The Stiff and the Dead (35 page)

I held up a forkful of Gai Pan for her to see.

She rolled her eyes at me. Hmm. Not exactly a good impression on the Sokol family.

They argued for a few minutes, until I reminded them that Sophie's toe might be turning black from lack of blood so they scurried out.

I shook my head and thought about calling Goldie and Miles for a good laugh, but started to yawn instead. I couldn't wait to get home and back to bed. I figured I'd get the go-ahead to end my case from Jagger soon. After all, Lois Meyers had to be the accomplice. Even Jagger couldn't argue with me on that one. She had lived in luxury with Leo.

'Nough said.

I cleaned the table, sink and counter. Then I went to stick the liter Coke bottle back in the refrigerator. I opened the door.

Other than the Coke, it was empty.

I looked at Helen's empty refrigerator.

No one could be on that kind of diet. How odd. She had to have been living here at least a few days to be so settled. Why hadn't she shopped?

Oh, well. I had more on my mind than Helen's diet, even if it was odd that she had no food in the fridge. She probably just ate takeout. The investigator in me opened a cabinet door.

Empty.

The next held the dishes and glasses that obviously came stocked with the studio apartment. No food was to be found anywhere.

My gut said there was something wrong here. I sat on the couch and stuck my feet on the magazine on the coffee table. I should just go, but I needed a moment to think. Maybe Helen really was living with someone else and only kept this place to fool my uncle!

I mean, I was no Emeril when it came to cooking, but I at least kept dry food like cereal and bread around. If she really lived here, I'd assume she'd have
something
in the cabinet.

Damn.

She was lying to him and marrying him for his money. I'd have to find out for sure and warn him so the bride would be left at the altar. My foot slipped on the slick surface of the table, sending the magazine to the floor.

A letter fell out.

I went to pick it up and stick it back. After all, it was none of my business—until I read the handwritten name “Stash” in the first paragraph. On closer inspection it was more a note than a letter.

And, it was about my uncle. I tried to put it back in the magazine, but knew Jagger would tell me to read it.

Okay, I used that as an excuse to read it.

“Damn. I was right.”

Helen had written to Sophie about marrying my uncle for his money. “Why Sophie?” Hmm. They must have been closer friends than I thought. Or maybe Helen was going to split the money with her. Maybe Helen was in on the Viagra dealings too. Who wasn't?

I looked at the letter one more time to see if I'd missed anything.

“Didn't your mother ever tell you to not be so nosy?”

I swung around to see Helen. “Oh . . . this.” I looked at the letter as if I had every right to be holding it. “It fell when I put my feet on it. I mean, I put my feet on the . . . shit. You are not going to marry my uncle!”

She stared at me.

If I thought Jagger and my mother had a way with their eyes, Helen was a master at instilling fear into one's heart with hers. “You shouldn't have ruined everything, Pauline.”

I sized her up. Seventy. Maybe seventy-one. Slight frame with her little Buddha-belly. I could take her.

Then, she reached into her purse and before I knew it, I was looking at the barrel of a shiny metal gun. Caliber unknown, since I had no clue about weapons.

I couldn't take her.

“Helen,” I said and then laughed. “I'm not going to say a word.” I zipped my lips like Uncle Walt had done. “No siree.” I started to walk toward the door. “No one has to know. You too lovers will have a great time in Florida. Don't forget sunblock of at least SPF thirty.” I laughed again. Sounded fake.

“Take another step and you'll have a hole through that pretty face.”

“You think I'm pretty? My skin's not too pale?” Shit! What the hell was I saying? My nerves had gotten the best of me. Remain cool. You are a professional. You beat death once before. You can do it again. Hey, at least I wasn't in an elevator this time.

Helen's gun made a clicking sound.

I jumped. She must have done something to take off the safety or something like that. Who the hell knew? All I knew was that I had to remain relatively calm and . . . lunge at her.

The gun flew into the air. Helen landed on the couch.

And her hair-sprayed purple hair ended up—in my hands!

I looked down at her.

Beneath the wig was plastered down black hair. And up close, her skin was pretty damn smooth. And that voice. Deep and sultry. Shit.

