by A W Hartoin
“No.”
“That’s disturbing,” I said, and it was. Presumably they worked for our country. They must be something.
“Names aren’t important,” said Leslie. “Only results. You should understand that.”
“I can’t separate myself from my name, but I agree on the results thing. So what did you two do to get stuck out here?”
“We survived,” said John.
I glanced around my sumptuous room. “And surviving comes with rewards.”
“And penalties.”
“Was it worth it? You can’t even use your skills anymore.”
Leslie gave me his most charming smile. “You mean like accounting.”
“Yeah like accounting,” I rolled my eyes, “and shooting—”
My door flew open and Uncle Morty stomped in with Pick. The poodle whined when he saw John and Leslie and then jumped on my bed, still damp and stinky. Uncle Morty tugged on his brand-new sweats blazoned with the Cairngorms Castle logo. “I mighta known I’d find you two in here like a couple of spiders with my girl in your web.” He dropped a plastic bag on my bed and paced. “You don’t have to do a damn thing that they say.”
“I know,” I said.
“Do you?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“That remains to be seen. You didn’t shoot either of those guys.” Uncle Morty glared at the spooks or innkeepers or whatever they were. “Beat it, John and Leslie. Those names suck by the freaking way.”
“What would you have called us, Dekth and Arubus?” asked Leslie.
Uncle Morty’s hand went to his heart. “You read my work.”
“Don’t get excited. Book three sucked. You shouldn’t have killed off Mirba. You screwed up your whole arc, and what is with the Merenda? Were you just horny when you wrote that?”
Uncle Morty went purple with rage and charged them. He might’ve caught them if he hadn’t been limping. “I will kick your asses!”
John and Leslie hurried out the door. John left without a backward glance, but Leslie gave me a couple of looks before he exited. First was a smirk. He really enjoyed poking Uncle Morty. Second, he asked me to keep his secret with a glance and it was a package deal. If I denied their assertions to the police, I’d open up what my dad would call a shit storm. They already said I’d shot Cory and Tim. I didn’t deny it after John said it in front of my cousins and the other guests. If I denied it now, there would be an investigation and the same thing would happen with the Tim situation. I wasn’t fool enough to think it would be easy or comfortable. The cops would need an answer. Who did shoot Cory and Tim? Why didn’t I deny it before? Was I lying? Did I lie in New Orleans? Did I lie in my depositions about The Bled Collection? My family, the Bleds, Leslie, John, Lane, nobody needed the attention and I didn’t want anyone cross-examining me about New Orleans again.
“I shot them,” I said.
“Oh yeah?” The purple faded from Uncle Morty’s face and he leaned on my four-poster bed.
“Yeah. What’s going to happen?”
“Not a damn thing. You shot two dirtbags. Cory confessed to strangling a brain-injured woman in front of multiple witnesses. Lane’s lucky to be alive. The ranger will back up everything you say and he’s a great liar. They’ll probably give you a medal.”
“Pass on the medal. I just want to go home.”
“Not gonna happen. They haven’t nailed the Costillas yet.”
“Great. What’s in the bag?” I asked, hoping for chocolates.
He tossed the bag onto my lap. It was light, not at all like chocolate. “I got the stuff.”
Please don’t be what I think. Please don’t be what I think.
“What stuff?”
“Watts brought the dressings. For my butt.”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked.
Uncle Morty yanked down his sweatpants. “Look here. I got ooze.”
“Oh my god. I’ve got a broken ankle.”
“Your hands ain’t broken.”
“They will be after I punch you. Get out,” I said, crossing my arms.
“Tommy wants you to do it,” said Uncle Morty.
I snorted. “You told Dad that you have bedsores?”
“Fix my butt!”
“That’s what I thought.”
His lower lip poked out. “It hurts.”
“I don’t doubt it. Give me that bag.”
