A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (12 page)

Pete stretched out beside me and stoked my thigh. I put my head on his shoulder, drawing his smell deep into my lungs until they were filled to the point of pain. The stench was gone, banished by the thin sheen of fresh sweat on his skin. After letting me breathe him for a couple of minutes, Pete said, “I have to go.”

“I know. See you in a month,” I said.

“Sorry, babe. But I do have a break after this rotation. Two weeks. We should go somewhere.”

“I have to go on a cruise.”

“A cruise with who?” he asked.

“Aunt Tenne just asked me, and I can’t afford two vacations,” I said.

“Why do you have to go?” he asked.

“Well, she asked and who else is going to do it?”

“Your mom could go.”

“She’s on a cruise now and, besides, cruising with Mom isn’t Aunt Tenne’s idea of a good time. The looks, the comparisons. You know how it is,” I said.

“You look exactly like your mother, so how are you different?” asked Pete.

“I’m not her sister.”

“I guess I don’t get the whole girly competition thing.”

“All I can say is Mom’s a lot to handle even for me, and I don’t weight three hundred plus.”

“I don’t even get that,” he said.

“I don’t have the energy to explain girls to you,” I said, rolling over and shoving him off my bed.

Pete walked into the bathroom muttering. I looked after his long, lean frame for a moment and then picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Mercy, it’s Mom. You’re not answering your cell phone.”

“Sorry. I turned it off because...dinner. I was having dinner. I guess I forgot to turn it back on.”

“I’m surprised you’re home. I expected you to be with Sharon. She shouldn’t be on her own,” said my mother in the special disappointed voice she saved just for me.

“She is not alone. The Girls were at the house when I left,” I said with my “I’m a good girl” voice.

“No one answered the phone,” she said.

“Maybe they didn’t hear it. So what’s up?” I asked.

“Dad wants to know how it’s going. Have you talked to Dr. Grace yet?”

“Where’s Dad?”

“Right here.” She offered no explanation. It wasn’t like Dad to let Mom do the talking. He just plain had too much to say.

“Is something wrong?”

“Well, he’s a tad under the weather,” she said.

“Dad’s sick? No way!”

Dad sick was a once in a decade occurrence. Injuries happened all the time, but Dad considered illness an insult.

“Try not to sound so pleased,” Mom said.

“I’m not pleased. I’m surprised. What’s wrong?”

“The flu, I suppose. It’s going around.”

“Norovirus?” I asked.

“They’re not willing to go that far yet,” she said. “Back to the case, this is costing us a fortune.”

“Okay. I talked to Grace. Dad was right. Gavin’s MI was induced. Tox screen isn’t back yet.” I heard a murmur, and Mom repeated what I said. Dad cursed, and Mom came back on the line.

“Dad okay?” I asked.

“He’s fine,” she said.

He didn’t sound fine. The background, previously quiet, was filled with loud hacking and thumping furniture.

“What’s he doing?”

“He wants the phone,” she said.

“Give it to him before he has a conniption.”

“Absolutely not. He might vomit on it and then where would I be.”

“That bad, huh?” I said.

“Worse. What else have you done? Nothing illegal, I hope.”

“Of course not. I got some things for Dixie and documented the house. That’s the crime scene. I found a couple of missing files, a scuff mark on the wall, fibers and hair. No blood.”

“You didn’t touch anything.” Mom’s voice rose an octave.

“No, I did not touch anything. I’m not an idiot, Mom.”

“What else? What files?”

“Two S files. I’m not sure who the clients were yet. Gavin’s cells were there. One was dead and I copied the last ten numbers dialed on the other.”

“Whose numbers were they?”

“Dad’s office, the Rockville Church of Christ, and the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. I’m not sure about the last one.” I didn’t want to tell her about Chuck and the bride’s phone number. If I brought him up, she might tell me to drop it and give Chuck what I had. Since I wasn’t doing that, it was easier to omit than disobey.

