by A W Hartoin
“I honestly don’t know,” said Myrtle. “The police thought so. There was a witness.”
“A witness? Someone saw him jump?”
“I don’t remember. He was on the bridge, I think. I don’t know. I’m so tired.” Myrtle sank down, deflated by telling the story.
“Let me get you home,” said Joy.
“Do you need—”
My apartment door burst open and Uncle Morty stomped in, bringing a wave of stench with him. “God damn shit that was horrible. Mercy! Are you the fuck up yet?”
“Hello, Morton,” said Myrtle, eyeing him with an incredibly neutral expression, but I knew she was disapproving. She was normally friendly to everyone.
He spun around. “Oh, fuck, I mean…hello…Mrs. Bled. I, uh, went to the gym.”
“I see that and I was just leaving.”
“Um, Mercy, why didn’t you tell me you had guests?” He meant why didn’t I warn him.
“It wasn’t planned,” I said. “Myrtle was just telling me what she knows about Sister Maggie’s death.”
“Really?” he asked.
“Really,” said Myrtle, breathing through her mouth. “Mercy will fill you in. Do not under any circumstances speak to my sister about this.”
“No problem.”
Joy helped her up and they were out the door in a flash. The second the catch clicked, he rounded on me. “That old bag gives me the creeps. Jesus, you got to warn me.”
“I don’t,” I said. “There’s nothing creepy about Myrtle or Millicent.”
He poked me in the forehead. “That’s where you’re wrong. It’s like they stepped out of a BBC production from four decades ago.”
“They’re not British.”
“They seem British.”
“Whatever, weirdo,” I said, holding my nose. “Take a shower or better yet go home and take a shower.”
“Hell, no. I’m keeping you on this. If I have to work-out, you have to get us on the plane.”
“Oh, I’m getting us on a plane, don’t worry about that,” I said.
Uncle Morty wiped his tremendously sweaty brow with his sleeve, leaving a wide, wet streak. “Oh, yeah? What’d she say?”
“She asked me to find out who killed Sister Maggie.”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
“Goddammit. I ask you and all I get is guff. That old bag asks you and it’s assholes and elbows.”
“Correct.”
“I’m writing you out of the will again,” he said.
“I was never in the will.”
“I could change it.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I’m good. Now I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Like what? You got a plan?” he asked, like that was not at all possible.
I started involuntarily gagging. “Leave now. You might have to get that smell checked out. It’s not normal.”
“I had crab cakes.”
“Before working out?”
He screwed up his mouth and thought for a moment. “That probably wasn’t a great idea.”
“Ya think?” I asked.
“I’m showering. What are you gonna do?”
“I need to figure out the timeline,” I said. “Oh crap! I forgot.”
I ran out and chased Myrtle and Joy down the stairs, catching them near the bottom. Myrtle agreed to get Millicent out of the house, so Joy and I could look for the housekeeper’s diary.
I’m not gonna lie, I stayed on those stairs long after Myrtle and Joy left. A stairwell never smelled so good.
CHAPTER NINE
“SO WHAT AM I doing?” asked Uncle Morty, freshly showered and feeling feisty. “Sitting here with my thumb up my ass.”
“Thanks for the visual,” I said. “But no, you will be hacking the church to find out what they knew and when they knew it.”
He dropped onto my poor sofa and ran a dishcloth over his red face.
I snatched dishcloth away and held it out at arm’s length. “Gross. This is for dishes.”
“I’m sweaty again.”
“How is that possible?” I asked. “You just took a shower.”
“It’s hot in here.”
It was not hot. It was sixty-seven degrees in my living room and sweat was beading up on his forehead. There was something wrong with him.
“I want you to go to the doctor,” I said. “This isn’t normal.”
“I ain’t never been normal,” said Uncle Morty.
There was no arguing with that. “You’re still getting checked out.”
He eyed me for weaknesses and found none. “When you get off the list. Not before. Don’t ask me.”
