A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book One)

by A.W. Hartoin

  Chapter Eight

  FIFTEEN MINUTES WAS not long enough, but since we bagged dinner we managed to stretch it to twenty-five which bordered on reasonable. It goes without saying that I didn’t get my foot rub.

  Pete stretched out beside me and stoked my thigh. I put my head on his shoulder, drawing his smell deep into my lungs until they were filled to the point of pain. The stench was gone, banished by the thin sheen of fresh sweat on his skin. After letting me breathe him for a couple of minutes, Pete said, “I have to go.”

  “I know. See you in a month,” I said.

  “Sorry, babe. But I do have a break after this rotation. Two weeks. We should go somewhere.”

  “I have to go on a cruise.”

  “A cruise with who?” he asked.

  “Aunt Tenne just asked me, and I can’t afford two vacations,” I said.

  “Why do you have to go?” he asked.

  “Well, she asked and who else is going to do it?”

  “Your mom could go.”

  “She’s on a cruise now and, besides, cruising with Mom isn’t Aunt Tenne’s idea of a good time. The looks, the comparisons. You know how it is,” I said.

  “You look exactly like your mother, so how are you different?” asked Pete.

  “I’m not her sister.”

  “I guess I don’t get the whole girly competition thing.”

  “All I can say is Mom’s a lot to handle even for me, and I don’t weight three hundred plus.”

  “I don’t even get that,” he said.

  “I don’t have the energy to explain girls to you,” I said, rolling over and shoving him off my bed.

  Pete walked into the bathroom muttering. I looked after his long, lean frame for a moment and then picked up the phone on the first ring.

  “Mercy, it’s Mom. You’re not answering your cell phone.”

  “Sorry. I turned it off because...dinner. I was having dinner. I guess I forgot to turn it back on.”

  “I’m surprised you’re home. I expected you to be with Sharon. She shouldn’t be on her own,” said my mother in the special disappointed voice she saved just for me.

  “She is not alone. The Girls were at the house when I left,” I said with my “I’m a good girl” voice.

  “No one answered the phone,” she said.

  “Maybe they didn’t hear it. So what’s up?” I asked.

  “Dad wants to know how it’s going. Have you talked to Dr. Grace yet?”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Right here.” She offered no explanation. It wasn’t like Dad to let Mom do the talking. He just plain had too much to say.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Well, he’s a tad under the weather,” she said.

  “Dad’s sick? No way!”

  Dad sick was a once in a decade occurrence. Injuries happened all the time, but Dad considered illness an insult.

  “Try not to sound so pleased,” Mom said.

  “I’m not pleased. I’m surprised. What’s wrong?”

  “The flu, I suppose. It’s going around.”

  “Norovirus?” I asked.

  “They’re not willing to go that far yet,” she said. “Back to the case, this is costing us a fortune.”

  “Okay. I talked to Grace. Dad was right. Gavin’s MI was induced. Tox screen isn’t back yet.” I heard a murmur, and Mom repeated what I said. Dad cursed, and Mom came back on the line.

  “Dad okay?” I asked.

  “He’s fine,” she said.

  He didn’t sound fine. The background, previously quiet, was filled with loud hacking and thumping furniture.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He wants the phone,” she said.

  “Give it to him before he has a conniption.”

  “Absolutely not. He might vomit on it and then where would I be.”

  “That bad, huh?” I said.

  “Worse. What else have you done? Nothing illegal, I hope.”

  “Of course not. I got some things for Dixie and documented the house. That’s the crime scene. I found a couple of missing files, a scuff mark on the wall, fibers and hair. No blood.”

  “You didn’t touch anything.” Mom’s voice rose an octave.

  “No, I did not touch anything. I’m not an idiot, Mom.”

  “What else? What files?”

  “Two S files. I’m not sure who the clients were yet. Gavin’s cells were there. One was dead and I copied the last ten numbers dialed on the other.”

  “Whose numbers were they?”

  “Dad’s office, the Rockville Church of Christ, and the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. I’m not sure about the last one.” I didn’t want to tell her about Chuck and the bride’s phone number. If I brought him up, she might tell me to drop it and give Chuck what I had. Since I wasn’t doing that, it was easier to omit than disobey.

  “Rockville Church of Christ? Have you been by there yet?”

