In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5)

by A W Hartoin

  I didn’t think this would ever happen, but, after an hour and a half, I turned to Sorcha and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” She glanced at Morty, who was muttering something about a freaking dwarf. “It’s not your fault.”

  “It kinda is.”

  “It’s okay. We’re family.” Then she grinned at me, popping out the famous Watts dimples. “Besides, we brought duct tape.”

  I winced.

  “I’m kidding.”

  Jilly shook her head. “She’s not.”

  Bridget plopped a magazine in my lap. “So we’ve agreed?”

  I nodded when normally I would’ve said no way. The bridesmaid dress my cousins wanted was a short, busty girl’s nightmare. Even after losing twenty-five pounds I could not pull off a satin column dress. The thing was backless. Backless! I’d be using Sorcha’s duct tape to secure my breasts. Nightmare.

  “I love love love it,” said Jilly.

  She would. Jilly and Sorcha were five foot ten, had no breasts to speak of, and zero body fat. They would look like Audrey Hepburn with their long swan-like necks and I’d look like a badly upholstered sofa.

  But I owed them. They put up with Uncle Morty in the form of a smelly, loud troll for a long time with no complaints. These were not the cousins I remembered. They did not live up to their names of Weepy, Snot, and Spoiled Rotten and nobody had taped any part of me to any other part.

  “It’s the one,” I said.

  “Success,” said Bridget and we toasted the decision with tiny Cokes out of the mini fridge.

  “And the color matches the green of your eyes,” said Sorcha, her own eyes red from tearing up over how beautiful Bridget’s dress was. Sorcha wasn’t dating anyone and had no prospects. Her career in law wasn’t helping. She didn’t want to date another lawyer and they weren’t keen on her either. She’d probably make partner by the time she was thirty, but I had a feeling that wasn’t the sort of partner she aspired to be. Sorcha was meant to be a wife and mother and she knew it. I wished I was as sure about anything as she was about that.

  “Eyes. Yeah, that’s important,” muttered Uncle Morty without looking up.

  “What?” asked Bridget.

  “Nothing. He said nothing,” I said.

  Sorcha finished up the list of wedding decisions we’d made and tucked it in her laptop bag. “There. The first stage is done.”

  First stage? What can be left?

  I decided it was better not to ask and pressed the intercom. “There’s a gas station. I’ve got to go.”

  Everyone agreed to take a pit stop, even Uncle Morty after I kicked him in the shin. We pulled into a little one-pump gas station with a rusted awning and lots of beer signs. The chauffeur opened the door for us and Uncle Morty pointed at me. “Get me some beer and a pizza.”

  “I doubt they have pizza at six-thirty a.m.” I looked at the Quik Mart. “Or ever.”

  “Tommy got it at four-thirty.”

  “That was Dad in St. Louis.”

  “I need a pizza and beer. I’m creating here.”

  Bridget and Jilly suppressed smiles and Sorcha rolled her brown eyes. I couldn’t believe it. My cousins were the practical ones.

  “You’ll have a frozen burrito and you’ll like it,” I said, getting out.

  “Listen here, you—”

  Sorcha slammed the limo door and sucked in her lips like a bad little girl who just dumped dirt on her neighbor’s head. Not that I would know anything about being a bad little girl with a bucket.

  “Do you think he’ll get out and yell at us?” asked Jilly.

  “Are you kidding? He’s so immobile he practically has bedsores.” I waved to Terrance, our chauffeur, as he lit up a cigarette. “Be back in a minute.”

  He took a super long drag, burning down half the cigarette in one go and was on me in two steps. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I can go to the bathroom by myself.”

  “Until you’re on the estate, you’re my responsibility,” he said.

  “You’re not coming in the bathroom with me,” I said.

  “We’ll see.”

  Fantastic.

  I dashed for the door, but Terrance outpaced me, grabbing the rickety metal handle. “My responsibility.”