“Fine.” I tossed him the dishcloth. “Don’t drip on my sofa.”
“Whatever,” he said. “There aren’t gonna be any church records about Father What’s-his-face.”
“Dominic. Why not? The church’s digitalized.”
“The Vatican is digitized. All the manuscripts, incunabula, stuff like that. The parish stuff from that far back would still be paper. What do you want to find anyway?”
I told him about the church not reporting Maggie missing and the rest of it. Uncle Morty scowled and more sweat rolled down his face. He had issues with the church and organized religion, in general. I suspected that the word “organized” was the key.
“I’ll take a peek, but the most I’ll get is a list of priests in the parish at the time,” he said.
“Oh, good,” I said. “Get that.”
“What for?”
Uncle Morty got a to-do list. I think he’d have been happier with the thumb thing. I needed to know if Father Dominic had a car, and, if so, what kind. If he didn’t, I wanted to know if any of his fellow priests did. He could’ve borrowed a car. After that, I wanted any newspaper articles on his death. I doubted from what Myrtle said that there would be any, but you never know. After that, it was all about the families, Maggie’s and Dominic’s. Was anyone still alive that was around at the time? Was there anybody period?
“Alright. Fine. I’ll get that crap. When are you going to St. Sebastian?” he asked as he began typing on two keyboards at once. It really was fascinating to watch.
“Tomorrow.” I threw on a jacket and checked the time. Myrtle should have Millicent out of the house by then.
“Today. Hit it today, hard and fast.”
“This isn’t a surgical strike on an enemy stronghold,” I said.
“That’s what you think. Get out. I’m busy.”
I got out of my own apartment and called Chuck on the way down the stairs. He was happy that I didn’t go to Greece until he found out why and that Uncle Morty was now living with me. But for the moment, all he could focus on was apartments and a pile of new possibilities. My guy was thinking about laundry rooms and counter space. I think he was nesting, but that didn’t seem like something hot cops did.
I promised to consider how big a washer we might need and got off the phone after he asked if I needed a potting room. What the heck is a potting room?
Outside the sun was already waning, but I pulled my poof ball hat down low and put on a pair of sunglasses. I looked stupid. But what can I say? I felt better. Anonymous.
By some miracle I got over to Hawthorne Avenue without getting harassed and dashed down the alley, letting myself into the stables/garage. If I’d have been thinking, I wouldn’t have done that. But thinking isn’t my strong suit so I didn’t and I ran smack dab into Rocco Licata, sitting on the floor in front of a car that had never been there before. A ruby red 1935 Auburn Boattail Speedster.
I did an about face, but Rocco shot out a hand and grabbed my ankle. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Away from you.
“I forgot something.” I kicked my leg but didn’t manage to shake him loose. “Let go.”
“You forgot to avoid me.”
Correct.
“I’m not avoiding you. I’m busy.”
“I called you fifteen times.”
“Stalker.”
Rocco jumped to his feet so fast I wasn’t able to make a break for it and grabbed my arm. “My sister’s acting weird. Tiny’s acting weird. Do something.”
“You do something.”
“Is that bastard breaking up with my sister?” Rocco got in my face and it was not pleasant. He wasn’t the beast his sister was at a mere five ten, but he had the same look in his eye that Fats got when we were talking to a suspect. Violence was always an option.
“Not that I know of,” I said quickly. “What’s he doing?”
“Acting weird.”
“That’s not descriptive.”
“He keeps asking me what’s wrong with her. She keeps asking me what’s wrong with him.”
“Maybe nothing’s wrong,” I said.
“Something’s wrong. People don’t ask if something’s wrong, if nothing’s wrong. Got it?”
“I guess. I didn’t know you liked Tiny that much.” I tried to get his fingers off my bicep. It was not happening and I was losing the blood supply to my hand.
“He’s fine, but I think he might be sleeping with Princess Porks-a-lot.”
Was there any doubt?
