Mean Evergreen (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Twelve)

by A W Hartoin

Grandma grabbed my hand. “There’s a white one we haven’t tried.”

  We went through the rest of the Kinder area and back into the main market where we admired jugglers and performers with ribbons swirling around them. We did get the white Glühwein and one with schnapps and one with rum. Grandma and Isolda got pretty tipsy. They wanted to stay, but when Grandma decided to give Eierlikör another try, it was time to go.

  It was a good thing Marta stayed with us, she knew the way back to the pyramid, where we found Koch and Claudia at a barrel table drinking Glühwein and talking a mile a minute.

  Grandma exchanged cheek kisses with Marta. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Yes, it will be very happy and thank you,” said Marta and then she turned to me. “If you need anything else for your case, come to me. I will help.”

  I thanked her and she went to join her daughter and Koch. Neither of them looked thrilled to have the mother at the table, which was the best sign of all.

  “I will leave you now,” said Isolda.

  “No, no,” said Grandma. “We aren’t leaving you.”

  “I have a driver.” She made a quick call. “He will meet me by the church. St. Dionys.”

  “It’s on our way to the parking garage,” said Moe. “We will walk you.”

  He pointed the teetering ladies in the right direction and they walked off ahead.

  “Tomorrow,” said Isolda over her shoulder. “Dinner.”

  I ran to catch up. “What was that?”

  “I’d like to take you all to dinner tomorrow night,” said Isolda.

  “Great. Wonderful,” said Grandma.

  “Well, I am on a case,” I said. “I might be—”

  “Nonsense,” said Grandma. “Isolda wants to talk to you about something.”

  “Do you?” I asked Isolda.

  The elegant lady in mink and diamonds burped and then giggled. “I do and I have to hurry.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You might solve your case and go home.” She bumped into a building then Grandma got the giggles.

  We let them go ahead and Moe squeezed my arm. “She’s going to hire you.”

  “To do what?”

  “Find her father.”

  “Ah, crap. Talk about a cold case,” I said.

  Moe scanned the waning crowd and said, “She must have something and a little bird told me that you have an interest in that German charity.”

  “The Klinefeld Group couldn’t have anything to do with it,” I said. “That’s to do with Stella Bled Lawrence and The Bled Collection.”

  “Fats said it goes back to WWII and Imelda disappeared in 1943.”

  Crap on a cracker!

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back at the hotel after running around the lobby and telling everyone who’d listen and some who wouldn’t how much she loved Germany, my grandmother, the formerly quiet and contained Janine, stumbled into our hotel room, bumped into the walls twice, and then started stripping in the middle of the room.

  “Maybe you want to do that in the bathroom,” I suggested.

  “We’re all girls here,” she slurred and then looked around. “Aren’t we?”

  I picked up her coat and hung it up. “Yes, it’s just you and me.”

  “Where’s Moe?”

  “His room or playing Warhammer. I have no idea.”

  “You should make sure he’s okay,” said Grandma. “He had a bit to drink.”

  “No, he didn’t,” I said. “He was driving.”

  “He had Punsch.”

  “That was Kinderpunsch. No alcohol.”

  Grandma threw up her arms. “I liked it.”

  “You liked everything,” I said.

  She gave me boozy smile. “I did. I do. This is a great trip.”

  “It’s pretty okay.”

  “You are pretty,” she said. “I’ve always said you’re pretty.”

  Grandma stumbled and fell on the bed. I inwardly groaned and took off her boots. “Okay. Now get under the covers and let’s go to sleep.”

  “We can’t go to sleep in this stuff,” she said.

  “What stuff?”

  Grandma rolled out of bed and flung the last of her clothes on the floor. Then she peeled off a layer of shapewear to reveal another layer of shapewear.

  “How much spandex are you wearing?” I asked.

  “You have to double up to get smoothing,” she slurred. “Have I taught you nothing?”

  “We’ve already covered this.” I helped her out of the last layer and pulled her nightgown over her head. “Get in bed.”

