The Stiff and the Dead (23 page)

He dangled a key in front of me.

Semantics.

Knowing it was Mr. W's, I opened my side door ever so gingerly and stepped out. Next door, the lights were on in Sophie's upstairs room. I figured that it had to be her bedroom since I'd already “toured” this house and remembered the floor plan. I sure didn't need Sophie looking out the window and seeing me.

Jagger looked around and walked up the sidewalk toward the back of the house. I followed close behind, biting my lips until I tasted blood. Okay, it was only saliva, but with my insides in a panic, I could have gnawed them down until they bled. It was either that or say something stupid to Jagger.

Thank goodness the moon was full tonight. No doubt Jagger had figured that into his plans. He moved around as if it didn't bother him in the least—and nothing frightened Jagger.

I felt a comforting warmth at the thought.

I really did feel safe with him, but hoped I didn't do something to ruin this night. I had been on surveillance with him before, but always on the outside looking in. As I walked into Mr. Wisnowski's kitchen and inhaled the dampness of a closed house in a New England winter, I now knew how it felt to be on the inside with Jagger.

For a second, I stood and watched him. He'd already put on his gloves outside, so I stuck my hands into my pockets and grabbed mine.

When I pulled them out, he looked at me.

“What?”

“Invest in some thin, black gloves.” With that he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

I looked down at the chartreuse wool gloves my sister Mary had given me for Christmas four years ago and made a mental note to buy a new pair for work, although I could dispute the contention that chartreuse would leave prints. They were still damp from a snowball fight I'd had with Goldie and Miles the other day. Smelled like wet neon sheep.

Walking as silently as I could, I followed Jagger into the living room. “This is so creepy,” I whispered.

He looked at me. In the dim light from the moon's reflection, I could see his smile. “What's the matter, Sherlock? Afraid of ghosts?”

I shuddered. Damn him. I hadn't even
thought
of ghosts until then. “No. That's ridiculous—”

Squeak.

I froze.

Jagger motioned for me to stay put. I didn't argue, but when he started to walk out of the room, my feet had other things on their minds. “Jaaaaaagger,” I whispered and stepped forward. Little baby steps until I could see his shadow in the kitchen.

Any second now I knew the ghost of poor Mr. Wisnowski was going to come flying at us, accusing us of breaking into his house.

A light flew past the window.

A ghost!

“Jaaaaaagger!”

Suddenly he was in front of me. “Nice staying put, Sherlock. And keep it the hell quiet.”

“Whaaat . . . was—”

He put his arm around my shoulder. “Relax. Mice have taken up residence in the place.”

Another light flew by the window. I readied to yell “incoming!” but realized it was a car's headlights as it passed by. “Little mice make noise like that?”

“It wasn't exactly a screeching banshee, Sherlock. A few mice decided to try and get through the old cat door in the kitchen. Guess the door could use some WD-40.” He chuckled, squeezed me tighter, and then let go.

I did
not
tell him that I thought I had seen the ghost of Mr. W. Experience told me info like that should be kept to myself where Jagger was concerned.

Jagger opened drawers and looked behind every picture, knickknack and even under the braided red throw rags. I joined in, not certain what I was looking for. I figured if it was medically related, I'd give a holler.

Actually we kept our voices to a soft whisper. His sounded sexy. Mine sounded hoarse, like a post-op tonsillectomy patient's. When we got to the bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet and shined his flashlight at the contents.

It appeared as if nothing had been disturbed since Mr. Wisnowski's death. I wondered if he didn't have any family other than Sophie to come clean out the place. And she didn't seem all to eager to do any kind of physical labor. But when Jagger took several prescription bottles off the shelf, I was glad the place had been left “as is.”

With my camera glasses in hand, I hoped I could get a huge leap in my case.

Fat chance.

“They all look legit for a man in his eighties. Heart meds, blood pressure meds. All with his name on them,” I continued in my hoarse tone, wishing I could sound more like Lois the pharmacy tech.

Jagger put them back and closed the door. He stood there for a few seconds, and I assumed he was thinking. I said, “We need to think like an old man.”

