In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5)

by A W Hartoin

  None of the Troublesome Trio carried any duct tape so I relaxed. “I was just wondering where you were.”

  “Completing our mission, of course,” said Sorcha, smiling at Oliver but speaking to me.

  “Your mission?” I asked.

  “Interviewing the staff.” She squeezed in next to Oliver. “We interviewed you, didn’t we?”

  “You did. I was very well interviewed.” He smiled, looking rather rakish despite the baseball attire.

  “We’re all done,” said Jilly. “Where do you want it?”

  “It?”

  “The stuff.”

  “You have stuff?”

  Bridget plunked down her files and spread them out on the table like a fan. She pointed to each one in turn. “Kitchen staff. Housekeeping. Stables. Spa. Baseball. And reception. That’s everybody.”

  “Wow,” said Tiny.

  “Wow is right.” I opened the kitchen staff folder. Neatly written on yellow legal paper was each staff member’s name, their whereabouts at the time of the murder, and a short section on their relationship to the victim. “This is impressive. How did you do this so quickly?”

  “Mom’s a party planner,” said Jilly as if that explained it. She placed a three-foot-long roll of heavy paper on the table. “And here’s the map.”

  “You made a map? You’re kidding.”

  “Of course we made a map. This whole castle is a crime scene. You need a map.” She rolled out the map and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t awesome. It looked like a copy of the original architectural plan of the property, showing the castle and its grounds. My detail-oriented cousins had color-coded the staff. The kitchen staff was red for instance. There was a red dot marking where every member of the kitchen staff was at the time of the murder and when the body was found. It was the same with each section of staff. They went above and beyond labeling the rooms of all the guests.

  I poured over the dots and the different sections of the castle. Nobody admitted being anywhere near the rock garden or the love garden. Most of the staff was off the property overnight anyway, but there was a multi-colored line leading from the staff parking lot through the gardens to split off to different entrances.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  Jilly beamed. “My idea. Those are the routes the staff took to get into the building this morning.” She pointed to tiny blocks on the lot. “Here are their names and arrival times. We cross-checked with John.”

  Holy crap!

  “You rock, Jilly. All three of you rock. Dad will be seriously impressed.”

  My cousins grinned like crazy, popping out the Watts dimples and looking ready for more. Oliver was staring and I didn’t blame him. The Troublesome Trio were seriously shiny. It was hard for me to stop looking at the happiness glow.

  I forced my attention down to the map and traced the parking lot paths. “So nobody went into the love garden?”

  “That’s what they say,” said Sorcha.

  “Do you believe them?” I asked.

  She tipped her chin down and became seriously adorable. I did that all the time, but I’d never gotten a view of it before. No wonder it was so effective when I was interviewing men. Oliver was glazed over.

  “Do you really want my opinion?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “You trust me?”

  I considered it. “I do. What do you think?”

  All three of my cousins nodded their heads.

  “The staff knows nothing,” said Bridget.

  “But…” said Jilly.

  “But?”

  Sorcha leaned over the table. “They’re afraid of John and Leslie.”

  “And the castle,” said Bridget.

  “Seriously?” That’s what I said, but I wasn’t surprised. Something was off about those two in a huge way and the castle was pretty unsettling.

  “Oh, yeah. Weird things are always happening like the armor falling over or the pots being rearranged in the kitchens. The Smoking Room changed color over night.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “What do you mean?”

  “It was green when staff left on a Tuesday and it was blue the next morning.”

  “Somebody painted it.”

  The Troublesome Trio shook their pretty heads in unison. “Nobody painted. It didn’t even smell like fresh paint,” said Jilly. “It was just blue.”

  “That’s…pretty strange,” I said.

  “You want strange?” asked Sorcha. “There were gunshots last night and it’s not the first time. Laurie the head housekeeper said that John and Leslie always act like nothing happened, but she can tell they know all about it.”

  Jilly elbowed Sorcha. “We don’t care about any other gunshots. The ones last night had nothing to do with the mystery we’re working on.”

  I was intrigued. They were my cousins. Not stupid girls by a long shot but always more interested in purses than police work. “How do you know?”

  “You said she was strangled and the gunshots were later,” said Sorcha.

  “It is a separate issue,” I said. “So why’s the staff afraid of John and Leslie exactly?”

  My cousins took a long time to tell me that the staff wouldn’t say anything about their employers except that they paid very well. The staff fidgeted when questioned about the security measures and they all had to pass background checks before being hired. You’d have to be an idiot not to think that was weird for a job at a spa. The staff thought John and Leslie were afraid of something.

  “They think somebody got killed in the woods, but they don’t have a clue who or why,” concluded Bridget.

  Jilly wrinkled her nose. “That’s not helpful, is it?”

  “It gives me a better picture of John and Leslie,” I said.

  “Do you think someone died out in the woods?” asked Oliver.

  “Yes and I think Flincher was in on it.”

  “Flincher? The mortician?”

  I told them about the funeral home and they were suitably creeped out. Bridget checked her watch. “It’s almost time for dinner. We should change.”