Dr. Watts had given me everything I needed. I took out a stack of moist gauze packets and a piece of folded paper slipped out. My name was written in copperplate script. Uncle Morty didn’t have that handwriting. Nobody I knew did.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. There’s probably a trash bin in the bathroom. Can you get it for me?”
Uncle Morty went to get the bin and I opened the note.
I have the answer you seek.
F
“F?” I waved the paper and a slight odor came off of it. Abacus Flincher.
“What was that?” asked Uncle Morty coming out of the bathroom.
“Nothing.” I stuffed the note under my covers. “Come here. Let’s get this over with.”
“Some nurse you are.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I ain’t beggin’.”
“I have a different point of view. Pull down your pants,” I said.
I can’t believe I just said that.
“So is Flincher still here in the castle?”
Uncle Morty dropped his drawers and he did, in fact, have some ooze I’m sorry to say. “Yeah, that guy’s been lurking around your room since you came back.”
“Really?” I snapped on a pair of gloves and peeled off the old dressing.
“What’s he want with you anyway?” he asked.
“Nothing good, I suspect.” I did some minor cleaning. I should’ve done a better job, but my ankle started seriously aching when I rolled over onto my hip.
“Stay away from that guy.”
Nope.
“No problem,” I said.
My door flew open and banged against the wall. “What on God’s good earth are you doing?” yelled Dr. Watts. “I told you to leave her alone. I’ll take care of your issue.”
Uncle Morty growled. “I don’t want you to do it. It’s Mercy’s job.”
Dr. Watts marched in and whacked him with an ancient golf umbrella. “Get away.”
“She’s not done!”
“Oh, she’s done alright. Get outta here.”
“I’m not leaving.”
She brandished the umbrella. It had a wicked brass tip. “I will poke you right in your pus.”
“What kinda medical professional, are you?” he yelled.
“The kind that works on dead people. Get out!”
I waved a wad of stained gauze. “He has to have a new dressing.”
Dr. Watts whacked Uncle Morty one more time for good measure. “I’ll do it then, you lethargic lump.”
“I am not lethargic. No wonder Ace divorced you. You are a huge pain in the—”
“Ass? I’m about to be. Get over here. Stop trying to hide.”
Dr. Watts and Uncle Morty did a strange dance around my bed. She with her dressing packets and he with his rear hanging out.
“No!” he yelled.
“Yes!” she yelled back.
Just then the real cops showed up. Two detectives that probably had forty years of police work between them, but they’d never seen anything like that. They stared without blinking. How often do you see an old doctor trying to chase down an obese man with bedsores? I’m going with never.
Silver came back into the room, wearing a fresh uniform and a bandage on his nose. He took one look and laughed. “Holy cow! This is the cherry on the cake of my day.” He wiped his eyes and pointed to the bathroom. “Take it in there. We’ve got business to attend to.”
Uncle Morty was purple again, but marched into the bathroom with something like dignity, as much dignity as a man can have w
ith his rear hanging out.
Dr. Watts hung back and eyed him through the door. “Say please.”
“Woman, get in here or I will bludgeon you to death with a toilet seat.”
“Close enough.” She went in and closed the door.
The cops stared at me and I waved. “Hi. Welcome to my world.”
“I don’t know what to say about that,” said the one on the right. He was mildly handsome, bald, and wearing a suit that had seen better days.
I smiled and summoned up the Watts get-out-of-trouble charm. It worked for Dad. Why not me? “I’d be surprised if you did.”
They recovered quickly and introduced themselves as White and Logsdon, up from Springfield and none too happy about it. They went on about procedure for a good ten minutes until I interrupted, “Can I get something to eat?”
“No, you can’t. This is an official interview,” said Logsdon, loosening his tie.
Dr. Watts hustled out of the bathroom. “You’re hungry? Since when?”
“Now, I guess,” I said.
She beamed. “Excellent. I’ll order you a burger and fries. Aaron knows what you like, correct?”
