A Dose of Murder (13 page)

I sunk down into my seat.

Even the fact that he admitted he was from Hartford didn't help. My face was already hotter than my mother's meatloaf (and she was a stickler for serving food piping hot).

Daddy went on about how he's called me the little Polish donut name since I was born, weighing in at a whopping ten pounds, five ounces. How pink and round I had been, he added. Thank you very much, Daddy.

I looked past my mother to the brocade avocado green drapes that have hung in the dining room forever and contemplated if the drawstring was strong enough to make a noose out of.

Before I finished planning my demise, I heard a deep chuckle, and glanced up to see Jagger looking my way.

So, I straightened up in my seat, ignored my lobster complexion and said, “Hartford. Small world. So you've lived in Connecticut all your life?”

He took a sip of the Coors that my father insisted needed to follow the whiskey shot the Polish always offered their company. I'd be looped and on the floor if I'd had the two Jagger so graciously accepted and drank. Didn't look as if they'd fazed him.

“No.”

I waited. Mother excused herself to clean up. Daddy sipped at his Coors and Uncle Walt kinda nodded off. Dessert would get him kicking again. And I sat there still waiting for more of an answer than a simple no.

None came.

Daddy broke the ice with, “Hartford. Did you hear that, Stella? Jagger is from Hartford. Not too far away.”

From the kitchen Mom called, “Do you still have family there, dear?”

Dear?

“None left, I'm afraid.”

Mother stuck her head out of the door. “Oh my. That means you don't have family to spend Christmas with.”

I could hear her talking—knew what was coming. But her voice slowed in motion like that deep sound you hear in a scary movie.

“Spend Christmas with us. We celebrate twice. Christmas Eve we call Wagilia. Then you have to come back for Christmas Day. No one should be by themselves on Christmas. . . .”

Unless they're Jagger! I sat frozen to my seat. Maybe he'd decline.
Pauline, you nut case!
Of course he'll decline. Release your fists before your nails poke holes in your skin. He'll decline.

“Sounds wonderful. Thanks,” Jagger said.

“Pauline, help your mother,” Daddy said.

Help my mother do what? I could think of a few things right now, but I got up like a robot and started to clear the dishes. When I reached for Jagger's dish, his hand grasped mine.

Lord, I hoped my father didn't notice the little hitch in my breath.

And that—please, Saint Theresa—Jagger didn't hear either.

“I'll get it,” he said, then pushed back his chair, stood and helped me clear the table.

One wouldn't think an FBI agent would do dishes.

My mother bustled about the kitchen getting the good china out of the hutch. When I'd arrived earlier, unannounced and with Jagger in tow, she had insisted we eat in the dining room.

On a Monday!

Even my parents had been affected by my new job and . . . Jagger .

“Get some ice cream out, Pauline,” Mom said as she lifted the metal cover off the ancient cake tin she'd had since my birth. “Chocolate.”

Hmm. Maybe Jagger had Mom needing chocolate too.

I did what I was told and got out the Hood chocolate ice cream, the scooper I knew she'd tell me to get next, and five clean forks.

“Get the ice-cream scooper and five clean forks too, Pauline.” She never looked back but trudged ahead, cake in hand.

I looked at Jagger. He smiled.

Maybe he'd had a Polish mother too.

Then again, he didn't look Polish. More Mediterranean, although his name offered little clue. When I got to the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, he leaned near.

“We're not finished.”

My knees buckled. I stumbled into his chest and poked a fork into his arm.

“Ouch!”

My mother stood behind him glaring at me. “What are you doing, Pauline?” She grabbed the silverware as if the forks were lethal weapons and ordered, “Get a clean fork. I'm so sorry, Mister Jagger.”

He smiled. “No problem.”

Dessert was fabulous as usual. Other than that bread pudding on Fridays, my mother could open her own bakery. Of course when you spend your life cooking for others, you're bound to get pretty damn good at it.

After Jagger and I cleaned up, he looked at Uncle Walt, who was fast asleep with a smudge of chocolate on his upper lip.

Jagger looked at my father. “Please tell him I owe him a ride, sir.”

