by A W Hartoin
I pulled up the pictures of the four kids that were on that bridge in March 1987. Their senior pictures showed nothing of the terrible fates that were coming. Their smiles made me hurt all over. Shaun, in particular, was so much like David, not in looks, but in hope and promise. The world lay before them, but they’d never get to see it.
Pick jumped to his feet and barked. I looked up to find Tiny weaving through the parked cars.
Before he could open his mouth, I said, “You ate cream.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said.
“You have a milk mustache.”
“It’s skim.”
I closed the laptop. “You are a terrible liar. We have to work on that.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Finding a motive.” I pointed to Nicole’s back window.
“So?”
I told him what I’d found out. “Quinn Hasselback is the Q on the back of the Vipers van.”
“No shit?”
“Has to be and it says here that the family tried to get Cherie charged, but the police refused. She was the one who bought the vodka. They blamed her for giving it to Quinn.”
“Ya think Nicole’d kill her now. That was a long time ago and he drank it.”
“I think you don’t put a memorial on your brand new vehicle over two decades later because you’re over it.”
“Nicole was in The Castle when it happened,” he said.
“Someone used my code to get out, but her hands are too small,” I said.
“She could’ve pushed her so she hit that rock.”
I shrugged. Her and everyone else in the castle.
“What else ya got?”
I told him about the trip being comped. “Leslie said the teams didn’t know who would be here, but I heard Cherie at the gas station. She knew somebody was going to be here. She was surprised by the Vipers.”
“But not by the Grizzlies.”
“She knew about them and she picked this week specifically.”
“Maybe a chance for her kid to psych out their kid.”
“I don’t think so. Taylor likes Enrique. There’s something else going on. She went to Ecuador but so what? It was a church mission,” I said.
“When did they go?”
“January. I wonder when the Lions signed up for this week.”
“Ask Leslie,” said Tiny. “God I’m hungry.”
“You just drank cream.”
His face went blank à la John. “I didn’t say nothing about no cream.”
“Yeah, right. You drank skim,” I said.
“Skim’s the bomb.”
“Sure it is. Everybody loves skim. My dad calls it white water.” I shook Sorcha’s shoulder. She’d flipped over and was snoozing face-down like my cat, Skanky. I don’t know how either of them could breathe like that.
Sorcha snorted and looked up. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
“I know. Just like how Tiny didn’t drink cream.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Come on. We’ve got stuff to do.”
Sorcha jumped to her feet and frantically began finger combing her perfect locks. Oliver walked up from the direction of the fields, smiling and looking rugged in the best way possible. He gave Sorcha a light kiss on the lips and she blushed to match her hair.
“I thought you might like to have lunch together today?” he asked her.
“Okay. What time?”
“Noon.”
“Sorcha might be busy,” I said. “We’ve got a murder to solve.”
She wrinkled her nose and said, “Please. That can wait.”
What the…
“It really can’t. We have a deadline.”
“Oh, that. I was thinking of extending our trip by a couple of days.” Sorcha looked deep into Oliver’s eyes.
“That would be great,” he said.
“Great. Fantastic,” I said. “But that won’t help with our deadline.”
“Uh huh,” said Sorcha.
I groaned. “Come on, Tiny. Let’s go look at the map.”
Tiny didn’t move. He stood frozen with the funniest look on his face.
“Tiny?”
“I think I’m going to…” He ran around the tree and barfed like I’ve never heard barfing before. It was like tyrannosaurus rex barfing, huge and tremendously loud. He tried to hide behind the trunk but missed the mark and I could see the steady stream of white spewing from his mouth. Gross and double gross.
I made a face and then put on my big nurse pants. It was my job to go around that tree, but I so didn’t want to. “Tiny?” I rubbed his back as he gagged.
“When you, uh, finish. I want you to lie down for a while,” I said.
“Got to watch you.” Another spew.
“John’ll watch me and I have Pick. Your body can’t take a fat influx anymore. You’re going to feel rotten for a while.”
He waved me away. “Go. Got to barf.”
“Er…okay. I’m going to the copper pot kitchen.”
He waved frantically and a bunch more came out. I told Sorcha and Oliver that Tiny would catch up to us later. They nodded and would’ve agreed to anything. I rolled my eyes and headed for the kitchen with Pick, who liked the smell of vomit even less than I did.
When we came to the love garden, Uncle Morty walked out the door of the kitchen, squinting and shielding his eyes. He reminded me of a bear coming out of hibernation.
“You’re out,” I said. “Did someone set fire to your room?”
“Smart ass.”
“You know it.”
“I got the answer on your damn newspaper.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You could’ve called me.”
“Yeah, well, my ass hurts. I think I got a boil.” Uncle Morty turned and tugged on his sweatpants.
Oh my god no!
“What are you doing? What are you doing?”
“You want to see it, right?” he asked.
“Wrong. So so wrong. Why would I want to see your rear?” I asked.
