Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

  While I wandered around, I asked if anyone knew my suspects, but people generally didn’t know the person standing next to them. Not exactly a tight community of mourners. Eventually, I accidentally found my way out the back to a large stone patio with a pool, two hot tubs, and a pool house. I didn’t know what Rita Weeks looked like, but it wasn’t hard to spot her. She was reclining on one of those poolside beds that they have at luxe resorts dressed in black with a netted hat and glossy dark red lipstick. She was dabbing her eyes and talking to a woman who sat on the edge of the bed with a box of tissues in her lap. I took a breath and walked over.

  “Excuse me.” Someone came up, touching my elbow. “Are you Mercy Watts?”

  “Yes,” I said, looking up at a young man, who was the spitting image of Porter Weeks. “I’m sorry to intrude today of all days.”

  “I thought I saw you in the house. You looked lost.” He held out his hand and we shook. “I’m Porter, the oldest.” He smiled wanly, his dark brown eyes very bloodshot and there was a slight tremble in his left hand that was holding an empty martini glass.

  “I was lost,” I said. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Thank you and you’re not intruding. I don’t know ninety percent of the people here.”

  “Your father was well-known.”

  “He was,” he said. “I don’t want to sound rude, but did you know him?”

  “No. I came with Ward.”

  Porter swallowed hard. “I thought he left.”

  “He did, but he wanted to come back. Is that a problem?”

  “No, no. He’s…that is to say I get a little nervous when he’s around.”

  Interesting.

  “Do you? Why? He’s very nice.”

  “I guess. I mean, yes, yes, he is. It’s just he’s my dad’s boss. Please don’t tell him I said that,” said Porter.

  “No problem.”

  “You call him Ward?”

  “Uh-huh. Is that weird?”

  “I’ve known him all my life and I call him Mr. Laidlaw,” said Porter.

  “Well, he’s a family friend,” I said.

  Porter gave me an odd, questioning look. “Which family?”

  I hated to do it. Pulling out the Bled name wasn’t my favorite thing. “The Bleds.”

  “You’re a Bled? I didn’t know that.”

  “I’m a goddaughter,” I said. “I was wondering if I could talk to your mother.”

  A young woman called to us from across the pool. “Bud! Bud! Come over here.”

  Porter aka Bud groaned. “That’s my sister, Portia.”

  “Bud!”

  “I’m sorry. She’ll yell until we do what she wants.”

  Porter led me around the pool to where Portia was standing with four girls all about twenty and I had a high school flashback. I was constantly being put in groups with the girls that weren’t on scholarship and definitely didn’t have a cop for a dad, and they never let me forget it.

  “Oh, my God,” Portia slurred. “Your dress is delicious. Are you that girl? The naked one. You are, aren’t you?”

  This could be worse than high school.

  “Mercy Watts. I’m sorry about your father,” I said.

  “You knew Daddy? My boyfriend has a video of you.”

  “Shut up, Portia,” said Porter. “It’s not her.”

  “It is. I recognize the face.”

  All the girls were laughing, but Portia’s friends were nervous about it. They were drinking but not double-fisting it like she was.

  “My face is recognizable,” I said. “Nature’s little joke.”

  “Some joke. You get to look like that and I had to have two surgeries to get my nose.”

  “Your nose was fine to start with,” said Porter.

  Portia staggered around. “It wasn’t. Mom said it was too big.”

  “Mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Porter took my arm. “I’ll introduce you to my mother.”

  Portia poked me in the breast. “Oh, my God. Your boobs are huge. Are they real?”

  “Please introduce me to your mother,” I said.

  We left the gaggle of girls and suddenly facing a grieving widow didn’t seem so bad.

  “Excuse me, Mom,” said Porter.

  “Yes, honey. What is it?” said Rita Weeks with her eyes streaming.

  “This is Mercy Watts. She’d like to speak to you.”

  She looked up and I got a load of her eyes. She was juiced up on something, not that I blamed her, but it could make things more difficult.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “No. I came with Ward.”

  At the name Ward, she focused, not a lot, that wasn’t possible. “Oh, okay.” She pointed to the chair next to the bed and I sat down. Then she asked the woman on the bed, “Lisa, can you get me a Rob Roy?”

  Lisa stood up and hurried off to get the drink and Portia started yelling, “Bud!” again.

  “Excuse me,” said Porter and he rushed over to shush his sister.

  “Did you know my Porter?” asked Rita. “Big Porter?”

  “No, but I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

  Rita sat up on her pillows and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “As long as you promise to take care of me.”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “The photos. They’ll need retouching.”

  “I’m not taking pictures.”

  “Why not? Don’t you need them?”

  What are we talking about?

  “Er…no, I’m good,” I said, getting out my phone.

  Rita tapped it. “Oh, you can use your phone. That’s fine. It’s not a problem. Are you from Country Home or House Beautiful?”

  What the frack?

  “I’m from Midwest. Mr. Laidlaw brought me. He said you should answer my questions.”

  “Ward’s here? He was so sweet. He brought me flowers.” She waved her arms around. “I don’t know where they are.”

  “That’s okay. I need to ask you—”

  “So you’re from the in-house magazine. That’s good. How are my lips?”