Daddy nodded. “You two kids hurry off before Mother has you playing Scrabble.”

Again I had no memory of leaving my parents' house, yet here I sat in Jagger's Suburban. I did, however, remember that the last word I'd heard was
Scrabble
. The heater blasted warm air on my legs, and we were sitting in the parking lot of the Super Stop and Buy a few blocks from my parents' house.

At least he couldn't have his way with me in such a public area.

Damn.

I turned to him as he adjusted the radio to WMMZ, my favorite country station. Wow! We had something in common. Trisha Yearwood came on, singing, “I Don't Paint Myself into Corners” from her
Inside Out
album.

I watched Jagger tap his finger to the beat and thought of how I'd painted myself into a whopper of a corner with this job.

He looked at me. “I'm only going to ask you one more time. What are you doing following Tina around?”

Yikes! The guy didn't let moss grow under his cowboy boots. “Who said I'm following her?”

“Me.”

“Oh.” I fiddled with the zipper of my jacket. “You have to take me back to my car, you know.”

“Yeah.”

Oh, great. Mono-word Jagger. I looked out the window and watched Mrs. Zuckowski wheeling her basket full of groceries toward her blue Caravan. Mrs. Zuckowski lived two doors down from my folks. Maybe I could scream that I was being held captive and for her to call 911. Then what?

Jagger would only find me another day.

Might as well get it over with. Besides, I told myself, maybe I really could use him to finish my case. “I work for Scarpello and Tonelli Insurance Company.”

He didn't flinch. As a matter of fact, he could have been carved out of granite for all the body language I could read.

I knew I was about to ramble nervously and other than jump out of the Suburban, I couldn't help myself. “I work for Fabio as an investigator. You know, follow people around that are breaking the law. Well, at least they are bilking the insurance company. You know, fraud. I'm talking fraud here, which of course is against the law.

“Thousands of dollars they steal. These people that is. Actually, sometimes in the millions. They steal in the millions. I actually read about a case that was in the billions. Imagine that.” I could only guess what Jagger was imagining right now. “So, I . . . well , I was a nurse for many years and burned out. You know, the responsibility . . . kids puking on your shoes . . . throat swabs on your breasts . . . working weekends . . . working with staff. Mostly female. Catty females. Rather have all gay males, but that's another story. I'll never take a job where I have to hire and fire staff again. It's not in my nature to fire—”

“Tina?”

Mono Jagger strikes again. Well, I was getting off track a bit. Okay, I admit my faults. “Tina is out on a Workers' Compensation claim for an injured back.”

“And Fabio in his infinite fucking wisdom hired you, a nurse, to crack that case.”

I knew an insult when I heard one. And that had to be one. “Yes. Yeah. So what?”

“What kind of experience do you have in surveillance other than sitting smack-dab in front of her house or—oh wait, that's right. You have the smarts to hide in a snowbank.”

Now I was pissed. “I'm going to get her.”

He shook his head, cranked the motor and shoved it into drive. As we pulled out of the parking lot, he said, “Stay the hell out of my way.”

We rode in silence until I saw my precious Volvo covered in frost and sitting so lonely on the construction site. Jagger pulled up alongside, shoved the Suburban into park and waited. I opened my door and stepped out.

“I'm not making any promises. Besides, you didn't say what you were doing, or whom you work for. So, how can I stay out of your way if I don't know what your way is?” With that I turned and walked to my car with my heart pounding double-time and a prayer on my lips that he wouldn't follow me.

His tires screeched.

“Thanks, Saint T,” I mouthed, dug around in my purse for my keys and shivered.

It wasn't from the cold, either.

When the shock of Jagger coming to my family's Christmas started to wear off, I decided I'd better get into my car and head home before I froze to death out here in the woods by Tina's mansion.

Then again, that didn't sound like such a bad idea.

A light came on in her backyard. I watched for a while, but equipmentless, I could only stare. Truthfully she could have come out and yanked one of the naked trees up with her bare hands and I could have cared less.

I just didn't have any investigating left in me right then.

“I need a bubble bath,” I said to my Volvo. No reply. Surprising, with the day I'd had.

