by A W Hartoin
“What’s it called? Gross from the sea?” I asked.
“The Disruptors,” said Chuck. “Like the Star Trek weapon.”
Rodney squatted by the Charger. “Disrupting regular pastry. That’s our tagline.”
I rolled my eyes. “Who’s going to eat that?’
“Everyone,” said Chuck. “This is a crab cakenut and Sidney just ate six and he’s going to see if he can fit in a seventh.”
“What is wrong with him?”
“A lot, but he loves donuts and crab cakes. It’s a win-win.” He tried to hand me back Aaron’s abomination.
“That’s a hard pass.”
“You have to eat it.”
“I really don’t,” I said, giving him the stink eye. “You eat it.”
Chuck laughed. “Aaron will know if you don’t eat it.”
“You can lie. I’ve seen you do it.”
“Why would I lie to little Aaron, who loves you?” he asked.
I pushed him out of the way and got out of my truck. “Because you said you were coming over last night and you didn’t show up or call.”
“Oh, shit, Mercy. I’m sorry.” Chuck chased me to the back door. “How mad are you?”
“Eat that donut and find out,” I said.
My boyfriend took one for the home team and shoved that stinknut in his mouth whole. “See. I love you,” he said through mouthfuls of crab.
I kissed him on the cheek, not the mouth. Gross. “Where were you?”
He swallowed and held back what could’ve been a burp or perhaps a gag. “Some new forensics came out of Kansas. I got wrapped up. I am sorry.”
“You are forgiven. Now I need a salad.”
“You better put a little crab on your lip to be on the safe side.”
“I’ll chance it.”
We went in Kronos, scooting through the hopping kitchen where Aaron was manning a fryer with the intensity of a pilot in a dogfight. You’d think that thing might stand up and shoot him. He didn’t notice us and I was grateful for the focus. Sometimes that worked in my favor.
Chuck led the way through the crowded dining room. It was crazy, even for Kronos on a Friday afternoon.
“What is up?” I asked. “This is nuts.”
“Word got out that they’re trying out some bakery items and giving them away for free. You know how we like free.”
The place was absolutely packed with everyone from firefighters to cops to businessmen to a group of nursery school kids packed into a couple of booths with their teachers. I don’t know who Chuck was referring to. We is pretty much the whole world.
Sidney Wick stood up and gave me his chair at the usual detectives’ table next to the front door. “Here, Mercy. I’ve got to leave or I’m going to make myself sick.” He froze. “Too late.”
While Sidney hoofed it to the bathroom, the rest of the table nearly fell out laughing. Barb Torrance tried to pass me a donut, but I refused.
“It’s a Layanutjamba,” she said. “You’ll love it.”
“What the what?” I asked.
“Just try it. No seafood. I convinced Aaron that he had to offer something for the preggos. No shellfish.”
I gave her the stink eye but took a bite anyway. Holy crap. It was jambalaya inside a cheesy polenta donut wrapping. “That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“And now you know why Sid has made himself sick,” said Chuck.
“It could be the crab.”
Everyone laughed, except Julia, who looked about as pleased as she did Wednesday night.
“Shut up!” yelled someone at the bar and they turned up the volume on the twin TVs.
Channel Five was on with the news and Beverly Burns came on with my picture. No, not just my picture. What could arguably be my worst picture and I’d taken a lot of bad ones. I was climbing out of the ditch, sopping wet with brown thick water clinging to my skin, my mouth hung open, and I had my arms out like I thought I had wings.
“I want to die,” I said.
“Wait for it,” said Nazir.
“Mercy Watts,” said Beverly, “local vigilante and B model is reportedly being sued by Bethany Babcock for injuries arising from an unnecessary tackling during a minor incident. Ms. Babcock’s lawyer is also considering suing Ms. Watts for slander.”
I thought it couldn’t get worse, but then it did.
“An onlooker recorded this after the incident,” said Beverly and she played a clip of me walking away with my cheetah undies clearly showing through my scrubs and saying, “Beth is a slut on wheels.”
