After realizing someone had, again, been in my room, I actually did have to pee. Nerves. The door to the bathroom was fixed so that patients couldn’t lock themselves in, so I shut it and kept my ears wide open. But what the heck would I do if I heard something? I had no idea.
I needed to learn to defend myself, and made a mental note to ask Goldie how.
That conclusion hit me as I finished up and washed my hands. Jagger had always been around and made me feel safe. It occurred to me that when I had asked Novitiate Lalli to call him, he was there in no time. I wondered if Jagger stayed somewhere in the Institution, but I knew he’d never tell me. I scanned the room with the thought that Jagger might be watching. Then I told myself he was not some pervert, and that I was acting as crazy as the staff might think I was.
I did not want anyone to think I was crazy.
My behavior, not mentally ill behavior, was all I had going for me to get me out of there. That, and finishing the job for Jagger. Thank goodness Fabio was away, or I’d have lost my job by now. Unless he worked with Jagger. I shook my head. No way.
Then again, Jagger’s cases always did coincide with mine. One more mysterious Jagger tidbit.
As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, now it seemed that someone was spying on me. I didn’t need more bad news along with finding out who killed Vito, and why patients were being held here against their will. Damn.
Chills chased up my spine at the thought. I’d been followed before on another case—by a murderer. No great surprise, but it gave me pause.
What the heck had I done to get on someone’s bad side at the Institute?
Then again, someone committing fraud for big bucks probably didn’t have a good side. Still, I had to find out not only who it was, but why. Why target me?
I finished up and headed out to the dayroom. The place was bustling with activity, and Sister Barbie Doll was gone. Good. No pills for me. Across the room on the yellow vinyl chair with the crack in the back sat Margaret, staring into space.
I smiled at some of the other patients and staff, and nonchalantly, I hoped, worked my way over to her. Ruby wasn’t around. Good, since I wasn’t sure if she was friend or foe or just a very confused, drug-addicted teen. “Hi,” I said and sat down next to Margaret.
She turned but didn’t really smile. A blank look covered her face, and I worried that she’d been heavily drugged or had an electric shock treatment. Damn. A wave of nausea floated inside my stomach at the thought. If it hadn’t been for Jagger, I . . .
I made a mental note to remind him to be around for my next “treatment.”
I felt horrible for Margaret. She sat so still. I looked in the direction she was staring. Spike sat in a chair next to the nurses’ station, reading a magazine.
Our jailor.
I leaned toward Margaret. “I know how you feel about him. He’s a bit much. Isn’t he?”
She didn’t turn, but kept staring. “I . . . don’t belong here.”
My heartbeat fluttered. I leaned closer but tried not to let Spike think I was chatting with Margaret. In order to do so, I had to call on my nonexistent acting skills. I started to twirl my hair over and over and hum the song “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I think Saint Theresa must have mentally nudged me that time and put that appropriate tune in my noggin. Amid choruses, I tried to communicate with Margaret. “ ‘When the saints go’ . . . I don’t think you belong here . . . ‘marching in.’”
Margaret leaned forward slightly, a hint of a smile on her face.
Great. She got my poor attempt at acting. We won’t get into my singing ability, but I will say that in second grade, Miss Burdacki, the music teacher, told me to mouth the words while the other kids sang.
“Let’s turn sideways . . . ‘go marching in’ . . . so he can’t see our lips.” I finished humming instead of using words.
Margaret turned toward the television.
There was my buddy Jerry on the screen. His large men in black were pulling apart two females. All I heard among the bleep-outs were “sister,” “baby’s father,” “whore” and “hamburger.” I didn’t know you could say “whore” on television and didn’t even want to think about what the “hamburger” part was about.
I peeked over to see Spike. Still reading. He seemed
engrossed in it, so I turned to the television but said to Margaret, “I’m in this place against my will too. How did you get here?”
For several seconds she hesitated. I noticed her fingers folded on her lap with the two thumbs twirling around each other.
I twirled my hair in unison in case old Spike looked up.
“I have a drinking problem. Or . . . at least my husband said I did.” She sucked in so much air, I thought my body would be pulled toward her. As she blew it out in a gust, she added, “I drank martinis at lunch with my garden club. But Stephen said I needed to get some help. More like a rest from the stresses of my life. Stephen’s friend was a travel agent and said he’d heard about this place . . . and here I am.”
