by A W Hartoin
“Hello? Pete?” I said all squeaky and weird.
“What happened? Are you okay?” asked my old boyfriend, Pete, in his super calm way.
“I need a favor. I’ll watch Wallace,” I said.
“Is it your dad? You know he threatened to shoot me once.”
“What? No. It’s Uncle Morty.”
“That’s worse.”
“Worse than a shooting?”
“I might survive a shooting,” said Pete.
“I don’t know what to say to that, except that Uncle Morty had a heart attack and I’m in St. Seb and Mom is at Cairngorms Castle. I don’t know what to do. We’re snowed in.” I sucked in a breath.
“When did they bring him in?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
I hung up and practiced my calming breaths. They were so not working.
“So is this uncle your guy with the information?” asked Tank.
“He is.” I started crying like a big wuss while texting Mom that Pete was on it. “And I’m here. I’m supposed to be there.”
“It sounds like he wanted you here.”
“He did, but he’s crazy. This crime is fifty years old.”
Tank nodded. “I’ve been wondering what the rush is.”
I told him about Uncle Morty stinking up the plane and being put on the No Fly List. And Nikki. And hot guys in Greece. I blubbered the whole time. It wasn’t pretty and I already smelled like vomit.
Tank put a blanket over my shoulders and then sat down, getting very quiet.
“And there you go. That’s why I’m here and I have to sleep in a haunted mansion tonight. I don’t need that. She already talked to me.”
“It really is a serial killer,” said Tank, handing me a box of tissues.
I blew my nose six times. I could’ve gone a seventh, but it was getting embarrassing. “Sorry I left out the medal before.”
“We might really have a serial killer living at Shady Glen.”
“Maybe,” I said as Pete’s theme played again. I answered with “Is he alive?”
Uncle Morty was alive and angry that the gym called my mother. He’d had what Pete called a cardiac event that caused a panic attack that made him pass out while running on the treadmill. He was stable, but they were keeping him sedated—probably more for the anger than anything else—and were running a ton of tests. Pete thought he’d be okay, but his lifestyle of concentrated sitting had to change and his cholesterol was through the roof. Next was looking at a blockage at the heart, which Pete thought he had and would require a stent.
“Thank you so much, Pete,” I said before blowing my nose the seventh time. It was unavoidable.
“You are taking Wallace. Honestly, I think you should take her twice.”
“What did he do?”
“He’s out of it.”
“And?”
“He may have threatened to wipe my degrees and board certification,” said Pete.
“Why?” I asked.
“He thinks I dumped you. Did you tell him that?”
I had to smile. Uncle Morty was alright. Making unreasonable threats and demands was his normal state. “No. He knows I’m the scumbag on that score.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I would.”
Pete laughed. “If you insist. I have to go, but I’ll check on him after he gets out of the cath lab.”
I thanked Pete again and told him to tell his mother I was her new pug sitter. Tank stood up and said it was time to get started on the next day’s edition. His staff of three had sent in their stories and he had to do the layout.
“Will I be in the way?” I asked.
“Not at all.” He started in on his layout and my phone rang. Predictably, It was Dad. Unpredictably, he was incredibly upset. I did my best to calm him down with Pete’s assessment.
“I didn’t take you seriously,” he said. “I was thinking about the FBI and getting our life back. I’m an asshole.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“No comforting word, huh? That’s fine,” said Dad. “I don’t deserve them.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, “and it’s not mine. I told him not to run.”
“He’s losing his woman. I know how scary that is.”
“It’s not because he’s fat. Nikki didn’t care.”
“I don’t know what to do. I can’t get there.”
“Is Chuck going?” I asked.
Chuck was going. He left the scene of a murder suicide, handing it off to Nazir, and was currently making his way across the city at five miles an hour. That almost made me cry again. He wasn’t my dad. It wasn’t going to be my mom’s life all over again for me.
“Are you up to helping me?” I asked.
“Did you get to the police station before the storm hit?” asked Dad.
I told him what happened and that cheered him up. Me being a blockhead always did.
“Well, you’re ass out there. You’ll have to get to the paper tomorrow.”
“I’m there.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I heard Dad straighten up. Tommy Watts was now awake and on fire. He came to the same conclusions I did without seeing the map or the pictures. It was like he could see it, like he knew it on instinct. I could say two words and he’d finish the sentence. It would’ve been annoying if it hadn’t been so damn impressive.
“So,” Dad said, assuming his lecturer voice. “What is bothering you about this?”
“Everything,” I said.
“Be specific.”
“Simple strangulation and what Desmond Shipley said.”
“We need to know a little more about Shipley,” said Dad. “But Morty’s out obviously.”
“I’ve got an idea about that.”
“Good. Handle it.”
I’d never had Dad trust me to handle something like that. He usually wanted details and to tell me I was wrong and possibly an idiot. “Okay. I will. I know a guy.”
“I figured. You don’t always use Morty.”
“I don’t.”
“Good. Get him or her on Bertram Stott, too. I have a feeling about him.”
“What do you think about the abuse thing?” I asked.
