by A W Hartoin
“And you’ve let him go more than once. Big Steve wants him brought home immediately.”
“What’s the point? It’s his life.”
“It’s Olivia that Big Steve is protecting. Word on the street is that he stole from the Costillas. They’ll kill him if we don’t get him into custody and he needs to surrender in Missouri.”
“They’ll kill him in jail,” I said.
“Come on, Mercy. Stevie’s going to end up in prison or dead, one way or another. At home we have a better chance of keeping him alive. He’s dead without us. He’s a complete idiot.”
Before I could confirm Chuck’s assessment, Stevie did it himself. He leaned out the second story window and yelled my name. We looked up in amazement. Anybody else would’ve spotted Chuck, climbed out a front window and ran for it, but not Stevie. How had that guy come from Big Steve and Olivia? His gene pool was stellar, but it was like he forgot to dive in.
Chuck laughed. “You were saying something about not protecting Stevie?”
“Hey, Chuck,” Stevie called down. “What are you doing here?”
“Guess,” said Chuck.
“You and Mercy finally hooking up? I get it. A little romantic thing down here at Nana’s house. It’s cool with me. You guys want to go see a movie? How about dinner?”
“Dude, if I was here to get it on with Mercy, why would I want to go to a movie with you?”
“I’m a fun guy.”
Chuck shook his head. “See what I mean? Prison or dead. Open the door, Mercy. It’s unavoidable.”
It was, so I did.
The cat watched us from the top of a bookshelf. Its green eyes glowed in the gloom. Stevie claimed he didn’t let it back in and I almost believed him. Stevie could be quite sincere.
“There’s something weird about that cat,” said Chuck. “How did he get up there? I don’t see any claw marks on the shelves.”
“I really don’t care,” I said. “Can you get him for me?”
Chuck took Blackie off the bookshelf and gave him to me. The cat was warm and smooth in my hands and he looked completely unconcerned when I tossed him out the door. He landed gracefully, gave me a sidelong glance, and stalked across the courtyard toward the servant’s quarters.
“What’s up with that cat?” asked Stevie. “It never meows.”
“Why would it meow?” I asked, increasingly worried. I left Stevie alone with Nana’s cat. I’d never known him to be violent or cruel. But still, there was a first time for everything. “Did you do something to the cat?”
“I poked it,” he said.
“Why?”
“‘Cause it’s weird. You know it’s weird, right?”
“It’s a cat.”
“Nah. That’s a weird cat.” He plopped down on the sofa and propped his feet up on the trunk that served as Pop Pop’s sofa table. “I gotta eat. Let’s go eat.”
“You’re not eating. You’re leaving with Chuck,” I said.
“Where are we going?” asked Stevie.
“Back to St. Louis, so the Costillas don’t kill you in my nana’s house.”
“Nah. I’ll stay here,” he said. “I could use a good po’boy. You want a po’boy?”
“No, I don’t want a damn po’boy. I want you two out.”
Chuck stifled a laugh and made an effort to drop the glee off his face. Then he sat down and turned on a hockey game. He didn’t even like hockey. “I think we’ll stay a while. See if we can help you out.”
“I don’t need any help from either of you. Get out.” I didn’t mind Aaron, tagging along, so much. He was unobtrusive and came with an endless supply of chocolate. Stevie came with endless stupidity and Chuck came with irritating hotness. Neither were helpful.
Chuck sniffed. “You need help cooking. What is that smell?”
“Stevie made rancid sausages. I made him throw them away,” I said.
Stevie burped. “I ate ‘em.”
I slapped my forehead. “I told you they were bad.”
“Nah. They were good. I wonder if I could find that guy again.”
“What guy?” asked Chuck.
“The guy that was selling the sausages out of the back of his van.”
Chuck crossed his arms. “Give me a description. Do you remember the license plate number?”
“It was Louisiana. Maybe started with a T.” Stevie’s forehead wrinkled. He might’ve been thinking. It was the first time I’d seen it happen.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting a solid description,” said Chuck, “so we can find that van.”
