“I have a date!” flew out of my mouth in the most childish voice.
Mother swung around, sending a drip of grease flying onto the sparkling black-and-white-checked linoleum flooring. While she vigorously wiped it up, she said, “A date. A date? A date!”
I shook my head at her excitement. Or, was that her amazement? Damn. “Don’t sound so surprised, Maaaaa.”
Once again she waved the spatula at me, but this time she quickly wiped it with the paper towel first. “Stop that, or I won’t feed you.”
My favorite uncle, Uncle Walt, walked in. “Not feed her? Yowza, Pauline. What the hell did you do?” He and I chuckled.
Mother gave him a stern look. “Don’t use such language in front of her, Walter.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I won’t get fed tonight.” Then he winked at me, kissed me on the cheek and hurried out.
I guess he figured he’d better get the hell out of Dodge, or she really wouldn’t let him eat.
“Ma, Uncle Walt’s language is fine.” I wanted to say she should hear the guys I hung around with curse, but thought better than to share that. I really wanted my food soon. She finished taking out the rest of the pancakes from the frying pan, and I went to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “I do work, Mother. You know I’m doing very well as an insurance investigator. We’re needed too. People cheat the companies out of millions and that makes the premiums go up for everyone.”
I decided to go for broke, so I told her about Angie, the baby, and no insurance. Before I finished, my mother was making the sign of the cross and saying an Our Father for Angie and her family.
Now I had her.
“So, let me package up mine now. I have to get going.”
“Where?” She took out a plastic container and lined it with several paper towels.
“My date. I told you.” I got out a bag from the cabinet and the applesauce and sour cream from the fridge. Both went great with my mother’s homemade potato pancakes.
“Yes, you did say a date.” She carefully laid one pancake atop the others as if making a gift basket. “But, Pauline, you didn’t say-actually I think you are trying not to say-where.” She swung around and glared at me. “Are you having a man over to your condominium?”
Age seven started to resurface again, but I held my head up and said, “Nope.” Then I stuck the rest of the applesauce and sour cream back into the refrigerator. “Okay, Mom.” I kissed her cheek. “This is great. It all smells great. I appreciate it. Great. Great. Great.”
She grabbed my arm. “His house? You are going to a man’s house?”
Even though I’d never been good at reading body language, mother’s eyes were wild, accusing, sneaky and probing. Before I knew it, I’d be telling her that I’d had sex with ER Dano! So, telling her I was going to his house was mild in comparison. If I stuck around though, she’d have me confessing he also might be a murderer. I had to pull my face away so she couldn’t use her motherly interrogation techniques on me.
“Well, gotta run.” I made it to the doorway, but her voice yanked me back. I swung around just in time to hear her say, “You’re in your thirties, Pauline. For God’s sake, wear a thong.”
Once in my car and on the road, I could barely drive after the verbal shock Stella Sokol had given me.
And yet, I still loved her.
I kept the potato pancakes in the oven on low and hoped to hell they wouldn’t dry out. Mother’s never did, but that didn’t mean a thing, considering my cooking skills.
After my shower, I headed to my room to get dressed. When I opened the dresser drawer, I noticed a thong she’d left there-amid the rest of my undies, which I’d promptly replaced with bikinis and even some briefs that I only wore to work. Hey, I didn’t want any panty lines on my scrubs.
When I went to get a bikini pair, my hand-all by itself, mind you-drifted over and picked up the yellow thong. I held it up to figure out how women actually put the damn things on when from behind me a voice said, “Yellow is your color, Sherlock.”
I shoved the thong behind my back and swung around. “You…what are you-”
Jagger stood in the doorway, looking at my robe, which had now fallen open a tad, revealing some cleavage.
I yanked it shut, but when I did, the thong swung around in my hand. Turning, I threw it into the drawer and decided not to try to explain that my mother had bought it.
“Goldie let me in.” He leaned against the wall, looking oh-so delicious.
“Oh.” I held the robe for dear life. “Wait. Goldie isn’t even home!”
Jagger waved his hand as if he had no intention of explaining how he got in and, frankly, I didn’t care. When I looked at him standing there, my first thought was-he came. He’s going to ER Dano’s with me.
Jagger thinks Dano is guilty.
While hugging my robe, I felt my heart plummet in my chest. Shit. I didn’t want that to be true. “You think Dano is guilty, then?”
Jagger curled his lips. “One of these days you’re going to have to explain how your mind works. I mean, one moment you’re ogling sexy lingerie and the next, you’re making statements out of left field. What the hell are you asking?” He sauntered in and sat on the edge of my bed.
Yeah, I was in real good condition to explain things now. Even I didn’t know what the hell I was thinking. I looked at Jagger and then at the door, hoping Goldie or Miles would come in. After a few seconds, traitor Spanky walked in and directly up to Jagger, who lifted the dog up onto the bed.
What an adorable sight!
But I had work to do and part of that was to get dressed. So, I summoned my logical thoughts and said, “If you come with me to Dano’s, then you must think he’s guilty and are worried about my safety.”
Jagger looked at me. “I don’t think. I do.” With that he scooped up Spanky, and walked out the door. “Get dressed.”
I stuck my hands on my hips and then realized how childish that must look, so instead I stuck my tongue out at his back.
I wore the yellow thong.
That thought stuck in my head as I walked down the stairs in my condo to go to the kitchen. Jagger was seated on the couch, watching CNN. Without looking, he said, “Shatley said the two stabbings are related. Not that we didn’t know that.”
“Did he say anything about Sky?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” I continued on toward the kitchen.
Suddenly I could feel him glaring at me, and I could swear he knew, just knew, that I had on the thong.
“Shut up,” I said and walked by.
He scowled as if genuinely confused. But instead of admitting something like that, he said, “Call me as soon as you’ve found out what you need to know.” He got up, walked to the door and left.
My mouth hung open for a few seconds, I looked at Spanky and said, “Shut up,” and then hurried into the kitchen, where I packaged up our meal. I had fifteen minutes to get to Dano’s or be late. I hated being late and prided myself in being on time.
On the way out the door I had a thought: our meal. I’d thought our meal, but it could be the last if I found anything suspicious in Dano’s cabinets-or if I found out the reason the papers were there.
Then again, Jagger wasn’t coming.
Jagger wasn’t coming!
Twenty-One
“You are one hell of a cook, Nightingale,” Dano said as he took another bite of potato pancake. “Damn. I’m impressed.”
My CSIC (Catholic-school-induced conscience) said I should tell him the truth, but for the moment, I reveled in the compliment and thought, hell, he might be lying about something much more serious than potato pancakes, so why not let him believe the cooking was mine?