by A W Hartoin
Yeah, right. I don’t think so.
He walked me to my truck and opened the door for me. “Don’t worry. Tommy will dig up something on Brooks and the lawsuit will be a thing of the past.”
That was supposed to make me feel better? It didn’t. He might as well have said there was something to find out about our house.
I must’ve looked worried, because he put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your parents are good people. The best. Leonard has nothing.”
“Come on. Leonard isn’t fishing without bait,” I said.
“He doesn’t even have a hook. Trust me.” He moved to close my door, but I blocked it.
“Did Dad know Josiah Bled personally?”
Big Steve grinned. “I have every confidence that you’ll be able to figure that out.”
He slammed my door and got into his big gold Lexus and squealed the tires on the way out of the parking lot probably yelling into his phone the whole time. Big Steve was right about most things and he was right about me. I’d figure it out eventually, but wouldn’t it be nice if my parents would just tell me and save some time. I googled Josiah Bled on my phone and found his Wikipedia page. I’d seen it before, but it still seemed weird that The Girls’ uncle had one. Josiah Bled was famous in his own way. First for being a Bled. The Bled Brewery was known all over the world and so was the fabulously rich family. Second for being a WWI flying ace and third being a spy in WWII. He was known to a lesser extent for building our house and The Girls’ house. Pictures of both featured prominently on the page below his picture taken in France next to his bi-plane in 1917. He couldn’t have been more dashing with his leather flying helmet and white silk scarf. Myrtle and Millicent said their uncle was bad in the best way possible and he looked it as he smiled a rakish smile at the camera, his eyes crinkled like a great joke had just been told.
I scrolled down to his dates. Josiah Aloysius Bled, born July 4, 1900, died unknown. What the heck? How could they not know? He was definitely dead. He’d be over a hundred and ten, if he wasn’t. Come to think of it, I’d never seen his grave in the family plot. I wasn’t looking for it, but The Girls took me to the family estate Prie-Dieu for picnics and they liked to visit the family. I didn’t remember ever visiting Josiah Bled’s grave. Maybe he was in Arlington cemetery or some place like that, but everyone else was in the family plot, no matter where they died or how. Why would the much loved Josiah be any different?
I called Prie-Dieu to ask and got the answering machine. Since their accounts were frozen, The Girls were staying at the old estate to save money. They spent most of their time tending the grounds and giving tours since the mansion was in trust to the Missouri Historical Society. They’d never been so busy.
Then I tried Dad’s cell and Mom’s. I got voicemail on both. The home office was a lock. Claire, my old high school rival, had taken over after I did a favor for her in exchange for her transcription skills. She practically lived in Dad’s office. He was now a private detective and he’d never been so organized. My parents loved Claire. She was the daughter they never had. Obedient, respectful, and quiet. She did absolutely everything they said right down to her dating life. Dad checked out all potential suitors, so Claire hadn’t had a date in six months, which was a good thing. If there was a loser con artist in the vicinity, Claire would find him.
“Hey, Claire,” I said. “I’m trying to get ahold of my parents, but they’re not answering.”
“Hi, Mercy. Let me see. That’s right. Your dad’s chasing a child molester in Jeff City and your mom’s testifying in front of the grand jury in Cleveland. Do you want to leave a message in case they get in touch?”
“Will Dad be back tonight?”
“I doubt it. If he gets the guy, he’ll follow the arrest through.”
“What about Mom? We’re supposed to leave in two days.”
“She’s flying back tomorrow, assuming the indictment goes through. Why? Is something wrong?”
Is something wrong? Not exactly.
“No. Everything’s fine. But you’ve been going through Dad’s files reorganizing, right?” I asked.
“Yes. They were a mess.”
“Did you perhaps find anything about our house? Maybe some notes?”
Claire got cagey. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing in particular, just what was going on around the time The Girls gave it to us.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
Groan.
“What was Dad working on back then?” I asked.
