In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (27 page)

“You think someone killed Cherie over baseball? No. It’s…”
 

“Just a game?”
 

Anthony turned away and leaned on the window sill. Unless I was completely off, baseball was much more than just a game to someone at Cairngorms Castle.”

Cherie and Lane’s room was in the South Wing. I never would’ve found it if Aaron hadn’t been there, trotting along ahead of me. His sense of direction was spot on even when I told him I wanted to interview Nicole and Cory first. Instead, of taking me to their tower or the ball fields, he took me to a staircase modeled on a flying buttress. At the top of the buttress were arched cathedral doors. Aaron opened a door and we emerged onto the parapet, the parapet where more than one Cairngorms owner decided to end it all. I stopped. I can’t say why I didn’t want to go through those doors, but I couldn’t stop staring at the low wall ahead with its crenelated stonework like bad dental work. How could anyone climb over that rough stone?

Aaron touched my arm and the smell of hotdogs washed over me, bringing me to my senses with a wrinkled nose. “Listen.”
 

I stepped out onto the parapet and heard Nicole say, “Why did you bring us up here? You know I hate heights.”
 

“Me?” asked Cory. “You were leading.”
 

“No, I wasn’t,” said Nicole.
 

“You’ve been up here at least six times.”
 

“Not on purpose.”

“How do you climb all those stairs on accident?” asked Cory.
 

“I don’t know. How do you keep ending up in the armory? I hate it up here. It makes me think about Quinn and then I think about Cherie. I hated her, but she was so young.”

“She wasn’t that young,” said Cory.
 

“Thanks. She was my age.”

“You’re always angry. I thought you didn’t—”
 

“You called me old.”
 

“No, I didn’t. I meant Cherie seemed older. Older than you.”
 

“Don’t you know exactly how old she is? You’ve memorized every other fact in the world.”
 

“Nothing I do makes you happy,” said Cory.

Somebody blew their nose and Nicole said in a strangled voice, “I don’t know what to do.”
 

“Come here,” said Cory.
 

“Get off me,” said Nicole.

“There’s nothing to do. She’s dead. Don’t think about her anymore.”
 

Nicole cried softly. “I think we should go. The murderer could get back in.”
 

“Whatever you want. Come on.”
 

They walked around the corner. Nicole’s hair hung around her face in limp waves, no more Aqua Net, but Cory’s crew cut was just as pointy as ever. They looked like they dressed in the dark with mismatched workout gear. They stopped short when they saw us, and Nicole started peeling off the paint on her nails.

“Were you spying on us?” asked Cory, his cheeks going red to match his wife’s eyes.
 

“Yes,” I said.
 

Nicole wiped her eyes with a very used tissue. “You admit it.”
 

“Absolutely,” I said, smiling. “I’m supposed to find out who killed Cherie.”

“You think we did it?” Cory rubbed his head and Nicole pulled his arm down to stop him.

“Not necessarily, but I have to ask you some questions,” I said.
 

Nicole tried to push past me. “Forget it. That was unforgivably rude.”
 

It was, but I didn’t care. Dad considered eavesdropping a high art and if I told him I missed an opportunity because I was honest he would chase me around with a rubber spatula, a stick, or a handful of lemon curd. I know because all three of those have happened, the curd more than once.

I blocked her path. “It won’t take a moment. Where were you at 2:02 and 3:15 this morning?”
 

Cory tried to lift me out of the way, but Aaron said, “John won’t like that.” Cory stopped instantly. “What time did you say?”
 

“2:02 and 3:15.”
 

“We were asleep,” said Nicole. “That’s the middle of the night.”
 

“We’re heavy sleepers,” said Cory.
 

“You didn’t hear a gunshot?”
 

“Gunshot? Was she shot?” asked Nicole. “Who would shoot Cherie? She was…annoying but…”
 

Cory edged around me, careful not to touch. “We have to go. The boys are going down to the field.”
 

“I’m surprised you aren’t with them,” I said.
 

Nicole trotted out behind Cory and said over her shoulder, “The coaches wanted to talk to the boys about what happened before practice.”
 

I watched them hustle down the buttress stairs. “Sleeping. Everybody’s going to say they were sleeping.”
 

“I was,” said Aaron, staring off into space.
 

“Well, I don’t think you strangled Cherie,” I said.
 

“Oh.”
 

I rolled my eyes. “Let’s go to Cherie and Lane’s room.”
 

“Where is it?”
 

“I thought you knew.”
 

“Do I?”
 

“I hope so because if you don’t we may as well call for help right now,” I said.
 

Aaron didn’t answer. He trotted down the stairs like he knew something and I followed with crossed fingers. Ten minutes later, we were standing in front of a door with a green crystal embedded into the knob. Since Aaron didn’t offer up any information, I used Lane’s big brass key with a dangling green crystal to open it, but we didn’t go inside.
 

I stopped on the threshold and looked in at the destruction. The room had been torn apart. In the mess, I recognized some of the clothes Lane and Cherie had worn. We had the right room.

