by A W Hartoin
Leonard came charging out of the conference room. “One more question, Miss Watts. How well did your father know Josiah Bled?”
I started to answer that I didn’t know, but Lane stepped in front of Leonard. “You’re late for court. The Rina case. The clerk has been calling.”
Big Steve pushed me through the office door into the warm hall and began yelling into his phone as we walked to the elevator. “Freya, get Bub over to the office now and I want a list of every damn person in the squad when Watts made homicide.” He took a breath. “Every person. Right down to the cleaning staff.”
I pressed the elevator button and watched Big Steve order poor Freya to pull up his employee list for the same time period. My mom was his legal secretary for years and she would’ve been in his office when she got the house. He must’ve thought that someone in their circle had blabbed, but what could they possibly know? Dad always said the house was a thank-you. I gathered there was some kind of favor involved, but I always thought the truth was more special than that. Myrtle and Millicent fell in love with my parents. They adored them and my parents adored them right back. If Leonard thought the house was payment for some kind of illegal act on Dad’s part, he was wrong. I’m not saying Dad wasn’t above bending the rules or even breaking them. I’d seen him do it and it was always the right thing. My godmothers didn’t pay Dad off. There was no way. If they had, it would’ve been a dirty back-alley deal. They’d never want to see him again. That didn’t remotely happen. I was born in the Bled Mansion. The Girls babysat me, while Mom worked. They taught me to garden and bake, against my will but still. Mom was the one they called when they were sick or wanted to shop for ridiculous hats. Dad took care of their security system and fixed faucets for them. Whatever Leonard thought just simply couldn’t have happened.
The elevator opened and Big Steve put his phone in his pocket. “I don’t want you to worry about this.”
“What exactly is this thing I’m not supposed to worry about?” I asked.
“The lawsuit.”
“I’m not worried about the lawsuit. Myrtle and Millicent aren’t incompetent. What’s all this about the house?”
“Nothing to worry about.”
Whenever someone says that, I know there’s definitely something to worry about.
“Was that dillweed right? Is the house in Mom’s name?”
Big Steve looked at the floor numbers slowly counting down.
“You know I can check. It’s public record.”
“She’s on the deed.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Had she met The Girls at the time the house was signed over?”
The elevator hit the first floor and the doors started to open. I hit the stop button and an alarm clanged, echoing off the wood paneling.
“Did Mom meet them or not?”
“Mercy, that was twenty-six years ago.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
“Mercy.”
“They’re my parents, like it or not. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“It’s better if you don’t know anything. I won’t have you lying under oath.”
“So that’s a no.” I let go of the button, the alarm stopped, and the doors jerked open. A crowd stood there, looking as confused as I felt.
“Everything’s fine,” said Big Steve as he pushed through the crowd.
Yeah, right. I don’t think so.
He walked me to my truck and opened the door for me. “Don’t worry. Tommy will dig up something on Brooks and the lawsuit will be a thing of the past.”
That was supposed to make me feel better? It didn’t. He might as well have said there was something to find out about our house.
I must’ve looked worried, because he put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your parents are good people. The best. Leonard has nothing.”
“Come on. Leonard isn’t fishing without bait,” I said.
“He doesn’t even have a hook. Trust me.” He moved to close my door, but I blocked it.
“Did Dad know Josiah Bled personally?”
Big Steve grinned. “I have every confidence that you’ll be able to figure that out.”
He slammed my door and got into his big gold Lexus and squealed the tires on the way out of the parking lot probably yelling into his phone the whole time. Big Steve was right about most things and he was right about me. I’d figure it out eventually, but wouldn’t it be nice if my parents would just tell me and save some time. I googled Josiah Bled on my phone and found his Wikipedia page. I’d seen it before, but it still seemed weird that The Girls’ uncle had one. Josiah Bled was famous in his own way. First for being a Bled. The Bled Brewery was known all over the world and so was the fabulously rich family. Second for being a WWI flying ace and third being a spy in WWII. He was known to a lesser extent for building our house and The Girls’ house. Pictures of both featured prominently on the page below his picture taken in France next to his bi-plane in 1917. He couldn’t have been more dashing with his leather flying helmet and white silk scarf. Myrtle and Millicent said their uncle was bad in the best way possible and he looked it as he smiled a rakish smile at the camera, his eyes crinkled like a great joke had just been told.