“He was a police detective.”
“I know. He kept every single notebook he used during his career. I just want to know what he was working on.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” said Claire.
“Why the heck not?”
“I signed a confidentiality agreement.”
“I’m his kid. I think you can tell me what cases he was working on before I was born.”
“I can’t. The agreement was very specific. You’re mentioned by name.”
“Dad had you sign an agreement not to tell me stuff? Seriously?”
“I can’t tell anyone else either, if that makes you feel better,” said Claire.
“It doesn’t.”
“Before you go, I have a message from your mom.”
Groan.
“You have to go shopping for appropriate cruise wear today. She’s tired of your procrastination. Sheila at Forever Summer is expecting you.”
“What in the world is appropriate cruise wear?”
“I have a list for you.”
Great. More dresses that fall apart.
“Never mind. I’ll figure it out.” I hung up and started up my ancient truck. The engine roared in a most satisfying way and the familiar vibrations rumbled through my generous rump, but I didn’t know exactly where to go from there. My parents were hiding something and Claire knew what it was. That just sucked.
Chapter 2
I ENDED UP at Forever Summer forty-five minutes and a double bacon cheeseburger later. Never go to Steak-N-Shake when you’re upset. It’s a bad idea. I was so bloated I could hardly get out of my truck. Sheila watched me as I waddled to the door and grinned like a deranged pug while holding up a slip of paper.
“I’ve got the list,” she said.
“My mom gave you a list, too?” I asked.
“She wanted to make sure you got everything.”
“I’m not totally incompetent, you know.”
“You’re wearing that dress.”
“Mom picked it out. I think she did it to make me look stupid.”
Sheila turned up her snub nose. “Carolina wouldn’t do that. You’re wearing it wrong. Let me find you a belt.”
“You can find me a blowtorch. I’m never wearing this again.”
“Alright. Alright. Let’s get working, shall we? Are you feeling super summery?”
I was, but she wasn’t. Mom had been dragging me to see Sheila for years in a misguided attempt to get me to stop wearing cutoff jeans in the summer. I’d never seen Sheila in anything but black cashmere pants and a grey turtleneck, even when it was one hundred and four degrees outside. She looked completely bizarre surrounded by tropical prints and maxi dresses.
“Do your worst,” I said.
“Yea! You go look through that rack of one-pieces. Carolina says you need two.”
“Why do I need two one-piece swimming suits?”
“Versatility.”
The door rang when a new customer entered and Sheila ran to greet whoever it was. I went to the swim rack, trying to figure out what was wrong with my old suit, other than the fact that it was faded and stretched out. I found two suits that might, if I was lucky, hold up my chest and didn’t look like grandma suits. A man joined me at the rack and thumbed through size eighteen suits. I moved away. I’d had a bad enough day without being hit on. That might sound stupid, but it wouldn’t be the first time a man did something goofy to get my attention. A gu
y once got a pedicure to ask me to dinner. I was embarrassed for him. He went so far as to get clear polish.
I turned to another rack with something called palazzo pants and the man followed me. I so wasn’t in the mood. He moved in closer and I darted forward. “Can I help you?”
He wasn’t startled or embarrassed like I was going for. He smiled, revealing a set of slightly crooked, very white teeth and held out his hand. “Mercy Watts, I presume.”
“Are you a process server?”
He laughed and gave me his card. “Hardly. I’m Oswald Urbani and I have to say the illusion is perfect.”
“That website was not my idea.”
“So I’ve heard. Whoever’s responsible did an excellent job representing you. You couldn’t be more Marilyn.”
I rolled my eyes. People say that like it’s a compliment. They never think that perhaps, just maybe, looking like Marilyn Monroe isn’t the best thing ever. A couple of months ago, some VFW vets finagled some pictures out of me and made a website, making me world famous as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator. Since then I’d been harassed and stalked. That wasn’t totally out of the ordinary for me, but the guys who discovered me via the internet were pretty bold. It only let up when I agreed to do modeling gigs, but I still got a few weirdos a week.
