by A W Hartoin
“Who investigated it?” I asked.
“Not St. Louis. I’m guessing it stayed with St. Seb.”
“And they’ve got no files you can access?”
Uncle Morty put his nose in the air. “I can access everything they got. They ain’t got shit. This is fifty years ago.”
I looked back through the Post-Dispatch articles in case I missed something, but I didn’t. “No suspects?”
“Not that anyone mentions. I checked Jeff City and Kansas City, too. Everybody reported the same thing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yeah.”
St. Sebastian. Great. I could smell a road trip in my future and I was pretty sure they weren’t fans. I’d discovered a kidnapped girl’s body in the dry lake bed in that little town and while everyone said “good job” I made the locals look like they’d been on snooze patrol. It wasn’t their fault. I found that girl through a bizarre set of circumstances that were best left unexamined.
“So St. Seb. Do they get a lot of murders?” I asked.
Uncle Morty began typing furiously. “No.”
“How many in 1965?”
He typed for a minute more and then said, “There were about three hundred murders in the whole freaking state, so not a lot.”
“What was their population?”
“Eight thousand. It’s fourteen thousand now.”
“Would they know how to investigate a murder?”
“In 1965, nobody did. You got fingerprints and eyewitnesses. Maybe blood, but you could only type it.”
“And if you don’t have that…”
“You ain’t got squat. No DNA. No video surveillance. Credit cards. Bubkiss.”
“Can you find how many murders they had?”
“Who friggin’ cares? They had one. For a podunk town like them, that’s a lot.”
“I want to know if they had a clue. How many cops?”
He grumbled but went to work. “Five. A chief, two full-time deputies, and two part-time.”
“That’s pretty small,” I said.
“Little farming town. Not much going on.”
“Any other murders around that time?”
“One in ’62, but it wasn’t exactly a head scratcher,” he said.
“What happened?”
“Farmer poisoned his wife and put her in the compost heap. After the family started asking questions, Chief William (Woody) Lucas went out and he confessed. Said she annoyed him.”
“How do you know all that, if the papers are on microfiche?”
“Reported in the Post. Big write-up. I guess farmers who kill are big news.” He brought up the article for me. They certainly weren’t shy about the killer farmer. Grisly details galore, grieving family listed, even local reaction got reported. I got that farmers killing their wives wasn’t exactly everyday, but a murdered nun…come on. That was huge and Maggie got no interest.
“Well, I officially don’t know what to do,” I said.
“Give them rookies what they want,” said Uncle Morty.
“How? Aunt Miriam is not going to crack. She’s never cracked in her life.”
He gritted his teeth and grumbled, “You got to do something.”
I did not want to go down to St. Seb on some wild goose chase. If two FBI agents couldn’t crack it open, how was I supposed to do it? “What are you expecting? Nobody gives a crap about a fifty-year-old solved case.”
“Make ‘em fucking care. Make ‘em reopen it. That’s what the rookies want.”
“Am I talking to myself? I don’t know how. I doubt there’s any evidence left and those cops are probably dead.”
“Probably.”
“Well…”
Uncle Morty polished off his beer, belched, and said, “Figure it out. What else you got to do?”
Heal. Get yelled at. Eat weird ice cream.
“Since we’re not going to Greece anytime soon, I’ve got to get a job,” I said, although the prospect was depressing as hell. Going outside was depressing as hell.
“You got a job,” he said, handing me his computer and heaving himself off the sofa.
“I do not and it’s not looking good. I’m going to have to do telemarketing or something.”
He stretched and I got a full view of a bulbous, hairy belly. One more thing I would never get out of my memory. Gag.
“I’ll pay ya to do it,” he said.
“Pay me to…”
“Get whatever the hell you gotta get to open this case and get off that No Fly List.” He put on his ancient Members Only jacket and tried to zip it up. Not happening.
“By pay…”
“Tommy’s rate. No discount. Get cracking.”
I couldn’t speak. Dad’s rate. Holy crap.
“We got a deal?” asked Uncle Morty.
“I will figure it out.”
“Good. Familiarize yourself with St. Seb then and now.” He pointed at the laptop next to me. “I got a map in there and I marked some possibilities for the crime scene.”
He went for the door and I said, “Are you leaving?”
“I’m going to the gym.”
What now?
“Did you just—”
“Shut up,” he said.
I tossed my nail file on the coffee table and picked up the laptop. “Did you really join a gym?”
“I might’ve.”
This is serious. Paying and exercise.
“May I suggest that you hire a trainer?”
He put on a pair of gym shoes that were so old the leather was cracked. “I ain’t paying some douchebag to tell me to run on a treadmill.”
“First of all, do not run,” I said.
“You think I look like shit,” said Uncle Morty, somehow both defiant and sad at the same time.
“I did not say that. Please don’t run. Walk. Walking is good.”
“I got to lose weight.”
“Running’s a recipe for a heart attack.”
Uncle Morty stopped as he reached for the doorknob and I got a bad, bad feeling. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
“She’d probably come back if I had a heart attack.”
I tossed aside the laptop. “No. Nope. Nuh-uh. I won’t do it.”
“You need the money.”
