by A W Hartoin
“You coming up or what?” Morty said.
I grasped the railing and put my right foot on the first step.
“Get a move on. Shit. I ain’t got all day.”
I climbed the stairs, pulled out my key and unlocked the back door. I walked into the butler’s pantry with Morty close at my heels and hung my rain-soaked jacket on the coatrack by the door and watched as Morty rummaged through the cabinets. The pantry was wonderful with its floor-to-ceiling cabinets, secret drawers, and odd-shaped cubbies. As a little girl, I spent hours trying to find the pantry’s secrets. I doubt I’d discovered them all. The man who built our house was a master woodworker and I suspected deeply crazy. There were secret drawers and doors all over the house. His masterpiece was the pantry with its beveled glass, hidden hinges, delicate carvings, and unique temperature. The small room was freezing. Josiah Bled designed his house to keep the pantry at a steady forty degrees. It didn’t matter if the doors to the kitchen and dining room were left open; it never warmed. Dad spent hours trying to figure it out. Architects were called. Structural engineers examined it. No one had a clue. Every couple of years, Dad made a fresh attempt to discover the secret, but he couldn’t make any headway.
I rubbed my shoulders and watched Morty pulling out drawers. Morty liked the pantry too, but only because Dad kept his booze in there. Then he stopped, shut a drawer with a flip of his wrist and looked at the liquor cabinet. The cabinet was original to the house although it was fifty years older. It was tucked in a cubby in a bank of built-ins. It looked like Josiah Bled placed the liquor cabinet in there and the rest grew in around it. It stood four feet high on delicate cabriole legs that looked as if they might snap under its weight. The front had four false drawers inlaid with five different types of wood in a star pattern. The sides were probably inlaid too, but we couldn’t see them. Josiah built around the cabinet with only one millimeter to spare, and it couldn’t be removed. Wooden hands and vines came out from the built-ins and wrapped around the legs. You’d have to snap off the legs or break the woodwork to get it out. Josiah made sure his cabinet would never leave.
Uncle Morty turned the key in the top drawer, pushed the top up and laid the front down. The door revealed an open space for wine and other bottles, but Mom used it for her old cookbooks.
“There you are, you little bitch,” he said.
“What is it?” I asked.
Morty held up a slender wine bottle with a wooden cork. He rubbed the dust off the label with his jacket, smacked his lips, and closed the cabinet.
“Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Wine?” I asked.
“Not just wine. It’s the peach stuff Tommy ordered from Germany a couple of years ago. I knew he was holding out on me. Bastard said there wasn’t any left.”
Imagine that.
“Let’s have a glass and toast to Gavin, God bless him.”
“Maybe we should wait for Dad.”
Morty ignored me and walked into the kitchen. I followed and sat down while he filled a couple of juice glasses with a flourish. He handed one to me. “Here’s to Gavin. A good man gone to his reward.”
“I didn’t know you were religious,” I said.
“I ain’t, but Gavin was, so bottoms up.”
He drained his glass, and I sniffed mine. It smelled too good to drink. A hundred ripe peaches smelled like they were squashed in there. The scent filled the kitchen and breathing it was enough to get me tipsy.
“Sit down Mercy, and let’s us have a talk,” said Morty.
Great, just what I wanted.
“You tell Tommy yet?”
“Tell him what?”
“That Gavin was murdered.” Morty poured a second glass.
“That was quick. How’d you know?”
“Sources.”
“You must know Dr. Grace,” I said.
“Don’t know the man from Adam. You told Tommy?”
“Not yet. I just got back from the morgue. Seriously, how’d you know?”
Morty took off his glasses and wiped them on a dish towel. He poured another glass of wine and sipped it.
“You might as well wait till he gets back. No use working him up when he can’t do anything on that damn boat anyway.”
“Fine with me,” I said.
“Meanwhile, we better get moving on this thing.”
We?
“Dixie upstairs?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“See if you can get the keys out of her, so we can check out the house before the Keystone Cops.”
“Pass.”
“Get the keys,” he said.
“Let the cops handle it. It’s their job for heaven sake.”
