A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries)

by A W Hartoin

  “Hell no, I didn’t talk to them. I talked to Big Steve.”

  Big Steve was the biggest badass lawyer in St. Louis and a good friend to my parents. Mom used to be his legal secretary when I was little. My parents trusted Big Steve and that trust was returned. Big Steve called them when his son, Stevie, got in trouble. Stevie was a disaster and I was grateful for every one of his scrapes. He made me look good.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “Rumors mostly. Somebody’s trying to take over the family trust,” he said.

  “Can that be done?”

  “It ain’t easy, but yeah.”

  “What do you do? Get them declared nuts or something?”

  “Basically,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine anyone who would want to do that,” I said.

  Rodney brought me a cup of coffee and I took a slow sip. Somebody wanted to hurt The Girls. I couldn’t wrap my heart around it.

  “It’s family whoever it is,” he said.

  “Family,” I repeated.

  “Yep. Only family has that kind of pull. Got any candidates?”

  “I don’t know most of the family. There’s Lawton, but he’s a sweetheart.”

  While both of the girls had married, only Myrtle had a child. Lawton was in his mid fifties and childless. He lived in Cambria, California, a small tourist town on the coast filled with artists and retirees. He came home several times a year, spending weeks gardening and shopping. Lawton loved to shop and my mother was his Barbie doll. He took full responsibility for Mom’s collection of outlandish hats and he got miffed if she neglected her nails. Lawton considered Mom a work of art. I was a work in progress, slowly making my way towards greatness. A couple of years ago, he told Mom that I would be fab, if I’d just stop wearing cutoffs. I’m still not fab.

  “It ain’t Law. I checked him out this morning.” Morty looked disappointed. Lawton tried on a yearly basis to reform Morty’s wardrobe. He had less luck with him than he did with me. Morty avoided Lawton like he carried ebola.

  “There are some cousins, but they’re all rich. Why would they want to screw over The Girls?”

  “Shit, who knows. Maybe somebody’s gambling or bought too many houses in Tuscany,” he said.

  The red alert signal from the Enterprise echoed through the bar. Rodney had changed the door buzzer from my favorite tricorder beeps to the much more obnoxious red alert. I looked up to see my mother coming through the door. Beyond her across the street, Nardo chewed on a toothpick and eyed Emil Roberts. Mom wore jeans and a tank, which meant it was a bad day. On the other hand, her hair was done. She walked to the bar without seeing us and asked Aaron for a cup of coffee when he came out of the kitchen.

  “Check it out,” Uncle Morty said with a nod to the front window next to the door. Emil Roberts had disappeared, but two guys in their forties stood peering in though the glass with their hands cupped around their eyes. They were dressed in business suits and looked too old to be stalking my mom, but she gets all kinds.

  I started to stand up to tell them to get a life, when they caught sight of me. Both their hands and their jaws dropped. They looked from Mom at the bar to me and back again. They did it so fast they banged their heads together, and they rubbed their foreheads while looking at us.

  Rodney walked out of the kitchen carrying two steaming platters. He set them in front of us and marched to the window.

  “Get out of here, you freaking losers. We don’t open til ten-thirty.” Rodney wiped his hands on his apron as the businessmen ran away.

  “I guess they were really hungry, huh, Rodney,” I said, trying not to be too sarcastic.

  “They’re hungry alright.” Morty rolled his eyes and dug into his pile of hash browns.

  Across the street, Emil Roberts yelled at Nardo and a second later they were bitch-slapping each other. I snorted and Morty’s eyes left his plate to see my stalkers going at it. He shook his head and shoveled in more hash browns.

  “Must’ve heard I was starting a breakfast menu,” Rod said.

  “That must be it,” I said.

  Mom came up behind Rod and pursed her lips. She wasn’t the fan of sarcasm that I was.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Mom said.

  Uh oh.

  “You need to drive Aunt Miriam to the funeral home tomorrow.”

  Score.

  “I can’t. I’m taking narcotics. Sorry.” I concealed my smile by stuffing my mouth full of sausage.

  “I’ll drive you.”

  I looked up and saw Aaron standing next to Mom, smiling.

