by A W Hartoin
“It was,” said Chuck. “But Julia is convinced. Hall had camo with him and he fits the description.”
“No, he doesn’t. I saw that video footage. Hall is fifty pounds lighter at least.”
“That could be clothes or a vest. Julia knows what she’s doing. She’s good or I wouldn’t have vouched for her.”
“That was a mistake. She’s got baggage,” said Big Steve, “and she doesn’t know when to back off. That’s why she’s here. It looks like she’s rubbing off on you as well.”
That knocked Chuck back a little and he struggled to respond, but couldn’t come up with a coherent sentence.
“Do you need to leave?” asked Mom. “Because Mercy doesn’t need this right now. We’re waiting to see if she needs surgery.”
“Surgery?” He went pale and then a flush rose in his cheeks. “Why? Julia said it was just a bruised arm.”
Julia says. God, how I hate her.
I flipped back the towel and Chuck cringed. “Oh, my God. I had no idea. Is it broken? What happened?” He was at my side, being my Chuck, my person. I could’ve cried in relief.
Dr. Calloway knocked on the door and came in. “Good news, Mercy. I think we can set the arm without going in. You’re very lucky.”
Mom hugged me. “Oh, thank goodness.”
Chuck’s blue eyes went a little bloodshot and I would’ve forgiven almost anything.
“It will be difficult,” said Dr. Calloway, going on to explain the procedure, which involved spiraling my arm back into position with incredible pain. “What medication would you prefer?” he asked.
“All of them,” said Chuck.
The doc chuckled. “We don’t want to put her completely out, but we’ll do our best to make it as painless as possible. That’s doctor code for ‘This is going to hurt.’”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Chuck.
“Me either,” I said. “But that’s how it is.”
We decided on pain management and the doc went off to put in the orders. I fingered the manila folder and couldn’t decide if I cared what was in it. All I could really concentrate on was the ortho cranking my poor arm around. I hadn’t thrown up yet, but it was coming in a big way.
“Well, if you won’t look I will,” said Mom.
“Go for it,” I said.
Mom took the folder, strategically opening it out of Chuck’s view and a delicate line—the one she was always putting serum on—appeared between her eyes. “What’s this about?”
“Mercy and I had a deal,” said Big Steve. “She kept her side of the bargain at considerable cost.” He gave a glare to Chuck, whose ears had perked up. “Now I’m doing what I can to fulfill my side.”
“Who is it?” asked Mom.
“My mother, the enigmatic Constanza Stern.”
Mom shuffled through the pictures. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“They’re not much.” His voice got quieter. “I put them away a long time ago. They make me feel farther from her not closer. I nearly burnt them once.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” I said.
Mom gave me the folder and I saw a crowd of people at some sort of event maybe an auction or fundraiser. The crowd was large and with the black and white, not that easy to differentiate. A woman off to the left was circled. Constanza was looking down and three-fourths of her face was captured. She had dark hair parted in the middle and unfashionably pulled back into a knot. Her dark suit concealed her figure, but it hung on her, creating folds where there shouldn’t have been any. That and the one visible wrist proved that she was painfully thin.
“When was this taken?” I asked.
“1955.”
I flipped to the next picture. This was of Constanza standing next to a taxi with Florence Bled. She was ducking down and the camera really only caught less than half her face. There was something about her that rang a very small bell, but I was too sleepy to connect the dots.
The rest of the folder contained copies of her emigration papers, passport, death certificate, and two photos in color of jewelry, a small locket and a pin. Attached to that photo was an insurance valuation declaring that their value was primarily sentimental in nature, but that they were both silver and the locket had a garnet inset in the middle. The report called them vintage, but it was dated 1985.
“Your father never mentioned these to you?” I asked.
“No. I found them in his safety deposit box after he died. I don’t know if they were my mother’s or if they were from his side. He could’ve bought them for my mother.”
No. That wasn’t right. I had a feeling about that jewelry.
“Your father was successful?”
