In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5)

by A W Hartoin

  I told him he didn’t have to come, but that only got me a scornful look and a pat on the bulge in his waistband. He did let me run up the stairs and leash up Pick all by myself. I had a feeling that Tiny’s protection had gone into overdrive and I’d be lucky to go to the bathroom alone.

  We walked out of the castle and followed a path around the side toward our tower. This might’ve been Cherie’s path and the thought gave me the creeps, but the night was beautiful. Pick sniffed every rock and then attempted to pee on them. He ran out of fluid after the first three, but that didn’t stop him from lifting his leg.

  We made it to the back of the castle and saw the yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze. I stopped on the edge of the rock garden. Most of the windows that overlooked the garden were dark, but a few notable ones were bright yellow.

  “They’re all here,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Our suspects. On the map, they were all here in rooms overlooking the first crime scene.”

  “You think that it was dumb luck that got Cherie killed?”

  “Not exactly. It was dumb luck that the killer had a room overlooking this area. I think he looked out, saw her, and came out to kill her. He made a decision. That wasn’t luck.”

  “How can we tell which room it was?” asked Tiny.

  “We can’t. But there are still interviews to do. We haven’t talked to the men yet and we can only cross one off our list so far.”

  Tiny readjusted his weapon and stared up at those ominous yellow lights. “Who?”

  “Bill. Deanna alibied him by hearing the breathing machine going all night,” I said.

  “That woman’s a drinker. How would she even remember?”

  “She doesn’t have any reason to lie so I’m going with it for now.” I tugged on Pick’s leash. He stopped his latest attempt to wee on a rock and ran back to me, wagging his fuzzy tail. “We’ll find out tomorrow anyway. It all comes down to tomorrow.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “The sheriff comes back the day after. It’s tomorrow or we’re the losers who had to turn it over to Springfield.”

  Tiny shook his head. “Failure is not an option.”

  I took his offered arm and we strolled back to the copper pot kitchen. John stood in the shadows by a tree sculpted into a square, reminding me of what was expected. No. He reminded me of what was required. Tiny was right. Failure was not an option.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I WOKE UP the next morning with a crick in my neck, my back, and both my feet. I didn’t know you could get a crick in your feet, but I’m here to tell you it happens.

  Tiny did sleep in my room. He took the bed because, let’s face it, he couldn’t fit anywhere else. I took the settee, which seemed like a good idea until I laid down on it. Tiny offered to take the settee but, since he’d have to sleep bolt upright, I said no. Now regret was imprinted on my every muscle. It wasn’t long enough even for me. I slept with my head up on one hard wooden arm and my feet up on the other. Actually, slept was a bit too generous. Dozed maybe. To go along with my night on the rack, I had Pick and Tiny’s snoring, the music of severely deviated septums. By the morning I was ready to crack Tiny in the nose with an iron skillet to force him into a surgical repair. He competed with Uncle Morty and that’s saying something.

  I was so happy when Tiny went back to his room and I showered in silence. Then we met in the hall and headed down to breakfast. Tiny led me, talking about how great my bed was. Pick sniffed every inch of the stairs, getting under foot and annoying me.

  Tiny took the leash and made Pick heal, something I’d never accomplished. “I slept great,” he said. “How’re you feeling?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

  “Did you sleep?” He asked.

  “Do you think Aaron has an iron skillet I can use?” I asked.

  “Why you need an iron skillet?”

  We entered the kitchen to find Aaron hovering over multiple pots. “I’ll show you later.”

  When you least expect it.

  “Hi, Aaron,” I said. “What tortures have you prepared for me today?”

  He didn’t even turn around but began tasting several pots and muttering.

  “Okay. We’ll just have coffee.”

  Aaron stopped with a spoon halfway to his lips. “You hungry.”

  “For lettuce, but I’m probably going to need some more info from Uncle Morty so I’ll eat your food for credit.”

  “I made biscuits and gravy.”

  Shudder.

  “Bring it on. Where’s the coffee?” I asked.