  Double score.

  I swallowed my sausage. “Um, well, if Aaron is driving then you don’t need me, right?”

  “Wrong. We finally got Gavin a spot at Straatman’s and Aunt Miriam needs help with the casket. You know her cataracts are giving her trouble,” Mom said.

  “Why aren’t you going or Dixie, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Stop arguing. Dixie doesn’t want to go there until she absolutely has to. So we need you to go and you’re going. Or would you rather stay home with Dad and Dixie? She may stop crying by then.”

  “Fine, I’ll go,” I said.

  “Thank you, honeybabe. Make sure Aunt Miriam takes plenty of pictures. Dixie wants to see the choices.” Mom slid into the booth next to Uncle Morty and looked back and forth between us. “So what is this all about?”

  “I can’t even remember.” My eyes roamed around the restaurant watching Rodney turn on the ceiling fans one by one. A chilly breeze washed over us and I shivered.

  “We were talking about The Girls,” Uncle Morty said as he handed me his jacket.

  “Oh yeah. I guess I’m supposed to do something,”

  “Don’t you want to help?” asked Mom. “The Girls are family. They practically raised you.”

  God help me.

  “I’m so disappointed in you.” Uncle Morty smirked at me.

  “You could deal with it.” I smirked back.

  “I’m going to Lincoln,” he said.

  “Enough. Mercy, you’ll deal with The Girls’ situation.” Mom leaned back and crossed her arms. Discussion over.

  “I thought I was going with Aunt Miriam.”

  “That’s tomorrow. You can speak to The Girls today. Rodney, do you have my order?”

  Rodney jogged back into the kitchen to get it. Mom kissed me on the cheek and took her bag. “I have to go. Your father keeps trying to get out of bed. I caught him crawling towards the office this morning.” Mom left, bringing traffic to a dead stop. She should never wear tank tops.

  Aaron looked at my plate. “So…what do you think? How was it? Taste good?” He held his hands clasped in front of him. He would’ve looked angelic and sweet if it weren’t for the hair, clothes, glasses, and everything else about him.

  “It’s okay.” My plate was spotless. Okay didn’t cover it.

  “Maybe more hash browns or add cheese sauce?” Aaron asked.

  “Fine. I admit it. Your dog disaster is delicious. Thanks. I’m going to gain a thousand pounds.” I told Uncle Morty good luck in Lincoln and walked to the door with Aaron close on my heels.

  “I’ll drive you,” he said.

  “I’ll walk.” I left Kronos and went past Nardo and Emil slapping each other and yelling insults about mothers. I angled away from them to cross the street in front of a Mustang. It started honking like crazy. The driver stuck his head out the window, made a V with his fingers and started doing a lovely tongue thrust through them.

  Some days just can’t get bad enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I WALKED INTO the breezeway between Stillman Antiques and a contemporary design studio. Stillman never locked the gate to the alley, bad for security, but lucky for me. The alley ran parallel with Hawthorne Avenue. I walked a block and crossed the street to where Lexington changed to Hawthorne. I liked the alleys. They were quick and convenient and hid me from assholes in Mustangs, not that there would be Mustangs on Hawt
horne or Lexington. Still, I stayed in the alley, skirting trash cans and enjoying the quiet of the rustling trees.

  I reached the rear of the Bled property in ten minutes. My low heels felt like stilettos and I wished I’d taken Aaron’s ride. I felt a little pang of guilt for snubbing him. He was clueless, but it was possible, however remote, that I’d hurt his feelings.

  I unlocked the garage and stepped into the dark. The alarm panel glowed green. I punched in the code and flipped the light switch on. The new Mercedes Lester drove sat in its place, recently waxed but unmoved. A few leaves littered the floor. If Lester had been around, he’d have swept them away. Nicoli Bled’s 1921 Maybach had a thin layer of dust on its dark green paint. It was the same with the 1954 Borgwald Isabella convertible Millicent bought to drive around Europe. A 1950 Morgan and a 1945 Jaguar sat in the other two bays, also dusty. I couldn’t remember the last time they’d been out. Sometimes Lester or my dad drove them to make sure they stayed in working order. I’d never been allowed. The Morgan and the Jag belonged to The Girls’ late husbands and there was an unspoken understanding that only men would drive them. Frankly, I didn’t want to drive them or the convertible. I didn’t have enough insurance to fix so much as a headlamp on one of those babies. I did make out with Junior Hassleburt in the Jaguar once. It really turned him on. A little too much, if you know what I mean.

