In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (20 page)

“Yeah, yeah,” he said and spoke into the phone again. “Listen here. We need a medical examiner.”
 

Yet another pause.
 

“Well, send whatever doc you got. She was raped. She needs one of them kits.”
 

I shook my head. “She wasn’t raped.”
 

Tiny’s eyes went to Cherie’s hips and he frowned. “I don’t know. Just get over here. Cairngorms Castle. I told you that already. Yes, they’ll let you in. You’re the cops.” Tiny hung up. “That’s an idiot right there.”
 

Leslie nodded and said, “He’s what you call unprepared.”

“He’s uneverything.” Tiny turned his attention back to me. “How can you tell she wasn’t raped?”
 

“Her pants and panties are down, but not far enough. And her shirt is pulled down to cover her area, and there’s no bruising.”
 

“Staged?”
 

“I think so. After she was strangled. Manually.”
 

“Have you seen a lot of stranglings?” asked Leslie.
 

“I’ve seen a lot of crime scene photos,” I said. “How far away is the station?”
 

“Twenty minutes at best.”

I groaned. Great. I doubted the guy on the phone was sprinting out to the car. He was probably looking the procedure up in a manual and trying to figure out who to call for the medical aspect.
 

“Alright. I guess we’d better block off the scene. Do you have any rope?” I asked Leslie.
 

“I’m sure we do.”
 

“Somebody’s got to tell Anthony and her kids,” I said and they looked at me.
 

Okay. I guess that’ll be me. What a way to start the day.

Leslie’s estimate of twenty minutes was a tad bit generous. Two deputies showed up forty minutes later with no sirens and driving so slow I thought they might be octogenarians. They weren’t. The deputies were in their mid-twenties but lacked all the brashness I would’ve expected at their age. They parked in the lot just through trees between the formal gardens and the baseball field. They got out and conferred before heading up to us like they were heading to their own executions, slow with hunched shoulders.
 

“Any questions?” asked Leslie.
 

“So many questions I don’t know where to start,” I said.
 

“Not everyone can be Tommy Watts.”
 

“I’m not expecting that, but a sense of urgency would be nice.”
 

“This is the back end of nowhere. Life is slower here.”
 

I supposed it didn’t matter that much. Cherie was already dead. They couldn’t change it, but the slow walk was making me want to scream.
 

When they finally reached the love garden, they stopped at passionate love. “Hey there,” said the taller of the duo.
 

“Please come over, gentlemen,” said Leslie. “She’s here by the fountain.”
 

They hesitated and then walked down the path slower than ever. When they reached us, they introduced themselves as Deputies Phelong and Gerry.
 

“What happened?” Phelong, a thin Asian-American with light acne on his cheeks, got out a pad and pen to take down the details, but when we told him what we knew he forgot to write it down. Gerry wasn’t like his partner in looks at all. He resembled a lawn gnome in height and width but, like Phelong, he couldn’t stop looking at Cherie’s body. The color drained out of his pale face and his breathing went rapid.
 

“We’ve got a fainter,” I said.
 

“Huh?” asked Phelong.
 

“Gerry’s going to pass out.”
 

“No, I’m not.” Gerry lurched to the side and whacked his hip on the fountain.
 

Each of the individual love gardens had a stone bench at its entrance. I took Gerry by the arm and waist and led him over to tragic love to sit.
 

“First body?” I asked.
 

He wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Who are you?”
 

“She’s Mercy Watts, remember? The DBD girl,” said Phelong. “Dude, you’re making us look bad.”
 

“It’s fine,” I said. “You don’t get many murders out here, I assume?”
 

“Not since we’ve been on the force.”
 

“How long is that?”
 

Phelong straightened up. “I graduated from the academy eighteen months ago.”
 

“Five months,” said Gerry, making an involuntary horking noise.
 

That explained it. These two weren’t near ready for this.
 

I sat next to Gerry. “Where’s your supervisor?”
 

Before he could answer, the baseball parents came out of the kitchen door. Anthony and Lane were among them. “Oh crap.”
 

“Who’s that?” asked Phelong.
 

“Other guests and the victim’s family,” said Leslie.
 

John headed the group off, but they didn’t look like they’d be restrained for long. The Viper parents were a tall group and they were up on their tiptoes and Tim, Robin’s husband, was ready to dodge John. His blond hair stood on end and his belly jiggled as he darted back and forth.
 

Lane and her grandfather, Anthony, went from person to person, asking them something, presumably about Cherie’s whereabouts, and got only shakes of the head. I watched each person, but everyone seemed normal aside from the curiosity.

Lane dialed her phone, hung up, and then dialed again. She began to cry and Anthony took her by the shoulders. His eyes met mine and his shoulders sagged as I bit my lip.

Lane pulled away from Anthony and dashed to the edge of the love garden. “Leslie, have you seen my mom?”
 

I turned to Phelong and Gerry and mouthed, “Daughter.” They began babbling about procedure. So helpful.

“Never mind. I’ll tell her. Did you call the medical examiner?”
 