Even in the dim lighting I could see Jagger's eyebrows rise. “What?”

Damn. He thought I was crazy. “What I mean is, we need to think where an old man would hide something. My Uncle Walt has a secret drawer in his dresser where he keeps money.”

“Thanks for sharing that info. Now if Walt gets robbed, I'll be the number-one suspect.” He ran his gloved hand through his hair.

I sighed, and then turned it feebly into a cough.

“You all right?”

“Um.” I couldn't talk because it had dawned on me that I was in this house, it was the middle of the night—and most important, I was alone with Jagger.

Nick likes me. Nick likes me. “Nick likes me.”

Jagger turned. “So I figured, since he asked you out.”

Oh . . . my . . . God.

The words had somehow snuck out of my lips in the hoarse tone, making me feel like a fool. It was such a dumb thing to say. Jagger now turned away, and I figured that was so I could melt into a puddle of embarrassment.

But, I pulled myself taller—well, as tall as I could with him towering several inches above me. “My mind wandered. I was . . . thinking of Nick.” I coughed. “What next?” Good. That had come out convincingly nonchalant. I really was getting to be a better actress/liar.

Jagger motioned for me to follow. Once in the hallway he asked, “Okay, Sherlock. Where would you hide something if you were eighty years old?”

For a second, I had a flash of Peggy. Peggy would know where old Mr. W. would hide something even if only in her seventies. Then, fearful of becoming schizophrenic, I told myself that I really wasn't Peggy. Or, in fact, that I really was Peggy. To keep my sanity, I decided to think more like my Uncle Walt since I knew him so well. “Okay. Like I said, Uncle Walt has that secret drawer. Then there was the time he hid his hothouse tomatoes in his jacket pocket.”

Jagger glared at me.

“What? They were wrapped in a napkin.”

“So you think we should look in all the jacket pockets of Mr. Wisnowski's suits?”

I started to shake my head, then stopped. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Jagger paused, then moved aside, sweeping his hand in the air. “After you.”

I led him up to the master bedroom and didn't tell him how I knew where it was so easily. Actually, I'd never made it up here, letting Goldie come while I snooped downstairs.

When I opened the door, Jagger aimed the light inside. It was truly eerie now. The bed had been made up as if no one had ever lived there, but beneath, I could see a pair of bedroom slippers. Old Mr. Wisnowski's bedroom slippers.

A tear trickled down my cheek. Maybe this job really wasn't for me.

I sniffled and tried to disguise it as another cough.

Jagger turned to me. Even in the dim light I could see concern in his eyes. “Did you know him?”

“Mr. Wisnowski?”

He nodded.

“I think I met him at a party with Uncle Walt and Uncle Stash. But no, I really didn't know him.”

Suddenly I felt Jagger step closer. His arms were around me before I could sniffle again. “You can't let all this get to you, Sherlock. You'll never make it if you do.”

He held me a few seconds.

It felt nice, comforting, and this time not in a sexual way. I knew he was right, but it was so damn hard. So damn hard not to let personal feelings, emotions get in the way. Seeing those “old man” bedroom slippers made me think of my uncles. Especially Uncle Walt, whom I'd always had a special place in my heart for, since I'd grown up with him living in our house.

“I know,” I mumbled. Then I eased free. “Thanks. It just reminded me too much of my uncles. Do you think, Jagger, that my Uncle Walt's life could be in jeopardy?”

“Whoa. Where'd that come from?”

I told him about the conversation Uncle Walt and I had had about sex and the senior citizens. If I thought I was embarrassed talking to my uncle about that, right now I was mortified beyond belief.

Jagger, however, kept his oh-so-cool exterior and listened without comment. “Gut instinct tells me this whole thing is tied together somehow. If your uncle and Mr. Wisnowski were buying the Viagra from the same person—most likely Leo—then we need to keep an eye on your uncle too. And see who replaces Leo.”

I couldn't speak. I stood there in the dark and felt my insides sink to knee level. Then, with Jagger looking at me and somehow building my confidence, I said, “Let's get going then.”

