In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (30 page)

“Of course we want to help. You’re so good at this. Mom says you shouldn’t get involved in the things you get involved in, but this is fine. We’re at the castle. Hello.”
 

“Uh…one of the guests was murdered last night. You understand murdered as in dead?”
 

“Which guest?” she whispered, her big brown eyes darting around.
 

“Cherie, one of the Moms. She was strangled.”
 

“That’s nasty. We have to tell Bridget and Jilly. They won’t want to miss anything. Oh! I can take notes. You need to take notes, right?”
 

“I guess.”

“Great. I’ll be your secretary.” She tugged on my arm. “Let’s go.”
 

“I have to go to my room and take a bath. I’m soaked. I was out looking for evidence of a shooting,” I said.

“Two crimes? That’s even better. Wait until I tell Mom. This is
the
most unique bridal weekend ever. Everyone said we should go to Vegas, but everybody goes to Vegas. Who else gets to do this? Nobody. That’s who. Okay. You go take a bath and I’ll fill in Bridget and Jilly. Do you have a dossier or something?”
 

“Um…no.”
 

“That’s okay. We’ll figure it out in record time. Uncle Tommy will be so impressed.” With that, Sorcha took off down the hall practically skipping.
 

I turned to Tiny. “I said murder, didn’t I?”
 

“Yeah, but I don’t think she gets it.”
 

“You hungry?” asked Aaron. “I’ll make crepes.”
 

“No crepes.”

“Galettes?”

“No. I’m having a bath and that’s it.” I trudged up the stairs, listening to Tiny’s strained breathing and Aaron mumbling about mincing sausage up for galettes.
 

By the time we reached the top of the stairs, Tiny was bright red and wheezing. Even Aaron noticed and moved out of the way in case he collapsed. Tiny wasn’t going to collapse. He’d looked worse. Much worse.
 

“I gotta drop this weight,” he said between ragged breaths.
 

“You’re getting there,” I said.
 

He staggered across the landing and bumped into my door, setting off furious barking inside.
 

“Quiet down, Pick!” I yelled as I unlocked the door.
 

He didn’t quiet down. If anything, it got crazier. I could hear him running around and bumping into things. I didn’t have the strength for this. I really didn’t.
 

“Tiny, I need a break from that dog. Can you take him for a while?” I asked.

Before he could say yes, my door swung open and he never got any farther.
 

“Oh my god!” I couldn’t move. I’m rarely shocked, but Pick managed it all by his curly self.
 

“Wow,” said Tiny as we stood in the doorway and watched something the size of Pick race around the room in a maelstrom of white. There was a storm in my room, a tempest, a blizzard beyond anything I’d ever seen.
 

Aaron squeezed in beside me. “He’s hungry.”
 

“I’m not sure that’s Pick. He was black this morning,” I said.
 

Tiny snatched some of the white stuff out of the air. “Feathers. Millions of feathers.”
 

“Pick!” I yelled.
 

At the sound of his name, the white-encrusted creature leapt onto the bed and began barking his head off. I walked in, batting feathers away from my face. It was a mess. No, not a mess. Mess didn’t cover it. I had no words for it and I always did well with vocabulary. Everything was coated. The fireplace, dresser, bookcase, everything. Even the walls were white.
 

“How?” I squeaked out.
 

“Do you want me to call for a maid?” asked Tiny.
 

“You better call a vet because I’m going to kill that dog.” I darted for the bed, but Tiny caught me by the back of my dripping hoodie.
 

“Chuck wouldn’t like you killing his dog.”
 

“You don’t know. Maybe that’s why he left him with me. He knew the dog had to die and he was setting me up.”
 

“You lost it, girl.”
 

“I never had it. Never!”
 

Tiny picked me up and set me in front of Aaron. “Hold on to her.”
 

Aaron grabbed my arm and Tiny went for Pick, snagging his collar. Maybe it wasn’t his collar. I couldn’t tell under the fluffy feather shroud.
 

“He’s got something on him,” said Tiny. “It’s sticky, but it smells good.”
 

I dragged Aaron with me to the bathroom, the scene of the crime. Pick had lost his pea brain in there. My shampoo and conditioner bottles lay in shreds on the floor along with my lotion and every cosmetic I had. Aaron picked up the only intact bottle. “He didn’t get this.”
 

Baby oil. I used it on my feet, but not anymore. The bottle was empty.

There was a bizarre rumbling and squeaking out in the bedroom.

“What the hell?” yelled Tiny.
 

I dodged Aaron and ran back in. Tiny held Pick at arm’s length.
 

“What now?” I asked.
 

“He’s got something wrong with him.”
 

“You think?”
 

“No, I mean, really wrong.”
 

“Drag him in here,” I said.
 

Tiny reluctantly carried Pick into the bathroom and put him in the tub. He resembled The Bumble from Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer but with nicer teeth.
 

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked. “Besides the obvious.”
 

Before Tiny could answer, a wet flappy squelchy noise came from Chuck’s dog, the rear end of Chuck’s dog to be specific. Without a word, Aaron left. He just up and left. Oh, how I envied him.
 

“Where’s he going?” asked Tiny.
 

“It’s every weirdo for himself,” I said. “What do you think that is?”
 

Tiny let go of Pick and stepped back. “I don’t know, but it ain’t good.”
 

Pick sat down in the tub and panted. His little black button eyes gleamed. He was pleased with himself. The dog was happy.
 

