A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries)

by A W Hartoin

  Chapter Seventeen

  I WOKE THE next morning in my own bed with Skanky curled beside me. He slept with his mouth open and made little kicking motions with his feet, dreaming about feline heroics, no doubt. I took a drink from my water glass that I have to have next to my bed or I can’t sleep. That’s on the Neuroses That Mom Gave Me list. Skanky woke and did a long stretch with his butt in the air and let out a big curly-tongued yawn. I patted him, while I called Mom. She said Dad had a good night and was sleeping. She wanted me to get on with the investigation. I told her about Millicent’s odd behavior the night before and she dismissed me as a worrywart. I hung up feeling a bit like a hysteric. Everything in the last few days was a crisis and I was starting to see them everywhere I turned.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I said to Skanky. “You’re biggest problem is where to take a nap today. You don’t even have balls.”

  He sneezed, fell over, and began cleaning between each and every one of his toes. Cats never did listen to me. I searched around until I found my cell phone in a pile of dirty clothes. I needed to check my messages in case I got one from someone other than a pervert. The first three texts were from Suck, We’re Horne, and Horney 4 Mercy. You know it’s bad when the perverts can’t spell horny. The rest followed in the same vein. I could’ve changed my number, but that was such a pain. I deleted every one and called my agency. Dolores wasn’t thrilled that I didn’t want to work for awhile, but she’d live.

  I got into a hot shower and lathered up while listening to Skanky mewing at me for food through the glass door. Being yelled at in the shower doesn’t make for a good time, so I cut it short and fed the beast. He ate, cleaned, and immediately went back to sleep. His life is hard. The landline rang. I could tell it was Uncle Morty just from the grumpy ring.

  “How’s Tommy?” he said.

  “Pretty sick. Good morning to you too,” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah. I got your info on the dead bride’s husband.”

  “Great.”

  “Yeah, swell, who’s paying for this?”

  “It’s for Gavin.”

  “Don’t you give me that crap. This is a separate crime and I got a business to run.”

  “Fine, put it on my tab.” Vintage Uncle Morty. Never mind that a dear old friend got axed; who’s paying?

  “No tabs.”

  “The check’s in the mail then.”

  “You know I can’t be handing out no more freebies. Got it?”

  “Fine. What’d you find out?”

  “Nothing. Well, close to nothing. The guy is a serious bore. He don’t gamble, drink, drug, or sleep around, and he’s a vegetarian.”

  “I don’t do any of that stuff, except drink. Am I a bore?”

  “You ain’t no vegetarian and you got Tommy for excitement.”

  I didn’t know about excitement. Most of what Dad roped me into was grunt work he didn’t want to pay for. There was no point in bringing that up with Uncle Morty. He was squarely on Dad’s side in the free-lunch department, as long as he wasn’t serving.

  “Yeah, it’s a thrill a minute in the Watts family,” I said. “I thought you had something.”

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist. It ain’t much. He had a hundred buck charge from a company in Lincoln three months ago.”

  “Who was the payee?”

  “Wilson Novelties. Like I said, it ain’t much.”

  “Did you come up with anything else on Sample?” Before he could answer, my cell phone rang. I told him to hang on while I checked the name. Ameche. Yes.

  “Hello, Ameche,” I said.

  “Mercy Watts?”

  “None other. What’s up?”

  “You remember me,” he said.

  “Sure.” I never forgot people, but people always thought I would forget them for some reason. “So do you have something for me?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. There was a cell phone logged into evidence and better yet, a couple days ago it rang and pissed off Watts.”

  “How do you know it pissed him off?”

  “Afterward he cussed up a storm about not having a trace on the phone.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “What about Sunday morning? Any interviews?”

  “Just one was recorded. Lee Holtmeyer, the husband. That help you out?”

  “More than you know.”

  “You remember our deal, right?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll tell Dad you did us a good turn and hand over your numbers. Thanks, Ameche.”

