One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (36 page)

He reached up to my cheek and whispered, “Take a deep breath, Sherlock.” He eased out the glass so swiftly, I didn't feel a thing. Besides, it wouldn't have mattered if it hurt like hell when he said, “
Of course
there'll be a next time.” Gently he kissed my good cheek. “Oh, I forgot to give you your birthday present.”

Now we'd come full circle. My thinking the envelope from Fabio was a present from Jagger had gotten me here on the ground in damaged Burberry. But a Jagger-present! My heart danced at the thought. “Well, where is it?” I sounded like a kid, so I added nonchalantly, “I could use something to cheer me up now.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little box. Jewelry box. Geez. Didn't Jagger know that I wasn't the jewelry type? Even Nick had figured that out.

“Sorry I didn't get to wrap it.”

I took the box. “My birthday was days ago.” This time I shook my head and opened it to see a beautiful pink locket. Actually it was rather nice and was rather me. Not too fancy. Not gaudy. And not shiny. “Thank you. It is beautiful. It's . . . me.”

“No, Sherlock, it's to keep you being
you
.”

“Huh?”

Jagger laughed. “It's a special kind of locket.”

Wow. I felt wonderful. No pain right now, thinking Jagger thought I was special. “I'll wear it all the time.” “Good, since it's a container of . . . pepper spray.”

How very Jagger-like.

I smiled.

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DEEP SEA DEAD

“What? A boat? I mean a
ship
? I could fall overboard and drown! It could sink! Look at what happened to the
Titanic!”

My skuzzy boss, Fabio Scarpello, glared at me with, well, one could never really know what Fabio thought, so I decided not to even try. It was more than likely X-rated anyway. He puffed on a re-lit cigar. “The ship sails from New York to Bermuda.”

I wanted to argue that there might be pockets of cold water out in the Atlantic that could form into an iceberg, but I knew my imagination was going wild in order for me to come up with some excuse not to go.

After a few more puffs, he said, “Look, doll—”

“Don't call me
doll.
Ever.” I sat straighter in my seat across from his mold-covered desk. Okay, maybe mold-covered was a bit strong, but I was guessing there had to be something growing beneath the used paper plates, coffee cups, piles of ashes and files. He had my folder in his hand.

“Okay, newbie—”

“Pauline, Ms. Sokol or Investigator Sokol will do fine,” I started to sip on my decaf café latté that my co-worker,

friend and roommate Goldie had made me earlier, then decided it had been contaminated when I'd walked into Fabio's office.

Fabio cursed under his breath. “
Investigator
Sokol is a stretch, but if you want to keep your freaking job, you better take this freaking case. High seas or not.”

A nurse on a cruise ship.

I should be excited about the assignment, I mean, come on. Salty sea air, wind in my hair, sun, bronze males, coral sand of Bermuda and . . . waves. My stomach lurched.

And back into the old nursing career!

He shoved the file toward me. “Want it or not?”

Not would have been my first choice. Pauline Sokol was not one for change. Pauline Sokol was not one for water transportation. And Pauline Sokol was not one to be stuck out in some nautical God knew where investigating medical insurance fraud . . . alone.

Admittedly I've never been out of New England for a vacation or any other reason, and that thought probably had something to do with my reluctance to try new things. Ethnic Hope Valley had been my home for thirty-five years—and I kinda liked my feet on mother earth.

But there were those nasty things called bills that had invaded my life. And they required being paid.

I looked up to see Fabio tapping his cigar into the dirty ashtray. “Well?”

I snatched the folder. “When do I leave?”

“Friday.”

“Friday? It's already Wednesday.”

“One of the staff nurses on board got sick. It's perfect. Just perfect. Bon voyage, doll.”

I decided to ignore Fabio calling me doll again since my mind got stuck on Friday. April 13. Perfect. My new assignment would start on an unlucky day. I hurried out of his office and paused in the hallway for a breath of fresh air.

“Suga!”

I spun around to see my tied-for-best friend in the world rushing down the hall. My other roommate and other tied-for-best friend in the world and Goldie's “honey” was Miles Scarpello. Fabio's nephew.

