A Dose of Murder (22 page)

“Anything so far today?”

“No.” I sighed. “Seems business as usual.”

He remained silent. I couldn't get over Jagger as a biker. Wow. He looked pretty . . . yummy . I reminded myself that I was having dinner with Vance, my . . . my what? I really couldn't call him my boyfriend. Didn't
want
to call him that.

What if Jagger planned for us to be together tonight?

I'd totally forgotten that we were supposed to be an
item
. Now what? I had to be truthful. My parents always taught us kids to tell the truth. Sometimes I wished I could break that habit, but, well, that was me. The little white lies I'd been telling lately that related to my case didn't count.

“Before the doctor comes in, I have to tell you . . . I have a date tonight.”

He looked at me over his glasses. “And?”

“And? And aren't we . . . Well, you're the one who told Nick. I mean, I never said. You . . . I heard you tell Nick. I just wanted to tell you in case you had plans—”

He grinned. “So, you're cheating on me already?”

“I . . . no. It's just . . . Well, I've been dating Vance—”

He held up his hand. “Pauline, I
lied
to Nick.”

Why on earth had I made it sound as if I owed Jagger an explanation? And, sadly, let him think that I thought we were really dating?

I pulled my shoulders straight and said, “I only wanted to tell you so that you didn't plan to help me with Tina tonight.”

“That's thoughtful of you.”

I turned and walked to the door. “The doctor will be right in.”

A soft, deep chuckle followed me.

I had no idea what Jagger discussed with Dr. Macaluso after I'd left. Furthermore, I didn't want to know. I did my work shuffling patients from examining room, to cast room, to X-ray and out the door. Jagger had to be out the door about two hours ago, I thought, as my stomach growled, and I readied to go to lunch.

I only hoped he wasn't in the cafeteria.

I headed up there to find the lunch line wasn't as long as yesterday. I managed to get a bowl of beef barley soup, croissant with butter and hot green tea with low-fat milk. The croissant was to make me feel better after my Jagger encounter.

Eddy sat with me during lunch and made small talk. I looked around to see if anyone was close enough to eavesdrop, then said, “So, Eddy. What's your take on Tina?”

“She's fat.” He took a sip of his Coke.

“Not how she looks. I mean her back problem.”

“Fake. She's a fat-assed fake.”

“How do you know that?”

“I've seen her bend down and pick up a penny from the fucking floor. If I had back pain, I wouldn't bother with that. Hell, I wouldn't bother to pick up a buck if my back hurt like hers is supposed to.”

So Eddy had witnessed Tina's fraud. I wondered if an eyewitness account would be beneficial, and as I was making a mental note to ask Goldie, I looked at Eddy.

Eyewitnesses had to be credible.

There went that theory. I'd have to get the video on her soon.

He leaned near, his beady eyes on me. “You don't know about this place, Pauline.”

“I . . . What's to know?”

Eddy's mouth opened and then shut. He stared at something or someone behind me.

I looked over my shoulder. A long line had formed now and a crowd stood waiting for the elevator. There stood Dr. Levy and Dr. Feinstein with Tina and Trudy. Everything looked normal to me. No one stood out.

But something or someone had shut Eddy's mouth.

I excused myself and decided I'd need to share this info with Jagger—if I could recognize him.

On the stairs I thought of how damn appealing he looked, no matter what he wore, and mentally patted myself on the back for not getting out of breath anymore. Obviously I was getting used to these stairs.

The rest of the afternoon went along without incident. No Jagger in disguise. No Eddy Roden acting weird. Weirder than usual. Linda was pleasant, and Trudy told me all about her children and grandchildren. I actually felt like one of the staff.

But it didn't take long for me to be reminded of how I really didn't want to practice nursing—once my feet started hurting and an elderly woman yelled at me for having to wait so long on the phone to make her appointment. I was about to tell her that nurses had nothing to do with the phones, when the door opened.