  Aaron pointed past me to the fireplace. There was a deluxe commercial espresso machine built into the wall. Next to it in the corner was Lane, wrapped in a quilt and hunched over a mug. It was too early to face such overwhelming grief.

  Why? Can’t we just have a Mr. Coffee? Pour and go. Pour and go.

  Before I could attempt to make something with that monstrosity, one of Aaron’s assistants ran over and whipped up a cappuccino for me and straight espresso for Tiny. He gave me my cup topped with lovely foam and whispered, “Can I have your autograph?”

  I smiled. “Let’s see how the cappuccino is first.” I sipped and, oh my god, I could’ve been in Rome. The foam was so thick I’d have to eat it with a spoon. “You’re a genius. What do you want me to say?”

  I signed his apron with, “Emil, you’re my favorite baker. Love, Mercy Watts.” He was embarrassed, but I was happy to do it, especially after he showed me his escargot pastries. Chocolate pistachio has always been my favorite and I’d never gotten a good one outside of Paris. Emil’s looked so good I almost wanted to eat it.

  “Please eat that,” said Tiny. “Cuz I can’t.”

  Emil smiled with an eagerness that reminded me of a cocker spaniel, and Aaron was watching from the stove, no doubt taking note. What the hell? I had to eat something and nothing in Aaron’s pots was going to resemble lettuce so I took a pair of chocolate pistachios over to Lane and sat on the hearth next to her. “Want one?”

  She didn’t glance up. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Then why are you eating?”

  “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” I took a bite. Heaven but not a bit like lettuce and the guilt settled in around my heart. I shouldn’t be eating and enjoying.

  Lane peeked at me from under her thick lashes. “Why do you have to eat?”

  “It’s a long story, but it has to do with your mom’s case. I need information and eating is how I get it.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “You haven’t met my father’s best friend. He’s the devil to deal with.”

  “Is he the writer? My brother said there was some writer in one of the towers.”

  “That’s him. He’s helping me with the case. Have you thought of anything new to help me?” I asked.

  Lane’s eyes snapped back to her mug. “No.”

  “I found some things out about your mom yesterday.”

  “Like what?”

  I glanced around the kitchen. Everyone was well away, letting us talk in private. I scooted closer. “She had a problem with cutting.”

  A tear fell onto the edge of Lane’s mug.

  “It was something she dealt with as a teen and she’d started up again here at the castle, right?”

  Lane produced a ratty tissue from the depths of her quilt. “How do you know all that?”

  “The doctor told me.”

  “She’s doing an…”

  “Yes, she is,” I said quickly to avoid the word autopsy. In my experience, it’s best that way. “Just procedure and it’s being handled respectfully. Dr. Watts is very good at this.”

  “Okay.” Lane blew her nose and sniffed.

  “Why do you think she was cutting again?”

  “I don’t know. She tried to hide it, but I saw the bloody towels. She had them soaking in the tub.”

  “Did you a
sk her?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but she said she was fine. She said everything was fine. Yeah, right.”

  “Do you think the cutting had to do with your brother and the prize? She worked hard to get Taylor here and it might not work out. ”

  She looked me in the eye for the first time. “No way. She said it was in the bag.”

  “The prize was in the bag?”

  “Uh huh. Taylor was going to win for sure. She said so.”

  Weird. Cherie knew Taylor would win? She was the only one.

  “How come? Enrique’s a strong contender.”

  “That’s what I said, but Mom said don’t worry about him.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “Lane, I figured some other things out, too.”

  She shredded the tissue and Aaron brought her a new box and a little trash can. “What else is there?”

  “The timeline.”

  “Timeline?” she squeaked out.

  I took her moist hand in mine. “You might as well confirm it. I already know you weren’t asleep in your room.”

  “I was too.”

  “No, you weren’t.” I gave her the timeline, point by point. I didn’t want to hurt the girl, but I needed to know where she was, who she was with, and if she’d seen anyone up and about at the time of her mother’s death.