  We all stood up. Oliver touched my elbow and said, “See you in the dining room.” He left and Sorcha teared up as she watched him go. Oh, for the love of god. I could not handle any tears.

  “What should we do next?” asked Bridget.

  “You did a stellar job with the staff so how about doing the same with the guests?” I asked.

  Bridget and Jilly high-fived. “We’ll do it tonight.”

  We took off in different directions. The Troublesome Trio to their rooms, and Tiny and I toward our tower. I let Tiny lead me as I ran all the evidence through my head over and over again. None of the pieces fit. Everything felt so far apart. The body in the woods. Two separate attacks on Cherie. A nervous staff and a high-stakes baseball scholarship. Nothing really went together. Maybe Dad could’ve seen the connection, but they were eluding me completely and that thought made me tired. I did not want to go watch my suspects eat Thanksgiving dinner. I didn’t want them to be suspects. It would be so much easier if it had been someone from the outside. As usual, I wasn’t that lucky.

  After ten minutes of walking through the warren of halls and rooms, I realized Tiny hadn’t said a word. His brow was furrowed and his sharp eyes barely looked up.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as we entered an armory. Weaponry covered walls and filled display cases. The castle must’ve cornered the market on the stuff.

  “This weekend is off the hook crazy. I was supposed to watch you. None of this shit was supposed to happen.”

  “You’ve watched me just fine. And nobody plans a weekend full of murder except maybe the murderers.”

  “Somebody’s gonna try to kill you,” he said with a flush of anger.

  I stopped short. “What makes you say that, I mean, other than the obvious? The Costillas don’t know where I am.”

  “Don’t people always try to kill you?”

  “Not always.”

&nbs
p; “Name one time.”

  I couldn’t think of an example off the top of my head. Richard Costilla in New Orleans was too imprinted on my brain. There were times. There had to be.

  “Thought so,” said Tiny. “I’m gonna sleep in your room tonight.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him and his eyes went wide. “What’re you thinking, girl?” Then slugged me in the shoulder and I went flying, crashing into a suit of armor. Metal flew every which way.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I yelled.

  Tiny’s mouth hung open and he just stood there.

  “Tiny!”

  He woke up and ran over, lifting me to my feet with one hand. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “Oh yeah? Have you seen you? Have you seen me?”

  “I don’t punch people much anymore.”

  “Thank god for that. I honestly don’t see how we can be related. Look at us. People think fee-fi-fo-fum when you come into a room. I’m practically a midget.”

  “You ain’t that small and my dad was bigger than me.”

  “Holy crap. Tell him never to punch me, please.”

  Tiny kicked some of the armor away from my feet and didn’t meet my eyes. “He died when I was ten.”

  I hugged him without thinking about it. “I’m so sorry. That’s how you related to Lane so well.”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated, holding something else back.

  “Was he murdered?” I asked softly.

  “Nah. Industrial accident. A crane fell on him.”

  I can’t even think about that.

  “That’s terrible, worse than terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  He kicked more of the metal. “I was in the Marines.”

  “I know. My mom told me.”

  “I got discharged.”

  Silence. I wasn’t sure if I should speak or let him go. Since it was me, silence wasn’t so much an option. “Do you have PTSD?”

  “Yeah, but it was a medical for shrapnel in my hip, not the PTSD.”

  That explains the lurching walk.

  “When was that?”

  “Three years ago. They put me on some stuff to help but…” He made a motion to his body. “I was always a big guy but not like this.”

  “What medications are you on,” I asked softly.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Tiny walked away. I followed and elbowed him in the hip. “You can sleep in my room, but don’t get any ideas.”

  He grinned at me and the sadness vanished from his face. “I don’t know. You’re pretty damn irresistible.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Would I do that?” He laughed, big and hearty.

  “Well, you better not snore,” I said.

  “You’re lookin’ at a man who loves fried everything. You think I don’t snore?”

  “God help me.”

  “He won’t. My mom prayed on it and I still snore.”

  “That’s not encouraging but tell me about her.”

  We walked to the Tudor Tower and I got to hear all about Tiny’s mom. She was a woman of strength, conviction, and hearing impairment, thanks to years of his snoring.

  Tiny and I made it to dinner exactly on time and it’s a good thing. Either everyone else was starving or they were hoping to get in and out without being seen. From the number of downturned faces and fast-moving forks, I’m going with both.

  Tiny went in to sit with my cousins. I hung back to watch from the shadow of a potted palm. I thought I might be able to spot some signs of guilt, but everyone looked the same. If I went by the hunched shoulders and furtive looks, they were all guilty, every single one. The Grizzlies sat together at the window and when they did look up, it was outside. The Vipers were closer to me and had no window but kept up a running dialog about the woodwork. There wasn’t much I could do with that.

  Tiny and my cousins laughed and went over their plan of attack for the next day. There were charts and graphs. I have no clue what they planned on charting, but the more power to ‘em. They were out of my hair.

  Deanna came lurching in, using the backs of chairs to stay upright until she plopped down next to Robin who frowned. “Where have you been?”