“I never said that. What does it even mean?”
Chuck was laughing so hard he gave himself hiccups. Nazir got himself together and said, “It was obviously dubbed in.”
Barb wiped her eyes. “It’s not well done either. The Babcocks are such a disaster. They can’t even implicate you properly.”
Claude Evans from Vice came over and stuck a bread stick in my face. “Mercy Watts, how do you feel about looking like an idiot on TV? My wife says you need bigger panties, by the way.”
I bit off the end of his breadstick microphone and shoved another one in his face. “Claude Evans, would you like to tell the world why you pee sitting down like a girl?”
Claude pulled back and pointed at the table. “Who told?”
“I knew it,” said Barb. “Five bucks, Nazir.”
“Son of a bitch, Claude,” said Nazir. “You said you were taking a dump.”
Claude threatened to punch Nazir in the testicles, which got everyone off me for a couple minutes, but the cheetah undies came back and they always would. Everyone took their shot except Julia, who was doing a great job of not looking at me. I don’t mean to sound odd or self-centered, but people look at me. It’s the way it is and I’ve had to get used to it because I’m weird. If a guy walked in, looking exactly like Clark Gable when he was playing Rhett Butler, I’d stare at him. I’d stare at him a lot. I couldn’t help it ‘cause it’s weird. But Julia wasn’t staring at me the way people usually do when we first meet. She was looking everywhere but at me, which frankly was weirder than my face.
I ordered a salad and got to hear all the news from the world of cop, who pissed off who, whose wife kicked them out for coming home drunk, and who had the best arrest record for the month. Chuck hands down for the second month in a row. I ate my salad and answered polite questions about my parents and a few about me. I said we were fine, but they knew we were a mess. People always know when things are circling the drain.
The guys took a call on a new double homicide downtown and Chuck swore he’d be at my place with dinner at eight, but I wasn’t holding my breath when I slipped out the back without seeing Aaron.
I should’ve known better. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, patiently waiting. I took three steps before I realized something was wrong. My back window was shattered and Aaron was sitting on glass.
Aaron was fine. He didn’t notice the window when he got in and he didn’t much care when I told him. His only comment was “It must’ve broke.”
“Ya think?” I asked.
There was a rock on the floor and I was lucky it didn’t take out the wind shield as well.
“Did you see anybody in the alley?”
“You didn’t eat my donut,” he said, looking balefully in my general direction.
“For God’s sake that’s not important,” I said, brushing the glass off his rear with my emergency blanket. “Are you cut anywhere?”
“You think it’s a bad donut.”
“I do not. Are you cut?”
Nothing.
“Fine. It’s a great donut. Sid made himself sick over those donuts. Isn’t that good enough?”
Nothing. Clearly, it wasn’t.
“I love the jambalaya donut,” I said. “Now go inside and get some plastic and tape so I can cover this window up. I’ll get the broom and sweep up the glass.”
In response, Aaron got out his phone and started dialing. I snatched the phone away. Chuc
k. The little weirdo was calling Chuck.
“We’re not reporting this,” I said. “They’ll never catch who did it and I don’t want to deal with the paperwork.”
Aaron didn’t move.
“It’s probably Jimmy Elbert. Stalkers do this kind of thing sometimes at the end of the obsession. Dilbert Maitland threw a brick through my window at college and they made a big deal about it. He was a sad little dweeb and he got six months suspended.”
Nothing.
“Dil got hit by a car when he was picking up trash for his community service. Broke his legs. He’s in charge of my fan club now and he’s very sweet, married, and harmless.”
Aaron didn’t twitch. He was a tough little nut to crack.
I threw up my hands. “Fine. That’s not the only reason. It’ll upset my dad. You know how he feels about this truck. He’s already freaked. This’ll make it worse.”
That did the trick. Aaron got the supplies and we managed to clean it up before Rodney came back out to work on his rust heap. I’d get the window fixed quick and nobody would ever know.