Dad had a theory. It was one that had occurred to me, but I did my best not to think about it. The killer had visited the body. We knew that from the brush being moved, but that wasn’t all. Dad thought that he, or they, might have been practicing on the body. He thought they’d been testing different types of killing.
“That’s really horrible,” I said. “I can’t…we can’t tell anyone that. Myrtle and Millicent or Aunt Miriam. They couldn’t take it. I can barely take it and I didn’t know her.”
“It is horrible, but don’t think about how you feel. Think about what it tells us,” he said in a very gentle tone, the one I hadn’t heard since David disappeared.
“They’re young. Inexperienced. No conscience, for sure.”
“Right. And they had time to do it. Not a lot of obligations.”
“And they didn’t know her,” I said.
“Not that. Knowing her doesn’t mean they couldn’t carve her up. Either she didn’t mean anything to them or they were punishing her.”
“Punishing her? She was dead, I hope.”
“She was dead from the time she disappeared.”
“Why do you think that?” I could tell Dad was smiling and, for once, it was nice.
“The same reason you do. You’ve got skills, Mercy. Instincts,” said Dad. “Go ahead. Tell me why.”
I told him that I thought she’d been taken at the asylum on her way to the bus stop for her meeting with the bishop.
“So?” said Dad.
“So that’s impulsive and high risk. Who kidnaps a nun in broad daylight where it’s easy for someone to hear or walk by? You’d have to restrain and silence a full-grown woman and have the equipment to do it. That says plan. Maggie liv
ed at the convent. It’s super quiet and isolated. Only women and it’s not well-lit even now. If I wanted to kidnap Maggie and make sure I got away with it, I’d take her there. I think something happened. One of our guys reacted and he got lucky.”
“Only one of our guys was in the parking lot?” asked Dad.
“Two makes it a plan. There was no plan.”
“You are my kid.”
“Did you doubt it at some point?” I asked. “Mom won’t be thrilled with that.”
“I didn’t doubt your paternity. You always seemed to be your mom’s kid and I was incidental.”
“You weren’t around a lot.”
“I know and I’m sorry about that,” said Dad.
Time to change the conversation.
“So what’s up with that ‘simple strangulation’ comment?” I asked.
“It happened after the crime had been supposedly solved, right?”
“Yes.”
“Take it apart. Separate simple and strangulation,” he said.
I thought about that. Strangulation was easy. It was what it was. Simple. Now that was just plain odd. “I don’t know. It’s weird.”
“Think, Mercy. What do people mean when they say simple? What’s simple?”
“Um…easy. Over. It’s over. Nothing to get fussed up about.”
“That’s my girl,” said Dad. “Mr. Barney Scheer was told to stand down. So he had to make that sound reasonable. Simple. Easy. No big deal. Just like the whole small time crime thing.”
“Do you think he really believed Father Dominic did it?”
“Probably not, but believing gets easier over time. People tend to take suicide as an admission of guilt and you said the crime rate went off a cliff. There certainly weren’t any other murders. That all backs up the story.”
“I don’t think Father Dominic killed himself,” I said.
“Neither do I. It’s too convenient and he was a priest. Damnation is a pretty strong deterrent.”
The door to Tank’s office banged open and a snow beast walked in. “Ready to go?” Lefty asked.
“That’s my ride, Dad. I have to go.”
“Mercy, thanks for calling me.”
Er…I didn’t.
“Sure. Thanks for helping.”
“You never asked me for help before.”
“Well…I…”
“I know. Talk to you later.” Dad hung up and I was left confused. What did he know? That he was a huge pain in the ass? He was pretty chill if that was it.
Tank got out of his chair and tried to persuade Lefty to peel off some layers to warm up. It was a no-go and Lefty didn’t need to warm up. He was running on hot adrenaline and plenty of it.
“Gotta get back and refuel. Gas station is closing and I expect to get more calls.” Lefty waved at me. “Suit up! Irene is making steak and Guinness pie.”
“Aren’t you a bed and breakfast?” I asked, going over to pick up my barf scarf.
“Restaurants are all closed. Besides, Irene has a new recipe. She likes guinea pigs other than just me.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“It will be,” said Lefty. “What about you, Tank? Need a ride?”
“Thanks, but I’m working on the morning edition for a while longer.”
“It’s pretty bad out and getting worse.”
“I’ve got the Jimmy. I can get through anything,” said Tank. “Mercy, is there anything else you want me to look into besides the animal thing?”
“Animal thing?” asked Lefty.
“We’ve got a problem, my friend, and I’m not just whistling Dixie here.”
“With that old murder?”
“Mercy can fill you in,” said Tank. “Is there anything else?”
I wound the barf scarf over the mostly clean scarf and considered. It was a can of worms and I’d already opened a barrel full.
“I can see there is,” he said. “Please don’t say rape or child molestation.”
“What the hell has been happening here?” asked Lefty.
“It’s not that,” I said. “It’s actually unrelated to Sister Maggie.”
“Well, normally I’d say we’re not a haven for crime, but given what I now know, I won’t. Lay it on me,” said Tank.
I told him I was interested in a plane crash that happened in the eighties and wanted any articles he might have on it.
