Dead Weight (5 page)

Silence.

A good sign. However, I wasn't going to stand here waiting. I had to know who
they
were … and prayed it wasn't Jagger's lips making that noise with some hottie.

Despite the pain in my palm where the thorn had embedded itself, I sucked it up and tiptoed toward where I thought the two people were. One would never think of the word “frozen” in relation to New Mexico (except in the mountains) but again my body stopped short.

The kissing sound had resumed. Now I saw who the kissers were—and my case took an interesting turn.

Hannah and Doctor Burger.

Yikes. They stood holding each other and, despite the fact that she had just had major surgery, she was looking pretty damn good. My nursing skills told me something was wrong. No one should or would be out and about and kissing in the dark post-op. And not to be insulting, but the woman was twice the size of the doc. Then again he knew she'd lose a gazillion pounds from the surgery, but he didn't seem to want to wait.

A few times I had to look away as voyeurism wasn't on my list of character flaws. Oh there were many other things on the list, but I had enough morals (instilled by Catholic nuns no less) that I couldn't watch the groping that had followed the kissing.

Ick.

I decided I better get the hell out of here and head to find Jagger at his mysterious meeting.

As I moved along past the two saguaro, I stopped to try to pull the thorn out of my hand as it was really hurting. After a few tries with my, luckily long nails that Goldie had manicured for me even though I usually kept them fairly short, I leaned nearer to try to see in the moonlit night.

And a hand grabbed my shoulder while another one covered my mouth … then the moonlit night went black.

My eyelids started to flutter; yet, I really didn't want to open them. The darkness and some kind of feeling, maybe exhaustion, had me want to stay put, wherever I was.

And here's the thing, I didn't know
where
the hell I was! And, my breathing … was difficult. Shortness … hard to breathe …

Then, I felt … something on my lips. A breath. A flutter of air. A … oh … my.

Lips.

Lips were breathing life back into me.

I let my eyelids flutter open … only to come eye to eye with … delicious … hot … sexy … suck you into … familiar dark eyes—which had me feeling as if I'd conk out again.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?”

His voice was merely a whisper. A whisper so near my ear, I could feel the heat of his breath—the very breath that just brought me back to life like some kind of sensual defibrillator.

Jaggerlator.

Oh, Lord. The Jaggerlator had touched my lips with his.

When I'd seen him “bodysuit-less” I thought I was ready to die, but now, nope, I wanted to feel those lips on mine … on my … never mind.

Wait! I opened my eyes a tiny bit more, and he pulled back—just a bit. Damn. Not the movement I was going for. Hoping for.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

I nodded. I could sense concern in his tone. How sweet that he was fearful of what might have happened to me. Then again, what
had
happened to me?

I shut my eyes for a second, and held my breath as if that would help me think better. Maybe I'd had a lack of oxygen when conked out. Then, it hit me.

My eyelids flew open.

“You scared the shit out of me by coming up behind me like that and … it was your hand on my—”

He pulled back to a sitting position. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately (if I thought in my usual, yet pathetic, thinking about Jagger) his knee still touched me. Right on my left side, oh so very close, (Lord, give me strength to be pissed at him) very close to my … breast.

I leaned a bit more toward him … to my
left
.

Apparently my recent brush with death had taken away all my shame. Shameless Pauline. Then again, maybe that was the norm for me as evidenced by some of my past escapades.

Jagger was staring down at me, yes, shaking his head. “You alright?”

“I … yeah. Fine.”

“Then what the hell were you doing out here? Don't you have any sense to come out like …” He looked down at me.

I think maybe directly at my breast, and not just the left one. Breasts.

“Like
that
?”

My first impulse was to say they were “God-given” and I had no control over the size, but then I realized what he meant.

Bodysuit-less.

For a few seconds, I had no recourse, until I looked at him. “You aren't in drag now so why should I be? Well, not in drag, but the bodysuit—”

He brushed my words away with his look followed by another shake of his head. At least I thought so as it was pretty dark out here. Good thing, in case someone was about and saw me on the ground and Jagger next to me.

There'd be talk!

And then we'd be busted.

“Look, Sherlock. It's not the same. I'm a guy …”

I know Jagger was still talking-no, make that chastising me in his usual form-however, I couldn't hear a thing.
He was a guy
. Understatement of the year, and I got hung up on those words and couldn't think straight. But, I had to. I was stronger than that to just lay there and take it from him. Then again, it would be great to lay here and fantasize about him—as if he had to remind me that he was a guy.

Guy. Schumy.