I blinked. Didn’t help to digest the words any better. “I thought you said you didn’t come here on your own?” I was getting darn good at talking with my lips firm.
“I was told I was coming to a resort.”
“To get rest and relaxation.”
“Massages, facials and eat healthy,” she whispered.
And here she’d ended up at this Ritz.
“So, what happened that you couldn’t call Stephen and go home?”
Despite our jailor sitting a few feet away, Margaret turned to me. “I don’t belong here,” she reiterated, then went into statue mode.
“I . . . wait, Margaret!” I looked at Spike, who had set down his newspaper and stood.
Damn.
I’d have to reconnect with Margaret some other time. I really didn’t want her to suffer from something because of what I did. Before I knew it, Sister Liz had bustled out of the nursing station toward us.
“How are you today, child?” she asked, looking at me.
“I . . . okay.” Why’d I say that? I needed to see Jagger. “Okay. Okay. Okay,” I started to sing. Margaret looked at me. I think there was a hint of a grin on her lips, but Sister Liz merely frowned. For some reason, I think she liked me.
“Oh, dear,” she muttered.
“Okay. Okay. I need to see my doctor. Okay?” This last part I sang so loudly, Spike was over in a flash, holding my arms behind my back as if I were ready to attack Sister Liz’s rosary beads again.
I tried to pull free. Wasted effort. Before Sister could stop Spike, Dr. Plummer zoomed around the corner.
“Let her go!”
I wanted to wrap my arms around Jagger’s neck and whisper a “thanks” in his ear. Okay, I wanted to wrap my arms around him for the hell of it, but did neither.
Spike looked at Jagger and then let me go. “She needs the wet packs,” he mumbled and walked toward the nurses’ station.
My eyes widened at that thought. Staff stripping me to my undies and wrapping me in wet sheets. That was one experience I did not want to have. The thought alone was claustrophobic. Calming. Yeah, right.
Darling Sister Liz said, “I think she’s settled down now, Doctor. Do you want to speak to her?”
“I’ll take her to the office,” Jagger said, taking me by the arm.
Now that touch felt . . . good. Safe.
Once in the office, he sat on the chair and motioned for me to sit on the couch. Why the hell didn’t we go into the exam room? I obeyed and flopped down.
“Margaret was talking to me.”
“And?”
I hesitated, thinking I really didn’t have much to report, but what I thought and what Jagger thought could be very different. So I shared with him what she’d said, finishing with, “Then Spike attacked.”
I think Jagger winced.
“Find out more.”
“It’s not easy with old Spike watching.”
Jagger brushed a strand of red hair from his forehead. I was getting real used to seeing him as Dr. Plummer. But, then again, Jagger as a janitor made me hot on a past case.
“We need to get a move on things here. If Margaret is being heavily medicated, we might not get much out of her.” He stood. “Also, I wrote an order not to medicate you, but if that damned efficient nun insists, you have to protect yourself. I don’t have to remind you that this is a private place and they can do what they want in some instances.”
He was protecting me. My heart warmed. Then I realized Jagger would always look after the innocent. “Great, but she’s got that novice nun, who, by the way, is first on my list of suspects—”
“Why?”
Yikes. I knew it would not be a good idea to tell him it was because I plain didn’t like her, so I said, “She’s . . . nosy.”
He shook his head . . . once.
Phew.
Then he said, “She’s a nun and a nurse in a mental hospital. I’d think being observant would be a good trait.”
I curled my lips at him, knowing damn well it would be. “I don’t think she’s a real nurse, and anyway I’ve never seen her giving out the meds. She’s always given the job of checking everyone’s mouths with a flashlight when pills are given out.”
“Open up.”
I stared at him.
“I said open up.”
After a few hesitant seconds, I opened my mouth and Jagger proceeded to show me how to hide a capsule under my tongue, flip it up and out when she looked under and then back again to spit it out later. Somewhere along the line there was a sneeze involved, an occasional cough or some other variety of distractions. Damn. He was ingenious and good at just about everything.
The process was tricky, so he’d taken out a Tic Tac from his pocket and we practiced for several minutes. I wondered what the nuns would say if they saw my “doctor” teaching me this trick. I kept harboring that question because Jagger was getting closer. Touching my cheek. Breathing his faintly coffee-scented breath at me . . . and making me feel as if I’d been drugged again.