“He was a chemist for Bled Brewing,” said Big Steve. “He made a nice salary, but we weren’t wealthy. Why?”
“This report basically says these pieces are old, but not valuable, about fifty dollars back then and I doubt they’ve gone up much. I don’t think your father would have bought them. He could afford better and loved your mom.”
“They could’ve belonged to his family. He must’ve treasured them to somehow hold on to them through the death camp,” said Mom.
“Or they never went there,” I said, yawning. “Constanza was intimately connected to the Bleds. Maybe Stella smuggled them out for her.”
“We’ll have to go through the lists in Stella’s book again.” Chuck took the photos and squinted at them closely. “I don’t know. The stuff Stella smuggled was seriously valuable from the artwork to the jewelry. This stuff doesn’t seem worth it. Sorry, Big Steve.”
“No offense taken,” he said.
The nurse came in with a tray and said, “Let’s get you fixed up and then I’ll take you up to ortho.” She gave me the injection in my IV and I immediately relaxed.
“Your mother can come up, but that’s all. Say your goodbyes and we’ll go in a minute.” The nurse left and I took the jewelry photo back.
“Can I see them in person?” I asked Big Steve.
“Of course, but I can’t see the point.”
“A specialist in antique jewelry might be able to tell us more than just what they’re made of. I know that from watching all that Antiques Roadshow.”
“You’re welcome,” said Mom, reaching for the folder. I held it back and looked at Constanza’s face again. “I think I’ve seen her somewhere.”
Chuck and Mom took a hard look and shrugged.
Then his phone buzzed and he glanced at it. “I have to go.”
I yawned and asked, closing my eyes, “What is it?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
Julia.
“Don’t go,” I said.
“I’ll be back before you wake up,” he said and he left.
I guess the nurse came back in because I heard Mom asking about me being released. If all went well in a few hours I could go home. Someone shook my shoulder and Big Steve asked, “Mercy?”
“Uh-huh?”
“How sure are you that the Frightful Five didn’t do the shootings?”
“Pretty sure.” I couldn’t open my eyes. Nope. Not gonna happen.
“She’ll come home with us,” said Mom.
“No,” said Big Steve. “She’ll stay with me. They won’t expect that.”
“Chuck,” I whispered.
I felt Big Steve’s hot breath on my ear. “I don’t care what he or that Julia Jones says. I believe you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
FIVE DAYS LATER, I was cuddled up in Big Steve’s house being decorated by Peekaboo, Mickey Stix’s daughter, and being glared at by a haggard Uncle Morty, who’d shown up—as far as I could tell—just to bother me.
“You could’ve called to tell me that,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said and didn’t elaborate.
“He’s weird,” said Peekaboo, smiling with every ounce of her being. Peekaboo had mastered the art of smiling and joy. Her blue eyes twinkled and her round cheeks were perpetually rosy. And at a tiny four-foot-five
, she had her father, the unstoppable Mickey, wrapped around her little finger, twice with a bow.
“You said it, sister.” I pointed at a fuchsia rhinestone and said, “I think that one works for your design.”
Peekaboo applied the rhinestone to my cast with her trusty hot glue gun and I got a little more glamorous. She had been very disappointed in my plain white cast. When they asked me what color I wanted, I couldn’t have cared less. Chuck hadn’t shown up for the appointment like he said he would, pleading a new body identification in Kansas and I was trying to be understanding. But he didn’t show up last night either. We had a big dinner with Mickey, Nina, and Peekaboo for her eighteenth birthday. Big Steve’s wife, Olivia, arranged it and everyone was there. Mom and Dad. Fats, Tiny, and Moe the mutt. Mr. Cabot and Catherine, fresh from the hospital but smiling. Mr. Cabot tried to give me the bonus for the twelve-hour solve, but I refused it, convincing him that I didn’t solve the shooting, only the harassment, and he wisely decided to keep Catherine’s around the clock security. I did get paid Dad’s rate for the initial case, and I paid all my bills and Fats out of that. She wasn’t thrilled about the bonus, but she agreed with my logic.
