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Authors: A.W. Hartoin

Tags: #Mystery: Cozy - P.I. - St. Louis

A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (2 page)

BOOK: A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red
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I popped the nearly empty jar in the microwave and pondered how long to choose. Asking would only get me a lecture.
 

“I had a visit yesterday,” said Aunt Miriam.
 

“Oh, yeah?” I picked fifteen seconds. A good wholesome number.
 

“From a member of the Klinefeld Group.”
 

I stopped breathing and the microwave beeped. The Klinefeld Group was the nonprofit trying to get control of my godmothers’ fabulous art collection, using any means necessary. There were even accusations that The Bled Collection included art stolen from Jewish prisoners during the Holocaust, which it didn’t.
 

“Mercy. Mustard.”
 

“Of course.” I got the mustard and, the second it cleared the microwave, the top exploded off and shot the remaining six sandwiches of mustard straight up onto the ceiling in a spectacular starburst pattern. I think I screamed, but I’m going to pretend I didn’t.
 

I did look at Aunt Miriam. She sighed and said, “You were saying something about not wreaking havoc.”
 

“It was an accident.”
 

“It always is with you,” she said. “There’s a sponge and cleaning spray under the sink. I assume you’d like mayo on your sandwich now.”
 

“Yes, please.” I went to get her step ladder. She kept one in her bathroom because she couldn’t reach the top shelf of her medicine cabinet.
 

Aunt Miriam force fed me my pimento loaf sandwich and a glass of Tang before I climbed the ladder.
 

“Are you going to tell me what the Klinefeld Group wants with you?” I asked after chugging the Tang.
 

“When you’re done cleaning my ceiling.”
 

Groan.

I sprayed one spray before my phone belted out the Darth Vader theme song. Aunt Miriam took my phone out of my purse and glared at me. “You gave your father the Darth Vader ring tone?”
 

“I thought it was funny,” I said.
 

She pursed her lips so hard they went white. At least it wasn’t my mother. Her ring tone was the Wicked Witch of the West. That would’ve gotten me another caning.
 

Aunt Miriam started poking random buttons on my phone without success. Couldn’t she just let it go to voice mail? Seriously? I was cleaning mustard off a ceiling. That counts as busy.
 

She finally hit the right button. “Hello, Tommy. It’s Auntie.” She paused and then said, “Your father wants to talk to you.”
 

“I’m cleaning here. You don’t want this mustard to set.”

She held out the phone. “I’ll risk it.”
 

I took the phone, while balancing on the rickety ladder. “Hi, Dad.”
 

“Aunt Miriam doesn’t sound happy. What did you do?”
 

“Nothing.”

Silence.
 

“Well, there may be mustard on the ceiling,” I said.
 

“Sounds about right. Clean it up and get over here.”
 

“Where are you?”

“Gioia’s,” he said and my mouth began to water. House-made salami. Not a loaf in sight.
 

“I’m having lunch with Aunt Miriam.”

“How is it?” he asked with plenty of amusement in his voice.
 

“Delicious,” I said with a winning smile at Aunt Miriam. She narrowed her faded blue eyes at me. How did she always know when I was lying? I was a decent liar. Some would say an excellent one. No one related to me seemed to think so though.
 

“Bullshit.
Get over here. We’ve got a situation to discuss.”
 

“No more situations. I just came back from Colorado. That whole thing was a nightmare.” I didn’t mention the Klinefeld Group thing in case he didn’t know.

“Look here, girl. One of your people needs you. You’ll get over here and you’ll smile while you’re doing it.”
 

“I don’t have people. I have patients.”
 

Dad snorted. “Patients. Whatever. I’m waiting.”
 

“Dad, I can’t. I have a thing. Aunt Miriam needs me to—”
 

Click. He hung up on me. Unbelievable, but not wholly unexpected. Dad wasn’t fond of the word ‘no’. And what did he mean by ‘Patients’ with a snort? I was a nurse. A darn good one, in my unbiased opinion. Dad usually described me as a ‘sort of nurse’, which was, I supposed, a dig at my PRN status. I worked through an agency and filled in when someone was short a nurse. My parents considered it one shift short of a real job. But they didn’t complain when I was available to do all the scut work at my dad’s agency. Then they liked it just fine.
 