  I walked past the cars and into the stable section. The whole thing was designed to be a stable originally. Nicoli Bled didn’t like cars. He kept two teams of horses for his personal use and ponies for Millicent and Myrtle. He only gave up on buggies for his primary transportation after his wife was hit in her chaise and four by a Model A and nearly killed.

  The eight stalls had brass nameplates, straw on the floor and tack oiled and ready for use. It looked like the horses were out for a ride and could return at any moment. I took a deep breath of leather and hay, unlocked the door to the garden, and stepped out through the stone arch into the sun.

  The garden bloomed with unchecked abandon. The gardeners had disappeared along with Lester. Millicent and Myrtle couldn’t keep up with the deadheading and pruning on their own. From the looks of things, they hadn’t tried. The rose arbor sagged under the weight of heritage blossoms and their petals littered the flagstone walk. All The Girls’ flowers were antique and original to the house. The Bled garden was on the St. Louis garden tour and had been in umpteen magazines. They donated clippings to charity auctions and received unbelievable bids. Some of the flowers could be found nowhere else. I’d spent a lot of time in that garden, playing, talking, and, unfortunately, gardening. I didn’t want to dig, prune, or plant. It was too much like work, but I’d done it just the same, side by side with Myrtle. Millicent didn’t garden. She read magazines and commented on our work from the lounge chair that she continually moved to stay within talking distance.

  My heels crunched leaves and twigs as I went up the walk. The house sat silent as before, but I looked through the door glass and spied Myrtle’s purse sitting on the hall table. I rang the service bell beside the door and waited. Then I rang again. Being ignored was not one of my favorite things. I wasn’t used to it and it grated. I pushed the button like a three-year-old in an elevator and paced the low stone stoop.

  “That’s it. I don’t have all day,” I said to the door. I punched the code into the security keypad and got the green light. The black iron door slid back at the touch of my hand and the door itself wasn’t locked. I stepped into the cold, empty foyer, and closed the door behind me. The windows let in a soft, diffused light and the stale air lay heavy and silent. No heat. The Girls would have to be miserable. They needed the heat on year-round.

  “Myrtle. Millicent. I know you’re here.” I walked down the hall past huge Grecian urns and flower arrangements that had gone south, their petals forming a carpet on the beautiful marquetry floors.

  I checked the receiving room, the morning room, and formal parlor before heading to the kitchen. I hoped they were in the kitchen. I did not want to search the second floor. I pushed through the swinging rosewood door and found it empty. A clink of china led me to the servants dining room, wood-paneled and the snuggest room they had. The Girls sat at the battered walnut table with cups of tea. I’d never seen them enter that room in my entire life. Things were really bad.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” I said, knowing full well they had.

  Millicent sat her cup down with a careful clink. “We heard you, dear.”

  “Why didn’t you come?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that, too.

  “We thought perhaps you’d leave.”

  Bingo.

  “You know me better than that. Since when do I give up?”

  “There’s always a first time.” Myrtle put up the collar of her thick wool coat and crossed her arms. She didn’t look upset or surprised to see me, neither did Millicent.

  “Can I have a cup of tea? It’s kind of frigid in here.”

  “Of course, dear. What are we thinking?” Myrtle said.

  “What happened to your arm?” asked Millicent.

  “I fell. It’s no big deal,” I said.

  The Girls hugged me and we went back into the kitchen. I perched on a tall chair at the end of the island, listening to their hushed voices talking about tea and thought about all the pie dough I’d rolled out on that marble slab. In Myrtle and Millicent’s world, ladies didn’t bake or cook, period. Making lemon tart with me was their form of rebellion and as a result I could make practically anything from puff pastry to tiramisu. I can’t tell you how often that doesn’t come in handy.

