Small Time Crime (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 10)

by A W Hartoin

  “Nope. Do it. He wasn’t exactly focused. Once he saw Nikki with that guy, it was really over. Brain off. Crazy jealous monster on.”

  “And there was money,” said Spidermonkey. “I like that. I’ve got a feeling that’s what we’re going to nail them on.”

  “We’re not trying to nail the Catholic Church,” said Loretta.

  “If they caused a nun to be murdered, you bet your pretty little britches I am,” said Spidermonkey.

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t do that on purpose.”

  “Really? You’re sure?” he asked.

  “Don’t get sarcastic with me.”

  The two of them started bickering about the church and the pedophile coverup. Even though they weren’t directly affected, it pained them both in many ways and the discussion gave me time to think, but Elizabeth wasn’t having it. The wardrobe began rattling.

  “Alright,” I said. “Alright.”

  “What was that?” Loretta asked.

  “Oh…um, I was thinking out loud. There’s just so much to research.”

  “And here we are talking about unrelated crimes.”

  “Might not be unrelated,” said Spidermonkey.

  “You’re determined to think the worst.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re so attractive,” said Loretta.

  The wardrobe’s doors burst open and Maggie’s box looked like it had a couple of wild dogs fighting inside it. “The asylum!” I yelled and the box went quiet.

  “Oh my God, Mercy,” said Loretta. “Why are you yelling?”

  “I’m excited?”

  “Are you asking us?” Spidermonkey asked.

  “No. I’m excited. I…uh…thought of something. Can you find the layout of the asylum where Maggie worked?”

  “I should be able to. What specifically? The interior?”

  “No. More exits and the nearest bus stop. I want to see how it would’ve gone down, assuming I’m right.”

  “But it could’ve happened at the Cardinal Rigali Center since Maggie was going to her appointment there,” said Loretta. “If Bishop Fowler knew Maggie was about to report something that he didn’t want reported, that’s another possibility.”

  “If you can get the layout for the Center, too, it would be good, but my dad and I both think this was a spur of the moment thing. Lying in wait says plan.” I explained what Dad and I were thinking, including our theory on the body being abused. It turned out to be too much for Loretta. She left the room under the guise of checking on a crying grandbaby, but I wasn’t fooled and I didn’t blame her. Excusing myself from Maggie’s case sounded like a swell idea.

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  “She will be,” he said. “This is a lot different than watching 48 Hours.”

  “Or 20/20.”

  “If they do one more story that trashes you, I will give them a virus that they won’t soon forget.”

  I laughed and laid back on the bed. “Don’t do that. They might trace it to you.”

  He snorted the way Uncle Morty did but somehow made it sound elegant and I pictured my handsome hacker sitting in a wicker chair all silver-haired and buttoned up. “That will not happen, rest assured.”

  “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  “Deal. I’m pretty good with taxes. I’ll get the church’s filings and see what I can make out. That’s where it shows.”

  “And the asylum,” I said. “That was probably a non-profit.”

  “Yes, yes. Now we’re cooking with gas,” said Spidermonkey. “And this Bishop Fowler was involved, plus the doctor.”

  “I forgot about him.”

  “The doctor?”

  “Yes.” I told him about my feeling on the doctor’s untimely accident four days after Maggie disappeared. “I originally thought she would’ve been with him, but in light of his health and the accident, I doubt it.”

  “Let’s see where Dr. Desarno practiced,” said Spidermonkey.

  “I’m sure he had an office at St. Vincent’s.”

  “He probably did. I’ve got the obituary and the newspaper story on the accident. Would you look at that? Green Dodge pickup.”

  “I need to be taking notes. Two pickups so far.”

  “Or one,” said Spidermonkey, just a little bit ominously.

  “Do you have a feeling?” I asked.

  “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we have a truck at both scenes four days apart at the same place.”

  I got the pictures that I printed at the Sentinel and looked at the tire tracks. “Is there any way to identify tires from that far back?”