“Er…maybe. Fats is a grown woman. She can decide.”
“Damn straight, but she takes this shit seriously,” said Rocco with a dangerous glint in his eye. “She’s picky. There’s only been a few guys.”
I hope they’re still alive.
I decided it was best not to point out that I happened to know that Fats wasn’t all that picky. She slept with Lorenzo Fibonacci, who, while unbelievably hot, had his intelligence unfavorably compared to a meatball.
“I get it and the last time I saw Tiny he was still in love with Fats,” I said.
“In love?”
“Yes.”
“With my sister?”
I wasn’t sure where this was going, but it probably wasn’t good. “I have to go. I’m doing a thing for Myrtle, your boss. Can’t be late.”
His grip on my arm tightened and I squeaked.
“Tiny loves my sister?” asked Rocco. “You sure? Fats? Six foot five hundred. A thousand pounds of muscle.”
“She’s not that big, but yes. Mary Elizabeth Licata. Your sister.”
Rocco let go my arm and slapped his thigh. “Holy shit! I never thought I’d see the day.”
I backed away slowly toward the garden door. “So you’re happy.”
“Hell, yeah. My mom wants grandchildren and I am not made for that business. She’s serious about him?” he asked.
“I think so.” I got in front of the doorknob and turned it slowly.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Rocco came over and grabbed me. “What do you think about this car?”
“Er…nothing. Can I go? I’ve got stuff and things.”
Rocco held a battered toothbrush aloft. “This is a 1935 Auburn—”
“Well, I know that.”
“Why did you say you didn’t know?” asked Rocco. The warning was back.
I grabbed the toothbrush and smacked him with it. “Because I’ve got stuff to do. What’s with the toothbrush?”
“I’m cleaning the headlamps. A thing of beauty and a winning thing of beauty.”
“Huh?”
“This is The Girls’ grandmother’s car. It’s usually over at Prie Dieu. I got them to let me bring it over so I can clean it up.”
I eyed him. “What for?”
“The Amelia Island Concours d’Elegance,” he said proudly.
“A car show?”
“For charity. This baby could win. She is in original mint condition.” He leaned in close, his minty breath hot on my cheek.
Oh, no. Not good.
“Good luck with that.” I went for the door, but he slammed a palm against it. I had no hope. “What do you want, Rocco?”
Rocco bent over me, his liquid brown eyes boring into mine. Did I mention that Rocco, despite being named Rocco, is hot and smells fantastic. He had all of Fats’ electric power without the 250 pounds of beef.
“I want you to fix my sister and Tiny. I don’t like her talking to me about feelings. I don’t have feelings. I’m against it.” He moved in closer.
I rolled my eyes, but my stomach was churning. “And?”
“You like me.”
Like? No. Want…
“Get off me, ya turd.” I shoved him back. “I’ll see what’s up with Fats and Tiny. Happy?”
“Mildly. Now about the car,” he said, moving in again.
“Look, Skinny McSwizzle Stick, if you want this car to go to that show, I suggest you ask The Girls.”
“Don’t call me that.” Rocco turned red.
“That’s what Fats calls you,” I said sweetly.
“I can’t believe she told you that.”
“She also told me that you had some tummy trouble when you were ten at a sleepover.”
“I will kill her.”
“I’d totally pay to see you try.”
Rocco picked up his phone and started yelling as I went out into the garden. Strike one against family unity. The scary thing was that if Tiny did marry Fats, Rocco Licata was part of the deal. My dad had yet to notice the Licatas in our midst. When he did, it wasn’t going to be pretty. He always said we had to be above reproach, no questionable business dealings, connections, etc. The Licatas were neck deep in the Fibonacci crime family and I’d dipped my toes in, too. Not on purpose, but I dreaded that coming out.
“Mercy!” Joy called out from the back door. “Where have you been?”
I jogged up. “Rocco waylaid me.”