Goldie dressed in Gucci, Prada and Armani. Sometimes from the ladies' dept. Sometimes the men's. But I still loved him, and he always looked like a movie star. Today he ushered in spring with a pink, black, white and orange spiral patterned sweater over black slacks and a pink camisole top. He wore a Sandra Dee blonde ponytail wig that didn't look a bit fake. Looked very sixties. And very beachy. How fitting.

Maybe I could borrow them for my cruise.

“So, Suga—” he yanked me into his office, which looked like a cross between New Orleans, Goldie's hometown, and the jungle. Gotta love him. “—what's your new assignment?”

I held the folder out toward him as if it were a snake. “Here, you look. I don't have the stomach for it so early in the morning.”

Goldie patted my head in a very Goldie-like sort of way. “Let's take a looksee.” He ran a pink colored nail across the envelope and amid the tearing sound mumbled, “Shit.”

“Shit? What does
shit
mean?” I slumped down on the zebra couch, feeling a bit faint.

Goldie looked at me for a few seconds. I had the sudden thought that he was making up some kind of lie. That hurt, but if Goldie lied to me, it would have been for my own good.

“I . . . well, what I meant was . . . shit, you get to go on a cruise to some warm, sunny island, and I'll be stuck in stupid Hope Valley, Connecticut, with temperatures in the 50s all month.”

I could only stare. Was Goldie really concerned with the temperature? Or had he seen something in the folder that I should be worried about? After several minutes of silence and him of fering me another latté over and over, I finally asked, “Gold, are you lying to me?”

“Yes!” flew out of his mouth on a breeze. He flopped onto his leopard chair and looked at me with a pitiable glare. “I'm sorry, Suga. But, Bermuda.
Bermuda!”

“I guess I'll give you credit for your honesty even though I don't know what the hell you're talking about. As a matter of fact, I
will
take a regular latté since I think I may need a dose of caffeine.”

Before he stood he said, “You don't drink caffeine, Suga.”

“I do now. Seems as if I'm going to need it on this case. What is so wrong about cruising to Bermu . . . the triangle. You are worried I may get sucked into some paranormal triangle of ocean?”

Goldie screeched.

I jumped up and hurried over to him. “I'm sorry, Gold. I didn't mean to . . . wait a minute. Why am I consoling you? I should be the one being comforted. I'm the one going on this fool assignment.”

He eased free and looked at me. “I'm so sorry. I never should have said anything. I mean, folks sail to Bermuda every day. Planes fly overhead. And, well, bon voyage, Suga!”

“Bon voyage!” my mother shouted as she served me a piece of the ocean blue cake she'd designed for my going away party. Inside was chocolate with a mousse filling.

All I could think when I heard that third “bon voyage” was, three strikes and you're out.

“Thanks, Mother,” I mumbled as she set the dish in front of me. I loved cake. I loved sweets. I drank very little alcohol, not counting beer and wine to avoid calorie overdose so I could have the sweets. Nothing could top chocolate. But right now I had this inner feeling telling me I should eat sweets like there was no tomorrow and drink plenty of liquor—because I was going on a cruise to
Bermuda.

My sister Mary, ex-nun, leaned forward. “You're getting to be such a professional, Pauline. Imagine. A cruise.” She leaned back and shut her eyes. I figured Mary was saying a novena for my safety. She never did quite lose that “religious” persona.

Several nieces and nephews stabbed at the white waves, fashioned out of cream cheese and frosting. Everyone ate and laughed and chatted.

I turned to see Uncle Walt, my favorite uncle who had lived with us forever, smiling. He leaned near and tucked a white envelope into my hand. “Meet some nice young man and have a ball.”

“I'm going to be working, Uncle Walt.” I fingered the envelope. Had to be money. God bless Uncle Walt.

“Work. Ha!” He forked a piece of cake, ate it and said, “How sick can passengers get? Meet someone. Dance. Eat. Old Widow Kolinsky tells me that cruises are the best. She said she danced so much heading to St. Martin, that she wore out her shoes.” He chuckled.

I smiled, leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I'll be sure to bring a spare pair. Thanks for the gift.” I winked at him just in time to catch Jagger in my view.