Urbani watched me over the top of the rack with a thoughtful expression. He was my best looking stalker ever, not tall, but fit with a tan and soft dark curls waving back from his angular face.
“What?” I asked.
“I’d like to hire you,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I only do print work. Fully clothed.”
“I don’t blame you, but that’s not the kind of work I’m interested in.”
“This conversation is over,” I said, going to a rack of bra tops.
Unfortunately, he followed. “I want to hire you as an investigator.”
“You’re high. I’m a nurse.”
Urbani moved in closer and lowered his voice. “You’re Tommy Watts’s daughter.”
“That doesn’t make me qualified to investigate anything.”
“I disagree, and I think the Holtmeyer family would too.”
“I can’t talk about that.” The Holtmeyers were the family that committed the murders that I’d been deposed to death on. I couldn’t talk to anyone about that case until the trials were over.
“This isn’t about them. I want you to cozy up to my brother-in-law. It should be a cinch for you. He’s a huge Marilyn Monroe fan.”
“Not interested.”
Sheila found me. Her arms were full of dresses, cover-ups, and an unbelievable amount of tops. “I’m ready.”
“Am I trying on the whole store?” I asked as I slipped away from Urbani into the dressing room.
“It’s not that much. You have to be prepared for any situation.” She put me in dressing room three, the extra large one, and closed me in with four stacks of clothes that were leaning like my mom after a couple martinis.
“I don’t need that much,” I said.
Sheila didn’t answer. She, like Mom, probably thought cutoffs didn’t count. I’m here to say they do. They are clothes. I slipped off the hideous daisy dress and rooted through the first pile.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” said Urbani through the door.
I shrieked, “Get out of here, you freak.”
“Now about my case.”
“Sheila!”
“She’s busy,” said Urbani.
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Sheila! Are you okay?”
“She’s fine. She found better things to do than hover around you. All I ask is that you hear me out.”
I pulled on a pink jumpsuit. OMG. It was even worse than I imagined. Jumpsuits are not made for short girls with curves. I looked like a stuffed bear. What the heck was Sheila thinking?
“Mercy?” asked Urbani.
“Fine. I’ll listen and then you’ll leave.”
“Good. I’m worried about my sister, Lucia Carrow. Her husband, Graeme, may be having an affair. She won’t talk to me about it.”
“That’s her business, not yours.” Jumpsuit off and in the thou-shalt-be-destroyed pile.
“She’s bruised. I think he’s hitting her.”
I could hear the pain in his voice, low agony under the words. I grabbed a one-piece and held it to my chest. Dad had worked on plenty of abuse cases over the years, the ones that ended in murder. I’d heard the pacing, watched him prep for trial. They were as bad as it got in his line of work, unless you counted cases involving kids. Dad drank when he caught those.
“I can’t help you. Even if you knew for sure, it wouldn’t change anything,” I said softly.
“I think it would,” said Urbani.
“I think this is your sister’s life. If she wants to be married to an asshole, that’s her business. Interference will just alienate her.”
“I need to help her.”
“You need to leave,” I said.
“I don’t give up.”
“Then it’s time you learn a new skill.”
I put on the one-piece and viewed myself through one squinted eye. Not bad. I’d buy it, if it covered my chest.
“Mercy,” said Sheila. “How’s it going?”
“Crappy. Why’d you let him back here?”
“Who?”
“That guy that was following me around the store.”
“He came back into the dressing room?” Sheila’s voice went squeaky. “Did he do anything to you?”
I opened the dressing room door and looked into Sheila’s panicked eyes. “Where were you?”
“I’m so sorry. I got this weird call from a supplier. I was in the back. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Nothing happened. He just wanted to annoy me,” I said.
“Thank goodness. I’ll stay here.”
