In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (12 page)

“The prize is decided this weekend?” I asked.
 

“For all intents and purposes. Four of the judges are here. They’re coaches for the camp.”
 

“Is this camp always here?”
 

“No. This is the third year. It used to be at spring training in Florida, but somehow it was changed to here. I hear the owners are huge baseball fans. They host camps year around, but this is the one that counts.” She leaned over to me. “The cost is outrageous, but it’s worth it.”
 

I was about to agree, but a prickle went up my neck and a feeling of discomfort that was so familiar came over me. I should've felt it before. I should’ve known. I don't know why I didn't. Maybe the lettuce was dulling my senses, which, of course, was the intent.
 

“What’s wrong?” Nicole wrinkled her nose. “And what’s that smell?”
 

That’s when the smell of hot dogs came wafting over me and not just any hot dogs. Not Ballpark Franks. Not some kosher hot dog from New York. This was a special hot dog smell. That smell only came with one person on earth, Aaron, the partner my father had assigned to me because he decided that I was too incompetent to handle things on my own during a murder case. I had proved to be incompetent several times, in fact, but it was still a little galling to need Aaron. And I did need the little weirdo. For chocolate, if nothing else.

“Hotdogs.” I turned slowly and saw them. Yes them, the two of them. Aaron was there, of course, looking rumpled and out of place as he always did. That day he had chosen for some reason to wear an ancient T-shirt from the Ron Jon surf shop, a place I'm sure he’d never been and would never be. Aaron wasn't much of a surfer or athlete of any kind, for that matter. I glared at him, but he wasn't looking at me. He wasn't looking at anything as far as I could tell, but staring off to the left. He was probably thinking about recipes. Food was his passion. I suppose I sort of expected Aaron to be there, despite all of Dad's promises. His promises meant nothing. I'd learned that from the earliest days of my childhood. Or rather, Dad's promises meant what they meant to him, not what they meant to me. There was always a way around what he promised, a different interpretation if you like. Take my eleventh birthday party, for instance. Swearing he'd be there didn't actually mean Dad would be at my birthday party. It meant that he'd be at a party somewhere in the city where there might be a kid. On my birthday, Dad was at a bar mitzvah brawl, not my party, but he thought it counted. I did not agree.

The other person with Aaron was looking at me and he was the last person I expected. I wasn't expecting plenty of people so that's saying something. Tiny Plaskett, my cousin from New Orleans, gave me a little wave and a sheepish grin to go with it. I'd only discovered Tiny’s existence two months before on my trip to New Orleans. We were something like first cousins twenty times removed. It was crazy to think Tiny would just show up at Cairngorms Castle out of the blue, but there he was, filling up reception like nobody else could. Tiny wasn't tiny at all. He was huge by linebacker standards. The last time I’d seen him, I’d been afraid he’d drop dead on me he was so unhealthy, but Tiny had transformed in the last two months. He’d dropped about a hundred pounds, his breathing wasn’t so labored and his limp no longer obvious. I didn’t need to take his pressure to know it was almost in the safe zone.

Tiny didn’t move. He became rather shamefaced but still smiling. Tiny was always smiling. A very pleasant fellow indeed. But I wasn't going to be bought off by a winning personality. No way. No how.

“What are you two doing here?” I asked.

Tiny darted a look at Aaron, who didn't respond, of course, and then he settled his dark brown eyes back on me. “Aaron is giving a healthy cooking class and I'm taking it.”

“Really? You're taking a healthy cooking class from him? He puts butter in everything, even things that don't get butter. He loves cream and cheese and salt. Don't try to sell me that crap. Aaron is not giving a cooking class of any kind, especially not healthy. He can't even spell it.”

“He's giving a class and I'm taking it.” Tiny's plump lips pursed and shifted to the side. Tiny had a tell and that was it. Liar!
 

“Okay. Fine. What are you doing in Missouri? There’s no way you came all the way here to take a cooking class from Aaron. Spill it,” I said.
 

“I work for your dad now,” said Tiny, reaching down to pet Pick who was leaning on him. It was love at first sight for the poodle.
 

I pointed at him. “I knew it. Wait. What?”
 

“I work for your dad. He offered me a job and I took it.”
 

“You’re a private investigator?” I asked.
 

Tiny blushed a little. “Not yet. I’m more of an assistant.”
 

Yes! You can do the scut work and I can do…something not that.

I gave him a big hug and tried to kiss his cheek, but I couldn’t reach it and hit his collarbone.

“There were a few stipulations,” said Tiny.
 

“Like what? You have to stalk me on bridesmaids’ weekends?” I asked.
 

“Well…”
 

I rolled my eyes. “Were there other conditions?”
 

“I had to drop some weight. Can’t really chase down a suspect at this point.”
 

“You lost a lot already.”
 

“Not enough, but I’m working on it,” he said.
 

“By taking a cooking class from Aaron, the butter king.”
 

He nodded vigorously. “Uh huh, but it’s a healthy class. I’m eating healthy and Aaron’s helping me. That’s why we’re here.”
 

“That’s your story?” I asked.
 

“And I’m sticking to it.”
 

“Have fun with that.” I saluted him, grabbed Pick’s leash, and went for the door. The hotdog smell stuck with me out into the great hall to the foot of the stairs. I spun around and put my hand up. “No way. You two go to the kitchen or wherever.”
 

Then I jogged up the first flight and there was a tremendous creaking behind me. Aaron and Tiny were coming up, single-minded and puffing like chain smokers.

“What the hell? Knock it off,” I said.

“Gotta go to our rooms,” said Aaron, speaking for the first time. I’m surprised he recognized me through his filthy glasses. He looked like he rode the entire two hours to the castle on his decrepit scooter.
 

