by Lori Avocato
“What for? So I can prevent this from happening to me again.”
Goldie stopped at the light before turning onto the ramp of Interstate 91. “It ain’t going to happen again, since you ain’t going back there.”
I chuckled. “Don’t you start that too.”
“Suga, I ain’t starting anything other than what Jagger said. Jagger said you ain’t going back … ever.”
I froze in the heated car. There was no sense in arguing with Goldie. The anger zooming throughout me was for Jagger.
How dare he!
Through clenched teeth I said, “Take me back. Take me back now.”
Goldie looked at me and shook his head.
“Yes.”
“Uh-uh. I’m no fool, Pauline. Jagger said.”
I remained still with those words. Goldie had enough sense not to disobey an order from Jagger.
Me, I had other plans … only no idea how I’d implement them.
“Pauline,” my mother said, leaning closely and squinting, “weren’t you wearing those same scrubs on Sunday?”
She was observant. I’d give her that. That was also why I had Goldie do my makeup, much like a professional makeup artist, so that Mother wouldn’t notice my injuries. It’d hurt, but the pain was worth not having to lie to her.
Lying to Mother never turned out well.
When we were kids she always seemed to find out, even if it was years later. Talk about “mother radar!” I supposed one day, eons from now, she’d ask me where I’d gotten that scratch on my face, but right now I wasn’t volunteering anything.
Mentally exhausted, I collapsed onto the nearest kitchen chair. I had the uncontrollable urge to eat kielbasa. Mother’s kielbasa and sauerkraut, which I never ate. As if that weren’t scary enough, I’d insisted Goldie bring me there instead of to our condo. If I weren’t so beat, I’d be in the bathroom inhaling pine. That mental stuff was getting to me.
And yet, I was going back.
Anger threatened to take over, but I put a stop to those feelings. I knew, just knew, if Mother noticed I was upset, she would interrogate me and find out way too much. I’d deal with Jagger and his “order” later.
“Mother, do you have any leftover kielbasa and kraut?”
She swung around and glared at me. “Tell me everything, Pauline. Everything that is going on in your life!”
What had I been thinking? Monday was meatloaf day and asking for Saturday’s traditional kielbasa was a red flag big enough to send my mother into the truth-police mode. She was the captain of the squad too.
Even though Goldie hadn’t been in my life for more than a few months, I looked to see horror and confusion and the question “what the hell were you thinking, Suga!” on his face.
In my exhaustion, I heard my mother calling my name again. Before I knew it, I was in Goldie’s Camaro with him flooring it and mumbling about me.
I looked toward him. “Did we at least say goodbye?” There had been many times that I’d left my parents’ house in the same kind of “hurry.” But this time, I admitted, it was my fault for letting nostalgia make me temporarily insane.
“Yeah, you were polite as you scurried out, grabbing my arm. You need a manicure, Suga.”
I looked down to see my half painted coral nails, which were way too long for me. As a nurse I’d learned to keep them short and couldn’t stand when they grew a sixteenth of an inch or more. “You’re right. Sorry about that. It’s just … I didn’t want to have to tell her about—”
We turned into the condo parking lot. “I know. I know. No sense worrying her. We’re worried enough.”
I knew he meant him and Miles. I leaned over, kissed his cheek, then turned and got out. When the fresh air hit me, I sucked in a deep breath and thought maybe I shouldn’t go back. Maybe Jagger was right.
I could get hurt … killed. Maybe … maybe no one would ever help Margaret or others like her then. Even with Jagger on the case, it could take longer, and they’d all seen him. And he needed my nursing knowledge.
“I’ll need a ride back tonight.”
He turned toward me.
I touched his hand. “Cab. I’ll take a cab.” I had to remember to call for one early. In Hope Valley, the cabs drove into their cozy garages for the night at 7 P.M. sharp.
Goldie nodded rather solemnly.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. As a matter of fact, I need to do some work on my case.”
“Damn, Suga. I don’t know how you do it. I’m so proud of you, ya know? You’ve gone from not knowing shit to working on two cases at a time. Proud as a mother peacock.”