We looked in all of Mr. Wisnowski's jacket pockets and pants too. Other than old receipts and more “love notes” from Helen, we came up blank. I started to fish around in the closet. Where else would an elderly person hide things?

As if old Mr. W's ghost had tapped me on the back, I swung around to see his very neat shelf of shoeboxes. Each box was labeled with things like Winter black, Summer beige and Spring tennis shoes. I had to smile. My
Babci
had done the same thing. Then I noticed one box marked Shoes. Odd. In what season did Mr. Wisnowski wear them?

I reached up and took the box down.

“Find something?”

What I found was Jagger's breath on my neck. Shit. I could barely open the box, but managed, along with, “I'm not sure.” I explained the labeling system and then opened the box.

Five prescription bottles sat there.

I lifted each one. Viagra. Viagra. All were prescriptions of Viagra. One in Mr. Wisnowski's name, the others all in different names, filled by Leo Pasinski.

“Goddamn,” Jagger said. “No one needs that much of a boost.”

I looked at him and was speechless, then shook my brain until I was coherent again. “These must be the ones he was using to either trade or sell to the other men.”

Jagger was already taking pictures of them. His camera, this time, was a tiny ring on his left hand.

I followed suit with my camera/glasses, although this really wasn't my case. Still, if my Uncle Walt's life could be in jeopardy, I wasn't taking any chances. I moved the bottles to the side to show their labels. Beneath were several photographs.

Helen, smiling seductively as if she were trying to make Mr. Wisnowski horny. The other pictures were of Sophie and Leo. Family pictures. Odd that he kept them with his Viagra, but maybe this little box was filled with the “treasures” only an eighty-year-old could appreciate.

“Open the bottles to make sure that's what they are,” Jagger said.

Why didn't I think of that? With my damp, woolly gloves, I managed to pour out a few into my palm. Blue pills. “Yep. They are the real things.”

Bang. Bang.

We both froze. Jagger only for a second, me almost permanently. We finished taking pictures, shoved the pills back and returned the box to the shelf as if never touched.

The noise sounded way too loud for those little mice to be making. Jagger shut off his flashlight and took me by the hand. I fumbled in the dark, trying to remember what was in the room so I wouldn't bump into it. I'd be a mass of purple bruises tomorrow after knocking into so much furniture.

By the glow of the moon, we made it to the kitchen. Sophie's front porch light was on now. I motioned to Jagger, who looked as if he noticed too. With my hand in his, we made it out the backdoor, stopping only long enough for him to shut and lock it, and to stuff the key back under the mat.

I stood silently—partly because I knew I had to be quiet and partly because I couldn't believe how smoothly he had maneuvered around without making even the slightest sound. The mice were thunderous compared with Jagger.

We were outside when we heard footsteps along Mr. Wisnowski's driveway.

“Who's out there?”

I recognized Sophie's voice. She shined a flashlight toward the back porch. It would have caught us in its beams if we headed out the way we'd come in. Before I knew it, Jagger had yanked me toward the back of the yard. As far as I could remember, there was only the cemetery-type bench and Mr. Wisnowski's old shed.

The shed it was.

Thank goodness it was unlocked.

With the skill of a surgeon, Jagger opened the door silently and pushed me inside.

“Who is there?” Sophie shouted.

My hand flew to my face as Jagger pushed me further in. Sophie's light flashed toward us.

A gasp flew out of my mouth.

Just as fast as Jagger's did, up flew my other hand, which stifled any more gasps.

Suddenly I felt something fall off my wooly chartreuse glove and end up in my mouth.

I coughed and prayed it wasn't some bug.

I pushed Jagger's hand away. Whatever it was slid down my throat!

I looked down. Jagger seemed to realize something was wrong. He leaned near. “What the hell?”

In my softest voice I said, “Something was stuck to my glove and went into my mouth. Maybe a bug.”

“There aren't any bugs in the winter time, Sherlock. Relax.” He took my hand and held it out. Then he aimed his flashlight on it.

A blue pill was stuck there, nestled into the wool.

“What the hell?” he said.

As soon as he said it, Sophie's light shone under the door. “Stupid yard boy. Can't even lock up right after shoveling. I'll get him in the morning.”