When Chuck didn’t show or call about the party, Mom was going to hunt him down and scorch him, but I said no. If that was how it was, then that’s how it was. Yelling wouldn’t change it.
What did change it was Peekaboo. She made me feel better just by being in the room. Now I had a fab bird and flower design on my cast that was getting snazzier by the minute.
She held up a yellow rhinestone. “Beak?”
“That’ll make a great beak,” I said and then looked at Uncle Morty. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Ain’t nothin’ to do,” he said. “They confessed.”
“They didn’t do it.”
“I know that, but there’s no evidence saying they didn’t. Those two nimrods stitched themselves up good.”
Nimrods was right. Peyton and Austin had confessed to both shootings. People did confess to things they didn’t do, but it didn’t usually happen to well-off kids from the suburbs. I don’t know how Julia did it, but she’d saved her reputation and ruined mine. The news still used the glamor shot of me and Ward, but now the headlines read “The Blonde Gets It Wrong.” Swell.
I blamed Rita Weeks, although to be fair her motherly instincts were right. She didn’t want Big Steve to handle Peyton’s case, since he had the Frightful Five, conflict of interest and all that. But the lawyer she got wasn’t half as good and while Big Steve was hammering out a cotton candy sweet deal for Emma and her crew, her kid and his buddy were copping to attempted murder. It didn’t help that the boys were all for shooting me in the game room and I had said that in my statement. They were well and truly screwed, while Emma was literally walking free. She’d just texted me a picture of a new dress she was buying at Saks. It was gorgeous and I admired her moxie. Now that the Frightful Five had been discovered, she was spending money. They’d laundered it so well, she could, and the Feds were seriously frustrated. To top it off, that crew of geniuses were not going to prison, not even a Martha Stewart country club-style one. Emma did have something. When she’d been working on her business master’s, she noticed some irregularities in a couple companies, Citibank and Deutsche. Because she had a mind like Catherine’s, Emma couldn’t resist doing a deep dive, enlisting her friends, and hacking the hell out of them. She found schemes similar to the one she and Hall designed for Midwest, except they were greedier, dollars instead of pennies. In exchange for a walk, Emma gave up all the particulars to multiple cases that dwarfed theirs and would take months to unravel and there were five murders, too. A Citibank account executive and his family went to a Mexican resort and were murdered after he caught on to what was happening. Until Emma told them who and why, the cops thought it was a random drug thing.
Emma also confirmed our suspicions. Weeks had had a torrid affair and he chose unwisely, a pea-brained waitress that blackmailed him and then told Rita out of spite. The only good news was that there was no baby, but in a sense, Weeks was being blackmailed by both women. He paid huge sums to the waitress so she wouldn’t tell his kids and gave Rita whatever she wanted so she wouldn’t tell them either. He would’ve done almost anything to save his family and keep the love of his kids. The Midwest scam was an act of desperation. It was Weeks who reached out to Ashley with the initial idea of taking a little off the top of certain bloated accounts. He knew she was brilliant and desperate for cash through her idiot brother Austin. Ashley told Emma, who already knew exactly what was going on with other banks, and the group got together in a matter of days. Weeks gave them access to a few key details and passwords, plotted the complicated off-shore scheme, and the Frightful Five was off to the races as my Grandad would say.
They’d been careful planners, but not careful enough. The laptop Emma had been retrieving on the day of the wake was Weeks’ and it confirmed his involvement. Emma candidly confided that their only mistake was hacking Catherine’s secret phone. They should’ve resisted their love of coding and just lifted the pics off the site or a buyer’s phone. The entire Frightful Five expressed regret and sorrow at Weeks’ suicide. They hadn’t seen it coming, but Emma admitted that she should’ve.
So in the eyes of almost everyone, the cases were solved. I was out of danger and I could go home. Emma and the rest of the Frightful did their best to back me up and that’s how I ended up chatting with Emma, which led her, surprisingly, to chat with Catherine, too. Despite what Emma had done with the pictures, they were two women with skills and a crap history with men. Our chats were epic and took my mind off Chuck when Peekaboo couldn’t.