  “Anytime. Well, maybe not any time, but you know where I am.” Ameche chuckled. “By the way, you look fabulous in jeans.”

  “When did you see me in jeans?”

  “I want to do Mercy dot com,” he said, laughing full out.

  “Thanks, I so needed that,” I said.

  “Anytime. I’m here for you.”

  “I’ll remember that, jerkwad.”

  I would remember too. Ameche came through for me (despite his attempts at levity). Lee was off the list. He couldn’t have killed Gavin. The connection between Sample and Gavin cemented. He knew her. I just had to figure out how.

  Uncle Morty’s gruff voice brought me back to reality. “What was that about?”

  “You heard?” I asked.

  “I heard you pissed someone off,” Uncle Morty said.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Who?”

  “Chuck.”

  Uncle Morty made a flappy spitting noise with his lips.

  “I know, I know, but this time there was a point. I found a connection between Gavin and Sample.”

  “Oh yeah. What?”

  “He called her cell the day she died.”

  “Sweet. What else?”

  I told him about the call to the church. He gave me some numbers and addresses of Sample’s friends and family.

  Before he hung up on me, I said, “There’s one more thing. I’ve got a guy tailing me.”

  “Gee, I wonder why,” said Uncle Morty.

  “Can you check him out?” I gave him the plate number and description of the car.

  “So why haven’t you changed your number yet? Your number is are all over the Net.”

  “Do I really have to? Won’t the idiots just give up after a while?” I asked.

  “There are enough idiots to last you a lifetime,” he said, before hanging up on me.

  I pulled my laptop from under the bed and googled myself. I got over thirty thousand hits on my name alone and over twenty thousand on Mom’s. I didn’t know how I was going to break it to Mom that she had to deal with this because of me.

  I called my cell provider and had them change my number, but since they knew who I was I figured I had two hours before my new number was posted. I was wrong. It took thirty-eight minutes. No more answering the phone just because it rang. I would have to screen until I figured out a better way. I should’ve had Uncle Morty get my cell. His name was on everything else, one of Dad’s precautions. He’d put away some pretty nasty characters. The Watts name was on nothing, except cell phones. We used a post office box for those.

  I went back into the bathroom to decide on the right approach with Sample’s associates. The friends were girlfriends and women didn’t generally appreciate the Marilyn thing, but you have to work with what you’ve got. I blow-dried my hair into a sleek bob, dusted on some powder and applied nude lipstick. A black pencil skirt, flats, and a crisp white shirt completed the look. Skanky came sliding in the room and sat on his rump while I buttoned my shirt.

  “How do I look?” I asked him.

  Skanky looked at me and licked his chops. Not exactly the response I was going for, but what did the cat know. He attacked himself in the full-length mirror at least twice a day.

  I checked my list. ASB Systems looked like a good place to start. Rebecca Sample had worked there. It was the only job she’d held since college. According to Morty, Rebecca’s best friend Helen Card worked at ASB with her. Rebecca and Helen had been clo
se for several years and were roommates for some period of time. Helen was the maid of honor at the wedding. Since her best friend was killed less than a week ago, Helen probably wouldn’t be there, but it didn’t matter. Co-workers were a good place to start.

  I walked from my apartment to Kronos to get my truck and then headed to ASB Systems. It was a small but profitable design firm specializing in websites and online marketing. I parked on the side of the building so I wouldn’t be seen getting out of my truck. I wanted to appear professional and I wasn’t sure a 1958 Chevy truck was going to do it for me. This was one of the few times I considered buying a regular car, something that didn’t belong on permanent display at an auto museum, but I liked the surprise on people’s faces when I got out of it. That wow factor wasn’t something Dad anticipated when he bought that truck for my sixteenth birthday.