I pushed up on my elbows. “I made sure no one saw me. I know my business. That is, how to do my business. So why did you sneak up on me like that anyway?”

He merely looked at me.

My heart did a little flutter, which medically could cause an arrhythmia, but a Jagger-induced arrhythmia was not life threatening.

Only life altering.

“I told you why I was here. What the hell were you doing outside anyway?”

Oh, crap. I couldn't let him know I was spying on him.

“I needed fresh air. That room can be claustrophobic.”

Jagger's eyebrow rose. “You wouldn't have been following me, would you?”

Before I could answer, he leaned near, “Damn it, Sherlock. I told you there is
murder
involved here. Can't you ever listen to me?”

“Someone would think you're worried about—” Did I say that out loud? Yikes. “I mean—”

For several seconds, yet what seemed like hours, Jagger looked down at me. Me resting on my elbows (I hated when Jagger was higher than me. Gave him way too much authority over me), him kneeling next to me (that left breast thing still going on), and then he leaned closer.

I felt his breath on my cheek.

Good Lord.

“I
do
worry. Damn it all. I do worry.”

I do worry. I do worry? I do worry!

Did he really say that?

But before my mind could comprehend or think anymore jumbled thoughts … I felt it again.

The tiny rush of air. The warm … feeling on my … oh my …

Jagger's lips on mine.

And this time, gulp, it wasn't for CPR.

Maybe I had died … cause this sure as heck felt like
Heaven
…

When his lips touched mine, I pulled back instantly. Instantly because I was reminded of yesterday.

Yesterday, miles away—another world it seemed. When Jagger's lips had done the same thing. Touched mine.

I grabbed onto the porch railing and tried to smile. “Dano,” I stuttered, but words failed me.

ER Dano stood in front of me on the porch of his lovely Victorian house. I'd called him from the airport in New Mexico last night, saying I was coming home for the weekend.

My case would have to wait a few days.

After the momentous kiss from Jagger, I had to break it off with ER Dano. And now he stood in front of me looking with his “experienced” eyes. And making me feel like crap.

“It's just … I came here … Dano, you are a doll … ” As usual, I rambled on when I was nervous.

But ER Dano stood looking at me, then nodded as if in agreement. As if he knew something I didn't. “I understand.”

“You understand?”

“Yeah.” He pulled back and leaned against the doorframe.

“Then clue
me
in.” I chuckled, but he remained silent.

“Maybe you need to figure this one out on your own, Pauline.” He stepped forward, kissed my cheek and said, “Yep. You need to figure this one out on your own. I wish you the best of luck. Really.” He pushed a strand of hair back from my eyes.

And I knew his wishes came from his heart.

But, what did I need to figure out on my own? Oh, right. Everything in my life, but the most recent event, I supposed. I swallowed and nodded back. “I guess I do.”

When I turned to leave, I touched a finger to my lips … and still could
feel
Jagger's on mine. Delicious.

Ah. ER Dano was one of the most intelligent men I'd ever met.

But not
the
most.

When I stepped into the door of my parent's house, it was like stepping back into the past (my very nostalgic past), and I inhaled.

Potato pancakes.

Tonight was Friday. My mother cooked the same meal the same day of the week—forever.

You could set Greenwich Mean Time on Stella Sokol's menu.

And I loved it.

And I needed it.

And I inhaled and felt a warmth inside me that made me feel at home in the security of my family.

Because this time, Jagger couldn't shroud me in security … as he was the cause of my insecurity. And now I needed my family. If anyone would have told me that a few days ago, I would have smacked them. I did not want to need my very dysfunctional, yet loving, I-would-never-change-a-thing-about-them family—although they could use it.

The issue at hand led me here—to inhale Friday night potato pancakes no less.

Jagger had kissed me.

I had kissed Jagger back.

And I had never been the same since.

Following the aroma of potatoes, I walked toward the kitchen. Passing by the living room, I paused. “Hey, Daddy.”

My father looked over his glasses while reading the newspaper. Daddy read the paper from cover to cover and would probably be the last person on the newspaper route to ever give it up once they went all online. He smiled at me, “Hi, Paczki.”

A Polish donut. He had called me his Polish donut since I could remember—and it touched my heart to hear it now. I walked over, gave him a kiss on the head and said, “Good to see you.” It had only been a few weeks, but right now, with my world in Jagger-induced turmoil, it had felt much longer.

Daddy nodded, looked down, then proceeded to read me an entire article on some protests going on in France.

I'd always hated listening to him read out loud—all of us kids did—but I stood there, this time very patiently, and listened until he started
another
article.

After a peck on his forehead, I mumbled, “That's great,” and headed out of the room toward the kitchen. “Ma?”