“I do, but you aren’t giving yourself a heart attack.”
“It’s a solid plan,” he said.
“It’s a death wish. You could die. You probably would die.”
He crossed his arms over his huge belly. “‘Cause I’m fat, right?”
Duh?
“‘Cause you’re out of shape. Have you considered therapy?”
“Massage therapy?” he asked. “Does that help ya lose weight?”
“No, ya dingus. Actually therapy with a counselor,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Uncle Morty was not down. He thought therapy was for wusses and said so several times.
“I’ll be sure to tell Chuck that,” I said.
“That’s different. He saw disgusting shit with kids. I just got to lose weight.”
“And not lie about stuff that you don’t need to lie about.”
“Whatever. Get out.”
I picked up the laptop. “I live here.”
He cursed up a storm and opened the door.
“Maybe clean your apartment and stop eating food that says you’re trying to kill yourself through fat, sugar, and carbs,” I said. As my mom would say, in for a dime, in for a dollar, although I’ve never really understood what it meant.
Uncle Morty flushed and sweat beads popped out on his forehead. “I ain’t trying to kill myself. I like it. It’s fucking fine.”
“You’re sweating right now. It’s November and you’ve turned down my thermostat. It’s like sixty-two degrees in here.”
“Shut up.”
“Seek professional help.”
“Get me to Greece. All I need is Nikki.”
I swept an arm up and down in his direction. “If I were you, I’d think a
bout what she’d be coming back to. She’s pretty awesome and you are…I don’t know what.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
I frowned, not convinced.
“I am. Just get me to Greece. That ain’t so much to ask.”
I clicked on the map tab. Wow. There was a whole lot of woods around St. Seb. “As a matter of fact it is.”
“Do it and you’ll make bank,” he said.
“Clean up your act or Greece won’t do you any good.”
Morty started out the door with a funny look on his face.
I pushed the laptop off my lap. “Are you thinking about having a heart attack again?”
“No.”
“You are. Stop it. You could die.”
He scratched his chin. “I’m thinking I won’t die.”
“Have you seen you? It’s a wonder that you haven’t had one already.”
“Then it won’t be hard.” Uncle Morty slipped out before I could protest and I didn’t have the wherewithal to chase him down. Besides, what could I do? Somehow force him to listen? Only my mom could do that.
Now that was an option. I could call Mom and get her after him. Then I pictured my mother down at Cairngorms Castle, creepy as hell, but also luxe to the max, getting pampered and Dad being like a regular guy. If I called, that would come to an abrupt stop. No. Uncle Morty was my problem.
“You ready?” asked Aaron.
“Bring it on,” I said and he did, on a platter, literally. I ate myself into a food coma that lasted well into the next day and I didn’t regret it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE WAY I see it, you have two choices when you wake up at noon with moussaka in your hair and feta ice cream on your sweats. Go back to sleep or question your life choices. I went to sleep.
“Mercy.” Somebody shook me. “Mercy.”
I tried to opossum. If they thought I was dead, maybe they’d be scared and leave the carcass alone.
“Mercy, get up. Don’t make me get the hose.”
That’s when I recognized the voice. Joy. What on Earth was she doing in my bedroom? I was so tired I didn’t much care. I’d slept so long I’d skipped awake time and headed straight into my next night’s sleep.
If I’d been more coherent I would’ve heard the warning in her voice and known her threat wasn’t idle. As it was, she didn’t get the hose, she got the pitcher and dumped it on my head.
I sat up squawking and she clapped a hand over my mouth.
“Quiet. You’ll upset her.”
I peeled her hand off my face and said as I wiped the water out of my eyes, “If you don’t want me to yell, don’t throw water on me.”
“I’ve been trying to wake you for fifteen minutes. She’s starting to get worried,” said Joy.
“Who’s she?”
“Myrtle, of course.”
That woke me up quick and I focused on Joy’s tense face. “What happened?”
“She wants to speak to you and you wouldn’t answer the phone.”
“I was sleeping.”
She plucked at my sweats. “Dear Lord. What happened to you?”
“Aaron came over and Uncle Morty is considering inducing a heart attack to get his girlfriend to come back from Greece.”
“I thought she dumped him.”
“That’s what you’re focusing on?”
She dragged me out of bed and gave me the once-over. “Morty isn’t my concern.”
“Well, he’s mine.”
“Not right now. This is important. You know Myrtle wouldn’t leave Millicent alone when she’s fragile unless it was serious.” She started tugging on my sweatshirt, trying to pull it over my head.
“Get off me.” I slapped her hands. “You left Millicent alone?
“No. Rocco is with her. By the way, both Tiny and Fats have been calling you, too. Something is going on with them. Rocco wants you to handle it.”
“I bet.”
Rocco was Fats’ brother and currently enjoying the good life as The Girls’ chauffeur. The two siblings were close in a Fight Club kind of way. But the one I was worried about was Tiny. If he wanted to break up with Fats, I might as well give up on life. Fats would kill me in a fit of hormonal rage.
“Put on something decent,” said Joy.
“How decent?”
“Clean.”
