by A W Hartoin
“Mercy!” yelled a deep voice and I looked reluctantly down the stairs. Outside of the broken windows was Tiny and an elderly woman with a cane.
“I’m up here!”
They saw me and stepped in, crunching the glass and sending shivers up my spine. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“She’s fine. Can’t you see that?” The old lady walked over to the body and poked it with her cane. “He’s not. Shot to the face. You don’t shoot them in the face. Look at this mess. This carpet’s past saving and it was expensive to my eye.” She shook her head. “Gut shot is cleaner. Young people never think about the cleanup.”
Tiny slapped his forehead. “Auntie, she was attacked.”
“That’s no excuse. You’ve got to think about these things. What’s her mother going to say?”
I had no idea. I’d never killed anyone before. The territory was newly discovered.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, not sure what to do.
“Good enough,” said Auntie. “You stay there until the cops get here.” She checked the small gold watch on her wrist and frowned. “Taking their sweet time about it.”
It wasn’t so long. I found out later that the cops were on the scene six minutes after Tiny called 911. Not bad at all, but it felt like forever. Once the cops were there, I was allowed to walk down the other stairs, the servant stairs, on the other side of the house. I’d forgotten they existed. It was Aunt Willasteen who pointed out that a house of this age would have a second set for those who were not to be seen as they served. The cops pushed aside the bookcase in Pop Pop’s office to reveal the door and I was brought down to the living room and put in his favorite chair as Cortier showed up. She walked in through the window, wearing paper overalls the color of toilet water and booties to protect the scene.
She shook her head. “You again. I should’ve known.”
“You took your sweet time,” said Aunt Willasteen over her compact as she powdered her nose and then smoothed her salt and pepper hair back into its tiny bun at the base of her small skull.
“And you are?” asked Cortier.
“Willasteen Plaskett. I see your memory is as good as your speed.”
“Do we—”
“We do. Three years ago. The Flavortime shooting. Your number one witness.”
Cortier’s head jerked back, I suspected, in horror. Then I realized who Willasteen reminded me of, Aunt Miriam. I would say it must run in the family, but Aunt Miriam was a Watts and no relation to the Plasketts.
“Yes, ma’am. Of course I remember you.” Her eyes switched to me. “Who is he, Mercy?”
“I have no idea.”
She frowned.
“But I know who sent him and it wasn’t for me.” I gave her Stevie’s details and then ran through the events. It took about three minutes. There wasn’t much to say and I found it very dissatisfying. An incident of that magnitude should take longer to explain, but, as Cortier pointed out, death doesn’t take that long to accomplish.
“And how did you two come to be here?” Cortier asked Tiny.
“We were coming over to visit. We’re family,” interjected Aunt Willasteen.
Cortier stopped writing in her little pad.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Ma’am, I believe everything you say,” Cortier replied smoothly as she looked for a family resemblance and found it. Willasteen and I had identical widow’s peaks.
After she finished taking our statements, I refused an ambulance for a second time. I wasn’t hurt, not where any doctor could find the injury anyway and I didn’t want to be poked and prodded. I sat in a lawn chair, swathed in quilts, and looked through the family albums with Tiny and Aunt Willasteen. The body was directly in front of me, lying in its pool of coagulated blood. After a couple of hours, it ceased to feel like it had anything to do with me. Mom would later tag that disconnected feeling as denial. Whatever. It worked for me, because that body was there for over four hours as they processed the scene. Evidence gathering is a long, drawn out process and when they finally carted the body away, the stretcher passed my mother and Aunt Miriam. Cortier had called Dad and he got Big Steve to borrow a private plane for them to fly down in.
Aunt Miriam walked in the courtyard first, glanced at the body, and said, “That carpet is ruined.”
Mom rolled her eyes and came over to crush me to her chest. “Are you alright, honey?”
“I think so,” I said, my eyes welling.
“Where’s Chuck? Your father said he was here.”
“I don’t know. Tiny called him, but he won’t answer,” I said.
“Tiny?” Mom asked.
I introduced them before going into the ugly cry. I wailed for two hours while Mom and Willasteen picked out a cleaning company that would wash blood off ceilings, argued with the crime scene analyst about whether or not I could have my phone back (I couldn’t), and compared family lore on Robard. The Plaskett’s had a higher opinion of him than we did, oddly enough. I called Chuck on Mom’s phone a dozen more times, but he never answered. I considered calling Pete, but I didn’t want to look like I was saying he should forgive me because I’d been attacked. I didn’t call. Not that desperate yet.
Cortier reiterated that the crime scene, aka Nana’s house, wouldn’t be released to us for a good long time, sparking yet another argument with Willasteen and Miriam. Together the aunts were formidable, and Cortier had to pretend to take a call so she could make her escape.
One of Nana’s condos in the servants’ quarters was empty and Mom insisted in moving us over there. It was a two bedroom and I would share with Aunt Miriam so she could keep an eye on me. Then she hired a massage therapist for my benefit or so she claimed. It took Tiny to pry me out of my chair. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to move or shower or eat or do anything, but sit and stare at the bloody carpet. Mom, as usual, wouldn’t take no for an answer and I was hauled off. Changing my location didn’t remove the stain from my brain. Incessant talking did. We weren’t the only ones who went to the condo. The Plasketts came, too. All the Plasketts. It turned out the other side of the family weren’t great breeders either. Tiny was the last egg in their basket and, if anything, he was suffering more pressure to marry than I was.
