A Dose of Murder (29 page)

Jagger grabbed my purse. “What the hell are you looking for?” He tipped it over onto the floorboard.

“Hey!”

There on the floor sat my cell phone, address book, tissues, used and clean, lipstick, scraps of paper with phone numbers on them—whose, I mostly had forgotten—and, gulp, a Tampax. It looked gigantic. The size of a column on an antebellum plantation house.

“Didn't your mother ever tell you not to look in a woman's purse?”

“I'm not looking
in
your purse.”

“Semantics.” He didn't address the mother issue, which made my inquisitive mind all the more inquisitive. “Oh, there.” I reached down and picked up the paper I'd been looking for. It was pretty much a smudge of Starlight Pink.

Jagger took it from me. “Great job, Sherlock. This should be very helpful.”

I grabbed it back, ripping off the top corner, which more than likely wouldn't matter. “I couldn't find a pen.”

“Let me get this straight. You go to do surveillance to see what kinds of cars the docs drive without a pen. And”—he looked at the paper—“you have to use a canceled check for paper. And, the damn thing is a fucking Picasso in lipstick.”

I had no recourse for that one.

“I remember what I wrote.” Least I hope I did. I shut my eyes for a few seconds to picture the doctors getting out of their cars. Good thing I'd learned so much about cars from Uncle Walt. The pictures came clear. Then I told Jagger who drove what.

“Interesting.”

“What is? The fact that they all drive such expensive cars—”

“Except Doc O'Connor.”

“Guess that eliminates her,” I said.

Jagger took another tissue and wiped off the coffee splashed dashboard. He turned to me. “Does it?”

“I . . . I . . . Doesn't it?”

“Don't always go for the obvious, Sherlock.” He shoved his empty coffee cup into the bag on the floor and turned the ignition on.

I leaned back, took my last sip of coffee and wondered if that was true. Was Charlene involved and just driving an old rattletrap to avoid suspicion? Or was one of the other doctors—all males with inflated egos—driving an expensive car that the insurance company unwittingly paid for?

Or was Jagger yanking my chain?

Damn. This wasn't easy.

Jagger turned the car in the direction of the river. Oh, no. I didn't want to go back to the scene of Eddy's death. But Jagger turned right instead of left and soon we were outside the Macalusos' smaller—but not cheap by any means—house. He pulled over a few houses away and killed his lights.

This is where I first saw Jagger.

The thought didn't have time to percolate before the garage door opened and Tina's car backed out. “How do you do that?” I asked Jagger, sounding much too much in awe of him.

He chuckled, turned on the car and started to follow Tina.

“That was just dumb luck,” I argued even though he hadn't said a word.

“Not so dumb, I'd say.”

“By the way, did you call the cops on me the first day I was—”

He merely turned and looked.

Shit. I knew it. Oh, well. Guess he didn't want me messing up his big case.

We turned left onto Elm and headed toward the shopping mall. A bit disappointed, I didn't think I'd get much film on Tina shopping. Unless she kept stooping to get things on lower shelves. I thought of Eddy's comment about her picking up a penny. Poor Eddy.

Tina turned into a little strip mall a few miles before the big mall. Jagger slowed, turned into the next parking lot, which was a Burger King. He faced the Suburban toward the strip mall.

There was Tina, big as life, getting out of her car. She had on a full-length brown mink coat, which made me think of a grizzly. I'm sure the mink folks wouldn't want that image of one of their obviously expensive coats in any ad though. She was just too large of a woman to make mink glamorous.

I heard a click and turned to see Jagger standing outside the door. Geez. He could give me some warning. I grabbed the contents of my purse from the floor and started to shove it back inside. It took several minutes. When I looked up, Jagger was gone. Shit.

I quickly got out of the car. When I shut it, I heard the familiar
click
, and knew he was within range to electronically lock his doors. The wind kicked up, sending my hair flying about like millions of kites on my head.

Snow covered the ground above the curb, and I noticed footprints the size of feet that I guessed were Jagger's. They headed toward the strip mall, so I followed along, my darn pumps getting soaked in the snow, not to mention my toes freezing like ten tiny ice pops.

