One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (17 page)

Jagger nodded. “Finish up.”

I bit the last bite of my muffin. “Then?” I managed as I tucked the piece into the side of my cheek very squirrel-like so as not to have it come flying out like the pill had yesterday.

“Then, Sherlock, we look for her.”

Walking all the way down the hallway to the dayroom with Jagger, I couldn't help but think, he'd called me Sherlock.

All was right with the world now.

Except for a dead Vito, a missing Margaret, a stalking Terry, who knew how many patients held here fraudulently, my disarrayed undies in my drawer and, oh yeah, the white van, things were fine.

Maybe my world was still a bit askew.

Sister Liz strolled down the hallway toward us. “Good morning, Dr. Plummer. Pauline.” She nodded toward me and smiled at him.

Typical female reaction. Unavoidable around him.

Maybe Sister Liz wasn't really a nun either!

Naw. She was too pious not to be one.

Jagger said, “I'm taking Pauline into the dayroom. She's had a bad night and we need to talk quite a bit. Don't want to tie up the exam room for too long. She's going to need a lot of therapy today.”

Sister wrung her hands. “Oh, dear.”

“What is it, Sister?” he asked.

“Pauline is scheduled for the ECT again. You know how—”

He nodded. “Yes. No need to explain. Let's get that done with and then she and I can talk.”

Unless that head-exploding thing happens, I thought.

Jagger and I performed like Oscar winners. Even the technician, this time a timid, little male didn't question the machine or any of us. He merely marked the chart as treatment done after I had arched my back like an upside down cat and, of course, Jagger had managed to stand in the way so no one could see the equipment lights weren't on.

After Sister Liz came to take me back, Jagger once again had explained that we had to talk. She followed us to the dayroom where she left us alone and he assured me he'd write an order for no more ECT.

“Okay, Ruby said Margaret is missing?”

“Yep. I don't know how she knows but I didn't see Margaret in the dining hall and she's always there early. I picked a tiny glob of gel from my scalp where the timid technician had stuck a lead. I never could get used to nearly having my brain fried, even for a job.

“Okay. Let's take a look for ourselves.”

I stared at him. “How do you propose we do that?”

I soon found out as I removed my johnny coat and told myself that I should have known Jagger would have had something up his sleeve.

In a few minutes, Jagger walked out from behind the changing screen looking very much like a stranger. He was dressed as a janitor, just like he'd been in the past, but this time younger and better-looking.

Me, I had stuck the brown cap on that he'd given me from his bag of disguise tricks and tucked my hair up as much as possible. I wasn't trying to look male, only trying to look like a janitor too. Hoorah for feminism, where we could both do the same job.

I knew my mother would say to tuck that hair up so it doesn't get in your face and you'll do a better job cleaning. Cleaning was not my major concern, however.

We slowly walked out of the room after he'd hidden his clothing and my hospital pjs, and then we headed toward the wing where Margaret's room was. On the way Jagger stopped near a closet door, took out a key hanging from a chain on his belt and soon had us fitted for work, complete with dust rags, mop and bucket.

He had to have worked this place before.

Jagger looked at me and gestured to come with him. I followed him down the hallway as we peeked into each room, pretending to dust, mop and wipe.

When we got to the east wing, he opened a door and through the tiny crack I noticed Terry sitting there on the bed . . . naked. Geez. This guy was a pip.

Thank goodness Jagger had gone in first and said, “Lady in the hallway. Cover up, buddy.”

Terry groaned as if he couldn't understand why he was not allowed to “dress” as if this were the Cortona Institute of Nudists of America. He did, however, cover up the important part with his pillow.

Not wanting to blow my cover, I shielded my face with my hat and mop handle. My hands shook a little at the cold metal reminder even though it wasn't a broom. I dusted the far side of the room while Jagger did around the bed, making small talk with Terry and very nonchalantly asking if he'd seen Margaret today.

Terry denied seeing her.

I swept faster until a pile of dust and dirt was outside the doorway. Jagger was right behind, bending down with a dustpan for me to sweep the stuff into. I was marveling that he did menial work like this for a case, and then my breath caught mid-throat.