  “Not to a specific model of truck, if that’s what you’re thinking. But we might be able to tell by how big they are. That will tell us which models they’d likely have been on.”

  The pictures were good but not that good. “I can tell they’re big, obviously not for a sedan, but we don’t have a closeup on markings.”

  “I can try. Do you have a scanner?” he asked.

  “I’ll ask if they have one, but trucks aren’t rare, even if we think the truck used to dump Maggie was a Dodge that doesn’t mean it’s the same Dodge.”

  “Sometimes I forget how young you really are,” said Spidermonkey. “Back then trucks were tools. They weren’t stylish. The average man didn’t drive one just in case he needed to carry home a bag of dirt. Trucks were for farmers or contractors. People who needed them for work.”

  “So?”

  “There weren’t a lot of trucks running around downtown St. Louis in the 60s. That came later when trucks got comfortable. You’ve got a truck at two related crimes within a week. That’s not a coincidence.”

  “Tank said everybody had a truck,” I said.

  “Well, you’re in farm country, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Definitely. So we need to know if Bertram Stott had access to a truck, too,” I said.

  “You feel that strongly about him?”

  “I do and so does my dad.”

  Spidermonkey kept typing away. “I’ll find every vehicle he’s ever had. Don’t worry about that. What else did your newspaper guy say?”

  “We’re starting to think the flooding excuse is a little hinky.” I asked Spidermonkey to look into that and gave him the names of Candace Stratton and Dallas Mosbach. He was particularly interested in Dallas, since he showed a hint of displeasure.

  “And let’s take a look at Barney Scheer, our reporter at the time,” I said. “He changed his tune. I’d like to know why.”

  “Mercy, you are my favorite person right now,” said Spidermonkey.

  “Oh yeah? That seems unlikely.”

  “This is a pile of work.”

  I’d just been thinking I’d gone way overboard and there might be a family issue. “Your kids won’t be happy.”

  “Are you kidding? They barely know I’m here. I’m the swimming, bonfire-building grandpa. Right now I have no use.”

  “It’s a lot of stuff.”

  “And we’re not done.”

  “No?”

  “You haven’t filled me in on that historian, Dr. Wallingford,” he said and, despite his soothing voice, I could tell he didn’t like being out of the loop, even though he asked to be.

  “So you have been working,” I said.

  “Perhaps a smidge.”

  I snorted. “A smidge? You’ve been checking up on me and The Girls.”

  “It’s what I do,” he said.

  “I don’t know if you have the time,” I said in a self-sacrificing tone. “What with all those babies crying.”

  “Mercy Watts, tell me what was said or I’ll—”

  “What? What are you going to do, Mr. Cashmere Sweater?” I asked with laughter.

  “You don’t think I’m tough,” he said petulantly.

  “I think you’re elegant and brilliant. That’s better.”

  “Alright. I won’t freeze your bank accounts. Today.”

  “Thanks.
You’re swell.”

  “I think so.”

  I teased him for another minute until Loretta came back and demanded to know what the historian found. I gave them the short version of how I connected the initials C.M.B. with Bickford House.

  “We have to look into that family,” said Loretta.

  “Dr. Wallingford knew a few things about them.” I told them what he said and they were particularly interested in the break-ins like I was. Spidermonkey said he would see if he could get the Kindertransport lists for the Bickford House area, but he doubted they would help us with identifying Constanza Stern.

  “Why not?” Loretta asked. “She was a child, Jewish, and that’s the time.”

  Spidermonkey kept typing and talking. His ability to split focus was amazing. I could barely spell and talk. “Because Constanza was special. Josiah and Stella didn’t pick out some random girl and take a photo with her.”

  That was true and how Constanza became intertwined with the Bleds fascinated me nearly as much as The Klinefeld Group and whatever they were looking for.

  “I want to know how that little girl ended up in Auschwitz,” said Loretta. “She was safe in England. Why on Earth would she ever leave?”