  Woman, what the crap?

  “I just want to ask you if you know Emma Ryder,” I said.

  There was the slightest hesitation. “No. I know Emma Stanwick. She’s right over there with Portia. Do you know Portia?”

  “Yeah, I know her. Emma Ryder, she goes to Rolla. She’s a computer science student.”

  “Why would you ask that? Who cares? My husband died.”

  “I know. I’m sorry for your loss. How about Joshua Hall?”

  She tapped my phone. “You can record if you want. I don’t mind.” She folded her hands in her lap and said, “I miss my beloved Porter so much. I don’t know how I’ll go on without him. How’s that?”

  “I really don’t know,” I said. “This is weird. Do you know Joshua Hall, Matt Guzman, Ashley England, or Tyler Rippon?”

  “My husband died.” She gazed at me with big wet eyes. “He killed himself. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Weeks.” A waiter came up and held out a tray.

  Rita took two drinks, presumably Rob Roys, off the tray and sucked down half of one. I looked over at Porter trying to get his sister inside and when I glanced back, I caught Rita looking at me intensely. She instantly looked away. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Drink and lie apparently.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Weeks.”

  “What about your picture?” she asked.

  “I’ll get it from House Beautiful.”

  “Oh, they take the nicest shots. Lisa, you’re back.”

  The women kissed cheeks and Lisa said the mayor had arrived so Rita had no interest in me. I retreated to go around the pool, but Portia had gone down and Porter was trying to drag her inside. I did a reverse and went in the pool house. Now that was a house I could get into. It was the size of a regular house, about 1500 square feet of cozy and warm. There was an open livi
ng room filled with a comfy sectional, big TV, and gaming consoles. Family photos covered the walls, not a single piece of art purchased to impress. The photos reminded me of the pictures my mom hung up. No professional photographers, just family snaps, and the Weeks family looked surprisingly normal. They went fishing and camping. There was a rundown cabin and tatty gear. Kids curled up with Dad, holding bowls of popcorn. They made my heart ache and my head question. Rita was only in a few pictures, usually looking happy but vaguely uncomfortable. Then there were the pictures where Porter, the son, was wearing a Mizzou sweatshirt. Portia and a girl that could’ve been her twin moving into a dorm with Maryville University banners on the wall. I would’ve thought that maybe they weren’t the best students, not that Maryville and Mizzou weren’t good schools. But they were a heck of a lot easier to get into than Duke and Columbia and cheaper by a long shot.

  I searched a little more and found pictures of the kids at what looked like public elementary schools. There were so many pictures hung I had to work my way around to find the same school with Porter, Portia, and the other one having their first day of kindergarten pictures taken. Something happened and Ward was right. Porter Weeks did listen. He sent his brood to public school, but then something happened and it all changed.

  I peeked out the front window to see Rita Weeks sobbing on her bed and a new group of mourners comforting her. Porter and Portia were gone, but more waiters were making the rounds. I couldn’t imagine what it was costing. The wake Myrtle and Millicent had for Lester cost nearly ten thousand and it was nothing in comparison.

  All that money. The house. The schools. The house. The schools. What did Ward say? They bought the house two years ago? That coincided with the money problems being magically fixed. But what about the schools?

  Spidermonkey would know and it wouldn’t take long.

  “Hey, it’s Mercy,” I said.

  “Are you okay?” asked Spidermonkey in a rush.

  “Fine. But can you look at the Weeks kids’ education for me.”

  He paused. “Sure. Why? What are we looking for?”

  “It looks to me like they were going to public schools and normal universities and at some point, that all changed.”

  “Give me a second.”

  It barely took a second. I was right. Porter started at Mizzou and transferred to Duke. Portia and her twin, Paige, transferred to Columbia. The little one Priscilla moved to Forsyth. The only outlier was Peyton. He started his freshman year at the military academy. All three of his older siblings went to the nearest public school.

  “Interesting,” I said. “Tell me about this monstrous house. What did it cost?”

  A minute later, Spidermonkey said, “6.7 million. They could never afford it without the scam.”

  “They had a house before. What did it sell for?”

  “Let’s see. Oh, here it is. Same area. Just under a million. That’s quite a step up. What are you thinking?”

  I watched a photographer come out of the house with the Weeks kids in tow. He arranged them around their mother and I got sick to my stomach. They were taking photos at their father’s wake. To be fair, the kids didn’t look happy about it, but Rita wasn’t altogether miserable.

  “Mercy?” asked Spidermonkey.

  “Sorry. Something happened.”

  “Yes. Porter Weeks started robbing his customers.”

  “No. Something else. Before that. When the finances went bad.”

  “Well, that’s when the overspending started,” said Spidermonkey.

  I looked out the window at a family that didn’t track for me. One family in the pool house and another in that mansion. Portia started sobbing and made a break for it, but Rita grabbed her, pulling her daughter onto the bed and forcefully cuddling her while the photographer snapped away.

  “Rita Weeks started getting her way,” I said.

  “What was that?”