  “You’re not really a chauffeur, are you?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  I sighed and he opened the door with a creak. An elderly man jolted awake behind the high laminate counter. “Good morning.” He glanced outside and saw the limo, but it didn’t faze him. With Cairngorms Castle so close it must not have been unusual.

  “Can I use your bathroom?” I asked.

  “With a purchase,” the man said.

  “Do you have any frozen burritos?”

  His bushy grey eyebrows shot up. “You want a frozen burrito?”

  “Yep.”

  “In the freezer at the back. Microwave’s right there.”

  The cousins came in and I told them about the purchase for peeing thing. They wrinkled their brows but began looking through the racks of Corn Nuts and Pennzoil. I went for the bathroom with Terrance on my heels. I picked out a couple of questionable burritos and popped them in the microwave while Terrance looked in the bathroom. It was the size of a small closet and he declared it safe.

  When I came out, I expected a line but the Troublesome Trio were talking to Terrance over by the counter. Sorcha was smiling and flipping her hair. Terrance was pretty handsome. I hadn’t noticed before what with all the following me and sniffing around the bathroom.

  I microwaved Uncle Morty’s stank burritos. They were almost as bad as the pizza he’d slowly consumed over the space of an hour and a half just to let the stink last longer. While I was trying not to burn my fingers, a couple of voices came through the racks.

  “Cherie, you need to listen to me now.” The voice had the rasp of an older man.

  “I’m doing this my way,” said Cherie.

  “You’re not thinking straight. We can’t afford this. You can get a refund.”

  “Anthony, please.”

  “Please what? We’re going to be there in a half hour. We have to have a plan. We can get out of it. How did you pay for this?”

  “I have a plan,” she said. “You just take care of the boys.”

  “Taylor deserves this and God knows we need it, but we should go home. I’ve still got connections.”

  “I’ve decided what’s going to happen. They think they’ll take it just because they are who they are, but I know what I’m doing,” said Cherie.

  “I’ll throat punch those dickheads,” said Anthony.

  “That’ll help.” Cherie heaved a sigh and came around a corner. I’d seen women with newborn triplets with more energy. Cherie’s skin was loose and sallow as if she hadn’t slept in days. Her boxy t-shirt and jeans were as limp as the rest of her. A bright orange headband held her auburn hair back from her face, exposing her grey roots. Her dark brown eyes landed on me for a second and then flicked away to the soda case where she picked up a six-pack of Mountain Dew. Something about Cherie didn’t sit right and she made me nervous.

  She left the soda case and went for the counter with an older man picking up her trail after the sunglasses rack. His arms were full of chips and he looked as tired as Cherie. His mostly bald head had a few strands of silver hair plastered to his scalp and his Wrangler jeans were so loose there were several inches of material gathered up under his embossed leather belt.

  I watched them for a second. Their backs were tense and ramrod straight. What was it with those two? I had the strangest feeling something wasn’t right. They paid for their purchases and I braved the burning hot burritos and dropped them in a bag. Morty wanted beer, but I just couldn’t do it. Who buys beer at six a.m.? Drunks, that’s who. Not gonna do it.

  Terrance slid out of the knot of cousins and came over. “You ready?”
r />   “I’ve got to pay first.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  Terrance glanced around the store. “Did someone say something to you?”

  “No. What is your deal?” I asked.

  “You look worried.”

  I was worried, but it was probably the drive, the stress, the smell coming out of the bag I was holding. “I’m worried Morty will take another hour and a half to eat these burritos.”

  “We’re only a half hour out. You know I could smell that pizza through the glass. I’m surprised you all weren’t asphyxiated.”

  “I think that was what he was going for,” I said. “I’ll pay and be right out.”

  “I took care of it,” said Terrance.

  He led me out of the little store with eyes darting every which way and he needn’t have bothered. The only vehicle in sight was a beat-up Dodge Caravan with Illinois plates at the lone gas pump. It was filled with kids and the back door was up. The trunk was stuffed with battered luggage that made Great Uncle Ned’s look good. At least they got to travel. There were battered old stickers from England and France and a brand new one from Ecuador along with some airline tags that they hadn’t bothered to take off. Cherie glanced at me and pumped the gas while Anthony stared into the thick forest across the road. His sweatshirt hung on him. It’d been washed from black to mottled grey and the emblem for Lion’s Baseball was peeling off. His face, much older than Cherie’s, wasn’t just tired. Sorrow filled every line and crevasse. He wavered on his feet as if he could barely stand under the weight of it.

