by A W Hartoin
I dug out my cell phone and checked my messages. Sixty-eight. I hadn’t had sixty-eight messages in the last month. Heck. The last six months. On the upside, the first one was from Pete, the invisible doctor.
I called him and he actually answered. It might be a first.
“Hey. Where are you?” asked Pete.
“Mom and Dad’s. Where are you?” Like I needed to ask.
“Your apartment.”
“Wow. I thought you’d be at the hospital. I’m starting to think they have you on a choke chain.” I didn’t try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“It’s not that bad,” he said.
“Right.”
“Don’t be like that. I can take an hour at six. Let’s get some dinner.”
“Ooh, a whole hour.”
“What’s wrong?” Pete asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Don’t give me that. What’s wrong? And don’t say it’s my schedule because I know you don’t care.”
That wasn’t exactly true. I wanted to see him more, but I understood. Being a cop’s daughter taught me the value of independence. I lived my own life much as my mother had and fit Pete in whenever I could.
“It’s been a bad day.”
“The Siamese piss on the sofa again?”
“Not yet.” I hadn’t seen the cats. They were snots and had issues with being left in my care. They’d been known to pee on Mom’s favorite sofa to show their displeasure. Invisible cats weren’t a problem for me; as long as food disappeared from their bowls, I was happy.
“Well…”
“Gavin died.”
“MI?” Pete didn’t sound surprised. He was training to be a surgeon and people dropped dead around him all the time. I was the same way, but I knew Gavin and he didn’t.
“Sort of.”
“How do you have a sort of MI?”
“It wasn’t natural.”
“Define unnatural.”
“He was murdered.” I heard a gasp behind me. I turned and saw Dixie standing in the doorway with her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were round, and her knuckles were turning white.
“Oh, crap,” I said.
“What happened?” asked Pete.
“I’ll call you back,” I said, and hung up.
Dixie dropped her hands and yelled at me, “Shut up. You shut up. That’s not true. It’s not true, so you just shut your mouth.”
I couldn’t speak. Anything I might have said evaporated.
“You think you know. You think you know like your father, but you don’t. You don’t. He had a heart condition. So you don’t know and shut up.”
“Dixie, I’m so sorry,” I said.
“I said, shut up!” She brought her hands to her mouth, hard enough to knock her head back, and she screamed into them. She didn’t move. She stood in the doorway screaming and looking at me with rage. It overwhelmed me. I knew for the first time what it was like to be scared of someone you love. I stood up, and walked to her with my hands in front of me.
Before I reached her, Dixie’s eyes changed, her screaming stopped, and she walked out of the room. I followed her down the hall, trying to find the right apology inside of me. I wanted, no, I needed to say the right thing for the both of us. Instead, I followed her to my parents’ bedroom. She was drunk and unsteady on her feet. She lurched towards the stairs, over corrected, and before I reached her she bumped one of Mom’s framed needlepoint pictures. Mom had worked on the canvas for a year and it hung in a prime viewing spot. Tough luck for it because it fell off its hook and shattered at my feet. Dixie glanced at it and continued down the hall, slower and less sure with every step.
In the bedroom, she reached for the Ativan bottle I’d refilled in a fit of stupidity.
“That’s not a good idea, Dixie.” I took the bottle from her hand and put it in my pocket.
“What else am I supposed to do?” she asked.
“Just lay down for awhile.”
I pulled back the covers. She sat, and I took off her shoes. She lay back against the fluffy pillows. Mom’s small reading lamp lit the room and Dixie’s eyes shone wide and watery in its dim glow. In the near darkness, she looked as young as me; maybe younger because the unexpected had happened and no explanations were offered. Her eyes showed her confusion.
“Do you want the TV on?” I asked.
“What will happen?” she asked.
“With what?”
“Will they find out who did it?”
“Yes,” I said, confident in that, at least.
“Will you?”
“Yes, I will. I’ll do anything you want.”
“I think I want to sleep now,” she said, closing her eyes and turning her face from me.
