The Stiff and the Dead

by Lori Avocato

  “You have to stick closer to her, Suga.”

  I nodded toward Goldie. “I know. That’s why I need a change of outfit. To go to . . . Bingo tonight. You up to it?”

  Goldie smiled. “For you, Suga. For you.”

  I stood in the doorway of Saint Bartholomew’s Church and looked across the room. Nearly every overweight woman looked like Sophie. Damn. I should have planned to meet her at the door, but she wasn’t all too thrilled about me joining her. I shuffled down the steps and into the hall in Mrs. Honeysuckle’s brown pumps. They did go well with the brown-and-white dress Goldie had picked out for me.

  I ran my fingers across my cheeks and prayed that when this night was over, I’d get these wrinkles off my face. Goldie had sworn I would, but I had my doubts when he layered globs of Vaseline on my face, formed the wrinkles—and then set them with superglue! He swore the Vaseline would allow me to peel off the glue.

  Please don’t make me permanently wrinkled, I prayed to Saint Theresa. I thought it was appropriate since I was in a church hall. Then I found my mark. There, near the stage, sat Sophie and her friends. Uncle Walt, Uncle Stash, Helen and Joey. Damn. I didn’t expect the usual crowd. But, oh well, I had a job to do and would have to ignore them.

  “May I join you?” I asked as I approached.

  All the men stood except Joey, who looked at the others and then followed suit. Next, he actually hurried over and held the chair for me. I thanked him, ignored him, and was glad the empty seat was near Sophie.

  “My feet are killing me tonight after dancing. Arthritis, you know,” I complained.

  She nodded.

  Shit. Did that mean she had it too? This wasn’t going to be an easy case. I felt it in my pretend arthritic bones. “You suffer from it too?”

  Uncle Walt leaned near. “Had it in my knees since the seventies.”

  I know. I know. But I smiled at him and looked toward Sophie. “How about you?”

  She gave me an odd look.

  Joey cut in with, “Why the interesta in Sophie’s joints, Bellisima?”

  For a second, I forgot my disguise. Geez, the guy had a way about him that confused me. “I . . . well . . . don’t we all suffer from it?”

  “My joints are like well-oiled machines,” Uncle Stash added as he nudged Helen, who gave him a feisty grin.

  I did not want to go there.

  So, I smiled back, focused on my Bingo cards, all six of them, and decided I needed to get Sophie alone.

  After three hours, forty-five minutes, and ten seconds of Bingo, I felt the hairs on my wig stand on end. If my face were pliable, I’d scream. Then I vowed I would never join a senior citizens center or play Bingo when I really became of age. I was even putting it in writing so, if dementia set in, my family wouldn’t have a confused me playing Bingo.

  Plus, I was pissed that I hadn’t won. I’m sure Miles would tell me I was a sore loser since everyone at the table had won Bingo except me. Damn. Maybe he’d be right.

  Sophie started packing up her Bingo equipment. I couldn’t believe they all had their own markers and chips. I must have looked like the rank amateur that I was. I jumped up when she did. Guess that’s the fault of “aging” so quickly. I needed to think things through and prepare better. Then again, I had no idea how to prepare for any part of this job.

  “Can I give you a lift, Sophie?”

  She shook her head. “I only live a block away.”

  “Oh, my. I guess my mind is going on me.” I giggled as maturely as I could. “I also walked. Bad night vision, you know.” Mental note to myself, pick up your car later.

  She nodded. Sophie Banko, woman of few words. Damn it.

  Once at the doorway, I latched onto her arm and said, “Let’s walk together.” With my death grip, she couldn’t say no.

  After we got out past the parking lot, I released my hold when she kept pulling away. “Sorry. I’m always afraid of falling.”

  “No problem.” She walked on.

  The night was moonlit, which made it easier to see, along with the good lighting around the church and nearby neighborhood. When we crossed Pleasant Street, Sophie turned into the yard of a white house.

  “So this is where you live?”

  She gave me an odd look. “That’s why I turned here.”

  “Isn’t that house next door where poor Mr. Wisnowski lived?”

  She froze.

  When she defrosted, she glared at me. “How would someone who just came to town know about him?”

  Oh . . . my . . . aching arthritic feet.

  I chuckled in as elderly a way as I could. “Know about him? I don’t, dearie. But I heard someone at the . . . oh, no. Silly me. When I was driving with . . . someone told me he lived here.”

  She curled her lip and leaned in.

  I backed up and prayed the moon would eclipse so we’d be in total darkness, and I could sneak away.

  “You may be heading into Alzheimer’s, Peggy. Get a checkup.” With that she nodded as if to dismiss me and started to go walk up her porch stairs.

  Good. She wasn’t suspicious of me. Well, of my really being elderly, that is.

  “Wait!” I yelled before she hurried up the steps.

  She swung around and bobbled like a top. A woman her size should know better than to spin around at that speed. Thank goodness I caught her before we both fell down. Well, I really couldn’t catch her; it was more like I shoved all my weight against her to keep her upright.

  She steadied herself and turned back without so much as a thank-you.

  I made a mental note not to startle her again. My mental-note list was growing at warp speed. Good thing I had a great memory. Came from my nursing background.

  “I . . . wonder if I can come in for a . . . drink of water.”

  She shrugged. I followed her inside.

  Once in Sophie’s house, I stood like a jerk while she glared at me. “I . . . oh, the water?”

  The place was creepy. That’s what got my attention and made me forget that I’d asked for water. The old Victorian-style living room looked more like the parlor of a funeral home. And the smell. Old. Musty. I followed Sophie down a dark hallway and into the kitchen. The stove looked like an old coal job. Pale green. I felt as if I’d stepped back in time, and not the same way that I did every time I went into my mother’s house.

  This was downright eerie.

  “Glasses are in the drainer.” Sophie hobbled to the kitchen table and flopped down. The chair groaned.

  I walked to the white porcelain sink and looked at the glasses. Suddenly my thirst disappeared. Not that the glasses weren’t clean, but I had an odd feeling that I shouldn’t touch anything in Sophie’s house.

  What if she was a criminal?

  My fingerprints would be all over—and maybe even covering up hers. Instead I turned and decided to snoop while I talked. “Tired?”

  She looked at me and wheezed. “Aren’t you?”

  I readied to say at my age I jogged several miles before getting tired, then remembered my age was supposed to be in the seventies. I sat across from her and nodded. “Beat.”

  She probably forgot the reason I’d gotten myself invited in as she took a napkin from the lazy Susan in the middle of the table and wiped her forehead. It wasn’t really warm in there, but maybe her size had thrown her internal thermometer off. Plus, she hadn’t taken off her jacket yet. When she swung the lazy Susan around, I noticed two prescription bottles.

  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 s
omething 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. M
y 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.

  Five

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