A Dose of Murder (7 page)

When I'd try to break up, he'd refuse. I came to the conclusion that Vance used me as much as I used him, and neither of us was hurting each other. He really wanted someone for an occasional date and bedding.

I needed him for the occasional date and . . .
that
too.

I followed him outside to his waiting Mercedes. Vance drove a silver one with a license plate that had
MD
on it. Sometimes I worried that someone would follow us for free medical help when we headed out.

Freshly fallen snow crunched under our feet and my damn toes nearly froze in the stupid sexy heels I'd worn. Vance looked at my feet.

“You should have on boots.”

“Yeah, right.” Once in the car I made him put the heat on full blast and told myself he was right. What possessed me to dress this way for Vance?

A little voice in my head, the voice of my Catholic-school-induced conscience, said it was because I'd been infatuated with Mr. Suburban and was trying to ignore that fact by seducing Vance.

Oh what a tangled web we . . .

At the restaurant Vance gave the keys to one valet while another opened my door. Vance and I hurried inside, where he promptly ordered a 1973 Dom Perignon (which cost more than I made at my ex-nursing job in a month) for him and a Coors for me. I didn't do Perignon.

“What have you been up to, Vance?” I asked, once the nearby fire had crackled me toasty warm. The Coors didn't hurt either.

He took a long slow sip of his drink, swished it around in his mouth, swallowed and said, “Working as usual. How about you?”

It dawned on me that Vance wasn't privy to my career change, so I told him the bare facts of burning out on nursing, stopping short as to my current career. Just didn't seem right to tell him, so I said Miles found me a job with his uncle. Period.

“My God, Pauline, you sure you know what you are doing? Giving up a career in nursing to do who knows what.”

My second lie of the night rolled off my tongue. “Of course I know what I'm doing, hon. Don't worry.” I didn't know “what” either.

The waiter handed us menus. Vance ordered for both of us—something else I gave up trying to change years ago. The guy had fabulous taste and other than that blackened mahi-mahi back in 1999, I loved anything he ordered.

We chatted and dined until the cognac for him arrived followed by the crème brûlée for me. No wasted calories on liquor for Pauline Sokol, with an admitted sweet tooth. I did keep it under control most times and got my chocolate fix from those power bars. Tonight, though, I needed sugar.

He took a sip of his drink, paused and, I would imagine by the pleased look on his face, savored the taste. “Did I tell you I took the job near Saint Greg's?”

A spoonful of the smooth, sweet custard-like dessert poised in midair, I said, “Miles
did
mention you were looking for a change.”

“Two physicians in one practice aren't enough.”

Money wasn't an issue for a Taylor, so I assumed he meant with only one partner, he was on call too often. I had to smile at that one. A doctor who didn't want to work scads of hours a day. “Whereabouts are you, then?”

He held his snifter up to the light, swirled, leaned nearer and then sipped. “Over on Dearborn Road. Very convenient to the hospital.”

Dearborn. Dearborn. Sounded familiar. Actually I knew the street was perpendicular to Ashley, where the hospital was, but why was that street so familiar? I took another bite to think it out.

“Hope Valley Orthopedic Group,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

I looked up, spoon clenched in my mouth. “Wope Walley Orfopedic—”

“Take the spoon out, Pauline. I can't understand you.”

I yanked out the spoon and flipped a droplet of crème brûlée across the table to land on Vance's expensive silver silk tie. “Jesus, Pauline! What the hell?”

Yikes! Vance was a neat freak, and wearing expensive pudding didn't sit well for him. I grabbed a napkin and started to wipe. He took my hand away and motioned for the waiter, who scurried over as if Vance were on fire. “Seltzer water. And hurry.”

“I'll have it cleaned. You're working at the Hope Valley Orthopedic clinic?” My voice sounded horrified.

Vance raised an eyebrow. “I am an orthopedic surgeon. There are five of us in the practice. . . .”

I knew he was talking since his lips kept moving, but all I could hear was my mind screaming, “He's working with Tina Macaluso and her husband!”

“Oh . . . my . . . God. You look beautiful!”

I had to grab onto the doorjamb of Goldie's office Monday morning when I got a look at him. Shock did that to me. I'm not a vain person: Other than that year as a sixteen-year-old cheerleader, when I thought I was the cat's meow, I really didn't give my looks a second thought.