“You want to let the cops handle Gavin’s murder?” Uncle Morty banged his glass on the table.
I didn’t, but I couldn’t stand having Uncle Morty dogging my every footstep either. No keys for him. I’d check out the house by myself.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Tommy will kick our asses, if we don’t move on this.”
Before I could think of a reasonable answer, the doorbell rang. What luck! Morty shot me an irritated look as I left the kitchen. I went down the hall into the receiving room. On the other side of my parents’ enormous front door were two tiny figures. They could only be the Bled sisters, Millicent and Myrtle. They were nieces of Josiah Bled and lived down the street in another of his creations. Millicent and Myrtle were also my godmothers. Once when I was ten, they told me Josiah didn’t design the pantry to stay cold, but caused it all the same.
Josiah’s mistress disappeared in 1921. It was a big news story at the time since Bernice Collins was rumored to be a former prostitute, and Josiah was heir to the Bled Brewery fortune. Josiah was never charged with any crime, but his nieces told me he killed her in the pantry hence the constant cold. My parents have Millicent and Myrtle to thank for most of my childhood nightmares.
One of the sisters rapped on the stained glass. I ran my fingers through my hair, pinched my cheeks, and attempted to straighten my damp shirt. It was hopeless.
I unlocked the door and opened it to find two tiny elderly ladies clutching enormous handbags, umbrellas, and casserole dishes.
“Mercy dearest, we heard and came as soon as we could,” they said.
“What did you hear?”
“About Mr. Flouder, of course. Sweet man, such a shame,” said Millicent.
Both she and Myrtle waited in the doorway, and I was at a loss. If I let them in, they’d plant themselves, and I’d never get to Gavin’s house. If I didn’t let them in, they’d tell Mom, and I’d never hear the end of it.
“Please come in. What a nasty day today,” I said.
“Yes, dear. Bad weather accompanies bad news, don’t you think? Is dear Mrs. Flouder here?” said Millicent.
“I’m here.”
I turned to see Dixie coming down. Her eyes were dry and she’d fixed her hair.
“I do hope we’re not intruding. We wanted to pay our respects,” said Myrtle.
“Not at all.” Dixie hugged them and herded us all towards the parlor.
Morty stomped out of the kitchen bellowing, “What the hell is taking so long?” He stopped short when he saw the Bled sisters. Morty had an unnatural respect for “The Girls”, as they were known on the Avenue, and was on his best behavior when they were around.
“Ladies, I didn’t see you there. How are you?”
“Morton,” they said.
“Why don’t we all go into the parlor.” I led Dixie and The Girls to the parlor while Uncle Morty stood in the hallway, shuffling his feet and giving me pointed looks. I supposed he wanted me to abandon my guests and finish our discussion. Fat chance.
We sat down on Mom’s odd, mismatched collection of sofas and wingback chairs. Millicent and Myrtle covered their knees with a pair of lap blankets kept there especially for them. They were cold no matter the temperature and expected blankets would be afforded them wherever t
hey went. They were rarely disappointed. Morty came and stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. I ignored him and listened to Millicent’s intricate description of her casserole. Before long my mouth was watering. The Girls could cook. People were always surprised when they discovered Millicent and Myrtle were Bleds. The Bled Brewery was a St. Louis institution, and the name had a certain mystique. No one expected elderly ladies raised with nannies and private tutors to make the hell out of a casserole, but they could.
“Miss Bled, you’re making me hungry,” said Dixie.
“Now, dear, I told you at Christmas, call me Millicent. Why don’t we have some? Mercy?” said Millicent.
“Sure. Sounds great. Let’s go to the kitchen.” The Girls followed me down the hall close at my heels. They thought eating in the kitchen quite daring. Dixie set places, Morty poured drinks and soon the table was covered with chips, dips, relishes, rolls and, of course, casseroles. Morty sat as far from The Girls as possible and kept giving me sullen looks. Despite his displeasure, he managed to eat half a casserole and finish off the peach wine. Millicent and Myrtle ate the other half. I’d never seen them eat so much at one sitting.
“Dixie, dear, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you’re looking thin. You must eat more. Your dear husband would want you to take care of yourself,” said Myrtle.