Kneeling there below me, Jagger had fished something out of the dustpan pile and held it up toward me.

A piece of straw—from a
broom.

I had to tell Jagger about my “incident” with Terry, knowing full well that Jagger would probably not only insist I get out of here, but maybe even physically drag me out.

For as much as being thrown over his shoulder sounded romantic and sexy, I really wanted to stay.

Too much was at stake for me to quit now.

I looked down at the straw Jagger held. He took a plastic bag from his pocket and put the “evidence” in it. Behind Jagger's shoulder, I noticed Terry staring. Oh, great. Now I really wasn't going to be safe around here.

We finished up and walked down the hallway.

At the end, Jagger opened another janitor's closet and we stepped in. Amongst the mops, brooms and buckets, we stood shoulder to shoulder, and I told him about Terry.

Silent for several seconds, Jagger finally looked at me and said, “You're out of here, Sherlock.”

“Look, Jagger, I can take care of myself.”

“Phoof !” Air flew out of my mouth when he grabbed me fast and swung my arm around my back. I in turn, did some kind of self-defense move where the next thing I knew, Jagger was up against the wall, and I had my face in his.

Damn! Where'd that come from?

He chuckled. “Good reflexes, Sherlock.”

“Then let me stay.”

He looked into my eyes—and I nearly forgot where I was. Before he could answer, he leaned forward . . . and his lips brushed against mine. Slowly. Very slowly. My heart started to pound so loudly I felt it vibrate against his chest. His kiss had me on my tiptoes, eyes shut, and hands pressed against his shoulders.

His hands ran along my back.

Oh, God.

His hands reached my neck and rubbed ever so gently, lifting my hair and letting it cascade down in a soft breeze.

Wow.

His hands slid around to cup beneath my cheeks while the kiss, the Jagger kiss, ended.

I had to take such a deep breath that my lungs actually hurt. I had good reflexes, but not good enough to react in an intelligent manner for several seconds.

“I'll always be one step behind you, Sherlock.”

It seemed to take several hours before my legs could walk me out of the janitor's closet while I muttered my thanks on and on to Jagger for supporting my decision to stay at the Institute. I know it was only a few minutes in reality, but I wanted to let time slow to a crawl so that I could savor every blessed minute.

Jagger had kissed me.

Wa hoo!

But, once out in the hallway, it seemed as if nothing had happened. We were back to being partners in this job, and I could only console myself with the thought that I'd sleep like a baby tonight, dreaming about the kiss.

Jagger motioned for me to follow him. Back to work as usual. Okay. I had to scream inside my head that I was a professional and just because Jagger had kissed me, I had to clear the cobwebs out of my mind and pay attention.

Not paying attention could get us hurt, or worse.

From the end of the hallway, I noticed movement. Jagger kept going as if nothing had stirred. Right.
Act as if you are a janitor, Pauline.
Sister Liz and Sister Barbie came around the corner with several patients in tow. I wondered if they missed me, but then thought of how Jagger had told Sister Liz that we'd be talking a long time. Always thinking, that guy.

“You there,” Sister Barbie said in her professional head-nurse tone.

We spun around. I covered my face as much as possible by turning my head toward my shoulder so my hair would fall forward while Jagger, in a disguised voice asked, “Yes, Sister. What is it?”

My heart couldn't take these frequent shifts in rhythm. On the outside when working a case, at least I got to go home and feel safe and off duty. Around there, it was 24/7 laced with fear.

Sister Barbie walked past us and over her shoulder said, “Make sure Room 84 is cleaned for a new patient.”

I gasped.

Jagger nudged me so hard, I automatically pushed him back.

“What?” he whispered to me while smiling to the nuns. “My coworker has asthma. Dust sometimes causes it to act up.” He took my arm and turned us the other way. “She's fine. Just fine.”

“Thank the good Lord,” Sister Liz said as they headed off.

I pushed at Jagger's arm. “That's Margaret's room. Or at least it was her room. Oh, my. Where do you think . . . you don't think she's . . . No. She can't be. They know she's not coming back. Not coming back! There's that little boy and all—”

He shoved a mop against my chest. “Stop that. Maybe she was released to go home.”