  “That’s the million dollar question,” said Spidermonkey. “I think Bickford House is our way in. The earl leaving his ambassadorship in November 1938 tells us that.”

  “We need to know why,” I said.

  “I’ll see what I can do, but you need to talk to Dr. Bloom. Find out if the earl or his family showed up in his research on the Resistance.”

  “I will when I get a chance.” There was a timid knock on the bedroom door and I glanced at the clock. “Dinner time,” I said. “I have to go.”

  “Good luck,” said Loretta.

  “Mercy?” Spidermonkey asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a weapon with you?”

  “I brought the Mauser.”

  “Do me a favor and keep it on you.”

  I agreed to carry the Mauser any time I left Miss Elizabeth’s and a knot formed in my stomach. Spidermonkey had never asked that of me before. He had a feeling and it wasn’t good.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CLARENCE POKED HER head in timidly. “Are you ready for dinner?”

  “I am, but Fats is still in the shower,” I said.

  She chose that moment to walk in. Actually, Fats doesn’t really walk, not like regular people do. She does a kind of march mixed with a sashay. Zena: Warrior Princess should’ve looked like her. How do I know about Zena? Chuck. She was his adolescent fantasy and I’ve been forced to watch the show and be told how awesome it is. Nope. But, I will admit, it’s great at putting me to sleep.

  Irritated, wet, and wearing a towel that barely covered the important bits, Fats growled, “I’m done.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Clarence closed the door and scurried away.

  “You need a bigger towel,” I said. “Maybe a bath sheet.”

  “Do you see this?” She pointed at herself.

  Carved muscle. The flat stomach that I never had.

  “Give me a hint?”

  “Look.” She dropped the towel. Yes, she did. Fats Licata was naked and I saw it. Oh, my eyes. The burning.

  I fell backward and put my good arm over my eyes. “Oh, my God. What in the hell are you doing?”

  “Look. Look at this,” she demanded.

  “No. You can’t make me.”

  “You’re a nurse.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  She did her sashay march thing over to the side of the bed. I could sense the anger and the naked. So much naked. There has never been so much naked.

  “We’re practically family. Just look.”

  “Uncle Morty is practically family and I’ve never seen him naked.”

  “Never?”

  “No. What the…is your family crazy?” I asked.

  “We’re not uptight and inhibited, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “I walked into the pool house on vacation and my dad was in there changing.”

  “You weren’t scarred for life?”

  “Sure, but who isn’t.”

  “Okay. Fine. I walked in on Uncle Morty in the shower when I was little. That was probably his first heart attack.”

  “See. You’re fine.”

  “He had a really hairy back. That’s all I remember.”

  “I think it’s a good thing you don’t remember anything else.”

  “When I think about it I can still hear the screaming,” I said.

  “Yours?” she asked.

  “His. He was hoarse for a week.”

  Fats poked me hard on the hip. “Okay. So we’ve waltzed down memory lane. Look at me. I think I’m showing.”

  “You are,” I said.

  “The baby, you moron.”

  I groaned. “You’re not showing. You won’t show until at least four months.”

  “I do everything early. Walking, talking, winning.”

  “You’re not going to gestate fast. That’s not a thing.”

  She poked me again. “Think about it. This is my baby.”

  “So?”

  “Mine and Tiny’s.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “What are you getting at?”

  “He was fourteen pounds.”

  I nearly dropped my arm. “Holy crap that’s a big baby.”

  “And he was two weeks early,” said Fats.

  “You might have a problem.”

  “Look at me or I’ll tell Lorenzo Fibonacci you want to get with him.”

  Lorenzo was Calpurnia’s nephew, incredibly beautiful, sleazy, and frighteningly seductive.

  “You wouldn’t.” I was pretty sure I had the strength to resist the hotness that was Lorenzo, but I wouldn’t want to chance it.

  “Try me,” said Fats with a growl I heard her use on serial rapists and a shiver of fear went down my back.