  The year before I turned sixteen, I pestered Dad within an inch of his sanity, asking for a car for my birthday. “Please, Daddy,” I’d say. “I need a vehicle. Everybody else has one.” Note the use of Daddy when begging. I had no pride when it came to getting a car. I don’t have much now, come to think of it. And I was right about everyone having a car. Myrtle and Millicent had insisted upon sending me to Whitmore Academy at their expense. It was a twenty-thousand-dollar-a-year school and upper class to say the least. Dad always said he’d live to regret my going to Whitmore and, of course, he did. I wanted a car like everyone else had in my class, a BMW, a Mercedes or, at worst, a Toyota. But I was young and not quite clued into the way men’s minds work. But I knew I couldn’t say exactly what I wanted, so I said vehicle. I thought it implied transportation, instead of deathtrap.

  Dad latched on to that word, vehicle, and didn’t want me to have one. He’d scraped too many teenagers off the pavement to want me behind the wheel. So Dad, thinking he was smarter than the average teen, bought me a 1958 red Chevy pickup. It was cherry, but old as hell. I nearly cried when I saw it. That is, I nearly cried until I saw Dad’s face. He stood in the driveway with his arms crossed and a twisted smile on his face. I knew then what he was up to. That cherry truck with the optional rear glass and chrome plating wasn’t for me, it was for him. Not for the first time, Dad underestimated me. I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck. I told him I loved it, snatched the keys out of his hand, and drove off. I saw him in the rearview and knew he’d never be the same. I was driving off with his truck.

  I didn’t expect to drive the truck for long, but I found people thought it was cool. It grew on me, and it drove Dad crazy. I couldn’t ask for more than that, so nine years later that cherry Chevy was still mine.

  I patted the curvy hood, rounded the corner, walked through the automatic sliding front doors and straight up to reception. I could’ve skirted the desk and roamed around asking questions, but sometimes it’s nice to be invited. That time I felt I had the right.

  The girl at the desk looked up from her nail filing and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God. I know you. You’re that Marilyn Monroe impersonator.”

  “No, I’m really not,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. Are you like offended or something?”

  I wished for an espresso or a Xanax. “No, it’s fine. I’m looking for Helen Card. Is she in?”

  “She is. You’re really not that Mercy Watts?”

  “I work for a detective agency and Helen Card’s name came up. I’d like to ask her a few questions.” I fished one of Dad’s cards out of my wallet and handed it over. She glanced at it and said in a low tone, “Is this about Rebecca Sample?”

  “It may relate to her case. Did you know Miss Sample?”

  “Yes, of course, everybody knew Rebecca. She was so nice. I can’t believe someone would want to hurt her.”

  “She wasn’t having any trouble with anyone around here?”

  “No way. Rebecca was great.”

  “Has anyone mentioned a theory?”

  “Oh yeah, but I can’t talk about it. So do you have implants?”

  “No. Why can’t you talk about it?”

  “The police came and interviewed us all and told us not to tell anybody. I guess they don’t want reporters to hear.”

  “Which detective did you talk to?”

  “I don’t remember his name. He was real good-looking. Kind of like a movie star.”

  “Chuck Watts. He’s my cousin.”

  “No kidding. He seemed real nice.” She glanced down at Dad’s card in my hand long enough to find the name Watts. “Watts. You are the Marilyn impersonator. I saw you on Youtube.”

  “Fine. That was me on YouTube, but it was all a mistake. I was just trying to be nice to a bunch of geezers and they put me all over the Net. I am a detective and I am very interested in your theory of the murder. I’d ask Chuck what you figured out, but he’s so busy. He doesn’t even have time for a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, really. That’s so sad.” She fluffed her hair.

  Finally. Chuck was coming in handy. About time.

  “It’s hard to meet the right kind of girl when you’re in his line of work,” I said.

  “I bet it’s real hard.”

  “Maybe I should have him come back and interview you again. See if you’ve thought of anything new.”

  “Do you think he would?”

  “He might. It depends on how interesting the theory was to begin with,” I said.

  “I guess Chuck wouldn’t mind me telling you since you are his cousin and all.”

  “I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Rebecca used to have a stalker,” she said.