“Where are your rooms?” I asked.
 

“The South tower.”
 

“Of course they are. Fourth floor?”
 

Tiny hefted his bag onto his shoulder. “Is there any other floor?”
 

“Not for you I would guess. Fine. Follow me. I don’t care. By the time this is over, you’ll be sick of the sight of me and smell like nail polish and therapy candles. Serves you right for bodyguarding me.”
 

Tiny jutted a thumb at Aaron. “He’s going to smell like a hotdog. I think it’s the only scent he comes in.”
 

“Huh?” asked Aaron.
 

I flipped my hair back. “Never mind. Get ready for boredom boys. It’s your lucky weekend.”
 

Chapter Seven

JOHN WAS RIGHT. Cairngorms Castle was bigger than I thought. A lot bigger and crazy confusing. I lost Tiny and Aaron on the third floor. It wasn’t intentional. I just kept walking and, at some point, they weren’t behind me. I used my compass app to make my way south toward the South Tower. I’d show John. How hard could it be? Sure I got lost rather often in my native St. Louis, but this was a castle. The South Tower had to be in the South, right? Wrong. To make matters worse, whoever designed the castle must’ve been related to the guy who designed the Winchester Mystery House. Stairs led nowhere. Corridors were dead ends. I swear three times I went up stairs only to wind up on the first floor. How does that happen? I would’ve asked directions, but I didn’t see another soul for an hour and ten minutes. Somehow I kept finding myself in the kitchens. It wasn’t until the third time that I realized there were two different identical kitchens. The pots were different. That’s how I knew. One had all copper pots hanging from racks suspended from the ceiling and the second kitchen had stainless steel. But they had the same enormous fireplace outfitted with a spit large enough to roast a pig and, oddly enough, had the same calico cat sitting next to the La Cornue range. It was a six foot long thing of beauty in pale blue. I’m not that into cooking, but even I had to touch it and open the ovens. The cat ignored me in both kitchens, cleaning its tail and sneezing at Pick. On closer inspection, it wasn’t the same cat. One had more orange than the other and that was a relief. I’d had a cat encounter in New Orleans that left me nervous about whether all cats were actually cats or possibly something else entirely. The calicos were cats but completely unhelpful as all cats are.

After my third time in the copper pot kitchen, I stomped out and ran headlong into a broad hard chest, wearing a dusty baseball jersey.
 

“I’m so sorry,” I said, momentarily winded.
 

A man with shaggy blond hair smiled down at me. His cheekbones were chiseled and had a deep tan with a hint of a recent sunburn. “No problem. Lost?”
 

“How’d you guess?”
 

“Everyone gets lost in the castle, including me.” He stuck out his hand. “Oliver Jakes, camp director.”
 

His hand was warm and covered with thick calluses. “Mercy Watts.” I frowned. “Oliver Jakes, the ballplayer?”

“I was hoping you hadn’t heard of me.”
 

“That’s a stretch. You’re a legend in St. Louis.”

“That makes two of us,” he smiled and leaned on the wall between signed photos of Alain Ducasse and Eric Ripert, my favorite French chef. I’d never had his food. I just liked to look at him.
 

Oliver’s smile deepened and I had the sense that he knew quite a bit about me. Very disconcerting. I only knew the headlines about him, but there were quite a few.
 

“So we’re both notorious,” I said, attempting to conceal my feelings.
 

“Me more than you.”
 

“I don’t know about that.”
 

“How many times have you been arrested?” he asked.
 

“I lost count,” I said.
 

His eyebrows shot up, creasing his rather leathery forehead. “Really. I never heard that.”

“Well, it’s been a while and my father is Tommy Watts.”
 

“Right. You have connections. I could’ve used a few of those,” he said.
 

“Even my dad doesn’t have that much pull.”
 

He laughed, deep and raspy. “You mean the great Tommy Watts couldn’t conceal a few minor possession incidents?”
 

“Minor?” I asked.
 

“Okay. So maybe trying to take cocaine through the Hong Kong airport wasn’t my best idea.”
 

I laughed at the ‘wasn’t my best idea.’

“What can I say? I was an addict,” said Oliver without a hint of regret or concealment. I guess when you’re Oliver Jakes, Cy Young award winner, baseball’s most winning pitcher, and drug addict, you just have to own it. Kind of like being my dad’s daughter. There’s no escape. Deal with the infamous.
 

“
Was
?” I asked.
 

“Was. I’ve been clean for three years, four months, two weeks, and one day.”
 

“You’re still counting the days?”
 

“It helps keep down the crazy. What are you counting?”
 

Heads of lettuce.
 

“Nothing. I’m not in recovery from anything,” I said.
 

There was a slight eyebrow raise, but Oliver didn’t cross-examine me on that point. “So what are you doing here? Has there been a crime that I’m not aware of?”
 

“I wish. It’s a bridesmaid weekend.”
 

He frowned slightly. “Really? I’m surprised John and Leslie would book anyone outside of baseball this weekend.”
 

“Why?” I asked.
 

“The award is being decided. They don’t like distractions.”
 

 
I glanced down at my phone as it belted out
The Wrath of Khan
theme song, not the stirring heroic tones of Kirk’s song but Khan’s relentless superiority instead. Dad. Just who I didn’t want to talk to. I turned my phone to vibrate. “We won’t distract you.”
 

“I’m distracted already. I’m supposed to be picking up snacks, instead of talking to you.” Oliver reminded me so much of Chuck. Oliver was much more rugged and well-worn, but the confidence was the same.
 

I stepped back. “I better be going now.”