  Lane held it in for a good two minutes before she admitted to going out of the castle to meet one of the players, Parker from the Grizzlies. They’d had a thing for about a year, mostly long distance.

  “He didn’t do anything to my mom,” she said. “He wouldn’t. He loves me.”

  “You were with him all night?”

  “Yeah. All night. We were in the stables. I didn’t think Mom would wake up. She took a Trazadone. I thought she was totally out.”

  “Were you drinking?” I asked.

  “Parker had a bottle of vodka. It was gross and I just go to sleep when I drink.” She teared up again and whispered, “Do you think Mom was outside looking for me and that’s why she got killed?”

  I squeezed her hand. “That’s not why she got killed.”

  “It’s my fault then. I did it. I killed Mom.” She burst into a full-fledged ugly cry.

  Well done, Mercy.

  “No, no. It’s the person who hurt your mother who’s at fault. Nobody else.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  David crossed my mind and then the guilt that plagued me afterwards. I didn’t like to talk about what happened, but Lane needed it. I did understand. Sort of. David disappeared with two friends when I was sixteen. Maybe if I’d been with him. Maybe if I hadn’t gotten myself grounded.

  “I lost someone when I was your age. My boyfriend disappeared. They think he was murdered.”

  The squished up lines of her face straightened. “Oh my god. Really?”

  “It wasn’t my fault or my responsibility.” I didn’t exactly believe that but I sold it well.

  “Did they catch the guy who did it?”

  Probably not.

  “Yes and he’s in prison. He confessed.” I didn’t go further into it. She didn’t need any doubts.

  “Did it help?”

  No. Lie. Lie. Lie.

  “No.”

  Dammit.

  “It didn’t? How come? I want you to catch him.”

  I smiled. “It’s complicated. I had to mourn David. His killer didn’t have much to do with that.”

  “I’ll feel better,” Lane said, suddenly fierce.

  I hugged her. “Then we’ll catch him.”

  “Soon?”

  “Very soon. Are you sure you don’t know why the scholarship was in the bag?”

  Her eyes shifted to the left. “No. She didn’t tell me everything.”

  Aaron came over with a plate heaping with his homemade corned beef hash, over easy eggs, and biscuits and gravy. My mouth watered, but I couldn’t eat it. I couldn’t. I ate the pastry. That was bad enough.

  “Morty said you want this,” said Aaron.

  “He did, did he?” I asked.

  Blink.

  “Eat it, Mercy,” said Tiny, walking over. “If you don’t, I’ll have to. We’re gonna need more information.”

  “I ate the pastry. I can’t eat anything else. I can’t.”

  Emil came and gave Tiny a large glass of green gunk. He groaned. I would gladly have traded.

  “Don’t be getting any ideas,” said Tiny. “This glass of healthy, delicious kale, turmeric, and ginger is mine.”

  “There’s apple,” said Aaron as if that changed the whole thing.

  “And apple.” Tiny gulped it down and coughed. “Too…much…ginger.”

  “It’s good for you,” I said with a grin.

  “Eat your happiness.” He slumped onto the hearth and belched so juicily I could smell it. Gross.

  He wavered back and forth. “I got a kale high.”

  Lane wiped her eyes and took the platter of calories from Aaron. “I’ll eat it. You need information so I’ll do it.” She waggled her finger with its painted heart on the nail at Aaron. “Don’t tell.”

  Aaron gazed over her head for a second and then went back to the stove.

  “Is he going to tell?” Lane asked me.

  “Who knows? You need the calories anyway. Eat it. I’ll handle Morty.”

  Tiny leaned over me and sniffed. “I remember breakfast.”

  Lane forked up a big piece of biscuits and gravy. “I’ll give you some. They’re mean. That green stuff was yuck.”

  He pulled back and fixed a patently false cheerful expression on his face. “No. Go on with you. I’ve got to lose weight or I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

  “Are you a vegetarian?” she asked. “My mom was a vegetarian for a while after we got back.”

