by A W Hartoin
“What about your godmothers then?”
“Oh dear lord. Please don’t say they have some horrible past that needs fixing.”
He chuckled. “No. Their past is just fine. I was thinking of their present. The lawsuit.”
“They’ll win that.” I finished the malt.
“Maybe. They are a little batty and this issue with you and your parents is troublesome.”
“What issue?”
“All the money, your education, the house on Hawthorne. People are starting to wonder.”
My queasiness increased. Shouldn’t have drank all that malt. “Wonder what?”
“What exactly did your parents do to deserve such largesse.”
“So do you have a folder on that,too?” I asked.
“Afraid not and it’s not for lack of trying. Are you saying you don’t know why the Bled sisters picked your parents?”
“Something about a favor. They don’t tell me anything.”
Oz dug out yet another folder.
“I knew you had another.”
“Not on your parents’ involvement with the Bleds. Open it.”
Inside that innocuous folder was a copy of an internal memo dated two weeks before. It directed Internal Affairs to investigate Dad for possible misconduct in dealing with the Bled family. It said all resources would be made available and the lawsuit should be watched closely for information.
“Dad didn’t do anything illegal,” I said.
“Are you sure about that?”
Um, no.
Oz finished the last of his drink. “Things are easy for my family. We’re born under a lucky star.”
“I don’t know about that. Lucia was nearly killed in Roatan several times.”
“But she wasn’t, because you were there. Lucky, don’t you think?”
“Lucky you arranged it, I guess,” I said.
“All the stars aligned. That’s the way it is for us and sometimes we like to spread it around. My sister got lucky. I don’t see why your family and friends can’t be lucky, too.”
I stood up. “We’re lucky already. We don’t need the Fibonacci stars for that. Thanks for the malt.”
Oz smiled, stacked up the folders, and gave them to me.
I took them though I didn’t want to read what they contained, so much unhappiness, except for Phillip Grint, he was way too happy.
“Calpurnia Fibonacci says you’re welcome,” said Oz, picking up a menu.
I hesitated. What did he mean by that? I nearly asked, but something stopped me, a little feeling that it was best not to know. Instead, I went for the door, having totally forgotten my burger. But Aaron was there with his hand on the door handle. He held up my bag in the other.
“Hey Aaron, why didn’t you come to the table?” I asked.
He shrugged.
I glanced back at Oz, who was watching us. For the first time, I noticed there was a perimeter around his booth. The cops and firefighters kept their distance, but there was a feel of respect to it, a quiet knowing that some lines ought not be crossed. And I had crossed them. I’d walked up and sat down, like it was nothing. And it was definitely something.
“Do you know who that is?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I put the bag on top of the files and waited to see if he’d elaborate. He didn’t. I don’t know why I expected that he would. Aaron wasn’t the king of information. He pushed open the door and practically pushed me through. “Say hello to The Girls.”
The door closed and I turned to watch Aaron nod to Oz and head back in the kitchen. Aaron knew Oz? Or was he just acknowledging the power in the room? That didn’t seem like Aaron. He barely acknowledged bathing.
I walked slowly home with the unsettling thought that I’d started something that I would never be able to end.
It took five hours. Not five days. Not five weeks. Five hours for the Fibonaccis to repay me. I’d like to say that was a record, but it probably wasn’t.
The phone rang, waking me from a burger-induced coma.
“Mercy!” yelled Dad. “Get to the mansion. The alarms have been deactivated.”
“Where are the guards?” I asked, instantly alert.
“The security company isn’t answering.”
“Did you call the cops?” I ran toward my front door, tripping over shoes and a sleeping Skanky.
”You’re closer. Get over there and take the Luger.”
“But—”
“There’s twenty million dollars worth of art in that house. Go! Now!”
I ran back into my bedroom and found the antique Luger my great grandfather brought back from World War Two nestled between two Christmas sweaters. Dad insisted that I be armed after Gavin got killed. I bypassed the Luger, despite Dad’s orders, and chose the smaller Mauser. I yanked it out of the holster, found the clip in my handy box ‘o clips, flipped off the safety, locked the slid and checked the chamber as Dad had taught me. I slapped the clip in and heard the ever so satisfying clack of the slide racking into place. Safety on, I shoved it in my pocket as I ran out of the apartment.
I bypassed my truck and sprinted across the street. A biker in full Tour de France wear saw me, swerved, and hit Stillman Antiques’ oversized sidewalk sign, tumbling ass over teakettle. A car squealed its tires and there was the sound of crashing metal behind me. Stillman Kelley ran out of his shop’s front door and yelled at me. “You aren’t supposed to run!”
“It’s me, Mr. Kelley, Mercy,” I said as I stooped over the dazed biker.
“Dude,” said the biker.
Mr. Kelley pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911 and then shook a finger at me. “Your mother can’t run and neither should you. It’s not safe for people.”
My dad had banned running for Mom after she caused a three-car pileup. This was a first for me. Usually, I could get away with it.
“I didn’t mean to. It’s The Girls. Something’s happened,” I said.
The biker’s hand came up and brushed my breast like I wasn’t going to notice that. I smacked it away and he groaned.