  “Got,” burp, “locked in the distillery,” said Deanna loudly.

  That broke up some of the tension as a nervous twitter went around the room.

  A hand touched my shoulder. “See something interesting?” asked Oliver in my ear.

  “Not really.”

  “They all look depressed.”

  “Or guilty,” I said.

  “That, too.” Oliver drew closer and put a light hand on my waist. “Shall we?”

  “Oliver?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Did anyone get killed in the distillery?” I asked.

  “Martha Sweet, fifth owner, one of the stills burst and scalded her to death,” said Oliver while wrapping one of my curls around his thick finger.

  “Deanna keeps finding herself in the distillery.”

  “Like I said somebody has a sense of humor.” He came in to kiss my cheek.

  I pushed him back into the hall. “We need to talk.”

  He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. They bulged underneath his polo and I was momentarily transfixed. “That’s never the start of a good conversation.”

  “Depends on how you look at it.”

  “I doubt that.” He took my hand and stroked it softly. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do because I’ve heard it before. I’m a drug addict. You can’t get involved with someone like me. I have a history and it’s not great. I get that. But I’ve turned it around.” He smiled and it was extremely winning. “My parents are speaking to me. John hired me for the camp and we both know if I did anything wrong I’d be in Flincher’s oven. So what do you say? You and me. It could work. If it doesn’t, you could have Tiny squash me.”

  I laughed and squeezed his hand. “I could do that. Or my dad could have you shot. He knows people.”

  “He knows John in some other life, which frankly scares the crap out of me. I’m willing to risk all that.”

  “But…”

  He groaned. “Not the but. There’s always a but.”

  “But I’m not the one you want,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “See you didn’t know.” I pulled him by the sleeve and we peeked around the palm. “That’s the one for you.”

  Oliver pulled me back. “Tiny? I must’ve given you the wrong impression.”

  I whacked his shoulder. “Not Tiny, dufus. Sorcha.”

  “Sorcha?”

  “You said she was beautiful.”

  “I guess.”

  “You don’t like red-heads? She’s too smart, too educated, too organized.” A flush came over my cheeks. What did he mean with that ‘I guess’? I guess he’d killed too many brain cells to see that my cousin was perfect.

  “Don’t be mad. You said she duct tapes your legs together.”

  “She won’t duct tape you. You’re bigger than her.”

  “That’s not as comforting as you seem to think.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You just want me because of my face,” I said.

  “It’s a hell of a face.”

  I whacked him again. “Hers is just as good. It’s just not famous and that’s a good thing. I have baggage. Lots of baggage. Do you really want the media on you again because it will happen.”

  He gently pushed me back against the wall, cupped my cheeks in his callused hands, and kissed me. He was into it and very good I must say.

  I pushed him back. “I’m in love.”

  Where the hell did that come from?

  His eyes went all bedroomy. “With me.”

  “Uh…no. I’m in love with Chuck.” I slapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh my god.”

  Oliver dropped his hands and stepped back. “You sound surprised.”

  I threw my arms around his nec
k and hugged the hell out of him. “I didn’t know for sure until you kissed me. I felt nothing.”

  “That answers a lot of questions in my life. I kiss women and they fall in love with someone else.”

  “Your lips didn’t do it. You are, let me just say, a great kisser. Like crazy good. If I didn’t love someone else, I’d be all about it,” I said.

  “Go on.” He gave me a look of such utter seriousness that I burst into laughter and he joined me. We laughed until we fell against the wall, clutching our stomachs.

  “I hope he’s worth it,” Oliver managed to wheeze out.

  “He’s not speaking to me actually,” I said.

  That made us laugh more.

  “I think we might be pathetic,” he said.

  “I know we are.”

  Tiny came out of the dining room. “What’re ya doing out here?”

  “We repulse people,” said Oliver.

  I wiped my eyes. “We do.”

  “I don’t know why that’s funny,” said Tiny.

  “Me either.”

  “Are you going in?”

  “There’s another woman in there to repulse. Hell yeah,” said Oliver and he walked through the archway still quaking with laughter but with his head high.

  “You get weirder all the time,” said Tiny.

  “Tell me about it.” I spun him around and we went in. Oliver was seated next to Sorcha and he did not repulse her. Dinner took over two hours and by the end, they were sitting so close their noses were touching. Can I matchmake or what?

  “Alright,” I said. “I can see my work here is done.”

  Oliver and Sorcha didn’t look up. They were discussing burger joints in Brooklyn. They each had a top five list and they didn’t match. That topic could take until midnight. The merits of Pho took forty-five minutes.

  “Where’re you going?” asked Tiny. He was slumped in his chair, dejected after his healthy Thanksgiving dinner. His green beans were steamed, not sautéed with bacon and shallots. No gravy. No stuffing. The big man was sad, but he practically licked the plate.

  “Pick needs a walk,” I said. “John texted me that he’s back from the kennel.”

  “Alright.” He got up slowly, casting longing looks at Sorcha’s untouched pumpkin pie.