A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book One)

by A.W. Hartoin

  Chapter Five

  UNCLE MORTY’S JEEP sat at my parents’ back gate, parked caddywhompus as usual. I gritted my teeth and considered turning around. I was not in the mood for Morty. He asked too many questions and I had no answers, at least not yet. But there he was, and it wouldn’t do to avoid him, as if that were possible for any length of time. Uncle Morty liked to turn up when I least wanted to see him. He was a total bloodhound and my father’s best friend, if you didn’t count my mother. Plus, he wasn’t my real uncle which made him more annoying than blood family and just as hard to get rid of.

  Uncle Morty waited, in ambush, on the back porch. I was halfway up the garden path when a drizzle started, making the long grass shiny green, and the sky took on a thick purple cast. The wind picked up, swirling the leaves and lawn clippings around my feet. The heavy air and dread slowed me, as I walked the twenty yards toward him.

  Uncle Morty waited, not moving a muscle. He stood at the edge of the stairs, a menacing statue with his arms crossed and his driving cap tipped low on his forehead. Given the rest of his getup, the hat should’ve looked ridiculous. He wore a gray sweat suit washed within an inch of its life, a pair of Nike high-tops circa 1985 and a Members Only jacket that hadn’t fit in ten years. I doubted Morty noticed he was carrying another person around his middle.

  I stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up at him. Rain dripped off the brim of his hat and he looked at me from behind thick glasses. I couldn’t read his expression. The lenses were fogged from the rain and he made no attempt to wipe them. He stood and waited, and I wished my eyes would stop burning.

  “You coming up or what?” Morty said.

  I grasped the railing and put my right foot on the first step.

  “Get a move on. Shit. I ain’t got all day.”

  I climbed the stairs, pulled out my key and unlocked the back door. I walked into the butler’s pantry with Morty close at my heels and hung my rain-soaked jacket on the coatrack by the door and watched as Morty rummaged through the cabinets. The pantry was wonderful with its floor-to-ceiling cabinets, secret drawers, and odd-shaped cubbies. As a little girl, I spent hours trying to find the pantry’s secrets. I doubt I’d discovered them all. The man who built our house was a master woodworker and I suspected deeply crazy. There were secret drawers and doors all over the house. His masterpiece was the pantry with its beveled glass, hidden hinges, delicate carvings, and unique temperature. The small room was freezing. Josiah Bled designed his house to keep the pantry at a steady forty degrees. It didn’t matter if the doors to the kitchen and dining room were left open; it never warmed. Dad spent hours trying to figure it out. Architects were called. Structural engineers examined it. No one had a clue. Every couple of years, Dad made a fresh attempt to discover the secret, but he couldn’t make any headway.

  I rubbed my shoulders and watched Morty pulling out drawers. Morty liked the pantry too, but only because Dad kept his booze in there. Then he stopped, shut a drawer with a flip of his wrist and looked at the liquor cabinet. The cabinet was original to the house although it was fifty years older. It was tucked in a cubby in a bank of built-ins. It looked like Josiah Bled placed the liquor cabinet in there and the rest grew in around it. It stood four feet high on delicate cabriole legs that looked as if they might snap under its weight. The front had four false drawers inlaid with five different types of wood in a star pattern. The sides were probably inlaid too, but we couldn’t see them. Josiah built around the cabinet with only one millimeter to spare, and it couldn’t be removed. Wooden hands and vines came out from the built-ins and wrapped around the legs. You’d have to snap off the legs or break the woodwork to get it out. Josiah made sure his cabinet would never leave.

  Uncle Morty turned the key in the top drawer, pushed the top up and laid the front down. The door revealed an open space for wine and other bottles, but Mom used it for her old cookbooks.

  “There you are, you little bitch,” he said.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Morty held up a slender wine bottle with a wooden cork. He rubbed the dust off the label with his jacket, smacked his lips, and closed the cabinet.

  “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Wine?” I asked.

  “Not just wine. It’s the peach stuff Tommy ordered from Germany a couple of years ago. I knew he was holding out on me. Bastard said there wasn’t any left.”

  Imagine that.

  “Let’s have a glass and toast to Gavin, God bless him.”

  “Maybe we should wait for Dad.”

  Morty ignored me and walked into the kitchen. I followed and sat down while he filled a couple of juice glasses with a flourish. He handed one to me. “Here’s to Gavin. A good man gone to his reward.”

  “I didn’t know you were religious,” I said.

  “I ain’t, but Gavin was, so bottoms up.”

  He drained his glass, and I sniffed mine. It smelled too good to drink. A hundred ripe peaches smelled like they were squashed in there. The scent filled the kitchen and breathing it was enough to get me tipsy.

  “Sit down Mercy, and let’s us have a talk,” said Morty.

  Great, just what I wanted.

  “You tell Tommy yet?”

  “Tell him what?”

  “That Gavin was murdered.” Morty poured a second glass.