  “Yeah and get this, a bride was murdered there the day before Gavin died. Does Dad know what Gavin was working on?” Mom asked Dad and through the coughs I thought she got a positive response.

  “Deadbeat dad case,” Mom said. “Not very exciting.”

  “It may have just gotten exciting,” I said.

  “He doesn’t think so, but you should check it out anyway.”

  I got up and put on a robe. “What about the University?”

  “He doesn’t remember Gavin saying anything about that. Have Mort run Gavin’s credit cards,” said Mom.

  “When are you coming home?” I could feel Mom’s hesitation and then I heard concern in her voice.

  “Well, dear, we’re docking this evening, but I don’t know…” There was a yell in the background that sounded like Dad finally having his conniption fit.

  “Your father seems to think he can fly back immediately, but I don’t know if they’ll let him on a flight.”

  “Let me know,” I said.

  “I’ll call later for another update. Be safe and for God’s sake stay under the radar.” That was Mom’s way of saying don’t get arrested. I have been arrested a few times, but somehow my paperwork always gets lost, never to be seen again. Can’t say I worry much about getting arrested anymore.

  We hung up as Pete came out of the bathroom amid billowing steam. His damp scrubs stuck to his skin and showed me the outline of his abs under the fabric. I followed him into the kitchen and watched him toast a bagel. He slathered it with whipped butter and wrapped it in plastic for later. He turned to me and said while putting on his lab coat, “I’ll call you later.” Pete’s later meant sometime in the indistinct future.

  “You can’t wear that,” I said, poking his chest.

  “What?”

  “That lab coat is disgusting. You can’t treat sick people in that. They feel bad enough already,” I said.

  Pete looked down, his head moving side to side while smoothing his jacket. “I think it’s okay.”

  “You would. What’s that?” I pointed to a three-inch yellow stain on his right sleeve.

  “Orange juice, I think.”

  “What about this?” I picked up his hem and brought it chest high. It was gray and the stitching was falling out.

  “I’m going to be a surgeon, not a seamstress,” he said.

  “Leave it here. I’ll fix it. Imagine that. The poor thing has probably never seen the inside of a washer.” I slipped the jacket off his shoulders and threw it in my washer.

  “When can I have it back?”

  “I’ll let you know. You better go.”

  After Pete left, I washed the jacket all by itself with lots of detergent, bleach, and hot water. I didn’t want it contaminating my unmentionables, even though I had a pile of them waiting to be washed. While I waited for the jacket to finish, I showered and pondered the few pounds I’d put on. It’s hard to ignore that kind of thing in the shower. The pounds made me look softer, but I don’t think Pete noticed. A previous boyfriend once described me as squishy. Tha
t was the end of him. I’d adopted my mother’s yoga habit, so despite my so-called squishiness, I was pretty fit. The more I thought about Pete, the more I thought I’d better keep him, schedule and all. How often did I meet a man who didn’t compare me to Marilyn? Who didn’t even seem to care that much about how I looked or that I was a YouTube laughingstock? That alone was a feat. Actually, I was more Marilyn than the genuine article. My body curvier, taller with bigger breasts and hips, not to mention that I’m a natural blond, differences the average Joe didn’t get. Pete never once thought I was Marilyn. He touched my curves like he wanted to paint them. Not like he was living out a fantasy.

  I turned on the hair dryer and ran it over my body, removing the last bit of moisture, and then dried my hair. My curls tamed with the help of a round brush, I added mascara, a touch of blush, and a ton of lip gloss. The effect was spot on and just what I needed if the church was still a crime scene and hadn’t been released yet. I had to pull out the big guns if I was going to get past the cops and into that church.

  First, I had to go back to my parents’ house. Emphasizing my Marilynness wouldn’t help me interview Dixie. In her state, I doubted she’d notice if I wore Dad’s clothes. Also, my mother was her best friend, so she was used to it. Mom was more Marilyn than any sane person would hope for, and I was going the same route. Plus, I was getting Mom’s attitude. Why fight the power, when it can be so useful?

  I put on a lacy bra, no padding necessary unless I wanted to injure somebody, and a tank dress, clingy yet loose. I wanted to teeter at the top, but not go over it. A low sandal and a clutch and I was ready for anything or at least I thought I was.