Diver Down (Mercy Watts Mysteries)

by A W Hartoin

  I kissed his cheek and shook his shoulder. “Pete. They’re calling for you in the ICU.”

  “Mercy?” he said in a rough throaty voice full of exhaustion.

  “Sorry to wake you.” I gave him the phone.

  He texted the nurse back and then groaned. “I have to go. The cops are trying to get in to see my patient.”

  “In the ICU?”

  “Gunshot victim. Happened in front of Plaza Frontenac, if you can believe that. She didn’t see anything. But I guess they don’t believe me.” He sat up and went to put on his shoes, only to discover that he’d slept in them.

  “They’re paid not to believe.” I tried to quell my curiosity, but failed as usual. “So the victim talked to you before surgery?”

  “Yep. She was walking out the door and someone shot her. She has no idea why. I’m off tomorrow. Let’s go see a movie or something.”

  Pete followed me to the elevator. I pushed the up and down buttons.

  “Are you mad at me?” he asked.

  I hugged him, breathing in his smell. Not cologne, sterile gloves and antiseptic. “No. I wish I was here tomorrow.”

  “Where’re you going to be?”

  “Vacation on Roatan. Mom changed it from the cruise.”

  “Sorry. I totally forgot about the girl trip. So it’s Roatan, Honduras now?” he asked as the elevator doors opened.

  “Apparently so.”

  Pete stepped inside and held the door. “Take your full kit. Jonas did a Doctors Without Borders in Coxen Hole. They had expired antibiotics and no opiates.”

  “Fantastic.” I kissed him and had a brief but disturbing flash of Chuck’s peck.

  Pete must’ve read my mind. “Hey, is Chuck working tonight?”

  “No,” I said with a twinge of guilt. I don’t know why. I didn’t kiss anybody. “He was just at my parents’.”

  “Damn. I’d rather deal with him than some other detectives I don’t know. Be careful,” said Pete, getting out his prescription pad and writing out two for me. “Fill these just in case. Jonas said it’s like the Wild West down there.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you when I get back,” I said.

  “I’ll try to be conscious.”

  The doors closed and I took Pete’s prescriptions to the pharmacy, one for the antibiotic, Keflex, and the other a painkiller, Norco. Never leave home without them, especially when going to a Third World country. After that I got waxed and wished I hadn’t. Don’t believe them when they say it only hurts for a second. I’d been kicked with less sting. I nearly brought my Norco collection down by one, but I took a Motrin instead. I’d had my fill of painkillers after the Holtmeyers in Gavin’s case got through with me.

  When I got home, I packed both my kits. Pete only knew about one, the medical one. It had sterile gloves, tweezers, alcohol pads, syringes, Betadine, and the like. I added the Keflex and Norco to the other medications I’d collected, zipped it shut and tossed it in with my bras. Then it was on to the kit Pete didn’t know about, Dad’s kit. It included less, shall we say, benign things, like zipties, three kinds of mace, two antique pistols, because one is not enough, and the recently added Universal Taser Dad gave me on the 4th of July. Thanks, Dad. Just what I always wanted. I left the pistols and the taser snug in between Christmas sweaters. Somehow I thought the TSA would take a dim view of them, even in checked baggage. I threw in an assortment of the clothes Sheila picked out, my two one-pieces, and Chuck’s bikini. Mom would be on me if I didn’t bring it. After that I passed out in front of a Denzel Washington movie with my cat, Skanky, and an untouched bag of baby carrots.

  “Find that damn cat! We’ve got to go!” Dad stood in my living room at six in the morning with his arms crossed and his red hair standing on end. He was not a morning person and I doubted it was his idea to drive us to the airport.

  “Stop yelling,” I said as I dropped to my knees and peered under the sofa.

  “I’m not yelling.”

  “Yes, you are. I’ll never find him now.” I’d been looking for Skanky for an hour. He always knew when I was going to take him over to Mom’s and leave him with her evil Siamese.

  Dad walked past me. “I’ll get him.”

  “You’ll never find him. He’s scared to death of you.”

  “No, he isn’t. He likes me.” Dad went into my bedroom, which was a mess. At least it wasn’t Mom. She’d pause to pick up and lecture me.

