Small Time Crime (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 10)

by A W Hartoin

  My voice caught in my throat. “I…I…”

  “It’s not Mercy’s fault, my dear,” said Myrtle quickly.

  Millicent softened. “Of course not. You’re not to blame one bit, but tell us, dear, we need to know.”

  I don’t want to.

  “There’s not a lot to tell,” I said.

  “Then it won’t take long.”

  The Girls watched me intently and there was no escape. “Well, they found something to do with Sister Maggie and they wanted to talk to Aunt Miriam about it.”

  “What did they find?” asked Millicent, her voice strangled. It hurt to hear it.

  “A medal.”

  Their hands pressed to their chests. “Her St. Brigid?”

  “Yes, but it might not be hers,” I said. “They’re not sure.”

  They took each other’s hands. “Why did they come to Miriam if they’re not sure?”

  I stood up. Millicent was shaky and getting paler by the second. Myrtle wasn’t much better. “I’m taking you home. Do you think you can walk?”

  Millicent shook her head. “Tell me. I want to know.”

  “I’ll tell you at home, preferably in bed.”

  “You will?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Myrtle and I got Millicent out of her chair and down the stairs. We walked down Hawthorne Avenue supporting her as the wind picked up and blew leaves in our faces and a few icy snowflakes for good measure. I wasn’t at all sure we would make it. I felt her age and something new. Sorrow. Deep unrelenting sorrow.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I GOT MILLICENT tucked up in bed, wearing her flannel nightgown with a heating pad and a box of tissues. She was so shaken we had to take her upstairs in the miniature elevator that their mother, Florence, had installed during the war for a wounded cousin who was recuperating with them. Millicent wasn’t happy. She felt like avoiding stairs was a slippery slope and, once you did that, you might as well give it up, but we convinced her these were extraordinary circumstances. She wasn’t decrepit.

  Joy, The Girls’ housekeeper, settled Myrtle in the overstuffed wingback chair next to Millicent’s bed and covered her in a quilt that my grandmother made her.

  “I’m fine. No need to fuss,” she said, glancing at Millicent, who was dabbing at her eyes with a shaky hand.

  “I know,” said Joy, “but it was cold out there. You have to be careful.”

  “A brisk walk does a body good.”

  Joy pursed her lips.

  “They weren’t outside that long,” I said.

  “I know exactly how long they were outside.”

  “We’re fine,” said Millicent, before blowing her nose and having a tear slip down her pale cheek.

  Joy shot a harsh look at me. “Come make some of your father’s Hot Toddies.”

  “You know the—”

  She raised a brow.

  “How about I go make some hot toddies?”

  “Good idea,” said Joy.

  “That would be lovely,” said Myrtle and Millicent nodded.

  Joy took me by the arm and practically dragged me out of the room, closing the bedroom door firmly behind us. “Stop upsetting them. What are you thinking?”

  “I didn’t see this coming,” I said. “I’m not upsetting them on purpose.”

  “Millicent looks like she gave blood three times in two hours.”

  “Well, she didn’t.”

  “That Dr. Bloom called and you didn’t answer. Then they went tearing off down the street when that busybody Mrs. Haas told them you were up a tree at your parents’ house. They were excited, but you brought them back needing heating pads and whiskey. They are old, Mercy. I know you don’t see it. But they are. If they break a hip, it’s game over.”

  “They’re not going to break a hip. Their bone density is all good. I watch it.”

  Joy took a breath and marched me down the long curved staircase. She didn’t let go of my arm, like there was a chance I’d go back and start shouting obscenities or something equally crazy.

  “I know you keep a good eye on their health, but it’s been a lot this last year. Carolina’s stroke, Lester, and let’s face it, you’ve gotten in trouble plenty.”

  We walked into the massive kitchen and there was the chair that Lester died in, attacked by emissaries of The Klinefeld Group in yet another attempt to find out what Stella Bled Lawrence sent back from the war. It had been a very bad year and very hard to pinpoint what was the lowest point.