I smiled. “Hen. Mother hen.”
He danced around with his arms waving.
I laughed. “Okay, with all your sparkles, peacock it is.”
Goldie headed out, and I went to change. I was damn well not going to wear these scrubs to make a visit to Dr. De Jong. It felt good to slip into my jeans and a black-and-white sweater. I almost felt normal again until the pain in my face reminded me that I had to go back to the Cortona Institute of Life—sans Jagger.
Yikes.
I told myself that I could do it and he’d surely show up once he found out I’d gone back. With that comforting yet frightening thought in my noggin, I called the cab company and set up a pickup for five. I didn’t want to take any chances of being late and facing the wrath of Spike.
I held Spanky extra long and then set him down. When he scampered off to his favorite spot on Miles’s leather beanbag chair, I headed out. Thank goodness Goldie had gotten my Volvo back from the shop for me.
It felt good to be driving by myself, but I couldn’t help looking in my rearview mirror over and over. Jagger was out there somewhere, and I didn’t want him on the tail of my Volvo.
When I turned onto Oak Street, I slowed at the yellow light then stopped. A white van pulled up behind me. Rather close. I knew Jagger wouldn’t be driving it, so I turned on my radio and ignored it.
“Let the sunshine. Let the sunshine in—” I sang along with an oldie-but-goodie station and decided I’d better keep my eyes on the road as I neared the doc’s office.
The van turned in too.
I swallowed and told myself to ignore the fact that the van had followed me here from Oak Street, a grand total of three miles away. Big deal. No problem. Coincidence city.
I pulled into a space in the front of the house, then paused. My mind had been trained from day one in nursing school to think about the worst-case scenario. I had to notice if a patient’s blood pressure bottomed out or there was a post-op bleed. Any complications and a nurse had to call the doctor. So, I had a lot of experience in looking for problems. Keeping the engine running, I glanced behind me.
The van had pulled over near the entrance, as if waiting for me to get out.
If I had to make a getaway, I would have to back out of the space. So I shoved the gearshift into reverse and backed out. Then I drove around the parking lot and into a pull-through space. I loved pull-through spaces. Those were the kinds of spaces that you didn’t have to crane your neck around to see while you backed out. You just got in and drove off.
Which I might have to do soon.
I slowed. The van moved forward.
This was not looking good. My gut, which had served me so well in my nursing, told me this was not a coincidence.
I was being followed.
My first thought was that I carried a hammer in my glove compartment, since one of my biggest fears was to drive into a body of water and not be able to open my electric windows. That fear ran a close second to being arrested when I was innocent. I couldn’t imagine that. And, some of the things I did in this new job had me thinking about that more and more.
The van was still behind me.
Now this was a worst-case scenario. Someone knew I was out of the hospital, unless it was some crackpot from a past case. That thought occurred to me as I drove out of the pull-through space and slowly around the lot. Then, I noticed Dr. De J
ong come walking out of the front door and get into a red Jaguar. Damn! I could have gotten into her office and done some investigating.
Instead, I drove toward the exit of the lot—the van still on my tail. Was it the same van that had picked up Margaret at the airport?
Where was Jagger when I needed him?
Wait, did I really need him? I’d gotten along so far by myself.
Maybe I wasn’t really being followed.
Okay, Pauline, the world is chock full of coincidences.
But a van making every turn that you make isn’t one of them.
Eleven
Before I could head out of the lot, Dr. De Jong pulled in front of me. I jammed on my brakes, amid the screech of her tires and smell of burnt rubber.
Wow. The doc must be in a real hurry. Hmm.
The van nearly plowed into my rear end. I didn’t want the doc to recognize “Alice” so I quickly made a move and pulled in front of the doc. From the left, a tractor trailer barreled down on me.
I lifted my foot from the gas and held the brake. For a fleeting moment, I wondered what it would be like to charge out in front of the truck. Yikes. I must have been in the Institute too long. Way too long.
