Small Time Crime (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 10)

by A W Hartoin

  “I think maybe.”

  “Just breathe. It’s alright. I take it you didn’t get the spiel.”

  I sucked in a breath, but my heart was still racing. “Where are they?”

  “Irene put them in the Blue Room. No offense, but our furniture is antique. I don’t know if the bed will hold Pink the Impaler. She’s a whopper, bigger than I imagined.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  He patted me again. “Try not to panic. It just encourages her.”

  “Um…who?”

  “Miss Elizabeth. Stay calm and she won’t pester you.”

  Irene came down the long hall carrying a pair of wool blankets. “What nonsense are you talking, Lefty? Don’t get her worked up. I haven’t had a chance to give her the spiel yet.”

  “And you’re already too late,” said Lefty.

  “You can’t be—” Irene looked at me. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Were you in the kitchen?”

  I nodded.

  “I was afraid of that. She does not like that kitchen. We put on the addition and I have not heard the end of it.” Irene put her arm around me and herded me down the hall. “We’ll have you tucked up with warm cookies and feeling better in no time. Oh, Lefty?” she called out.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “The faucet’s running in the yellow bathroom again.”

  Lefty muttered something and went in the opposite direction.

  “It’s fine,” said Irene. “One of her little jokes. She just loves to bother him.”

  “Miss Elizabeth?” I asked.

  “Who else? You wouldn’t believe our water bill.”

  There was a clang from down the hall, followed by a whoop of joy.

  “See,” said Irene. “Fixed already. Here we are. I gave you all the triple, since you girls want to be together.”

  “We do?” I asked.

  She wrinkled her nose and whispered, “I recommended it. She might think you’re sad.”

  “I’m not sad.” I’m freaked the hell out.

  “Trust me. Alone is not good. Happy couples are the worst, but let’s not take any chances.” Irene opened the door with a flourish and there were my investigating partners. They were in bed with face masks on, eating cookies and listening to jazz noir.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Clarence waved her cookie at me. “It’s like a slumber party.”

  In hell.

  “We’ve got stuff to do.” Like find some other place to sleep.

  Fats stuffed an entire cookie in her mouth and shook her head. “Bwizzard.”

  Irene put the blankets on the foot of their beds. “Now if you want those pedicures, just let me know. Mrs. Cleary is right next door and she’s in for the day.”

  “No pedicures,” I said. “I have to go to the newspaper office.”

  “Whatever for?” asked Irene.

  “Research.”

  Clarence dunked her cookie in a glass of milk. “We’re investigating a murder.”

  “Not helping,” I said.

  Irene looked me like I’d lost it and I was pretty close. “In St. Seb, murders aren’t our thing.” She leaned over to me, whispering, “I don’t think Miss Elizabeth murdered anyone. She just wanted to. She didn’t like men very much.” Then loudly she said, “It’s a good thing you’re all ladies.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “We get that all the time,” said Irene. “But trust me, it’s happening, but what am I saying? You already know. Ladies, can I trust you to tell Mercy the rules?”

  Fats stuffed another cookie in her face and nodded.

  Clarence crossed her heart. “I promise.”

  “Can I have the truck keys?” I asked and got a snort for my trouble. “Fine. I’ll walk.”

  Irene went to the door and called out, “Lefty, I’ve got a customer for you.”

  He trotted in, rubbing his hands together. “Where are we going? Walmart? The Chinese buffet?”

  “The Sentinel,” said Irene.

  “That’s only six blocks,” he complained.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Lefty grinned at us. “Who’s ready to take a ride on my brand new Gator?”

  “What’s a Gator?” I asked.

  “It’s a pointless mini truck that we do not need,” said Irene.

  Lefty stood up straight. “It is an all-terrain vehicle with snow tracks. We won’t ever get snowed in.”

  “We’re in the middle of town. We’ve never been snowed in.”

  He held up a finger. “Climate change. It’s happening.”

  Irene sighed. “Do you have boots, Mercy?”

  “I do.”