That I could handle. I scurried into the closet and closed the door on Joy. I found jeans and an oxford that wasn’t too wrinkled, stuffed myself into them—I think I gained ten pounds overnight—and scrubbed the food off my face and hair with the sweats. Then I flung the door open and presented myself for inspection. “Good?”
Joy’s upper lip twitched, but she said, “Better.”
“I’ll take it. Where is she?”
“In your so-called living room,” said Joy.
“So-called?” I asked.
“It smells in there.”
“That’s Uncle Morty. He’s having a time.”
“He’s not there.”
Bonus!
I hurried out into my smelly living room and found Myrtle perched on the sofa, wearing her going-to-a-board-meeting suit and holding a cup of tea. “Mercy, dear, are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Aaron fed me a lot last night and I couldn’t wake up,” I said before firing up one of my many coffee makers. I had to push a button. Even that seemed hard in my condition. “What’s up? Do you have a meeting?”
“With you,” she said.
I grabbed the milk steamer and sniffed for badness. All good. “We have a meeting?”
“I wanted to meet with you,” said Myrtle.
“You sound formal and you’re dressed for church or the hospital board.”
“I dress to suit the occasion.”
“I’m the occasion?”
“Yes.”
I looked down at my wrinkled, bloated self. Oh, well. That’s life. I pressed the button on Chuck’s fancy pants super automatic espresso maker and watched it turn out a cracking good latte. I tried to think of what could’ve happened while I was sleeping. I hadn’t told Morty to steer clear of The Girls, in regard to Sister Maggie, but I didn’t think I needed to. He referred to them as the “old bags” and was, frankly, petrified of them on a good day and they weren’t his biggest fans either.
I sat down on a chair opposite Myrtle and hoped for the best. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what she said.
“I would like to hire you to identify Sister Maggie’s murderer. I will pay you twenty-five thousand dollars to get conclusive proof of guilt and fifty if you secure a conviction.” She picked up a slim manila folder off the sofa beside her and held it out to me. “I took the liberty of having Big Steve draw up a contract. I will pay you Tommy’s going rate for your time as well. I realize the chances of success are slight, but I’m willing to try. What do you say?”
I didn’t say anything. I looked at Joy. She just stood there like someone had eaten a live cockroach in front of her.
“Take the folder, Mercy,” said Myrtle.
I took the folder. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Fifty for a conviction, plus Dad’s fees. I’d totally underestimated how The Girls felt about a crime from their youth. Time heals all wounds is bullshit.
“It’s all there,” said Myrtle. “The offer is simple. You don’t need to convince the police or the FBI or anyone else of the suspect’s guilt, only us.”
“I’m not going to take your money,” I said.
She leaned forward. “Is it not enough? We do value your time and effort.”
“It’s more than generous, but you don’t have to pay me. If you want me to do it, I’ll do it.”
Myrtle sat up primly. “You would be doing a job. We will pay you.”
“You’ve already paid me, if you want to call it that. My education, all the travel. How many birthday parties did you host? I’ll do it. No question. I just…”
“What?”
“Millicent was not happy yesterday. Just the mere mention of Sister
Maggie’s medal brought her to her knees. Now you want me to investigate? What’s that going to do to her?”
“Nothing,” said Myrtle. “If you don’t find anything, she never has to know. We won’t ever mention it again.”
“You want me to lie?” I asked. That alone was astonishing. The Girls weren’t big fans of lying.
“You can do it.” She smiled at me with a twinkle in her eye. “I’ve seen you in action.”
“I can, but I don’t want to. It’s Millicent.”
She held out a hand and I went to her, sitting on the sofa beside her.
“I know, dear. But it’s for her own good,” she said.
“And what if I do find something out? What then?” I asked.
“Then I prepare her and you lay out the case.”
“What makes you think that’s a good idea? It’s bound to be ugly.”
“Because the truth is better than not knowing. We’ve imagined the most horrible things.”
It’ll be worse than that.
I set down the folder and picked up my coffee cup, looking at Joy for some kind of guidance. Wide-eyed, she shrugged. Not a whole lot of help. I took a big drink and said, “You do know that the case is closed. They had a suspect.”
“Poppycock!”
Those were strong words coming from Myrtle. If she knew curse words existed, I’d seen no evidence of it.
“You don’t think the priest did it?” I asked.
“Absolutely not. Ridiculous notion.”
Joy sat down. “How do you know?”
“Because we knew him,” said Myrtle. “Father Dominic Kelly was a lovely person. A gentle soul.”
“Card-carrying psychos don’t always come with warning labels. I should know,” I said.
“I know.” She squeezed my arm. “Look in the folder.”
I opened the folder on my knees and flipped past the contract. Underneath were several pictures of a priest in the Bled Mansion, chatting with Myrtle in the library and at what looked like a charity function where he was standing with Sister Maggie. On his face was a look of radiant admiration. There was the same group picture of nuns with Aunt Miriam standing next to Sister Maggie and a group picture of priests with Father Dominic on the right, smiling broadly.
“Okay. He’s handsome. She’s pretty. They knew each other well. It doesn’t change anything,” I said. “The cops thought he killed her because he was in love with her.” I pulled out the picture of the two of them together. “This certainly implies that they were right.”