Clearing my weird thoughts, I slowly looked in my rearview mirror at the Jag. The doctor leaned forward, glaring.
I noticed the van behind her. I couldn’t see the driver. Damn. Adjusting my rearview mirror, I tried to make out if it was a man or woman, but could only see a black hat, the wool kind that I myself have worn on stakeouts. Big help that was.
Honk!
Yikes again. I looked up to see the doc pointing to the street and turned around. No traffic. Tempted to stay put so the van couldn’t get me, I decided that was not a smart move so I looked both ways and started to turn left, then did a quick right out of the lot and headed down toward Maple Avenue.
Dr. De Jong could give Mario Andretti a run for his money, I thought as she peeled out in the other direction. Good. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with her. I adjusted my rearview mirror and noticed no one was behind me.
I slowed, looked again.
Ha! I’d lost him. Good job, Pauline.
I’d looked forward to see the white van pulling out of Oak Street, right in front of me. Obviously he had been following me and had taken a side street to catch up. “No!” I shoved my foot so hard onto the brake pedal, a pain seared up my leg.
The van skimmed my right bumper. I couldn’t afford to have my insurance rates go up, so I swerved to the left. Like a rabid dog, it followed.
We weaved in and out of traffic until I decided to head toward the police station on Main Street. I’d heard that was what you did when being followed. Relentlessly though, the van kept tapping my bumper.
I cursed and prayed. Prayed and cursed. Then just prayed.
Two more blocks to go and hopefully no one would be hurt or killed while this maniac kept attacking me. I neared the turn. The van’s engine grew louder. He was probably going for broke and was about to smash me good.
Then a black Suburban zoomed out of Vine Street—and wedged itself between the van and an SUV just enough so that the van couldn’t make the turn.
Jagger!
Had to be.
But it was my chance to get away, so I finished turning, looked back to see I was alone and made a quick left onto Main toward my condo since I no longer needed to head to the police station.
I realized I was driving with legs of Jell-O and shaking hands.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this job after all.
I couldn’t help looking at the bathroom door over and over, as if I expected the white van to drive in while I soaked in the tub, lathered in Miles’s honeysuckle bubbles. Sure, it was ridiculous, but I’d never been followed like that before. People, but not vehicles, had followed me. In the hot water I shivered. I could have been killed!
Jagger must be furious, but probably not as angry as he would be when he found out later that I’d gone back to the Institute. I looked at the clock on the counter, two cupids leaping in the air—one with a clock in its tummy, the other with a barometer—and realized I’d have to hurry.
Fifteen minutes.
I would have to rush to catch my cab. I looked over my bubbly shoulder one more time and asked myself what the hell I thought I was doing going back there.
Margaret popped into my thoughts.
I snuck out of the house so that Goldie and Miles wouldn’t be involved in my “Jagger deception.” When I turned toward the front of the parking lot, I froze.
“Seems as if you’d be recovering from your drive today, Sherlock.”
I gulped exaggeratedly. Damn him. “I’m … I’m going to my parents’ for dinner.”
“Hmm. Monday. Meatloaf.” He licked his lips.
I swooned.
“I could eat—”
I looked past Jagger as he again started to invite himself to my parents’ for supper. This was becoming a bad habit. Not that there wouldn’t be enough food. No problem there. All of Hope Valley could come eat. But if I did go there with Jagger to cover my lie, I’d be late for my checkin at the Institute. Over his right shoulder I noticed the cab pull into the lot.
Damn it.
How to fool Jagger?
“I … shit.” I pushed at his chest, and relying on the element of surprise, succeeded in knocking him into the bushes.
“Aye!”
Without the spring leaves in full bloom, the sharp sticks had to hurt. I only hoped he hadn’t cut himself, I thought, as I ran, flailing my arms, toward the cab.
I jumped in and yelled, “Get out of here! He has a gun!”
If I thought Dr. De Jong was a speedster, this cabby could make it from one end of Hope Valley to the other in a nanosecond. We were well onto Main Street when he looked over his shoulder, “Where to, babe?”
