The Stiff and the Dead (2 page)

“Adele is always fine,” she said.

I took the mug. She'd given me the one she'd bought that said
INVESTIGATOR SOKOL
in bold black letters. “Thanks. Goldie looks like crap today.”

“Mmmm.” She took several sips of her own drink. I assumed it was coffee, but often thought Adele added a bit of “flavor” to it. Rum flavor to be exact. Nevertheless she was a darling and a wiz of a secretary. She'd helped me out so much with addresses and private info, I often wondered if she wouldn't make a better investigator than I.

But there was the ex-con thing.

“Yeah, he's got tonsillitis, I'm sure. Needs them yanked, but I bet it will be a challenge to get him to go under the knife.”

She laughed. “Have his boyfriend help.”

“Miles?” Now
I
laughed. “He'd be more of a wreck than Goldie, facing that prospect.”

“And he's a nurse?”

“A great one, but when it comes to those he loves, he's a basket case.” I set down my mug and picked up my file. “Fabio gave me Goldie's case.”

Adele's eyes grew dark. She gingerly set her mug down as if it would splinter into millions of pieces. “I see.”

Suddenly my coffee floated up my throat. No, maybe that was bile brought on by fear. Adele had me scared. Maybe it was her tone, maybe the look in her eyes, or maybe the way she pulled on the third finger of her glove. Up and down. Up and down until I reached out and shoved my hand over hers.

Startled, she pulled back.

I did the same, with an apology fresh on my lips. “Oh my God. I'm sorry. I have no idea why I—”

“Adele understands.” With that she got up, scurried to the door, and before I could get her to explain, Fabio shouted for her.

Damn.

I leaned back in my chair. It wasn't often that I got bad premonitions about things. I left that sort of thing up to my mother, who still worried because I was single, had given up the career I'd been schooled in, worked in a field that almost got me killed and didn't eat right. Don't get me started on not having kids yet.

But, looking down at the folder in my hand, while I read the name “Sophie Banko” and “possible prescription fraud,” a heat spread up my arms, and a rocklike thud sounded in the pit of my stomach.

And, for some reason, all I could think was, Mr. Wisnowski had been murdered.

Of course I had no proof that Mr. Wisnowski had been murdered, but as I got into my Venetian red Volvo and drove toward my parents' house, I just knew my Uncle Walt was onto something.

Call it female intuition—which, by the way, had served me well throughout my nursing career—or call it a hunch, but I had to find out, and talking to Uncle Walt was first on my list. He'd mentioned Mr. W several times in the past. I'd even met him at some social functions and had heard Uncle Walt talk about the real “catch” that Mr. W had dated.

Uncle Walt, my favorite uncle, had lived with us all my life. When my oldest sister, Mary, left the convent to wed—and yes, my mother spent the next few years doing penance in Mary's name—Uncle Walt had been the super glue that had kept our family together.

I actually applauded Mary, since her wedding took the pressure off of me for a few years, but my parents and my mother's other brother, Uncle Stash, had nearly come to blows. Stash was the rebel sibling who thought Mary was very “modern” by leaving the convent, and the fact that the Sisters had paid for Mary's college education was an added bonus. He lived in Florida but came to Connecticut in late winter for his annual ski trip. That was the extent of his skiing.

Come to think of it, he had to be due any day now. Imagine a seventy-nine-year-old skiing. I became a ski-school dropout after giving it a shot with Uncle Stash back in the late 1980s. Everything hurt. It wasn't fun. I often thought about heading south with him each time he went back. He was a trip, and staying with him could be fun.

I pulled into my parents' driveway and looked up. Stella Mary Maciejko Sokol, aka Mother, and Michael Joseph Sokol, aka Daddy, had lived in this house for forty-three years—and had never upgraded. When I watched reruns of Donna Reed and Lucy, I knew where my mother had gotten her “decorating” taste.

The white structure, aluminum sided with classic black shutters, stood there, welcoming me back. When I got out of my car and walked into the foyer, I sniffed. The aroma of kielbasa and sauerkraut hung in the air. But I knew that couldn't be possible. Today was Monday. Mother had to be fixing meatloaf.

