The Stiff and the Dead (6 page)

Before Uncle Stash came up to me, I scurried over there and wriggled between two elderly women to get next to Sophie. “This is such a lovely place. I'm so glad I came here.”

She gave me an odd look while she chewed what I guessed was her six dozenth cookie. Sugar-free, yeah, right. What about the fat content?

“It's a place to meet folks.” She took a swig of coffee.

“Yes. Yes it surely is. Where else could we go—”

“Saint Bartholomew's has Bingo tonight.”

Bingo. Maybe this disguise wasn't such a good idea. Now I had to sit through Bingo. I'd had years of that, keeping Uncle Walt company because I was the only single one in our family—don't get my mother started on that. I never could keep up with the numbers and letters being called and who the heck could remember if they were looking for a straight Bingo, corners only, postage stamps, diagonal or whatever. I never could. I'd have to think about this one.

One of the ladies I'd shoved over to get next to Sophie turned to me. “Yes, Sophie is a wiz at Bingo and all the men make a point to sit at her table.”

I told myself a nice, hot shower would erase
that
image, but then realized something. If Sophie were ill and needed all the numerous medications that she filed claims for, Peggy would have to spend more time with her to form a diagnosis. One thing for sure, she didn't have any digestive problems, by the way she packed in the cookies.

“Bingo sounds like fun. May I join you tonight?”

Her mouth too full to talk, Sophie shrugged.

I said my goodbyes and walked as slowly as a woman of my “age” should until I got outside. Then I jogged to my car and leaped inside. Goldie had some work to do on this makeup stuff, and I had to borrow another dress. Couldn't go to Bingo in the same outfit.

Then a comforting thought struck.

After this glimpse into my future, I realized I would remain pretty much the same person, only wrinkled.

Miles opened Goldie's door after I'd rung the bell. As I pushed past him, he grabbed my arm. “Excuse me, ma'am. May I help you?”

I turned around. “Queen.”

He screeched.

A pitiful laugh emanated from the bedroom. I looked to see Goldie, wrapped in a golden silk robe, hanging onto the doorframe.

Miles looked from Goldie to me. “I don't see what is so funny.” Then he focused on me. “Why, I never!”

Compassion had been inbred in me so I leaned near him. “Relax, Miles, it's me. Pauline?”

“What the hell?”

Goldie continued laughing as he came into the living room and collapsed on the couch. After covering him with a spotless white afghan, Miles sat next to him.

I explained the situation to Miles, who finally chuckled. Then I turned to Goldie. “I know you feel like crap, but I have to go to Bingo tonight. Which means I need a new outfit and—” I pulled the wrinkles up on my face. “—a makeover. Something slide-proof.”

They both stared at me.

Miles rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should come back to nursing, Pauline. I mean . . . look at you.”

“I don't have to. I know how I look.” I decided not to tell them about the “Asian incident” in the Ladies' room. “And, Miles, you know I can't go back to nursing. I still have scorch marks from being burned out.”

“But with the shortage in the country, you could pick and choose your job.” He rubbed Goldie's shoulders as if that would make his throat feel better.

Goldie purred.

I smiled. “I don't want to pick or choose a nursing job. In fact, I've sworn off donning a pair of scrubs or comfy shoes for the rest of my life. I like my new job.”

“I know you do, but when the novelty wears off—”

“Novelty? Wears off? Look at me, Miles. I'm wearing Mrs. Honeysuckle's dress and shoes. The novelty of this job keeps changing. I like the change.”

“What?” His hands slipped off of Goldie's shoulders. “Sorry, Gold. You like the change, Pauline? You who have lived in this small town all your life and never ventured farther than Long Island Sound for a vacation?”

“Okay. Okay. That was the old me. Besides, I don't think I could go back to a job where I had to get up at five in the morning and follow some boss's rules. Fabio doesn't care what I do or how and when I do it as long as I get the job done.”

Goldie turned toward me. “And how is that going?”

I sucked in a breath and collected my thoughts. When I blew out the air, I said, “Well, I've become buddies with Sophie so that I can find out about her illnesses. I've already ruled out the gastrointestinal tract by the amount of food she consumes. She really doesn't appear sickly, so I'm guessing Fabio is correct. She's got prescriptions for illnesses from her head to her toes. Cardiac. Diabetes. Migraines. Arthritis. You name it. Sophie may be scamming the insurance company. Thing is, I'm not sure how.”

“You have to stick closer to her, Suga.”

I nodded toward Goldie. “I know. That's why I need a change of outfit. To go to . . . Bingo tonight. You up to it?”

Goldie smiled. “For you, Suga. For you.”

I stood in the doorway of Saint Bartholomew's Church and looked across the room. Nearly every overweight woman looked like Sophie. Damn. I should have planned to meet her at the door, but she wasn't all too thrilled about me joining her. I shuffled down the steps and into the hall in Mrs. Honeysuckle's brown pumps. They did go well with the brown-and-white dress Goldie had picked out for me.

I ran my fingers across my cheeks and prayed that when this night was over, I'd get these wrinkles off my face. Goldie had sworn I would, but I had my doubts when he layered globs of Vaseline on my face, formed the wrinkles—and then set them with superglue! He swore the Vaseline would allow me to peel off the glue.

Please don't make me permanently wrinkled, I prayed to Saint Theresa. I thought it was appropriate since I was in a church hall. Then I found my mark. There, near the stage, sat Sophie and her friends. Uncle Walt, Uncle Stash, Helen and Joey. Damn. I didn't expect the usual crowd. But, oh well, I had a job to do and would have to ignore them.