I gave him the address of the Cortona Institute of Life. He stared. “Don’t look like no nutcase to me, babe.”
I curled my lips. “Looks are deceiving.” Then I gave him one that hopefully said to mind his own business and muttered, “Hm. Maybe I’m the one with the gun. Ha. Ha. Ha.” The ride continued in silence. As he turned into the gate of the hospital, I thanked Saint Theresa for having the cabbie leave me alone to my thoughts and prayers—because those I really needed yet again.
I never saw a cabbie drive off so fast. I had barely slammed the door shut. He didn’t even claim his fare. I silently laughed to myself and then quickly stopped on the sidewalk to the main entrance.
Coming down the long, stone stairs that were bordered by white cement walls was my buddy, Spike, wearing a solemn—no, make that a mean—look. “Who the hell left you out here?”
Oops. “My mother had to run off. She was in a—”
He spit over the handrail. “Who cares? Get inside before you’re late.”
I could have argued that I got there in plenty of time, but thought I’d keep my body intact for as long as I could. Besides, Jagger wasn’t around to protect me.
As I stepped up the cement front steps with Spike at my heels, that thought scared the stuffing out of me. The one about Jagger not being there, that is. Spike at my heels was another matter, but I refused to waste any emotion on it.
It wasn’t long before I was back in my room, dressed in my damn fashionless johnny coat and sitting on the edge of my bed with Sister Liz babbling on about my cut and how did it feel.
Thank goodness I’d kept a bandage on it or else she would notice there really weren’t any stitches. I watched Sister Liz for a few seconds as she tidied up my bed. It hadn’t been slept in—by me, that is—but she still found a few wrinkles to yank at.
Gave me a warm motherly feeling just watching her.
At least I knew she wasn’t a suspect. No way could she, particularly as a nun, be involved in anything shady … especially murder.
I shivered.
It warmed my insides thinking that Sister Liz had become a friend, in a way. There was th
at patient/nurse relationship, but I figured if we were on the “outside” she’d be my friend.
“You cold, Pauline?” She went to reach for the blanket that she’d just refolded and laid at the foot of the bed.
How sweet.
“I’m fine.” I wanted to ask if anything happened while I was gone—like any more murders, but that would send up a gigantic red flag, even to Sister Liz. “You know, I kinda missed this place.” I chuckled.
She gave me an odd look and a weak chuckle. “I would think you’d be happy to spend time with your family. Unless—” She looked at me a few minutes. “Oh, my, Pauline. Do you have problems with your family?”
I knew she was talking abuse or abandonment, but I thought of the same meal each day of the week, the house that the Cleavers built, and my mother’s frequent offers to have me move back into that house. “Yeah, I have some problems with them. But … I’ll make sure and tell my doc about them.”
Then, it dawned on me.
I was utterly alone. I didn’t have my “doc” around to save me from … whatever. I swallowed.
I could do this, I told myself. I was a professional and a strong, intelligent woman. I really could do it. After my little pep talk, I felt much better.
Sister gave me a pious smile and headed out the door.
I told myself to relax and work one step at a time. I would come up with some excuse so that whichever doctor treated me, he wouldn’t medicate me into oblivion, fry my normal brain, or have me wrapped like a birthday present, only in wet sheets instead of fancy colored paper.
Without allowing myself to shiver again at any number of those thoughts, I went into the bathroom to wash off my face and perk up. When I shoved the door open, a clattering filled the room. I looked down in what had to be an expression of horror.
Spread across the black-and-white tile floor was … a broom handle.
A brown metal broom handle.
Like the one we’d seen harpooned into Vito’s body.
Twelve
I knew screaming in a mental hospital was frowned upon. Yet, when I saw the brown metal broom handle in my bathroom, I couldn’t keep the noise from blaring out. Thinking quickly, I shoved my hand over my mouth.
I reminded myself that I was a professional. So I shut my lips beneath my grip. Then I took ten slow, deep breaths. I looked out the bathroom door to see if anyone was coming into my room. The hallway was empty. Good. They must have figured my half-scream had been on television.