The Stiff and the Dead (7 page)

Damn, that's it? Sophie couldn't be too ill. But, according to her file, she was sending in claims for a hell of a lot more than two prescriptions.

I smelled a rat the size of a kangaroo.

I started to ease closer to read what they were for, but suddenly Sophie's face was in mine.

Geez.

Close up, she looked gigantic.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Her accusing tone had me pull back.

“I—” What the hell was I going to say?

“Is something wrong with your hearing?” Her weight when she leaned near pushed the table, which pinned me between the wall and the other end of the table. “I asked what the hell are you doing?”

I looked at her. For several seconds I couldn't respond, and figured this was good. Even though the reason was that I was so squashed I could barely squeak out a breath, it would make me look confused and even hard of hearing if I played dumb. I caught my reflection in her toaster. Shoot. I was turning the color of a boiled lobster.

I held up a hand and waved it about. “Breathe. I can't . . . breathe.” I pointed to my chest.

“Oh!” Sophie pulled back and yanked the table. “Such a skinny thing. Why didn't you say something?”

I blew out such a strong breath, Sophie's hair danced about. While she straightened it, I decided I had to get out of here. She was too suspicious about me scrutinizing her medicine. I stood.

She stood.

I smiled.

She didn't.

“Well, thank you for the water.”

“You never had any.”

“Oh.” I turned toward the kitchen door not wanting to go back in time through the parlor. “Silly me. Mind isn't what it used to be.” But I couldn't leave. Not just yet. I hadn't found out anything. Not even what the prescriptions were for. And maybe she had more of them stashed in other places. I tried to stall for time. Shifted my legs. Pulled down on my dress and yanked my jacket tighter.

“Goodbye.” She stood staring at me. No wonder. She probably thought I was crazy or some criminal.

“Mind if I use your little girls' room?”

She wrinkled her forehead. “I only have boys. Grown ones.”

“Oh.” I laughed. “That's nice, but not what I meant. I meant the powder room.” I laughed again. Alone.

This time she shook her head and pointed toward the stairs. “Only one in this place is upstairs.”

I followed her pointing finger thinking,
Good. One less place to have to snoop around in.
When I got to the top of the stairs, I saw only one open door. White tile covered the floor, so I knew it was the “little boys' room.” I was tempted to sneak a peek in the other rooms, but I figured I wasn't adept at opening a door quietly while the suspect was home. So, I headed into the bathroom.

Sophie was neat and clean which made my job easier. At least there weren't any piles of clothes thrown on the floor that I could slip on or have to dig through. I opened the medicine cabinet above the sink.

No medicine.

Facial creams. Shaving cream. An old bottle of rubbing alcohol and two peroxides, but no prescription bottles. Hmm.

Someone with all the meds she had gotten reimbursed for had to keep them somewhere.

Unless she never got them.

“You all right up there?”

Uh-huh. “Fine. Fine. Support hose, you know.” I quietly shut the cabinet door, did a quick look in the linen closet to find only linen, flushed the toilet and hurried out.

When I got downstairs, she was really giving me an odd look now. No doubt I deserved it, but so what if I got a reputation around the senior citizens center as a nut case.

“Thanks so much. Feel better now. Too much coffee.”

“Goodbye.”

I smiled and headed toward the kitchen door. When I opened it, I noticed how close Mr. Wisnowski's house was. Only a few feet away with a joint driveway in between. The house was dark. “You must be pretty close to your neighbors.”

She looked at me like I had two heads. “Obviously. These houses were built after the war. Not much property, so they are close.”

“You must miss having someone next to you.”

She paused. “How do you know no one lives next to me now?”

Oh, boy.

“I . . . someone mentioned it. That he was . . . that he died. They mentioned Mr. Wisnowski died. For the life of me, though, I can't remember who. Who told me. Not who died. You know how we forget things at our age.”

She looked at me suspiciously but said, “Won't be long before someone moves in.”

Hmm. “Oh, are you getting new neighbors?”

She shrugged. “Soon. House just went up for sale today.”