“So you can turn him in to the health inspector?” I asked, hopefully.
“So we can buy some sausages.”
I threw up my hands, went upstairs to my bedroom, and slammed the door so hard the pictures rattled on the walls. How was I going to get rid of those two? I looked out the window and bit my lip. Climbing out might work. There was a stone ledge where I could inch along until I got to the garden wall. I could lure those two outside and then lock them out. That would definitely work with Stevie. I’d managed to lure him into my truck with a hamburger once. Then I tazed him and took him to his dad. Chuck was another story. I could probably get him out, but it would take a hot woman to keep him out. While I was looking outside, the cat came sidling across the garden wall, sat on its slim butt, and stared at me.
“You are a weird cat,” I said.
It yawned. If it hadn’t, you would’ve thought it was stuffed.
My phone rang and made me jump. Uncle Morty. Finally.
“Stop sending me texts,” he snarled.
“I wouldn’t have to, if you answered,” I said.
“Yeah, right. You’re such a girl.”
“What does that mean?”
“Girls love the hell out of texting. I’m putting it in a book,” he said.
“Your books have swords and dragons. Where do cellphones fit in?” I asked.
“I can put a cellphone in, if I want. I’m the damn writer. You want that shit you been bugging me about?”
“Yes.” I drew the word out nice and long, just the way he hated.
Uncle Morty growled and gave me a quick rundown. Calvin Donnelly, the science teacher, was at school the whole day of the Tulio shooting so he had no access to Abrielle and Colton. There was no connection between Donnelly, the other Berrys, or Blankenship that Uncle Morty could find, and it pissed him off.
“So we can push Donnelly to the back burner then,” I said.
“Hell, no. I’m gonna keep working him,” he said.
“Why? Donatella and Rob trusted him with their kid, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. Colton was in that science camp, but he’s still a good candidate. Scum bag.”
I rolled my eyes. Calvin Donnelly was no scumbag and I knew scumbags. “What about Sheila and Rob? Anything there?”
“Big time.”
“Tell me they weren’t having an affair. I so don’t want to tell Donatella that,” I said.
“They had a thing. Flirting on email. Questionable compliments. It progressed to low-grade cybersex. Never got to actual sex.”
“Gross. Was it still going on at the time of Rob’s death?”
“Nope. Sheila made an ass of herself at the Christmas party by rubbing on Rob and Donatella made a scene.”
That explained Mrs. Schwartz’s expression when I mentioned Donatella. She wouldn’t like a scene. She liked perfection no matter how thin the veneer.
“How much does Donatella know?” I asked.
“Only the Christmas party stuff. Rob convinced her that nothing was going on. Sheila was sloppy drunk and everyone blamed it on the punch.”
“I’m surprised Donatella didn’t check out his phone. She’s pretty sharp.”
“She might’ve, but he probably used a disposable cell.”
“How do you know they were even having a thing then?”
“Hello, Mercy. Rob was smart, but that idiot girl wasn’t. She used her
normal phone. I got it all. Texting is freaking wonderful. That sleaze is forever.”
“Ick.”
“You got no idea. Anyway, Rob broke it off after the party. Said he loved his wife and apologized for being an asshole. Little Miss Sheila couldn’t get the time of day out of him after that.”
“How’d she take it?” I asked.
“Like a twenty-two-year-old girl. Lots of calling her mother. Shit like that. I’ll tell you one thing that chick didn’t give up. Sheila thought Rob didn’t love Donatella. She thought he didn’t want to lose the kids in a divorce.”
“Any evidence of that?”
“Nope. All in her head as far as I can see,” said Uncle Morty.
“But she believed it. That’s the important thing.”
He cackled. “Ya damn skippy. You get rid of those kids, you get rid of the wife.”
That sounded so cold. Sheila didn’t seem like the vicious type. The type to get it on with a married man maybe. But kill his kids? I doubted it.
My door vibrated with a loud banging. “What are you doing in there?” yelled Chuck.
I put my hand over the phone. “I was taking a nap! Thanks a lot!”
“No, you weren’t.” Chuck paused. “Really?”
