A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (33 page)

“Where to, pretty lady?” asked the driver.

I raised an eyebrow at Derek. “Do you have anywhere you’re supposed to be?”

“Are you kidding? I’m not leaving you alone again.”
 

I gave the driver Sheila’s address and then asked what he’d found out from his brothers at the house. He flushed and looked down at his stubby fingernails. “Nothing. They know I let you in and I’m on the shit list.”
 

“I should’ve anticipated that. Toby was less than helpful. I’ll deal with them.”
 

“If they won’t talk to me, they’re not going to talk to you,” he said.
 

I shifted in the seat, leaned over, and batted my eyes with a slightly open mouth a la Marilyn. “Did you ask nicely?”
 

Derek scooted back and stammered, “I…I…I.”
 

“Boy,” said the driver, “I’d tell that little lady anything she wanted to know.”
 

“Thank you for your vote of confidence.” I grinned at him in the rearview mirror.
 

“Always happy to help. What information you looking for?”
 

“Who might’ve been prowling around a certain frat house at the time a cupcake was dropped off,” I said.
 

“Are we talking cupcake or
cupcake?”
 

I grinned wider. “The edible kind.”
 

“Some would say you’re good enough to eat.”
 

“It has been said.”
 

“Many times.”
 

“A few. It’s true.”
 

“I will say it again. You are good enough to eat.”
 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said.
 

“That’s what it was.”

Derek looked back and forth between me and the driver with a confused, slightly embarrassed expression.
 

“How’d you end up in the back of a cab with this lady, boy?” the driver asked Derek.
 

“I really don’t know. Luck, I guess.”
 

“That I believe.”
 

“He’s helping with some research.”
 

The driver grinned in the mirror. “I shoulda gone to college.”
 

My phone rang and I didn’t recognize the number. Normally, I didn’t answer for people I didn’t know. I had a history of obscene callers and had to change my number on a regular basis. It was a hassle, but you get used to it. This time I answered out of desperation. Uncle Morty hadn’t called and I was hoping it was him. It wasn’t.
 

“Hello.”
 

“Mercy Watts?” asked a low male voice.
 

“Yes.”
 

“I’m calling on behalf of Tulane University. We’re sending you a cease and desist letter.”
 

I licked my lips. “Oh, really. Whatever for?”
 

“You must stop harassing our students and faculty immediately,” he said.
 

“How are you going to send it?”
 

“Huh? I mean, I will be mailing out the letter immediately. If you do not comply, we will sue you.”
 

“Are you using a courier, USPS, FedEx? Is the letter registered? What am I looking at here?”
 

Derek and the driver looked at me curiously and I rolled my eyes.
 

“Courier,” said the guy. He even sounded sure.
 

“What address?”
 

“For what?”
 

“What address are you sending the courier to?” I asked.
 

“Oh, well, your address.”
 

“Which is?”
 

“I have it right here.”
 

I leaned back and sighed. “Look. I don’t know who you are, but here’s a tip, so far in my life I’ve been drugged, beat up, and nearly drowned. If you’re going to try and intimidate me, you’re going to have to do better than that. Bye now.”
 

I hung up and Derek stared at me. “Who was that?”
 

“No idea, but he sucked. I’ve dealt with thirteen-year-old girls that are tougher than that.”
 

“Really?”
 

“Yes, and smarter.” I texted Uncle Morty about the so-called Tulane threat and asked him to look into it.
 

The driver came to a halt at a stop sign and shifted in his seat. “I’m going to have to go around. There’s some kinda nonsense goin’ on up there.”
 

I looked down the street and my stomach twisted. There was police tape and a crowd of bystanders under wide umbrellas, craning their necks to get a look.
 

“Where’s that address I gave you?” I asked, feeling sicker by the moment.
 

“Up there somewhere. Don’t know for sure.”
 

“Pull over.”
 

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned left and parked on the cross street. We were in a down market area, but it was clean with little shotgun houses painted in cheerful pastels. I bit my lip and then told Derek to stay in the cab.
 

“Why? I better go.”
 

“No. You stay here.” I grinned at the driver. “Make sure he doesn’t leave me here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
 

“But Mercy, I think I better—”

I got out and closed the door on more protests. My umbrella popped open and I crossed the street, hopping over the gushing gutter to a cracked sidewalk. The crowd was oddly silent. That’s how you know something horrible has happened. Even in the taxi I knew. Disaster has a look about it, a way of being draped over those who are on the outside watching. I knew what had happened, and I knew who it had happened to.
 

I reached the edge of the crowd and, sure enough, the address was Sheila’s, a pink shotgun house with green shutters. There were two patrolmen holding back the onlookers, not that they seemed inclined to rush the scene. They stood together, holding hands and sometimes murmuring with the rain beating on their umbrellas, drowning out what might’ve been said.
 

“Excuse me,” I said to a little old lady with skin the color of well-roasted coffee beans. “What happened?”
 

“Oh lord. It’s a terrible thing. Terrible thing.”
 

“What is?”
 

“Young girl living in that house. She’s dead. I’ve known her for months. Sweet girl. Not too bright, mind you, but a sweet, sweet girl.” She wiped away a tear and I felt tears rise in my own eyes.

“Sheila,” I whispered.