The pheromones jumped from Jagger to me like some mystical, magical crickets. Similar to tiny Jiminy himself. Only these had the power to make a fairly intelligent woman lose her mind.
During the entire process, I swallowed seven Tic Tacs—whole.
Finally I pulled my coherent thoughts forward and said, “I’ve got it.” I popped a Tic Tac into my mouth, shut it, and eased back so as not to be too noticeable when it was the real thing and the nuns were watching.
Damn it but he grinned.
And, as usual, my face burned, letting me know I was redder than the emergency call bell light. Oh well, I told myself, at least red goes with this stupid white hospital johnny coat.
“Talk to Margaret,” he said as he stood. “And, by the way, Ruby Montgomery’s doctor is Dr. De Jong.”
I sat stunned. “Really?”
He looked at me, walked to the door. “Use her for your case,” he said and opened it.
I forced myself up as if I were twice my weight, walked to the door and turned. All I could think to say was, “There’s a difference between ‘observant’ and ‘nosy.’”
I had my work cut out for me, I thought, as I walked into the dining room for lunch, took my tray and got my food. Rubbery chicken. Yuck.
The room held three long dining-room tables parallel to each other with uncomfortable straight chairs for us to sit on. Guess the Institute didn’t want the patients taking their time eating while the staff had to stand around and watch. Food was served cafeteria style so we each had to get in line and grab a brown plastic tray at the end of the room near the door.
Although the wallpaper was a bright white with green flowers, this room was my least favorite one—not that I really liked any rooms in this place. But too many of the patients looked sicker—sadder—while trying to eat. This place didn’t give the atmosphere of any restaurant I’ve ever been in.
Ruby was across the room, and Margaret sat near the window with the dark green drapes that matched the wallpaper. Who should I pick to interrogate first?
And what would I ask Ruby?
I wimped out and went with the “easier” job. “Hi, Margaret,” I said, sitting down next to her. “Chicken doesn’t look too good today.”
“Never does,” she said, spiking a cherry tomato with her fork and nibbling at it.
I chuckled, then leaned near. “Look, I know you don’t belong here, but I need to know more.”
She held the tomato out in front of her lips. I looked to see Novitiate Lalli standing watch. Smart Margaret. She hid her lips very nicely. “Need to know?”
“I . . . well . . . I’m here against my will too. I have friends on the outside that maybe could help.”
Margaret turned and looked at me. Her hazel eyes watered. “I have a nine-year-old son.”
I felt my forehead wrinkle, but didn’t say, “So what?” Instead, I picked up a forkful of the rubber chicken and held it near my mouth. “You must miss him terribly.”
She nodded. “I brought my tennis racket and golf clubs.” With that, she shoved the tomato into her mouth.
I almost grabbed her hand and yanked the tomato back so she could explain that tidbit of info. What the hell? Had Margaret turned into a “real” patient? Maybe she was shy of a full deck. Damn.
“Golf clubs?”
“They said it was a resort when my husband signed me up,” she told me again.
I wondered if her husband had something up his sleeve. Maybe he knew that she’d be kept here like this and wanted to get rid of Margaret for a while. Then my Christian side said not to judge him, and that he had innocently sent Margaret here for R & R.
I was going with that theory.
I set my forkful of chicken down and took my roll into my hand. Despite it feeling like a month-old sponge, I ripped tiny pieces off and ate them. Occasionally, I smiled, laughed, looked at Novitiate Lalli and nodded to throw off any suspicions. “Tell me more,” I mumbled.
“When I got to the airport, I expected a limousine. Instead, a nun—a huge nun—”
“Vito?”
“Hmm? Oh, she never said her name, but she was odd-looking. Very hairy. Maybe Italian.”
I nodded. “Okay, he . . . she . . . what happened next?”
Margaret took a sip of her milk, swallowed and continued, “The nun wasn’t very nice. I wasn’t used to being treated that way.”
“Where are you from, Margaret?” Why that mattered, I had no idea.
“New Orleans. My husband is a lawyer. We live on Saint Charles Avenue.”
Impressive. I’d seen tours of houses on Saint Charles Avenue on the travel channel. Margaret must come from money. Now it made sense. Garden club. Martinis. Saint Charles. And, of course, a lawyer and golf. That’s why I had asked. Yes! My investigative instincts were sharpening.