Aaron looked around my shoulder. “What?”
 

“It’s been searched. Thoroughly.”

“Huh?”

Well, to me it had been torn apart. To others, perhaps not. The others, in this case, was Aaron. He was wearing his favorite Bat signal tee. It’d been washed to grey and had shrunk up to reveal the hairy belly protruding over his formerly navy sweatpants. I could only imagine what his apartment looked like. Probably like Cherie’s room without the girly clothes. The drawers were open. Panties and bras strewn on the floor. Women don’t throw our lacy bras on the floor. We just don’t. The closet was open and Cherie’s good dresses were off their hangers and lying in silky heaps where her shoes should’ve been. The shoes weren’t paired but were tossed at the foot of one of the double beds. Both beds were slept in but not seriously. The covers had been neatly drawn back in a triangle as if someone slid in to read a book for a bit, not for a full night’s sleep.
 

Most importantly, Cherie’s laptop was nowhere to be seen. Even the bag was gone. Either she took it with her or someone helped themselves. I didn’t see her phone and it wasn’t on her body. Lane told me she had a Kindle Fire. It was gone, too.
 

“I didn’t expect this,” I said.
 

“I did,” said Aaron.
 

I eyed the little weirdo, who appeared even less with-it than usual. He was staring at a random point on the wall and scratching his chest. “You expected this?”
 

“She got murdered.”
 

“Obviously, but who would steal her stuff and why? Can’t be for profit. Everyone here had better stuff than Cherie.”
 

“Evidence?” asked Aaron, flashing a piercing look that was usually aimed at food.
 

I pulled out my phone. “Yes. Evidence. I assumed this was about rage. Maybe an argument about the prize. It wasn’t. Or, at least, that’s not all it was. She left the safety of the castle in the middle of the night. She could’ve been lured by the killer.”
 

I hated to think Lane was a part of that, but the girl was hiding something. Daughters did kill mothers. It happened. Did it happen here? I shivered and Aaron put a warm hand on my shoulder. I had the strongest urge to call my interfering I-know-what’s-best-for-you mother, but I resisted. She’d probably ask why I wasn’t sitting in bed eating French toast with my cousins.
 

Uncle Morty got my call instead. He couldn’t care less about my cousins or the wedding.
 

“What?” he yelled. “I’m working.”
 

“You’re working? Now? Right now?”
 

He growled. “I’m pulling an all-nighter. Got to get it out. It’s flowing.

“It’s after ten in the morning. Time for a break.”
 

“To work for you?”
 

“Yes.”

Click.
 

“He’s working,” said Aaron.
 

“So I gathered.” I dialed again and got his voice mail. Angry bastard.
 

“It’s me,” I said. “I’ll call Spidermonkey.”
 

Then we waited. Spidermonkey was Uncle Morty’s main competition and, even if he was working, I didn’t see him letting Spidermonkey get one over on him.
 

My phone rang and his water buffalo voice burst out of it, “Make it quick!”
 

“One of the guests has been murdered. If you came up for air once in a while, you’d know that.”
 

“Why the fuck do I care?” he yelled.
 

“Because Dr. Watts put me in charge of the investigation and, let’s just say, John made it clear that it behooves me to do a good job.”
 

“John who?”
 

“The owner. Leslie’s partner of some sort.”
 

His voice lowered and got gravelly. “Oh, that one.”
 

“Yeah, that one. Do I need to call Spidermonkey or what?” I asked.
 

“I’ll freaking do it. What do you want?”
 

“Cherie Marin got strangled. I want you to look at her financials and email. I have her passwords.”
 

He growled, “Don’t insult me.”
 

“Fine. Fine.”
 

“What’s your theory?”
 

I had a theory? It was news to me. “Well, the other baseball parents didn’t like her and I can’t figure out how she paid for this place.”
 

“That’s it? How long you been on this?”
 

“Like an hour. Give me a break.”
 

“Screw that. Get me something else. I got work to do. The fans are waiting for this book.”
 

With baited breath, I’m sure.
 

Actually, they probably were. Uncle Morty was a famous novelist. People dressed up as his characters at Comic-Con. Even though I knew it was true, I still had a hard time reconciling fame with the lumpy grump currently holed up in a tower.
 

“The daughter lied,” I said.
 

“Nice. How?”
 

I told him about the barely mussed up bed and Lane’s demeanor.
 

“Could she kill her mom?” he asked, his voice deep and throaty. If there was one thing I knew about Uncle Morty, he loved his mom. Minnie and Moms in general were revered. He’d drop work to nail Lane if she had a hand in it.
 

“I doubt it. She’s small and Cherie outweighed her by a good twenty pounds.” I told him about the head wound and he growled again. “I didn’t get the feeling that Lane did it, just that she was lying about something.”
 

“She’s protecting the man that murdered her mother.”
 

Oh no. I’ve poked the bear.

“Not necessarily. If you get into her phone, I’m sure there’ll be a text record.”