  “Did you ever see him?”

  “No, but he left flowers on my desk a couple of times and a box with a dead bird.”

  “How’d you know they were for Rebecca?” I asked.

  “They had cards.”

  “Handwritten?”

  “Yeah, but printed in big block letters.”

  “Did you talk to Rebecca about him?”

  “Not really. We weren’t that close, but I did find her crying in the bathroom a couple of times.”

  “Did she say what was wrong?”

  “No, just that she had a bad night. I don’t know what that means. I figured it was something to do with him because she would remind me not to let any men I didn’t know back to her office and not to put through any unknown callers,” she said.

  “Did he call her here a lot?” I asked.

  “She didn’t really take calls. Everything went through her voice mail, so she could screen.”

  “Can you think of anything unusual happening just before the wedding, any suspicious packages, calls, or visitors?”

  “Chuck asked me that, too. You’re good.” She smiled at me and checked her reflection in her computer screen. She’d be ready when Chuck came back.

  “Was there anything odd?”

  “Nope. Not a thing.”

  I thanked her and she gave me directions to Helen Card’s office. I promised to mention her to Chuck and I thought I might actually do it. If he got a girlfriend, maybe he’d stop being so obnoxious.

  Helen Card sat in her cubicle, holding a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in her hand. Comfort food, unless I missed my guess. Helen had taken two bites and she was looking at those bites like she didn’t know how they got there.

  I hated to intrude and waited, hoping she’d notice me, but Helen remained hunched over. She was small, even compared to me and I’m no super model. She had short, dark, cropped hair that lay flat against her head. There were dozens of pictures pinned up on the gray carpet that lined the cubicle walls. I spotted several of Rebecca. In the photos was a very pretty dark-haired girl with flamboyant spiked-out hair. I thought it was Helen, but the hair didn’t seem to match the head I was seeing. I coughed. Helen jumped and looked up.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. The receptionist sent me back,” I said.

  “It’s okay. Do we have an appointment?” Helen quickly scooped up a dozen used tissues off her desk and threw the
m in the trash can under her desk.

  “No, we don’t. I’m Mercy Watts.” I waited for a reaction.

  Helen just sat there. Thank goodness. No implant questions.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I said.

  “What about?”

  “Your friend Rebecca Sample.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about that.”

  “Detective Watts tell you that?”

  “Yes. He was very specific.”

  “He’s my cousin. I know how specific he can get. I have to be honest with you. It’s not Rebecca’s case that I’m interested in.” I decided to stick with the honest approach. It’d been working like cash money as Grandpa would say.

  “Why are you asking about Rebecca then?”

  “I think she’s connected with a case I’m working on.” I took Gavin’s picture out and handed it to her. “Do you recognize the man on the right? He’d be older and thinner.”

  “Oh yeah. I know him, but his name escapes me. Who is he?”

  “Gavin Flouder. How do you know him?”

  “I went to meet him with Rebecca. He’s a detective.”

  I wanted to jump up and do a happy dance, instead I said, “Did Rebecca hire him?”

  “Yes, but I can’t talk about that.” She reached up and rubbed under her eyes. She’d been crying and her mascara had run. Her eyes were large and round. The mascara made her look like an owl.

  “She hired him to track down her stalker, didn’t she?” I handed her one of Dad’s cards as I said it.

  “You’re not a reporter?”

  “Not even close,” I said.

  “Who’s Tommy?”

  “My dad. He’s Gavin’s old partner.”

  “Why do you care if Rebecca hired him? I already told the cops,” Helen said.

  “Because Gavin was murdered the day after Rebecca and I think there’s a connection.”

  Helen’s eyes widened.

  “I’m guessing my cousin didn’t let you in on that fact,” I said.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Look, you’ve already told the cops everything you know, right? So it won’t hurt to tell me. I’m not a reporter. My dad and I just want to find out who killed Gavin. I suspect it’s the same person who killed Rebecca.”