Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

  “Not when they’re crazy!”

  “I’m a fine driver!”

  “Thirty years ago!”

  Wrestling an elderly nun was not one of my finer moments, and, as usual, it didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Mercy Watts!” a man yelled.

  I maneuvered Aunt Miriam between the passenger seat and the door. “Get in. Right now. Get in.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child.”

  “Stop acting like one.”

  “What did you say to me?” she hissed.

  “Get in.”

  A man rushed up. “Miss Watts. I’m glad I caught you.”

  With a camera no doubt.

  I sighed and turned around to find a man without a camera wearing a three-piece suit and jauntily tilted fedora. He stuck out a manicured hand and said, “Thomas Henry Cabot III. Who shot my daughter?”

  “I should’ve gotten in the car,” said Aunt Miriam.

  I shook Thomas Henry Cabot III’s hand and said, “Ya think?”

  “I sense that you’re not pleased to see me,” said Mr. Cabot and he nodded to Aunt Miriam. “Sister.”

  “You know each other?” I asked.

  “Sister Miriam is on the board of my late wife’s charity, the Leukemia Research Project,” said Mr. Cabot.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked Aunt Miriam.

  She shrugged. Enough about that, I guess.

  “Miss Watts, I would appreciate it if you’d be upfront with me,” said Mr. Cabot. “My daughter is in the ICU. It’s no time for beating around the bush.”

  “Well…” I didn’t know what to do. That man knew nothing about his daughter. Now wasn’t the time to fill him in, but he didn’t strike me as a man who would be fobbed off easily.

  “I know all about my Catherine,” he said.

  I don’t think you do and I don’t want to tell you.

  “Mr. Cabot, I’m not really—”

  “Spare me your protests, Miss Watts.”

  “I don’t know who shot Catherine.”

  “Molly told me you were onto something, but she wasn’t specific,” he said. “Please tell me what you’ve got.”

  “There are a few leads I’m following.”

  He checked his watch. “What leads?”

  Aunt Miriam stepped up. “Detective Jones didn’t call Mercy.”

  Mr. Cabot flicked a glance her way, nodded, and said, “I’m not surprised, but I knew you’d turn up. You are your father’s daughter. The news is right about that if nothing else.”

  Distraction. I need a distraction.

  “Why didn’t you just call me?” I asked.

  “I wanted to know if I could trust Julia Jones and now I know I can’t,” he said. “Now let’s have it.”

  I don’t want to.

  “She told the uniforms not to let Mercy in,” said Aunt Miriam and I loved her for it. Trying to protect me for the first time ever. Usually if there was a bus, she’d be the first to push me under it.

  Mr. Cabot took Aunt Miriam’s hand. “I appreciate that you’re trying to shield me, Sister, but it’s not necessary.”

  Dammit!

  I crossed my arms. “That’s sweet and all, but I have to go. Things to do. People to interview.”

  “Miss Watts, I can help you with your investigation. I know my daughter,” he said. “Tell me your names and I’ll give you one of mine.”

  “There’s just some people Catherine knows that I’m checking into,” I said.

  “The men from the internet?”

  I froze and Aunt Miriam’s mouth dropped open.

  “Yes,” he said, “I know about my daughter’s habits.”

  “Big Steve said you didn’t.”

  He sighed, ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, and placed his fedora back with precision. “I couldn’t bring myself to say it.”

  Mr. Cabot found out about Catherine’s “friends” as he put it four years ago. St. Louis is a small world when it comes to high caliber trainers and the stories about Gary Vance and his online hookup with a dumpy blond accountant got back to Mr. Cabot. His trainer, Suzette, told him, having no idea that she was describing Catherine to her father. He had a cyber sleuth, one I hadn’t heard of, take a peek into Gary’s life and Gary’s wife named Catherine in one of her angry texts to her husband.

  “I thought,” he said, looking embarrassed for the first time, “that I could keep this quiet and no one would find out. Catherine’s an adult. I can’t tell her what to do. I didn’t think anyone would try to hurt her.”

