The Stiff and the Dead (33 page)

I couldn't even think of how embarrassed I was now.

Very.

“You suspect Lois then and not Hildy?” My voice came out with way too much optimism, but at least it took the conversation off the “O” word.

Jagger ignored my question and grabbed onto my shirt. If I liked my men rough, this would have sent my insides into a tornado. But he was only trying to help me get comfortable and not die of pneumonia or get caught.

What a guy.

His hot, yes hot, fingers brushed my navel.

I bit my tongue.

Slowly he turned me around so my back faced him.

What a gentleman.

The material clung so tightly, he had to lean into the back of my legs.

The turtleneck budged.

His breath burned into my neck.

I was ready to suggest he just breathe on me a few seconds and the clothing would be dry. But, I stood there shamelessly knowing he could see the back of my bra (as if that would be a sensual turn-on for Jagger) and didn't say a word. I merely wiggled as he tugged.

“Goddammit.”

The material lifted off my head. I felt him pressing his shirt into my hand.

He never turned me around until I was properly dressed in his shirt—inhaling male.

Another sleepless night loomed.

“Put this on too.” He shoved his jacket at me.

I took it and put it on over the shirt as I began to shiver.

He looked at my legs. “That shirt is so long on you it comes down to your knees.” With that he turned and laid down.

“Well, I guess that means I can take off my pants.”

“You're on your own for that, Sherlock.”

I stood silent, with no comeback. Then I reminded myself where we were and why. I bent to fix my makeshift bed.

With his back to me, Jagger said, “Don't touch anything.”

My hands froze. I stood and kicked with my feet until the pile was puffier. Then, and it took a good hundred hours, I shimmied out of my pants. I refused to take off my undies.

Finally, while listening to his soft snoring, I settled down into my pile of laundry.

And my head hit a hard object.

I turned to start digging in the laundry to remove it, then remembered my gloves were off. I looked at Jagger.

Talk about how innocent someone looks while asleep.

Innocent—and delicious.

I told myself to lie down and keep my mouth shut and try to rest even if I never fell asleep. If I did doze off, I figured Jagger would wake us both in plenty of time to get the hell out of there. How though? I had no idea, but believed daylight could fix just about anything.

I lay back down. “Ouch.” The object poked into my head where I must have had a lovely shade of purple under my hair from the concussion.

I tried to move to the side. My head fell off the pile I'd fixed as a pillow. “Damn,” I whispered. Then I lifted my head back and tried to move it so that the object didn't poke me again. My neck started to hurt.

I tossed, turned, moaned and groaned.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jagger said in a sexy throaty whisper. “Are you trying to get us caught, or merely annoy the hell out of me?”

“Annoy the hell out of you. I have nothing better to do.”

He sucked in some air and blew it out in a long, slow, obviously irritated breath. “What is wrong?”

“Something in the laundry is sticking into my head.”

“Is it sharp?”

“No. I . . . don't think so.”

“You're going to have to learn to sleep in all kinds of odd situations while on surveillance. Ignore it.”

“Don't you think I tried to, along with moving from side to side? It's not easy not being able to touch anything either, you know.”

He sat up and leaned toward me. “Where?”

I pointed to the spot that had been like a gargantuan pea and me the princess. “Right there. Please move it.”

He blew out air again.

“Further to the left.”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“You don't have to be so grumpy. I'm really not doing this to piss you off.”

I watched him pull apart the pile of laundry. A white lab coat was on the bottom of the pile.

Leo's lab coat.

Eeyeuuw.

“What is in there that hurt me?”

Jagger, I noticed, moved very gingerly while reaching into Leo's lab coat pocket. I thought that a good idea so that he wouldn't disturb or break anything. I made a mental note to work like that when on my cases alone.

He pulled out a pen. “This the culprit?”

“It felt . . . bigger.”

“Bigger. You have some extraordinary feeling in your skull?”

“Funny. I do, however, have a gigantic bruise and know that it felt bigger.”