Chapter Nine
AARON DROVE TO Hove Reality out in Chesterfield while I tried to work out a plan. I’d been helping Dad out with tailing cheaters for forever and it was pretty simple. Usually, Uncle Morty and I would tag team the jerk. It takes two cars to tail a suspect, but Dad preferred three. With cheaters, we didn’t bother. They didn’t suspect that they were suspected. Dad would have me sit outside the subject’s workplace, starting at eleven until they either went to lunch, a hotel, or it hit three o’clock. I could never have classes during that time on Tuesday or Thursday because Dad worked out that those were prime cheating days. Sometimes I had to hang out for a couple days, but it was rare. When Dad was right, he was right. Bang on eleven-thirty, hot pants Harry would drive straight to a hotel, not too far because that was effort, and it wouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes from leaving work to getting back at the desk. Even at twenty, when Dad started sticking me with the detail, I knew that amount of time didn’t show much skill or interest, but the women didn’t seem to mind. The lovers, I mean, not the wives. They minded a lot when Uncle Morty handed over the photos. I’d call him when I identified the hotel and room. He’d take the incriminating shots, not that it was hard. Half the time they’d stand in the doorway making out like the idiots they were.
Mom and Dad paid for college and I got really good at doing homework in my truck. None of that included talking to the cheater or the cheated on. I had no clue what to say. “Hey, I heard you were a douchebag with Catherine Cabot. Are you sending gross pics to her work?” didn’t seem quite right and what if he said yes? What then? Big Steve wanted me to find the sender. His instructions didn’t go beyond that.
We parked in front of Hove Realty and although they were successful, it was dead calm. Aaron started to open his door, but I grabbed his arm. “You stay here.”
“I’m your partner,” he said and began picking at what I assumed was hot dog between his front teeth.
“It’s better if you stay out here. You don’t want to pretend you’re my husband or something, do you?”
Nothing.
“Aaron? Do you hear me?” I asked.
“I was thinking about a hot dog donut.”
“No.”
“How about franks and beans inside a beignet?”
I got out and slung my purse over my shoulder. “Do not do that. It’s wrong in so many ways.”
He rubbed his hands together. “I’ll call it a stuffed targ.”
“There’s no connection between a targ and a—never mind. I don’t care. Just stay out here.” I slammed the door and marched into Hove Realty, winging it as usual.
The doorbell jangled and a woman’s head popped up over the reception, startling me.
“I’m sorry,” she said brightly. “Can I help you? Oh, my God. You’re Mercy Watts. I just saw you on the news. That Beverly is wonderful, don’t you think?”
I hate her.
“Is Mr. Hove in?”
“But I don’t think it was fair what she said about you. You’re not a whatever she said. You had to tackle that woman. I’m sure you didn’t collapse her spine.”
What? No. Don’t listen. You do not care.
“Mr. Hove, please.”
“I don’t see how you could’ve given her high cholesterol, but anything’s possible, I guess.”
“It isn’t possible.” I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. I was proud of me. “Is Mr. Hove in?”
“You are really very pretty, but you should get bigger panties or wear thongs. But I don’t think thongs would really be—”
“Ma’am!”
Her large blue eyes fluttered. “Yes.”
Breathe.
“I would like to see Mr. Hove now. Right now.”
More fluttering before she looked down at her computer. “You don’t have an appointment.”
“Is he in?” I asked.
“Yes, but he’s very busy,” she said. “I’m Amber by the way.”
A teenaged boy with a raging case of acne came down the hall and stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted me and turned around, running back where he came from.
“That’s Jordan,” said Amber. “Mr. Hove’s son. He’s shy.”
“I see that.” I leaned over the desk and pointed to the phone. “Why don’t you give Mr. Hove a buzz and tell him I’m here.”
She shook her head. “Let’s make an appointment. I have next Tuesday.”
“I’m here now.” I smiled at her. “Tell him that Miss Cabot sent me.”
