Mean Evergreen (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Twelve)

by A W Hartoin

  “What were the pills going to do?” I asked.

  “Help me to think,” he said. “I think I think just fine, but she said I don’t.”

  “Sounds like ADD,” said Charming. “My stepson Liam has that. He takes Concerta. It helps a lot.”

  “What does he do?” Stevie asked.

  “He can’t concentrate. He’s impulsive and does crazy stuff like he forgets to use a potholder and burns his hand. He does his homework but can’t remember to turn it in. Last week, his mom forgot his med on accident and some kid dared him to eat a rock and he did it. Liam just doesn’t think without his meds. His doctor says he suggestible.”

  Stevie looked up from the sketch and said, “I ate stuff.”

  “I know,” I said, suddenly feeling flipping terrible. ADD. Was that the problem?

  “What did you eat?” Charming asked.

  Stevie frowned and looked at me like I’d been there. I wasn’t, for the record. Stevie was five years older than me.

  “Worms and rocks,” I said.

  He made a face. “Oh, yeah. Why in the hell would I want to do that?”

  “We never knew why.”

  “Maybe pills will change that,” said Charming. “You should call the therapist, Mercy.”

  “She won’t tell me anything. He’s not my kid.”

  “Stevie can give her permission.”

  I got out my phone and went through a huge rigamarole to find out who Misty was and how to contact her. You’d think Misty was a state secret. In the end I had to call on my new prison connection, Noreen. She gave me Misty’s name and number, but I didn’t hear it from her.

  By that time, Charming was almost done with the drawing, but Stevie wasn’t quite satisfied. “I need my grandpa in there.”

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  “He talked to me and he was really nice.”

  “He talked to you?”

  Charming looked up from the shading she was doing. “Is that weird?”

  “Kinda,” I said. “Big Steve said he never talked, that he couldn’t really communicate at all.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “He talked to me,” said Stevie.

  “About what?” I asked.

  He frowned. “I don’t know. He was really quiet and nice though.”

  “Gentle,” said Charming. “Something gentle.”

  I pointed at the dragon. “Who’s this?”

  Stevie laughed. “I just like dragons. I think Grandpa liked them, too.” Then he frowned. “He did. He gave me dragon books. I think they’re still at home.”

  “And the sunflower is who?”

  “Mom. It’s her favorite.”

  “What about the lily? I asked.

  “I just…I can’t remember. I think I just like lilies.”

  Charming grabbed a second sheet of sketch paper and quickly drew a sweet little mouse. “Gentle, sweet, a survivor.”

  “And it works with the rest of it,” I said.

  “Do you think he’d want to be a mouse though?” Stevie asked. “He was a big guy like Dad.”

  “I have no idea,” said Charming. “The biggest guys can have the sweetest souls though.”

  “He’d be happy that you remembered him. He could be the dragon, if you want,” I said.

  “No,” said Stevie. “He wasn’t the dragon. I think the mouse is good. He was super quiet. You hardly knew he was there. Let’s do the mouse.”

  Charming worked the mouse into the final image and it really worked.

  “It’s going to go away completely, right?” Stevie asked. “The swastika will be gone. Mom and Dad’ll never know?”

  “With the shading and lines, it will disappear,” said Charming.

  “But it will still be there, like Mercy said,” he said sadly. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Don’t think of it like that,” I said. “It’s still there, like what happened to them is still there, but they’re the bigger part of the picture. Surviving and going on is the most important part.”

  “Yeah, that’s good.” He grinned. “Let’s do it.”

  Charming and Stevie went down to a room so she could get to work and I got on calling Misty the therapist. After some wheedling and getting Stevie on the line, she agreed to talk to me. This was the one time when my so-called celebrity status worked in my favor. She knew who I was and for some reason decided I was more trustworthy because of it.

  “You understand that I didn’t do formal testing on Stevie?” Misty asked.

  “Got it, but what is your opinion?” I asked.