  In contrast, a couple of cheerful teenaged boys were next the van. They were tall, well-muscled and in boxing stances, giving each other jabs to the chest and laughing when they connected. The side door of the van rattled open and a pretty girl about sixteen leaned out and said, “Knock it off. You’re so stupid.”

  “What do you care, Laniac?” said the boy with dark hair and an easy smile.

  “I care because you’re an idiot and I’ve been stuck in this van with you for hours. I didn’t even want to come on your stupid thing.”

  Anthony turned around and his face lit up when he looked at the kids. “Taylor, stop calling Lane that. You know she doesn’t like it.”

  “You get it, right?” said Taylor. “Laniac. Maniac.”

  “Yes, I get it. Just get in and leave her alone. It’s been a long drive.”

  Taylor punched the other boy again and jumped in, knocking into Lane and making her squeal in protest. The other boy, a blond with short spiky hair, saw me and watched as Terrance opened the back door of the limo. I got in with the cousins and then watched the boy get in the van and pop open a Mountain Dew. Yuck.

  “Where’s my beer?” bellowed Uncle Morty when I gave him the stinking burrito bag.

  “In the store. You gonna do something about it?” I asked.

  He grumbled and peeled open a hideous, greasy burrito and took a slow bite, but he didn’t make a move to get out for beer. From the look of it, those burritos were going to last until Cairngorms Castle. A half hour was way too long to spend with them or him.

  The Cairngorms Castle gates were grand to the extreme, twenty feet high and done in ornate ironwork. They were also electrified. There was a discreet sign warning of high voltage like they didn’t really want you to know and they’d be very pleased if you fried yourself.

  I got a good look at the gate and the concertina wire on the top of the high stone walls on either side because my head was out the window. Uncle Morty started gassing ten minutes after the first burrito. I really should’ve known better. Mom had banned him from ever eating Mexican food in her presence.

  Terrance glanced back at me as he pushed the button on the little metal box next to the drive. “Get back inside.”

  Before I could answer, a tinny voice came out of the box, “State your name and business at Cairngorms Castle.”

  Terrance told the box who we were.

  “Press your right thumb to the pad.”

  He did and there was a sharp beep before the voice said, “Welcome to Cairngorms Castle, Watts family. Proceed to the castle and prepare to be searched.”

  The gate made a clacking noise and I had a flashback to Hunt Hospital for the Criminally Insane. At least they had a reason for their gates. What was the castle keeping in or out? Maybe somebody was a little paranoid, but I got why Dad thought I’d be safe here.

  Terrance yelled at me again and I sucked in a breath before going back inside. The stink had cleared somewhat with all the open windows, but the pizza/burrito combo had soaked into the seat leather. When I sat down, a poof of stench came up. The Troublesome Trio had tissues pressed to their noses and Uncle Morty wore an expression of malicious delight as he pounded away on his keyboard.

  “Almost there,” I said.

  “Good,” choked out Bridget.

  “The grounds are beautiful.” Sorcha wiped her eyes. She made it through almost the entire drive before her mascara ran. It was a record. Weepy cried at everything, including adorable kid’s birthday cakes and sappy commercials. I don’t know how she lasted over two hours with Uncle Morty and bride magazines.

  I stuck my nose out the window like a cocker spaniel and agreed. The grounds were beautiful. Plenty of dense trees and rolling hills dotted with spring wildflowers. After ten minutes, the castle came into view, just as I remembered it, gothic and a bit cobbled together. Cairngorms Castle wasn’t a traditional castle. The main part looked like a cathedral with a long peaked roof, a cross on top, and a rose window. Under the window was a pavilion with cutout crenellations on the top like a medieval tower. Inside the pavilion was the main entrance with enormous arched black walnut doors. The rest of the castle was a smaller cathedral-like section with two towers stuck together on the side, another cathedral, another tower and so on. Each tower was different and the castle gave the impression that a child had put smaller buildings together to make one big one, but somehow the whole thing flowed well.

