by A W Hartoin
He nodded. “How many times are you gonna fix me?”
“Hello,” I said. “Just the one time.”
Once is so much more than enough.
“You’ll have to see your primary care when we get back.”
“I hate that guy. He tells me stuff,” he said.
“I can imagine,” I said. “I’m going to tell you stuff, too.”
“Screw that.”
“You’ve got a giant ulcer on your butt.” I pointed at his chair. “This lifestyle isn’t working out for you.”
“I like sitting.”
“Obviously. Lay down.”
Uncle Morty lay on the bed, protesting my evaluation of his sedentary lifestyle as if crabbing changed it. “I want you to treat my sore until it’s better and I’ll do that adoption thing.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“I don’t need a damn doctor. Tommy’ll want you to do it.”
Dad would want me to do it. You do for family, no matter how gross. That’s all there was to that. I grabbed his waistband and mentally prepared.
Not Uncle Morty. Just another butt belonging to some guy you do not know.
I pulled down his sweats and got to business. It was worse than I originally thought, nearly a Stage III. How he stood the pain was beyond me. I cleaned and dressed the wound and, in the process, discovered two more sores in Stage I so I cleaned them and applied some barrier cream.
Uncle Morty wasn’t happy, but I ignored the cursing and the insults to my character and did my job. It wasn’t easy, but at least he didn’t need debridement. I can’t imagine what he would’ve said or rather yelled.
“Am I done?” he asked, his face contorted in pain.
I pulled up his sweats, grimacing at the griminess. “For now. They’re not too bad, but that Stage II will require a dressing change once a day. You need to take a sponge bath and have fresh clothing, including underwear.” I unplugged his laptop.
“What’re you doing? Don’t touch that,” he bellowed, rolling over and gasping in pain.
I rolled him back on his stomach. “No sitting. On your belly for now.” I put the laptop in front of him and got out my phone.
“Who you calling? You ain’t telling nobody about this.”
Hmm. This could be useful in the future.
“I’m telling Dr. Watts, so she can bring some more dressings.”
“I’ll kill you if you tell her about my sores. I’ll kill you good.”
I whacked him on the shoulder. “I’m real worried. You can’t even sit. Get on that adoption stuff or I’ll tell her you cried like a girl.”
“You’re evil.”
“Whatever it takes, buddy.” I texted Dr. Watts and she said she’d bring out fresh supplies. Which, of course, meant that I’d have to look at Uncle Morty’s hairy rear repeatedly. My life was not working out for me. “Okay. You stay here and I’m going to the library to corner a killer.”
“Wait. Wait. Where’s Tiny? Why isn’t he here?” he asked.
“You wanted Tiny to see this?”
“Hell, no, but he’s supposed to be watching you.”
I packed up my stuff and put it on his desk. “He’s sick.”
“What’d you do to that kid?” he asked.
“Nothing. Honestly, you and Dad are doing more to him than me.”
He began typing, going to some international adoption site. “What’d you mean by that? He wants a career. Tommy wants to give him one.”
“I’m not sure it’s the right career. How much background did you do on Tiny?”
“I do good work. You’re pushing it with this butt blackmail thing.”
“You did it to yourself. Take a walk for heaven’s sake. And you have to change your diet or this will just keep happening.”
He hissed at me like one of his dragon characters and I rolled my eyes before checking my phone. Phelong and Gerry were in the castle, fingerprinting the gardening room door. Good. We could use all the evidence we could get.
“If I change my diet, I won’t have to give you anything,” said Uncle Morty with a satisfied smirk.
I smirked back. “But you’re stuck for now. Wasn’t there anything in Tiny’s medical records from the Marines?”
“Like what?”
“He has PTSD. He told me.”
Uncle Morty rolled on his side. “There ain’t nothing on that in his file. He’d tell us if it was a problem.”
“Would he?” I asked. “Or would he try to gut through it.”
“How’s he gutting through then?”