She looked at me and started to swing her arms wildly.

Lois Meyers?

She smacked my right cheek. “Ouch!” Before I had time to comprehend that Helen, or Lois, had just tried to kill me, she had slugged me in the jaw. “Damn!”

For what seemed like hours, we hit, pinched. Helen/Lois even bit me once, and I screamed so that maybe a neighbor would hear. But no one came. Then again, it was an end unit and pretty damn secluded. Good choice, Helen/Lois.

“My uncle is going to come and . . . and he'll fix you!”

“Ha! Forget him.”

I grabbed her by the black hair half expecting it to come off in my hand. “Did you . . . did you hurt him?”

“I didn't kill him, bitch. Not my sugar daddy.” She lunged at me and kicked me in the abdomen.

My breath whooshed out. Earlier I had hesitated to hit an old lady, but now that Helen/Lois had maybe only ten years on me, I let her have it. Before she could slug me back, I got her on the floor and pinned her down with my knee.

She flipped me like a pancake.

Shit. Helen/Lois had probably never cooked a pancake in her life. Now she had me in the “missionary” position but her intentions were lethal. I noticed her eying the gun, which had landed under one wheel of the brass liquor cart. She pressed her fingers into my throat.

I started to gag.

With one hand, she bent as low as she could get and reached the gun.

I had to think fast. The last time I was faced with artillery, I used reverse psychology on the guy to get a confession. Of course it'd be no good if I died. Still, not ready to give up, I looked at Helen with pleading eyes.

She eased her grip and now held the gun in my face. “Get up.”

While choking and rubbing my throat, I stood and flopped down on the sofa. “I'm guessing a cola is out of the question?”

“Don't give me any shit, Pauline. You ruined everything. Now I have to clean up your mess.”

I chuckled. “Hey, I cleaned up your apartment.”

She shot daggers at me from her eyes. “Shut up and let me think how to get rid of you.”

I wasn't about to give her any help on that issue. “Helen, I mean Lois, you don't want to get into more trouble. I mean, marrying my uncle for his money is one thing, you smart cookie you, but murder? You don't want to commit murder. Ever.”

“Ever again, you mean.”

Gulp. I think I read somewhere that the first kill was the hardest—then it was like riding a bike and got easier and easier.

Or was that falling off a horse?

Either way, I looked at Helen, thinking criminals like to brag when they are about to kill the person to whom they brag to. If I could get her to confess everything, she'd be nailed when I reported it all to Jagger.

Of course, dead Pauline Sokols tell no tales. Couldn't let that happen. My insides were in such knots, though, having a panic attack seemed like a walk in the park compared to this. I tried to nonchalantly click on my beeper camera. Even if I didn't get good shots, I'd at least get her confession on tape.

She looked disgusted.

“I'm sorry I ruined it for you.” Maybe that would loosen her up.

“Goddamn men.”

“I hear you on that one.”

She waved the gun at me. “Shut up. I need to concentrate. Couldn't listen to me. He just couldn't listen. We'd be in Rio right now living off millions. But no. He wouldn't listen.”

“So you killed him.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but threw that out for conversation enhancement.

“Wouldn't
you
?”

Oh, boy. Helen/Lois may be snapping. “Well, depends on what he did.” I caught her attention as if taking her into my confidence, all the while praying she wouldn't shoot the freckles off my nose.

“First he kills his freaking uncle who found out too much and wouldn't agree to be a player. Then, he nearly shits in his pants when he hears the police might be investigating—”

“Mr. Wisnowski's death,” I muttered.

She shrugged. “Leo deserved it too. He could have made us a mint on the Viagra. Stupid shit.”

I shut my eyes for a nanosecond. It couldn't be good to shut your eyes when someone held a gun to your freckles, but in that nanosecond I realized Hildy was innocent.

Thank God for small wonders.

I couldn't wait to tell Jagger.

Jagger. Suddenly the situation slapped me in the face. Would I ever see him again? My parents? My siblings? Goldie? Miles? Spanky? My uncles? Nieces? Nephews? My future kids? God willing.