A group of six young men walked in with a guy in about his late twenties. The kids, I guessed ranging from thirteen to sixteen, all stood to the side. There were two Hispanic-looking teens, three black and a white one who was much shorter than the others. When they were in high school, my brothers would have given anything to be as tall as these kids. They all wore the gigantic pants hung low on their hips with colorful—and, hopefully, clean—underwear showing.

Trudy got up and opened the door. I didn't see any patient charts and none of the boys looked injured. They followed along with the man in his twenties to the examining room in the back of the hallway. I figured they were maybe here for basketball physicals, but then thought, that couldn't be possible. This was an orthopedic group.

Before I could figure it out, the boys came out, all carrying white plastic bags. Odd, I thought, but had no clue as to what to make of it.

Since my shift was over, I took my purse, said goodbye and went out the door. In the elevator lobby I noticed the boys taking sneakers, expensive looking Jordans, out of their bags. Maybe the ortho group donated them to promote good feet.

I went down the stairs and out to my car. When I reached to pull on my seat belt, I noticed the group of boys getting into a white van with the YMCA logo on the side. Hmm. They had to be basketball players by their height.

Too tired to care, I started my car and let myself daydream about a hot bath in the sunken tub.

I'd use honeysuckle bubble bath.

“I can't believe we're working in the same office,” Vance said as he leaned across the table in Bernoulli's.

I'd been in the mood for pizza, although Vance usually insisted that wasn't dinner food. Consequently, we usually ate at some fancy restaurant. I had to put my foot down tonight, maintaining that I was too tired to get dressed up after work.

I had on my black jeans, a black-and-peach knitted sweater and black boots, since it had started to snow a few minutes before Vance had picked me up. No way was I freezing my feet for him again.

I took a bite of pizza, scooped up a mushroom that had fallen onto my dish and looked at Vance. He didn't own a pair of jeans, so tonight he wore a cashmere sweater in a deep olive that went well with his hair color, always styled to perfection. I wondered if a hair ever had the audacity to slip out of place on his head, but guessed not. His pants had to be suede and must have cost a bundle.

“More wine?” He held the bottle toward me.

“Yikes. No. I'll be asleep on my cannoli if I have any more.”

“I'm guessing that's what you want for dessert.”

“Um.” I wrapped a stringy piece of mozzarella around my finger and popped it into my mouth. Last time I ate pizza, it was with Jagger. Ack.

Vance stared at me. “You smell nice. Honeysuckle.”

“Yeah. You know, Vance, working together usually doesn't work out. I mean, maybe we should . . .” I couldn't break up with him. Not now. Not here.

And not because of Jagger.

Yet, I really wanted to.

“True. Good thing we don't have too much contact at work.”

So he wasn't in the market for social freedom. Okay, I'd hold off any knee-jerk reactions, but I decided I'd put my foot down one more time tonight.

And not sleep with him.

I wasn't sure what excuse I'd use, but I'd think of something between now and eight. I had to get the subject off of our relationship so I said, “There are some awfully nice elderly patients that come to your practice.” That wasn't a stretch, because Vance knew I had a fondness for my Uncle Walt and all of his elderly friends.

“I guess.” He gave me an odd look.

Even though I liked the elderly, it was a strange subject to bring up, and Vance must've been thinking just that. But I decided an investigator is always on the job, and I needed to know more about that MRI. It bothered me.

What I didn't know was how I was going to bring up the subject?

And, I thought, taking a sip of wine, what if Vance didn't order that MRI? Then who did? Or, my mind started to crank, what if Vance
did
order that MRI? Why?

“Pauline?”

I looked up. Vance was standing. “I have to go.”

“The men's room is to the left of the brick oven on the north end of the kitchen.”

“No. Pauline. I have to leave. Didn't you hear my beeper go off?”

I hadn't. “I . . . sure. I was joking. Go ahead. I'll get a cab home.”

“You sure?”

“Go. Have fun.” I have no idea why that came out.

Vance looked at me. He set two twenty-dollar bills on the table.

I should have said don't worry, but I really didn't want to be stuck with the bill. Well, at least this solved my sex dilemma.

