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Lori's Works

Pauline and Jagger had another escapade--this time in a pychiatric hospital. But not any psychiatric hospital! Each story in this anthology is based on a Tarot card. I pulled The Lovers and thus Pauline and Jagger's story began again!

Wicktoria's Secret ( Not available yet! Lori will let you know when it is.

WIKTORIA’S SECRET

One

“Er...um...oh, yeah. Bless me father for I have sinned—” I leaned forward in the darkened confessional, a place I’d feared since second grade when Sister Mary Margaret made me stay in one for hours for not bringing my rosary to school on the first Friday of the month—when all good Catholic children went to Mass and confession. How many sins could a seven year old have anyway?
“Are you there my dear?” the disembodied voice of Father Nawrocki said.
Gulp.
Father Nawrocki. Since high school all my friends and I had a crush on the tall, brown-eyed priest. Priest! I should add that to my list of sins right now. Ogling a priest.
“Um...yes, I am.” I managed a few fake coughs and despite knocking on the door of hell by lying to a priest in the confessional no less, I coughed again. I ran through the first part of the confession format, which I’d learned rote in Saint Stanislaus Catholic school from the nuns who told us we didn’t need to know the reason for learning things, we just had to memorize them.
Now the priest coughed.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt that it was real and continued, “my last confession was—” Good Lord. Did he really need to know that? And when was it? Second grade? Did it not count if I wasn’t accurate? “—well, it was...awhile so I’ll wing it.”
“Wing it, Wiktoria?”
Oh geez. The only thing worse than having to go to confession and spit out your sins was when the priest knew who you were through the supposedly camouflaged screen! And, no one, no one, called me by my Polish name since grammar school other than my mother when she scolded me. “You know, Father, I think I’ll just tell it like it is.”
“I would assume you would anyway. It is confession.”
Was it getting hot in here or was the trapdoor to hell and beyond opening up? I forced a laugh, knowing he couldn’t see my face and the pained look it must have on it. Or could he? Damn it. Oops. I had to get out of here if I ever wanted to scurry through the Pearly Gates to all eternity someday. Because right now I thought I caught a glimpse of fiery flames coming from beneath the hand-crocheted throw rug near the kneeler. “Yes, well. Look, Father N, I really didn’t come here to confess anything.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know. I know. I’m holding up the line.” And what a line it was on the first Friday of the month at Saint Stanislaus Church in the cozy town of New Bochenia, named for the hometown of the Polish immigrants founded it. Over the years it was Americanized to New Boch, pronounced New Boc by non-Poles and the rest of the world. Anyway, in a town like New Boch you could count on a long line of Polish Catholic women snaked around the pews and nearly out the door. Only males were the priest and a few from the over eighty crowd.
“Okay, Father N, I am going to level with you.” I leaned forward as if that would draw his attention to the confessional screen where I knelt, sweating and waiting for the devil to yank me out of here, which at the moment didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
“Level, Tori.”
Phew. He’d lightened up or at least wanted to get this over with as fast as I did. “Okay. My last confession seems like eons ago, but you know me. I am a good girl—” I could imagine him rolling his eyes. After all he’d been hearing my confessions throughout the teen years. Gulp again. There was that night with Ricky Rinaski...never mind. “I really am, a good girl that is, so consequently, I don’t have any sins to confess at the moment.”
I heard him sigh, rather loudly for a man of the cloth.
“Really. When I was fifteen I used to make some up to give you something to do. Er...never mind. The reason I am here is more to ask a question to see if I need to confess something. You know, clarify something I can’t Google.” I giggled.
He didn’t.
“Perhaps we can talk in my office after confession is over, Miss Gansecki?”
Lord no! Then we’d be face to face. It was one thing to be hidden behind the confessional haze, even though he knew who I was, but to be face to face with a priest sent shivers down my Catholic School induced conscience’s spine—as if I really was a bad girl.
Ricky and I only made it to second base.
“No. No, thank you, Father. I just want to know. I mean, I need some clarification of the 21st century list of sins. The lite sins. Not mortal ones. You know, not murder, stealing etcetera.”
Now I could see his pious shadow shaking his head. “Go on, Wiktoria.”
Yikes. He wanted me out of here badly. Maybe he figured he’d get sucked down into hell along with me as some kind of innocent bystander, so I hurried on. “Is it a sin? I mean, you know I mean no harm. So, in the scheme of things and remembering that these are modern times—”
“Is what a sin, child?”
“Making G-strings?”
Deep Sea Dead

Deep Sea Dead

Deep Sea Dead

One

“What? A boat? I mean a ship? I could fall overboard and drown! It could sink! Look at what happened to the Titanic!”

My skuzzy boss, Fabio Scarpello, glared at me with, well, one could never really know what Fabio thought, so I decided not to even try.

It was more than likely X-rated anyway.

He puffed on a re-lit cigar. “The ship sails from New York to Miami to Bermuda and back. Who the hell ever heard of an iceberg in those waters?”

I wanted to argue that there might be pockets of cold water out in the Atlantic that could form into an iceberg, but I knew my imagination was going wild so I could come up with some excuse not to go. I wasn’t going to mention my being prone to seasickness though. Fabio would turn that into something embarrassing.