“You know her, too. Wasn’t she a sweet girl?”
 

“I think, she was. What happened? She was awfully young.”
 

The lady edged closer to me and said in a low whisper, “Man come in, tear up the house, and strangle Sheila. Sweet girl. Why he want to do a thing like that? Those girls didn’t have a pot to pee in.”
 

I swallowed hard.
Why indeed?
 

“When did it happen? I asked, all choked up. I couldn’t help it and it disgusted me. I was supposed to be a professional. Sort of, anyway.
 

“I saw her come home the day before yesterday. She was all crying about some man at her work who got himself killed. She was torn up about it. Didn’t want to talk, though. She went inside and never come out again.”
 

“Who found her?” I asked.
 

“Her roommate last night. The house was torn clean apart and there Sheila was dead in the kitchen. Poor little Leslie. What a thing to find. They had to take her away in an ambulance. She was wailing something fierce,” said the lady.

“Where does Leslie work?”
 

“She’s one of those airline stewardesses. I don’t know which airline, but that girl’s always gone.” She looked at me closer with hazy cataract-filled eyes. “Do I know you?”
 

“No, ma’am. I’m from out of town, but I met Sheila a couple days ago.”
 

“Were you coming to see her?”
 

“Yes, I was.”
 

She patted my arm. “What a shock for you.”
 

Yes. Quite a shock.
 

I thanked her and went back to the taxi, feeling heavier and heavier with every step. Sheila gets strangled right after I show up at Rob Berry’s office, asking questions. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
 

I got in and slammed the door, dropping my sodden umbrella at my feet.
 

“What happened?” asked Derek.
 

“Someone got murdered.”
 

“Jesus. What is this world coming to?” The driver shook his grey head. “Are we going now, little lady?”
 

“Yes.” It was hard to get that little word out, but I did it.
 

“To the address you give me?”
 

“No. Tulane.”
 

He looked at me in the mirror and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”
 

I sunk into the door, ignoring questions from Derek and wishing I’d never come. Dad should’ve been the one. I couldn’t handle this. It was too much. Sheila was dead. Dead. That was so damn permanent I wanted to scream.
 

But I didn’t scream. Dad always said feel however you want, just keep it on the inside. So that’s what I did. I had the driver drop a protesting Derek off at the frat and then told him to take me to St. Louis cemetery No. 1. Feeling the way I did, I needed family. It wasn’t required that they be alive. In fact, they listened a lot better if they weren’t.
 

Chapter Twenty-One

THE HEAVY BUNCH of sunflowers and yarrow on my lap cheered me up considerably. The driver took me by his favorite florist, so I could pick up flowers for the family vaults. His wife required flowers on a regular basis and he knew just where to go for a good deal. I combined three bunches and the pile covered my lap with cheerful goodness. I’ve always thought that sunflowers are the happiest plant. If I ever have a garden, it will have sunflowers.
 

“You sure about this, little lady? You had a shock with that murder and all. The dead might not be good for you,” said the driver kindly.
 

“I always come to see them. Now might be my only chance while I’m here,” I said.
 

“Not a good day for it.”
 

I looked out at the passing buildings, grey and lifeless in the continuing drizzle. “It’s okay. They don’t mind.”
 

He pulled up at the gate, a black wrought iron affair between two white blocky pillars. The gate was open, which surprised me. I had terrible luck with that gate. Half the time when I showed up, the gate had a chain wrapped around the metal bars and was sealed with a big padlock for no apparent reason other than I was there.
 

“Do you want me to wait?” asked the driver.
 

“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

He made a grumbling noise in his chest.
 

“It’s okay. I’ve done it bunches of times.” I pulled out the fare with a generous tip.
 

He gave me his card and told me to call if I changed my mind. He’d be in the neighborhood. I got the feeling that he would be just for me. I gave him his money and he didn’t bother to count it. I guess he liked me, a nice feeling considering the day I was having.
 

I stepped out onto the sidewalk right into a puddle, of course, popped open my umbrella, and waved to the driver before he drove away down the misty street toward Canal. My sopping shoes crunched the gravel as I walked past the pillars into ‘the domain of the dead’ as Pop Pop called it. He avoided it at all costs. It was all those generations stacked up in their ovens or worse jumbled up together under the floor when their vaults had been taken over by new occupants. He hated the idea that all those generations had come down to just one. Me. I was the only egg left in the family basket. Pop Pop thought it was a lot of pressure. I didn’t agree. It wasn’t my fault we weren’t good breeders. Nana was always asking about Pete and hinting about marriage and babies. She thought six was a nice number. I thought she was insane. Six of me? My parents could only handle one.
 

I took a left past Nick Cage’s future resting place, a white pyramid big enough for three, and meandered through the warren of tombs. Most were no longer cared for, their families had died out or forgotten their responsibilities. But some, like ours, were very much loved. Nana kept up the maintenance. She did the cleaning on both tombs, actually, Pop Pop’s family and hers. They were in different parts of the cemetery. The old dividing lines of religion and race were still in place. Nana’s family was Catholic and Pop Pop’s were Protestant. She made a point of telling me that someday those tombs would be my responsibility. Now that was a daunting thought. All those generations counting on me not to be a loser and keep their bricks from showing.