  “Skanky hates you. You’re always threatening to turn him into a cat taco.”

  Dad walked back out, holding a wide-eyed Skanky by the scruff of the neck. “He knows I’m not serious.”

  “How’d you do that?” I stuffed Skanky into his carrier and he didn’t even yowl. Dad must’ve petrified him.

  “It’s a cat and you named him Skanky. How smart do you think he is?” Dad grabbed my suitcase and went out the door.

  I locked up and chased him down the stairs. “He’s not stupid.”

  “He’s a cat. Enough said.”

  “Does Mom know you think her Siamese are stupid?”

  “The Siamese aren’t stupid. They’re evil.”

  We went out the front door of my building to find Dad’s car stuffed with Mom, Aunt Tenne, and Dixie. Dad somehow wedged my suitcase in the trunk and then grabbed my arm before I got in. “You got your kit?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “The taser, too?”

  “We’re not supposed to bring those on aircraft.”

  “Jesus, Mercy. I got you the export license so you could carry it.”

  “Why would you do that? I’m not going to run around foreign countries tasing people.”

  “You never know when you might need it. Especially now that the Fibonaccis are in the picture.”

  “They’re not in the picture.”

  I tried to get in the car, but Dad turned me around. “Go get it. We’ll wait.”

  “I don’t need it. This is a vacation, crazy person.”

  Mom rolled down her window. “Get in the car, Mercy. We’re going to be late.”

  Dad gave me a little push toward my building’s front door. “Flight’s at eight-thirty. We have time.”

  Mom got all squinty-eyed. “Time for what? You better not be doing anything. This is a vacation. No work.”

  “Dad wants me to get my taser,” I said.

  Dad groaned.

  “No tasers. Get in the car,” said Mom.

  “She needs it. Just in case,” said Dad.

  Mom started to get out of the car. “If you’ve arranged any work for our daughter in Roatan, so help me I will—”

  Dad held up his hands. “No. No. There’s no work in Roatan.” Out of the side of his mouth, he said to me. “For god’s sake, get in the car.”

  I squashed in beside Aunt Tenne, who was wearing an enormous sun hat and fushia lipstick. “What was that about?”

  “Dad’s crazy,” I said.

  “I heard that,” he said.

  “You should be used to it. I say it all the time.”

  Dad growled and broke about ten traffic laws on the way to Lambert International. He dropped us at Departures with dire warnings about third world countries and a whisper in my ear about not talking to any Fibonaccis ever.

  Fine. I’ll try to hold myself back.

  Dad squealed his tires and was gone. I have to say it was a relief. He’d been glaring at me in the rearview the entire way over. I turned around and Dixie, Mom, and Aunt Tenne were standing in a line with their hands on their hips. Small, medium, and large suspicion.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Mercy,” said Dixie. “You know this trip is very special to me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I loved Gavin, but he ruined every vacation we ever had with work. There was always a case. Someone always needed help. I need a fresh start.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s no case. None at all,” I said.

  “You promise?”

  “Cross my heart. If a dead body lands at my feet
, I’ll step over it.”

  “That’s all we wanted to hear.” Mom grabbed her suitcase and led the way into the terminal. The crowd parted for her with all the usual smiles and whispers. Mom said she hated the Marilyn Monroe comparisons, but you’d never know it. She was dressed like a fifties movie star with a full-skirted dress cinched at the waist with a wide belt and a pair of oversized sunglasses. That was Mom incognito. She couldn’t help herself.

  We walked through the terminal with people pointing first at her and then me. A woman ran up to me and asked for my autograph for her husband. I signed her notebook while Aunt Tenne rolled her eyes.

  “My husband loves your website,” the woman said. “He says it’s like Marilyn is with us again.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” I’d been getting more autograph seekers lately and it made me feel like apologizing to the real Marilyn. She worked hard to cultivate the image I was born with and I didn’t appreciate it. When people were staring at me, or worse, asking if I was a female impersonator, my face seemed more like a disease than anything else.

  “You look so natural,” she said.