  “No, no. We have to do something…”

  “No, we don’t. Go to sleep.”

  “Skincare. You can’t skip skincare.” Grandma rolled out of bed again and lurched toward the bathroom.

  “Let’s don’t and say we did,” I said.

  She came back and grabbed me. Skincare was happening. Sleep was not.

  “Okay. Fine, but I want to ask you something.”

  “Ask me anything,” said Grandma as she bounced off the door to the room and used the momentum to get in the bathroom. It was quite impressive actually.

  I watched as she pulled off her fake eyelashes and flung them on the counter. “I don’t think I need those. Do you think I need those?”

  “I don’t.” The eyelashes went into their case and I said, “So Moe told me that when Fats was—”

  Grandma spun around. “That rascal! I told him not to say anything.”

  “Well, it’s not a big deal,” I said.

  “It certainly was and I want credit.” She started smearing on her Noxzema. “Are you not…”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Giving me credit.”

  “Well, it’s not really anything to do with you,” I said. “I mean, you might know, so I was going to ask when our family—”

  “Our family. That’s just what I said. Holier than thou. Psst.” Grandma spit on the mirror and I just stared.

  “What are we talking about?”

  “Our bad family,” she said.

  “Who’s bad?” I asked.

  “Well, not my family. We were always law-abiding citizens.” She shoved the Noxzema into my hands and groped around for her toothbrush.

  “And the…Watts aren’t? Since when? We’ve been cops forever.”

  “Not forever and that’s what I told them.”

  Grandma went on to say that the Watts weren’t always cops. We started in St. Louis as criminals. Like real criminals. My ancestors were part of that O’Reilly gang and she used the word thugs several times. Thugs!

  “That can’t be true,” I said.

  “Yes, it is. Your great-great-grandfather was a thug,” she said and slammed on the faucet.

  “No, he wasn’t. He was a cop. You named my dad after him.”

  “Not Thomas. His father.”

  “Well, that would be my great-great-great-grandfather,” I said.

  “Don’t get technical with me, young lady.”

  Oh, no. She’s pulling out the young lady.

  “Sorry, but I don’t know what this has got to do with Moe and—”

  “That’s how you got to keep Fats,” Grandma said. “I told that grandfather of yours—”

  “Your husband,” I said.

  “That’s the one. I told him and that father of yours that I would tell reporters that the Watts were criminals the next time they show up and you know those media piranhas will be back. They always come back and I’d tell them. Think of the coverage. Negative publicity.” She waved her arms around. “Negative publicity. Oh no.”

  “That’s why Dad never said anything about Fats and the Fibonaccis?” I asked.

  “Yes. ‘Don’t be taking that bodyguard away from my girl. I will kick your ass,’ I said. That’s what I said.”

  “Go, Grandma. Thanks.”

  She gave me a smeary Noxzema kiss on the cheek. “And there you go.”

  “That’s not actually what I was asking about
,” I said.

  “What else is there?” She picked up a comb. “Do your hair.”

  This was new, but I started combing under Grandma’s stern direction. There’s a right way to comb. Who knew?

  “Let’s get back to the Bleds. Grandad met them when he was working on a case, a break-in at the mansion?”

  “That’s right.” She screwed up her mouth. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Why don’t you wash that stuff off and lie down?”

  “We’re not done. Get me an Altoid. They settle my stomach.”

  I got her a mint and found her sitting on the toilet, filing her nails.

  “Here you go,” I said. “So did you know the Bleds before that break-in?”

  “How in the world would I know the Bleds?” She slipped off the toilet and landed in a heap next to the tub. “Oops. I’m not supposed to be down here. Help me up, Mercy.”

  “Just stay until you want to rinse your face off.”

  “Three more minutes,” she said like we were timing ourselves.

  I sat down on the toilet and said, “Okay. I meant did the Watts know the Bleds before that break-in? Moe said there were lots of cops on Imelda’s kidnapping and that they were practically camping at the mansion. Great-Grandpa could’ve been there.”