  Emil made me a fresh latte and I stretched out my thighs. “I’m trying to be. Tiny’s not. Back from where?”

  “Um…Ecuador. Mom and I went for two weeks of service. It was a church thing. That’s why we could afford it.”

  “That’s right. I saw the airline tags on your luggage. When did you go?”

  “January,” said Lane.

  “Isn’t Enrique from Ecuador?”

  She shrugged and didn’t look up. “I don’t know. I wish I could go down to the Shut-ins. Mom loved them. She always took us every summer.” She teared up and began shoveling in Aaron’s food, going on autopilot eating.

  Cherie went to Ecuador. How many people went to Ecuador? And Enrique was from there. Could be a coincidence. The US has people from everywhere. But…Enrique was special and Taylor’s rival for the scholarship.

  Lane finished half the plate and gave it to me. “I can’t do anymore. That’s a stink load of food.”

  Aaron was watching from the stove. I knew from the nervous jitter that he thought she didn’t like it. “It’s okay. I’ll finish it for you.”

  “I’m gonna go see Taylor. He wants to leave, but Grandpa says Mom wouldn’t want that. I don’t know what to do,” said Lane.

  “Don’t decide anything for now. But do me a favor and tell Aaron his food is the best thing you ever ate. He probably won’t respond, but say it anyway.”

  “I like Aaron. He’s so nice. He made me French hot chocolate.” The tears began in earnest again.

  “That’s his specialty.”

  Lane spoke to Aaron and went out the door into the kitchen garden. Tiny got me a fresh fork and I ate her leftovers as promised. My stomach rebelled, but I got it down.

  As I scraped up the last bit of egg, I said, “That could be our first connection. Ecuador. What are the chances?”

  Aaron gave Tiny a cup of green tea, no sugar. He choked it down. “I miss cream.”

  “Aaron, what do you think?” I asked.

  “I like cream.”

  “Not that. About Ecuador.”

  Aaron stared over my head.

  “I would kill for cream,” said Tiny.

  “You’re hopeless. Both of you.” I got up. �
�Tell Morty I ate and I want everything he can find on Cherie’s trip to Ecuador and Enrique.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Tiny.

  “To question Taylor. You stay here and mourn the death of your cream-filled life.”

  “This is hell. You don’t know.”

  “Actually, I do. And when this is over we’re going to discuss that medication of yours,” I said, standing up and doing a quick toe touch.

  “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Well, then you shouldn’t have told me,” I said, grabbing Pick’s leash. “Back in a bit.”

  I didn’t find Taylor. Pick did. We looked in the carriage house, the castle, and the stables until Pick’s nose brought us to the sweat lodge. Taylor sat inside, wearing his baseball gear and staring blankly at the center fire pit. There wasn’t a fire, just cold ashes.

  Taylor didn’t notice us in the doorway even though Pick was sniffing like mad. Taylor was so still he could’ve been a statue.

  “Taylor,” I said softly.

  No response. The boy didn’t even blink.

  Pick lost what little patience he had and yipped, dragging me through the door. Taylor jerked to attention. “What’re you doing?”

  “Looking for you,” I said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Whatever.”

  I gestured to a spot next to him on the curved bench along the wall. “May I?”

  He shrugged, but he didn’t want me there and I didn’t blame him.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you a few questions.”

  “About Mom?”

  “In part.”

  Pick sniffed the fire pit like it was made of meat.

  “What’s he doing?” asked Taylor.

  “It’s a mystery to me. He probably doesn’t know,” I said.

  That got a slight smile. “He’s a nut.”

  “He is. Are you up to a few questions?”

  “Go ahead. At least you have a reason for asking,” said Taylor, back to staring at the pit.

  Pick pulled harder and nearly dislodged me from the bench. “For god’s sake, knock it off, freak dog.”

  Freak dog did not knock it off. He barked. And then he barked again. I ended up dragging him back to the bench, clamping his squirmy body between my knees and holding his jaw. “Dogs are so not worth it.”