I paused.

If my life flashed back to my birth and fast-forwarded to today, I was a dead woman.

Oh well, that possibility meant I had nothing to lose. “You killed your partner Leo?”

“No, stupid.”

I was ready to argue with her when she said, “My dick of a
husband
, Leo.”

Yikes! That made Lois Sophie's daughter-in-law. Small world.

“My God. You killed your husband with the medication, committed insurance fraud and sold Viagra illegally to kids and the seniors.”

“Look, Miss High-and-Mighty, I'm going to kill you too. When I left my Daddy and Mama at age sixteen, I said I'd never be poor again. Never. Never eat from trash bins. Never wear holes in my clothes.”

If it wasn't for the gun, I might have started to feel sorry for her.

“All planned. Already rented out Leo's and my house. So, you see, I've worked too hard and put up with too much shit to let years of planning go down the toilet because of some fucking niece of my fiancé's.”

“Medical fraud insurance investigator.” Oh . . . my . . . God.

How and
why
did I say that?

Helen leaned back. The gun waved in the air. “You little snitch. Damn you!”

Pop!

“Ouch!” I yelled, and then screamed until my lungs hurt worse than my arm.

Crash!

My mind started to whirl. Helen had fired, but I was still alive. At least I thought I was. The room grew darker and almost foggy. However, there was a nasty sting in my arm, which seemed a good sign since I didn't think there was pain in the afterlife. I heard another crash. When I looked toward the French doors, I hallucinated that Joey the Wooer had just thrown a wrought iron patio chair through it.

And, as if that wasn't enough, Joey was armed.

And just shot the gun out of Helen/Lois's hand.

“You're gonna make it,” a deep voice said.

I opened one eye to see Joey the Wooer gazing down on me. He held me in his strong arms. If I wasn't in pain and groggy from obviously blacking out, I'd admonish myself for noticing.

“Is this heaven?” I mumbled.

Joey laughed.

Sounded familiar.

I shut my eyes.

They say hearing is the last sense to leave a person.

I could barely open my eyes, but heard some kind of commotion.

“You could have gotten yourself killed. Don't ever take a chance like that again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock. Sherlock? Sherlock!

No one called me that except . . . I looked up with blurry vision and blinked and blinked again. Helen/Lois stood near the kitchenette, getting cuffed by two cops at her sides.

I blinked one more time to make sure I was seeing what I thought I saw.

Joey had taken off his hair. Not really taken it off leaving him bald, but uncovered more hair. He actually had dark, black hair now. Maybe another wig. Who changed wig colors mid-shooting? I had to blink again. His mustache was gone. I looked to see his “old man's” suit on, but this sure as hell wasn't any old man holding me.

He wiped a cloth across my bullet-riddled arm. Okay, it was only grazed, but shot in the line of duty had to be worth something.

His gentle touch took me by surprise.

“You. You're Joey?”

“Who else could make sure all the old geezers didn't hit on Peggy?”

Yikes. That's why “Joey” acted so weird, almost possessive of me around Nick. Even in my fog of being shot, I wanted to ask him if we had . . . you know . . . that night in the shed, but oh, well. There was that time-and-place thing again. Waiting for an ambulance didn't seem the time to talk about sex. What could one more mystery about Jagger hurt?

He lifted my head and stuck his jacket under it.

Nice touch.

“She was a real looker that Peg.” Fabulous Jagger-grin.

“Oh, God. Take me now,” I mumbled. If only embarrassment were a means to suicide I'd be growing wings right now.

Jagger shook his head, oh-so very Jaggerlike. Warmed me inside. Then, he wiped my arm again and whispered, “You did good, Sherlock.
Real
good. You just might make it after all.”

And don't miss Lori Avocato's next thrilling Pauline Sokol Mystery,
ONE DEAD UNDER THE CUCKOO'S NEST.

Please turn this page for a preview.

After my goodbyes to Adele and Goldie, I hurried outside. When I saw the black Suburban pull into the lot, my heart did a stupid happy dance.

Too much caffeine in my decaf coffee. Had to be it.