by A W Hartoin
Next were the Lions. Taylor was adorable close up with freckles and dark auburn hair that matched Cherie’s dye job. The blond, spiky-haired kid he’d been trading punches with was James. Their team was equally polite, but they weren’t as concerned with Oliver.
The Vipers were last. Quinn was there, more polite than the last time I’d seen him. He also resembled his mother with her dark hair and calm demeanor. His catcher was Anders. I’d seen him get out of the Escalade with Quinn.
When pleasantries were done, the boys went back to foosball and video games and we walked up to the fire pits. Cherie was there with Anthony, who was introduced as the kid’s grandfather. Lane sat on her other side cuddled up in her varsity jacket over a huge white jersey that nearly reached her knees. When she saw me looking at her, she zipped up her jacket and looked away.
Nicole, her husband, and the rest of the Viper parents showed up and sat as far from Cherie and Anthony as possible. Some of the Grizzly parents were there, sipping cocktails instead of beer and being well-bred. Tim drank Long Island ice teas. He had three empty glasses on the table in front of him and he slurred his words as he bragged about Parker’s academic scholarship offers and Enrique’s going pro in less than a year. Both boys had bright futures and he let everyone know between hiccups and unintelligible sentences. Robin came out and sat next to him, her face bright pink with matching lipstick. Deanna followed a young waiter around, flirting and having her wine glass continuously refilled.
My cousins spotted us at the edge of the crowd and I dropped Oliver’s hand. I don’t know why, but I felt oddly guilty.
“Mercy, what are you doing here?” asked Bridget.
“I told you I’d come,” I said, cheerfully.
“But Tiny said…” Jilly looked at Tiny, who sipped a beer.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
“I thought you were ill,” said Jilly.
Thank you.
“Never mind about that,” I said. “I’m better.”
“You were sick?” asked Oliver.
“Monumentally,” said Sorcha, looking Oliver up and down.
“But it’s over,” I said.
“How could that be over so fast?” asked Bridget.
“What was wrong?” asked Oliver.
I wrinkled my nose and batted my eyes. I’m told it’s distracting and it was. “I’m fine. How about some drinks.”
“Okay,” said Oliver, looking deep into my eyes. “What would you like?”
“Red wine. Pinot, if they have it.”
Oliver didn’t move.
“Oliver?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“Something wrong?”
He shook his head. “No, no. Pinot. Got it.” Oliver went into the castle and I sat down.
“Wow,” said Jilly. “Can you teach me how to do that?”
“What?” I asked.
“He was like a deer in the headlights.”
“Oh, that. It’s a gift, comes with the face.”
Jilly frowned. “So you can’t teach me.”
“I can try.”
“I can use it on Chuck,” she said.
Ah crap!
Oliver came back with drinks for everyone and Aaron brought out the gourmet s’mores. Gourmet was right. He’d made the graham crackers and the marshmallows. The chocolate came from Peru and had gold flecks in it. Aaron also brought out thermoses of hot whole milk for hot chocolate. He had a tray of chocolate from the Chocolate House in Luxembourg City. The Chocolate House was my favorite when I was a kid, especially the hot chocolate. Nobody made hot chocolate fun like them. Wooden spoons stuck in chocolate blocks that you dipped into steaming mugs of milk. Aaron knew I loved about twenty flavors and it’d be hard to avoid drinking it. The s’mores were bad enough. Oliver made me a triple decker. It oozed chocolate on my fingers. The homemade marshmallows were super light and fluffy, not like store bought at all. Everyone licked their fingers and the mood lightened up. The baseball parents even laughed when Anthony’s marshmallow fell off his stick and plopped into the fire, sending sparks up five feet. After the influx of sugar, we talked about baseball with the parents for a while. Oliver kept trying to hold my hand with Sorcha watching us covertly. She hardly said a word. Everyone except Sorcha and Lane were having a decent time. Lane looked more and more bored and excused herself early.
“Where are you going?” asked Cherie with an edge in her voice. It’s only 9:20.”
“To bed,” said Lane. “I’m tired and I’m going for a ride in the morning.”
She didn’t look tired to me, but she left quick before her mother could stop her. Moms. Always so suspicious. In my case, it was justified. I didn’t know about Lane.
There was probably something I didn’t know because Cherie left a half hour later with a concerned frown. For heaven’s sake, the kid was sixteen and Cairngorms Castle was a fortress. But the rest of us didn’t last much longer. The air got misty and cold as clouds rolled in. The fire pit and blankets couldn’t combat the chill. I shouldn’t have worn a dress. My legs had goosebumps. I tucked the blanket tighter around my legs and did a jaw-cracking yawn. It’s amazing how being pampered tires you out and the baseball parents had to get up early to hover over the players. Tiny was already asleep in his chair after his beer. The only ones that weren’t tired were Sorcha, Bridget, and Jilly.
“Let’s not go to bed,” said Jilly.
“Slumber party!” exclaimed Bridget and Sorcha. They looked at me with big smiles.
Oliver laughed. “I know when I’m not wanted.”
“Sorry,” they said in chorus.