Then that meant someone looking to buy could get a tour of Mr. W's house. I reached out my hand to shake hers. She just looked at it.

Before the words could filter through my brain, I said,
“I'm
looking to move here.” Where the hell did that come from?

She looked at me, again oddly. “I thought Helen said you were only here for a few months.”

Damn. For gossip to spread so fast, there had to be a senior-citizen grapevine the size of which could produce oceans of wine. “I . . . you know, Sophie, my mind isn't what it used to be. I don't know what I said to Helen. She kind of makes me nervous, you know.” I moved closer as if pulling Sophie into my confidence. Worked too.

She nodded.

“Anyway, I love it here and the people are so nice. So I said to myself, Pau . . . Peggy, why not stick around?”

Again she nodded, then looked at the door.

“Right. I should be going.”

She nodded a third time. Sophie was a woman of few words.

I scurried away from her house and started back toward the church. But then I realized what a great opportunity was smacking me in the face. Admittedly, I had a long way to go before I could call myself a real medical insurance fraud investigator. But I was determined—and curious.

One would think I would have learned my lesson about curiosity getting me into trouble, but what the hell? I needed to find out if Uncle Walt was laboring under dementia—or if he was correct.

And even if I wasn't a good liar, my curiosity was advantageous for this profession.

So, I looked back to make sure that Sophie was not watching me through the window. And thank goodness, she'd left her side porch light on. I turned around and walked past her house to the sidewalk in front of Mr. Wisnowski's house. How convenient the two were, side by side.

Although dark inside, the moon, along with Sophie's light, allowed me to walk around to his backyard. Every once in a while, the inside of the house seemed to glow from the moon. There was an enclosed porch out back, which I assumed led to the kitchen, since that was the setup in Sophie's house.

The house on the other side of his, which was a mere ten feet away, was also black inside. Good. No snooping neighbors. I figured Sophie would be passed out on her sofa by now as I walked up the back steps. My hand shook when I reached toward the screen door. This was not good, I told myself. Any investigator worth her salt should not shake, even though my brain kept shouting that I wasn't a
murder
investigator. Then, I also told myself a person would be a fool not to be a little nervous while breaking and entering and shaking.

Damn.

Could I really do this?

I would have to in order to find out if Uncle Walt had been correct. Murderers shouldn't get away with it, and maybe there was some evidence in here that would help my case with Sophie.

With my hand poised near the door handle for a few seconds, I thought about it. Then, before I could stop it, my hand grabbed the screen door and yanked, and I was inside the porch.

Since the screen was unlocked, I rationalized that this wasn't actually “breaking.” The entering part was arguable. Hey, I was looking to buy and wanted to beat the rush. Sophie, a suspected criminal herself, could vouch for me. Is that what my world was coming to? I looked through the window. Yep. The kitchen.

Okay, in order to get inside, I had to think like an eighty-year-old man. Dressed like this should help. I asked myself where Uncle Walt would hide a key—then bent down and lifted the mat below my feet.

Nothing.

But there was an impression of a key in the dust on the floor. Hmm. Maybe Mr. Wisnowski had used it, like my Uncle Walt might do, and had forgotten to return it before he died. Well, I really had no intention of breaking a window or door to get inside. My heart sank as I thought about how I'd gotten this far and wouldn't get to snoop around.

Something in my gut said my uncle was onto something, thinking murder instead of death by natural causes. And with Sophie so close . . . there just was something gnawing at me.

I stood up and leaned against the door. “Ack!”

My world spun in a flash.

When I felt pain shoot up my back, I realized I'd fallen onto the kitchen floor when the door gave way. Obviously it had been left open. Even my wig had sailed off in the fall.

“Damn.” I couldn't move for several seconds and shut my eyes to wait for the pain to subside. My medical background said I shouldn't move in case a vertebra had cracked, but I sure as hell wasn't going to call out for help. How could I explain this getup and me on the floor of a dead man's house? I squeezed my eyes tighter—as if that would help my situation.

