One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (8 page)

My hands flew to my face. My mother! He was having my mother come to this hole to see me in this condition!

What really ticked me off was that he had already planned to let me out temporarily and wasn't meeting my demand. Damn.

I wanted to yank him back by his lapels and tell him, “No way,” but I was getting out. Consoled by the fact that Mother would probably say a million novenas and eventually be fine, I remained silent.

Sister Barbara eyed me with a look of what I'd call suspicion and said, “Yes, Doctor. She'll be ready for her mother.”

“Pauline! My Pauline!”

After I got decked out in my civilian clothes, the stupid scrubs, that is, Sister Liz led me to the waiting area, where I froze on the spot upon seeing my “mother.”

“Suga? Don't look so frightened. Momma is gonna take you home for a bit.”

I don't know who looked more shocked, Sister Liz or me. Okay, she had it over me, but seeing Goldie dressed in a Chanel winter white suit, fire engine red spike heels and matching purse, smelling of Chanel No. 5, I couldn't move.

This was my mother?

Truthfully I felt a bit relieved that it really wasn't Stella Sokol standing there. I had to hand it to Jagger. He had protected my mother from, I'm sure, a fainting spell like the one she'd had when Mary had said she was engaged, the day she'd moved out of the convent. I wouldn't even think about Mary's soon-to-follow pregnancy news—
very
soon after the marriage.

Damn it. I felt as if I somehow owed Jagger now.

Wasn't that just beautiful?

He got me locked up, and I owed him for being considerate to my mother. Oh, well, at least I was getting to go see her and everyone else.

Goldie wrapped me in a bear hug that crushed my chest to his. Felt wonderful. I kissed his cheek and whispered, “Get me the hell out of here,
Mother
.”

He signed the appropriate papers and assured Sister Liz that he'd have me back on Sunday at three.

Not if I had a breath in my body.

On the way out, Dr. Dick gave me a nod. Oh, boy. He wasn't going to let me off that easily. I smiled and told myself to play along. But, come hell or high water, I was
not
coming back.

Sister unlocked the door to the tunnel that ran throughout the buildings. Imagine being so sick that you couldn't be trusted to walk outside. I said a silent prayer for all the inhabitants of this place and tightened my hold on Goldie's arm.

He patted me gently but remained silent as we made it to what had to be the last door. I could see the outside through the bars on the windows, and as we stopped in the foyer, my heart skipped like a kid's on the last day of school.

Then, Goldie shrieked.

My heart stopped.

And Sister looked as if she'd seen a ghost.

Vito Doran, most likely a real ghost now, lay sprawled out in the alcove near the window—a brown metal broom handle protruding from his chest.

My first instinct was to run over and do CPR or at least check for a pulse, but I'd seen enough corpses to know Vito was not among the living. It was way too late for nursing care, and this couldn't have been any accident.

Our suspect had been killed.

“Pauline,” my real mother called through the bathroom door. “Are you using up my Renuzit
again
?”

As I sat on the edge of the tub, I inhaled once more. The pine scent wrapped its familiar comfort around me.

Dorothy was right. There was no place like home.

I sprayed again, thinking of Vito's body, and didn't even remember the trip here.

“Pauline Sokol, stop wasting that air freshener, unless you have a whopper of a case of the runs,” Mother ordered.

“I'll buy more.”

“You know I have a supply in the closet . . . ”

A supply? Last time I had looked, Mother had fifteen cans. All pine scented. All with red discount labels on them. She really cleaned out the local pharmacy when they had a special. I only prayed that the good folks at the Betty Mills Company, makers of Renuzit, wouldn't ever discontinue this scent.

After a quick inhale, like some whacked-out drug addict, I stood and went to the door with the can still in my hand. When I opened the door, Mother grabbed the can.

“Where did you go these last few days that has you acting so crazy?”

I paused, my eyes widened. “You have no idea how accurate you are, Mother.”

She shook her head—only her head shaking wasn't like Jagger's. Mother's was a typical mother-type shaking that said, Stop acting like a child and tell the truth.

Before she could continue to reprimand me—since I really wasn't in the mood—I grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged.