Someone was pretty desperate (or dumb) to mess with a lawyer’s wife. Hope he did criminal law.
Margaret’s accent had first made me think she was from New York, but there was a softness, a Southern gentleness, which I now picked up on.
“Anyway,” she said, biting into a chocolate-chip cookie (store-bought), “that nun took me to get my luggage. After we went outside the doors, I expected a limousine, but she shoved me into a white van. I didn’t want to be rude or seem uppity, so I didn’t say anything. Also, I knew I was coming to a Catholic-run resort, so it made sense that a nun would pick me up.
When we got here, she—the nun—and I think Spike took my luggage, purse, cell phone and airline ticket. Before I knew it, I was medicated and all my personal items were gone. Even my hand-embroidered linen handkerchief that my grandmother had given me.”
I smiled at that. How dainty and Southern. “When did all of this happen?”
She stared into space. I knew it was hard to tell around here what day it was, but I could see her trying to think. She turned toward me. “I’d say a month.”
I choked on my roll.
Novitiate Lalli came running over and Heimliched me. I think she bruised a few ribs—and enjoyed it. When I spit the piece of roll out into the air, it sailed across the table and landed on Jackie Dee’s head. I turned away before I had to watch her snatch it up and eat it. Then again, it wasn’t blonde.
“You all right?” Sister Liz called, running over. “My, my.”
I coughed a few times and waved my hand in the air. “I’m fine . . . fine.” I looked to see the staff starting to pick up the sharps. Margaret had retreated into her catatonic state of safety.
Since Novitiate Lalli had saved me, although I don’t think I was knocking on the door of the pearly gates, I wondered if she was innocent of the fraud scam. She seemed really concerned. Then again, I had learned in this business that there are all kinds of people in this world and maybe she saved me so it wouldn’t seem obvious in front of the entire room that she didn’t like me.
I knew I had to see Jagger soon, but Novitiate Lalli’s lecture from the last time I’d asked for him stuck in my head. I’d have to think of some other way to get in touch with him even though he’d left specific orders that I could call for him anytime. I just didn’t want to listen to her again.
Damn.
Sister Liz and Novitiate Lalli left my side to help with counting the sharps. We had to remain seated until the all clear was given. I turned to Margaret and smiled despite my rib pain.
“They told my husband it’d be better not to contact me for four weeks when he thought I was coming to the special resort. Except for emergencies, of course. They said guests needed their R & R without the stress of home life. Four weeks.” Tears ran down her cheek. “I didn’t want to be here that long.”
I didn’t want to be there at all. I touched her hand.
“All clear,” Novitiate Lalli yelled out. “Everything’s accounted for.”
The room exploded into patients shoving chairs and scurrying out, and my hand tightened on Margaret’s arm.
I’d lost Margaret in the shuffle, but decided we needed to cool it so she wouldn’t get into trouble. A few patients (surprisingly though, not Jackie Dee) grabbed at my arms, johnny coat and even my hair as I walked along the hall to the dayroom.
The day in the life of a patient in a mental hospital is very long and boring. I found this out right off the bat. I reread my magazines until the pages curled. I listened to every tape until Miss Myra told me not to sing along. If I had to watch TV any longer, especially Jerry S., I’d die.
Looking around the windowless room, I decided that dying was not a good analogy to make. Some of these folks could, in fact, be murderers here on an insanity plea.
On two of the red couches, several folks sat talking—but not to each other. From the cracked yellow chair, Ruby stared at the television as if interested. Lord only knows what was on her mind. And a few argued about nothing. Spike sat on his “throne,” a tall brown stool near the doorway, and Novitiate Lalli glared at me through the glass wall of the nurses’ station.
What the hell did she have against me?
And there was something about Spike that didn’t set right with me. I moved him up above Novitiate Lalli on my mental list of suspects.
I decided I’d go to my room. Not that there was anything to do there. I couldn’t even read a book, since I didn’t have any, but at least it was a change of scenery. When I got up, Spike looked at me.
“What the hell are you up to?”
“I’m going to my room.” I started to turn.
“What the hell for?” I’m pretty sure he growled.
“I . . . I want to lie down. I have a headache.”