“A plane crash?” asked Lefty. “Are you sure you have the right town? We’re not exactly Lockerbie, Scotland.”
“It was a small plane with just two people on board and it did go down around here,” I said.
“Oh, right. There’s a pretty little memorial out near the Westin Dairy.”
“That’s the one,” I said.
“It was an accident?” asked Tank.
“Cause undetermined.”
“How do you keep coming up with these old crimes?” asked Tank.
“My great-grandparents were on board.”
The men went quiet and helped me on with my boots, gloves, and hat. Tank took the earmuffs and opened them up. “You asked Will for the police report?”
“That would’ve been destroyed in the flood along with everything else,” I said.
He nodded. “I’ll find those articles for you. Now, Lefty, don’t forget to tell Mercy the rules. She’s had a hell of an afternoon with you nearly killing her and whatnot. The last thing she needs is to have Miss Elizabeth taking an interest in her.”
“No problem.”
“What do you mean by ‘take an interest’?” I asked.
“Talking to you. Being what she considers helpful. Or, you know, other stuff,” said Lefty.
“Other stuff?”
“As long as she doesn’t talk to you, you’re all good,” said Tank.
“Um…what if she does?” I asked.
“Then you’d be interesting. You don’t want to be interesting.” He popped on the earmuffs and pushed me out the door into the storm.
Crap on a cracker. I’m interesting.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WE MADE IT back to Miss Elizabeth’s Bed and Breakfast almost without incident. Almost. Lefty was tired from pulling cars out of ditches and he did his best just to drive straight. Unfortunately, driving straight wasn’t in the cards. Forty mile an hour wind gusts pushed us around on a sheet of ice. While I was at the paper, we’d gotten a lot of sleet, which put a thick crust of ice on everything. The Gator would ride on top of the snow and then break through and we’d have to plow our way out. It took an hour to go six blocks. I’d gotten a theory of the crime and even a suspect, but it wasn’t worth it. I could’ve waited a day.
After Lefty finally got the Gator into the garage, we had to shovel before we could close the door because the wind instantly blew a three-foot drift in behind us. By the time we staggered into the back door, I’d lost the feeling in my butt. You know it’s bad when you can’t feel your butt.
“Finally!” exclaimed Irene as she bustled over from her stove. “I was thinking about calling out the National Guard, but Will called and said he saw you plowing Minnie Lake’s front yard.”
Lefty hung up his frozen stiff clothes and started clawing the ice out of his eyebrows. “I didn’t plow anyone’s front yard. He must’ve had a couple for the drive home.”
“Don’t even say that.”
Lefty raised a brow, but said nothing.
Irene helped me unbundle and saw the scarves. She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Lefty. What did you do?”
His eyes shifted to the right. “Nothing. She wanted to go to the newspaper. I got her there in one piece.”
She held up the barf scarf. “I don’t call this one piece.”
“You’d be wrong then,” said Lefty. “And I bet she’ll give us a great review on TripAdvisor, too.”
I said I would, a stellar review, the smell of steak and Guinness cinched it. I was starving.
“Hold on,” said Lefty. “What is that noise?”
“Huh?” asked Irene.
“You didn’t tell those ladies the rules, did you? Irene, good God, people will start avoiding us if we can’t control the situation.”
“I told them.” She listened for a second and I heard it, too. A loud rhythmic thumping. “That’s not her. It’s Fats. She’s exercising.”
“Why?” asked Lefty.
“She ate cookies,” I said.
“She wanted them,” said Irene, rather defensively.
I took off my ski pants and my butt started to tingle. It wasn’t pleasant, but at least it wasn’t going to turn black and fall off. “It’s not your fault. She has issues with food.”
“She attacked those cookies with a vengeance.”
“That’s how she does everything.” I flexed my fingers and toes. Not bad. A little blue, but that’s what you get for being a Watts. “I’ll calm her down.”
That’s what I said, but Fats was uncalmable. I’d never been able to distract her from exercising or feeding me steamed vegetables. Steamed cauliflower is gross, but I ate it.
“Wait,” said Irene. “You need the rules.”
“Got it,” I said. “Don’t be interesting.”
“Well, yes, but there’s more to it than that,” said Irene. “First, make sure—”
A loud thump followed by a scream interrupted her. Lefty took off running and Irene pointed her spatula at the door. “Go!”
So I went running through Miss Elizabeth’s house, but I didn’t know where I was going. Lefty was fast.
“Fats! Clarence!” I turned three corners and ran into Lefty’s back nearly taking him out.
“What the hell?” He stumbled forward and caught himself on the newel post.
“She fell!” yelled Clarence from the top of the stairs.
I darted around Lefty to run to Fats, but then I saw her. If she fell, she had an awfully interesting way of landing. Fats was balanced on her hands, knees on elbows, halfway up the stairs on the landing. The PJs were gone and she was back in spandex.
“I didn’t fall,” she said. “I jumped.”
Lefty clutched his chest. “Thank goodness.”
Fats brought herself up into a full handstand and arched her back until her body was in a graceful curve and her heels touched the narrow space between two framed family photos. Then she snapped her legs back and she was upright without breaking sweat.