With her mouth squished against my shoulder, she reached a hand out and pressed it against my forehead as she said, “You feeling feverish?”

I kissed her cheek and let go. “I'm just glad to see you.”

“You saw me a few days ago. You really are acting . . . Where's Mr. Jagger?”

“Why?” I started to walk down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“Why? You have to ask?” She put the Renuzit on top of the refrigerator, as if I couldn't reach it.

I sat on the stool next to the breakfast counter and rested my elbows on the aquamarine Formica. Then I plopped my chin in my palms. “Yes, I have to ask.”

Mother opened the refrigerator and started to pull out food items. I'd forgotten it was nearly suppertime. Tears welled in my eyes at the thought. Supper at my parents' house. What a comfort. What a wonderful feeling. What the hell was I thinking?

My recent hospitalization, or incarceration, as I liked to think of it, had affected me more than I'd thought.

Behind the refrigerator door, Mother said, “Well, since you took off without a word, your nice Mr. Jagger called me to tell me you were okay. He said not to worry.” She set a bag of potatoes on the counter. “You should go back to your nursing.”

Friday night. Mother's potato pancakes. Talk about a nostalgic moment. I ignored the comment about my past career.

“Don't make Jagger sound like some kind of hero.” I leaned farther into my palms almost wishing I could get sucked into my hands and disappear.

Mother shoved the first washed potato, skin and all, into the blender. “Shame on you, Pauline Sokol, for talking badly about Mr. Jagger.”

Uncle Walt came in with his hat in his hands. He hurried over to me and gave me a hug.

I inhaled Old Spice cologne and smiled.

“Glad to see you back.” He turned to my mother. “Michael is parking the car in the garage.”

She nodded at him as if she wanted to say, where else?

“Glad to be back,” I mumbled. He had no idea how glad I was.

Like some kind of octopus, Mother worked in a frenzy. She kept blending potatoes, onions and flour while she poured me a glass of milk, and I think set the table at the same time. “Here. Drink. Maybe your calcium is low.”

Could be, since I didn't have my calcium and magnesium while incarcerated. I wasn't in the mood for milk—more like a Coors—but I also wasn't in the mood to argue either. I sipped on the damn milk as my father walked in followed by Goldie and Miles.

I jumped out of my seat and ran to hug all three of them.

“Pauline, you
are
acting very oddly,” Mother said as she added salt and pepper to her mix. “Very oddly indeed. I wouldn't be surprised about that calcium. Miles, you're a nurse. Does low calcium make you act cuckoo?”

Miles chuckled. “Not sure, ma'am, but my best guess
is no.” He walked toward her. “You didn't put enough salt in.”

Mother slapped his hand away as he lifted the Morton's saltshaker. “Her and that job,” she mumbled.

Daddy hugged me back. “We missed you,
Pączki.”

I was never so glad to be called a fat prune donut in my life.

Then I looked behind Goldie.

And hurried off to get some more Renuzit.

Once inside the bathroom, I sat holding a new can pilfered from Mother's private stock without spraying it. Not wanting to damage my lungs by inhaling too much of the nostalgic scent, I figured just holding it would help. What the hell was Jagger doing here? Hadn't he caused me enough grief, for crying out loud? Here I'd planned a restful weekend with plenty of time to ponder a million reasons why I was not going back to the Cortona Institute of Life no matter what. Then he shows up.

“Open up, Sherlock.”

Taken aback, I rubbed my finger on the cold metal can. “I'm—” Damn. I didn't want him to think I was peeing or something like that. Funny how you never want a gorgeous guy to think you go to the bathroom. As if
they
never did. “I'll be out in a few minutes.”

“I'll wait.”

“That's rude.” I sat down on the wicker laundry basket.

“Open up. I've brought you clothes to change into.”

I looked down at my outfit. The stupid scrubs had welded themselves to my body. I'd forgotten I was wearing the fool things. “I don't need to change now. Go away. I'll talk to you later.”

It did almost seem rude that Jagger would stand outside the bathroom like that, but then again, I had no doubt that he
knew
I wasn't doing anything embarrassing in here—and he
was
Jagger.

I reached over and opened the door. “Give me them.”

He looked past me for a second, then handed me a brown Stop and Save bag.

