The Stiff and the Dead (10 page)

Then again, once I got there, I had no idea what I was going to do to help him—yet. I knew he'd tell me when he was ready.

“And over there is where you hang your coat,” Randy Johnson said. She was the nurse who'd been assigned to “orientate” me to this job. I'd been hired to fill in for Maggie Pepperwhite, who was out on maternity leave. Thank goodness I didn't have to deal with the bubble-gum-snapping, blonde bombshell of a receptionist—the one who must have owned stock in Dubble Bubble.

I said a silent prayer that my case would be solved before the Pepperwhite kid was delivered. My feet already hurt and the clinic hadn't even opened yet.

The old cliché of riding a bicycle after not riding for years is true of nursing too. It didn't take long before I was schlepping patients in and out of examining rooms, taking blood pressures and temps along with taking histories and reasons for the patients' visits. I had to keep reminding myself that I was working a case and not become complacent as I fell back on my nursing skills.

Several times I'd tried to snatch the patient charts of ones whom I thought would need prescriptions. Since the clinic was attached to the pharmacy, often the nurses would help out the patients and get their meds for them just as Jagger had said. I'd at least get to meet some pharmacy personnel and maybe even snoop a bit.

But no such luck.

Soon there were only a few minutes left before the clinic closed. Thank goodness the pharmacy stayed open two hours longer. Not sure how I'd manage, I was determined to get over there today and see what I could find out. So far, with no Jagger in sight, I was
not
getting my case solved.

I grabbed the last chart on the rack. A young man with some kind of rash. It would be a welcome relief after all the elderly patients I'd met today. Oh, I did love the elderly, but since becoming Peggy Doubtme, I was having a personality crisis.

Last night I actually tried to take my teeth out to soak in a glass.

An examining room door closing behind me pulled my attention back to my job. I looked at the chart in my hand and walked toward the waiting room. Only two patients remained. One, a heavily pregnant woman, and the other a throwback from the sixties. Although not much older than myself, the guy had hair longer than mine, dark glasses on and a mustache that hung down past each side of his lips. Didn't look bad even if not my type.

Then again, I reminded myself, anyone with my “dance card” shouldn't have a type other than
breathing male.

I looked at the guy and called, “Mr. Lance Feathermoon.”

He didn't look American Indian but could be, with a name like that. Actually, he looked more like Johnny Depp, and that alone was reason to pick him instead of the pregnant lady.

He set down his magazine and came toward me.

My heart skipped—twice.

I mentally pulled out my list of no-nos and added,
No caffeine at lunchtime.
Had to be the cause of my cardiac arrhythmia.

I waved for him to enter Exam Room #3. “Have a seat on the table. So, what brings you here, Mr. Feathermoon?”

He remained seated on the edge of the green enamel table, looked around the room several times, paused, then finally said, “Rash.”

Oh, boy. Last patient of the day and I'd picked a doozie. Not only was I certain he wasn't going to be too cooperative, but I had to keep my wits about me since every time he looked at me, I felt his gaze undress me through his Foster Grants.

I had to get a date soon.

Deciding it'd be a waste to add that to my mental list, I smiled at him. “Where?”

“Foot.”

“Please remove your shoes then.”

“Foot,” he repeated and slipped off one well-worn Nike running shoe from his left foot. “Not feet, doll.”

Doll? Suddenly the weird attraction to Lance drained out of me. I actually looked down to see if I was standing in some sort of puddle of hormonal insanity. My feet were dry, and when I looked up, so was Lance's left foot. As a matter of fact, I couldn't see a rash at all.

I stared at him a few minutes. Really studied him. I'd been working on honing my investigational tools, and this guy seemed a good study. There was something familiar about him, but I was fairly certain that I'd never met Mr. Feathermoon. It'd been a long day so I ignored the familiarity and proceeded with my job.

Now my head started to pound as it did so often when I was frustrated, overworked or horny. The last obviously not the cause at this moment. I shook myself and wondered how I'd let myself be talked back into this profession. Even if it would help my case, I figured it wasn't worth it to have patients like this. I was losing precious time heading over to the pharmacy.