“Don't call me ‘Ma,'” my mother said without hesitation (and as usual) as she spooned a glob of her famous potato pancake recipe into the frying pan. One she would not even share with my sisters or myself—not that I could cook anyway, but they could.

It smelled heavenly. I dipped my finger into the bowl of applesauce she always served with the sour cream. She smacked my hand with the spatula, but I remained silent.

“You home for good now or you still doing that foolish job? Nurses are always needed,” she finished as she lifted a perfectly browned pancake from the pan and set it on the paper towel-covered dish.

“Ma … mom, you know I am now an investigator and use my nursing skills for my job. They need people like me.”

She looked at me with one of her “who do you think you're kidding looks,” and said, “People, sick people, need nurses, Pauline. Criminals need jail.”

I sucked in some air, let it out slowly, and snatched a pancake from the dish before her spatula could make contact.

Yes! “Want me to set the table?”

She lifted one eye from her frying.

“Okay. Okay. Stella Sokol, the master of the kitchen, is already prepared with the table set.” I laughed and although my mother didn't, I think she might have smiled a bit.

“Helloooooooooo!” came from the hallway.

I ran out toward the voice and jumped into Goldie's arms, jumped down and landed in Mile's embrace. “My two favorite guys!”

They both looked at me and said in tandem, “You need a man.”

We all laughed as we headed into the dining room. Already seated was my favorite uncle who had lived in our house for as long as I could remember. I went to him, gave him a hug and said, “How about our Steelers, Uncle Walt?”

As he went on and on about the plays of one of the games, I thought how great it was to see him and be back at home. The usual crowd gathering around the table. Stella Sokol's fabulous meal, with, I hoped, her killer chocolate cake for dessert, no one trying to kill me—and I sighed. A sigh of relief and content.

“Pauline, get the door,” my mother said, before the bell even rang.

That wasn't so unusual, so I turned toward the hallway, walked out to hear the chime of the bell as I opened the door.

“Oh, Lord. Not
you
!”

One would think I should be used to Jagger surprising me after all this time of him popping up in janitorial garb, to an eighty-year-old Italian man, to a rather large woman … yet, here I stood with my jaw dropping down to my chest again.

Funny how the feeling of … er … excitement (in my head, not down there!) always filled me when I saw Jagger. (Okay. Okay. Down there too. Mostly.) But, standing outside my parent's house on the night I'd secretly “escaped” from the Rancho Mirage gig, still had me flustered.

Truthfully, Jagger usually had me flustered, and I still didn't know how to deal with that.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I really wanted to say, “Um, delicious. Glad to see you again after … you know,” but I didn't.

Apparently I had some latent pride in myself.

“Your mother invited me,” he said as he passed by, turned and kissed me on the cheek.

My hand suddenly went to my face and my finger touched the exact spot as I stood there watching him walk past and the gang in the dinning room welcoming him.

The Twilight Zone.

I'd entered The Twilight Zone. (Which, by the way, was a common phenomenon around my parent's house. At least for me. My siblings all seemed so normal.) Mother had invited Jagger on several occasions, shocking me each time I saw him at their house.

It wasn't even worth running after Jagger and asking him how he “escaped” the spa and what the heck flight did he take here since I had gotten the only red-eye into Connecticut.

For a second, I tried to think of all the passengers I'd seen on the plane. Apparently one was Jagger—and, again, I had no idea.

I really was a damn good investigator with my nursing skills and all, but darn it all if Jagger didn't baffle me over and over and over. I did give myself a pat on the back for feigning feeling sick to Henry and then sneaking out to come home for this short time—and using the old trick we kids used on our mother. Stuffing pillows in bed so she'd think it was us.

However, it never worked on her.

Hopefully Henry was not as smart as a Polish mother.

“Pauline,” my mother called. “You are being rude making us wait. Unless you have to go to the bathroom. And, if so, let us know if you will be in there a long time so we can start passing the food without—”

Ugh. Leave it to Stella Sokol
, I thought as I walked back into the dining room full of everyone staring at me.

I forced a smile and sat down in the only seat left. Next to Jagger. Stella Sokol does it again.

We all ate the delicious and nostalgia-inducing potato pancakes, and I wondered why I never grew tired of my mother's “fixed” menu.

Maybe because it was comforting to me. Maybe coming back here, even if only for two days, was exactly what I needed.

Maybe it would help to sort out my feelings for … gulp … Jagger.

I peeked at him from the corner of my eye. The guy was as delicious as the potato pancake he was sticking into his mouth.