“Rockville Church of Christ? Have you been by there yet?”

“Yeah and get this, a bride was murdered there the day before Gavin died. Does Dad know what Gavin was working on?” Mom asked Dad and through the coughs I thought she got a positive response.

“Deadbeat dad case,” Mom said. “Not very exciting.”

“It may have just gotten exciting,” I said.

“He doesn’t think so, but you should check it out anyway.”

I got up and put on a robe. “What about the University?”

“He doesn’t remember Gavin saying anything about that. Have Mort run Gavin’s credit cards,” said Mom.

“When are you coming home?” I could feel Mom’s hesitation and then I heard concern in her voice.

“Well, dear, we’re docking this evening, but I don’t know…” There was a yell in the background that sounded like Dad finally having his conniption fit.

“Your father seems to think he can fly back immediately, but I don’t know if they’ll let him on a flight.”

“Let me know,” I said.

“I’ll call later for another update. Be safe and for God’s sake stay under the radar.” That was Mom’s way of saying don’t get arrested. I have been arrested a few times, but somehow my paperwork always gets lost, never to be seen again. Can’t say I worry much about getting arrested anymore.

We hung up as Pete came out of the bathroom amid billowing steam. His damp scrubs stuck to his skin and showed me the outline of his abs under the fabric. I followed him into the kitchen and watched him toast a bagel. He slathered it with whipped butter and wrapped it in plastic for later. He turned to me and said while putting on his lab coat, “I’ll call you later.” Pete’s later meant sometime in the indistinct future.

“You can’t wear that,” I said, poking his chest.

“What?”

“That lab coat is disgusting. You can’t treat sick people in that. They feel bad enough already,” I said.

Pete looked down, his head moving side to side while smoothing his jacket. “I think it’s okay.”

“You would. What’s that?” I pointed to a three-inch yellow stain on his right sleeve.

“Orange juice, I think.”

“What about this?” I picked up his hem and brought it chest high. It was gray and the stitching was falling out.

“I’m going to be a surgeon, not a seamstress,” he said.

“Leave it here. I’ll fix it. Imagine that. The poor thing has probably never seen the inside of a washer.” I slipped the jacket off his shoulders and threw it in my washer.

“When can I have it back?”

“I’ll let you know. You better go.”

After Pete left, I washed the jacket all by itself with lots of detergent, bleach, and hot water. I didn’t want it contaminating my unmentionables, even though I had a pile of them waiting to be washed. While I waited for the jacket to finish, I showered and pondered the few pounds I’d put on. It’s hard to ignore that kind of thing in the shower. The pounds made me look softer, but I don’t think Pete noticed. A previous boyfriend once described me as squishy. That was the end of him. I’d adopted my mother’s yoga habit, so despite my so-called squishiness, I was pretty fit. The more I thought about Pete, the more I thought I’d better keep him, schedule and all. How often did I meet a man who didn’t compare me to Marilyn? Who didn’t even seem to care that much about how I looked or that I was a YouTube laughingstock? That alone was a feat. Actually, I was more Marilyn than the genuine article. My body curvier, taller with bigger breasts and hips, not to mention that I’m a natural blond, differences the average Joe didn’t get. Pete never once thought I was Marilyn. He touched my curves like he wanted to paint them. Not like he was living out a fantasy.

I turned on the hair dryer and ran it over my body, removing the last bit of moisture, and then dried my hair. My curls tamed with the help of a round brush, I added mascara, a touch of blush, and a ton of lip gloss. The effect was spot on and just what I needed if the church was still a crime scene and hadn’t been released yet. I had to pull out the big guns if I was going to get past the cops and into that church.

First, I had to go back to my parents’ house. Emphasizing my Marilynness wouldn’t help me interview Dixie. In her state, I doubted she’d notice if I wore Dad’s clothes. Also, my mother was her best friend, so she was used to it. Mom was more Marilyn than any sane person would hope for, and I was going the same route. Plus, I was getting Mom’s attitude. Why fight the power, when it can be so useful?