  “Who else knows?” I asked.

  “No one.”

  Except that hacker and the men and the wives and whoever they told.

  “Have you ever heard of Martin Doyle?” I asked.

  “Catherine dated him for a while. It was short-lived, I believe.”

  “You never met him?”

  “No.”

  “What about her boss, Calabasas? Anything I should know there?”

  Mr. Cabot went blank. “Kevin? But he was shot. He nearly died. You don’t think he had anything to do with those emails?”

  “No, I don’t, but he could’ve been the target and Catherine got in the way,” I said.

  “Kevin’s squeaky clean. He’s a large contributor to my campaign and my people checked him out as a matter of routine. He’s made enemies when the company uncovered fraud, but there’s nothing that he’s done wrong.”

  “No angry exes that think they’ll inherit? Spoiled rotten kids that want their trust fund now?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Sorry to say it, but Kevin’s a bit of a sad sack in that department. Never had any luck with the ladies. He was married once in his early twenties, but it lasted about fifteen minutes.”

  My phone started buzzing insistently. Chuck and Morty taking turns and probably yelling. Pass. “Is there anyone else you can think of that might want to hurt Catherine?”

  “Will you keep this between the three of us?” Mr. Cabot asked, looking around for listeners and finding us alone in the garage.

  Aunt Miriam and I agreed and he told us that he wasn’t crazy about Catherine’s boyfriend, Theo. He felt Theo was using Catherine. He didn’t come to events with her or Christmas dinner. Catherine got him a lot of his jobs with her many connections because Theo couldn’t be bothered to rustle up the gumption to do it himself. Catherine owned the loft and as far as Mr. Cabot knew, Theo contributed nothing to the household.

  “I would think that Theo might’ve done it, but he was in Colorado and I don’t think he has a motive,” he said.

  “He could hire it out,” I said.

  “Honestly, he’s too lazy to figure out how to do that and it wouldn’t get him anything if he did. They’re not married and he’s not in Catherine’s will. He’d be worse off.”

  “Where is he?” asked Aunt Miriam. “No one mentioned him in the ICU.”

  Mr. Cabot tensed. “He’s not coming back. He somehow got a job shooting DBD’s new studio in Colorado. I have no idea how.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but Aunt Miriam did. “He realizes Catherine could’ve been killed?”

  “He does, but since she isn’t going to die, he’d rather get the money DBD is paying him,” said Mr. Cabot.

  “Why on Earth is she with that turd?” I asked.

  “There’s something odd going on,” he said. “But she won’t let me past the front door.”

  “You’ve never been inside?” I asked.

  “Once to see it when she bought it and it was the same with her last place.” He saw the expression on my face and hesitated before asking, “Have you been in there?”

  “Yesterday before the shooting,” I said.

  He was all smiles. “That’s so great. I knew when she asked for you that you must be someone special to her. You knew her before this case then?”

  “Er…no, not at all.”

  “But you must be friends. She let you in. That must mean something.”

  It m
eans I threatened her.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cabot,” I said. “I just met her the one time and frankly I was pissed. I found out that she had a thing with my friend’s husband and I was ready to tear her a new one.”

  He slumped for a second and then straightened up with an air of resignation. “It was too much to hope, I suppose. Catherine has never been good at making friends. Female friends, that is. Men were always available. She has a kind of need that reels them in.”

  “Mercy is her friend,” said Aunt Miriam.

  “Well…” I said.

  She darted an icy glance at me. “She made herself into a circus freak to get in her hospital room. She wouldn’t do that for just any case.”

  Yes, I would.

  “I assumed you didn’t get in,” said Mr. Cabot.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” said Aunt Miriam.

  He smiled, all hopeful that his baby girl had a friend. “Big Steve has always said you have a good amount of willfulness.”

  “Some would say excessive, but Mercy’s will has proved useful to Tommy once or twice.”