“You’re okay,” I said. “If you can grope, you’re fine.”
Mr. Kelley pointed to the alley. “Just go. I’ll handle this. You can only make it worse.
I resented that, but it was probably true. I ran through the alley and ended up on my parents’ end of Hawthorne Avenue. It was quiet. I didn’t see any crazed getaway drivers. Maybe it was a mistake. A power outage or something. I sprinted down the Avenue under flickering gas lamps. It was safe. There were no drivers to distract.
I found Myrtle and Millicent’s gate open. My feet crunched the dead leaves on the wide front walk as I ran up to the house in which I’d been born, a 1920s Art Deco mansion that was one of a kind to say the least. It had geometric ironwork that suggested Egyptian hieroglyphics, three story conservatories, and more green marble than you’ve ever seen, outside a quarry.
I flung open the door and almost fell over the enormous pile of luggage in the foyer. It was The Girls’ luggage, hat boxes, trunks, twenty-four pieces in all.
I pulled out the Luger, just in case. “Myrtle! Millicent!”
No answer. I ran through the big empty rooms with all the furniture and priceless art covered in starched white sheets. Everything looked intact. All places filled. The house was enormous, so it took a while, but I finally found the intruders by the smell of baking cookies. They were in the kitchen, two little old ladies wearing Prada and colorful silk aprons, because that’s practical to bake in.
“What happened? What’s going on?” I set the Mauser on the marble pastry table and gasped for air.
Millicent eyed the pistol and patted her silver hair, elaboratly swirled going-out hair. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”
“What are you doing here? The alarms are off. The guards are gone.”
“We sent them home and the alarms wouldn’t hush up, so we shut them off. Technology is such a fuss.”
“But why?” I asked.
&nbs
p; “It’s over,” said Myrtle.
“What is?”
“The lawsuit. Brooks dropped it two hours ago. We wanted to surprise you.”
“Holy crap! Why?”
The Girls grasped the heavy pearl necklaces that encircled their necks. “Mercy, please.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Um.. Why’d he drop it?”
Please don’t say he’s dead under mysterious circumstances.
“He just changed his mind,” said Myrtle. “Perhaps he realized you don’t treat family that way.”
I seriously doubt it.
Millicent came over and hugged me. “You don’t seem happy, my darling girl.”
I hugged her back, feeling how tiny and delicate she was. Sometimes I forgot how old they both were. I really shouldn’t do that. No one goes on forever. “I’m thrilled, but curious.”
“His lawyer didn’t say why and, oddly enough, he’s going to pay all our lawyers’ expenses,” said Myrtle.
“I don’t care why,” said Millicent, “just as long as I don’t have to answer any more questions. Those lawyers have no shame. They seem to think there’s no such thing as privacy.”
Myrtle gave me a madeleine cookie, fresh from the oven. Heaven.
“What did they want to know?” I asked.
“They kept asking about Uncle Josiah’s house and your parents, as if Brooks has a right to know our private matters. It is our money and it was our house. It’s none of his business what we choose to do with either.”
Myrtle opened the oven and a wave of heat filled the kitchen. Lovely after the house had been cold and alone for two months.
“So,” I said, “why did you give them the house?”
Millicent gave me the same look that made me quiet in French restaurants and airports since I was little, but I was no longer little. I wanted to know.
“The house was an amazing gift. I just want to know why you gave it.”
“You are as bad as the lawyers. We raised you better than that.”
You think so, but not really.
Myrtle slid in another pan of madeleines and set the timer. “Come, dear. Help us unpack. We picked up some chocolates from Bissingers, your favorite dark chocolate caramel suckers.”
They aren’t going to tell me. Why is this such a secret?
“Mercy?” said Myrtle.
“Of course. I’d unpack the Ringling Brothers for those suckers.”
We went through the house to the foyer. I met a couple of panting cops on the front steps and explained the situation. Then I called Dad and rearmed the alarm. The Girls picked up hatboxes and I got a couple of suitcases and followed them up, up the wide staircase as I had done all my life. The white sheets blew up off the paintings as we passed and I got glimpses of their beauty. A lovely welcome home.
Millicent reached the second floor first. “I think we should go on vacation to celebrate. Mercy, you need a vacation.”
“I just got back from vacation.” Not that it was all that relaxing.
“That was a beach vacation. You’re not a beach girl. You burn. You need culture, art, architecture.”
“I know,” said Myrtle. “You need Europe.”
I couldn’t argue with that, although I wondered if they were just trying to distract me from the house question. The internal memo popped into my mind. The Girls were out of the woods, but what about Dad? “Maybe we should just lay low for a while.”
“Why should we? Life is short, even if you live a long time. We should know.”
“What do you say to Prague or Vienna?” asked Millicent.
“I’m thinking Venice,” said Myrtle.
They didn’t need an answer. They would decide the destination and I would go along, which was fine with me. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything.” Myrtle kissed my cheek.
“Promise there won’t be any murders or crimes of any kind,” I said.
“Why ask us?” Millicent smiled, wrinkles wreathing her pretty face. “You’re the one who controls that.”
Groan.