And he’s the pro detective, paid and everything.
“Yes. You’ve had girlfriends. They took naps, didn’t they?”
“I guess. I’m sorry.” Chuck pounded back down the stairs.
For the record, I’m not much of a napper. My mind’s too busy. I have to be pretty tired to nap. Chuck’s known me since we were kids. He ought to remember Mom forcing me into bed with threats of outing my naplessness to Santa.
“Hey,” squawked Uncle Morty. “I ain’t got all day.”
“Sorry. Where were we?”
“Getting pissed off.”
“But that’s your normal state,” I said.
Uncle Morty surprised me by laughing. “Yeah? Well, you bother me.”
“I live to serve. Did you get my text about Donatella’s house?”
“Yep and that’s an interesting tidbit. Enough to keep me yakking with you instead of at John DiMaggio’s table.”
“Who?”
“Know your Futurama, girl!”
“I’ll get right on that. What about the house?” I asked.
“Alarm was turned off at 2:23 p.m. the day after Tulio happened. And get this, it was done remotely.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Somebody hacked the security company?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Um…it wasn’t you, was it?”
“Shut up.”
I laughed. “Any idea who it was?”
“Not yet, but I’ll get this dillweed.”
He sounded like he took offense at the whole alarm disarming thing. I don’t know why. Uncle Morty did it all the time for Dad. He’d do it for me. If I paid him, that is.
“What bothers you about this?” I asked. “You’re not above it.”
“That’s different. Tommy’s a stand-up guy. Even you’re okay.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m touched.”
“Quiet! This dill let in a murderer. I let in the good guys and you.”
So I wasn’t a good guy. Alright then. At least he didn’t say I was bad. Uncle Morty gave me Sheila’s address. She didn’t have an alarm so I was all set with my trusty lock picks, although I wasn’t certain if I’d bother to search her place. Sheila didn’t strike me as a hacker or somebody who had the money to pay one.
I hung up and thought it over. Maybe a search of Sheila’s place was in order or maybe just a girl-to-girl talk. I could go out to Tulane, but it’d be easier to blend in during the day.
I slipped off my shoes and opened the window. I could do it. No problem.
Don’t think about the drainpipe incident. Don’t think about the drainpipe incident.
As luck would have it, there was no drainpipe to climb down and eventually fall off, like I had in Honduras. Not one of my finer moments, but this was bound to go better. Chuck and Stevie were watching hockey, and the ledge was a reasonable size if I squinted.
“I’m doing it,” I said to the cat.
It hissed and arched its back into a curve that would’ve made the Gateway Arch jealous.
“It’s not that bad an idea.”
Bigger hiss.
Whatever cat. I slung my purse over my shoulder and leaned out just as my door banged open. “Going somewhere?” Chuck pointed at me.
I froze.
“I knew you didn’t take naps. Your mom used to threaten to duct tape you to the bed.”
Ah crap!
I fixed a look of dignity on my face. “I was looking at the weird cat, if you must know.”
Chuck walked over and looked out at Blackie, who’d settled down and was cleaning his sleek side. “What about him?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. I was just looking.”
“Uh, huh. Where were you going?”
“Nowhere.” I opened my purse and dug for my favorite lipstick. It was under the Mauser, like always. I proceeded to put on a generous coat. Chuck watched me like I was the last beer on earth.
“I’ll take you. I’m pretty good at this,” said Chuck in all seriousness. That was the last thing I expected. He couldn’t help me. It wouldn’t look good, if we got caught.
“I thought you were here to nab Stevie.” I narrowed my eyes at him.
“I am.”
“But?”
“But this is a big case. If Blankenship—”
I pushed past him and ran down the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Chuck yelled after me.
I spun around on the bottom stair and he nearly ran me over. “I knew it. You’re here to watch me. Dad thought I couldn’t handle it without Aaron. Is that it?”
Chuck took off his baseball cap and smoothed his thinning hair. “Tommy has nothing to do with it.”
“He knows you’re here.”
He grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me gently back against the wall. His scent washed over me and my stomach did a flip. Stupid stomach.
“He does, but you can’t be here alone. Blankenship is a mass murderer,” said Chuck.
“Blankenship is in Hunt.”
“But you think he had a partner. Tommy told me.”
“I don’t know,” I said, avoiding his intense blue eyes.
“Yes, you do. You’ve got Tommy’s instincts. I’m not leaving you here alone. No freaking way.”
I struggled in his grasp. “My dad didn’t send you?”
“For Stevie, he did.”
I didn’t know what to make of it. Dad trusted me. That was new.
“So you don’t have to stay here.”
“I want to stay here. This is where I want to be,” said Chuck, his face bending down closer to mine. Oh, no.
Stevie popped his head into the stairwell. “Hey, guys. What’s you doing?”
Chuck didn’t look up. “Stevie, go away or I’ll smack you until you bleed.”
“I used Mercy’s laptop and there’s a ghost tour at eight. What do you say? Let’s party down at the Cat’s Meow and see us some ghosts.”
“Stevie,” Chuck’s voice took on a threatening growl.
I broke our eye contact. “Great. But no Cat’s Meow. I don’t do karaoke.”
“Karaoke rocks.” Stevie did a little uncoordinated hip shake. “Let’s do it.”
I hooked my arm through his stringy one. “The Costillas might spot you.”
“Screw those guys!”
“You know this is how you always get caught,” I said.
“You think?”
“Could be.”
That puzzled Stevie, like most things. We walked off, leaving Chuck glowering in the stairs. I held back a laugh. He was going to watch me, huh? Fine. So be it. I had Stevie, the human shield. I’d get those two liquored up and slip away while they were sleeping it off. Easy-peasy.
Chapter Fifteen
The night out on Bourbon Street hadn’t gone exactly as I planned. Chuck and Stevie both got ripping drunk, but at separate times. Chuck did it on the ghost tour. Our tour guide made a generous stop at the unhaunted Lafitte’s Blacksmith shop and we were all encouraged to buy hurricanes and some purple drink. Chuck had both, chugging them in a dark corner, glaring at me. By the time we were in front of LaLaurie house and listening to fantastic tales of extra limbs being sewn onto people, he was bumping into walls and telling everyone that he loved them, including a lesbian couple, five frat boys, and a bridal party. He even loved Stevie for being so great at being Stevie. I was the only one he did not love. Chuck told me to go jump in the Mississippi and kiss a catfish. Okay. He was very popular. Only Chuck could become more attractive when slobbery drunk. At the end of the tour, the bride was ready to dump her fiancé and run off with that ‘tall drink of sexy.’
I would’ve considered this a great success if Stevie wasn’t completely sober. He drank three times as much as Chuck and didn’t slur a word. He said he had an Irish liver. My dad boasted of the same thing on a regular basis, and I very rarely saw him drunk. Stevie and I carried Chuck back to Bourbon and propped him in a corner of a bar, where he told me I was mean and then passed out. I couldn’t believe it. Chuck was a lightweight. How did I not know that? Stevie, on the other hand, was ready to party. Maybe his brain cells couldn’t get saturated with booze because he had so few of them that the alcohol couldn’t locate them in his empty head. We karaoked. We danced. I was felt up so many times I got used to it. Stevie was charming in his goofy way and we had people buying us drinks left and right. Mine were virgins and Stevie didn’t care. He was too busy, hitting on transvestites and the odd prostitute. He didn’t believe either were what they were. Seriously, women don’t have calves like that. We just don’t.
Stevie finally tipped the scales at two in the morning, but he was so drunk he couldn’t help me with Chuck. I had to hire a bouncer named Jerry Curl to carry him home. Jerry dumped him inside the door and he was still there in a heap, laying on the floor. I couldn’t manage to drag him to the sofa. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to lift him up onto it. So I covered him with a quilt, gave him a pillow and a mixing bowl for the inevitable vomiting, and went to bed. Stevie disappeared somewhere in the house. I might’ve thought he escaped if it wasn’t for the dual snoring.