He reached in again and pulled out a prescription bottle. “Imagine. A pharmacist with a lethal weapon like a prescription bottle.” He set it down and moved back to his pile. “Nightie night, Sherlock.”

I looked at the bottle and wanted to move it, but had to stick my hands into my pockets. This was not going to be a good night. Not at all. When Jagger shifted, the floodlight beams highlighted the bottle.

“Jagger!” I whispered a yell. Our voices would probably be changed forever after having to talk like this all night.

He sighed. “Another lump in your pillow?”

“No. The bottle. The prescription bottle.”

“Christ!” He grabbed the bottle and shoved it into the lab coat, which he stuck under his own head.

“I shouldn't even say anything.”

“Good.”

“I should let you sleep on that lump and hope it pokes a sinkhole in your stubborn head.”

“Good idea. 'Night.” He turned his back to me.

“Jagger. That bottle is for Lanoxin.”

He didn't turn around. “Lan what?”

“Lanoxin. It's digoxin. A cardiovascular drug used to treat congestive heart failure. To regulate the heart rhythm.”

“Like the stuff Hildy had?”

Shit. I hadn't thought of that.

“Well, yeah.” Not much to go on, but again, I didn't want her involved. “Mr. Wisnowski's name is on this bottle.”

Jagger turned over. “Go on.”

My chest puffed out like a peacock's feathers. Guess my nursing was finally good for something. “Okay. Mr. W's name is on it. So, this was probably a prescription Leo had filled for him. But, maybe he never got to give it to him. Or, wait. Let me see it.”

Jagger obliged.

I smiled.

He held it in his gloved hand and turned the bottle so I could read it in the light of the window. “Anything?”

“The dose is appropriate for someone Mr. Wisnowski's size. But you have to be careful with digoxin. The risk of toxicity is increased if someone also takes diuretics and loses calcium and potassium. The heart can go into tachycardia.”

“Tachycardia?”

“Too fast. It beats too fast. Or the overdose of digitalis can cause arterial fibrillation or atrioventicular block.”

“In laymen's terms, Sherlock.”

“Mr. W's heart would go haywire if he overdosed on this medication. Without getting too technical, it would either beat erratically or too weakly, quivering like a bowl of Jell-O, all of which could cause . . . death.”

“But if he didn't overdose?”

“It's tougher in the elderly to monitor the doses. Mr. W was a slight man and could have reached toxic levels over time.”

“How common is that?”

“I've never worked geriatrics, but I'm guessing it is possible. Although if the doctor monitors the patients correctly, they'd pick up on early symptoms and probably be doing blood work to check ‘dig' levels all along.”

Jagger held the bottle closer. “Anything else look suspicious?”

I studied it a bit longer and shook my head. I felt a bit disappointed that I hadn't “discovered” some fabulous clue.

Jagger leaned closer.

I moved back a few inches. Maybe he just wanted to keep me warm?

He opened the bottle and poured out a few onto the palm of his glove. “Right dose?”

I glared at the pills.

He took his flashlight out and beamed it toward them. “Tiny, round and a light greenish color.”

“Zero point five.”

“And?”

“The label says zero point one two five.”

“Christ. Four times the prescribed dose.”

I looked at Jagger. “I'm guessing Mr. Wisnowski would never know what dose was what color. The prescription was just filled a month ago, too, and I'll bet before the doctor had a chance to check the ‘dig' level. Leo could have gotten away with murder doing that over time.”

“He
did
get away with it.”

Needless to say, I didn't fall asleep until early morning. I kept thinking how diabolical Leo was to kill Mr. Wisnowski so slowly over time.

When the sun peeked through the window, Jagger shook me gently until I woke. He kept his finger on my lips in case I'd forgotten where I was.

We gathered all my clothes and shoes and put the prescription bottle back in place. I figured Jagger had taken a bunch of pictures of it while I dozed. With the room back in order, he told me to follow him.

“Lois's taken the dog out the backdoor.”

I only hoped they had walked down the street so we could get away.