  I went to over to the enormous stove and put on the kettle. “I don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “I know, but still.”

  “Still what?”

  “The Girls worry about you.” Joy got out four mugs, the homeliest ones they had. I’d made them in middle school pottery class. I’m so bad at art it’s embarrassing. “They love you like no one else.”

  I let that hang in the air to see if she would elaborate, but, of course, she didn’t. That I was a favorite was well-known in and out of the Bled family. Why wasn’t well-known. The Bleds became connected with my mother’s family, the Boulards, in 1938 when Amelie and Paul Boulard did something to help The Girls’ cousin, Stella Bled Lawrence. That secret was so well-kept The Girls didn’t know it and they didn’t know what The Klinefeld Group was after either.

  But there was more to it. Isn’t that always the way? Nothing’s simple. The Bleds favored my father’s family, too. That started when The Girls met my grandad, Ace Watts, after one of The Klinefeld Group’s break-ins. He was a detective assigned to the case and from that moment on, they were oddly attached to us, going so far as to arrange a meeting between my parents. I guess they knew what they were doing, because here I am and, as far as I can tell, it’s what they wanted. Me. A combo of Boulard and Watts. The only one.

  “Joy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Am I a Bled?”

  She carefully arranged the mugs so that the gnarly handles all faced the same way and said, “Yes, I think so.”

  “Did The Girls say something?” I asked.

  “No. It’s just a feeling about you, your father, and Ace.”

  “Not Mom’s side then?”

  “I don’t think so. Lester always said all you Watts were family.”

  “Then he knew something?”

  “He must’ve. He was with them long before me. I’d find the three of them curled up looking at the scrapbooks. The family tree. I heard your name, more than once. Something was going on,” said Joy.

  “Why don’t they just tell us?”

  “I’m sure they’ve got their reasons and they are sensible ladies. Don’t force the issue.”

  “As if I could make them tell me.” I rolled my eyes.

  She laughed and got out a hefty bottle of good Irish whiskey and a jar of loose tea. “Now you tell me what’s upset them.”

  “How about you tell me what Dr. Bloom wanted?”

  “I can’t, because I don’t know.” She measured the tea into the strainer and then faced me. “Tell me what happened. Millicent has had a blow and she’s no snowflake.”

  I poured the boiling water into the tea pot and reluctantly told her about Aunt Miriam and Sister Maggie’s medal. She listened without interrupting, but her face got more and more grave.

  “Did you know about this?” I asked.

  “I knew about her death, the murder, I mean,” said Joy, rolling one of my mugs between her palms.

  “How? They never mentioned her to me and the only pictures of nuns that I’ve seen are those cousins, Lidija and Paloma.”

  “My mother was housekeeper before me. She was a maid with the family when it happened,” said Joy.

  “I totally forgot that.”

  “My family has been with the Bleds for three generations.”

  I measured out a jigger of whiskey into each mug and started cutting up a lemon. “So you know everything.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, but I know what my mother said about Sister Maggie.
She told me to never ever bring it up. To say it’s an open wound is an understatement.”

  “No kidding. I wish somebody had told me.”

  Joy shrugged. “It was so long ago. I didn’t think it would be a problem. Do you really think it’s Sister Maggie’s medal?”

  I nodded. “I do. Aunt Miriam would’ve said if it wasn’t, and that would’ve been the end of it.”

  “I agree.”

  “Do you think The Girls can identify it?”

  “For goodness sake, don’t ask them to look at that. It was on her when she died, I don’t think they can take it,” said Joy in a rush.

  “How do they know her? What’s the deal?”

  It’s amazing how you can know someone your whole life and still be in the dark on the most important things. In my case, I do mean my whole life. The Girls attended my birth. My dad didn’t cut the cord. They did. Dad was out on a case and Mom gave birth without him, but The Girls were there. They didn’t miss a second of me, but I didn’t know the story of them, not all of it, not even close.

