Read Online The Stiff and the Dead by Lori Avocato - Free Book Online Page B

the wall and looked at me.
    Well, Jagger, I had learned, didn’t just look. He kinda pulled you into his stare and made you his slave. Not literally, although some nights that became the plot of my dreams.
    So, I rambled on. “I don’t know why, but I think Uncle Walt is right. And you . . . you insinuated as much . . . with that look. Just looking at me. And the grin. Why are you here? You don’t investigate murders.” I had no idea why I said this, because I’d never, in fact, learned whom Jagger worked for. He very well could be FBI investigating whatever the hell he felt like.
    â€œI have my reasons, and you, of course, know that I’m not good at sharing.”
    â€œI’ll bet you were a blast to play with as a kid.”
    â€œLoners don’t play with other kids. But, I will tell you this much since I know why you are here, I will share what I know with you . . . if . . .”
    I knew Jagger was talking. His firm lips, the top a bit thinner than the bottom, kept moving. Me, I couldn’t hear a thing since a cloud of doom rolled over me.
    Jagger was going to pull me into his web.
    And, me being me, would let him.
    Before I knew it, he did, in fact, manage to get me to the door. With his firm hand at my back, we walked through it. He locked it, bent down and stuck the key under the mat. “Don’t even think about it.”
    Once outside, he walked me toward the back of the yard and close to an old shed, where he sat me on a concrete bench, much like the ones in my church’s cemetery. A chill sped up my spine. I told myself it was from the morbid cemetery thought, but also realized it could have come from being so near.
    Jagger. Damn it all! Now he would know I was parading around like an elderly lady. But then again, knowing Jagger—he probably already knew.
    I looked at him and ignored how the moonlight gave him an almost “Casablanca-type” haze. And, it looked damn good.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Sherlock?”
    Sherlock. Oh, boy. Jagger had given me that pet name when we first met. Although he could have meant it sarcastically, I always chose to view it as more of an endearing term. “I . . . well. Hey, I could ask you the same thing. What the hell are you doing here?”
    He shook his head twice and clucked his tongue. “You already did.”
    â€œOkay. Okay. I should know better than to question you. But, really, Jagger. Why would you be snooping—”
    He stared a typical Jagger-stare.
    â€œMr. W really was murdered ,” I mumbled.
    The closemouthed Jagger had not volunteered any info, but got me safely back to the church parking lot—without my even telling him that’s where my car was. Didn’t surprise me though. He also didn’t ask about my outfit, but when he’d tucked me into the driver’s seat, he had whispered, “We’ll talk. Soon. ”
    Before I could open my mouth to ask about what, knowing damn well he was going to involve me in something I’d regret, he was gone. Again, no surprise. I knew he’d show up somewhere else, when I least expected it. All the unanswered questions of why Jagger was in Mr. Wisnowski’s house, was he really murdered, what did Jagger have to do with it and—ta-da—the $64,000.00 question, who the hell did Jagger work for, would only be answered when and if he wanted me to have that info.
    I was convinced he already knew why I had been there.
    I made it back to my condo without running into anyone in the parking lot who knew me—and had already repressed my feelings after meeting up with Jagger. Good thing, since I looked like my grandma, Babci. When I got inside, I grabbed Spanky—our five-pound shih tzu-poodle mix—who growled at my outfit. I kissed his furry head and said, “Why the hell did I tell Sophie I was moving here? I mean—” I sat on the couch.
    Spanky merely stared into