  “Alright. Just cover up, will you?”

  “You are a prude.”

  “I’m good with it.” I gave her a pillow and she retrieved the normal-sized towel that was a hand towel on her.

  “Come on, you wuss,” she said and I peeked over my arm. The view was out of some men’s fantasies, the world’s buffest woman barely covered. I needed to do sit-ups. A lot of sit-ups. “I am, aren’t I?”

  I sat up and tried to think of what to say. The short answer was no, not by any normal standards was Fats showing. But…

  “I knew it,” she said and spun around to disappear into the bathroom with a slam.

  Clarence knocked on the door and did not open it this time. “Are you two okay?”

  I got up and said to the angry door, “I’m going down to dinner.” I know. I know. Doors can’t get angry. Wrong. That door had anger written all over it and I was not opening it. Ever.

  “I’m coming,” I said and put on a pair of comfy slippers that Irene left for me and opened the other door, the good door. Clarence was hovering three feet away, red-faced and kind of hunched over.

  “Look at you,” I said. “It’s fine.”

  I put an arm around the formerly innocent nun and guided her to the stairs. “Fats is just having a time.”

  “With what?”

  “Weight. She’s been a pro bodybuilder and super fit all her life. It’s hard to gain an ounce. It’s not you or me.” It’s Tiny. He better propose soon or I don’t know what.

  “That’s good to hear,” she said. “Fats looked so angry.” Clarence whispered, “I can see why some people are afraid of her.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be. I’m not. Most of the time.”

  We joined Lefty and Irene in the kitchen, where the wood stove was blazing and a good thing, too. With all the windows in the addition the howling wind was particularly noticeable. Snow was piled up against the glass and I started to feel like I was in Alaska.

  “It smells fantastic,” I said. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

  “N
o. It’s fine,” said Irene. “I had a chance to make some calls on your behalf.”

  I took a seat at the oval oak table and accepted a large glass of red wine from Lefty, who looked slightly embarrassed. “Something wrong?”

  “I may have told her about Bertram Stott,” said Lefty.

  “May have?” Irene asked. “You called me from the Sentinel.”

  “And there’s that.”

  I smiled and took a large sip of wine. “It’s fine. I don’t think it’s a secret that Stott is a convicted murderer.”

  “No, but it’s news that he may have something to do with the nun’s death.” Irene had been busy, making a dinner worthy of Aaron, and called everyone she could think of to see if anyone knew if Stott had been in town in 1965. She came up empty-handed, but I appreciated the effort.

  “Where’s Fats?” she asked.

  “Getting dressed,” I said. “She’s feeling a little heavy after those cookies. Don’t expect her to eat that pie. Until recently, I’ve only seen her eat veggies and tofu.”

  Irene shook her head sadly. “That’s no way to live.”

  “More for us,” said Lefty happily and he began cutting generous slices.

  Irene piled our plates high with rosemary-roasted potatoes and a salad with generous chunks of stilton cheese, walnuts, and pears. “I made a dump cake for after.”

  “What’s a dump cake?” Clarence asked after agreeing to have a thimbleful of wine. Lefty literally put her wine in a shot glass. No joke.

  “It’s a treat,” I said. “You’ll love it.”

  “You dump all the ingredients in. Dump cake,” said Irene. “So many calories, but oh so good.”

  “Should we wait for Fats?” Lefty asked.

  If we want to starve.

  “Let’s not. She’s probably doing a thousand sit-ups and I don’t want it to get cold,” I said.

  The food was as good as it looked. So good I texted Aaron about it and he asked for directions. I was a little afraid the weirdo might hit the road in the middle of a blizzard on a food hunt, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

  “It’s a bummer that nobody remembered Stott from back then,” I said.

  “I’m not surprised. My friends are all too young to have known him. Teenagers all look the same when you’re in the third grade,” said Irene. “Nobody is happy to have him here and we all heard the rumors about a connection to St. Seb, but no one can remember who said it.”