I tentatively sniffed him. “Well, the smell is my shampoo and conditioner. And the sound, I guess he ate some.”
 

Pick tried to jump out of the tub when I turned on the water, but Tiny blocked him and stuffed him back in. I washed the snow beast while Tiny called housekeeping and told them what happened. From his end of the conversation, I think they had a hard time believing the extent of the mess.
 

“Just bring a bunch of vacuum bags,” he said and hung up.
 

“Are they coming?” I asked.
 

“Yeah, but they ain’t happy about it.”
 

“They can join the club.”
 

Pick was the only happy one. He liked baths, although he never remembered that until he was getting washed. He trampled around the tub, smiling his dog smile and shaking every chance he got. I thought I looked bad before. Adding feathers, shampoo foam, and a bunch of curly black poodle hairs made it so much worse. And the operation took forever. The feathers kept clogging up the drain and Pick ran around like a crazy nut whenever his rear made that bizarre noise. It wasn’t until I got him washed off that I was brave enough to take a look. His rear seemed okay, except the fur was weird, all gloppy and shiny.
 

“What’s up with that?” asked Tiny.
 

“I don’t know. Touch it and tell me.”
 

“I’m not touching that.”
 

“Come on. You’re a giant manly dude,” I said, batting my eyes.
 

“That mighta worked if ya didn’t have dog hair all over your face,” said Tiny.
 

I wiped my face frantically. “Better?”
 

“Na. You gonna need two or three showers. Go ahead and touch it. Can’t get any worse.”
 

I was going to touch it, but I didn’t have to. I pulled up Pick’s stumpy tail and the noise happened and it was action packed, complete with spray and smell.
 

“Oh my god. He ate the baby oil. He ate it!”
 

“It won’t kill him, will it?” asked Tiny.
 

“I’m not that lucky.” I pointed at Pick’s snout. “You are disgusting. What is wrong with you? You ate the bed and then you ate baby oil. That cannot taste good.”
 

“Maybe it does to dogs,” said Tiny.
 

“I don’t put meat on my feet. It doesn’t taste good. He’s an idiot, a poodle and an idiot. They’re supposed to be smart.”
 

My phone vibrated in my pocket and I asked Tiny to get it.

“It’s Dr. Watts,” he said.
 

“Answer it, please,” I said as I began to spray off Pick’s oily butt. That stuff wasn’t going to come off easy.
 

“She wants to talk to you.”
 

“I’m a bit occupied.” Pick shook again and I was resoaked. “Ask what she wants.”
 

I washed Pick with the only thing left intact in my bathroom, a bar of exfoliating soap. I guess that didn’t look tasty with all the grit. It did take off the oil, but, since he kept spraying, it was a losing battle.
 

Tiny listened for a minute and then hung up. “She wants you to come to the funeral home. There’s something she wants to show you.” He hesitated and then said, “You think it’s something on the body?”
 

Pick whacked me in the face with his tail. Yuck. Now I had oil. Butt oil. “What else could it be?” I asked.
 

Tiny went quiet and I rinsed off Pick. His rear was hopeless. I washed it five times, but he kept spraying. I’d have to figure out a diaper or he’d have to live outside.
 

I toweled off Sir Sprays-a-lot and he gave me a big slurp on the other side of my face. Since he’d just been licking his nether regions, I didn’t consider it to be a gesture of love. He jumped out of the tub and gave a humungous shake and danced around like he was about to be given a prize. He wasn’t. I didn’t even want to feed him for fear of what might come out.
 

There was a knock on the door and I asked Tiny to get it since I was plucking more feathers out of the drain. After a couple of minutes, I got curious when I didn’t hear any conversation.
 

“Tiny, is it housekeeping?” I called out.
 

“No. It is not,” said John. I think I caught a hint of emotion. Anger.
 

I came out of the bathroom and found him still standing in the doorway with a red-faced Tiny, trying to look like wallpaper.
 

“What happened?” asked John.
 

“Dog,” I said.
 

“Do you need this dog alive?” He said it exactly the way he told me my security code, factual and utterly disinterested.
 

“Need is a strong word, but my parents will want him back in one piece.” I got a bit nervous and my stomach twisted at the way he was looking at me. Men look at me in a variety of ways. Most of them weren’t so nice, especially the ones that proceeded an attempt to kill me, but John was a different animal altogether. He was cold. That question should’ve come with visceral anger, but it didn’t. It came with nothing and nothing was so much scarier than something. John was totally capable of killing Pick and making it look like an accident or making it look like he never existed at all. That bothered me way more than the idea that he may have shot someone through the fence and done away with the body. Pick was a dog. You don’t kill dogs, not even destructive, spraying ones. “He’s really my cousin Chuck’s dog. You know my dad. Do you know Chuck?”
 

The coldness continued. I’m not completely certain John was breathing. Finally, he said, “We’ve not met, but I hear he’s good.”
 

“He is.”
 

“And he’s fond of you.”
 

“He is,” I lied. I had no idea if Chuck’s weakness for me continued or not. I could tell my lie was the right thing to say though. Never say you’re unloved. The unloved are more likely to disappear.
 

Pick sauntered out of the bathroom and growled in John’s direction. I pushed him back in with my leg. “So about that housekeeping.”
 

John switched his icy gaze from Pick to me. “You’ll be moving rooms. This one will take time to restore.”
 

“I’m very sorry about this. I don’t know what got into him,” I said.