Before I could answer, White elbowed Dr. Watts away from my bed. “No food until I get some answers.”
Dr. Watts glared at him and pulled out her phone. White and Logsdon proceeded to interrogate me about every moment since I got to the castle and my answers weren’t what they were looking for. It was a bloody weekend and I’d stolen the win from them. Pissed didn’t cover it.
Uncle Morty came out of the bathroom. His pants were up, thankfully, and he watched me getting bashed with an increasingly dark expression.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said with my hands folded over my stomach.
“How about the truth?” White was as purple as Uncle Morty had been. It was weird with his dark skin and grey hair.
“I told you the truth.”
“According to the innkeepers, you shot two men today?”
“Don’t answer that,” said Uncle Morty.
Silver stepped up. “I’ll answer it. She shot that guy in the river. I told you what happened. She saved that girl.”
“We haven’t found the body yet,” said White.
“You think he’s alive?” asked Uncle Morty.
Logsdon colored. “No, but we need to confirm her story with forensics.”
“Like what?” asked Silver. “The bullets from the river? Good luck with finding that.”
White flushed and turned to the door. “Get in here, Emmett.”
Emmett was a crime scene tech and he skulked into the room like he’d committed a crime himself. “Yes, sir.”
“I want her tested for gunshot residue.”
Emmett brought in his case and set it on the bed next to my ankle. He apologized when I winced.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said with a winning smile and he looked grateful.
“Don’t apologize to her. She’s a suspect,” said Logsdon.
Dr. Watts sat on my bed between me and the cops. “A suspect in what crime? Did she strangle that woman? Did she try to murder that girl? I don’t think so.”
“She claims to have shot two men today, one of which she killed. Test her, Emmett.”
Emmett got out his kit.
“Go ahead,” said Dr. Watts. “But she’s been in the river, and those gloves are filled with talc.”
“Shit!” exclaimed White.
“What are you complaining about?” asked Dr. Watts. “She handed you motive, means, opportunity, and three perpetrators tied up with ribbon. You have two confessions.”
“Two?” I asked.
Dr. Watts picked up my wrist and took my pulse. “Parker admitted to hearing Cherie calling for Lane that night. Lane was asleep. I gather some alcohol was involved. Parker went out to talk to Cherie. He pushed her after she refused to back off on Enrique. He claims it was an accident and he didn’t know she hit her head.”
“She was unconscious.”
“It was dark. He panicked and ran.” Dr. Watts shot a smug look at the Springfield cops. “Wrapped up, nice and neat.”
“You should’ve called us!” yelled Logsdon.
“We obviously didn’t need you!” she shouted back. “We handled it just fine without you big city boys sticking your noses in.”
“You’re not supposed to handle it. You’re retired and she’s a—”
“Watch it, detective,” bellowed Uncle Morty.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Morton Van Der Hoof. I work for Tommy Watts. Remember him?”
“Watts doesn’t count for shit down here. He’s just a glory hound.”
Uncle Morty walked over, pointed at Emmett’s kit and said, “Swab her and get the fuck out.”
“We’re running this interview,” said White.
“This interview is over.”
“We’re not done.”
“Are you going to arrest her?”
“We haven’t decided yet.”
“Decide now. And remember she just saved a sixteen-year-old girl’s life. She broke her ankle in the process and she’s got claw marks on her face.”
“I do?” I asked, touching a bandage on my cheek.
Dr. Watts shushed me.
“Mercy is stunningly beautiful. She photographs like a freaking dream and she gives good interview.”
No, I don’t. No interviews.
“We’ll interview, too,” said White, but he sounded less sure by the second.
“I’m not talking about local. You want to explain to Nancy Grace, FOX, and whoever else why you arrested Mercy? You who bungled the takedown at that meth lab last year. What’s that toddler got? Burns over sixty percent of her body. I’m sure Nancy’ll be interested in that.”