Mom put me in the bedroom with the massage therapist. Lynn was a childhood friend of Mom’s, which accounted for the not listening to me. Lynn said I needed a deep tissue massage and proceeded to give me one, while making me smell the stank incense she lit and put a mere foot from my face. I would rather have had Aunt Miriam and Willasteen beat me with their canes.
When I came out, reeling from the pain and stink, I found the living room filled to the brim and smelling delicious. Willasteen had made her special gumbo, shrimp and sausage with a deep dark roux. She and Aunt Miriam were in the small kitchen, arguing about the amount of sugar to put in the corn bread.
“That’s cake,” said Aunt Miriam.
“That’s corn bread.”
“Two-thirds cup makes it cake.”
“It makes it good.”
I squeezed through the crowd to an empty spot next to Tiny on the sofa. He wasn’t watching the hockey game on the TV. Instead, he watched Aunt Miriam and Willasteen go toe-to-toe.
“Who’s your money on?” I asked.
“Willasteen. She hits.”
“I have news for you, so does Miriam.”
“It’s like they were separated at birth.”
I laughed as Tiny’s cousin Melody yelled, “Somebody get the door,” before she darted into the kitchen. The canes were going up. I heaved myself off the squashy sofa and opened the door. It was Cortier. The bags under her eyes had grown pouchier. “Can I come in?”
“You can try,” I said.
She peered past me at the crowd. “What the hell? Are you having a party? You just killed someone.”
“It’s not a party. It’s a reunion. And if you think I’m in charge of anything, you’re wrong.”
She leaned farther to
the side. “Um…the old ladies are fighting.”
“Are you surprised?” I asked.
“Not really, but they have canes.”
“Mom and Melody will deal with it. What’s up? Did you find out who that guy is?”
“He had no ID and his prints aren’t in the system,” she said.
I frowned and my stomach got queasy. A mystery guy wasn’t good. He could be anybody. Anybody could be important. “You have no idea who he might be?”
“Maybe someone new to the Costilla organization and he just hadn’t been arrested yet. Stevie was important to them, but not that important. A new guy fits.”
“They still don’t have Stevie so they’re going to keep looking. What’s next?”
“Nothing. Stevie’s secure. About the time you were shooting that guy in the face, he was surrendering.”
“In St. Louis?” I asked.
“Yep. He was with his father, and they’re working on an advantageous deal as we speak,” said Cortier.
“Was Chuck there, too?”
A smile passed over her lips. “No. I asked.”
My heart sunk. Where was he? I’d stopped calling. It’d gotten to the point of pathetic. “Okay.”
“No one will speak about him. We’re going to need him back.”
You’re not the only one.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean, I asked to speak to him and got nothing. Zilch. Nobody will confirm his presence in St. Louis, but they won’t deny it either.”
“That’s weird.”
“I’d say so. We need to talk about your situation,” said Cortier.
Mom poked her head around my shoulder. “That’s easy. Mercy will be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.”
“She needs to be available to us.”
Mom smiled, the way only she can, and gave Cortier a business card. “She will be. Call us when you need her.”
Cortier eyed the card. “There is the issue of security.”
“Tommy will look after her.”
“Where is Mr. Interview?”
Mom gave out a delicate little snort. I didn’t know snorts could be delicate. I made big honking ones. “I like that. Mr. Interview,” she said. “Tommy will hate it.”
“It’s better than Howdy Doody,” said Cortier.
“Or swizzle stick.”
“Or carrot cranium.”
I held up my hand. “Wait a minute. Who calls Dad carrot cranium?”
“Me, for one,” said Cortier. “My captain, for another.”
“Count me in,” said Mom. “Your father is ripe for nicknames.”
“But he’s…Dad.”
“He’s goofy-looking.”
My tongue felt dry and I realized my mouth was open. Mom hugged me and laughed. “Your father is fabulous, but do you really think that I could live with him and not think he’s funny? He’s a six foot four red head that weighs 150 pounds. He puts jalapeños on everything and thinks he might get cancer from antiperspirant.”
Cortier burst out laughing. “He’s still on that?”
“He is. Don’t get me started.”
“Mom, is this why I got that weird all-natural deodorant in my stocking this year?” I asked.
“It is. I gave you the chocolate,” said Mom.
“You’re my favorite parent.”
“Was there ever any doubt?”
Well…
“Alright,” said Cortier. “Back to Howdy. Why isn’t he here?”
“Tommy’s chasing down a lead. As you know, Mercy wasn’t the target.”
“She could be now.”
“Tommy’s on it.”
“Good enough.” Cortier shook Mom’s hand and mine before she returned to the crime scene.
I started back inside, but Mom grabbed my arm. “Did I hear her mention Chuck?”
“Yes.” I avoided her penetrating gaze.
She squeezed my arm. “What did you do?”