  “He’s got ADD off the charts. I’m surprised he can drive.”

  “He’s wrecked four cars and lost his license.”

  “Well, there you go,” said Misty.

  I went into another room, closed the door, and curled up in the chair, surrounded by beautiful artwork and needles. Needles I was used to. Artwork not so much. “So, I have to ask. How did you know he had ADD? Nobody ever mentioned it before that I know of.”

  “His handwriting. It’s terrible.”

  “That’s half the people I know.”

  “His is different. If you watch him writing, he’s just having a terrible time. Not that he can’t write. He can, but it’s an effort to stay focused and do it well. He has to slow down and he struggles with that. Then I started watching his eyes. He fades out and looks away, like he’s gone for a few seconds and then comes back. He misses out on what happened in that time period.”

  “And you think meds will fix that?” I asked.

  “Fix isn’t the right word. It will help. If he slows down his brain, he’ll be able to drive down the street, see a stop sign, and then continue driving and remember it’s there.”

  “He can’t remember stop signs?”

  “Well, it’s not that he doesn’t remember them exactly. His brain will have bounced off to something else.”

  “What a nightmare.”

  “I’d say so. Don’t get your hopes up too high though. Stevie’s no genius. He’s not going to get on meds and suddenly be analyzing Shakespeare and get totally into physics.”

  “Nobody will think that’s a possibility,” I said.

  “You’d be surprised with parents. They will get ideas about their kid and it’s hard to let go of them.”

  I wondered what Big Steve would think. Olivia would definitely get her hopes up. “Why didn’t anyone catch this before?”

  “I couldn’t really say, but it wasn’t hugely popular to medicate kids when Stevie was young, and even when they did it was mostly for hyperactivity. Stevie’s not hyper. They probably just thought he was dumb.”

  “He kinda is,” I said.

  “I assessed his IQ as average. He’s not an idiot. He’s average.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I swear to God. Stevie Warnock is average,” said Misty.

  “Holy crap,” I said. “Do you get this a lot at the prison?”

  “I do and let me say Stevie’s lucky. He came from a good home with kind parents with no abuse of any kind. If you combine Stevie’s ADD with violence and/or neglect, you’ve got a real problem.”

  “You think he’ll be alright then?” I asked.

  “He’s got a better chance than most.”

  I thanked her and went back to Stevie who was lying down prone with his eyes closed while Charming inked his head.

  “Well?” she asked me.

  “He’s got ADD, a whole lot of ADD,” I said. “But he’s not crazy or anything. Meds will help.”

  Charming continued to work and then asked, “I know I said I didn’t care, but what did he do to get into prison?”

  I named a few things that Stevie had done and Charming got thoughtful. “Nothing violent?”

  I laughed. “Nope. Can you imagine Stevie violent? No way.”

  “Liam’s doc is great and he treats adults. I’ve got a card in my wallet. Why don’t you get it out and call him?”

  I got out the card. Downtown off
ice. Convenient enough to get there easily. “Is he taking patients?” I asked.

  “Tell him I sent you and I think he’ll squeeze Stevie in,” said Charming. “He’s a good guy. I just didn’t want to send him a psycho.”

  “Not a psycho,” I said with a laugh.

  “You know I was thinking…”

  I leaned over to look at the swastika that was rapidly disappearing into something gorgeous. “That you wish you could post this transformation?”

  “No, but that would be nice,” she said.

  “What then?”

  “He’ll need a job,” said Charming.

  Stevie’s eyes popped open. “Did someone say job?”

  She gave him a little smack on the shoulder. “Don’t move.”

  “I’m not. You hiring?”

  Charming gave him an evaluating look. “Maybe if you get medicated and stay medicated.”

  “You’d do that for me?” he asked.

  “You remind me of Liam. I’d want someone to give him a chance.”

  “Who’s Liam?”

  “My stepson.”

  “You’ve got a stepson?”

  Charming rolled her eyes. “You really need those meds.”