“Wait. Aren’t we too old for slumber parties?” I was too everything for one of my cousins’ slumber parties. They always included duct tape, permanent marker, and pillow fights where I was the only target. Pass on the so-called party.
“You’re never too old to have fun,” said Bridget.
“I am.”
“Mercy,” she whined. “It’s my bridal weekend.”
Oh dear lord.
“I’m sort of on a date here.” It wasn’t a date I wanted to be on, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Oliver hauled me out of my chair and gave me a thankfully brief kiss on the lips. “It’s okay. Lunch tomorrow? We can picnic at the Shut-ins.”
“Um…they’re closed. Flood waters or something.”
“We’ll stay on shore. I’m not crazy,” Oliver gave me a rakish grin, “despite what the sportswriters say.”
Sorcha grabbed my arm. “That sounds good. We’ll picnic.”
We?
Oliver frowned but agreed. He left, walking off down the path into the darkness. We all watched him, even me. I couldn’t help it. Oliver had a great rear view. The walk was pretty slow so I suspect he knew it.
“I can’t believe you got a date already,” said Jilly. “We’ve been here five minutes.”
“It’s definitely been longer than five minutes.”
Five months. Five years.
Bridget shook Tiny awake and announced we were having a slumber party and he was coming. For the first time, Tiny said no. He’d be around if I needed him. The big coward. All they were going to do was straighten his hair and mascara his long lashes. Now it was all me. Break out the duct tape. Thanks, bodyguard.
There was no duct tape, just wine. Lots of wine. And talk of Chuck and men and sex. All three made me uncomfortable so I drank plenty. I didn’t manage to get out of Bridget’s room until after midnight. My tower room was stuffy and hot when Pick and I got back to it. I opened the window wider, thinking the cool air would make me feel better. It made me cold and I ended up vomiting a little. I collapsed on my bed with Pick trampling all over me in an effort to get under the covers. I finally gave in just so he’d stop stepping on me. He burrowed underneath the coverlet and I fell asleep with my nose buried in his fuzzy neck.
Bark.
Bark. Bark.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
“What the hell?�
� I rolled over.
Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark.
“I will kill you!” I yelled at the empty bed. Pick was at the window with his front paws on the sill, barking his fool head off.
I stumbled out of bed, yanked him back by the collar, and closed the window. “Go to sleep, maniac.”
Pick ignored me and paced in front of the window, growling, as I climbed back under the covers. He barked several more times and I threatened him with dismemberment. He finally jumped back on the bed, spun around seventeen times, and plunked down on the pillows. All the pillows. What was happening to my life? This wasn’t even my dog. I grabbed my phone and texted Chuck. “I’m going to kill your dog. Come home and save him.”
There was no response as usual, but I fell asleep staring at the screen, hoping.
Chapter Ten
I WOKE UP six hours later with a pounding on my door and in my head. I was prepared to ignore both. Pick wasn’t. He started barking and he wasn’t going to stop until I got up.
Tiny charged in the room and jogged in place. “Let’s go for a run.”
I stared at him bleary-eyed and hunched over. “Are you serious? It’s barely seven.”
“It’s like 7:15 and I slept like a drunk on Bourbon.”
“Is that supposed to be a good thing?”
“Hell yeah,” he said. “Get dressed and we can run before breakfast.”
“What about your knees?” I asked.
Tiny’s knees weren’t built to take that level of pounding. Nobody’s were.
“Feels good.” He jogged out and Pick pranced in front of the door.
“I suppose you want to go.”
Bark.
“I’ll bark you right in the snout.” I popped a couple of Tylenol, put on a yoga ensemble and a hoodie as slowly as possible and dragged my feet into the hall. Tiny was still jogging in place. The crazy bastard.
“Coffee first,” I said.
“Coffee after. Don’t wanna lose the go.”
“I never had the go. I’ve got the stay and sit.”
“Come on, girl. You gotta get me fit to fight.”
“How about fit to sit?”
Tiny jogged down the stone steps and Pick yanked me along behind him. I tried to be slow, but neither of them would entertain the idea. Tiny led me through the castle and down to the copper pot kitchen where Aaron was up with a kitchen staff of three making long loaves of French bread and heavenly croissants. There was coffee. I could smell it.
Pick and Tiny went for the door and I dug my heels in. “I need coffee.”
“No way, man,” said Tiny, opening the door. “Hear them birds. Smell that morning dew.”
“I’ll beat you to death.”
Tiny laughed, but I was never so serious. I grabbed Aaron’s sleeve. “I’ll eat a croissant if you make him let me have coffee.”
Aaron squinted at me from behind his smudged lenses. “Huh?”
“I’ll eat. Anything. A stick of butter. Anything. I need coffee.”
Pick yanked me so hard he nearly pulled me off my feet and began sniffing at the open door. Then the barking began. Serious barking. Barking like he’d never barked before. No. That wasn’t true. Pick once chased down a bigamist with me and that barking was similar.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked one of the cooks, his hands covered in flour.
“I don’t know. He hates me and coffee.”
A harder yank and furious barking.
“He wants to run,” said Tiny.
“You take him,” I said.