I turned off the lamp and went downstairs. It was rare that I felt bad about anything. I mean really felt bad. Normally, I could negotiate with myself; tell myself it had to be done, things like that. But this was one of those rare occasions when I had done something with no excuse available. I needed chocolate and fast. There was only one place to go when I needed chocolate and comfort with no questions asked. Thank God Aunt Tennessee was always home.
Chapter Seven
AUNT TENNE LIVED in Chesterfield about a half hour from my parents’ house, far enough for me to calm down and form a plan. Halfway there I pulled over and looked up the Rockville Church of Christ on my phone. I couldn’t help myself, I had to know why Gavin called them. The church was a short detour on the way to Aunt Tenne, and I could take the guilt until then.
Due to my keen sense of direction, it took longer to find the church than expected. I drove around backstreets a good fifteen minutes before I found the right avenue. Then the traffic moved like a tortoise, when I was dying to be a hare. A block away, I saw why. Crime scene tape cordoned off the church, and everyone was slowing down to get a look. The St. Louis County Medical Examiner’s van sat in the parking lot, and there were half a dozen cops and crime scene analysts moving around the building. I parked across the street and walked over to a couple uniforms doing guard duty.
Too bad I didn’t take the time to spruce up a little. Dad would shake his head in dismay if he knew. He had no shame when it came to gleaning info out of cops or anyone else. The younger cop would probably appreciate my Marilynness. I should’ve been able to take advantage, but I was wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. The jeans weren’t even super low rise. I just had to go for comfortable. What an idiot. The T-shirt did have a scoop neck, and I was wearing a lacy bra. A little bra goes a long way. I reminded myself that this was for Gavin and tugged at my shirt, exposing the top of my secret weapons, and then added a little extra swing to my hips. The cop locked in on me at twenty paces. He straightened up and swaggered over to the barricade.
“Hey there,” I said.
“Hello, what can I do for you this fine afternoon?” he asked while thrusting his badge out at me.
“I was just driving by and saw all the hoopla. What’s up?”
He gave me what I supposed was his sexy look. It could’ve been confused for his I-just-took-NyQuil look. “Crime scene.”
Duh.
I flipped my hair back. “What happened?”
“Murder.”
“Really? How totally awful.” I ran my fingers through my hair and let some thick, blond locks fall in my face. They ended at my lips. How convenient. “What happened?” I said.
“I don’t think you want to know. It’s pretty brutal. You don’t want that kind of thing on your mind, do you?” He fingered his gun holster.
No, no. I’m too busy thinking about my manicure.
“Ooh, tell me. I’m dying of curiosity,” I said.
“Well, if it isn’t Mercy Watts.”
While I was busy setting feminism back twenty years, the officer’s partner snuck up on me. His name tag said Parker and he’d seen more than a few crime scenes, if I went by his craggy face and wrinkled uniform. Life’d been rough on Parker.
“Do we know e
ach other, Officer Parker?” I asked sweetly.
“Not exactly, but I know your pop. You’d better stow it, Ameche,” he said.
“Who’s your dad?” asked Ameche.
“Her pop is none other than the famous Tommy Watts.”
“No shit, I mean, no kidding,” said Ameche.
“No kidding,” I said. “So what’s this crime scene, a trade secret?”
“It’s no secret. I suggest you go home and watch the news if you’re so curious,” said Parker.
“Yeah, that’ll be accurate,” I said.
“Maybe it won’t be accurate, but it’s the best you’re gonna get,” he replied.
“Isn’t Tommy Watts some kind of hero?” said Ameche.
“He is, but she ain’t.” Parker sneered at me.
“Aw, come on,” I said.
“Forget it. Tommy’s a PI now. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.” Parker hitched up his belt and tried to look substantial. He’d need a few more sandwiches for that.
“Are you a PI?” said Ameche.
“Nurse.”
“Give a lot of sponge baths, do you?” He gave me another NyQuil look with his close-set hazel eyes.
“You’ve been watching too much porn,” I said. “I do put in a load of catheters though.”
“Oh, yeah? I could go for a little of that action,” said Ameche.