Warm. No, hot. (Stella Sokol always served everything hot.) And familiar and comforting.

Oh, Lord.

The thought of dropping a dollop of sour cream on him and licking it … oh, geez.

I tried to continue eating and looked down at my plate as if that would distract me from admitting my feelings to myself, but a glob of sour cream next to a glob of applesauce is nowhere near a tealeaf reading.

“Miles and I are … going to be daddies,” Goldie announced.

My head flew up along with everyone else's in the room.

“You're pregnant?” My mother said without missing a beat.

Goldie and Miles looked at her and began to laugh. For some reason, I realized that Stella Sokol was a pretty darn savvy lady herself. (I had always wanted it on
my
tombstone that “Pauline Sokol was a damn savvy lady.”)

“Ma—”

This time Jagger interrupted me. “She's kidding, Sherlock.”

“I … knew that.” To avoid admitting my face was as red as my mother's Christmas tablecloth that she'd used for my entire lifetime, I continued with, “Tell us details! An adoption. Right? From where?” I got up, hugged each one with a stronghold around their necks and flew back to my seat.

“Easy, Suga. Poland. We actually are adopting a little girl from Poland.”

“Wow! She can come to Wigilia on Christmas Eve! That is so cool! And you can teach her how to wear makeup, Gold!” I said.

Goldie laughed. “And eat potato pancakes on Fridays if your mother invites us.”

Amid our laughter, my mother said, “My grandchildren are always invited here, and since Pauline doesn't add to that list, why shouldn't you two?”

The room froze.

Great. She could change the direction of all of our lives in a heartbeat. Stella Sokol had a “Mother Nature” kinda power and no one could fool Mother Nature.

Amid the room filled with shocked friends, I couldn't get one word out of my mouth, but Jagger stood up next to me and said, “That may change.” With that he took my hand and said, “All of you please excuse us.”

While Jagger guided me out of the room, my mind stuck on that “that may change,” and foolishly my thoughts ran to—is he taking me to my old bedroom to make mad, passionate love to me to contribute my share of grandchildren to the Sokol clan?

Oh, Lord.

Despite my insane thoughts, Jagger led me out to the porch off the kitchen. We'd had many a conversation out here throughout our time working together.

He still held onto my hand—and I gotta say, it felt good.

Almost
right
.

Then he let go. “We need to get back to New Mexico. I've booked us a flight that leaves in a few hours.”

“Ok.” Ok? Ok? I stood there racking my brain to figure out why I had agreed so quickly and also chastising myself for thinking about … children with this man.

I really was insane.

But, I had to agree to go back soon before we were found out. People needed our help to solve this insurance fraud and possible murder issues, and my work back here in Hope Valley was done.

I'd ended my ER Dano gig.

But did I do it for the right reasons?

Once back in my room at the spa, I donned my bodysuit while Jagger headed into the bathroom to don his. He'd amazingly gotten us back unnoticed and through a
door
no less. No window for the crafty Jagger.

The sun was starting to come up, and despite my exhaustion (one gets very little restful sleep on a plane especially when their head is resting on a shoulder owned by one Jagger), we had to get going on this case. Taking a few days off was necessary, yet we probably could have been done if we'd stayed here.

When Jagger came out of the bathroom, I did a double take and then blinked my thoughts back to the case, but not before I thought, he looks good in purple, even for a “woman” that size. “Look, I know you are working your case and we are like, in competition but—”

“They know about you.” He'd said it so matter of fact that I said, “Huh? Who knows what?”

“Whoever is running this fraud ring.” He sat on the cranberry chair by the window and as I watched it sink in, he bent over to tie his shoes. No black boots that made me … wet. This time Jagger was wearing white tennis shoes that were befitting his size. Women's white with a purple Nike design.

“Sherlock?” I heard him say. “Did you hear me?”

“I got stuck on your shoes,” came out before I could realize how dumb that sounded. “Yes, I heard.”

“What did I say?”

“Er … they know about me.” I had to sit down with that tidbit of info on my mind and after watching him put on those shoes. It was almost sexy in a perverted sort of way.

“I said, you blew it.”

My body stiffened. “What? I didn't blow—”

“Henry saw your … belly button.”

For several seconds, I could merely stare. Once again Jagger had astonished me, and I wasn't sure if it was because he knew that or
how
he knew it or both.

Both.

He got up and walked to the door. “Don't even ask how I know. Let's go.”

I followed him out and said, “Where are we going? I have work to do.”

He swung around and nearly toppled over like a Playskool Weeble. I reached out as if I could catch him, but we both ended up against the wall—as close as our fake bodies would allow.

