One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (23 page)

Seemed my questions were a bit much for Jackie Dee. She set down her fork and reached for her bangs. Before I knew it, she had a handful of hair in her fist and had yanked. Then she stuck some into her mouth.

I turned away but heard her soothing herself and felt horrible that I'd caused her to relapse. By the looks of her hairdo, it'd been days since she'd pulled out a snack.

“Pauline.”

I ignored Jackie and looked at Margaret. She gestured with her head toward the door. I swung around to see the nuns standing there with Nurse Lawson and Nurse Lindeman. It wasn't unusual for all the staff to come and watch the patients while they ate. For a few seconds, I thought they were all staring at
me.
Then Sister Barbie came toward my table.

Yikes!

I tried to nonchalantly munch on my tuna sandwich as Sister Barbara Immaculatta came forward. She didn't look all that pleased. I quickly made sure my bangs covered my bump.

When she got near my seat, she gave me a cold stare and said, “Stop that. Stop that!”

I dropped my sandwich onto my plate, causing a spoon to knock my glass of cold water over in a splash—which landed on the dish of the gentleman who sat next to me, soaking his sandwich.

Between his curses and several patients' laughing, Sister Barbie continued hollering until I shouted, “Stop
what
?”

The room grew silent.

Everyone looked at me.

Margaret mouthed, “She was talking to Jackie Dee.”

And my face burned so that I thought my white bread would soon be toast.

“Pauline, please do not cause a ruckus around here,” Sister Barbara ordered. “Unless you want the wet packs.” Then she stood over Jackie Dee. “You were doing so well, my child. Don't give into the temptation. Do not give into the evil that causes such destructive behavior.”

I could only sit and listen. The nun sounded like some television evangelical minister preaching to the masses. At first I wasn't sure if it was good nursing or bad. But when I turned to look at Jackie Dee, she had taken her handful of hair from her mouth and set it on the dish.

Yep. My appetite was done for it now.

Sister Liz came forward in her usual perky manner and waved her hand about like a Disney fairy godmother. “Everyone go back to eating their meal. Go ahead.” One more wave and the room settled down to its usual roar.

But at least everyone else was eating.

I figured this was a waste of my time so I gathered up my tray and said to Margaret, “I'll meet you in the dayroom.”

She had resumed finishing her egg-salad sandwich, and I figured she really
had
been here too long. When I stood, Jackie Dee tugged on my johnny coat. I turned to look at her.

“I'm done here, Jackie. Please let go.”

She looked so very sad while she released her hold. “Ruby,” she said and eyed the tuft of hair on her dish.

I wanted to bolt out of there before she seized it and munched, but suddenly it dawned on me what she'd said. “Ruby? Ruby was . . . you saw Ruby come out of my room before lunch?”

“Big deal, bitch.”

I turned around to see Ruby standing there glaring at Jackie Dee. “Eat it. Go ahead, you whacko.”

“Leave her alone, Ruby.”

She cursed at me.

“Why were you in my room?” I asked.

She curled her lips in a typical teen fashion and said, “I . . . had come to get you for lunch.”

I wanted to call her bluff, then looked down at her. She had on black slacks. Ruby had always worn jeans.
Blue
jeans. Beneath her johnny coat was—a black turtleneck.

Oh . . . my . . . gosh.

I stuck my tray on the conveyor belt and hurried after Ruby. I decided to stay a few feet behind so as not to let her know that I was following her.

Ruby?

Could Ruby have whacked me? Did she have anything to do with Terry killing Vito? Or did Terry really kill Vito? Of course he did. He'd just about admitted so. And how well did Ruby know Terry? When you ask someone “How's it hanging?” I'm guessing you know them pretty well. Then again, Ruby could have been teasing him. She aggravated and teased plenty of the sick patients around here.

Ruby had headed down the hallway toward the day-room without the television. But before she got there she turned into her room. Damn. I huddled in the alcove near the nurses' station to wait and see if she came out.

Several minutes passed and no Ruby. I noticed Margaret walk from the dining room and head down the hallway. I waved for her to come over. “Did you see that Ruby had on black slacks? She never wears black slacks.”