I wasn't ugly—that I admitted. And my figure was a slim size four.
That
I attributed to my obsession with aerobics and jogging, which came around age twenty-two, when I dated a health-nut doctor my first year on the surgical ward at Saint Greg's. He turned out to be a royal jerk. I turned out to become obsessed with exercise and to this day can't stop. Nor would I want to.

Up until the last few years—okay, since turning twenty-eight a few years back—I had dated regularly and played the field more than my beloved and all-time favorite Steelers running back, Jerome Bettis. But lately, dates were far and few between. My mother tried to add her two cents with reasons like “More girls were born in 1970 than boys” or “Hope Valley had a plethora of girls because of the good food.” Never could figure out that one. Still, it must have made her feel good, since neither of us could figure out why my “dating well” had dried up.

Again, Vance didn't count—'cause I wouldn't let him.

So I shouldn't feel jealous, I thought, looking at Goldie. But damn it all, he
was
gorgeous, and he made me feel like a frumpy over-the-hill housewife whose husband cheated on her and whose kids ran roughshod over her. “You look fab. You look . . . damn it all, gorgeous with a capital G. And not for Goldie either.”

“Morning, suga.” He smiled.

I couldn't help but stare. Whitest teeth I've ever seen. The words, “Hey, Goldie,” somehow came out with my jaw dropped down to my chest.

His hair today was blonde, frosted heavily. I ran my fingers through mine and decided I needed to make an appointment with Farrar, a fabulous hairdresser Miles had turned me on to at the Do Drop In salon. But truthfully, I told myself, Farrar, wizard that he was, could never make mine look as good as Goldie's.

Ack.

Today Goldie's tiger shirt had been replaced by a zebraprint one with matching leggings. Fine legs. I constricted my calves several times in hopes that my “Maciejko” legs would shape up like his. Golden bracelets clanged on both wrists. I couldn't help but stare.

“Doesn't that noise make it difficult to do surveillance?” As soon as the words came out, and Goldie's forehead wrinkled, I felt stupid. “I mean—”

He laughed. “I know what you mean, suga.” He jingled the jewelry a few times. “Actually, I'm less conspicuous with all this on.”

I could only stare longer.

He looked me in the eye, which broke my concentration, and we both howled. “It does seem odd, but true.” He motioned for me to come in. “Few pay much attention to me after the initial staring. Then I just blend in.”

Maybe on Fire Island. I walked in, sat on the zebra sofa. Goldie offered me coffee, which I accepted. As he bustled about, pouring, milking, sugaring and stirring, I could only continue my observation. Had to be good for my future cases. I mean, I could watch him all day in wonderment, so of course I could follow a case, no problem.

Goldie turned and handed me a mug of steaming liquid. The pungent scent tickled my nose.

“Smells wonderful.”

“N'Awlins's best. Chicory café au lait. Secret is the hot milk.” He'd gotten himself a cup in a matching mug with purple, yellow and green Mardi Gras masks on it.

I could only wonder if Goldie missed his home state. Instead of dredging up possible painful memories, I told him all about my “date” with Vance and that he'd taken on a new job. Goldie asked about Miles, and I sensed he still missed him. I tucked that tidbit into the back of my brain. Then I mentioned my “visit” to Tina Macaluso's house.

He gave me a high five. “You go, girl. But, suga, you gotta have better equipment. For the surveillance.” He looked at me and smiled. “You got the right stuff for your date though.”

First I laughed about that date stuff, then I sighed. “I know. I was hoping to borrow yours until mine gets delivered.”

He got up and opened the college-type refrigerator that was camouflaged in black to match the countertop. “About that, suga. Can't today. My case is running longer than I'd expected. Fuckers.”

My heart sank as I took one of the cannoli off the tray he held out toward me. But, liking Goldie as I did, I smiled and lied, “No problem.” Lying was starting to get disturbingly easy for me since changing professions.

Goldie licked ricotta cheese from his finger. Today his nails, longer than my pinky finger, were a brilliant black with tiny stripes across them. Damn it. Matching zebra nails. Only Goldie. With one finger in his mouth, he mumbled, “I'm hooking you up with Nick.”