You could plan your calendar on my mother's menus. She made the same meal for each day of the week. Kielbasa and kraut were Saturday's delicacy and the aroma hung around nearly a week. Not even my mother's Renuzit air freshener (fresh mountain pine) fetish could get the Polish scent out of the air.

Truthfully, the air freshener had grown to be a comforting scent, much like a fake Christmas tree. Several times a year it soothed me—much like Linus's blanket.

“That you, Pauline?” my mother called out from the kitchen. She spent hours in the kitchen each day. Didn't even have a dishwasher since she said she could do a better job. Each year we kids offered to buy her one for Christmas, but she always declined—and we got stuck washing and drying on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's and any other holidays. With five kids—most with families—doing dishes was no short-term chore.

“Yes, Mom. It's me. Who else would just walk in?” I turned down the royal blue shag carpeted hallway and headed toward the kitchen. Who still had shag carpeting in their houses? Thing was, my mother kept it impeccably clean, and with the fibers standing at attention, it looked much like I remembered it over twenty years ago. Not even a spot on it.

I nodded toward my father, who was sitting in his favorite chair near the bay window. “Hi, Daddy.”

He looked up from his newspaper, the sports section, and gave me his loving smile. “Hey,
Pączki.”

I kissed him on the forehead where his brown hair sprinkled with gray had thinned to reveal too much skin. I couldn't picture Daddy bald and wondered if he'd keep thinning until it was all gone. Then I gave my usual internal groan at his pet name for me.
Pączki.
A big, fat, round, often prune-filled Polish donut pronounced more like “paunchki.” That was my father's endearing name for me since I was born a whopping ten pounds five ounces. But in my defense, I had heard my mother once say the nurses claimed I looked much thinner.

As a bit of a chubby kid, I paid no attention when Daddy called me that. But lately—okay, since my sixteenth birthday—I wanted to run out of the room screaming when he used it. Thank goodness I hadn't fit the bill of a round, stuffed donut since then. Now—ta-da—I was a size four.

Still, he meant well, and I loved every balding cell in his body. He could call me whatever he wanted—but hopefully, not in front of my friends though.

Daddy was a hardworking silent type who'd retired after forty years in a factory making tiny parts for airplane engines, and now he spent his days golfing when it wasn't winter and reading the newspaper the rest of the year. The guy had no real hobbies, but the paper took hours to get through. Not that Daddy wasn't a good reader, it was just that he read everything—and sometimes out loud. When my mother gave him a project to do around the house, he took his time so you could count on not seeing him for days to months.

Like Houdini, my mother spun around and handed me a plate with a Dagwood-size ham sandwich on it. I never saw the woman even take the bread out of the breadbox. “Thanks, Mom.” I sat across from Daddy, knowing she'd produce some beverage very shortly. Most likely milk, since Mother accused me of not having enough calcium for my age. Not even close to menopause, I always insisted that I took calcium pills, which she said is hogwash compared to getting it naturally.

I took a bite of my ham, mustard, lettuce and tomato sandwich. When she wasn't looking, I slipped out the hothouse tomato and stuffed it between the folds of my turquoise paper napkin. Matched the Formica countertops. January wasn't tomato month in Connecticut.

Yesterday's left-over ham tasted wonderful. Me, I'm no cook. Actually take-out food had become one of the basic food groups where I was concerned, and, as much as I hated to admit it, I loved hospital food. Thank goodness Miles cooked when he wasn't at work. Truthfully, I think the only reason I remained alive was that my mother still fed me. For now, I had to hurry and talk to Uncle Walt, since I needed to head back to the office to get Goldie.

“Where's Uncle Walt?” I asked after washing down a bite with the milk Mom had snuck in front of me.

Daddy never looked up from his paper. From where I sat I could see that he was mentally doing the crossword puzzle. “Should be back soon. Some lady called for him.”

Mother shook her head. “Tell us something new, Michael.”

I figured Uncle Walt was real hot with the ladies nowadays, then I laughed to myself. “Mind if I wait?” I looked up to see both glaring at me with shock and confusion on their faces. Where'd that come from? My parents not only didn't mind if I waited, they usually—no, daily—suggested I move back in with them.

That's when I'd miraculously find myself back at the condo I shared with my roomie, Miles Scarpello. Often, I wouldn't remember the trip back but knew I made it at warp speed.