I scrolled down to his dates. Josiah Aloysius Bled, born July 4, 1900, died unknown. What the heck? How could they not know? He was definitely dead. He’d be over a hundred and ten, if he wasn’t. Come to think of it, I’d never seen his grave in the family plot. I wasn’t looking for it, but The Girls took me to the family estate Prie-Dieu for picnics and they liked to visit the family. I didn’t remember ever visiting Josiah Bled’s grave. Maybe he was in Arlington cemetery or some place like that, but everyone else was in the family plot, no matter where they died or how. Why would the much loved Josiah be any different?
I called Prie-Dieu to ask and got the answering machine. Since their accounts were frozen, The Girls were staying at the old estate to save money. They spent most of their time tending the grounds and giving tours since the mansion was in trust to the Missouri Historical Society. They’d never been so busy.
Then I tried Dad’s cell and Mom’s. I got voicemail on both. The home office was a lock. Claire, my old high school rival, had taken over after I did a favor for her in exchange for her transcription skills. She practically lived in Dad’s office. He was now a private detective and he’d never been so organized. My parents loved Claire. She was the daughter they never had. Obedient, respectful, and quiet. She did absolutely everything they said right down to her dating life. Dad checked out all potential suitors, so Claire hadn’t had a date in six months, which was a good thing. If there was a loser con artist in the vicinity, Claire would find him.
“Hey, Claire,” I said. “I’m trying to get ahold of my parents, but they’re not answering.”
“Hi, Mercy. Let me see. That’s right. Your dad’s chasing a child molester in Jeff City and your mom’s testifying in front of the grand jury in Cleveland. Do you want to leave a message in case they get in touch?”
“Will Dad be back tonight?”
“I doubt it. If he gets the guy, he’ll follow the arrest through.”
“What about Mom? We’re supposed to leave in two days.”
“She’s flying back tomorrow, assuming the indictment goes through. Why? Is something wrong?”
Is something wrong? Not exactly.
“No. Everything’s fine. But you’ve been going through Dad’s files reorganizing, right?” I asked.
“Yes. They were a mess.”
“Did you perhaps find anything about our house? Maybe some notes?”
Claire got cagey. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing in particular, just what was going on around the time The Girls gave it to us.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
Groan.
“What was Dad working on back then?” I asked.
“He was a police detective.”
; “I know. He kept every single notebook he used during his career. I just want to know what he was working on.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” said Claire.
“Why the heck not?”
“I signed a confidentiality agreement.”
“I’m his kid. I think you can tell me what cases he was working on before I was born.”
“I can’t. The agreement was very specific. You’re mentioned by name.”
“Dad had you sign an agreement not to tell me stuff? Seriously?”
“I can’t tell anyone else either, if that makes you feel better,” said Claire.
“It doesn’t.”
“Before you go, I have a message from your mom.”
Groan.
“You have to go shopping for appropriate cruise wear today. She’s tired of your procrastination. Sheila at Forever Summer is expecting you.”
“What in the world is appropriate cruise wear?”
“I have a list for you.”
Great. More dresses that fall apart.
“Never mind. I’ll figure it out.” I hung up and started up my ancient truck. The engine roared in a most satisfying way and the familiar vibrations rumbled through my generous rump, but I didn’t know exactly where to go from there. My parents were hiding something and Claire knew what it was. That just sucked.
A.W. Hartoin is the author of the Mercy Watts mystery series and the Away From Whipplethorn fantasy series. She lives in Colorado with her husband, two children, and six bad chickens.