“I thought so. He is absolutely fixated on that car. I caught him cleaning the dash with Q-tips the other day.”
“He might be obsessive.”
She grinned at me. “But he looks good doing it. I only wish we had a pool.”
“Joy.” I fluttered my hand over my chest.
“I’m just saying.”
She and I giggled our way up to the attic, gossiping about the hotness of Rocco and a few others. She thought Chuck won hands down, although he lost points for the crazy presents thing and advised that I handle all finances if we got married. That was a must. I’d seen him buy Kobe beef treats for Pickpocket. If we’re not eating Kobe beef, neither is the dog.
After about an hour of digging through the attic, we found Mrs. Perkins’ household diaries. They were remarkable and not a little OCD. I got the feeling that she’d have kept a record of the family’s bowel movements, if she could’ve. The diaries were on a shelf, organized by year, twelve diaries to a year. Joy found the right year and month and we hunched over it, holding a flashlight and trying not to breathe too deeply. The books were turning to dust, which was kind of a shame. It was a detailed account of a famous family, done without sentiment or embellishment.
Myrtle called Mrs. Perkins’ books diaries, but that made them sound small. They weren’t small. They were legal ledger sized and had everything in them. They were Mrs. Perkins’ smartphone.
“Here we go,” said Joy. “December third. 1965.” She chuckled. “She got up at five in the morning every day. Nightmare.”
I bent over the book. “She lived-in then?”
“In one of the apartments over the stable. Let’s see the day’s to-do list. Cook make breakfast for service at seven, like Myrtle said. I’m surprised she didn’t count the grains of salt used.”
“They probably did walk at eight until quarter to nine.”
“Hold on. I bet that’s here. She’s a nut,” said Joy.
Mrs. Perkins was meticulous. The breakfast menu was there and included any dislikes by the family. Millicent was judged not to have liked her sausage. There was a lunch menu and dinner. A cleaning schedule. Staff schedule. Joy turned the page and found exactly what we needed. The family activities schedule. The Girls did walk at eight for exactly forty-six minutes and Lawton came back with a little cough. He was immediately bundled off to the nursery by Nanny who gave him a medicinal bath.
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I pointed at a line that was originally printed in black ink, but then crossed out in red.
Millicent 10 a.m. Meeting with Sister Maggie—St. Vincent affairs
The one thing that Mrs. Perkins didn’t note was when the call came in to cancel, but we didn’t really need it. Sister Maggie had a small window to disappear. At most, two hours, but probably less.
“So now we know the meeting with the bishop must’ve been at ten,” said Joy. “Does it help?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But it will. Someone got between Maggie and that meeting. I have to find out where she would’ve been that morning and where the meeting was.”
“I know that,” said Joy. “She’d have gone to the bishop with the doctor.”
“Where though?”
“The offices are in Shrewsbury now. They probably were then.”
“If she was at the asylum that morning and Dr. Desarno worked there…”
Joy grabbed my arm. “They would’ve gone together.”
“Who was that doctor?” I asked.
She grinned at me. “It can’t be that hard to find out.”
I called Uncle Morty and gave him Dr. Desarno’s name. As he predicted there wasn’t anything online about Father Dominic. He did find out which rectory he would’ve lived at and the names of all the priests that lived there at the time. Four priests had cars registered to them and Uncle Morty was running down the cars to see if they still existed somewhere. I didn’t think it was necessary, but you never know. A couple of years ago, Dad took a thirty-year-old cold case and found a likely suspect in the neighborhood loser that had been known solely for boosting cars. Twenty years later though, he’d been convicted of rape and attempted murder. Dad had Morty track down the car that the guy stole around the time of the murder. It was sitting in a barn slowing disintegrating, but, low and behold, the fabric in the trunk was intact and had the victim’s blood on the underside. That guy’s on death row now.
“What about the families?” I asked. “Are they still in St. Louis?”
Uncle Morty was typing so fast it sounded like one continual keystroke. “Hold on.”