  The Girls were very attached to Margaret (Maggie) Mullanphy. There was some kind of family connection that Joy wasn’t sure about, but she did know that they knew her from childhood. There were pictures of the three of them in the atriums, playing hide and seek and having tea parties. The connection was never lost, even though Maggie went to Catholic school while The Girls were educated at home. Maggie and Millicent were especially close. Best friends, Joy’s mother had said and they did everything together, but Maggie wasn’t the only one close to Millicent. Maggie had an older brother, Patrick. Joy went to the library and found a small scrapbook that I’d never seen before. It wasn’t like the big ones, handmade with fine leather covers. The Girls had those scrapbooks. This one was small and handmade, but not by a professional. It had wood covers and the initial “P” carved into the front. Inside were pictures of Millicent and a handsome young man at dances, having ice cream, reading, doing all the things that kids do. There were ticket stubs pasted in the pages and flowers, carefully dried and preserved. The last picture was of Patrick sitting in the back garden of the mansion among the roses on a lounge with blankets up to his chin. Millicent knelt beside him with her face pressed against his hand. He was smiling but clearly very sick.

  “So he died,” I said.

  “He did,” said Joy. “Lymphoma, I think.”

  “Looks about twenty.”

  “Sounds right. I believe Millicent was seventeen. My mother said she was devastated. The family thought she might hurt herself. Maggie and Myrtle were the only people she could bear to be with. Florence didn’t know what to do and in desperation, she sent The Girls and Maggie to Europe so they wouldn’t have to be reminded every day. They were gone a year.”

  “It must’ve worked,” I said.

  “As well as anything does. They came back and The Girls married their husbands. Myrtle had Lawton and Maggie became a nun. But I don’t think Millicent really got over it.”

  “How come?”

  “He died on May fifteenth in your mother’s bedroom. The Girls are never in the house on that day. Didn’t you ever notice?”

  I thought about it. Maybe. I wasn’t sure. They traveled a lot, particularly when they were younger. “I guess so.”

  “It’s not a guess, Mercy. It’s a fact. They go to Europe or New York. Sometimes it’s just out to Prie Dieu, but they are never in this house on that day. Lester usually went with them. He said Millicent would stay in bed and refuse to see anyone, but the next day she’d come out like nothing happened.”

  “I remember times when she’d stay in her room. Myrtle said she was sick or was tired. I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “No reason you should,” said Joy. “Please don’t bring up Patrick and if you can stay off Maggie, that would be good.”

  “I don’t think they’re going to let it go.” I finished the toddy with a dash of bitters and put the mugs on a tray.

  Joy sighed. “I know. But her murder is all wrapped up with Patrick. My mother said they were incredibly close until the day she died and they went into mourning for a year.”

  “I can see that.” I picked up the tray, but Joy put a hand on my arm.

  “Mercy, they stopped going to church for that year.”

  I nearly dropped the tray. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious.”

  “But they always go. They’re hard core about it. When we traveled, no matter where we were, they had to attend mass. We’d drive hours, if we had to. I always tried to get out of it, but that wasn’t happening.”

  “I know. My mother said they were angry about something to do with the church, but they didn’t discuss it with her.”

  “They obviously got over it,” I said.

  “People do. When Lawton’s father died, they needed their faith. The church came with it.”

  “I’ll try to stay away from the subject.”

  “Please do. They’re older than they seem and they’ve had so many sorrows. It won’t help to remember them,” said Joy.

  I did my best. I really did, but some sorrows don’t grow old like people do.

  Millicent smiled at me when I came in with the tray. “I’m sorry, dear. Just a foolish old lady. I shouldn’t have alarmed you.”

  “There’s nothing foolish about it,” I said, putting the tray on the foot of the bed. “Now what’s this about Dr. Bloom calling?”

  The Girls looked like they might object, but they let me lead them away from Sister Maggie’s medal and I was seriously relieved.

  “Oh, yes that,” said Myrtle, blowing on her toddy. “He had some information and you won’t answer your phone.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s been a rough week.” I sipped my toddy. I should’ve doubled up on whiskey.