  “Look at the wife. Unless I’m totally off my game, this house, the schools, they’re all Rita. She made that happen.” I looked over at the photos. A picture of Porter Weeks III stood out and screamed for attention. Porter was standing in a river wearing fly fishing gear and holding up a large fish. His outfit was practically worn out. It reminded me of the smelly army tent Dad insisted we take camping. Porter’s gear probably smelled like feet, too, but he didn’t care. That didn’t matter. His smile was joyous.

  What did you do?

  “Porter did something. He made it up to Rita the only way he could. With money,” I said.

  “Fats swears it’s gambling,” said Spidermonkey. “All those cash withdrawals.”

  “No. Not gambling. That’s money going out for nothing. You don’t make that up by spending more.”

  “An affair.” He typed so fast it sounded like one long keystroke.

  “She’ll have told someone,” I said. “Her mother. Best friend.”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t divorce him. Women are embarrassed by that these days or at least that’s what Loretta tells me. Her sister’s husband had a thing with his secretary. Pam told Loretta and then didn’t speak to her for a year.”

  “What the what? It’s not Loretta’s fault.”

  “Pam didn’t dump him and Loretta knew all about it. She was ashamed.”

  “Rita’s posing for pictures right now. This is a woman without shame. She told and probably crowed about getting this house. I bet those withdrawals went to the mistress. Was he still taking large sums out using the debit card?”

  “He was like clockwork every two weeks. Ten thousand. I should’ve seen that,” said Spidermonkey.

  “You were looking at what was coming in, not what was going out,” I said. “Has to be a mistress, unless it was drugs.”

  “No drugs on the autopsy.”

  “Mistress then.”

  “Why would he pay her if the cat was out of the bag?” asked Spidermonkey.

  We both went silent and then in unison said, “A baby.”

  “I don’t know if that’s bad enough,” he said. “This whole scheme is elaborate. If Rita knows, why bother? To me, he seemed like an honest man until this happened.”

  “Well, he was having an affair.”

  “I suppose so, but still. If he loved Rita enough to become a criminal, why would he have an affair in the first place?”

  My eyes wandered from the happy Porter picture to see the rest of the room for the first time. I was looking for answers and I found them. The pool house was Porter’s place. Among the family photos was fishing gear, proudly displayed. His kids’ trophies were on the mantel. I went into the small kitchen and found it stocked with chips and soda, snack cakes and all kinds of popcorn. The three bedrooms were claimed by the kids and Porter. Single beds in all the rooms. Porter shared with his oldest son and the others shared as well. Portia and Paige didn’t have their going out clothes there. They had jeans and tee shirts. Posters of boy bands were thumbtacked to the walls. Priscilla had My Little Pony covering her side of her room. Peyton, the military school kid, had dirt bike racing trophies and Fathead decals of NFL players. It was a lock that that wasn’t allowed in Rita’s chateau.

  “He didn’t love Rita that much,” I said. “He loved the kids. He was doing absolutely anything so she wouldn’t tell them. He wanted them to have the best like he said in the note, but the best was a happy, secure family, not money. It was never money. They couldn’t know he cheated.”

  “And it was all going to come out when Catherine figured out the scam,” said Spidermonkey.

  “It was only a matter of time. I guess he couldn’t face it.” I went back to the window. The kids were leaving. Rita was sucking down her second Rob Roy and talking to Porter. I saw her flick a glance at me and say something. Porter turned around and waved. I waved back, my heart sinking.

  “This sucks pretty hard,” I said.

  “And we still haven’t connected Weeks and the Frightful Five,” said Spidermonkey.

  “We’re missing something.”
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  “Maybe the mistress is the key.”

  “If she is, I hope you find her soon because I don’t want to talk to Rita again or any of them really.” As I said that, Portia stumbled and nearly fell in the pool. Her twin and another guy caught her. As he picked up the distraught Portia and carried her into the house, I realized who the guy was.

  “He’s not wearing a uniform,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “The military school kid, Peyton. He’s not wearing his uniform.”

  “He doesn’t have to,” said Spidermonkey. “It’s his father’s wake, not a school function.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I saw a couple boys earlier in uniform. I thought one of them was Peyton.”

  “So what?”

  “So doesn’t the military wear their uniforms on special occasions? People get married in their uniforms. It’s a thing.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like it,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t either, but Peyton is going to a military school. His family isn’t military. If he doesn’t like it, why’s he going there?”

  “Good question. That school is pricey and he started there before the other kids switched schools.”

  “An outlier,” I said. “He should’ve been at public school.”

  Spidermonkey’s typing increased again. “Working on it.”

  “Maybe it’s a punishment. Arrest record?” I tried not to get too excited and failed.

  “Cursory look says no. But it could’ve been expunged. He’d have been around thirteen or fourteen.”

  “Can you still find it?”

  “The courts make it difficult, but I can probably find an arrest if there was one. It will take a while.”

  I waved to Porter and he started over. “I’m taking a page out of Edward Laidlaw’s book. I’m going direct.”

  “Edward Laidlaw? The CEO?”

  “Gotta go.”

  Porter walked in and asked, “What are you doing in here?”

  “I needed a moment to think,” I said.

  “My mother said you were asking questions, but they weren’t about my dad.”