Lori Avocato - Nip, Tuck, Dead

We looked like two flight attendants.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s Goldie?”

He put his hand on the small of my back to guide me down the porch stairs and said, “Perfect. He’s a perfect patient. Doing all that he is supposed to do.”

“No bleeding?” I couldn’t help myself. Once a nurse, always a nurse. Damn it.

He chuckled. “None. Normal swelling. Normal temp. Normal vitals, Nurse Sokol. Your patient is recovering nicely and Miles is only inches away.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

He leaned over, kissed my cheek and whispered, “No thanks needed.”

When I went to step into Neal’s black Porsche, I noticed the curtains in the upstairs room, Jagger’s room, move.

Hm. Samuel or Jagger?

“So this is the church where the Kennedys got married,” Neal said as we pulled in the parking lot of the unpretentious St. Mary’s Roman Catholic Church on the corner not too far from the center of town.

Neal held the door as I walked in. “Oh, my,” I whispered. “You can almost feel their presence and picture them walking down the aisle.” I stepped inside the seats and knelt down.

Neal joined me.

When I bent my head to say a quick prayer for Goldie, I noticed Neal doing the same. Hm. Nice guy. Good looking. And spiritual?

Stella Sokol would be stuffing almonds in lacy fabric for bridal shower table favors if she knew this.

Truthfully, even I was impressed with the doc.

We did a little walking tour around Bowen’s Wharf, which was filled with shops and eateries-and also where I’d shared a meal with Jagger last night.

Damn.

Wish those reminders didn’t pop up at such inopportune times. Neal was the perfect gentleman. Actually he reminded me a lot of Nick the freelance investigator, whom I’d dated a bit. And Neal certainly knew his way around this swanky town. He gave me a bit of culture along the tour.

“Slavery was actually very popular in this seaport,” he said, sipping a glass of very expensive wine once we’d stopped for a drink.

Good thing because the brick and cobblestone walks were getting to my feet. What on earth made me wear heels?

“Wow. Slavery. Huh? Stuff like that really fascinates me.” I sipped on my wine, which Neal had insisted I get instead of beer. Not that I minded, but I wondered if Neal was the possessive male type. At first glance I’d have said no. But there were little hints.

However, after a self-imposed dating drought, a wee bit of possessiveness felt nice. Someone cared. Someone had taken the time to take me out. Yes!

We finished up, walked toward the marina section and back to Neal’s car.

“We’ll take Ocean Drive out past Fort Adams State Park. I’ll show you Hammersmith Farm too.” He again guided me by placing a hand on the small of my back.

I sighed.

“Isn’t that where Jackie Kennedy grew up?”

“And the Kennedys’ reception was there.” He opened the door, I got in, and after I’d buckled up, he shut the door. How cute.

The drive was beautiful, especially when we got halfway out and the ocean popped into view. Neal continued his tour with all the local folklore then stuck on a Sting CD and paid attention to the road.

For a few seconds I thought I’d doze off in sheer relaxation.

Then I realized why I was there. Not there in Neal’s car on a “tour” but there in Newport on a case. I looked at him from the corner of my eye and forced myself to say, “I see a new receptionist has been found to replace Ian.”

Neal’s hands tightened on the leather steering wheel.

Damn. It had to be painful for all the employees at Highcliff to accept that one of them had been murdered.

With his eyes straight ahead he said, “Lydia won’t last long.”

He knew her. He knew her? “Why do you say that?” I thought the question would force his hand and he’d have to say how he knew her.

“Spoiled rich kids don’t have work ethics, Pauline.”

Yikes. Was he generalizing about them or did he really know Lydia personally?

Neal took every turn of the winding Ocean Drive with expert precision. One would assume, or at least hope, that a surgeon would have pretty damn good control over a car, and this doc certainly did.

Along both sides of the road now were gigantic mansions or Tudor homes or quaint-looking cottages the size of skyscrapers. The place really was for the rich and famous.

Before I knew it, the sign said Bellevue Avenue. We’d made a gigantic circle on this tour. Then again, the section for the rich and famous really wasn’t that large although it bordered the ocean on one side. There wasn’t much more to this town other than small, mostly one-way streets with houses from the 1700s and 1800s. I actually preferred them to the mansions. They were so colorful and so New England.

“Hungry?” Neal asked.

I was famished and figured he’d heard my stomach growl a few times over darling Sting, but thought better than to mention that. “I could eat.”

“Perfect.” He took a right off of Bellevue Avenue. The residential section sure didn’t look like a place where a restaurant would be located, but I figured Neal knew best-until he turned into a drive with a gigantic PRIVATE sign guarding the entry and wrought-iron gates that were shut until he poked a button on the dashboard.

“I’m guessing you’ve been here before.”

He chuckled. “A few times.”

No other explanation, but when an imposing Tudor structure came into view, I guessed this was home sweet home for the doc.

And the family crest of FORSYTH hanging from the gates was a bit daunting and impressive.

Oh…my…God.

Was I out of my league or what?

“You should have been a tour guide instead of a doctor,” I teased as Neal showed me around his “place.”

Despite the size (at least thirty rooms, although I couldn’t make it around the place to count), it felt warm and cozy, until a butler appeared and offered to get us drinks. For a gal from Hope Valley, having a butler, no matter how nice he was, did not say cozy.

My mouth wouldn’t work so Neal ordered us each another glass of wine. Not being a connoisseur, I had no idea of even the color, but figured it wasn’t going to be Sangria.

The butler-Pierre, who else?-excused himself while Neal ushered me into a tiny little room off the foyer.

Suddenly it was my favorite room in the house-although he hadn’t shown me the upstairs…yet. Yikes.

Mahogany paneling covered the walls, which had built-in bookshelves filled with what I guessed were first editions. A small section near a stained-glass window had some current paperbacks so I figured at least Doc Neal wasn’t some eccentric. There was a flat screen television in the center with mahogany doors, which I guessed covered it to show proper Newport good taste.

Neal guided me to the burgundy leather couch, and when I sat, I thought I’d fallen onto a cloud. I ran my hand along the arm and had never felt such buttery soft leather in my life.

Having a fraud case in a place like this was actually fun.

Neal refilled my glass despite my protests-well, fake protests. I didn’t want him to think I was some lush, but expensive wine was delicious. Okay. Okay. I couldn’t help but take advantage of the freebie.

He sat next to me on the couch and smiled. “Wait a minute.” He leaned forward, brushed the hair off my forehead and said, “That look. Worry.”

“Worry? No-”

He waved his hand at me and said, “Hang on.”

I sipped at my drink while he took out his cell phone and made a call. Trying not to eavesdrop, I started to hum and looked out the window.

“Ms. Wisherd, how’s Mr. Perlman doing?”

I swung around and held my breath.