  Millicent set an eggshell teacup, big for its age, in front of me. I picked it up like it might crumble to dust at my touch and sipped the jasmine tea.

  “So, do you want to tell me or should I start?” I asked.

  They looked at me with wide eyes and said nothing.

  Great.

  “Mom sent me. She’s worried.”

  “Your mother is sweet, but there’s nothing to worry about.” Millicent patted her thick silver hair. It was coiled in an elaborate fashion on the back of her head. It was going-out hair. I could always tell with her. Myrtle’s hair stayed in the same marcel waves framing her face no matter what. But if something special was going on, Millicent would spend an eternity fixing her hair.

  “Nothing to worry about?”

  “No. Not a thing,” Millicent said.

  “You wouldn’t be fibbing to me, would you?” I sipped my tea and peered at them over the gold rim of my cup.

  “Mercy, dear, we’re fine, but we are in a rush, about to go out, you know.”

  “You’re going out?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How?”

  “What do you mean?” Myrtle asked.

  “Neither of you drive, and Lester isn’t here. Mrs. Haase says he hasn’t been around in weeks.”

  “A friend is coming. We do have to go.” They got up and looked at me. I didn’t move.

  “Look. I know you’re having a problem. What’s going on?” I set my cup on its wafer-thin saucer, stood up, and slapped my hands down on the marble tabletop.

  “There’s no problem.” Millicent took my arm, steered me away from the table and out of the kitchen.

  “Millicent, your accounts are frozen. I’m not just being nosy. We want to help.” Well, mostly my parents wanted to help. I wanted to go meet Pete and help later.

  “Mr. Cardiff handles our affairs.” Millicent’s voice was strong, but her eyes roamed everywhere except to meet mine.

  “Mr. Cardiff couldn’t handle his way out of a paper bag,” I said.

  “Mercy, please,” Myrtle said with her hand on her chest.

  “Sorry, but it’s true. He does estate planning and taxes. You need a litigator. Somebody who can fight.”

  “Don’t worry yourself,” Millicent said.

  Too late. I was officially worried.

  Millicent and Myrtle flanked me through the servants din
ing room, the cloakroom, one of the pantries into family room and out into the hallway to the front door.

  “Wait a minute. What was that?” I said.

  Myrtle fidgeted with her hands while Millicent tried to push me towards the door.

  “Nothing, dear. Have a nice day. We’ll call your mother,” Millicent said.

  I sidestepped Millicent’s hands at the small of my back and spun around. There at the door to the family room were two suitcases partially hidden by a potted palm. I walked to the suitcases and looked at the initials MB stitched into the hide of each of the cases. The Girls were going somewhere, but they weren’t going far. The cases were part of two sets, twelve pieces each. There were hatboxes, trunks and cases of every shape and size. I’d played with them, packing with old clothes for my imaginary adventures, and I’d watched The Girls pack their luggage for their many trips. They filled every piece. That luggage was serious. They’d bought it in the early sixties after one of the husbands died and Lawton was born. Myrtle had gone into a decline the way Millicent put it and she decided they needed to get away. The trip started in San Francisco and circled the earth taking two years and six months.

  “Exactly where are you going? Not to lunch, I assume,” I said.

  Millicent opened her mouth, ready with a lie, but Myrtle reached out and touched her arm. “We’re going to Prie Dieu,” she said.

  “Who died?” I asked.

  “No one, thank our dear Lord,” said The Girls, while crossing themselves.

  “Then why are you going?”

  The Girls looked around like they’d find the answer on the walls. I crossed my arms and waited. Prie Dieu was the Bled family’s ancestral home, built in the 1820s as a tribute to a lost wife. I’d been there quite a few times, usually for funerals. It was a national historic home and the Missouri Historical Society ran it, giving tours and overseeing the reenactment of a small Civil War skirmish that took place on the grounds.

  “Are you kicking out the Historical Society?” It sounded stupid even as I said it.

  “Of course not. It’s just that…” Myrtle said.

  “It’s just that we need someplace to go,” Millicent said, her brown eyes fixed on my face, stoic, yet sad.