I heard him stand and stiffened. Before I could turn, I heard Sister Liz, darling Sister Liz, say, “Let her go.”
Without turning, I hurried down the hallway and shoved open the door to my room and stepped inside.
Ouch! What the hell? A pain started at the base of my neck. Confused, I started to turn around while I automatically reached my hand up to my head to feel for blood. A second pain seared through my left ear.
Someone had smacked me!
I tried to turn, but my arm was grabbed, shoved behind my back and tightened while my head was forced forward so I couldn’t see my attacker. All I could see was a flash of my bed then the floor of my room. “Ouch! Let go!”
Nothing.
Only more pain.
A kick to my right calf. A yank on my arm until I thought my shoulder was dislocated. And a bite on my neck.
A bite? Who bites when attacking except kids?
Only this was no kid.
This time I shook with all my strength and started to scream. Sure I was scared, but I was also determined to get free and fight back.
Outside in the hallway, footsteps clattered along. I actually wanted Spike to show up, so I yelled his name a few times.
My attacker eased up his hold. Before my room door could swing open, my arm was freed. The pain shot through my shoulder. I rubbed it and slowly turned, but not before vomiting on the floor. Damn it! Same thing had happened when I’d gotten my arm broken . . . by a killer.
I looked toward the door to see it swinging on its hinges, then Spike, Sister Barbie, Sister Liz and Sister Lalli ran in.
My attacker was gone.
Thank God. I was still alive.
A pungent taste filled my lips. I wiped them with my good arm, only to see red. I was bleeding. Nausea welled inside me like a shaken soda, but I swallowed it down, refusing to get sick again—especially in front of this gang.
I looked at them and weakly managed, “I need my doctor.”
“That’s a hell of a way to get in touch with me.”
I didn’t have to open my eyes to know Jagger was near. Suddenly the pain in my entire body subsided for a second, and then came back full force. “Shit. Ouch.”
My eyelids fluttered. I forced them to open and hoped that seeing Jagger would take my mind off my attack.
He looked delicious, wonderful, hot—and pissed.
Pissed? Oh, great. Here I was assaulted in my room, nearly murdered, and he was going to be pissed at me. “I couldn’t help it,” I mumbled, realizing we were in my room and alone. I grabbed my pillow and hugged it to my chest. Small comfort. I really wanted Spanky.
“Help what, Sherlock?”
My eyes searched his. I’d never heard such a soft tone come from between his lips. And, having never been able to read Jagger’s body language—this time I could see real concern in the depths of brown. Deep, chocolate brown. Reminded me of eating chocolate—warm, sweet chocolate.
“Hmm? Oh, I couldn’t help getting attacked. No lecture please.” I rubbed my ribs, then my cheek, which must have been the cause of the blood. “Ouch again.”
Jagger remained still. He looked, well, insulted. “I’m not going to lecture you. Only get you out of here.”
“This is my room.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I glared at him while still rubbing all my sore spots as if that would help. It didn’t, but I ignored the pain and said, “What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Look, Sherlock. The nuns think you did this to yourself.”
“What? Are they crazy?”
“No, they think you are. Lots of patients self-mutilate—”
“Are you crazy too? Is everyone but me crazy?”
“I don’t think you did this to yourself, Pauline. I know it has to do with the case. My case. I never meant . . . ”
Jagger’s lips kept moving, but my mind didn’t comprehend that he was talking. Maybe because it had started out as an apology. A rarity with Jagger. Or maybe it was because somewhere deep inside, my gut instinct told me I didn’t want to hear what he was going to say.
“Case is over for you. You’re going home—for good.”
I reached up, took his silver-and-black art deco tie into my grasp and eased him closer. “Over my dead body.”
“That’s what I’m trying to prevent.”
I couldn’t believe I was saying this, but somewhere, obviously in my subconscious, I knew I had to stay. Margaret, and perhaps others, needed me. Needed my help.
And I needed Saint Theresa’s help and a bodyguard.
“No arguing, Sherlock. I’ll have them bring your clothes.”
I yanked.
He gagged.
“I’m not going.”
And when I released him—I saw pride in his eyes.
Pride! Pride for me!
At least I vowed to go to my grave thinking that.
And, hopefully, that wouldn’t be too soon.
“Nice try, but you are done here,” he said.