“Shut up, dumb ass,” said Parker. “A catheter involves sticking a tube up your dick.”
Ameche stepped back. “You do that?”
“It’s a dirty job,” I said.
“No shit,” said Ameche.
“So about this scene?” I asked.
“Forget it, sweetie pie. We got a job to do. Go thread some wieners,” said Parker.
“Thanks for nothing,” I said.
“Anytime,” Parker said over his shoulder as he started to walk the line again. I could feel Ameche’s eyes on me as I walked to my truck. I gave him an extra swish and wiggle just for fun. You never know when you might need a contact in the department.
I drove away from the church with nothing, but the hairs raised on the back of my neck. A murder in the church Gavin called. Coincidence? I doubted it. Might as well go on to Aunt Tenne’s and indulge my secret desire to eat an eight-thousand-calorie-a-day diet. Aunt Tenne was a 911 operator on the graveyard shift and a woman without a hint of a social life. She was good for sympathy and snacks. Mom liked to call her a big girl, but at fifty-five she wasn’t a girl, and big didn’t quite cover it. Aunt Tenne had to turn sideways to get into her closet, which is to say she was morbidly obese. Of course, no one used those words to describe her. I’d heard plump, overweight, big boned, but I never heard fat or obese, although I imagine she suffered it plenty.
I walked up to her door and paused. Inside Aretha Franklin hit the high notes while Aunt Tenne sang along. I knocked and waited. She opened the door five minutes later. “Mercy, just the girl I wanted to see.”
“Hi, Aunt Tenne. Why’d you want to see me?”
She moved back to let me through, and I went into the living room. Aretha was singing about respect.
“I’m taking a vacation. Well earned, if I do say so myself,” Aunt Tenne said.
“Where are you going?”
“Cruise. Want to go?” She turned to grab a diet coke off an end table as she asked. Otherwise, she’d have seen my expression, and I doubt it was pleasant. She turned back around and I had a fixed smile in place. I hoped it looked genuine. The thought of cruising with Aunt Tenne brought on visions of buffets and embarrassment. I’d spend the whole time fighting the urge to smack smug faces and trying to keep my favorite aunt out of the earshot of the nastiest voices. Still, if I didn’t go, who would? She’d rather stab herself in the head than ask my mother, her sister, to go. Aunt Tenne liked to say that Mom was born with a spotlight trained on her. I agreed. I’d felt the glare of Mom’s glow plenty. No one compared to her, not even me, and I was a dead ringer for both her and Marilyn Monroe. I’d inherited the spotlight, but I hadn’t quite grown into it yet. Aunt Tenne said it got worse as Mom got older. Last year, she caused a three-car pileup when she went out for a jog. Dad bought her a treadmill, so we wouldn’t get sued.
“When are you going?” I asked.
“I’m thinking sometime this summer.”
“Where to?”
“Virgin Islands or the Bahamas. What do you think?” she asked.
“Er…I’ll have to see if I can work it out financially.”
And mentally.
“I have brochures.” Aunt Tenne spread a dozen booklets across the coffee table and looked at me hopefully. I felt sick to my stomach.
“I’m thinking the Bahamas. Everybody goes to the Virgins,” I said.
“Just what I was thinking. Are you hungry? I’m starving.” She led me into the kitchen and I had a childhood flashback. God, I loved Aunt Tenne’s kitchen. It was snack food heaven and stuffed to the gills. Mom’s kitchen was more wine sauces and vegetables.
“What are you in the mood for?” she asked.
“Calories and lots of them.” She turned away from the cabinets and brushed the hair out of her eyes. Her eyes got me. They were the same brilliant green as Mom’s, but without the scrutiny. Mom wouldn’t adopt Aunt Tenne’s look of concern without being sure that I hadn’t done anything wrong first. Aunt Tenne thought I could do no wrong. Little did she know.
“Gavin?” she asked.
“He died.” I ducked my head and swallowed hard.
“I know. Aunt Miriam called. I left you some messages.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been crazy since it happened.”
“What was he, fifty something? That’s so young,” she said.