  “That was quick. How’d you know?”

  “Sources.”

  “You must know Dr. Grace,” I said.

  “Don’t know the man from Adam. You told Tommy?”

  “Not yet. I just got back from the morgue. Seriously, how’d you know?”

  Morty took off his glasses and wiped them on a dish towel. He poured another glass of wine and sipped it.

  “You might as well wait till he gets back. No use working him up when he can’t do anything on that damn boat anyway.”

  “Fine with me,” I said.

  “Meanwhile, we better get moving on this thing.”

  We?

  “Dixie upstairs?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “See if you can get the keys out of her, so we can check out the house before the Keystone Cops.”

  “Pass.”

  “Get the keys,” he said.

  “Let the cops handle it. It’s their job for heaven sake.”

  “You want to let the cops handle Gavin’s murder?” Uncle Morty banged his glass on the table.

  I didn’t, but I couldn’t stand having Uncle Morty dogging my every footstep either. No keys for him. I’d check out the house by myself.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Tommy will kick our asses, if we don’t move on this.”

  Before I could think of a reasonable answer, the doorbell rang. What luck! Morty shot me an irritated look as I left the kitchen. I went down the hall into the receiving room. On the other side of my parents’ enormous front door were two tiny figures. They could only be the Bled sisters, Millicent and Myrtle. They were nieces of Josiah Bled and lived down the street in another of his creations. Millicent and Myrtle were also my godmothers. Once when I was ten, they told me Josiah didn’t design the pantry to stay cold, but caused it all the same.

  Josiah’s mistress disappeared in 1921. It was a big news story at the time since Bernice Collins was rumored to be a former prostitute, and Josiah was heir to the Bled Brewery fortune. Josiah was never charged with any crime, but his nieces told me he killed her in the pantry hence the constant cold. My parents have Millicent and Myrtle to thank for most of my childhood nightmares.

  One of the sisters rapped on the stained glass. I ran my fingers through my hair, pinched my cheeks, and attempted to straighten my damp shirt. It was hopeless.

  I unlocked the door and opened it to find two tiny elderly ladies clutching enormous handbags, umbrellas, and casserole dishes.

  “Mercy dearest, we heard and came as soon as we could,” they said.

  “What did you hear?”

  “About Mr. Flouder, of
course. Sweet man, such a shame,” said Millicent.

  Both she and Myrtle waited in the doorway, and I was at a loss. If I let them in, they’d plant themselves, and I’d never get to Gavin’s house. If I didn’t let them in, they’d tell Mom, and I’d never hear the end of it.

  “Please come in. What a nasty day today,” I said.

  “Yes, dear. Bad weather accompanies bad news, don’t you think? Is dear Mrs. Flouder here?” said Millicent.

  “I’m here.”

  I turned to see Dixie coming down. Her eyes were dry and she’d fixed her hair.

  “I do hope we’re not intruding. We wanted to pay our respects,” said Myrtle.

  “Not at all.” Dixie hugged them and herded us all towards the parlor.

  Morty stomped out of the kitchen bellowing, “What the hell is taking so long?” He stopped short when he saw the Bled sisters. Morty had an unnatural respect for “The Girls”, as they were known on the Avenue, and was on his best behavior when they were around.

  “Ladies, I didn’t see you there. How are you?”

  “Morton,” they said.

  “Why don’t we all go into the parlor.” I led Dixie and The Girls to the parlor while Uncle Morty stood in the hallway, shuffling his feet and giving me pointed looks. I supposed he wanted me to abandon my guests and finish our discussion. Fat chance.

  We sat down on Mom’s odd, mismatched collection of sofas and wingback chairs. Millicent and Myrtle covered their knees with a pair of lap blankets kept there especially for them. They were cold no matter the temperature and expected blankets would be afforded them wherever they went. They were rarely disappointed. Morty came and stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. I ignored him and listened to Millicent’s intricate description of her casserole. Before long my mouth was watering. The Girls could cook. People were always surprised when they discovered Millicent and Myrtle were Bleds. The Bled Brewery was a St. Louis institution, and the name had a certain mystique. No one expected elderly ladies raised with nannies and private tutors to make the hell out of a casserole, but they could.

  “Miss Bled, you’re making me hungry,” said Dixie.

  “Now, dear, I told you at Christmas, call me Millicent. Why don’t we have some? Mercy?” said Millicent.

  “Sure. Sounds great. Let’s go to the kitchen.” The Girls followed me down the hall close at my heels. They thought eating in the kitchen quite daring. Dixie set places, Morty poured drinks and soon the table was covered with chips, dips, relishes, rolls and, of course, casseroles. Morty sat as far from The Girls as possible and kept giving me sullen looks. Despite his displeasure, he managed to eat half a casserole and finish off the peach wine. Millicent and Myrtle ate the other half. I’d never seen them eat so much at one sitting.

  “Dixie, dear, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you’re looking thin. You must eat more. Your dear husband would want you to take care of yourself,” said Myrtle.