Tiny was about to agree when Pick lunged, dragging me out the door and into the foggy kitchen garden. The dog was going bat shit crazy and he didn’t stop there. He lunged with me pulling back with everything I had. His barks had turned into strangled gurgles, but he wasn’t about to stop. “Tiny! Help!”
Tiny ran out the door, but he was too slow. Pick had me through the kitchen garden into the formal garden, heading for the tragic love section with its daggers and swords design.
“I’m coming!” yelled Tiny just as Pick took a flying leap over the closest three-foot-high hedge, dragging me face first into it.
“Son of a bitch!” I screamed and that wasn’t the worst of it. I sounded like Uncle Morty when his rogue character got bested in Dungeons and Dragons. It wasn’t pretty.
Tiny hauled me out of the hedge by the seat of my pants, took the leash, and yanked Pick back with ease. “What’s wrong with this damn poodle?”
“I’ll kill him, starting with the tail and working my way up!”
“There’s no need for killing the dog,” said Tiny.
I held up my deeply scratched arms. “You don’t think?”
A head popped up on the other side of tragic love, Leslie with a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “I might’ve of known you’d be the first on the scene.”
“Scene of what?” I asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Homicide, of course.”
Pick continued barking his brains out. Tiny and I stood there dumb with shock.
“Did you say homicide?” asked Tiny after a minute.
“Yes. Your dog isn’t as stupid as he looks.”
Pick did look pretty stupid at the moment, hurling himself at the hedge and slinging his head around as he strangled himself. Plus, he was a poodle. Nobody takes a giant poodle seriously.
I did an involuntary shake, reached over, and grabbed him by the snout. I clamped his jaws together and yelled in his berserk face, “No!”
Pick whined, dropped to the ground, and put his paws over his eyes.
“Very adorable,” I said. “You are not forgiven.”
Tiny poked me. “Mercy, he said homicide.”
“I heard him.”
“What’re you gonna do?” he asked.
“Yes, Mercy,” said Leslie. “What are you going to do?”
“Me? Nothing. Call the police,” I said.
“I’d rather not.”
I frowned and put pressure on a particularly deep cut on my forearm. Blood oozed between my fingers. That was going to leave a mark.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Let’s just say I’d like to handle this in-house,” said Leslie and he was completely serious. There was no such thing as handling a murder in-house unless you’re the mafia. Ah crap. Leslie could be mafia. Maybe that was how Dad knew him. It wouldn’t explain why he considered Leslie a friend though.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Only what you normally do.”
“Stitches and pressure checks?”
“Solve the murder.”
Tiny was sweating like crazy in the early morning chill and his hands were shaking, but he nudged me. “It is what you do.”
“Not really. Not on purpose.”
“Come on. I need the experience.” He sounded a little shaky on that and I didn’t blame him. I had as much experience as I wanted.
“Tiny,” I said.
“Come on, girl. We’re…professionals.”
Groan.
“Fine, but we’re calling the cops,” I said. “Who is it?”
“Cherie Marin.”
I checked my emotions and discovered I wasn’t surprised. Cherie wasn’t exactly Miss Popular, but still murder was a bit excessive. We walked around tragic love to the path between it and passionate love. The path was clean, the gravel was undisturbed, and there was no blood or signs of a struggle. I came to the center of the love garden. The fountain squirted away, lovely arcs of clear water. At the base of the fountain was Cherie, lying on her back. Her face was a hideous purplish red, her eyes were open, filled with burst capillaries and staring up at the sky. There was clear bruising in the shape of hands on her neck. The rest of her was where it got odd. She was stick straight, not a natural position at all. Her hands were folded over her stomach and her jeans were down around her knees. Her legs weren’t spread though and her boxy t-shirt was pulled down to cover her pelvis. Her body was damp from the last night’s rain.
Forensics wouldn’t be happy.
“Amateur,” I said automatically.
“I’d say so,” said Leslie and he put his hand over his mouth, turning away.
Tiny called over the tragic love hedge, “What happened to her?”
“Come and see for yourself,” I said. “You’re the one who wants to do this thing.”
John walked out of the kitchen door, saw us, and came over. He was wearing a suit with a full Windsor knot in his tie. It was seven o’clock in the morning. Did this guy ever relax? Even Leslie wore sweats. They were tailored but still.
John came up to Tiny and took Pick’s leash. The poodle sniffed frantically and snapped at something next to John’s leg. He ignored the behavior and pointed to the path. Tiny took a breath and walked in. Every inch of him showed that he didn’t want to do it, despite what he said, and it surprised me. He took a job with Dad. At the very least there’d be crime scene photos.
“Are you okay?” I asked before he reached the fountain.
“Yeah,” he said as he looked down at Cherie. “Ah damn! Tommy’s gonna flip. You gotta go. Now!” Tiny grabbed my arm and I winced as his fingers dug into my cuts. “Sorry. But you gotta go.”
I peeled his fingers off my arm. “I’m not going anywhere. This has nothing to do with me. Call 911.”
“No 911,” said Leslie, turning back. His eyes dropped to Cherie and he grimaced. “Funding issues.”
“Well, call the local cop shop then,” I said.
“There hasn’t been a murder around here in years, but go ahead. Give it a shot. Maybe they’ll know what to do.”