“I don’t mind, but it’s the clothes, not me. I’ve done nothing but eat since I got here. I’m wearing Carolina’s things. They’re a bit large on me. I haven’t gone home yet.”
“Poor thing. Such memories there. Sometimes it can be difficult to walk in one’s own home…without remembering,” said Millicent.
My mother’s clothes engulfed Dixie. She lacked Mom’s generous hips and chest and needed her own clothes, but who could blame her for not wanting to go home. Morty let out a loud cough, and raised his eyebrows at me while muttering, “Excuse me.”
Duh. Why hadn’t I thought of that? It was the perfect cover. I’d pick up clothes for Dixie and search the house while I was at it. All I had to figure out was how to get rid of Morty and from the look of him, it wouldn’t be easy.
“You know what I’m in the mood for…whiskey sours. Anyone else?” I said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said The Girls.
“Sounds nice,” said Dixie.
Morty ignored my suggestion, and got up to make coffee.
“Come on, Uncle Morty. Don’t make us drink alone.” I made my eyes as big as possible and batted them twice. This move worked on plenty of men, including my father if he wasn’t wary. The eyelash batting wasn’t my favorite maneuver, but occasionally it was necessary. Uncle Morty wasn’t easily swayed. His mouth twisted, and his eyes went to the ceiling. Then he looked at me like I’d just stuffed a potato chip up my nose. I’d have to pull out the big guns.
“Miss Millicent, Miss Myrtle, don’t you think Uncle Morty needs a drink? After all, he was quite close to Gavin, and has been grieving excessively.” The Girls stood up and, with looks of extreme compassion on their faces, went to Morty.
“My dear man. What have we been thinking? You’ve been so quiet. Come have a drink. Perhaps you would favor us with a story about Gavin. I’m sure Sharon would like to hear a good memory,” said Millicent.
“Yes, do tell us,” said Myrtle. She tucked her arm around Morty’s and led him back to his chair. I made the fastest batch of whiskey sours, extra strong, of my life. When no one was looking, I filled my own glass with water.
“This is pretty strong, Mercy,” said Morty.
“I’m sorry. I guess I got carried away.” I sipped my water and made a face. “Should I make another batch?”
“No, no, dear. They’re fine, just fine,” said Dixie.
“I think they’re very good,” said Millicent.
Three pitchers of whiskey sours, three glasses of water for me, and Uncle Morty was in no condition to go anywhere.
“Dixie, why don’t I go pick up some of your clothes? That way you won’t have to worry about it,” I said.
“Wonderful idea. Make some more drink things before you go. My keys are in my purse, but I don’t know where that thing’s got to,” said Dixie, her voice slurring.
“Don’t worry about it.” I made a fourth pitcher, and poured another round. Morty watched me with a glazed expression. He knew I was up to something, but he couldn’t connect the dots.
Morty swayed in his chair. “Sign anything away lately, Marilyn?”
“No, I didn’t. And don’t ever call me Marilyn.”
“You sure about that?” He belched and laughed at the same time. It made him sound like a Budweiser frog.
“Whatever. Bye, now.” I saluted him and he swayed again.
I jogged around the house looking for Dixie’s purse, and praying the cops hadn’t beat me to Gavin’s house. The purse sat in the receiving room under a pile of coats. I took two steps at a time up to the second floor and Dad’s office. His collection of crime scene cameras sat on a shelf above the desk, coated with dust and looking lonely. Dad had it covered from the 1970s on. His favorites got prime position in the front. A Konica Minolta, an ancient Polaroid, and a hefty Nikon with an auto advance sat alongside high school basketball trophies, various plaques, and an unbelievable number of books on crime. Dad had it covered from footprint analysis to profiling. A thin layer of dust covered the camera. Dad wasn’t taking a whole lot of crime scene photos anymore, but back in the day he was known for doing the crime scene photographers’ job for them. Dad always said, learn from your mistakes and improve. On Dad’s first murder as the primary detective, no one bothered to document the scene thoroughly. They took shots of the body, the scene of the struggle and point of entry or what they thought was the point of entry. Later on, Dad discovered they had it wrong, and an element of the crime was lost, and the conviction along with it. Dad never forgot the mistake and he took it to heart. He bought the Konica and used it well. Dad shot everything from the front door to the trash cans, and he solved a few cases because of it.