  “Thanks for the almost compliment, Aunt Miriam,” I said. “I did get in. That’s how I knew about that Martin guy. When I asked she didn’t remember anything about the shooter. What has she told you?”

  “Nothing. That Detective Jones was very insistent, badgering her, but she doesn’t remember anything. That’s why I threw Jones out. You’re miles ahead of that woman and I intend to keep it that way.”

  “That might not be the best choice. She has resources and we want this solved.”

  “There’s something going on with Jones and it’s not about helping Kevin and Catherine. She doesn’t like you one bit and that doesn’t speak well for her.” He checked his watch again.

  “Mr. Cabot—”

  “We’ll throw our lot in with you, Miss Watts. I’m a betting man and I rarely lose. I have to go. Catherine will wonder where I am.”

  “One second,” I said. “Can you have Molly call me? I really need to talk to her.”

  “You didn’t see her in there?” He got tense. “She hasn’t left Kevin’s side.”

  “I heard that, but her nurse isn’t as cooperative as Catherine’s and I didn’t want to push my luck.”

  “Oh, I see. I will have her call you. Kevin’s parents are flying in from Rome this morning. I think I can get her to leave then and I’ll have her call you. Here’s my card. That’s my private cell. If you need anything, anything at all, call me.” He rushed off to the hospital entrance and we got in the Isabella.

  “I’m starving. How about you?” I asked Aunt Miriam.

  “We have people to interview.”

  “After food.”

  “I’m still full from last night,” she said.

  How is that possible?

  “Well, I’m starving. I wonder if Nikki’s at Uncle Morty’s. She makes a fabulous Greek frittata. Don’t tell Aaron I said that.”

  She sat stiff on the seat and I couldn’t tell if she would or she wouldn’t. I drove out of the parking garage, holding my breath. It seemed like a prime time to get a scratch, but we made it out fine into the Sunday morning traffic. A few people were up, but not many so I got out my phone and called Uncle Morty.

  Aunt Miriam snatched the phone away from me. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t use the phone and drive. I’ll do the talking.”

  “That’ll put Uncle Morty in a helpful mood.”

  She scowled and practically shouted into my phone. “Morty, we’re coming over.”

  Pause.

  “What do you mean ‘who is this’? It’s Sister Miriam. We’re coming over. Mercy’s hungry and she wants a frittata.”

  Oh my God.

  “Don’t say that! Ask if Nikki is there,” I said.

  “Is the Greek there?” asked Aunt Miriam.

  Pause.

  “I know her name. Is she there?”

  Pause.

  “Why not?”

  There was an odd back and forth that ended with Aunt Miriam hanging up and tossing my phone in the back seat. “Stubborn man.”

  “What was that about?”

  “He’s done something,” she said and sat there like a statue, an angry statue.

  “Are you going to tell me what?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but he doesn’t want us at the apartment.”

  “Maybe Nikki’s not there to feed us.”

  “You.”

  “Me.”

  “No. She’s there. I heard her in the background,” said Aunt Miriam. “We’re meeting at the ridiculous Ode de Caffeine. They price their coffee like Pope Francis blessed the water.”

  I grinned at her. “Amen to that.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  ODE DE CAFFEINE was quiet, too early even for the coffee crowd. But Jim was there and bustled out to meet me when I opened the door. That morning he was wearing a hot pink button up, cropped pants, and a pair of super-pointy wingtips. You didn’t usually see that outside of Paris.

  “Mercy, my darling, I’m so glad to—” Aunt Miriam followed me in. “Eh! Sister Miriam…how delightful.”

  “Yes. Isn’t it?” she said, casting her disapproving gaze around the place and making the few patrons squirm.

  “What can I get you ladies?” asked Jim.

  “I’ll have a latte and something large to eat,” I said.

  “You’re in luck. Aaron’s here and he’s making sausage.” Jim turned to Aunt Miriam. “And for you, Sister?”

  “Coffee. Black as God intended.” She marched off in search of a table that met her standards. They didn’t have one. Nobody did.