He growled at me. “You’re a nurse, ain’t you? I went to your graduation.”
“I’m not your nurse.”
“You are today. Look at this bastard.” He turned and tugged again.
I should’ve gone to law school. Nobody asks a lawyer to look at their butt boils. Sorcha was the smart one. I was an idiot.
Oliver and Sorcha, two people who chose their careers wisely, dashed around Uncle Morty and went in the kitchen. Uncle Morty glared after them. “Squeamish bastards.” With that he exposed one of the largest hairiest rears I ever had the misfortune to see.
I shuddered. “That’s not a boil.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“That’s a bedsore.”
“I ain’t hardly been in bed.”
“You’ve been in a chair for forty years. Paraplegics sit less than you.”
He glared at me over his shoulder. “Fix it.”
“Or you’ll be what? Super crabby?” I asked. “I fail to see the difference.”
“Fix it.”
“With what? All I’ve got is a poodle and, by the way, pull up your pants. You’re scaring the birds and wilting the flowers.”
“Bite me.”
“No thanks.”
“Fix it or I won’t give you shit on that newspaper.”
I crossed my arms. “I don’t need it. I already put it together.”
“The hell you did.”
I put my nose in the air and went past him into the kitchen which was filled with an incredible stench so thick I swear I could see it.
Aaron looked up from stuffing his casings. “You hungry.”
“I may never be hungry again.” I rushed through the kitchen and into the hall, bumping into Leslie and John huddled together in the hall. Leslie frowned as John explained something. I caught the name Flincher and my name before they saw me. I raised an eyebrow. “Making new arrangements?”
“Arrangements?” Leslie smiled. “What w
ould we be arranging?”
“Another convenient vanishing perhaps.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but…” Leslie came closer, “perhaps you should remember who you are and why you’re here.”
That stopped me and I took a step back. “Me? What’s it got to do with me?”
John said to Leslie, “Didn’t Tommy say she was bright?”
“He did and she is,” said Leslie. “She’s just not thinking.”
Pick growled and strained at his leash. I pulled him back to my side. “I’m thinking about the task you asked me to perform.”
Leslie straightened his vest and ran a hand through his long grey hair. “And how’s that coming?”
“It’d be better if you’d be more forthcoming,” I said, walking past them to see if they’d follow. They did. I had no clue where I was going, but they followed me anyway.
I took a right and ended up in a billiards room all dark wood and covered in animal heads. Pick began sniffing at a stuffed grizzly bear and I picked up a pool cue, twirling it between my fingers. “I want to know how Cherie came to be here this particular weekend.”
“Not who was in the woods?” asked John.
“If that has to do with me, I’ll find out eventually. When did Cherie request this weekend?”
Leslie walked off while waving something away from his ear that I couldn’t see. John watched him for a split second and then said, “Why?”
“Can’t you just answer the question? When did she contact you?” I could barely contain my rage. Somebody freaking tell the truth.
“January,” said Leslie without turning around.
“When in January?”
“The twenty-seventh.”
That would’ve been after she and Lane came back from Ecuador. Something happened on that trip. “She contacted you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ask you about the Grizzlies?”
“I told you—”
“You told me lies. She wanted to know when the Grizzlies would be here and she wanted the same weekend, didn’t she?”
Leslie hesitated and then turned around to meet my eyes. “Yes.”
“Did she give you a clue as to why she wanted to be here with them?”
John racked the pool balls and chalked a cue he’d plucked off the wall. “We assumed she wanted her son to go head to head with Enrique. The prize is decided here.”
“A reasonable idea, but that’s not why.”
John took his first shot, scattering the balls. The shot was casual. His eyes were actually on me when he took it, but he sank six balls. I didn’t know crap about pool, but that looked pretty good. “Why did she pick this weekend then?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It’s something to do with Enrique and the orphanage she and Lane worked at in January. It looks like she got off the plane and called you.”
“I suppose so,” said Leslie.
“Something happened on that trip. How did she plan on paying for this camp if you hadn’t comped it?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“But you comped it?”
John sank another ball. “Yes. What has this got to do with the murder?”
“I don’t know. It’s all mixed up together. Why she wanted to come. What she found out in Ecuador. The first Quinn, Nicole’s brother, died in 1987. I think Lane knows something, but she’s not ready to say.”
“You think she will tell you?” asked Leslie, drumming his fingers on the edge of the billiards table.
“I do. She’s protecting someone, but it won’t last. It can’t. She’ll have to say what happened in Ecuador.”
Sorcha and Oliver walked in. Her lipstick was smeared and he was smiling way too much.
“Did you say something about Ecuador?” asked Sorcha.
I told her about Enrique’s adoption and Cherie’s visit to the orphanage. “I think she found something out about the adoption.”
She shook her head. “That can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because Enrique can’t be from Ecuador.”