  “I try.” I don’t know what that woman was thinking. It was six forty-five in the morning. I had no makeup, hair in a ponytail, and was wearing yoga pants and flip-flops. I couldn’t be more natural, but she still thought I was putting on a show.

  We ended up at security with plenty of time to spare and I stood bleary-eyed, hoping the line would move someday soon. Then I smelled something. One of those smells that seeps into your brain and kicks it right in the crotch. Hot dogs. I squinted and looked over my shoulder. Aaron was standing directly behind me, holding a bottle of chocolate Yoo-Hoo and munching on a snowball snackcake. I looked forward. I did not just see Aaron. That would be ridiculous. Aaron never went anywhere unless it was with me. He would never be at the airport.

  Mom turned around. “Mercy, take off your shoes.” She raised her sunglasses. “Aaron, what are you doing here?”

  “Waiting,” he said.

  Nooooo. It’s real.

  “Mercy,” said Mom. “It’s Aaron.”

  I closed my eyes. “I’m pretending it isn’t.”

  “Have you come to see us off?” asked Dixie.

  “I’m going,” said Aaron.

  I opened my eyes in time to see him chug some Yoo-Hoo. “Where are you going?”

  “Wherever you’re going,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Mercy, don’t be rude,” said Mom.

  “It’s not rude. It’s a question. Aaron, where are you going?” I asked.

  “Isla Roatan.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause we’re partners,” said Aaron.

  “Not in life.”

  “I got to go. We’re partners. Tommy said.” He bit the snowball and coconut flakes stuck to his upper lips like he was in a Got Milk ad.

  “This is a vacation. You don’t have to vacation with me.”

  “Got my tickets.”

  Mom, Dixie, and Aunt Tenne exclaimed how happy they were to have him with us. Not an ounce of suspicion between them when it came to Aaron and there should’ve been plenty. Aaron wasn’t there by accident. Mom went through security, followed by Dixie, and Aunt Tenne. When they were through, I asked Aaron, “Dad told you to go to Roatan, didn’t he?”

  “Yep. Said you need me.”

  “What for exactly?” I asked.

  “Just in case.”

  The security guy pointed at me. “Your husband can’t take that through.”

  Husband?

  “Madam,” he said again. “Your husband can’t take that through.”

  That’s when I realized he was talking about Aaron, a guy that was two inches shorter than me, fifty pounds heavier, and sported a permanent case of bedhead. “Are you kidding? He’s not my husband. I’m not married and I’m especially not married to him.”

  “He still can’t take that through.”

  Aaron chugged the Yoo-Hoo and stuffed the rest of the snowball in his mouth. I followed him through the x-ray and past a security lady that told me my husband was a sweetheart. When it was time to board the plane, the gate attendant said my seat had been moved so I could sit next to my husband. WTF! So there I was, stuffed in a middle seat between Aunt Tenne and Aaron, who immediately got out the sandwiches he’d packed. Salami and shaved parmesan with arugula on a skinny garlic baguette. He brought one for each of us and half the plane wanted the recipe before they were seated. They smelled that good.

  Aaron and Aunt Tenne munched on either side of me and I fought the urge to stuff the whole sandwich in my mouth at once. But Aaron was looking pretty pleased with himself and I didn’t want to encourage him. This whole vacation thing was a one-time deal, no matter what Dad thought.

  “Phone,” said Aaron between bites.

  Before I could say a word, Dad was yelling in my ear. “What did you do?”

  “About what?”

  “Judge Panesar just extended the freeze on The Girls’ assets. And she signed search warrants for our bank accounts,” he said, so enraged I could barely understand him.

  “Our bank accounts? You mean yours and mine?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mercy. Mine, your mother’s, and yours.”

  “Why?”

  “The Duchess of Dirt is alleging that your mother and I are blackmailing The Girls and the money’s being funneled through you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Of course it is. I want to know who you’ve been talking to about the case.”

  “Nobody. There’s nothing to say.”

  “You have to tell me.”

  Aunt Tenne furrowed her brows at me and I shrugged. “I didn’t talk to anyone about it. The lawsuit’s totally lame. They can look at my accounts until their eyes bleed. I don’t care.”