  “Put ‘em on. He’s been known to roll that thing.”

  Lefty grinned. “That’s why I got the upgraded roll bars. Come on. To the snow.”

  “Where are your boots?” asked Irene, looking at my bag on the third bed.

  I went over and got out my Timberlands. “Give me a second.”

  “Those aren’t snow boots. Come with me.” She marched out and I looked at Fats.

  She shrugged and ate a third cookie. She hadn’t swallowed the second one yet and it wasn’t pretty. “What happened to you?”

  Fats muttered something while picking out a fourth cookie.

  “Have fun,” said Clarence.

  I would not be having fun. That much was guaranteed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IRENE HAD BOOTS. She also had military-grade cold weather gear, including an enormous parka that hung down to my knees. I put that thing on and instantly started sweating, but Irene insisted. She dressed me like we were going to Antarctica in the bad season. By the time I got out the back door, I had a stocking cap, earmuffs, a hood, thermals, ski pants, boots that came up to my knees, fat mittens, and two extra-long scarfs. Lefty looked like he was going to a beach compared to me.

  “Can you walk?” asked Lefty.

  “Maybe,” I said between layers of scarf.

  “Quiet,” said Irene as she opened the door and a gust of icy wind blew in, glazing the kitchen in white. “We’ve lost enough guests. This one is not getting frost bite.”

  “It’s six blocks.” Lefty stalked out into the howling storm.

  “Lost?” I asked.

  “You’ll be fine,” said Irene.

  “I didn’t get the rules.”

  “They’re more like guidelines.” Irene pushed me out the door and I wished I’d taken the ski goggles she offered. My eyes smarted and watered with the wind in my face. Lefty waved at me from the other end of the yard next to a building that I could barely make out.

  I waddled toward him, hoping I didn’t get blown over. I’d be like the little brother in A Christmas Story, unable to get up and wailing like a two-year-old. A couple of gusts did push me off what was supposed to be a path. It had been shoveled at some point, but the wind had drifted the snow back over. I was looking down trying to get through a drift when something dark came at me. I screamed and fell over. Actually, it was more like rolled over as I was shaped like a beach ball. A screaming beach ball.

  Then Lefty was there, trying to hoist me up but ended up kind of rolling me to a weird little truck that reminded me of those mini cars people bought kids, only super-sized for adults with a snowplow bolted to the front and four odd-looking track things instead of wheels. They looked like they’d been taken off a tank and miniaturized, then splayed out, giving the impression of a waterbug standing on pond.

  Lefty stuffed me in the cab, literally using his foot while holding onto the roll bar to force my rotund form inside. I filled up most of the space and I wasn’t sure he would fit. Lefty wasn’t a small guy, but he managed to wedge himself in, smiling happily despite the mini icicles hanging from his brows. “Ready!” he yelled.

  It wasn’t a question and I got the impression if I said no, I would’ve been ignored. Lefty slammed the lever on the dash into drive and hit the gas. I was thrown back as we hurled onto the street, cutting
off a snowplow and almost sideswiping a parked minivan.

  “Woohoo!” Lefty yelled. “How do you like them apples?”

  Again, not a question, and I couldn’t answer. I was screaming because we left the road and went into somebody’s yard and took out their mailbox.

  “I’ll pay for that!” He was still smiling when we crossed the road between two moving cars and hit the snowbank in the yard opposite. The second car slid and did a 360, hitting the snow bank a second after we got over it.

  “Stop!” I yelled. “They might be stuck!”

  “That’s Monty Lurman. He’s a trooper.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Instead of answering, Lefty went for another snowbank. We hit it full tilt, spun sideways and rolled over, bouncing sideways. The world was white and upside-down, then right side up. Lather, rinse, repeat. We must’ve rolled three times before landing right side up in another yard at a severe tilt. Lefty gunned the engine, but my side’s track spun uselessly and his side just turned us in a useless circle.

  “High-centered!” yelled Lefty. “Get out!”