“There's been a car accident. The ER paged me.”

“Oh. I hope everything is all right.” I sat back and watched him leave. Once the waiter came with the bill and back with the change, I left a generous tip and walked to the door.

I forgot I needed a ride home, so I asked the hostess if I could use the phone to call a cab. She gave me a strange look.

“There aren't any cabs running after seven in Hope Valley, ma'am.”

She was right. After 7
P.M.
the town rolled up its streets and consequently the cabs during the winter months. Damn. I'd have to call Miles. She let me use the phone but the recorder came on. Miles was either called in to work or out with Goldie. I tried Goldie's number. Got his recorder too.

“Hi, sugars, you've reached the one and only Goldie Perlman residence. If you're a hot dude, leave a message. If you're the cops, you have the wrong number. And if you're a bill collector, Goldie Perlman is deceased.”

I laughed into the phone despite the odd look from the hostess. I'd have to remind Goldie to change his message now that he and Miles were an item. I looked out the window. The snow had stopped.

A pinkish glow covered the earth as the freshly fallen snow sparkled beneath the street lamps. Well, I did have on my boots, so I decided I would walk home. Thank goodness I'd talked Vance into coming here. It was in the Italian section of Hope Valley only about six blocks from my place.

I went out into the parking lot and passed between two vans. When I got to the edge of the lot, a white car sped past, splashing slush at me and getting so close I had to jump over the curb.

Then, from behind—someone grabbed my arm!

My reflexes were amazingly keen for having had two glasses of wine, I found out. I yelled, “NO!” and slammed my fist into my attacker's abdomen. I'd seen that on TV with some feminist group.

A
whoosh
of air blew into my face. It sounded surprisingly like my name, and a curse came out with it.

Without time to think, I took my purse and swung it back, ready to slam the guy with what had to weigh about thirty pounds.

My hand was pinned behind my back before I could follow through on my swing.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I tilted my head back and finally looked at my attacker, although I already recognized the voice.

His grip loosened.

“What am
I
doing? Is it normal for you to keep popping up all over and scaring the bejeevers out of me?”

Jagger let go. “What the fuck are bejeevers?”

“I . . . What difference does it make? I think you broke my arm.” It didn't really hurt, but I rubbed at it nevertheless.

“You all right?”

I glared at him. Puffs of frozen breath came from my mouth. “I'll live.”

“What are you doing walking out here?”

“There aren't any cabs after—” Out of habit, I rubbed my arm. “Wait. Why am I confessing to you? You're the one who jumped out of the shadows and accosted me.”

“I didn't accost you. I saved you from that Toyota Corolla.”

That much was true. My heart did a little arrhythmia at the reminder.

“I could have moved over by myself. And the car wasn't that close.”

“Then why are your pants wet?”

Oh shit! I wet my pants? I looked down. Thank goodness my pants were covered in snowy slush. I hadn't realized that I was freezing until my body gave a shudder.

The next thing I knew, I was in Jagger's Suburban, wrapped in a Patriots blanket that I argued about using. Hey, I was a diehard Steelers fan and, cold or not, the Patriots were the fault of my Steelers getting knocked clear out of a chance at the Super Bowl in 2001 during the AFC championship game. The heater blasted warm air at me. Okay, that felt good.

“So, again, what were you doing out here? And what do cabs have to do with it?”

I went through the details of Vance getting paged and left out the part that I'd decided not to sleep with him tonight—or ever again.

Jagger kept his eyes on the road as he drove out, but I had the feeling he knew what I was thinking. “So you didn't get to ask him about the MRI?”

“No. He had to leave too fast. He's only on call once every five weeks, and wouldn't you know, tonight he got called in.”

“Guess that put a damper on your
date
.”

The way he said “date” was odd. Was he jealous? Yeah, right! Wake up and smell the pheromones, Pauline. Jagger is not your type and you are in no way
his
.

Stick to fantasy daydreams.

“Where are we going?”

“I assumed you were walking home.”

“Yes, I was. Thanks. I couldn't get a ride from anyone . . .”