I chose the less-loved, but totally rocking Sony Cyber-shot. Dad preferred film over digital, but bowed to the practicality. He liked the smell of the film canisters and said that there was something magical about hearing the film advance. He was nuts.
I put the camera and Dad’s work iPad in a backpack. I went over everything he’d told me about shooting a scene as I left without saying goodbye. I doubt they noticed. I snuck through the dining room and used the servant’s door to the pantry to escape unnoticed. Uncle Morty was telling an old story about Gavin and the naked burglar. I heard them laughing all the way to my truck.
Chapter Six
DIXIE AND GAVIN’S house was a trek from my parents’ house in the Central West End and one of the reasons Dad and Gavin didn’t stay partners for long. Both of them wanted home offices, and they couldn’t decide which would be the primary location. So Dad stayed in the city and Gavin out in the burbs.
Florissant was filled with strip malls and planned communities. The houses were nearly identical one-story fifties bungalows on curving, confusing streets. I think the planners did that so the owners would concentrate on where their house was, rather than how it looked like every other one on the block. People told me my parents’ neighborhood was creepy. The huge trees, mansions dripping with wrought iron, and flickering street lamps unnerved them. A lot of the houses may have had a certain Scooby Doo quality, including my parents, but at least they didn’t look like something out of The Stepford Wives.
I parked in Gavin’s carport behind a police cruiser thirty-five minutes later. Damn, I was too late. It shouldn’t have taken so long to get there, but I made three wrong turns. The house was on Orchard Avenue. I turned on to Orchard Street, Orchard Boulevard, and Orchard Lane before striking gold. The planners thought up about ten names for their roads, and used them well. I got out of my truck, and listened to the quiet of suburban life. It was too quiet, unnatural. At least my parents had the distant hum of Kingshighway traffic and
the foot traffic of stylish people on their way to little shops selling everything from vintage clothes to French chocolates. Florissant had nothing going and I mean nothing. I swear even the leaves were limp with boredom.
I peeked in the cruiser. Empty. I snapped shots of the house’s exterior, driveway and trees. No one saw me. If someone had, I wondered if they would’ve cared. No one appeared to be involved in anything save their own square plot of earth. A couple of cars drove by, but the drivers didn’t even turn their heads. Of course it might have been that texting was more interesting than me snapping pictures.
It wasn’t often that I didn’t merit a second look and no cop came out to yell at me. I felt luckier every minute. The property wasn’t cordoned off, and the doors were free of crime scene tape. It was practically an invitation, so I unlocked the side door, and went into the cheerful yellow kitchen with its alphabetized cookbooks and shiny stainless appliances.
“Hey,” I yelled. “Is anybody here?”
There was no answer and I felt free to snoop.
My cell vibrated. “Hello,” I said.
“Is this Mercy Watts?” a male voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Hey, guys, it’s really her. So what are you wearing?”
“What the hell?” I hung up.
My cell rang again and I had a similar conversation with a guy who identified himself as Russell the Love Muscle. I hung up on Russell and ignored my ringing phone. I didn’t waste time with less than witty prank callers.
Dixie’s kitchen was neat and clean with a few dishes in the sink, but that was the only sign that something unusual happened. She never left dishes unwashed normally. I shot the kitchen with special attention to the door and windows. The living room was the same, no signs of a struggle or a break-in. The windows and front door were locked. On Dixie’s new leather sofa, a book lay open with its binding cracked and pages face down on a worn afghan. I’d read Alive by Piers Paul Read forever ago and never again. That copy was dog-eared. I guessed it was Gavin’s. Dixie read romances of the Danielle Steel variety. I took a picture of the book on its afghan. I tipped up the book with my fingernail. Gavin was halfway through. I took note of the page. For some reason, it was comforting to know what he’d last read. Carefully, I lay the book back as I found it.