Aunt Miriam tapped my ankle. “What thing do you have?”

“This, right now, is a thing.”
 

“Use proper sentences.”
 

“Do you want me to clean this or not?”
 

“Tommy wants you to go to Gioia’s, so you go. The ceiling can wait.”
 

Forever, I hope.
 

“What about the Klinefeld Group?” I asked.

“Come back promptly at six and I’ll tell you.”
 

Groan.
 

“Fine.” I climbed down and dropped the sponge in the sink. “But give me a hint.”
 

Aunt Miriam narrowed her eyes at me. “I’ll tell you at six.”
 

“I’m not going until you tell me,” I said, crossing my arms. I was stubborn, too. Where did she think I got it from?

“Don’t make any other plans. Tonight’s movie night.”
 

The blood drained right out of my face. “What?”

“You heard me. We will have dinner, discuss the Klinefeld Group, and watch a movie.”
 

I pointed at her. “I can’t believe it. You planned this.”
 

Watching movies with Aunt Miriam could not happen. She loved horror. It was super creepy, a nun loving horror.
The Exorcist
was her favorite, followed closely by
Saw
.
 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t plan that you would spurt mustard all over my ceiling.” She smiled and I doubted every word.

“If anyone could, it would be you. Where’s Sister Francis? She’s your movie person.”
 

Aunt Miriam whipped out a DVD case from behind a stack of cookbooks. She had it there the whole time, waiting for her chance to pounce. “Francis is out of town visiting family. You’ll have to do. I’ve been saving this one just for you.”
 


Annabelle
? That’s still in theaters,” I said, backing away. If I watch that, I’ll never sleep again.
 

“Tommy found me a bootleg copy. Such a sweet boy.” She followed me, waving the DVD. “Tonight. Six.”

“What about Sister Clarence? She loves you. I’m sure she’d be happy to watch it.”
 


Annabelle
would scare Clarence.”
 

“It’ll scare me. I can’t handle horror. You know that.”
 

She backed me up into the door. “Don’t be ridiculous. You were nearly murdered in a funeral home.”
 

“That’s right. I probably have PTSD.”
 

“There was that girl in that disgusting bar, the scuba diving incident, and who knows what all? You can handle it. You’re tough.”
 

“No, I’m not. Ask Dad. He called me a pansy yesterday.”
 

“Tonight at six.”

“I’ll clean your mustard,” I said, crossing my arms.
 

“I need a movie-watching partner. It’s no fun without someone to scream with.”
 

“It’s no fun at all.”
 

“Do you want to know about the Klinefeld Group?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Then you’ll be here,” said Aunt Miriam.
 

“I’ll find some other way to get the info.”
 

“No, you won’t. Don’t make me get out The Exorcist.”

“Please don’t make me do this,” I begged.
 

Aunt Miriam’s pocket started to ring. It had to be Dad. He never gave up and Aunt Miriam wouldn’t have any problem with caning me to get me to obey.
 

Aunt Miriam managed to answer it after she tried fifteen different buttons. Cellphones weren’t her thing.
 

“Hello, Tommy,” she said in a sweeter tone than she ever used for me. Probably because Dad taught self-defense classes to the Sisters of Mercy. That was an idea I wished he’d forget.
 

Aunt Miriam held up the phone and Dad’s voice exploded out of it. “What are you waiting for? Don’t make me come over there!”
 

I think there was even a breeze coming out of it.
 

Aunt Miriam crossed her arms.

“How did he know I wasn’t leaving?” I asked.
 

“He’s your father. Will you be leaving or shall I make another sandwich for Tommy?”
 

I stomped out without answering. No good could come of it.