I got in, started the car, cranked up the heat and, even though the engine was still freezing, told myself the air blowing in my face was warm. At the edge of the subdivision I slowed, stopped and looked into my rearview mirror. There was Tina, hiking through the snow with a huge package in her arms. Damn. I'll bet it was heavy.

As I looked both ways for traffic before pulling out, I noticed a black Suburban sitting at the corner two streets down. That was out of my way, but I turned down the street, slowed when I passed and flipped Jagger the bird.

Not like me, but it felt so damn good!

Once back at the condo, I hurried inside, called for Miles and got no reply, let Spanky out and back in, then headed to my room. I left my damp jacket on the bed and grabbed my pajamas and robe.

Major bubble-bath day.

In the bathroom, I rifled through the scented bubble bath beads and picked out rose. Roses are sent to you when Saint Theresa hears your prayers. I figured I could use whatever help I could get tonight even though she is supposed to send them to you as a surprise.

Once the water was perfect, I slipped in, blowing bubbles about the room. The heat relaxed my muscles. I hadn't realized how tense I had been. Had to have something to do with starting out with Nick and ending up with Jagger. I shuddered.

Being coerced—make that ordered—to take him to my parents' tonight for dinner was nothing compared to what I'd face on Christmas Eve and Day when the entire Sokol clan arrived. I shut my eyes and refused to think about it.

And other than my birthday, Christmas was my favorite holiday. Shoot.

I wondered if Miles's late lunch had turned into an all nighter. Gee, I hoped not. I really was rooting for Goldie.

Well, whatever happened, happened. I wasn't about to push them together and possibly hurt either one. Miles I loved, and I could see Goldie becoming a dear friend. It dawned on me that thanks to Miles I had met Goldie. Right. If I didn't work for Fabio, I would never have met Goldie. How sad that thought was.

Or met Jagger. How shocking that thought was.

Speaking of working for Fabio, I had to accomplish something tomorrow. Anything related to the case.

I had to, or else I'd be unemployed right soon.

Then again, there was that nursing job at Tina's office. Maybe I should take it for a few days and see what happens. Then again,
nursing
.

I didn't have the stomach to go back yet, even if an office job might be a piece of cake. Surely orthopedic patients didn't spit throat swabs. Okay, I'd think about it tomorrow. Tonight I'd soak until soggy and forget the day.

“You in there?” Miles called.

“Oh, hey. I'll be out soon.” Damn. I looked at my fingers. Not even wrinkled yet. And tonight I needed wrinkled.

“No problem. Just wanted to know where you were and that you hadn't fallen asleep in the tub again.”

I blew bubbles toward the door. “That was six months ago, and I'd taken NyQuil 'cause I was sick. Give me a break, Miles.”

“Hey, that sounds like your tea tone.”

I smiled despite how I felt. Miles called it my “tea tone” when I needed a cup of hot, steamy decaffeinated tea because of stress or whatever upset me. It was one notch down from my “Coors tone.” “What's the biggest mug we have?”

“Hold it right there.”

I heard him running down the stairs, leaned back and shut my eyes.

Knock. Knock
.

“Tea time. Cover yourself up.”

I made sure the bubbles were shoulder-high although it wouldn't impress Miles to see my 36Cs. “Enter.”

He opened the door, walked over and handed me my mug. Then he looked at himself in the mirror, groaned and hurried out, shutting the door behind.

“You look wonderful,” I shouted, then took a sip of tea. “Ouch.” Miles insisted on boiling the water, although I preferred my tea heated in the microwave.

“Horrible bags under my eyes. Impending crow's-feet. Forget that. Tell me about the need for tea. Couldn't be worse than this morning for you,” he hollered through the door.

I talked about my day until the water cooled. In between sentences, Miles let out a few squeaky gasps followed by a muttered, “Christmas?” I had to smile as I stood and toweled off. When I had on my Steelers pj's and robe wrapped tightly for warmth—although Miles kept the condo heated like August in Miami—I took my mug and opened the door.

I needed the heat right now. Comforting. Similar to being in the womb of my 98.6 degree mom. Speaking of which, I could use a sniff of pine Renuzit.