“I don't see any rash, sir.” Maybe I should just chart what he said and leave it up to poor Dr. Handy, who was working my section today. No. I couldn't do that. First of all, he was the oldest physician here, and second, the most experienced. I figured if I wrote “rash” down on the chart when I didn't see one, Doc Handy would have me fired immediately before the end of my shift for wasting his time.

Mr. Feathermoon gave a loud sigh. “You have to look closer.”

I looked at the foot again, rolled my eyes, and turned back. “I actually have very good vision, sir. Twenty-fifteen. But even if I wore magnifying glasses, I couldn't see a rash that wasn't there. Perhaps it went away before you came here?”
Please, let him go now.

He grinned.

My eyebrows rolled up to my forehead. Wait a minute. I studied him. I looked at his face—closely. I inhaled. The familiarity hit me. Jagger—in his “arrival upon a new case” disguise.

But I bit back my urge to yell his name.

My observational investigating skills
were
sharpening.

At the moment, my gut instinct was not to let on that I knew he was Jagger. As a nurse, I was always quick to notice signs and symptoms and now the knack had paid off. I looked at him and gathered my thoughts.

What made it most difficult was, “Lance” looked damn tasty.

Hey, if aged Joey the Wooer could float my boat, then why not some spring chicken who appeared years younger and sexy as hell?

Then again, this was Jagger.

“Well,
Lance.
It seems the rash is very faint. Almost can't see it. I'll have to . . . do a check before the doctor comes in.”

He looked at me a bit skeptically. I wondered if he was ready to fess up.

Apparently not. So I decided to pull one over on Jagger. At least give it the old college try, since it'd surely be an accomplishment. I turned to the counter and took a wad of cotton from the jar.

“What the hell is that for?” he asked.

Good question, I thought, but said, “Oh. I need to . . . just hold your leg out a minute, sir.” I proceeded to run the cotton up and down the bottom of his foot, saying, “I have to check for feeling in the foot. Make sure nothing is affecting the nerves.” This was all bull and I hoped Jagger wouldn't pick up on that yet. He knew his investigating, but I was finally able to do something I knew more about than he did. Nursing.

I whisked the cotton around in circles.

He looked as if he'd explode.

Now I come from a family who loves the bottoms of their feet tickled. My siblings and I always used to argue about who would tickle whom, but that was unusual. I knew most people were very sensitive when it came to that area of their feet.

And Jagger proved no exception.

I ran the cotton back and forth. Back and forth.

Slowly.

Then quickly.

He grabbed my hand. “What the hell does that prove?”

I looked at him. “It proves, Mr. Feathermoon, that your feelings are intact. That the
rash
hasn't affected your nerves.”

He merely lowered the sunglasses and glared at me.

The door opened behind me and in walked the old doctor.

“Hi, Dr. Handy, this patient is complaining of an itch on his foot.” I handed him the chart and stepped back, ready to bolt out the door.

After a few seconds and my escape into the hallway, I heard the doctor's voice. “Why did you write ‘rash' then, Nurse? I don't see a rash. Nurse?”

Okay, I thought, I could keep going and pretend that I didn't hear him, or be honest and turn back and lie. I shut my eyes, and then opened them to see one of the other doctors standing right in front of me. “Excuse me,” I said and headed back into the room.

“Did you say something, Dr. Handy?”

He was already peering over Jagger's naked (be still, my heart) foot.

“Yes, I asked why you wrote down ‘rash,' Nurse—” He leaned over to read my temporary name tag. “—Sokol.”

“The patient said he had a rash. But I agree with you, Doctor. I don't see one.”

“I . . . had one when I called this morning, Doc. Damn thing is, when I took my sock off for the pretty lady, it wasn't there no more. Does itch though.”

I smiled in a “gotcha” sort of way.

Felt damn good too.

The doctor looked at me and then at the chart. Then he examined Jagger's foot and asked more questions. I held my breath, wondering if Jagger would mention the cotton thing. He didn't.

The doctor said, “Not much to look at, but if it itches, I'll give you a prescription for a stronger steroid than one you could get over the counter. Nurse, come to my office, and I'll give it to you.” With that he turned and walked out the door.