“Where did you get my clothes?”

“Never mind. Change.”

“Not until you tell—”

“We can't work on your case with you dressed like that. Miles gave them to me. Change. I'll be in the kitchen with your mother.”

“No! Wait!” Damn. He sauntered down the hallway, knowing full well that I would not dillydally when I knew he was spending time with Mother. What the hell would they talk about? I ripped off my scrubs and slid on my jeans. When I contemplated my mother telling Jagger some horribly embarrassing story about me, I stopped mid-thought and inhaled.

Jagger's scent.

He'd touched my clothes . . . and they'd never be the same again, or ever be washed.

After I was dressed, I hurried out, only to find everyone sitting in the dining room, eating Mother's potato pancakes, and chatting up a storm. I heard snippets of: Pauline did
that
? Pauline ate
what
? Pauline dated
whom
? And, Pauline should be
ashamed
of herself. (That last one from my mother.)

With my face burning hotter than the fried potato pancakes, I held my head up and yanked my chair away from the table. They all turned toward me, silencing the room until I felt as if I might scream to fill in the void.

“Please pass the sour cream, Goldie,” I said with as
steady a voice as I could manage—which was about as steady as a drunken sailor at sea during a storm.

Goldie gave me a consoling smile and handed me the container. I spooned a glob on my dish and, after serving myself some pancakes and applesauce, ate in silence.

Jagger wiped his lips with one of my mother's linen napkins. “That was wonderful, Mrs. Sokol. I've never had potato pancakes before.”

Mother looked rightly horrified along with sympathetic. I never could figure out how she could manage so many emotions at once. She'd make a wonderful mime.

Me, I hated mimes and clowns.

We all helped to clean up while Mother served coffee and
pączki
, which I passed on. Goldie and Miles agreed to play a game of Scrabble with my folks. Uncle Walt feigned being too tired and decided to watch TV and, I'm sure, take a snooze. Jagger took me by the arm.

“I'm sorry to have to rush off, but I want to show Pauline something.”

Mother grinned.

Shoot.

Father kept his gaze glued to the Scrabble board, but I think he winked.

And Goldie and Miles looked at us . . . and smiled.

Jagger eased me toward the door. “Get your jacket.”

I was ready to protest, but then remembered my job. I had a case to work on, and tonight
I
was going to use Jagger.

Not that it surprised me, but I did notice Jagger knew exactly where to go for my fraud case. The psychiatric practice of one Dr. Pia De Jong. From my reading the file, it seemed as if old Doc De Jong had a slew of teen patients. Way more than the ordinary practices, and each patient
had very good mental health coverage. Hmm. All were supposedly being treated for depression—and the number of patients had increased dramatically in recent months.

Soon we were on the outskirts of Hope Valley, pulling into the driveway of a lovely white Victorian house. The sign hanging by the drive said
family psychiatry.
It listed Dr. Pia De Jong and another name that had been scratched out. Interesting. She worked alone. Was that so no one would catch her committing fraud?

I knew, with Jagger's help that we'd eventually find out.

Obviously that's why Fabio had assigned me to this case. He must have known that I'd need Jagger's help, since Goldie and Nick, both assigned to their own cases, wouldn't be available. I wondered if Fabio also knew that Jagger was working a big case at the Cortona Institute of Life.

It'd shock the heck out of me if Jagger had confided in Fabio—but it wouldn't if Jagger had convinced Fabio to give me a connecting case.

There were lights on downstairs, two cars in the parking lot and a red Mercedes in the doctor's space. That was one thing about mental health professionals: They could name their own hours. Many worked evenings to see more patients. If she had so many teenage patients, she probably saw them after school was out.

Jagger pulled into an empty space by the front door. As soon as he shut off the motor, a young man of about sixteen came shuffling out, followed by a stressed-out-looking woman. Obviously his mother. I felt sorry for both of them, knowing it was not easy growing up in this day and age. Being a teenager had to be a bummer. I'd seen it with my brother's son, and figured out that God made teenagers to lessen the pain when kids moved out of their parents' house. Actually, he probably had it in mind that parents would
want
their kids to move out by the time they got through the teenage years.