voice, although that poking thing wouldn't leave my thoughts.
She took the boy by his collar. “Do what she says or no dessert tonight.”
Amazed that the old threat was still used by parents today (My mother had used it as her dinner mantra until I was about thirty. No, wait, she still uses it on me), I stood at the ready.
Stinky hesitated. Then, as if watching a drawbridge go up in slow motion when you're the last car in line and you have to pee, I took the swab from the holder, held it at the ready, and saw his little lips part. It wasn't enough yet, so I gave a pleading look to his mom.
“Dessert.”
That did the trick.
Or so I thought, until he bit down on the swab, leaving half of it in my hand. “Don't swallow!” I reached toward his lips. “Open.”
He looked at me, then the remainder of the swab shot out with the force of his tongue clearly behind it. I looked down. The swab was stuck to my left breast. “Excuse me.” I walked out of the room, screamed inside my head and promptly went to get another one.
“Don't do that this time,” I said, giving another pleading look at his mother when I came back in.
“He doesn't feel good, you know.”
And I hated my career.
“That's why he's behaving like this,” she said, then grabbed his arm. “Open!”
He did, and the swab hit its mark before he clamped shut like Jaws again, and I had myâhopefullyâlast patient taken care of. I gave the mother instructions about the test and turned to go.
Mrs. Lapuc bundled Stinky up although the office had to be a hundred degrees. Outside was snow covered and maybe in the thirties, but this wasn't Alaska. It was Connecticut, for crying out loud.
Babies cried. Toddlers ran rampant. Older kids, I'm guessing by the colorful language, yelled words to the nurses that even I didn't use in the privacy of my home when alone, and the odor of diapers, full and ripe, mixed with medicine that no kid in their right mind would take unless under threat of mother.
The soreness in my feet spread to the tips of my shoulder-length blonde (natural, I swear!) hair, which was wrapped, nurse-style, upon my head. When I got to the nurses' station and had given the swab to Maryann, the full-time nurse who'd know better what to do with it, I collapsed into a chair. Thank goodness it wheeled itself into the counter with the weight of my fall and not out into the hallway where I could have bowled over one of the little patients.
I leaned back with my hands behind my head and momentarily shut my eyes. Then I heard a rustle from behind and didn't care if an attack of some sort was imminent, as long as a group of out-of-control kids didn't wheel me into a closet, since I am, admittedly, claustrophobic. I didn't budge.
“The Lapuc kid's swab is negative,” Maryann said.
Relieved it was her and not that wild group or some crazed pediatric patient with a scalpel behind me, I managed to shake my head. “Good.”
“Want me to tell his mom? You look beat.”
To my surprise, one eye opened. The left one. It had always been my strongest and the deepest gray, which came from my Viking ancestors who'd invaded Poland years back. I didn't know I had it in me to open either eye. “That'd be great.” With my one-eye vision, I watched her shuffling papers, signing things, writing notes. God, I was tired. “How do you do it? How do you manage to stay awake all day and not commit hara-kiri at the end of your shift?”
She laughed. I wished I had the energy to join her. It seemed as if it would be fun to laugh. I think I remember laughing in 1992.
“You get used to it,” she said as she turned and walked down the hallway.
Used to it
? I sat bolt upright. That was like saying to drink Scotch you'd have to “acquire” the horrible, throat-burning taste. I didn't want to acquire a taste for Scotch or get
used
to this never-ending state of exhaustion I'd been in the last twelve years.
I looked into the highly buffed side of the autoclave. There I was. Thirty-four years old. Bags threatening to materialize under my eyes and a possible wrinkle forming on each side. Crow's-feet. I might have crow's-feet! Okay, maybe they were from leaning my hand against my face, but I was starting to look . . . older. Still, I told myself, I wasn't bad-looking. In fact, in my youthful, self-absorbed teens, I actually won Ms. Hope Valley, twice. Blonde Polack beats voluptuous brunette Wop. That's what I'd put in my diary.
Now I was burned out from nursing, had no husbandâactually no love interest at present, and I refused to count Dr. Vance G. Taylor even though we'd been on and off again for the last five years. In high school he wore pocket protectors and was called “Vancy.” Today, well, I'd give him this. The guy was a living doll who still wore pocket protectors. Looked like a younger version of George Hamilton. Year-round tan included. Not even ethnic. True WASP, Vance was. And well off to boot. An orthopedic surgeon.
But there just wasn't any spark between us. At least not on my end. My mother, bless her heart, couldn't understand that one.
Take a number
, I thought.
Maryann came around the corner. I'd seen her reflection in the autoclave as she came from behind. “You ready to call it quits for the day?” she asked.
I looked at her in the silver metal. “No, I'm ready to call it quits . . .
for good
.”
“You have no job?” my mother asked as if I'd grown two blue heads and just arrived from Venus. She looked about as shocked as she did when my oldest sister, Mary, had said she was leaving the convent and getting married. That news came after Mary had gotten her bachelor's degree compliments of the Sisters of Saint Francisâand before she left. Talk about Catholic-induced guilt. Mom had won the prize that year. Now she might be in contention again, thanks to me.
“I'll get something else.” I let my legs dangle off the stool while I rested my head in my palms on the turquoise Formica counter.
My parents had lived in this house for forty-three years, and never upgraded the decor. Each time I came back for a visit, I half expected Donna Reed to come waltzing in with Lucy on one arm and the Beav on the other.
The aroma of kielbasa and sauerkraut hung in the air, and tonight mother was cooking meatloaf. Since both parents were purebred Poles, the house had absorbed the aroma somewhere around 1970, and not even my mother's Renuzit air freshener (fresh mountain pine) fetish could get it out of the air.