“You may put your shoes and socks back on,” I said and headed to the door. “I'll get your prescription.” A prescription! I was going to be able to go to the pharmacy after all.

Then it hit me, Jagger had this all planned out, and it could help both of our cases.

Before I turned to go, I said, “Nice job,
Jagger.
”

He actually looked surprised.

Warmed me inside before I ran out.

I wasn't too proud to admit that I needed help in this business. After all, Fabio had assigned me to work with Nick Caruso on my first case. Still, it did make my day that I had “fingered” Jagger. Despite my heart's protest, I decided I'd see if Nick could help again, since Jagger came and went like this on a whim.

Nick had freelanced for Fabio. Been doing it for years. And, as knockout handsome as Nick was, my feelings never reached the boiling point with him. That let me concentrate on work. But the best part was, Jagger thought they had. I smiled to myself and felt a bit wicked. That just might work. Besides, Nick and Jagger had a past.

And not a very amicable one.

“Hi. I'm the temporary nurse over in the clinic, and I need a prescription filled.” I looked to see a bench full of people waiting on the other side of the counter. The clinic staff had access to a back door to speed things up for the sick patients. Very helpful, I thought. For my case, that is.

A young woman, most likely in her late teens and dressed very punk in more black than an Italian mourner, looked up from a stack of white prescription bags. “Leo's gonna shit a brick. Hang it!”

I was going to ask “hang what” but figured that was some kind of personal-curse word and with her temper, I kept my mouth shut.

“Leave it over there.” She motioned with her head to another stack. “This one's full of prescription orders.”

Damn. I couldn't just leave. “I . . . the clinic is closing and the doctor wants this medication filled now.”

She rolled her eyes at me and grabbed the paper from my hand. “Yeah, right. I'm sure a steroid cream is a life-saving medication.” She blew a pink bubble from between her—were they really black—lips and popped it with her nail. Black polish too.

“Look,” I leaned in to read her name, “Hildy, I'm not a doctor, so I don't presume to think what they do is right or—”

Her eyebrows rose in what I'd clearly term “annoyance.” I didn't want to piss off Hildy. She could be helpful. Then again, someone with so much black on and red painted hair teased out as if frightened by the proverbial bogeyman might not be much help. Still, with friends like Goldie, Miles and Adele, I wasn't choosy. You really couldn't judge a book by a cover where any of them were concerned. They were all the best, despite appearances. So, I changed my tune and said, “You must be so overworked. Can I get you a drink?”

She looked at the crowd waiting. “Yeah, tequila. Worm in.”

After a moment of shock, I chuckled. “How about a soda? Cola?”

“Don't do caffeine. Anything clear.”

“Fine.” I turned to go and stopped. “My name is Pauline. Pauline Sokol.”

From behind she mumbled, “Hildy Jones. I'll try to have your prescription filled as soon as Leo gets the chance. But, I can't promise ‘The Shit' will cooperate.”

I smiled to myself.

When I got over to the clinic side and went into the waiting room where the soda machine sat, I looked around. No Jagger. Where the heck had he gone? Then I reminded myself it really didn't matter. He'd pop up when least expected. Thank goodness it was usually when my life was being threatened. I hurriedly grabbed a dollar bill from my pocket, got a ginger ale and went back. If I had to wait at the pharmacy, I could maybe do some snooping. Good thing no more patients were around.

Of course the pharmacy was packed, so I'd have to be careful—and crafty, I thought, on the way back to Hildy.

After I'd handed the can of soda to Hildy, I sat opposite her desk and decided how to do “crafty,” wishing my buddy Goldie were there. Amazingly enough, Goldie, even dressed like the Fourth of July fireworks, could do sneaky and inconspicuous very well.

Hildy got up. “I'll go check on Leo. He's freaking out with so much work to do. Bastard. Hang it!”

Hmm. No love lost between Hildy and Leo. This was good. I smelled a possible mole. Dear Hildy who might just serve unwittingly in that role, looked as if she might need a friend—and Pauline Sokol was nothing if not friendly.