  I couldn’t get out at that angle, but I didn’t have to. A man appeared at my side yelling, “Son of a bitch, Lefty. You’re insane.”

  “You know you want one!” yelled Lefty.

  “Hell, yeah!” he yelled. “Having fun?”

  “No!” I yelled. “Help me!”

  The men laughed and two teenagers joined us. They pushed the Gator off what I would later find out was a Barbie Princess Playhouse and then we were out of the yard, sliding into the street and I was screaming again. Lefty hit every snow drift and snowbank like he was magnetically attracted to them. My throat was burning and I was longing for my Dad’s driving. He might’ve been needlessly aggressive and we had taken out a mailbox or two, but we never rolled. My standards had been significantly lowered.

  “There it is!” yelled Lefty. “We made good time!”

  “We made a mess!”

  He laughed and cranked the wheel to the left so hard, I flew out like a cork out of a champagne bottle, tumbling ass over teakettle until I hit a parked car and threw up. I laid there in a new and special mixture of snow, sleet, and not a few hailstones, and I prayed. Not that Lefty would come and find me. I prayed he wouldn’t. The world was spinning. The vomit wasn’t projected so much out of me but into my scarves so my face and neck were coated. I was okay with it as long as Lefty didn’t come back.

  My prayers were not answered.

  “Whoa,” he said. “You can really roll. Impressive.”

  Not a compliment I ever wanted to hear, but he acted like I’d really accomplished something, patting me on the back and saying, “I hope somebody recorded that. We’d get so many views.”

  “Swell,” I said.

  He shoved me upright and dragged me toward the Gator.

  “No! I’m not getting back in that thing.” I pulled sideways and we both went down in the icy parking lot. It took serious effort to get back on our feet. That parking lot was sheer ice under six inches of snow.

  “I’ll have to plow this again,” said Lefty as he shoved me forward.

  I hit the wall next to a door that had St. Sebastian Sentinel printed on it in black. The door was frozen shut, but Lefty found a snow shovel from somewhere to hack away at the ice until he got it to budge.

  “Success.” He forced the door open eight inches and tried to kick me inside. Literally. He kicked me. The good news was that I barely felt it, but still it was kind of embarrassing and it didn’t work. I didn’t get halfway in. I was closer to eight feet wide than eight inches.

  “What the hell are you doing?” yelled someone and a man got in my face.

  “Help!”

  He grabbed me and between him nearly pulling my arm out of socket and Lefty kicking my giant butt, I tumbled into a reception room with a cracked linoleum floor and battered metal furniture. I lurched into a desk, thrusting it three feet into a wall, knocking off a bunch of framed headlines.

  “Lefty! Only you would come out in the biggest storm we’ve had in twenty-five years,” said the man.

  “That was rockstar.” Lefty whipped off his balaclava and shook out his mane of white hair. “I rolled it.”

  “How many times?”

  “Three, I think. Could’ve been four.”

  “Nice.”

  “You want to take a spin?”

  “I would, but Mallory would kill me.”

  “I hear that,” said Lefty. “Irene isn’t thrilled, but she’ll be singing another tune when everyone’s calling us to get to the pharmacy tomorrow.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” The man turned to me and frowned. “Who in the world is brave enough to get in that Gator with you?”

  The world was still off kilter and I couldn’t answer. There was just now one of him. A skinny man, wearing two flannel shirts and a greying ponytail.

  “She had to get to you,” said Lefty. “She’s investigating a murder.”

  The skinny man got rigid. “We had a murder?” He snatched up the phone he had clipped to his braided leather belt and keyed in a code.

  “Old murder,” I croaked. My throat was killing me.

  He stopped. “How old?”

  “1965.”

  “Well, you weren’t kidding when you said old.” He walked over and stuck out his hand. “Tank Tancredi.”

  I gave him my fat mittened hand. “Mercy Watts.”

  “Really?” Tank leaned in to get a closer look at the only part of me that was visible, my eyes, but he wrinkled up his long nose and pulled back. “Did you…”

  “Barf? Oh, yeah.”