  “Okay,” said Jim. “Would she like our Equatorial rainforest blend or would Peruvian be more to her taste?”

  “Do you have any Folger’s?” I asked.

  He came in close. “I might.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Johnny’s mother was very critical of our blends until we started serving her Folger’s. Now she thinks we make the best coffee in town,” he said.

  “Aunt Miriam will have your special Mom blend,” I said.

  “Mum’s the word though.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  Jim strode off, chuckling, and I found Aunt Miriam in a prime seat overlooking the small koi pond. I think she gave someone the boot, but I didn’t dare ask.

  “Is he bringing me real coffee?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.” I bent over the little table and whispered, “It’s their secret blend that’s only for Johnny’s mother.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You have no idea how secret it is.”

  Before the coffee came Aaron trotted out, bringing a ginormous donut with no hole and a single Madeleine cookie dipped in dark chocolate and dusted with gold powder. That donut looked suspicious, overly bloated and ready to burst.

  “Why does Aunt Miriam get the cookie?” I asked.

  “Because I like chocolate,” she said.

  “I love chocolate.”

  She pointed at my donut. “You like that.”

  I did like it. I had to. There was no other option. Aaron was rubbing his hands and bouncing up and down faster than I’d ever seen him.

  “This better not be crab,” I said.

  More bouncing. Not a good sign.

  I took an experimental sniff. “I told you no on the hotdog donut idea. It’s wrong, a crime against breakfast.”

  Jim hustled up with our coffee and smiled. “You got the last one. We’re sold out.”

  “Of the Madeleines?”

  “For the Frankenbeannut,” he said happily. “We’re going to be on the news.”

  For breakfast crimes.

  I poked the Frankenbeannut and made no indentation. “How do I eat this thing?”

  Jim whipped out a knife and fork and I held my breath as I cut into the monstrosity. As I suspected, it was a cornmeal donut filled with franks and beans, not any old franks and beans. Gourmet fran
ks and beans, a blend of five different beans and house-made dogs in a luxe sauce that was worthy of licking the plate. That being said it was not a donut. I don’t know what it was.

  “Alright, it’s good.”

  Aaron’s handwringing got worse.

  “I love it. Okay? But don’t call it a donut. It’s not a donut.”

  He ran off so I guess that was good enough. I took two more bites and was stuffed. I was going to have to stash it in my purse so he would think I ate it.

  Then Uncle Morty lumbered in, looking worse than before and seriously sweating. It was forty degrees and he looked like it was summer in Houston. “Dude, what is up with you?”

  Aunt Miriam waved her hand under her nose. “Morton, what is that smell?”

  He dropped down onto the chair making it creak in protest. “Me. It’s me. You got a problem with that?” Then he grabbed Aaron’s creation and ate it in three bites with us watching in awe as sauce dripped down his chin and soaked into the front of his shirt.

  “Morton!” Aunt Miriam started mopping him up. “What have you done?”

  “I didn’t do nothing. Give me that coffee.” He drank Aunt Miriam’s Folgers and said, “Hey, that’s decent, for once.”

  Jim rolled his eyes behind his back and I held up two fingers. He left to get more coffee or maybe just to escape the smell. “Uncle Morty, geez. You’re a mess.”

  “I ain’t a mess. You’re a mess,” he said.

  “You can’t even insult me properly,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “None of your fu…flipping business. You talk to that Alley Cat yet?”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “That’s what she is.”

  “Maybe, but just don’t,” I said.

  “Freaking fine. Did your highness talk to Princess Pulls down her Pants?” he asked.

  Aunt Miriam growled at him and he said, “Catherine Cabot.”

  I told him what Catherine said about Martin Doyle and the account. He got out his laptop and typed furiously without saying anything. I tried to steal Aunt Miriam’s Madeleine, but she slapped my hand.

  “Hello?” I asked. “Have you got something or what?”

  “I ain’t got much.”

  Uncle Morty had been working on the code on Catherine’s phone day and night. He called in favors and had friends take a look. Nobody recognized the style, except to say it was new.