  Terrance stopped at the pavilion behind a white Toyota Sienna with two blue-uniformed guards standing beside it. We got out without waiting for him to open the door. If it meant thirty seconds longer in the Morty stink, we weren’t waiting. Pick leapt out and began shaking, presumably to get the smell out of his hair. Uncle Morty had offered the poodle some burrito, but Pick had the sense to turn it down and snort in derision.

  “What are they doing?” asked Sorcha.

  One of the guards was holding a mirrored stick under the van while the other one loaded the luggage on a cart.

  “Looking for explosives,” I said.

  “Seriously? How do you know?”

  Hunt Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

  “I saw it on TV.”

  Bridget hooked her arm through mine and craned her neck up to look at the high limestone walls of the castle. “Wow. Can you believe this place? Your mom said it was good, but I had no idea. It’s bigger than your house.”

  “My house is an apartment,” I said.

  Her eyes roved over the multiple stained glass windows and little gargoyles. “No. I mean your parents’ house.”

  “Your parents’ house is bigger than my parents’ house.”

  It was too true. Uncle George opened a medical supply company about the time my dad became a cop. He worked ninety hours a week while my cousins were growing up and he made the business a success through pure toil. Until Dad retired and went private there was no question about who was the more successful brother. George built a house out in Ladue that our house would fit into with room to spare. Jilly was six when they moved. She barely remembered the cracker-box-sized house they had in Dogtown when her dad was struggling to get a toehold in the business world, which was why she was known as Spoiled Rotten. Bridget and Sorcha remembered it very well.

  “Not that house,” said Bridget. “The Bled Mansion.”

  “That’s not my house.”

  “It may as well be.” She sa
id it with the snotty tone I expected of her. She hated the birthday parties that Myrtle and Millicent threw for me, and I suspected they were the reason I got duct taped so much.

  The guard with the mirror straightened up. “All clear.” He closed the rear lift-gate. There were all kinds of bumper stickers on it. The most popular was Steel Vipers Baseball and Immaculate Heart Varsity Baseball. The back window only had one thing on it, a memorial sticker.

  Rest in Peace

  Beloved

  Q

  March 3, 1987

  1987. That was a long time to mourn. To be fair, my high school boyfriend had disappeared nearly ten years ago and was presumed dead. Sometimes it felt like yesterday so who was I to judge. I once wanted to put a memorial sticker on my truck, but Dad threatened my life.

  “Good morning, ladies,” said the guard. “You’re the Watts bridal party?”

  We said we were, but he required two forms of ID before he ran a metal detector over us.

  “You’re clear to go in, ladies. Have a wonderful time at the castle,” he said.

  “What about our luggage?” asked Sorcha.

  “We’ll bring it to your rooms after we’ve x-rayed it.”

  “You’re x-raying our luggage? Why? We’re a bridal party,” said Bridget.

  He nodded and smiled pleasantly. “It’s just a precaution. Security is our top concern here at the castle.”

  “And why is that?” I asked.

  “As I said, it’s just a precaution.”

  The security should’ve made me feel safe. Instead, I felt like a prisoner. The Girls and I had an easier time getting into Israel.

  “Leslie is waiting for you,” said the guard and he got out a piece of equipment made for sniffing bomb-making materials.

  I stared at him until a warm voice said, “Ladies, may I introduce myself. I’m Leslie, one of the owners of the castle.”

  I turned to find a man around fifty standing under the pavilion. He had long silver hair feathered back from his face in a way that didn’t seem outdated at all, wire-rimmed glasses, and an outfit that made me want to date him despite the fact that he was the same age as my father. The man could rock a vest. He wore a white crisp shirt under a tailored pin-striped vest. The fitted jeans didn’t hurt either.