“We don’t really have an official one. We can call the doc we’ve got.”
 

“Good enough for now.”
 

Lane darted past her grandpa and came walking down between the tragic and passionate love sections with her hands in fists. I headed her off. She was not going to see her mom that way.
 

“Hi, Lane,” I said. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here and you only have on shorts.”
 

Her voice went an octave higher and became squeaky. “Where’s my mom?”
 

“We’ll talk about it inside.”
 

“Why are the cops here?” Everyone watched us, suddenly silent. I’d delivered the bad news a multitude of times, but never at the scene. Waiting rooms were my poison where the family already knew something terrible had happened. Lane knew, but she wasn’t expecting it. Sixteen-year-old girls never expect their mothers to die, much less violently.
 

I took her by the shoulders and she looked at me with clear, frightened eyes.

Now it was my job to change her life. I had to do it right. She would remember the moment forever. I remembered when Dad told me that my boyfriend, David, was probably dead, and then quickly said he
was
dead so that I wouldn’t hope. I remembered what Dad was wearing. What I was wearing. The stillness of the Morning Room in the Bled mansion. The smell of Myrtle’s beloved French macaroons in the air and the feeling of my chest hardening in pain and disbelief. A hardness that never really went away.
 

“We called the cops,” I said. “Did you know that they don’t have 911 out here?”
 

“They don’t?” she asked, looking over my shoulder toward the fountain.

I had to tell her inside where I could contain her. Otherwise, she might run to her mother, embedding that horrible image in her young mind forever, and ruining our scene.
 

“No, they don’t. I’m not even sure they have a good doctor, but I’m a nurse. You don’t look so good. How do you feel?”
 

Lane focused on my face. “You’re a nurse? I thought you were a model.”
 

“I’m both.”

“You’ve got cuts all over you. What happened?”
 

“My poodle freaked out and dragged me into a hedge.” I pointed at Pick. He sat at John’s feet like he would never do such a thing.

“Oh my god. He’s adorable. I didn’t know we could bring dogs,” said Lane.
 

“He’s a special case. Why don’t we take him inside and you can help me with these cuts? I can’t do it by myself.”
 

John quickly gave her the leash and I gently prodded her back into the kitchen. Aaron was in there and he guided us to the staff dining room. He closed the drapes, so we couldn’t see out into the garden, and closed the door.
 

I sat Lane down and I told her. I don’t remember what I said. I only remember the pain at causing the look of devastation to come over her face. I was never so glad to have a poodle. I couldn’t comfort her. The loss was too immense. But Pick knew what to do. He licked her cheeks and she slid onto the floor to sob into his neck like she would never stop. Pick just sat still with the occasional lick. For the first time, that fuzzy leg biter was noble.
 

Chapter Eleven

LANE SOBBED WITH Pick for ten minutes until Anthony came in. His eyes were glassy and he leaned on the door frame, arms wrapped around his waist as he watched Lane’s grief. His Wrangler jeans had been cinched up another notch and almost looked like they were pleated. The man was wasting away, and Pick had to yip to get him going.
 

“Lane. Baby girl,” he said softly before going to his granddaughter.

“We’re orphans,” said Lane between sobs. “Did you tell Taylor?”
 

Anthony shook his head. “He went for the run this morning with the team and they haven’t come back yet.” He took her wet face between his rough hands. “You’re not orphans. You have me.”
 

“Grandpa.” Lane cried into his knee and I went out the door to find Tiny there. He was nearly as destroyed as Lane and Anthony. His cheeks were deep red and his eyes filled with tears.

“Are you okay?” I asked.
 

“I’m good. Why?”

“Um…just thought you looked upset.”
 

“A woman’s dead.”
 

Yes. A woman was dead, but that didn’t account for Tiny’s expression. That was personal. Before I could inquire further, John came in the kitchen. “Reinforcements.”
 

“The medical examiner?” I asked.
 

“Not yet. Coach Jakes. He’ll handle the parents. You need to tell the son about his mother.”
 

I need to tell him. Right. Of course. Nobody else could take on that special task.
 

John read my mind. “You don’t want me to do it.” He was as flat and expressionless as ever.
 

“Do you have any feelings?”
 

“Not that I’m aware of.”
 

I nodded. “Yeah. You’re probably not the right choice to break the news to an unsuspecting son.”
 

He gestured to the door and we went out into the garden. It’d warmed up considerably in the few minutes I’d been inside. The sun reflected off the dew on the young plants in the kitchen garden and the air smelled of freshly turned over soil. I hadn’t noticed before since I was being dragged out by a crazed poodle who smelled a body. Pick wasn’t trained or particularly useful, but he had skills. Chuck must’ve rubbed off on his dog. It wasn’t me. I didn’t go looking for bodies, no matter what people thought.
 

Most of the time I didn’t much care what people thought, except for Chuck, and he still wasn’t talking. I texted him with yet another lame attempt to get a response. “Murder at the castle. Come help me.” He did like a good crime. Maybe this time… No luck.