My face burned hotter than the candles on the cake my mother insisted on lighting even though I'd argued it wasn't my birthday. I hoped Jagger didn't think I was winking at him! I felt my cake rising in my throat at the thought.

He sat down opposite me and graciously smiled when my mother set a plate in front of him with half of the cake and a tidal wave of frosting on it.

“Here you go, Mr. Jagger,” she said.

Actually she gushed like a teenybopper, but no way was I going to admit to myself that my mother was flirting with “Mister” Jagger! Yuck! Even though he only had the one name—that we all knew about—she insisted on the title for him each time. I couldn't help but cut her some slack because, well, Jagger had a way with women and obviously Stella Sokol was not immune. Guess I should be glad my mother was “normal.”

“So, Sherlock, any questions before you set sail?” He took a sip of his beer. Gotta admire a guy who drinks beer with his cake—and, damn, but I admired lots of things about Jagger.

I looked at him and realized—I was finally working on a case by myself. Jagger usually ended up involved. But not this time.

My heart skipped a few needed beats.

I was really going on my own.

Back in my condo, I flopped on my bed and looked into the dark little eyes of my joint-custody dog. Weighed in at seven pounds now after a doggie diet. “When's the last time a cruise ship sank, Spanky?”

He looked at me, curled into a ball, and shut his eyes.

“Right. The
Titanic.
Ages ago. I know there have been fires onboard and epidemics of gastrointestinal problems, but in this day of modern—”

Spanky snored.

I had to smile while I petted his squirrel-sized head. “Modern technology. No problem. Where's my grocery list?” I leaned over, grabbed my paper and pencil and added, bracelet thingie for motion sickness. God, I hoped the ship's movement didn't affect me, since admittedly I couldn't sit in the backseat of a car without needing Dramamine. Damn.

Spanky snored on so I continued packing, making sure to grab my stethoscope, bandage scissors and several pens. Back to nursing. I knew it made sense that my skills would be best served for the medical fraud cases, but, hell, Jagger wasn't a nurse and he did fabulously. At least I didn't think he was a nurse. No one really knew who he worked for. I'd learned not to care.

After several hours, I stood back and looked at my luggage. Full to the brim. I used the extra strap that my mother had insisted on after seeing it advertised on television, which wrapped around the bag in case the zipper popped. I assured her it wasn't going to get thrown around like on an airplane, but, being Mother, she had convinced me I didn't want the world to see my panties if, God forbid, the zipper gave way. Not that I expected that tragedy, but I'd learned from infancy that if Stella Sokol said something was going to happen—look out—because it always did.

As kids we used to cringe and fuss when she'd say, “Don't go out in the rain because you'll catch your death of a cold.”

Even at our young ages we knew you had to come in contact with someone with the cold virus, but inevitably we'd go out, and the next day (always a Saturday) we'd get sick and spend our day off in bed.

So, I yanked at the strap to make sure no passengers were exposed to my “essentials” and shoved the biggest suitcase with my foot until it was at the doorway.

Tomorrow Goldie and Miles were driving me to the dock in New York City to start my next case. That alone was reason to lose sleep tonight.

My night was not as sleepless and fitful as I had expected. It was
worse.
But once my roomies had the car packed—and they wouldn't let me lift a finger to help—we were well on our way.

The traffic on Interstate 95 was at its usual standstill near Bridgeport so I snuggled up to Goldie's shoulder while Miles drove. I shut my eyes.

“Suga. Suga?”

“Hmmm?”

Something nudged at my arm. I peeked out to see Goldie and realized the car had stopped. I yawned, stretched and screamed.

Goldie grabbed my arms and hugged me. “It just looks so big because we're so close up.”

I looked out the window to see the “ship” I was going to be living on for the next few weeks or so—and strained my neck without being able to see the end of it. There had to be a million decks. “Don't heavy objects sink like rocks in the water?” I mumbled.

They laughed, and Miles gave me a quick physics lesson and assured me that the
Golden Dolphin
, the mother ship of the Dolphin line out of the U.S. was quite safe. He'd done some Internet research about the private line and told us much more than I wanted to know.