“He got all sweaty when he first saw Cherie in the Love Garden and he passed out when Dr. Watts showed him the body during autopsy.”
“That ain’t good. What’d he say about it?”
“I didn’t ask. He’s been through a lot and he’s trying. I’m just saying we’ve got to be careful. I want you to call him off me. The case and the diet are too much for now. I’ll keep Pick with me. I’m good.”
“The damn dog? Screw that. Tiny can kill people with his thumbs.”
“I’ll keep John or Leslie with me. Happy?”
“The innkeepers?” His eyes went back to the screen. “Yeah, they’re pretty tough.”
I went for the door. “I know you think I’m an idiot, but Dad sent me here for a reason and it’s them.”
Uncle Morty wouldn’t look up. “Could be.” His voice got cagey. “So you got an idea about them?”
“Well, they aren’t former cops and if they were friends I would’ve heard about them before now.”
“Yeah.”
“They’re using assumed names,” I said.
Uncle Morty’s head jerked up. “How do you know that?”
I shrugged. “The backgrounds you gave me. They’re very neat and tidy. You might’ve composed them for all I know.”
“I don’t compose nothing but books,” he said.
“Well, someone did a great job.”
“How’d you know the names are fake?”
“Because I know Leslie’s real name.”
He frowned and I knew from that look that Uncle Morty didn’t know it. It was nice to be the one who knew something he didn’t for a change. “What is it?” he asked.
“Shaun Simmons.”
Shaun Simmons aka Leslie stood at the bottom of the stairs looking like a Ralph Lauren commercial, the kind they put in front of Downton Abbey. Pick wasn’t impressed. He chased his tail and then started biting the air.
“Your bodyguard is sick,” he said. “And the other one is…dizzy.”
“I know. Where’s Tiny?”
“The yoga room. We rolled him in there.”
“You rolled him. Seriously?” I asked.
“There aren’t enough people in the castle to pick him up.”
“Good point. Are the suspects assembled?”
Leslie checked his watch. “Should be. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Little bit. Usually, I have to chase people down in a bikini and have lewd pictures taken of me and put on the internet. This is much better. Quiet library. Ooh. We should serve wine. Can we serve wine?”
“Champagne?”
“That might be going a little too far.”
Leslie laughed and texted someone. “I’m surprised anything is too far for you.”
I smiled and looked down at my breasts in the mother of all push-up bras. “You know what, me too.”
He shook his head and went for the hall, I assumed the one that led to the library, but I couldn’t follow. I had to say it. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “You’re Shaun. You were on the bridge with Cherie when Nicole’s brother died.”
Pick barked in agreement and started trying to dig a hole in the carpet. Leslie watched him for a moment and put his hand on the ornate trim of the arched doorway. He said nothing, but I could see his breathing. His vest strained with each intake, a controlled panic.
“It’s why you brought them here and comped it for Cherie. What did you
think was going to happen?” I asked.
He held up a finger and then moved to the right, stopping beside the third panel of The Lady and the Unicorn. He felt under the tapestry and there was a loud click. The tapestry swung out as the wall opened, revealing a dimly lit passage. Leslie stepped back and took off his glasses. Once you knew who he was, it was obvious. All the showiness was to distract and it did its job well. “This is how John and I get around the castle so quickly.”
I did love a good secret passage, but this felt a whole lot like when I isolated myself at a funeral home with a murderer on the prowl. Mom never let me live that one down. This time there were several killers on the loose in the castle and Leslie was probably one of them.
“I can’t go in there with you,” I said.
“Tell your father where you’re going if you’re worried. I won’t harm you. But if you don’t go in, I’ll never speak to you about this again.”
He meant it and, honestly, I wanted to go. Maybe it was his level gaze. Maybe it’s because I’m nosy like my mother. Or maybe I just couldn’t help doing the wrong thing, the exact thing Dad warned me about. Like drinking and being in backseats with boys. I had to do it.