  “Surely people don’t really think you smell,” said Millicent.

  “They surely do or, at least, they like thinking I do, which is basically the same thing,” I said. “What did Dr. Bloom say?”

  Myrtle pointed at Josiah’s scrapbook on Millicent’s dresser. “Can you get that, dear? Wait until you hear. It’s very exciting.”

  I got Josiah’s book, holding it tight to my chest before I laid it on Millicent’s lap and cuddled up next to her. I’d always thought Stella’s book was the key to everything, but a few weeks before I’d had a brainstorm. We’d been trying to figure out who our family lawyer, Big Steve’s, mother was. Constanza Stern was brought back to the US from Switzerland by Alekei Bled after she survived an Auschwitz satellite camp. We knew she had something to do with Stella and The Klinefeld Group. All we’d discovered so far was that Constanza Stern was an alias and that most likely she wasn’t the real owner of the objects she sold in 1947, but the things she kept were a clue. Chuck found out that her locket and pin were from Prague and that was the first time Czechoslovakia had come up in relation to Constanza.

  Big Steve had long given up on finding out about his mother, but he had a couple of pictures of her. Bad pictures. Constanza had a serious aversion to being photographed, that was the reason we thought she was probably a spy with Stella or maybe in the resistance. When I looked at those pictures, something sparked in me. It took a while to figure it out, but I knew I’d seen that face before.

  Millicent opened Josiah’s book and turned to the critical page and there she was. Constanza Stern in black and white, standing with Josiah Bled and Stella in front of an amazing staircase in an impressive mansion, possibly a palace. Josiah was wearing a uniform so it was definitely during the war and it was the only picture of Constanza where she was facing the camera. That picture revealed her in more ways than she could ever have imagined in the moment. She was young. We’d guessed that the picture was taken in 1942. She was supposed to be seventeen at the end of the war. That would’ve made her fourteen in the picture, but she appeared considerably younger than that. I’d have guessed eleven. She had no breasts to speak of, was exceedingly thin and bruised with deep, dark grooves und
er her intense, angry eyes and masses of thick, dark hair. She stood stiff in an ill-fitting dress that might’ve been part of a servant’s uniform between the smiling Josiah, looking jaunty in his uniform and Stella, who, while thin and tired, was beaming, looking past the camera at someone off to the left.

  Millicent and I couldn’t stop gazing at her face. It was that kind of face, pretty, striking in its angles, but it was the eyes that drew you to her. Constanza had been places and they were bad.

  “Do we know who she is?” I asked, still looking at those eyes.

  “No,” said Myrtle, smiling. “But we know where she is.”

  I looked up. “Really? Where?”

  “Bickford House in England.”

  “Bickford,” I said. “Never heard of it.”

  The Girls chuckled. “You certainly have.”

  “Um…what?”

  “You’ve been.” Myrtle picked up a manila folder and tossed it on the bed. “Take a look.”

  I opened the folder and it was creepy. I got a chill. I mean it, an actual chill. The photo inside was in color, but it was eerily similar to the Constanza photo. I was standing between Millicent and Myrtle, about four years old and mad as hell. My eyes were as angry as Constanza’s and The Girls were as happy as Josiah and Stella. Millicent was even looking off to the left.

  “We were there,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I knew I recognized that staircase,” said Millicent. “But I couldn’t place it.”

  “Why were we there? Was it about some pieces from the Bled Collection? Stella’s pieces?”

  Stella had spent a good deal of energy smuggling property and people out of the Third Reich. The pieces she saved ended up with Florence, The Girls’ mother, for safekeeping until the owners could come and claim them. Most didn’t survive. The Girls had taken over the search for survivors and relatives after Florence passed away. It was a consuming passion and I had begun to suspect a duty that I would inherit.

  “No,” said Myrtle. “We were actually going through a local archive that included children from the Kindertransports and were invited to dinner by the earl when he heard we were there.”