  “Well, I do care. You better think long and hard about this, Mercy.”

  He hung up on me and I stared at the phone.

  “What happened?” asked Aunt Tenne.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  The captain announced that we were cleared for takeoff and for the flight attendants to secure the cabin. I put my phone away and tried to shake the feeling that Dad was hiding something and Arlene Cobb was on the trail. It was a new and wholly unexpected thought that Dad might’ve done something wrong, really wrong, and it had to do with The Girls and our house. I’d never started a vacation feeling crappier, but at least we were flying away from all that and I’d have time to breathe.

  I tugged my seatbelt tight and watched a flight attendant hurry down the aisle. For a second, I thought she was headed toward me. Because, let’s face it, that’s just my luck. But she wasn’t going for me. She stopped at the row in front of us and said, “Lucia Carrow?”

  Lucia Carrow?

  “That’s me,” answered a dark-haired woman in front of me.

  “Sorry about the delay. Here’s your gate check ticket,” said the flight attendant.

  The woman thanked her and I leaned over into the salami cloud surrounding Aaron. “Did she say Lucia Carrow?”

  “Yep. Bet you’re glad I’m here now,” said Aaron.

  Not really.

  Chapter 5

  THE PLANE LANDED and taxied across a bumpy tarmac, stopping next to a concrete building that looked straight out of the fifties with lots of rectangular windows and a certain tired aura. Aaron had finished giving out recipes to passengers and was back to me. Fantastic. He’d already told me about every restaurant deemed worthy of attention on the west end of the island and a few that weren’t.

  “We should kill our own lionfish for dinner,” he said. We’d been on lionfish for the last fifteen minutes.

  “No.”

  “They’re good eating.”

  “I’m not killing anything,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt.

  “They’re killing the native species, Mercy,” said Aunt Tenne. “We have to help the environment.”

  “I want to help my environme
nt, which is full of noise pollution right now. Let’s all be quiet.”

  The woman who was called Lucia Carrow squeezed into the aisle to deplane and I got my first good look. She was small, delicately boned with thick curly brown hair and large eyes. Crap. She had to be Urbani’s sister. They looked too much alike and how many Lucia Carrow’s could there be?

  “So you take a Hawaiian sling,” said Aaron.

  What did I do to deserve this?

  “Graeme, you forgot your camera,” said the woman.

  Her husband, a medium-built blond with thinning hair, reached under the seat for a large black camera case. Graeme Carrow. There could be no mistake. It was them.

  I must’ve done something really bad.

  “You got to shoot it in the head,” said Aaron.

  I punched his fleshy shoulder. “I don’t want to shoot anything. Stop talking. I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Mercy!” said Mom.

  “You need ice cream,” mused Aaron as I pushed him down the aisle toward freedom.

  We deplaned onto the tarmac into the tropical humidity that wasn’t as bad as St. Louis and dragged our carry-ons across the blacktop behind Lucia and Graeme Carrow. He had his hand on the small of her back and guided her into the building. We followed them through Customs. It was so quick, I almost didn’t know what had happened, and we were shunted into a holding area the size of my mom’s bedroom, except without the air-conditioning. An older man rushed up to me, said his name was Enzo, and asked something I couldn’t quite make out. Aaron answered him in Spanish.

  “What does he want?” asked Mom.

  “Where we’re staying,” said Aaron, producing a half-melted Mars bar from his carry-on.

  “You speak Spanish?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “La Isla Bonita,” said Mom with one of her dazzling smiles.

  Enzo stood there dazed for a second. “Marilyn. Bonita, Marilyn.”

  Is there no place on earth that doesn’t know Marilyn Monroe? Seriously.

  I must’ve groaned, because he looked at me. “Dos Marilyn!”

  I smiled and waved. Enzo led us to the luggage carousel. “La Isla Bonita!” Then he charged through the small room and passed through a door in a glass wall. There was a crowd pressing against a rope on the other side. Enzo spoke to someone and he turned to us, flashing a broad smile and holding up a sign that said “La Isla Bonita” in big pink letters. Whoa. This trip just got better. The resort guy made Channing Tatum seem average. I think I blushed and I don’t blush.