Chapter Two

TRAFFIC BROUGHT ME to a dead stop under a streetlight banner proclaiming in green, white, and red that I had arrived on The Hill. I didn’t need a banner to know where I was. The Hill was unique in the St. Louis landscape. The turn-of-the-century brick buildings were filled with family restaurants and shops that had been in business for decades. The Italian flag’s colors were everywhere, just so you would know exactly what The Hill was all about. Food and family. I loved it. The Hill was cozy and warm on the coldest days and there was a sense of history that could only be matched in the Central West End, where I grew up and still lived. If I ever moved, it would be to The Hill.
 

I leaned to the left to try and see around a ginormous sport utility vehicle. I got a glimpse of a detour sign and groaned. A cop stepped in front of the sign and waved for the line of vehicles to start moving. I thought I’d make it through, but I got the hand and the cop waved the cross traffic through instead. Macklind Avenue was blocked off and that was where Gioia’s was. Great. I couldn’t see what was going on, but it had been happening for a while. There were cop cars and white tents cordoning off the area.
 

The cop was replaced by another broad-shouldered man in blue and the first cop headed in my direction. I quickly cranked down the window. “Excuse me!”
 

He turned, his face drawn and his young eyes accented with heavy bags. It said O’Connor on his name tag. “Yes, ma’am.”
 

“What’s up with blocking off Macklind? I gotta get to Gioia’s.”
 

“The detour will get you…” He trailed off as he leaned in to get a better look at me. “Holy crap! You’re Mercy Watts. You really are a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe. I can’t believe I’m talking to you. I met your father once. He rocks. I mean, he’s a great cop. A great detective, he was, I mean he is. He
is
a great detective. He was a cop. You know that. Everybody knows that.”
 

“Breathe,” I said, suppressing a smile. Dad’s fans got so flustered.
 

“Sorry. I just didn’t think you’d be here. I mean, you have to be somewhere, but not here. You could be here. I can’t believe I’m meeting Tommy Watts’s daughter. You’re the DBD cover girl. Holy crap. Can I have your autograph?” asked O’Connor.

What started out as fun had rapidly turned depressing. I was famous, but not for anything good. I was Tommy Watts’s daughter. DBD’s cover girl. I had Marilyn’s face. None of that was about me, the real me. It was all window dressing. I was famous for belonging to someone else. That stunk. I was supposed to belong to me.
 

“Sure,” I said with a sigh. “Got paper and a pen?”
 

He gave me his ticket pad and I signed the cardboard backing. That was a new one.
 

“So…are you going to tell me what’s going on down there or what?”
 

“You’re joshing me, aren’t you? You and your dad are probably on the case. Is there a case? They have the guy. Maybe they don’t. Do you know something?” asked O’Connor.
 

I slapped my forehead. “I don’t even know why I’m sitting here. What happened?”
 

“Seriously?”
 

“O’Connor, your partner’s about to wave me through. Tell me or I’ll run you over.”
 

“Tulio’s down there.”
 

I blinked.
 

“The shooting. Mass murder.”
 

“I…I forgot. I’ve been working a lot,” I said, my stomach growing queasy with the pimento loaf and the thought of all those people.
 

“What’s the case?” whispered O’Connor. “I won’t tell anyone.”
 

“I’m a nurse. There’s no case.”
 

He held his finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word. You are not on this case. Got it.”
 

Oh dear Lord.
 

The other cop waved to me and I drove away from O’Connor, who would undoubtedly inform everyone he met that I was working the Tulio mass murder case, which I wasn’t. Like he said, they got the guy. Kent Blankenship had confessed to walking into Tulio, one of The Hill’s best restaurants, and opening fire with a TEC-9. He killed or wounded twenty-six people in the small elegant dining room in the space of 22 seconds before a waitress named Monique Robertson, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the actress Mo’Nique, tackled him. After Blankenship was arrested and charged, his idiot lawyers tried to claim police brutality, only to discover that Monique had brutalized him in every way an unarmed woman possibly could. She kicked him, bit him, punched him, clawed him, and stabbed him with a fork multiple times. Blankenship’s mug shot made him look like the victim, instead of a thirty-year-old busboy that got fired from Tulio’s for incompetence. Monique was lauded as a hero and every news program known to mankind featured her for days. The Tulio case didn’t need me, it had the epically badass Monique.
 

BOOK: A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red
10.58Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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