“What do you mean?” My voice was high and hamster-like. What says guilt more than that?
“He left you here alone. Chuck would never do that, if he were thinking straight. You finally let him in.”
“You saw the video,” I said.
“Of course, I did. Half my graduating class emailed it to me. Thanks for that, by the way. Now what did you do?”
I told her and she looked up at the ceiling, sighing. “Leave it to you to ruin it. I don’t know how you’re going to fix this. I really don’t. Chuck is like a son to your father. How could you?”
My bare feet became very interesting, much better than looking at my mother’s angry face. “Is this why Dad’s not here?”
Mom tipped my chin up. “He is chasing a lead. I came. I’m your mother. You need me, not an interrogation.” She gave me a fierce hug and Cortier ran back up the steps.
“Yes?” asked Mom.
“Your cat’s in my crime scene again.”
“I’ll get him,” I said.
“I thought you locked him up,” said Cortier.
Mom gave her a devilish grin. “We did.”
“There’s something weird about that cat. He keeps looking at me like he knows the color of my underwear.”
I crossed my arms and leaned on the doorframe. “You know, I spent half my time here throwing that cat out, but he always gets back in. What is the deal? Did Nana put in secret cat doors or something?”
“Do you want the truth or a lie?” asked Mom.
Lies are always more interesting and, as Dad says, lies show you something about the liar, a truth they’d think they’re concealing. “Lie.”
“He’s my mother’s cat and smarter than you apparently,” Mom said with a twinkle in her eye.
“Now I want the truth,” said Cortier. “That’s the most boring lie I ever heard.”
One of Mom’s perfectly waxed brows shot up. “Alright then. He came with the house.”
I made a swirling motion with my finger. “This house? Nana’s house. The house that Robard bought in 1830?”
“It’s the only house we’ve got.”
Cortier nodded sagely. “I’ll tell my people to be careful.”
“That would be prudent, advisable even.”
What’s happening?
“We didn’t get the house in 1830?” I asked and both women looked at me like I was dumber than a box of rocks.
“Of course, we did. Robard bought it from the original owners after one of the many cotton market crashes. You know that.”
“But…”
“He came with the house, Mercy,” said Mom.
Cortier patted my shoulder. “This is New Orleans. Life and death aren’t so far apart.”
The cat slinked up the stairs, sat on his skinny rump and stared, not blinking as usual.
“You were well looked after,” said Mom.
“So that cat has been in this house for nearly two hundred years?” I asked. “How come I never saw him before?”
Mom shrugged. “I’ve only seen him three times before now.”
“Seriously?”
“The first time was when I was staying with my grandparents. I had this terrible flu and was hospitalized for a week. The second was right before Tenne had her terrible car accident, and the third was when my grandparents died in that plane crash. We came back for the funeral and he was here.”
“So this cat is a what? A ghost?”
“I don’t know what he is. I’m just glad he was here for you today,” said Mom. She thanked Cortier and went inside.
Cortier eyed me. “You better pick him up.”
“You pick him up,” I said.
“He’s not my cat.”
“He’s not a cat.”
Meow.
I froze. It was the first meow and it sounded like an affirmation of his not-a-catness. I could not have been more creeped out.
“Good luck,” said Cortier and she booked it down the stairs.
“I’m not picking you up,” I said to the cat.
Aunt Miriam flung open the door, her cane at the ready. “Are you alright? What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just thinking, I guess.”
She glared at the cat, who ignored her and stalked into the condo with his tail in a question mark. “Sometimes it doesn’t pay to think too much. This is one of those times. What has happened has happened. Thinking won’t change it. Have you called him yet?”
Him? Chuck?
The cane rapped the floor. “Don’t play with me, Mercy. Call him and tell him you’ve finished this case.”
“Chuck isn’t answering,” I said in a small voice and her brittle expression softened.
“Not Chuck. The Fibonacci.”
I froze.
“I assume a man like that doesn’t stand in a freezing convent parking lot to pass the time of day. Have you finished it with him?”
“Um…not yet.”
“Then do it and collect whatever it is that you will collect.”
“I’m not getting anything,” I said. “How come you didn’t tell Dad about him?”
“You’d just started this hunt, and I decided that you might need backup of a most lethal kind. The Fibonaccis do provide for their friends. You are a friend, are you not?”
“I’m not an enemy.”
She snorted. “I should hope not.” Then she brightened up. “After you’ve finished, we’ll watch a movie.”
I paled. Then remembered we were in New Orleans, far from Aunt Miriam’s movie collection. “Sure. Great.”
“Willasteen has the entire Omen collection.”
No!
Aunt Miriam gave me her phone and went inside, whistling the theme song to The Exorcist. Nice. Just what I needed to not think about killing. Death and blood spatter. I groaned and then called Oz Urbani.
Oz’s voice was harsh and angry. “Yes?”
I hesitated, but said, “It’s Mercy. I wanted to give you an update, if you’re in the mood.”
“Sorry. I just found out that Donatella’s son was the target in New Orleans. You should’ve told me.”
“Why do you care so much?”
“I care about all of it. If anything else turns up, I want you to tell me who’s involved first.”