I slipped three times but caught myself on nearby branches or cars, whichever was closest. When I got to the parking lot of the little mall, I stopped. Now what?

I looked around. There was a printing shop, which was closed at this time of night. A lawyer's office, dark too. A coffee shop whose lights burned brightly and where patrons milled in and out like bees at a hive. Maybe Tina had gone in for a cup of coffee. I walked toward it and noticed next door was a gift shop. At the end of the strip mall was Curves R You fitness center. Below the sign were silhouettes dancing what I assumed was jazzercise and ones flipping and dancing in all directions doing aerobics.

Tina had to be in the coffee shop, I thought, so I walked closer. A crowd of people drinking and talking formed outside. Watching them had me freezing. They all looked as if they weren't in any hurry. Wishing I lived in Florida, I peered past a man sipping a latte, but couldn't see much inside. The windows were decorated with cups of steaming coffee, donuts and various posters, leaving little clear glass to view through.

So, I opened the door and looked in. A line formed near the cash register, several couples sat at tables but none looked like Tina in her mink coat. She might be in the ladies' room, I told myself, but I had no intention of spying on her in there.

This place didn't look promising, so I moved away from the door when a rude man said, “In or out, lady.”

I was so cold now, my feet were numb, and I knew the tip of my nose made Rudolph's pale in comparison. Bundling up, I moved closer to the door of the exercise place. With a shiver, I opened the door and stepped into the foyer. I intended to warm up and leave in a few minutes before someone came to see if I wanted to join.

Thank you very much, but Pauline Sokol was an ardent jogger and fit, in my opinion, for her age. I pushed back my hair since the wind had done a number on it. A woman came through the door to go inside. “Excuse me,” I said and moved to the side. When I watched her go in, something caught my eye.

The door to a large room opened. A group jumped and bobbled to The Village People's “YMCA” song—and there in the back of the class was Tina!

Yes!

I moved inside the place and started to fiddle around in my purse. I hadn't wanted to wear my beeper/camera at dinner in case it got bumped off. I sure couldn't afford another, and wouldn't take a loan from Uncle Walt again. My fingers weren't having any luck so I stuck my head in the purse.

“Looking for this?”

My head flew out of my bag. There Jagger stood with my beeper/camera.

I grabbed it from his hand. “What the hell are you doing with—”

“You left it on the floor. I didn't want to lose Tina, so I hurried out. When I knew where she was, I came back to get you. What the hell have you been doing?”

“Me?” My voice came out rather hysterically.

A young woman in neon green spandex came near. “Can I help you two with something?”

I said, “No—”

Jagger said, “Yes, ma'am.”

“Suzy,” she corrected with a smile aimed only at him.

What was I? Chopped sauerkraut?

“Suz, my wife is interested in your programs. Mind if we look around, hon?”

Hon?

Where'd he get off calling a twenty-something
hon
? Was that legal?

Before I could get unwarrantedly jealous, the word
wife
hit me. Ack!

She batted her eyelashes, not nearly as long and full as Goldie's, at my “husband” and the next thing I knew, we had a ringside seat in a room that looked over the pool, racquet-ball court and gym, where Tina danced like a marionette sans any back pain.

“Suzy Exercise Queen” went on and on about the facilities. When she excused herself, he leaned over and said, “Get filming.”

I'd shoved the camera into my pocket earlier. Now I took it out and held it in front of my eye.

Jagger reached over, turned it around.

Shoot. I'd wondered why I couldn't see anything. But now it was correct and Tina was bending, spinning and jumping so that
my
back hurt watching. Soon the class was cooling down.

“Hurry before little Suzy comes back or we run into Tina on the way out,” Jagger ordered.

“I can't make the camera go any faster.” My voice came out as if I were pissed. Not because he was rushing me—I knew we had to get out, or get caught—but because I was still hung up on that “hon.” I told myself repeatedly that Jagger had slipped into one of his disguises with the term of endearment. But shoot, I was still pissed.

Me, he called Sherlock.