Now I wasn’t a total idiot, despite my family’s assertions. I texted Dad and Chuck so, at least, they’d know where to look for the body. Then I stepped inside, tugging Pick in with me. The dog wasn’t thrilled with the idea. He tucked his tail and whimpered.
“Some bodyguard you are.”
Bark.
“Whatever. Come on.”
Leslie closed the panel and I had a mini panic attack. The passage was smaller when you were inside it and I’d never been so close to Leslie. He smelled like expensive cologne and saddle soap. It was a nice combo.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“I saw the pictures of you, Cherie, Carl, and Quinn in the St. Seb Herald.”
He leaned against the wall. “You recognized me. You’re the first. Cherie and Nicole didn’t. What do you want to know? I didn’t kill Cherie if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I looked at him and knew he concealed much but killing Cherie? No. He was much too smart for that. He wouldn’t bring her onto his own turf and kill her. Above all, Leslie wanted to remain concealed. Killing people on his property was the worst way to do that.
“I don’t think you did, not that you couldn’t kill people. I’m sure you could, that you have, just not Cherie.”
He smiled down at me. “You’re sure.”
“Yep. I can tell.”
“Tommy said it was obvious that you’re his daughter. He was right.”
“Don’t tell him that.”
“I won’t. I know him, too, remember?” Leslie walked away down the passage and took several turns with me in tow. I don’t know how long we walked. It probably felt longer than it actually was.
“Are you going to talk to me?” I asked.
He stopped and pointed to several tiny beams of light jutting in from the left side of the passage. “That’s the library where they’re waiting for you. Are you sure you want to delay? It’s not important to the task I set you to.”
“I want to know for me. I won’t tell anyone ever. I’m Tommy’s kid. I can keep a secret.”
“Very well then. Ask away.”
“Did you hate Cherie? Did you blame her like Nicole did?”
He turned away and I thought he wouldn’t tell me. I thought that after so many years of hiding and lying he wouldn’t be capable of revealing anything, but I was wrong.
Leslie turned back to me. “I didn’t hate her. Of course, I didn’t hate her. She blamed herself. She brought the bottle. But I was there and it wasn’t her fault.”
“Because Quinn wanted to drink the vodka?”
“Yes, but Cherie bought it for me and I gave it to him, even though I knew he had a problem. Quinn was a drinker from early on. I met him when we were twelve. He was already sneaking his father’s Scotch. He’d had a few that day before we left school. He had a little silver flask he kept in his backpack. Quinn was my pitcher. We were a team. He asked me for the vodka and I gave it to him. I couldn’t say no. It was my fault, not Cherie’s.”
“You didn’t say that to the police.”
“I tried to, but no one wanted to hear it. I thought Quinn’s family knew. I’d had dinner with them when he was hammered. I thought they were putting up a front.”
“But they really didn’t know?”
“Apparently, not. He was the star of the family. I guess they saw what they wanted to see. They couldn’t hear what I said about Quinn. It hurt them and I shut up. I didn’t think they’d blame Cherie.”
“But why didn’t you tell the cops after they did?”
“Pure selfishness. Cherie blamed herself for buying it and she said it didn’t matter what they said about her anyway. I had a scholarship to lose. I didn’t want to ruin my life by stepping up. My parents put so much into my career, but then I ruined it anyway. Cherie didn’t have any of that to deal with. She was generous. I was a shit.
“Why did you bring Nicole and Cherie together this weekend? How was that supposed to go well?”
He ran a manicured hand over his face. “It was so long ago. I thought…I thought we could talk about it.”
“You were going to tell them who you are?” I asked.
He laughed. “No. I can’t. There are legal issues. I was going to say I was a friend of Shaun’s in the Army and that he told me about what happened on the bridge. I was going to say that I wanted to make it right for him. I thought they could finally let Quinn go.”
“But you didn’t tell them,” I said.
“I saw that memorial to Quinn on the back of Nicole’s van and I knew it wasn’t so long ago for her. I hesitated and then it was too late.”