Oliver held up his hand. “He’s definitely from Ecuador. I’ve seen his paperwork.”
“No. He might be adopted, but it’s not from Ecuador.” Sorcha never looked this sure about anything, except maybe the bridesmaid dresses.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because I interned with Valerie Fimmel, the big adoption lawyer in my second year. Adopting out of Ecuador is extremely difficult.”
“But they did. Enrique’s here,” said Oliver.
“I’m just telling you what Valerie said. Ecuador says they allow international adoptions, but they don’t want Ecuadorian children to leave the country.”
Leslie walked across the room, took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. His face was different without them. Familiar. I stared and he hastily put them back on. “That must be it. There was something fishy about the adoption and Cherie found out.”
Sorcha nodded. “Sure. She would’ve heard about the difficulties in the orphanage. They struggle to care for children and they can’t place them.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. If the adoption was illegal, would it preclude Enrique from the prize?”
Oliver paced next to the pool table. “I can check but I don’t think there’s anything that says he even has to be a citizen. We had a Japanese kid win five years ago.”
“Then that’s not it. Cherie had something.” I went for the door but Leslie headed me off. “Where are you going?”
“To see a man about a bedsore.”
“What?”
“I need information and, for once, I don’t have to eat anything for it,” I said.
Leslie put a hand on my shoulder. “What should we do?”
What would Poirot do?
“Gather the suspects,” I said.
“Who are the suspects?” asked John.
“All the men who were in the castle that night, but bring in the women, too. I’ll meet you in the library.”
Leslie and John said they would take care of gathering my suspects and left.
“Can you find the library?” asked Oliver.
“Sorcha, you’re with me.” I grabbed her by the hand, but then dropped it and ran to watch John and Leslie walk away. “That is freaky.”
Oliver and Sorcha came up behind me. “What?” she asked.
“Them.”
“John makes me nervous,” said Oliver.
“Me, too,” said Sorcha. “He’s so…I don’t know…”
“Nothing?”
I nodded. “He is nothing, but there’s something in his nothingness.”
John turned a corner, leaving Leslie. Even after having spoken to him not a minute before, I couldn’t picture John’s face. It was nothing. Completely forgettable. Who would want that? Where would that be an asset?
“Mercy?” asked Sorcha.
“Just a minute.”
“Something about the case?” asked Oliver.
“Let me think.” But the truth was I could think all day long and not get anywhere. John was a blank and when I tried to picture either John or Leslie, I couldn’t. Not really. I could see Leslie’s glasses, his gray hair swooping back, his vest, but I couldn’t see him. His face was obscured by the rest of him. Leslie was showy like me and, like me, our veneer concealed much. That was it. Veneer.
“Okay,” I said. “I got it.”
“What did you get,” asked Oliver. “Because I got nothing.”
“That’s exactly the way they want it and why I have to solve this pronto.”
Chapter Twenty
UNCLE MORTY WOULDN’T open the door.
“I know you’re in there!” I yelled through the keyhole. “I’ve come to fix your rear.”
There was a couple of minutes of silence and then he bellowed, “What’re you gonna do?”
“I have to take a look before I decide.”
“You already looked.”
And my eyeballs are still burning.
“That wasn’t an evaluation. I don’t know if the wound is infected,” I said. “Just let me in.”
He cursed a blue streak and then yelled, “It’s freaking open, genius.”
I had considered trying the knob, but the thought that I might catch Uncle Morty naked was enough to nip that idea in the bud.
I opened the door and found Uncle Morty sitting at the desk, working on one of the incredibly detailed maps he put in his books. “Why are you sitting?”
“Working. What the hell does it look like?” he asked without looking up.
I groaned and went to the bed with my supplies. Mom had packed my kit. I always traveled with the basics, especially after my trip to Honduras. It pays to be prepared, but I didn’t have the right antibiotics if Uncle Morty was bad. Mine were broad spectrum and bedsores were specific. I gloved up. “Come on, Pus Butt. I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Pus Butt?”
“It’s your new nickname, short for He Who Sits Too Much.”
Uncle Morty glared at me and then went back to his map. “You want something.”
“Yeah, I do. And I’m not the only one. That’s got to be painful. Let’s work on it.”
He grumbled and then pried himself out of the chair, slow and in obvious pain. When he got close I caught a whiff of pus. The Henry VIII comparison was getting a little too close for comfort. I don’t know how I missed it before, but the onion pizza stink that enveloped him was pretty strong.
“Alright. Lay on the bed face down and we’ll get this done,” I said.
Uncle Morty crossed his arms. “What do you want for fixing my butt?”
“First of all, I can’t fix it. This is a time and treatment thing. There’s no magic wand.”
“And second?”
“I want you to look into Enrique’s adoption.” I told him what Sorcha said and his eyes lit up. “Maybe the adoption was illegal, but I think it’s something more. She was out to help her son. The adoption wasn’t enough.”