  Stevie gave her a thumbs-up. “I’m on it.”

  I poked him. “You mean, I’m on it.”

  “Same thing. We got a thing, you and me. We help each other.”

  I couldn’t remember Stevie ever helping me, but I was willing to go with it under the circumstances. “Sure, why not?”

  “I’m gonna get a job and remember stuff,” said Stevie. “Dad’ll be so happy.”

  He will. He really will.

  Chapter Two

  Twenty-four hours, a migraine, and three pounds later, I tried to wake up in the world’s longest, hottest shower. Beet red and it wasn’t really working. I’d forgotten how exhausting Stevie could be.

  He was in the chair with Charming for three hours and the miracle did occur. Hate symbol gone. Love symbol beautifully in place. Then we went to Macy’s and strolled the mall for a good long while because when you’ve been locked up everything is fantastic and amazing. We ate four times. Twice at the Cheesecake Factory and they are not fans of mine. The last time I’d been there I had Fats Licata in tow or maybe she had me in tow. That seems more accurate. Either way, Moe was with us. You’re not supposed to have dogs in the Cheesecake Factory, but Fats doesn’t do no and the employees were made to understand that. I was hoping nobody would remember me. They remembered real well and I was pretty sure that if someone had to sneeze it would be in my food. So I had to beg for forgiveness, promise fab tipping, and remind them that Fats and Moe behaved heroically at The City Museum. Moe bit the shooter’s crotch, for crying out loud.

  The crotch biting did it and we got seated. I was moderately confident that nobody phlegmed our food either time. After all that, I was done for the day, Stevie wasn’t. He insisted on visiting friends in West County. They had his duffel bag. I know what you’re thinking, ’cause I was thinking it, too. But there was nothing in that bag except dirty underwear, cheap toiletries, and Terry Pratchett paperbacks. It turned out Stevie read, but only Terry Pratchett. He was the only writer that could hold Stevie’s attention.

  Then with the smelly duffel, we went bowling and got pedicures. Prison had taught Stevie the value of foot care. Don’t ask. I don’t know. After all that, we went back to my apartment, ate again, and watched three Die Hard movies. It was the hardest babysitting job of my life.

  Of course, it was my own fault. I decided with Stevie’s agreement that he wouldn’t go home until his head bandage came off and he got on meds. Stevie would’ve agreed to having a skunk stapled to his butt he was so happy about the job and didn’t want to jeopardize it by causing a fuss, but that meant I had about forty-eight hours of Stevie total. It was exhausting. He got me up to play hearts at two in the morning. I never realized how little he slept or how little I would be sleeping while he was around.

  I would’ve snoozed all day, but I had things to do. Regular things. Mercy things. So I rolled out of bed and poured myself into the shower with good intentions. They didn’t last long. I was seriously considering laying down in the shower when someone came in the bathroom.

  “Get out! I will kill you so hard you’ll wish you’d never been released!” I yelled. If Stevie pulled back that curtain, so help me God.

  “What the hell?” my boyfriend Chuck asked.

  “Oh, it’s you,” I said.

  “Who’d you think it was?”

  “Stevie.”

  “Stevie’s in prison. Are you okay?” he asked.

  “He’s on parole,” I said.

  The bathroom door opened and closed. I decided sleeping in the shower wasn’t a good option and rinsed the conditioner out of my hair.

  The door opened again and Chuck said, “What the hell is Stevie doing on our sofa?”

  “You tell me,” I said.

  “No. You tell me. You put him there.”

  “I don’t know what he’s doing right now.”

  Chuck heaved a sigh. “Why are you causing me a problem? It’s been a long damn night.”

  I peeked out from behind the shower curtain and saw my handsome cop boyfriend sitting on the toilet, lid down I’m happy to say.

  “How’s the case going?” I asked.

  “Terrible. I think we got a connection between those two rapes.”

  “Rapes? I thought you were on that carjacking.”

  He put his head in his hands. “I was. That guy’s mom turned him in so Sidney and I got the rapes.”