Raised voices came through the panel, angry voices asking to leave.
“The natives are getting restless,” said Leslie. “Do you have a plan?”
“Sort of. Whatever I say, just go with it?” I went for the panel and Leslie grabbed my arm, squeezing but not hurting me.
“I want this finished, but you can’t use me. I’m not Shaun.”
I patted his hand. “I know. Even if I wanted to out you, I couldn’t prove it.”
“No, you couldn’t.” Leslie pulled me to him and went in for a kiss. Pick growled and snapped at him and Leslie let go.
“What the hell?” I asked.
Leslie smiled wanly and cleaned his glasses. “I wanted to see what it would be like, but your poodle isn’t keen on the idea.”
“Kissing me isn’t any different. I’m just regular. Don’t let this face fool you. I’m not some sexpot.”
“I didn’t think you were. I wanted to kiss someone who knows my name.”
I couldn’t say anything for a minute. What would it be like to hide for over twenty years? I couldn’t imagine.
“Don’t mention this to Tommy. He won’t take it well,” he said.
“No problem.” Then I kissed him. Not a big one. Just a soft kiss on the lips. I don’t know what made me do it or why Pick didn’t growl. Maybe he knew I wasn’t serious or maybe the spot he was licking on his paw was too distracting. Either way, the kiss only lasted a second and then I stepped back. “Well?”
He chuckled and put his glasses back on, becoming Leslie once more. “Other than the fact that you have lovely lips, it was the same.”
“You’re Leslie now. Shaun’s gone.”
“He is.”
“Exactly how did you turn into Leslie?” I asked.
Voices erupted through the panel again. “What the hell are we waiting for?” yelled a man. I couldn’t tell who it was. Leslie went to the panel, pushed a button, and it creaked open. The shouting ceased instantly as light flooded into the passage.
“That is so cool,” said Jilly.
“This is the perfect place for a murder mystery caper,” said Bridget.
Caper? My cousins are so weird.
Le
slie crooked a finger at me and swung the panel open. Pick leapt into the library followed by us, squinting at the light.
“Mercy! What were you doing in there?” asked Sorcha, cuddled up on the sofa with Oliver.
“It’s a shortcut,” I said. “I see we’re all here.”
“Why are we here?” Bill’s face was red to match his Cardinals cap. He’d been the one yelling.
Dr. Watts came in through the arched library doors. “To discover who killed Cherie, of course.”
Everyone went silent.
“Please,” I said. “Take a seat.”
Nobody moved. Nicole and Cory stood by the windows overlooking part of the formal garden. They’d changed into matching attire and Nicole’s hair was curled back into its helmet shape, but she’d ripped off her nails and left them ragged. They saw me, and Cory began rubbing his crew cut furiously.
Bill adjusted his cap and checked his Fitbit, walking in place to keep his heart rate up. He looked like the only one who slept well, thanks to his breathing machine. Robin and Tim stood at the library table where Sorcha’s map was spread out. Robin twisted her earring and Tim rubbed his watermelon belly. Deanna was hovering at a small liquor cabinet, eyeing the decanters. Grandpa Anthony, Oliver, and my cousins were the only ones who were seated on the green leather sofas. Anthony’s eyes were baggy and showed red rims. “You still don’t know who did it?” he asked hoarsely.
“I will in a minute.”
John walked in carrying a silver tray with wine glasses and two bottles of Nuits-Saint-Georges Premier Cru, the good stuff. No Boulogne Rouge for our little experiment. “Mercy said sit.”
That’s all it took. My suspects dropped into seats with a quickness, such was the power of John’s intensity. He set the tray next to the map, uncorked a bottle and poured a generous glug in each of the glasses.
Nicole accepted her glass saying, “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“Even so,” said Leslie, taking a glass himself. “There’s no reason we can’t be civilized about this.”
“Hand it over,” said Dr. Watts. She did the expert swirl and sniff before taking a sip. “Not cheaping out on us. I like it.”