I had the worst feeling about moving home, but I couldn’t hide at Big Steve’s forever. If Spidermonkey and Morty, working separately, couldn’t find anything online and Dad couldn’t find anything on the street. There was nothing to find. I was freaked, but at least Dad was back at work and down to pestering Mom three times an hour. All it took was a wrecked truck, a distraught friend, and possible death for me. I have to say it was worth it.
“Okay,” I said. “Are you coming to The City Museum?”
“Hell, no.”
I glanced at Peekaboo to see how she felt about the “hell”, but I guess living with DBD her whole life was an education. She just grinned and made a butterfly.
“Then what are we doing?” I asked.
“Nikki left me.”
“I know.”
“It’s your fault.”
It couldn’t be the continuous grumpiness or the smell or the addiction to onion sausage pizzas.
“How do you figure that?” I asked.
“You got me involved in Catherine’s case.”
I approved purple wings for my new butterfly and said, “You agreed to do it and so what? Why would Nikki care? You’ve worked on all kinds of cases for Dad.”
Uncle Morty beat around the bush until there was no bush left and he still couldn’t say what happened.
“So you lied and she left you over it,” I said. “Is that it?”
“I didn’t want her to get upset over those pictures and that woman.”
“What’d you tell her you were doing?”
He got all shifty-eyed. “Insurance scam.”
“Why are you sweating again?” I asked.
Beads of sweat rolled down his face and plopped onto his sweat suit. “I lied and I don’t like lying.”
“So you’re lying now?”
“I ain’t lying.” He belched and Peekaboo said, “Ew.”
“What is wrong with you?” I asked. “Just tell me what you said for real.”
“I did.” He belched and farted at the same time. Sweat stains appeared under his arms and I’m not going to lie, there was a smell. Peekaboo wrinkled her little nose, but she was too sweet to say anything. I wasn’t.
“You stink and somebody turned on your personal sprinkler system. Spill it or you’re going to spend the rest of your lif
e severely dehydrated.”
“I told her you had somebody faking pictures of you and I was working on that for the family.” He belched again and leaned back on the formerly pristine cream-colored sofa. Olivia should’ve put a blanket down. That microfiber would never be the same.
“That’s not so bad,” I said. “I do have people faking me.”
“I lied!” he bellowed. “I don’t lie to women. Women lie to me.”
Peekaboo and I jumped.
“Don’t yell,” said Peekaboo. “It’s not nice.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“And you shouldn’t lie to people. It makes them unhappy.”
Uncle Morty’s lower lip trembled. “Nikki won’t stand for lying. She told me that. Her first husband lied. He was a gambler. She told me and I did it anyway.”
“Why’d you do it then?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to lose her.” For a second, I thought he’d break into the ugly cry, but he held it but only just. “She likes Star Trek and Dungeons and Dragons. She read my books before she knew me and she says I’m pleasantly plump, not disgusting and fat. Do you know how rare that is? Do you?”
“Nikki’s a nerd’s white whale.”
“Kinda, and since this is your fault, you’re going to help me get her back,” he said, pulling a slim sheath of paper out of his jacket and trying to hand it to me. It was moist. Really moist.
“First of all, I never said to lie to your lie-hating girlfriend and second, I’m not touching that.”
“I had to lie. She’d have told me to hand the case over to someone else. She hates porn almost as much as she hates lying.”
“But porn with me was okay.” I adjusted my arm. “I don’t get it.”
“You’re family. Family is everything. I can work on you. I can’t work on some random slut who got caught in her own mess.”
“Whatever.”
He tried to hand me the papers again and I had the sneaking suspicion it was like inviting a vampire in. Once I took them, he’d consider me locked in for life.
“What is it?” I asked.
He slapped the papers on my lap with a damp thwack. “Nikki went to Greece.”