Mother sat down with a cup of coffee in her hand. Ready to ask where hers and Daddy's sandwiches were, I caught a glimpse of the black wrought-iron clock with golden hands above the stove. Eleven forty-five. They never ate lunch until noon or dinner before six. Breakfast was at 6
A.M.,
before they went off to daily 8
A.M.
mass at the Polish church, Saint Stanislaus.

Hope Valley was very ethnic and neighborhoods and Catholic churches divided up where the immigrants had settled.

“Actually, Stella,” my father said, “didn't Walt mention some funeral?”

She took a sip of coffee and set down her salmon-colored Melmac cup on its saucer. Mother always used cups and saucers, not mugs. Melmac had been our family's dinnerware since before my birth. It was a tough, hard plastic created in the 1940s, used by the army in WWII, and which then became popular in the fifties and sixties, when my parents must have bought theirs. “Funeral? Oh, that's right. One of his buddies from the senior citizens center passed away.”

Or was murdered.

I gulped. “A lady?” A long shot, I knew, but if she said yes, then I wouldn't have that murder issue to think of right now.

“Henry Wisnowski.”

I dropped my sandwich onto the Melmac dish below.

“Watch out, Pauline!” Mother was up in a jiffy and wiping the crumbs off the table. Good thing I didn't spill my milk.

Of course, if murder were involved, I would have a lot to cry about over that milk. I shuddered, reliving my last brush with murder, despite the fact that Jagger had come to save me.

Jagger.

My heart pitter-pattered. Once Goldie and I made a bet that Jagger was FBI, but there was never a definitive answer from him. Not only wouldn't I don nursing scrubs again, but sadly, I'd never have to work or see Jagger again.

“Pauline? What is wrong with you?”

My eyes fluttered. I'd gotten stuck in a Jagger-induced moment. “Wrong? Nothing, Mom. Well, I have a new case—”

“Case, smase.” Mother got up and reheated hers and Daddy's coffee. “When are you going to go back to nursing? The job you'd trained for all those years. Even a master's degree. You made such a nice nurse.”

Nice? After thirteen years, I'd hoped for “excellent” or at least “well-qualified.” “Mom, I
have
a job. It's investigating.” I wiped the napkin across my lips.

Two slices of hothouse tomato fell onto the Melmac dish.

Mother looked at me. “If you didn't want tomatoes, you should have said so, Pauline Sokol.”

And you still would have put them on.
“I didn't think of it.”
Since you materialized the sandwich before I saw the ham come out of the Saran wrap.
“I have to go take Goldie to the doctor. Tonsillitis.”

“Can't his boyfriend take him?”

Mother loved Miles and had grown to love Goldie too. She even baked them apple pies for Christmas and gave them each condoms as stocking stuffers. I know she had the best intentions in mind, but. . .

I had to get out of there.

I hurried over and gave my mother a peck on the cheek as I shoved the dish into the sink, thankful Melmac was indestructible, although it did stain and burn. But not my mother's set. Then I kissed Daddy on the forehead. “See ya.”

Once in the driveway, I took a deep breath, hopped in my car, shoved it into reverse and hit the pedal. A loud clank hit the air. I swung around to see Uncle Walt getting out of a 1963 Ford Thunderbird roadster—a convertible, no less. The white exterior sparkled, and the red interior, which I could still see even with the top up, was immaculate, as was the driver.

I knew cars, since Uncle Walt was a car buff and I read all his magazines, mostly in my mother's john. I flew out of the car. “Anyone hurt?”

Uncle Walt came around from the passenger's side. “You can't hurt someone in a vintage car like this at that speed, Pauline. They don't make them like this nowadays. You should know that.”

I stared at the Thunderbird's bumper. Not a scratch. Mine, however, had a dent, which needed a good plastic surgeon.

I looked at the purple-haired woman sitting behind the wheel. Wearing dark glasses the size of Where's Waldo's, she sat there fluffing her hair in the rearview mirror. I wondered if the crash had dislodged any of the strands. Didn't look it—she had to have had a can of hair spray all over that coiffure. Silver rhinestones sparkled from the frames of her black glasses, but they were nowhere near as bright as the gems hanging from her earlobes and around her neck. And wrists. And fingers. Well, four out of ten fingers.