The End
HERE’S AN EXCERPT from the next Mercy Watts Mystery, Double Black Diamond.
“I should have your problems.”
Raquel, known as Raptor by those who knew her well, stood behind me. The smell of her stale coffee breath filled the staff room. It went well with her natural aura of evil and unjustified anger. I stuffed my water bottle in my backpack and turned to face her.
“I’d like to give you some of my problems, Raquel. Maybe you’d do better with them than I have,” I said.
“You wouldn’t give me the time of day, Mercy.” She tossed her dark curls over her shoulder and brushed past me to get her purse out of her locker and her stethoscope clanked against the metal. She cursed under her breath and glared at me as if it were my fault.
“Not true.” I smiled. Raptor hated smiling on general principle, so I did it as much as possible in her presence. “It is now 7:23 AM and I’ll even tell you the day. It’s Sunday.”
“Smartass.”
I threw back the last of my cold coffee, wiped out my mug and tucked it in beside my water bottle. “I can’t deny the truth.”
“You’ve been complaining about Colorado all night and I’m sick of it. You act like getting an all expenses paid skiing trip is some kind of punishment or something.”
I sighed. In my case it kind of was a punishment, a punishment for dating someone long enough that he decided I absolutely had to go on a trip with his parents, not that I expected Raptor to understand that. I don’t do well with parents, especially mothers. They could get crazy about their sons and for some reason they seemed to think their baby boys needed protection from me especially. I expected a week of suspicion and sly insinuations.
“It’s been a long night. Can we just snipe at each other another time?”
“You know where I’ll be this week?” Raptor hissed at me.
Bitterville? Panties-in-a-twist town? Vinegar village?
“Here in ice cold St. Louis, not skiing with my doctor boyfriend and his rich parents.”
I’m sorry for St. Louis.
“Well, gotta go,” I said as our boss, Odetta, poked her head in.
“Mercy, make sure you stop by Mr. O’Quinn before you go. He’ll be hell on wheels, if you don’t,” said Odetta.
Raptor threw up her hands and stalked out. “Unbelievable.”
“Don’t mind her,” said Odetta. “She just hates you.”
“Don’t I know it. I’ll see Arthur on my way out,” I said, going out the door. Odetta and I watched Raptor walk away. She even walked angry.
“What is it with you two?” asked Odetta as she tied her long black braids with a red ribbon.
“I arrived at nursing school two minutes before her and took the dorm room she thought should’ve been hers by virtue of GPA.”
“That’s it?”
“That and I continued to breathe afterwards,” I said. “Call my service if you want me back after Colorado.”
I was a PRN nurse, which meant I was a glorified temp. I never knew where I’d be from week to week.
Odetta glanced at Raptor stepping into the elevator and then raised an eyebrow at me. “You’ll come back?”
“I’m used to her and I like the floor.”
“Then I’ll make the request.”
We said goodbye and I took a left toward Arthur O’Quinn’s room. The old guy would probably be asleep, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. I pulled open the door to his private room and the smell of three thousand flowers flowed out into the corridor. I tiptoed in and peeked around the drawn curtain. The thin man on the bed with the covers drawn up to his chin was surrounded by more flowers than I’d ever seen in one room. They were everywhere, vases on every flat surface, including equipment. Arthur’s eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow but steady.
“Is that Chanel No. 5 I smell?” he said softly.
I bit my lip and his hazel eyes fluttered open.
“Don’t worry, Miss Watts,” said Arthur. “I know exactly who you are.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said.
“When will you be back?”
“In one week if Odetta schedules me.” I made a face.
“Colorado’s beautiful this time of year.”
“It’s not Colorado I’m worried about.”
“They’ll love you.”
“Mothers never like me. Even my own is on the fence.”
“I doubt that. I like you, and I’m hard to please. Ask any nurse on this floor,” said Arthur, his eyes closing again.
I did please Arthur, but it wasn’t a fair competition. I had something that no one else had. No one except my mother, that is.
“Sing me to sleep, Marilyn,” he said with a gentle smile.
“Alright as long as you know I’m not really her,” I said.
“I know. You just take me back to my youth and a time before all this.” He waved at all the monitors keeping track of his bodily functions.
I took off my backpack, got out a tube of shiny red lipstick and smeared a thick coat on. I might look exactly like Marilyn Monroe, but I couldn’t sing like her without the lipstick. I dropped the backpack and sallied forward, singing “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend”, complete with all the arm movements and tush wiggling. Arthur lit up the way he only did when his late wife Joanna was mentioned.
“It’s uncanny,” he said. “You have the voice, everything. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Marilyn Monroe was here in my room.”
“Wearing scrubs and tennis shoes?”
“It didn’t matter what she wore, she was something special, like you.”
I brushed the gauzy hair off his pale forehead. “Not like me. It’s just the face God gave me.”
“He chose wisely. She would’ve liked you.”
There was no arguing with Arthur about the differences between me and Marilyn. And who was I to argue anyway? Arthur actually knew the late bombshell. In another life, he’d been an assistant to her favorite photographer and had seen her frequently throughout the last years of her life.
“I’ve got to go,” I said.
“Did they tell you? I’m at the top of the list.”