“Who?”
“He’ll understand.”
Mr. Hove did understand. He understood but good. A neat and trim man of fifty stuck his head out a door down the hall, saw me, and gasped. I kinda like it when they gasp. It means they know they’re in trouble and they won’t be good liars.
“Mr. Hove?” asked Amber. “Mr. Hove, are you there?”
The boy peeked around the corner and disappeared after I gave him a little finger wave.
Amber pursed her lips and gave me a sidelong glance. “He’ll see you now.”
I leaned back and she grabbed my arm. “You’re on a case, aren’t you? What did he do?”
“Confidential.” I tapped the side of my nose and she winked at me. Amber wasn’t nearly as dumb as I initially guessed. It pays to give people the benefit of the doubt. Not Mr. Hove. I wasn’t giving him crap.
I sashayed into his teak-lined office and lowered myself onto the chair the way Mom wanted me to, like a lady. I so wasn’t a lady, but I’d found that it unnerved people. You know, the whole Marilyn thing and being proper. I think they generally expected me to pout and be breathless.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hove,” I said after he didn’t speak for an entire minute. He was sweating so that was good.
“Hi.”
“You understand who Miss Cabot is?”
“Well, I might be you are…I don’t know,” he stammered.
I tilted my head and gave him my most winning smile. “I think you do.”
His phone crackled and he pounced on it. “Hold my calls!”
Smooth, dude. Very smooth.
“No need to get excited,” I said. “I have a few questions and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Questions. What questions have you? Have I? Do you?” His eyes widened and he hissed, “Do you know my wife?”
If that guy was sending those pictures to Mr. Calabasas, I’d eat Aaron’s stuffed Targ with an andouillette chaser. He’d sweated through his shirt and pale grey sweater and not a little bit either. I’d never seen anyone sweat that hard before and I knew Uncle Morty. He was a human sprinkler.
“Please calm down.” It was hardly worth asking, but I was there so what the heck. “You had a relationship with Catherine Cabot aka Katy Frommer. Correct?”
Mr. Hove swallowed hard and nodded.
“It ended two months ago?”
Another nod.
> “Who ended it?” I asked.
“Me,” he squeaked.
“Are you sure about that?”
He slumped in his chair. “Her.”
“Why?”
Mr. Hove started sweating more. That sweater would not survive. When pretty Patty Hove found out about his affair, she threatened divorce, which had the opposite reaction to what she expected. Her husband said yes. He wanted a divorce. He was in love. It was going to cost him his business, his house, most of his money, and certainly his kids, but the dude was all in. He bought a condo and got ready to move out. His new life awaited and he was ready for it.
“Er…you’re still here and married though,” I said.
Joe Hove slumped so hard he practically folded in half. “Yeah.”
“Catherine didn’t like the condo?”
“She never saw it. She wouldn’t meet me. She dumped me when I told her.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. That poor sweater.
“Wait,” I said. “Go back. What do you mean ‘She wouldn’t meet me.’?”
“She wouldn’t. She didn’t want to.”
“Are you saying that you never met with Catherine in person? Except for selling her the loft, I mean.”
He sniffed. “Yeah. It was just online.”
Don’t say it. Do not say it.
“You’re an idiot.”
Dammit.
“Sorry. I meant that’s not a great idea.”
Mr. Joe Hove, a realtor who sold pricey properties to doctors and the like, cried into a box of tissues. He didn’t even take the tissues out of the box. “That’s what Patty said and she’s right,” he sobbed. “She’s always right.”
“So Patty knows the whole story about Catherine,” I said.
“She found some pictures on my computer and then I told her everything,” he sobbed. “I don’t know why.”
“What did she do?”
He shuddered and said, “She said she’d divorce me.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? How is that possible?”
“She yelled, but she didn’t leave. I thought she’d leave.”
“What about Catherine? Was Patty angry at her?” I asked.
“I guess. She mostly hates me,” he said. “It’s my fault.”