  “For God’s sake, Lefty,” said Tank. “The girl’s covered in vomit.”

  Lefty had peeled off his layers and was standing by the door in a pair of red long johns and woolly socks. “What’s that?”

  Tank unwound my scarves and grimaced. “Egg sandwich?”

  “With Miracle Whip,” I said.

  “How about some peppermint tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Tank turned on Lefty. “You’ve got Tommy Watts’ kid covered in barf. Help her while I get the tea going.”

  Lefty came over curious but unapologetic as he helped me out of my coat and ski pants. “Well, I got you here.”

  “I can’t deny that,” I said, accepting a box of tissues and wiping off my chin and neck.

  “So who’s Tommy Watts?”

  Tank leaned in through a doorway. “Only the most famous detective in Missouri history. Come in. It’s warmer.”

  We went into the main newsroom, a decent-sized office with beige walls and the same battered metal furniture. There were four desks and a small office with Tank’s name and editor printed on the door.

  “I sent everyone home,” said Tank. “Maybe I shouldn’t have, since you came out in a blizzard.”

  I sat down on a sturdy sofa in Tank’s office and said, “I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

  “You had fun,” said Lefty.

  “Fun is subjective,” said Tank and he handed me a box of wet wipes. “I have these for Taco Tuesdays.”

  “Now it’s egg sandwich Thursdays,” I said.

  Tank’s phone rang and he glanced at the screen. “It’s Irene. Call your wife.”

  Lefty sighed. “Did Brooke Boothe call her?”

  “Did you take out her mailbox again?”

  “No.”

  Tank waited with the expression of a veteran newsman who knew not to rush things.

  “Alright. I hit Caden’s Barbie Princess Playhouse. I’ll fix it. I can fix anything.”

  “We hit a little girl’s playhouse?” I asked. “You’re a menace.”

  “Caden’s a boy, but yeah.”

  I crossed my arms. “That’s unforgivable. We could’ve just driven straight like normal people.”

  “I don’t have a Gator to be normal,” said Lefty. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “I barfed and little Caden ha
tes you.”

  He screwed up his mouth and got out his phone, saying, “It’s me. I’ll fix it.”

  Lefty went out into the newsroom and started defending himself against what sounded like an onslaught of recriminations.

  “Well, that’ll take a while,” said Tank. “What can I do you for?”

  “I need to see your back issues from 1965. Please tell me you keep them.”

  “Back then it was all microfiche, but yeah, I got ‘em.”

  Microfiche. I’d heard of it, but the only time I’d seen it was on The X-Files. It looked like a huge pain in the ass.

  “You don’t look happy,” said Tank.

  “I’ve never used microfiche.”

  He gave me a mug of peppermint tea and said, “I get it. You’re a Google girl. Probably don’t remember a time before email.”

  “Ridiculous, huh?”

  “Not really. I showed my kid a rotary phone once and he couldn’t figure out how to dial it. He was ten and in the gifted class.”

  “I’m not alone.”

  “Not at all,” said Tank. “What murder are we talking about?”

  “Sister Margaret Mullanphy in December, 1965.”

  He nodded. “I heard about that.”

  “Still a topic of conversation?”

  “Only because of the school.”

  “Did they name a school after her?” I asked.

  “Not a bad idea, but no, they didn’t.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  Tank put down his own cup and said, “Hold on.” He left and came back a few minutes later with a stack of newspapers.

  “No microfiche?” I asked.

  “These are recent. Last few months.” He leaned on his desk and held the papers protectively to his chest.

  “Are you planning on showing me those or what?”

  “First, I want you to know this is a genuine newspaper, not a rag like the National Enquirer or The Globe.”

  “I assumed that,” I said.

  “How much do you know about St. Seb?” he asked.

  “Almost zero.”

  He frowned. “You found Janet Lee Fine and you didn’t look into the town? Your father didn’t?”

  “My dad had nothing to do with that situation and as far as I can tell the town had nothing to do with it either.”