And she did, right through twenty-eight swimsuits and countless outfits. I picked out things that later I wouldn’t remember buying. That call Sheila got wasn’t a coincidence. I would be hearing from Oswald Urbani again.
I parked behind a Lamborghini in front of Stillman’s Antiques Emporium and slipped into the breezeway between the shops. It was the best way to get onto or off of Hawthorne Avenue without being seen. I’d figured it out during my high school years when sneaking out became the only way I’d have a social life. My parents weren’t particularly observant, but other residents of the Avenue were. My parents got no less than five calls when I snuck out and got in Lizzie Meyer’s Beetle at the end of the block. Dad made a few calls and I was discovered in West County at a party with (gasp) boys. The Chief of Detectives put me in the back of a squad car and made six arrests for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. You can imagine how popular I was. I’d like to say that was the worst day of my life, but with Tommy Watts for a father, it can always get worse.
I don’t know why anyone cared about me, but they did. You’d think the wealthy would have better things to do, like ordering their gardeners around or collecting fine wines. Maybe it was because my family didn’t fit and they worried about the cop’s daughter bringing in the wrong element. As far as I could tell we were the wrong element, but once Myrtle and Millicent brought us in, we were accepted. Even though we never had a servant of any kind and Dad washed his own car.
The giant oak at the back of Harris Field’s property afforded the best hiding place. It was three houses down and surrounded by lilacs. I leaned on the rough bark and checked my watch. Claire should be leaving our house any minute. She was punctual, if annoying.
Right on time Claire pulled out into the alley behind our house in her baby blue Accord. See ya, sister. I’ll be looking at those files now. The ones you so helpfully organized. Once she’d turned the corner, I trotted up to the back gate and let myself in. Ha. As if a little thing like a confidentiality agreement would stop me. Amateurs.
Mom’s flowers were a riot of color and scent. Heavy rose blossoms encroach
ed on the brick walk and brushed my ankles with their silky petals. I lazed up the walk breathing deep and looking at the stacks of raw wood covering the patio. Dad was supposed to be replacing the back porch roof, which had been torn off due to rot. The roof had been gone for a while and buying the wood was as far as Dad got. Actually, I think Claire bought the wood, but Dad was claiming credit. He should just hire someone like everyone else on the Avenue. They’d be happy to have their secretaries make a recommendation, but Dad was stubborn. He wanted to do it himself. Little did he know Mom was researching contractors behind his back. She was waiting for him to be out of town for a couple weeks before she’d strike. I planned on being there when he found out there was a new porch roof and he didn’t build it. I’d be sure to add to my cursing vocabulary. Dad was colorful when angry to say the least.
I let myself in the back door, and grabbed a tin of Ghirardelli double chocolate out of the butler’s pantry. No, we didn’t have a butler. But if we had, I would’ve called him Alastair. I made my cocoa and headed upstairs to Dad’s office. The door was open, inviting me in to snoop. I set my mug on Dad’s desk. We called it the boulder because it was a remnant of his police days and he’d kicked it round during his long career.
The in and out baskets were just begging to be gone through, so I picked up a stack and prepared to be enlightened on what Dad was up to.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
I screamed and the papers went flying. I spun around and saw Uncle Morty sitting at Claire’s little desk with his feet propped up on the immaculate wood surface.
Crap. Double crap.
The paper rained down around me like giant snowflakes. Great. Uncle Morty and a mess. This was not an improvement on my already lousy day. Uncle Morty chewed on the end of a plastic fork and eyed me from under his favorite driving cap, a sad affair with a ragged bill and several holes. It usually matched the rest of his ensemble. Uncle Morty loved ancient sweatsuits bought at Walmart in the eighties. That day he had on a shiny black tracksuit with racing stripes. I don’t think I’d ever seen him in new clothes before and the sight put me off balance.
He pointed the fork at me. “You think you’re smart, Mercy. You ain’t.”