He said that just to calm me down. Neither of us believed it though.

“Let's go,” Jagger said.

I grabbed the mop, followed him, and mumbled all the way to Room 84.

I realized I'd never been in Margaret's room before. Of course, a patient visiting another patient's room was forbidden for various good reasons. But when I walked in, I froze. A hint of magnolia filled the air. Southern magnolia. Margaret's scent. The bed was tousled, as if she were yanked out of it. The door to the bathroom was partially shut, and I half expected her to come out any second.

Jagger reached down and picked something up from under the mattress. Something white had been sticking out. I'd noticed it too, but hadn't been able to move.

He held a photograph toward me. “That the boy?”

I swallowed and looked closely as if I could identify Margaret's son. “I've never seen him,” I said, looking at the tiny snapshot, the size you get in one of those department store booths for a few bucks. “But . . . ” My voice softened and my eyes burned. “He does look like Margaret.”

“Maybe they moved her to another unit?” He tucked the photo into his shirt pocket and went about cleaning.

I stood there, floored. One because he thoughtfully didn't throw the picture away, and two because—he was still acting the janitor part. “You're actually cleaning.” This guy was a real piece.

He looked at me. “Sherlock, when you work a case, you have to play the part or risk blowing your cover.” With that he shoved the mop toward me and yanked the sheets off the bed.

“Right. I knew that. Like an undercover cop has to play the part of a drug buyer.”

When the mop hit my arm, I grabbed it and started to clean. “I'll have to get back soon or they might get suspicious.”

Jagger grinned.

“What? They might.” I ran the mop in a circle, rather weakly, I admit.

He took it from my hands. “I know you're no housekeeper, Sherlock, but at least make an effort. Here.” He proceeded to show me how to mop while I proceeded to wonder if there was anything Jagger
couldn't
do.

But all my darn brain would wrap around was the thought: He sure can kiss!

Once Margaret's room was done, Jagger and I had made our way out of the unit. Thank goodness he had the keys, which any patient would kill for. Well, I'd hoped not all the patients would do that but knew some would. It reminded me of my days of training in psych as a student nurse. The rule was to guard your keys with your life, because if they were lost (meaning stolen), the student would have to pay one hundred dollars. That was a lot of money back then, and a fortune to a poverty-stricken student nurse. It sure kept us on our toes.

Jagger's keys dangled off his belt, and I figured no patient,
even mentally sick ones, would attempt to steal them from him.

We walked down the steps at the end of the hallway to the long tunnel that ran from building to building. I hadn't been this way before but couldn't help but think of Vito's dead body in the foyer at the other end of it.

“Have the police found out anything about Vito?”

“Nope.” Jagger motioned for me to go ahead as he opened the door to another set of stairs. “Just that he was a con man and came from a family of crooks.”

No need to ask where we were going, because it didn't matter. Jagger must have had a hunch to go to this part of the campus to search for Margaret. I only prayed that we wouldn't find her like Vito.

We climbed to the top of the stairs to another unit, and Jagger once again unlocked the door. When I stepped inside the dayroom, my heart jumped.

Sitting in a statuelike, catatonic state was Margaret.

The rest of the patients bustled about, talked to themselves or others, did crafts and even let out wild sounds on occasions, but Margaret didn't even look up.

I motioned for Jagger to look toward Margaret.

He nodded at me and worked his way over to her. I followed all the while, mopping as he'd shown me. Several nuns sat around the unit, and I figured they were on “constant” watch. Good. Now they couldn't pay us much attention.

Behind the nurses' station were two more nuns, a lay nurse and a male orderly. Much smaller than Spike, the guy still didn't look all that friendly. He looked downright sleazy. I knew sleazy from seeing Fabio. This orderly could probably manhandle someone with the best of them.

Jagger looked at me. Suddenly, through some telepathic
form of communication, I knew he wanted me to talk to Margaret. I knelt down next to her, took out a cloth from my pants pocket and started to wipe an imaginary spot from the couch near her. With all the animation of the mental ward in full swing, no one paid attention to me.