  “I don’t mind, but it’s the clothes, not me. I’ve done nothing but eat since I got here. I’m wearing Carolina’s things. They’re a bit large on me. I haven’t gone home yet.”

  “Poor thing. Such memories there. Sometimes it can be difficult to walk in one’s own home…without remembering,” said Millicent.

  My mother’s clothes engulfed Dixie. She lacked Mom’s generous hips and chest and needed her own clothes, but who could blame her for not wanting to go home. Morty let out a loud cough, and raised his eyebrows at me while muttering, “Excuse me.”

  Duh. Why hadn’t I thought of that? It was the perfect cover. I’d pick up clothes for Dixie and search the house while I was at it. All I had to figure out was how to get rid of Morty and from the look of him, it wouldn’t be easy.

  “You know what I’m in the mood for…whiskey sours. Anyone else?” I said.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said The Girls.

  “Sounds nice,” said Dixie.

  Morty ignored my suggestion, and got up to make coffee.

  “Come on, Uncle Morty. Don’t make us drink alone.” I made my eyes as big as possible and batted them twice. This move worked on plenty of men, including my father if he wasn’t wary. The eyelash batting wasn’t my favorite maneuver, but occasionally it was necessary. Uncle Morty wasn’t easily swayed. His mouth twisted, and his eyes went to the ceiling. Then he looked at me like I’d just stuffed a potato chip up my nose. I’d have to pull out the big guns.

  “Miss Millicent, Miss Myrtle, don’t you think Uncle Morty needs a drink? After all, he was quite close to Gavin, and has been grieving excessively.” The Girls stood up and, with looks of extreme compassion on their faces, went to Morty.

  “My dear man. What have we been thinking? You’ve been so quiet. Come have a drink. Perhaps you would favor us with a story about Gavin. I’m sure Sharon would like to hear a good memory,” said Millicent.

  “Yes, do tell us,” said Myrtle. She tucked her arm around Morty’s and led him back to his chair. I made the fastest batch of whiskey sours, extra strong, of my life. When no one was looking, I filled my own glass with water.

  “This is pretty strong, Mercy,” said Morty.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I got carried away.” I sipped my water and made a face. “Should I make another batch?”

  “No, no, dear. They’re fine, just fine,” said Dixie.

  “I think they’re very good,” said Millicent.

  Three pitchers of whiskey sours, three glasses of water for me, and Uncle Morty was in no condition to go anywhere.

  “Dixie, why don’t I go pick up some of your clothes? That way you won’t have to worry about it,” I said.

  “Wonderful idea. Make some more drink things before you go. My keys are in my purse, but I don’t know where that thing’s got to,” said Dixie, her voice slurring.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I made a fourth pitcher, and poured another round. Morty watched me with a glazed expression. He knew I was up to something, but he couldn’t connect the dots.

  Morty swayed in his chair. “Sign anything away lately, Marilyn?”

  “No, I didn’t. And don’t ever call me Marilyn.”

  “You sure about that?” He belched and laughed at the same time. It made him sound like a Budweiser frog.

  “Whatever. Bye, now.” I saluted him and he swayed again.

  I jogged around the house looking for Dixie’s purse, and praying the cops hadn’t beat me to Gavin’s house. The purse sat in the receiving room under a pile of coats. I took two steps at a time up to the second floor and Dad’s office. His collection of crime scene cameras sat on a shelf above the desk, coated with dust and looking lonely. Dad had it covered from the 1970s on. His favorites got prime position in the front. A Konica Minolta, an ancient Polaroid, and a hefty Nikon with an auto advance sat alongside high school basketball trophies, various plaques, and an unbelievable number of books on crime. Dad had it covered from footprint analysis to profiling. A thin layer of dust covered the camera. Dad wasn’t taking a whole lot of crime scene photos anymore, but back in the day he was known for doing the crime scene photographers’ job for them. Dad always said, learn from your mistakes and improve. On Dad’s first murder as the primary detective, no one bothered to document the scene thoroughly. They took shots of the body, the scene of the struggle and point of entry or what they thought was the point of entry. Later on, Dad discovered they had it wrong, and an element of the crime was lost, and the conviction along with it. Dad never forgot the mistake and he took it to heart. He bought the Konica and used it well. Dad shot everything from the front door to the trash cans, and he solved a few cases because of it.

  I chose the less-loved, but totally rocking Sony Cyber-shot. Dad preferred film over digital, but bowed to the practicality. He liked the smell of the film canisters and said that there was something magical about hearing the film advance. He was nuts.

  I put the camera and Dad’s work iPad in a backpack. I went over everything he’d told me about shooting a scene as I left w
ithout saying goodbye. I doubt they noticed. I snuck through the dining room and used the servant’s door to the pantry to escape unnoticed. Uncle Morty was telling an old story about Gavin and the naked burglar. I heard them laughing all the way to my truck.