I swallowed the last of my cannoli and eyed a second one until this little voice in my head said Goldie must wear a size
one
. “Nick?”

“Um. Nick Caruso. Freelances for Fabio. Been doing it for years. Actually taught me all I know. You'll like Nick. Fabio has a list of freelancers he uses. Most you'll never meet. Calls them in when he needs extra help or one of us full-timers is tied up on a case.” He took another cannoli.

I cursed estrogen. How come he could eat two cannoli and probably
lose
weight, and if I took another one, it'd be added to my hips by nightfall?

Goldie got up. “Come with me, and I'll introduce you to Marilyn and Tommy while we wait for Nick. They're office staff. Work the sales end. Nothing to do with investigating.”

I walked taller knowing I was an “investigator.”

Marilyn Bleaker was a rather frumpy woman with glasses that perched on the bridge of her nose. Tommy Nelson, balding and near fifty, I assumed, appeared rather shy. After a cordial introduction, greeting and goodbye, I followed Goldie back to his office. He said Tommy had a wife and five children. I said a silent novena for all of them and declined a second cup of Goldie's miracle coffee.

We chatted until a knock sounded. Goldie yelled to enter.

Good thing I'd finished my coffee. If I'd had a mouthful when Nick came in, I'd have spewed it all over the faux fur couch.

Nick Caruso wasn't exactly as handsome as Goldie was gorgeous, but Nick was, in my opinion, attractive. Of course this was from a woman who hadn't exactly been zooming around the dating circuit lately. Okay, ever.

I looked at him and smiled. Where Goldie's hair, today, was blonde, Nick's was gray. Prematurely gray by the look of him. Couldn't have been past forty. His voice came out a deep, mellow tone, and I told myself I'd have to call Doc Taylor yet again. And yes, I realized how sad that was.

Nick shook my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yes . . . I mean, you too.”
Get a grip, Pauline. It's not as if you've never seen a nice-looking guy. Vance is no tuna
.

Nick wore a pin-striped navy suit and looked ever the successful businessman. The outfit really added to his appearance. I couldn't help but think he was on his way to some office, and I asked Saint Theresa to make sure he was straight. How pathetic was that? “Am I keeping you from something?” I said.

He gave me an odd look.

Goldie's eyebrow rose, but not as fast at the heat up my cheeks.

“I mean, you look as if you are going to work.”

“He is, suga. With you.” Goldie laughed. “Nick likes to get dressed up like a manly man.”

“Fuck you, Perlman.” They laughed.

There wasn't any tension between them, I noted.

“Great. Shall we get started?” I said, with not an inkling of what to do.

“Oh, Nicky, I didn't know you were here.”

I swung around to see Adele leaning against the door frame for support. I thought she'd suffer the vapors, the way she was staring at Nick. Guess she found the “businessman type” attractive.

“What a way to start a Monday morning,” she purred.
Purred
was a perfect word to describe the way she spoke to him. Very feline.

I looked around. Not a hint of crimson on his cheeks. Either the guy was used to compliments like that or he was a fabulous actor. He merely offered a smile.

I turned back. Adele blushed brighter red than the snug-fitting suit she wore. Today the ribbon in her hair was navy and white. Her shoes navy. Despite being Canadian, Adele's attire was more American than the US flag. She motioned for me to come to her. “Can I see you a minute,
chéri
?”

“Sure.” I turned to Goldie and Nick. “I'll be right back.”

“We'll be here,” Nick said.

I think Adele moaned. Or maybe it was I who did.

Out in the hallway she leaned near. “Nick Caruso. Isn't he nice-looking?”

“He is, in a businessman sort of way.” I wondered why she called me out.

“Single. Forty-one. Ex-Air-Force fighter pilot. Flew commercial for a while. Too tame for him. Was married several years back, but didn't work out. What's new nowadays?”

I looked at her. She expected an answer, but I was stuck on the “single” part. “Oh . . . yeah.”

She gave me a curious look. “Unfortunately he plays the field.”

“Afraid of commitment?”

“No,
chéri
. Nick Caruso is not afraid of anything. He's the second most masculine, sure-of-himself man I know.”