My hopes were seriously dashed after Jagger and I snuck out the door only to hear Lois mumbling something about hurrying up, along with a litany of curse words.

Faster than the speed of light, Jagger had pushed me into the back of the spruce trees. Thank goodness they provided some cover.

Pokey spruce needles dug into my cheeks as we stood there. Lois came so close I could see her eyes were barely open. She grumbled and yanked at the dog, who looked
me
right in the eyes! A low growl started from deep in his throat.

“Leave the squirrels alone, Bruno, and get the hell over here,” she yelled to him and pulled him into the house.

I let out my breath.

Then Jagger pulled me away from the bushes, holding onto my arm all the way to the car.

My legs were freezing with the shirt and jacket only coming to my knees.

But he was a gentleman when we got into his SUV, wrapping me in a blanket and turning the heat on full blast once the engine warmed.

“Here,” he said as we pulled into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot and parked on the side. “Let me get your face.”

Before I could ask what he meant, he had pulled a first aid kit out of the glove compartment and started to wipe an alcohol pad on my right cheek.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.”

I half expected him to tell me to “suck it up,” but he didn't.

I ignored the pain of the spruce's scratch, concentrating on my “doctor.”

He pulled back.

I touched my cheek. “Thanks.”

Before he could see my now ruddy-hued complexion, I swung around to look out the window. A red Mustang drove by.

“Hildy!”

Jagger looked at me. “You're not starting that again.”

I waved my hands around, pointing—and poked Jagger in the nose.

“Aye!”

“Oh. Sorry! But she's getting away. Hildy is leaving!”

Jagger looked as the red Mustang drove down the street, then started his engine. Before I could remind myself how uncomfortable I was in this outfit, we were tailing her down Olive Street.

What if it
wasn't
Hildy?

“Hey! Watch it!” I yelled to Jagger as he wove through Elm Street, nearly hitting a parked car.

The red Mustang seemed to be evading us.

God, now I actually hoped it
wasn't
Hildy.

Driving like that, maybe she was thinking we were following her. That would mean she had something to hide.

Like killing Leo.

We pulled through a parking lot, heading the Mustang off at Oak Street. The tires screeched as it pulled to the side, hitting the curb with a thud. Jagger was out and running to the Mustang before I could wrap the blanket around my legs and waddle out.

He opened her door. “You all right?”

Hildy stepped out.

I dropped my grip on the blanket, letting it fall to the frozen ground.

Hildy looked more confused than afraid. I bent and grabbed at the blanket, then shoved it around me again.

“Pauline?” She leaned closer.

“Hi, Hildy.” I sounded so matter-of-fact, I was actually embarrassed.

Hildy looked at me as if I was nuts. “What the hell is going on?”

“You tell us,” Jagger said.

I poked his arm. “Let her talk.”

“Talk?” She looked at him, the SUV and then at me. Up and down at me. “Looks like you two have more to talk about than I do. Why were you chasing me?”

“Why were you running?” Jagger asked.

“Nice job,” I muttered to him.

Hildy looked a bit teary-eyed. “I thought someone was following me. Maybe my mother's boyfriend. He's done it before, and now more than ever he's after me. But, hey, you two were chasing me? Why?”

Did you kill Leo?
was on the tip of my tongue. Thank goodness I bit it back. I knew Jagger wouldn't want me to ask that question. I had no idea if that was something only the police could ask. There was that Miranda warning thingie. I didn't want to blow this.

I looked at the car. Her furry coat. The Italian leather boots.

“Where did you get all of this?”

Jagger cursed.

Oops. I shouldn't have said that, but it came out without a thought.

Hildy gave us a look of teenage “attitude.” Shit. She was going to clam up on us. Jagger was going to kill me now.

I had to think fast to remedy this situation. “I . . . I missed you at work, Hildy. I've been worried about you.”

That did it.

Hildy's look softened.

In a childish whisper, she said, “No one's ever worried about me. Well, no one in a long time. Since my grandpa died.”