“May I join you?” I asked as I approached.

All the men stood except Joey, who looked at the others and then followed suit. Next, he actually hurried over and held the chair for me. I thanked him, ignored him, and was glad the empty seat was near Sophie.

“My feet are killing me tonight after dancing. Arthritis, you know,” I complained.

She nodded.

Shit. Did that mean she had it too? This wasn't going to be an easy case. I felt it in my pretend arthritic bones. “You suffer from it too?”

Uncle Walt leaned near. “Had it in my knees since the seventies.”

I know. I know.
But I smiled at him and looked toward Sophie. “How about you?”

She gave me an odd look.

Joey cut in with, “Why the interesta in Sophie's joints,
Bellisima
?”

For a second, I forgot my disguise. Geez, the guy had a way about him that confused me. “I . . . well . . . don't we all suffer from it?”

“My joints are like well-oiled machines,” Uncle Stash added as he nudged Helen, who gave him a feisty grin.

I did not want to go there.

So, I smiled back, focused on my Bingo cards, all six of them, and decided I needed to get Sophie alone.

After three hours, forty-five minutes, and ten seconds of Bingo, I felt the hairs on my wig stand on end. If my face were pliable, I'd scream. Then I vowed I would never join a senior citizens center or play Bingo when I really became of age. I was even putting it in writing so, if dementia set in, my family wouldn't have a confused me playing Bingo.

Plus, I was pissed that I hadn't won. I'm sure Miles would tell me I was a sore loser since everyone at the table had won Bingo except me. Damn. Maybe he'd be right.

Sophie started packing up her Bingo equipment. I couldn't believe they all had their own markers and chips. I must have looked like the rank amateur that I was. I jumped up when she did. Guess that's the fault of “aging” so quickly. I needed to think things through and prepare better. Then again, I had no idea how to prepare for any part of this job.

“Can I give you a lift, Sophie?”

She shook her head. “I only live a block away.”

“Oh, my. I guess my mind is going on me.” I giggled as maturely as I could. “I also walked. Bad night vision, you know.” Mental note to myself, pick up your car later.

She nodded. Sophie Banko, woman of few words. Damn it.

Once at the doorway, I latched onto her arm and said, “Let's walk together.” With my death grip, she couldn't say no.

After we got out past the parking lot, I released my hold when she kept pulling away. “Sorry. I'm always afraid of falling.”

“No problem.” She walked on.

The night was moonlit, which made it easier to see, along with the good lighting around the church and nearby neighborhood. When we crossed Pleasant Street, Sophie turned into the yard of a white house.

“So this is where you live?”

She gave me an odd look. “That's why I turned here.”

“Isn't that house next door where poor Mr. Wisnowski lived?”

She froze.

When she defrosted, she glared at me. “How would someone who just came to town know about him?”

Oh . . . my . . . aching arthritic feet.

I chuckled in as elderly a way as I could. “Know about him? I don't, dearie. But I heard someone at the . . . oh, no. Silly me. When I was driving with . . . someone told me he lived here.”

She curled her lip and leaned in.

I backed up and prayed the moon would eclipse so we'd be in total darkness, and I could sneak away.

“You may be heading into Alzheimer's, Peggy. Get a checkup.” With that she nodded as if to dismiss me and started to go walk up her porch stairs.

Good. She wasn't suspicious of me. Well, of my really being elderly, that is.

“Wait!” I yelled before she hurried up the steps.

She swung around and bobbled like a top. A woman her size should know better than to spin around at that speed. Thank goodness I caught her before we both fell down. Well, I really couldn't catch her; it was more like I shoved all my weight against her to keep her upright.

She steadied herself and turned back without so much as a thank-you.

I made a mental note not to startle her again. My mental-note list was growing at warp speed. Good thing I had a great memory. Came from my nursing background.

“I . . . wonder if I can come in for a . . . drink of water.”

She shrugged. I followed her inside.

Once in Sophie's house, I stood like a jerk while she glared at me. “I . . . oh, the water?”

The place was creepy. That's what got my attention and made me forget that I'd asked for water. The old Victorian-style living room looked more like the parlor of a funeral home. And the smell. Old. Musty. I followed Sophie down a dark hallway and into the kitchen. The stove looked like an old coal job. Pale green. I felt as if I'd stepped back in time, and not the same way that I did every time I went into my mother's house.

This was downright eerie.

“Glasses are in the drainer.” Sophie hobbled to the kitchen table and flopped down. The chair groaned.

I walked to the white porcelain sink and looked at the glasses. Suddenly my thirst disappeared. Not that the glasses weren't clean, but I had an odd feeling that I shouldn't touch anything in Sophie's house.

What if she
was
a criminal?

My fingerprints would be all over—and maybe even covering up hers. Instead I turned and decided to snoop while I talked. “Tired?”

She looked at me and wheezed. “Aren't you?”

I readied to say at my age I jogged several miles before getting tired, then remembered my age was supposed to be in the seventies. I sat across from her and nodded. “Beat.”

She probably forgot the reason I'd gotten myself invited in as she took a napkin from the lazy Susan in the middle of the table and wiped her forehead. It wasn't really warm in there, but maybe her size had thrown her internal thermometer off. Plus, she hadn't taken off her jacket yet. When she swung the lazy Susan around, I noticed two prescription bottles.