  “Ace’s father? He was in the war.”

  “Was he already? In 1943?”

  She yawned and said, “He was in Europe.”

  “We didn’t get to Europe until D-day in 1944,” I said.

  “Well, he wasn’t in D-day. I know that.” She held out a hand. “Time to rinse.”

  I helped her up and we rinsed. Well, she rinsed and I kept her from falling.

  “Why are you asking about Elijah?” Grandma asked.

  “Elijah?”

  “Great-Grandpa’s name was Elijah. You know that.”

  “I forgot. Everyone calls him Great-Grandpa and nobody was named after him,” I said.

  “You were going to be, but you were a girl,” she said. “Rinse your face.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She burped and said, “Fine. So fine. I love Glühwein. Did I tell you that?”

  “You did.” I rinsed and said, “So you never heard Elijah talk about the Bleds?”

  “Goodness no. He did go to the mansion once though.”

  A zing went through me. Was this it? Could Elijah be Josiah Bled’s son? Was that how we were Bleds? I couldn’t do the math. When was he born?

  “When did he go?” I asked my voice so tight and strange I thought she’d notice, but she was checking her crow’s feet in the mirror. It was a wonder she could find them.

  “With Ace, of course. After he was on that case,” she said. “Hand me that stuff in the clear jar, dear.”

  I gave it to her and asked, “Why did he take Great-Grandpa?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. They invited him.”

  They wanted to see him.

  “Why would they do that?” I asked.

  “Oh, Mercy, I don’t know.”

  I’d aggravated her, but I couldn’t let go. It was rare to get my family talking and it was too good a chance. “Why do you think they liked Grandad so much? They helped his career and everything.”

  She finished her skincare and ordered me to do mine. “Who knows why? I wondered myself, but people click. It’s chemistry. They fell in love with your grandad and then your parents.”

  “Leo was on that case,” I said. “He’s a charming guy. I wonder why it wasn’t him?”

  “People have favorites, like parents. Parents have favorites.” She lurched toward the bathroom door and I hurried up behind to make sure she got through.

  “Parents aren’t supposed to have favorites,” I said.

  “You’re your mother’s favorite.”

  “I’m her only child. It’s not a stiff competition.”

  She stopped walking a foot from the bed. “I forgot my neck cream.”

  So close.

  “You can skip that,” I said.

  “I’ll get turkey neck. I don’t want turkey neck.”

  And back to the bathroom we went. She dapped on the cream and then made me do it. “Only child is no guarantee,” she said.

  “Oh, right. I’m not my dad’s favorite,” I said.

  “Well, Chuck looked up to him from the time he was adopted by my son who wouldn’t listen to me,” she said, “and you were a pain in the butt from day one. Pain in the butt.”

  “Thanks, Grandma.” I followed her out of the bathroom again.

  “It’s not a bad thing. I was quite proud that you told that son of mine to stick it.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did. You didn’t want to be a cop and you made no bones about it. Most children would,” she waved her arms around, “pretend to make the old man happy. Not you.”

  “He still made me learn it all.”

  I pulled back the covers and she sat down on the edge of the bed to take off her jewelry. “He made you. Chuck wanted to learn. That’s why he’s the favorite.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “You know Elijah wasn’t the favorite, either, and he was an only child, too.” She laid down and I covered her up. “He told me.”

  Stands to reason if he wasn’t Thomas’ kid.

  “What did he say?” I asked as I lay down.

  “He loved his father, but he was nothing like him,” said Grandma. “Have you seen the pictures of Thomas and Elijah?”

  “Probably.”

  “He was a huge man, tough and proud,” she said.

  “You knew him?” I asked.

  “He died before I met Ace, but there were plenty of stories.”

  “What was Elijah like?” I whispered. It was like a vault had been opened and I was so afraid it would close again.