Margaret seemed to contemplate Ruby's wardrobe. “No, I've always seen her in jeans. Did you ask her about them?”

I grimaced and figured I might be loading too much info on a layperson like Margaret. After all, she was a Southern housewife and mother, not some PI. “No, let's not say any—”

Nurse Lawson came down the hallway, gave us a look and went into Ruby's room. Before I knew it, Ruby was coming out—with her suitcase!

The nurse turned to her, “Say goodbye to the other patients, Ruby.”

I wanted to melt into the alcove, but Ruby turned around with the most devious look in her eyes and said, “
Goodbye
, Pauline.”

That speedboat of chills maneuvered up my spine again.

When Ruby and Nurse Lawson disappeared from the unit, I leaned against the wall and sighed.

“How nice that Ruby is getting out. I guess she is all cured,” Margaret said.

I could only sigh again and think that was good news for me too. With Ruby gone, I was safer—until I realized we didn't know who had put her up to attacking me. Of course she could have done it on her own, but I doubted that. In my gut I knew someone must have influenced Ruby. She had no reason to attack me otherwise.

I sat in the quiet dayroom after Margaret decided to go take a nap. Her medication must have made her sleepy. My Green Demon's effects had been overridden by my astonishment. Ruby had to have been the one to attack me. But why?

I needed some outside help.

When I saw the Doll Lady come by with a brown ripped teddy bear, I hurried out of the dayroom to the nurses' station. Sister Liz was on the phone. Nurse Lawson was charting and Novitiate Lalli was writing on what looked like the medication records.

Sister Liz it was.

I made my way over to her side of the desk and waited by the glass window until she looked up. Finally she did and said, “Hello, Pauline. What can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to my doctor. I'm feeling very—” I had to choose my words carefully in this place. One mention or hint of suicide could have me on constant watch. “Well, you know, Sister, I just need to talk to him.”

She looked as if she was trying to find his number, and I said a silent prayer to Saint Theresa that Jagger/Dr. Dick was still listed as my doc. Please. Praying to a saint with a nun as an interceptor had to garner extra points. In a few minutes, Sister Liz was sliding the glass window to the side. “Please be brief, Pauline. We can't tie up this line before . . . Sister Barbara returns.”

I smiled at her, knowing that Sister Barbara would more than likely not let me talk on the phone. I pulled the receiver close to my ear and said, “Dr. Plummer, I need some help.”

Silence.

I half expected to hear the dial tone at any minute.

Instead, I shut my eyes a second when Jagger's voice said, “What do you need?”

No argument. No lecture.

Of course, he knew I was probably standing in front of some staff here and didn't want to risk my getting caught. I was also quite sure, however, that the next time I saw him in person, he'd let me have it.

I whispered to him to find out about Ruby and how she had gotten released. I was certain she would have been here much longer by the sounds of things when I first met her.

I knew Jagger had nodded and then hung up.

What I didn't know was that within a few minutes, Dr. Plummer would summon me to the examination room. My escort, Spike, seemed to take pleasure in bringing me down there as if he thought I was going to get zapped again.

When Spike walked out, Jagger turned around. “Ruby was released early. Two months early.” He leaned against the wall and for a few seconds I thought,
Great, this is going to be business as usual.

Then Jagger came closer. “What the hell were you thinking, Pauline?”

I could barely think when he used my real name. “Well, I had to . . . Margaret is back on this unit. They moved her back right after I questioned Novitiate Lalli as to where Margaret was and why she was moved.” Damn, I sounded as if I really did know what I was talking about.

I didn't let him say anything but waved my hand like Sister Liz and told him all about my theories, what I'd found out and my attack earlier that day.

Before I could go on, he moved closer, gently eased my bangs to the side and cursed—but not at me. He let go and looked as if about to ask a question.

“I'm fine. Just fine. So, by moving Margaret back, and taking Ruby away, I think someone is trying to tell me something. Something like
they
are in charge.”

Jagger remained silent.