A dull light shone through my eyelids. Wow, the moon was really bright tonight to cause that phenomenon. I reached my hand up to cover my eyes and let out a satisfying moan. Then I pulled at my “wrinkles,” which were suddenly annoying me. Had to be from the pain caused by my head smacking the floor. Thank goodness I didn't feel any warm liquid running down any part of me.

A muffled sound came near. Footsteps!

I opened my eyes to see a shadow standing above me. A scream flew through my lips.

The figure leaned near. A flashlight blinded my eyes. I shut them again as if that would beam me out of there.

“Jesus. Is that you, Pauline? What the hell are you doing here?”

I didn't need to see who it was. The voice made it embarrassingly clear. I moaned again and managed, “You?”

Then I remembered how bizarre I must look.

My “you?” filled the silence of Mr. Wisnowski's kitchen and, despite the pain in my back, confusion filled my thoughts.

I finally opened my eyes. Yep. I hadn't been hallucinating. “Hi, Jagger.”

“Again, what the hell are you doing here?”

I inhaled and remembered. Remembered his familiar scent and had to control my urges, despite his being a few inches away. You are a professional, I told myself and looked up.

Dressed all in black, which wasn't unlike him at all, he looked good. Yum. He even had a five-o'clock shadow. I figured it was to aid in his breaking and entering disguise, but it also made him look sexier than usual.

And that was hard to do.

Even in this dim light I could see his dark eyes, noticed his hair a tad shorter and windswept in a delicious sort of way. His jacket was suede, and beneath it he wore a knitted shirt that had to show off the definition of his arms.

One could only hope.

“Move that damn light out of my eyes.” I swatted in the air, but missed. “And, you could at least ask if I'm all right. I mean, I could have a concussion.” I tried to sit up and felt strong arms aid me.

“You landed on the braided rug, and you didn't black out.”

Hmm. He must have been watching me. Although a tantalizing thought, it also sent waves of embarrassment throughout me when I realized—I was still dressed like Peggy Doubtme—sans the wig and the Vaseline/super-glued wrinkles, which were now in my hand.

I must've looked wonderful.

I'm surprised he recognized me. I peeked at him staring at me. On second thought, no, I wasn't surprised at all.

His hand tugged on mine. “Get up.”

He wore gloves, I realized. And I also thought he must have taken the key from under the mat. But why? Why would Jagger be snooping around here?

And why hadn't I thought of wearing gloves?

“Don't touch anything,” he said, as he helped me toward the door.

So much for my golden opportunity to investigate.

But then again, I was known for my persistence, even if it got me into trouble sometimes. Okay, lots of times.

I shrugged free. “Ouch!” My head pounded.

He stopped. “You all right?”

I rolled my eyes. Even that hurt. “Yes, I'll live. But I'm not moving from this spot until you tell me why
you
are here.” I even attempted to pull myself up straighter so that might make me look more formidable to Jagger. What the hell was I thinking? My five-foot-six body couldn't hold a candle to his six three. “Well? What are you doing here? Remember, I'm not moving until you spill.”

He grinned.

I was surprised that he didn't say, “Wanna bet?” I knew damn well that's what his grin meant.

“Pauline—” He leaned near and his grin deepened. “The real question is, why did you come crashing through the door?” He touched my arm. “Spill.”

“Uncle Walt thinks Mr. Wisnowski was killed. Murdered.” Damn! Just 'cause he touched me didn't mean I had to spill my guts.

He leaned back against the wall and looked at me.

Well, Jagger, I had learned, didn't just look. He kinda pulled you into his stare and made you his slave. Not literally, although some nights that became the plot of my dreams.

So, I rambled on. “I don't know why, but I think Uncle Walt is right. And you . . . you insinuated as much . . . with that look. Just looking at me. And the grin. Why are you here? You don't investigate murders.” I had no idea why I said this, because I'd never, in fact, learned whom Jagger worked for. He very well could be FBI investigating whatever the hell he felt like.

“I have my reasons, and you, of course, know that I'm not good at sharing.”