I put on a lacy bra, no padding necessary unless I wanted to injure somebody, and a tank dress, clingy yet loose. I wanted to teeter at the top, but not go over it. A low sandal and a clutch and I was ready for anything or at least I thought I was.

Chapter Nine

I DROVE TO my parents’ house with the windows rolled down. The breeze felt like silk on my skin. Seven-thirty was a good time of night in the Central West End. The street lamps lit the dusky shadows of evening making golden orbs for me to follow home. In the warmth of that June evening, I allowed myself to feel good.

The streets were parked up early with Porsches, and every other expensive car imaginable. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to park on the street. I bypassed the trendy restaurants and antique shops, turning down the alley behind my parents’ house. Their street, Hawthorne Avenue, was the best section and had alleyways between streets. The houses had servants’ staircases and high-six-figure price tags. Dad lucked into our house in the seventies. He did the Bled family a favor, and my godmothers practically gave him the house as a thank-you. He never could’ve afforded it any other way, even when the area was at its lowest ebb. Hawthorne Avenue was an island of exclusion.

I parked in the garage and walked up through the garden to the back porch. Happily, Uncle Morty wasn’t there waiting for me, but the kitchen lights blazed. Strains of Vivaldi’s
The Four Seasons
wafted through the screen door. The summer section, I think. It felt like home and, in the deepest part of my heart, I still considered it my home although I hadn’t lived there in four years. I wasn’t sure if another house could ever supplant it in my affections.

When I got closer, I smelled bacon frying mixed with the scent of damp soil. Someone had over-watered the potted plants that lined the stairs and a trickle of water went down to a small pool on the brick walkway. I went up the stairs, my hand sliding on the smooth, worn wood of the handrail then I pulled open the screen door and walked into the frigid pantry. Several ingredients lay on the marble counter, heavy cream, strawberries, mushrooms and a Ghirardelli Sweet Dark Chocolate bar. Aunt Tenne was making a decadent dinner to soothe Dixie’s soul. According to her, food was the only way to go. Where my mother might have called a priest, Aunt Tenne called the calorie cavalry.

“Don’t even think about it.”

I turned around to see Aunt Tenne standing in the doorway. She stood with her arms crossed and a sad smile on her face.

“Don’t think about what?” I asked.

“The chocolate bar. I’m making ice cream and I only brought the one.” She waved me into the kitchen. It was alive with her presence. Bacon fried, lettuce drained in the sink and Aunt Tenne started slicing an enormous tomato from Mom’s garden out back.

Umm BLTs
.

I poured myself an iced tea, plopped in a couple slices of lemon and sat down at the table. Aunt Tenne didn’t speak and continued to slice slowly and deliberately. I sipped my tea and thanked God Dad wasn’t there to pester and order me about. Dad was great, but when he had an important case, it was all hands on deck. Actually, it was more like hand on deck. Dad loved a free lunch and I was his favorite waitress. He could get me to do work that he’d have to pay for otherwise. It was my own fault. My pride wouldn’t let me be lousy at the tasks he assigned, so I kept getting more difficult jobs like this thing with Gavin. If I’d proven to be a goofball, I’d have been scot-free. As it was, I was in up to my eyeballs and the water was rising.

“So what have you been doing?” Aunt Tenne asked.

“Nothing.”

She made a disbelieving grunt under her breath.

“No, really. I had dinner with Pete. That’s it.”

Well, not exactly just dinner, but my other activities were off the record.

“Glad to hear it. Are you eating?

“Absolutely. Where’s Dixie?”

She forked the last bacon slices onto a paper-towel-covered plate, and said, “Upstairs. Taking another nap.” I could tell by the way she said it that she wasn’t crazy about the multiple naps. But who was she to judge? When was the last time she had a spouse murdered?

“Do you want me to wake her for dinner?” I asked.

“I’m here.” Dixie walked in with a shawl around her shoulders and a face that said head cold.