  “A connection is good.”

  “Yeah, but one happened in an alley. It has to be the worst, most contaminated crime scene I’ve ever worked. We’ve got blood and semen in multiple areas, not to mention spent casings, and a human finger. A finger!”

  “Oh, my God. He cut off her finger?” My time babysitting was starting to sound better.

  “No. It’s not her finger and according to our victim he had all of his. We’ve got a random finger.”

  “I don’t even know what to say,” I said.

  “Don’t say anything. Just come out here and hug me.”

  I sniffed and I could smell it, even over the fruity soaps and shampoos I’d been using.

  “Do you still have alley all over you?” I asked.

  Chuck slumped. “You can smell that?”

  “You didn’t mention the vomit.”

  “There might’ve been vomit.”

  “And urine?”

  Head back in hands.

  “Did…someone throw it on you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “He didn’t throw it. I was interviewing a transient and he decided to pee. Right then. Right there. The splatter got me.”

  “That was a terrible night.” I whipped back the curtain and finished rinsing. “I’ll get out and you can get in.”

  Nothing from the downtrodden detective.

  “I’ll make you some food and take that suit into the cleaners.”

  Still nothing.

  “Do you want an omelet? Aaron says my omelets are no longer an insult to eggs,” I said, turning off the water.

  “Chuck?” I pulled back the curtain to find Chuck slumped over, his head propped against the wall and dead asleep. That’s when I knew he was truly exhausted. He never misses a chance to watch me get out of the shower. It’s one of his favorite things. It doesn’t matter if I’m bloated or have a casted arm wrapped in plastic, he thinks it’s sexy as hell. I don’t get it, but there we are.

  I grabbed my towel and dried off, watching to see if he’d take a peek. Nope. He was really out, so I dressed and got some gloves. One thing about nurses, we always have gloves and it’s a good thing, too. Chuck’s suit was gross. The stink of so many things was in it and that transient had terrible aim. Both pantlegs. Both shoes and socks. So gross.

  “What are we doing?” Chuck asked as I eased his jacket off.

  “You’re ge
tting in the shower and I’m bagging this stuff like it’s evidence.”

  “I’ll just go to bed.”

  “Take a shower or go to your apartment,” I said, using my mother’s tone that she used on my dad. He used to have to change in the basement if he had to sit in on an autopsy or something equally gross. If we had a basement, that’s where Chuck would be.

  “You’re mean to me.”

  “Yep. Now get in the shower.”

  Somehow, he had the strength to waggle his brows at me. “You want to get in with me?”

  “Tempting but no.”

  “Mean.”

  “I’ve got stuff to do,” I said.

  Chuck stripped the rest of the way and dropped his underwear in the garbage bag I held out to him before climbing in the shower. “What stuff?”

  “I’m supposed to go into the attic today.”

  “Oh, yeah. Man, I wanted to do that,” he said.

  “You can meet me over there later,” I said.

  “Can’t. I get four hours and then it’s back on the finger and blood.”

  “Don’t forget the rape.”

  “Not a chance,” Chuck said. “We’re all over it. It’s looking like a pattern.”

  “Swell.”

  “I know. Just what this town needs. A serial rapist.”

  I blew dry my hair and slapped on some lip balm. “Well, let me know if you need anything.”

  “I’m just going to bed.”

  “No omelet?”

  “What omelet?”

  “I offered an omelet when you were on the toilet.”

  He laughed. “That makes us sound so classy.”

  “We’re super classy. Everybody thinks so,” I said.

  He pulled back the curtain. “Nobody thinks that. The best we get is smelly cop and Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Could be worse,” I said with hands on hips.

  “How?”

  “We could be running around missing a finger.”

  “It’s not much of a bright side but I’ll take it.” He stuck his face farther out. “Kiss me or is my mouth too dirty.”

  “Always, but I’ll chance it.”

  I kissed him and he said, “Take Stevie with you.”