I assumed he was upset and needed to compose himself. In a few minutes, he grabbed the rolling doctor's stool with his foot, sat and said, “I'm going to assume you and your skills were the reason you didn't get killed this morning, and not some dumb twist of fate. That you used your skills, what I taught you, and your brain.”

I nodded since I knew anything I said would be a lie. I found I could lie with body movements better than with words.

Jagger then proceeded to review the case with me—no more mention of my coming back—or leaving anytime soon.

“So this means I get to stay?” I asked, smiling.

He looked at me.

“Come on, Jagger. You know we . . . I need to be here. To do this for Margaret and anyone else involved.”

Jagger rolled his stool toward the wall and leaned back. “You're on probation, Sherlock.”

I straightened up in a flash as if that would give more credence to my words. “Fabio let me off probation—”

Jagger leaned near. His nose barely touched mine. I felt his warm breath on my right cheek. “
My
probation, Pauline.
My
probation.”

I looked at him. “Fine. Your stinking probation.” I didn't want him to think he'd gotten one over on me. “But, Jag, this is the last time I take a nursing job. If you want my help, you'll have to ask for it as an
investigator.”

I know I'll always wonder what that look on Jagger's face meant—because I sure didn't think it was agreement.

Jagger had left me with the “order” to find out if there were any other patients here that didn't belong—who could have been kidnapped, admitted and had their insurance cards stolen.

Ha. No easy feat.

Half the chameleons around here looked sane one minute but in the next instant were tearing off dolls' heads or carrying on conversations with Napoleon. Still, it was a good idea, and I had agreed to get to work on it.

So I headed out to the dayroom with the television set, the hub of Psych Ward 200.

While Oprah talked to actor Johnny Depp about a newly released movie, I sighed a few times in honor of Johnny and sat myself down on the couch, ready to study this gang.

Sometimes my job was really easy.

Talking to Johnny from her seat on the dayroom's recliner was Suzanne, a wannabe actress. She'd corrected me several times that her name was pronounced, “Suzonne” with a French accent. Then she argued with Johnny about why he got movie contracts and she didn't. Ha. Ruby had told me once that Suzanne had played in local high school productions and a few bit parts at the of f-Broadway theater, the Shubert, in New Haven. Now she worked at a fast-food restaurant to pay her bills and had started to smoke pot to fight depression, not to mention that she argued with stars on television.

Conclusion: Suzanne belonged here.

Next to me on the couch was the Doll Lady, who was snoozing with a stuffed rag doll tucked beneath her arm. No one would believe that only yesterday she was a doll decapitator.

Belonged here.

My gaze spun past three men in their red pj's who were all sitting in a catatonic state and were well into their seventies. I figured they belonged in a nursing home rather than here, but must come from money, and maybe kids who put them here. What they most likely needed was loving family members—and had greedy heirs instead.

Didn't belong here, but weren't hijacked either.

“Is anyone sitting here?” a deep, male voice with a slight French accent asked.

My female instincts perked up and I turned to see a damn good looking, dark, swarthy guy—in navy silk pj's with a navy silken robe and Italian leather loafers on.

Wow. I sure hoped
he
didn't belong here.

Suddenly I was beginning to like the policy of patients wearing their pj's. I knew it was so they couldn't escape, but damn, some looked real good in them.

“No. Have a seat.” I inhaled some very expensive

cologne. It had to be expensive because everything about this guy dripped money, and it didn't smell like anything any of my male relatives wore. Then again, this guy could be a poverty-stricken chameleon.

He held out his hand before sitting. “Mason Dubois.”

I scanned the room to see none of the staff was watching, shook his hand and said, “Dubois. Sounds French. I have a dear friend who is French Canadian.” For a second I missed Adele and the gang terribly, but told myself I'd be out of here real soon.

“Cajun French.” He sat down with the grace of a dancer.

My eyes widened. “Cajun French, as in from the South?”

“New Orleans.”

My mouth went dry.
New Orleans.
If this guy was “recruited” here by the same sleaze that kidnapped Margaret, we could have something soon. “Oh. New Orleans. Small world.”