But truthfully, Pauline
, I told myself,
you get a tingly feeling inside when he says that
. I'd come to learn that when he called me Pauline he was dead serious.

Suddenly my arm was yanked down, my camera slipping from my hand. Jagger's hand was on mine, his other hand snatching my camera out of the air—and in back of him was a startled Suzy—no doubt wondering what kind of nut holds a beeper to her eye.

“Nope,” I said, “Doesn't need new batteries.” A bimbo like Suz should buy that or at least be so confused that she could care less.

“Well, we've seen enough, hon. You have a brochure for my wife?” He looked at Suzy.

I yanked my arm away and grabbed my camera, not giving a damn if Suzy was weirded out by us. She started to say something that either had “brochure” in it or “security.”

We didn't stay around long enough to find out.

I'd never hustled as fast across a slippery parking lot as I did tonight. Once in Jagger's car, I insisted he crank up the heater even though he said the air would be too cold until the engine warmed.

Cold air blew on my legs.

“You're doing that on purpose,” I accused, but he only switched the fan on higher and didn't say a word.

Soon we'd pulled into the big mall near Sears. I looked around. Christmas shoppers. Damn! In my new lifestyle change, I'd forgotten it was only about ten days until Christmas.

And only half of my shopping was done.

Usually I was done by Halloween.

Certainly Jagger didn't bring me here, knowing that. Or—I looked over at him—maybe he did. A tiny thread of paranoia involving him reading my mind had been forming since day one.
Don't be dumb
, I said to myself. “What brings us here?”

He was getting out again without me. “Since we're in the neighborhood, what the hell is a seven-dollar grab bag anyway?”

I laughed. “With inflation it should be about a fifteen-dollar grab bag nowadays, but my folks are traditionalists, and thrifty.”

“You have to help me find something.” This time he waited outside the door.

How cute. Jagger needed my help and what was even cuter was his concern that he get the grab-bag issue straight.

What an interesting, albeit confusing, man.

“How about this?” Jagger asked, holding up a gaudy red, green and white candle.

I curled my lips at him. “Let me answer that with Would you want to get that in
your
grab bag?”

He plunked it down. I thought he'd break it and have to buy a broken gaudy candle, but it didn't even crack.

“What the hell. I can't do this.”

Yes! Christmas would be saved! “That's fine. I'll make up a doozie of an excuse to my mother as to why you couldn't make Christmas—”

“I'll be there. Besides, you suck at lying.”

He did have a point, I thought.

He grabbed my arm. “What'd
you
get?”

“I . . . a shovel that folds and you can keep in the trunk of your car.”

“Fine. I want that.”

“But—” He had me heading into Sears before I knew it. “Show me where you got it.”

I took him over to the shovel department and he purchased a shovel like the one I'd bought. They were still on sale for $7.00. When he went to pay, I nonchalantly leaned over to see the name or names on his credit card, only to have Jagger's face appear in my view. “I want to get something for your mother.”

I pulled back. At least he hadn't accused me of snooping, although I had no doubt he suspected as much. “You don't have to do that.”

“I do what I want.”

“Oh, right. I noticed that. What did you have in mind?”

He took the bag from the clerk, who gave us a strange look. “If I knew, I wouldn't have asked you.”

No kidding. “Mother has very few needs. Maybe some new potholders—”

“I want something for her, not the house. Don't you women get pissed over gifts like that? Blenders. Irons.”

“Did your wife?” My hand flew to my mouth I think even a few seconds before the words came out. “I . . .”

He stopped and looked at me. Jagger did that a lot and those looks meant things. Things I had no idea about. He was certainly a poor example to use for reading body language, I thought again.

Instead of chastising me, he said, “Good job, Sherlock.”

Wow! He thought it was great that I did some investigating about his past! “Thanks. Nice to have you be proud of me for finding out—”

“Proud of you?” He chuckled. It was a low sound, coming from the depths of his throat—more a growl actually. “Proud of you, Pauline? Proud that you snooped into my life? Yeah, I'm tickled purple.” He turned and walked out of the store.