White swallowed hard. “Are you threatening us?”
“I’m giving you the facts. If you question them, go talk to Anthony Marin and the rest of the guests. Go talk to Lane. Mercy did good. Ain’t nobody gonna think otherwise. Least of all the media.”
They left. They didn’t say another word. I told Emmett to test my hands. He peeled off my gloves and swabbed me, saying it was pointless. At least he did it. That was the point. He asked for my autograph and I signed his glove. I hoped the detectives didn’t see it. They’d make his life hell.
Silver shook my hand again. “Proud to know you. Don’t you worry. I got it all covered.” He nodded to Dr. Watts. “Dinner tomorrow?”
“Are you cooking?” she asked.
“You think I’m eating your cooking again?”
She made her sneezing noise. “I make good tacos.”
“That’s all you make.” Silver gave Dr. Watts a kiss on the cheek and left, muttering about women that couldn’t cook.
“Alright now. You go back to sleep,” said Uncle Morty. “I need a beer.”
“Actually,” I said. “I think I’d like that x-ray now.”
“Why?” asked Dr. Watts. “What about your burger?”
“Eating can wait. You need the x-ray to cast the ankle.”
“Yes, but you’d have to go to Flinchers. When you’re ready we’ll drive over to Avery, they’ve got a decent clinic.”
“After today, Flincher doesn’t worry me.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and winced when my temp cast touched the floor. No matter. Time to see what answer Flincher had to give me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
DR. WATTS PULLED up in front of the castle behind Flincher’s hearse in her Morris Minor. “Your chariot awaits, my girl.”
I hopped over and peered into the backseat. It was minuscule and I had to lie down back there.
“What about Phelong and Gerry’s car?”
“You don’t like my Morris?” She glowered at me.
“No, no. I love it. I’m just not sure I’ll fit.”
She snorted and got out. “You’re fine.” She opened the passenger door and flipped up the seat. It was a good thing I lost all that we
ight or I would never have gotten in. As it was, my spine will never be the same.
“See,” said Dr. Watts. “You fit just fine.”
“Do you have any Oxy on you?” I asked.
“How much pain are you in?”
A lot more now.
“I put too much weight on the foot.”
She got a pill out of her purse and gave it to me with a bottle of water. I didn’t ask what it was and I didn’t care. She covered me with a wool army blanket that smelled like feet and was about to slam the door when a picnic basket got in the way.
Aaron leaned in. “You hungry?”
“Oh my god, yes.”
He put the basket on the floor and served up a herb-roasted turkey sandwich on parmesan focaccia, little bread ball things that had caponata inside, balsamic-roasted carrots, and a sippy cup of Chianti.
Aaron put the straw to my lips. “Good for what ails you.”
“I just took a painkiller.”
Dr. Watts got in the Morris and made her sneezing noise. “Please. Wine’s good for you.”
“You’re not supposed to mix painkillers with alcohol.”
“I’m a doctor. Are you questioning my know-how?”
“Er…”
“Drink it and eat that sandwich before I do. It smells better than sex feels.”
Ew.
I decided to drink the wine because she was a doctor and I wanted to. Aaron got in the front seat, gave Dr. Watts a vanilla latte, and filled the Morris with the smell of hot dogs.
“Wait,” I said. “What about Tiny? I hope you didn’t make him get in with Flincher.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Dr. Watts. “Tiny’s staying here.”
“Why?”
She didn’t look at me. “He doesn’t fit in this car.”
I protested, but she put the Morris in gear with a bit of grinding that masked my voice. So I settled back and ate on the way to the funeral home, which isn’t something people normally do. I didn’t care that I was going to one of the creepiest places on Earth. I ate. Food. I’d forgotten about food in the last two months, the way it feels to eat something exceptional, to smell it, and not to feel a bit guilty in the process.
“So you’re eating again,” said Dr. Watts, pulling into Flincher’s garage after what felt like thirty seconds.