“Not too young to get murdered,” I said. Good, good to have the word out of my mouth, past my lips.
Aunt Tenne grasped her chest and looked around for a seat. She sat and slowed her breathing while tears rushed down her cheeks. She reached for me. I took her hand and sat on the arm of the love seat. Aunt Tenne was the only one person I knew with a love seat in her kitchen.
“Honey, sweetie pie. What happened?” she said.
“I don’t know. The M.E. thinks he was poisoned with something that caused an MI.”
“Something he ate?” Aunt Tenne produced a candy bar from somewhere. She ate it without noticing what she consumed. I wondered if any M&M’s were stashed in her cushions. Or better yet Ding Dongs. I loved Ding Dongs.
Once after Thanksgiving dinner, I found six Ding Dong wrappers in the guest bathroom trash can. I was incensed. We had Ding Dongs and Mom was holding out on me. I marched around the house and found Mom in the pantry.
“How come I didn’t get any Ding Dongs?”
“What are you talking about? Go entertain Grandma George,” Mom said without turning around.
“Mom.”
Who knew the word “Mom” could be so long and irritating?
“Mercy, please. Go somewhere.”
“I want a Ding Dong.”
“We don’t have any Ding Dongs. Go on now.” She looked up from the apple pie she was cutting and glared at me.
“Mom,” I repeated.
“What’s wrong, girls?” Dad said from the doorway. He leaned on the frame, his arms crossed on his chest. He smiled so his dimples cut deep into his cheeks, and I thought he was the coolest guy ever. That was before I saw Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind.
“Mom won’t give me a Ding Dong,” I said.
“We have Ding Dongs?” Dad asked.
“No, we do not have Ding Dongs. How many times do I have to say that?” asked Mom.
“Yes, we do. I saw the wrappers in the bathroom.”
So there. I had evidence. Try and hold out on me, we’ll see about that.
“You saw Ding Dong wrappers in the bathroom?” Mom said. She looked at Dad. His dimples disappeared.
“Well, you know, she’s bound to have setbacks, Carolina,” Dad said.
“Well, I wond
er how many setbacks she’s had. Mercy?” Mom’s hands went to her hips. Her knife was pointed at me and dropped bits of crust on the floor.
“What?” I said.
“How many wrappers did you find?” Mom asked.
“Six.”
“Great, just great.” Mom covered her eyes with her free hand, and Dad took my arm. He pulled me out of the pantry into the empty kitchen. He sat me in a chair and made coffee.
“You know how Aunt Tenne was on vacation the last couple of weeks?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Do you know where she was?”
“No.”
“She was at a weight-loss clinic,” Dad said.
“So how come Mom gave her Ding Dongs?”
Dad made me a hot cocoa. He glanced at the pantry door before adding a tiny bit of peppermint schnapps. “She didn’t. Aunt Tenne brought them with her.”
“It’s Thanksgiving. Mom made six pies and a chocolate trifle.”
“I know,” he said.
That was the moment I realized Aunt Tennessee had a problem. I was ten, she was forty and fifteen years later she was still in the dark.
I looked around Aunt Tenne’s kitchen for my beloved Ding Dongs, while Aunt Tenne chewed. They could be anywhere -- the microwave, freezer, toaster oven -- but she was better than she used to be. She confined food to the kitchen. Food used to be all over the house, including the bathroom. She lost fifteen pounds after the change.
Aunt Tenne munched on chips and asked through mouthfuls, “What do we know so far?”
I got two snack cakes out of the microwave and settled for them. “Not much. He was poisoned at home, but died at the hospital. He was working on a case out of state and came home in a hurry. Oh, and on his cell phone recall I found the numbers of a church and University of Lincoln student services.”
“Was he in Lincoln before he came home?” she asked.
“Don’t know, but I did run by the church on the way over here. It’s a crime scene. The cops wouldn’t tell me anything though.”
“What church is it?”
“Rockville Church of Christ,” I said.
“Oh, yes. I know that one. You know that one. Everybody knows about that one.”