After a few more puffs, he said, “Look, doll--”

“Don’t call me doll. Ever.” I sat straighter in my seat across from his mold-covered desk. Okay, maybe mold-covered was a bit strong, but I was guessing there had to be something growing beneath the used paper plates, coffee cups, piles of ashes and files. He had my folder in his hand.

“Okay, newbie--”

“Pauline, Ms. Sokol or Investigator Sokol will do fine,” I started to sip on my decaf café latté that my co-worker, friend, and roommate Goldie had made me earlier, then decided it more than likely had become contaminated when I’d walked into Fabio’s office.

He cursed under his breath. “Investigator Sokol is a stretch, but if you want to keep your freaking job, you better take this freaking case. High seas or not.”

A nurse on a cruise ship.

I should be excited about the assignment, I mean, come on. Salty sea air, wind in my hair, sun, bronzed males, coral sand of Bermuda and...waves. My stomach lurched.

And back into the old nursing career. That same career that I kept vowing I would never go back to. Damn.

He shoved the file toward me. “Want it or not?”

Not would have been my first choice. Pauline Sokol was not one for change. Pauline Sokol was not one for water transportation. And Pauline Sokol was not one to be stuck out in some nautical God knew where investigating medical insurance fraud...alone.

Admittedly I’ve never been out of New England for a vacation or any other reason, and that probably had something to do with my reluctance to try new things. Ethnic Hope Valley had been my home for thirty-five years--and I kinda liked my feet on mother earth.

But there were those nasty things called bills that had invaded my life. And they required being paid. And that required money. Sigh. I looked up to see Fabio tapping his cigar into the dirty ashtray.

Amid the flying ashes, he asked, “Well?”

I snatched the folder. “When do I leave?”

“Friday.”

“Friday? It’s already Wednesday.”

“One of the staff nurses onboard got, er...sick. It’s perfect. Just perfect. Bon voyage, doll.”

#

I decided to ignore Fabio calling me doll again since my mind got stuck on the word Friday. April 13. Perfect. My new assignment would start on an unlucky day. I hurried out of his office and paused in the hallway for a breath of fresh air.

“Suga!”

I spun around to see my tied-for-best friend in the world, Goldie, rushing down the hall. My other roommate and other tied-for-best friend in the world and Goldie’s “honey” was Miles Scarpello. Fabio’s nephew. Adopted. His saving grace.

There is a god.

Goldie dressed in Gucci, Prada and Armani. Sometimes from the ladies’ dept. Sometimes the men’s. But I still loved him, and he always looked like a movie star. Today he ushered in spring with a pink, black, white and orange spiral patterned sweater over black slacks and a pink camisole top. He wore a Sandra Dee blonde ponytail wig that looked more real than my natural blonde hair. Looked very sixties. And very beachy. How fitting.

Maybe I could borrow the outfit for my cruise.

“So, Suga--” he yanked me into his office, which looked like a cross between New Orleans, Goldie’s hometown, and the jungle. Gotta love his unusual taste. “--what’s your new assignment?”

I held the folder out toward him as if it were a snake. “Here, you look. I don’t have the stomach for it so early in the morning.”

Goldie patted my head in a very Goldie-like sort of way. “Let’s take a looksee.” He ran a pink colored nail across the envelope and amid the tearing sound mumbled, “Shit.”

“Shit? What does shit mean?” I slumped down on the zebra couch, feeling a bit faint. I think the color drained from my cheeks upon hearing Goldie’s tone alone.

He looked at me for a few seconds. I had the sudden thought that he was making up some kind of lie. That hurt, but if Goldie lied to me, it would have been for my own good.

“I...well, what I meant was...shit, you get to go on a cruise to some warm, sunny island, and I’ll be stuck in stupid Hope Valley, Connecticut, with temperatures in the 50s all month.” He took a gigantic swig of his coffee. Goldie never swigged.

I could only stare. Was Goldie really concerned with the temperature? Or had he seen something in the folder that I should be worried about? After several minutes of silence and him offering me another latté over and over, I finally asked, “Gold, are you lying to me?”

“Yes!” flew out of his mouth on a breeze. He flopped onto his leopard chair and looked at me with a pitiable glare. “I’m sorry, Suga. But, Bermuda. Bermuda! Ber...mu...da!”

“I guess I’ll give you credit for your honesty about lying even though I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. As a matter of fact, I will take a regular latté since I think I may need a dose of caffeine.”

Before he stood he said, “Your standard at Dunkin Donuts is hazelnut decaf. You don’t drink caffeine, Suga.”

“I do now. Seems as if I’m going to need it on this case. What is so wrong about cruising to Bermu...the triangle. You are worried I may get sucked into some paranormal triangle of ocean?”

Goldie screeched.

“I’m sorry, Gold.” I jumped up and grabbed him in a hug. “I didn’t mean to...wait a minute. Why am I consoling you? I should be the one being comforted. I’m the one going on this fool assignment.”

He eased free and looked at me. “I’m so sorry. I never should have said anything. I mean, folks sail to Bermuda every day. Planes fly overhead. And, well, bon voyage, Suga!”