  “Such a gentle man. Sweet. He loved the opera and poetry. Can you imagine that? A Watts loving the opera? His father was a bare-knuckle boxer in his youth.”

  It makes sense if Elijah wasn’t a Watts at all.

  “How did he end up a cop?” I asked.

  “Some people want to please their parents.” Grandma chuckled. “He didn’t go far. Just a regular street cop, but two thousand people came to his funeral. Two thousand. He was loved in the neighborhoods he patrolled and he worked almost fifty years altogether in uniform. Died on the job. Heart attack.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Elijah was extraordinary in his own way and no one had mentioned it. I felt terrible that he was just another Watts cop in my mind before that. I assumed he was as driven and nutty as Grandad and my dad, but Elijah was something else entirely.

  “Did he take after his mother?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. I met her and she was a force. Tall and red-haired with a temper. Elijah was so proud of her.” Grandma closed her eyes. “He adored his mother. He talked about her until the day he died.”

  I whispered, “What did he say?”

  “She nursed people through the Spanish flu in the wards downtown. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t afraid of anything. She started a pie-making business during the Great Depression and fed people from the proceeds. Oh, Elijah was so proud of her.”

  Her voice faded away and I resisted the urge to poke her. There were plenty of Christmas markets around. Maybe with a little more Glühwein lubrication I could get some more information. Grandma might not know what she knew. They were just strange little family quirks like Elijah not resembling his father, but they meant a lot to me.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me who my favorite is?” Grandma said quietly.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I am a little,” she said. “I’ve never told anyone who it is.”

  “The favorite?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it my dad?”

  “No,” she spat out. “You must be joking. Tommy was a nightmare. Always crying and once he could walk, he kept escaping from the house. I thought he would get killed in the road.”

/>   “So not my dad,” I said.

  “He was so difficult. Everything was a problem. Always messing with things. When he was ten he took apart our brand-new TV set to see how it worked. You know what, it never worked again. I thought Ace would wring his neck or mine. He was so mad. And a perfectionist. If Tommy didn’t get a perfect grade at school, he would throw a fit. I had a nervous breakdown when he was in the third grade. I had to take pills for the stress.”

  “Holy crap.” Does Grandma hate my dad?

  “Holy crap is right. I almost wished the social services had taken him away.”

  Wait what?

  “Social services almost took my dad? Why?”

  “Tommy wouldn’t eat. The doctor thought I was starving him because he was so thin. It wasn’t my fault. The boy wasn’t interested in food. He was interested in driving me crazy.”

  “What happened? How’d you get to keep him?”

  Grandma blew out a breath and I thought she’d gone to sleep, but she came back with a vengeance. “Well, I thought maybe his father could do some good and I tried to get him to come down to the doctor, but there was a case and you know when there’s a case nothing else matters.”

  “Don’t tell me. Grandad didn’t go?”

  “He did go, but I had to call his lieutenant and tell him that the St. Louis police forces’ best detective was about to have his kid taken away for neglect and how’s that going to look?”

  “Then he made Grandad go?”

  “He did and the doctor took one look at Ace and his skinny butt and said never mind.”

  “Thank goodness for that lieutenant,” I said.

  “He was a flaming racist. I hated him, but he did have his uses,” said Grandma. “He grabbed my butt at a picnic one time and Ace said I had to just avoid him instead of beating the crap out of him. The seventies was a terrible time for women.”

  I’m learning so many things I didn’t want to know.

  “So…” I’m afraid to ask but here goes. “Who is your favorite?”

  “Kevin.”

  “Who is Kevin?”

  “Our neighbor’s son. He was the nicest most polite boy. I just love Kevin. We still go to coffee every other week.”

  “Kevin Oliphant, the Children’s Hospital volunteer director?”

  “Isn’t he lovely? Such a nice young man.”

  I decided not to ask what was wrong with my uncles. She would tell me and I didn’t want to know. I definitely wasn’t going to ask who her favorite grandchild was. It wasn’t me. I didn’t even know about Noxzema until a day ago.