“We have work to do now, Sherlock.
We
.”

With that Jagger pushed us both up and started walking toward the hallway that led to the main building. I hurried next to him and said, “What do you mean we? I have my case—”

“They suspect you are not the size you are, Sherlock. It just became
our
case.”

And in that moment I knew the “competition” I thought we were in had turned personal.

Jagger once again “had my back.”

And a warmth spread throughout me—and this time it wasn't sexually-based.

Jagger sat across from me at the breakfast table. Luckily no one was near enough to hear when he leaned forward and said, “Tell me what you found out so far.”

My competitive nature had me say, “I got into Henry's office, all by myself but didn't find anything—”

Jagger took a sip of his coffee, looked at me over the cup then set it down very gently—befitting a woman his size. “
Everything
.”

“Oh, crap. There's a Pueblo-looking jar in his office that has a key in it. But I don't know to what.”

He looked at me a few seconds.

“Really.”

“I know.”

And he did know. Jagger knew me better than I knew myself and was a close second to Stella Sokol in how well she knew me and all her kids.

“We get in there tonight and find out what the key fits.” He went back to sipping his coffee, not even touching the egg-white omelet we were served.

I couldn't blame him on that one, but I was starved. “So, what have
you
learned?”

I noticed the hesitation and figured it killed him to share info with me, but suddenly that hesitation seemed to wane. “Mitsy Sparks died last night.”

I choked on my egg-white omelet.

Jagger jumped up and smacked me on the back, which caused a piece of white to fly out of my mouth. If he did the Heimlich on me, I think I'd have a few broken ribs.

Several staff hurried over but Jagger—Jenny assured them I was fine and they headed back to their work. I was miffed that they didn't give me some TLC until I realized I really needed to talk more to Jagger.

“How did you … never mind. Mitsy. Dead. Why?”

“I thought you saw us meeting the other night out by the white veranda?”

Oh, boy. He'd been meeting her because she must have known something. “I … why were you meeting her?”

“Her real name was Michelle. She was a reporter for an Albuquerque newspaper. One of the few investigative reporters that really knew their job. Investigated, no matter what it took. Didn't just write opinion. And it cost her.”

“You knew her?” I had to remind myself that there were many things about Jagger that I didn't know, and may never know.

“We worked together on a few cases in the past.”

“That's how Fabio got this case. You knew her.”

Jagger nodded.

“Did she … was it surgery? Complications?”

“The silver knife.”

Like the others,
I thought, as I couldn't speak.

“Let's get out of here,” Jagger said.

We went to the exercise class, which, as usual, was a waste of time. These instructors were not skilled trainers. They would have been better to make us dance to “Sweating to the Oldies.” The “exercise class” was followed by a lecture in the meeting room, which had become a daily grind where all of the clients sat around and listened to Henry's spiel about diet, and damn Nurse Ragget would come in and add her two cents.

I didn't like either one but did that make them capable of
murder
?

The day flew by since my mind was on the investigation and before I knew it, Jagger and I, in full garb, were inside Henry's office once we saw him drive off. The room remained dark but for the lighting of the fish tank.

It was almost romantic.

Then I smacked myself inside my mind to get back to reality. “Over there,” I whispered, pointing to the jar where the key had been.

Jagger walked over, took it out and looked around the room.

“I don't see any file cabinets but my Babci used to have a fake drawer in her dresser …”

He'd started to walk toward Henry's desk. At first I thought he'd shake his head at me, but he gave me a crooked smile. “Atta girl, Sherlock.”

Mother Mary of God, the man had just given me a compliment! There went that new, yet strange, feeling throughout me.

Jagger felt around the desk, looked at the sides, the front and then I started poking around the area nearest the fish tank and … a piece of the heavy wooden Spanish design popped out into my hand. “Oops!”

He started to shake his head but instead winked at me.

Winked at me! Be still my heart.

The key fit the tiny lock that revealed itself when the piece had fallen down. As I struggled to bend down to pick it up, Jagger already had the little drawer open and held out a stack of papers. “Hm.” He lifted one up toward me. “Right up your alley. You're the expert, Sherlock.

As the medical “expert,” I sat in Henry's chair and read to Jagger. “These claims are bogus. Psychiatric claims are billed as if eating a Big Mac was a mental health issue. And here, this one says an outrageous amount for acupuncture is to be billed as ‘therapeutic injections.' Meditation is ‘psychiatric therapy.'”

Jagger leaned over my shoulder. “Exercise classes billed as ‘physical therapy' yet we know those instructors don't seem to know their gluteus from their maximus.”