A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (4 page)

“Never mind. I’ll pay Grace a visit,” I said, my face in a hard flush.

“That’s right, you will, and you’ll be happy to do it.”

“Absolutely, Dad. I’m on it.”

“We’ll fly home as soon as we pull into port.”

“When’s that?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.

“Three days. And don’t forget about the Smith file. You can take care of that while you wait for Gavin’s report.”

“The Smith file? Are you serious? Gavin just died, Dad.”

Dad got quiet and then said in a low voice, “I know my friend is dead. No one, except Sharon, feels it more than me. But there’s no point in sitting on your hands, while you wait for that report. I want my money before that old fart drops. He’d do it just to spite me.”

I rubbed my eyes and groaned. I’d forgotten about the Smith file the moment my parents passed through airport security. Dad was forever giving me assignments, none of which I wanted, but I did them, slowly and with plenty of reminders. I thought I was free for the duration of their cruise. I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“If I must,” I said.

“You must. Call me if anything develops?”

“Like what?” I said as I grabbed Dad’s schnapps and added a generous amount to my mug.

“You know what I’m talking about. Call Chuck if you need help.”

Chuck was a detective in the STLPD and my cousin by marriage. He was also the head of the sleazeball brigade. Calling him would never happen. “I don’t need Chuck. I can handle anything.”

“Be careful, Mercy,” said Dad, more serious than I’d ever heard him. “I have a feeling.”

I hung up without delving deeper into Dad’s feeling. First, the Smith file and now this. Fantastic. I knew Dad’s reputation well enough to know it wasn’t a good thing. Like most good cops, Dad seemed to have an extra sense. He knew when things were about to get messy. I hated messy, unless it was my apartment. Then it was just fine.

Chapter Three

THE NEXT DAY I put on a red wrap dress and a pair of peep-toe stilettos. If I had to take care of Dad’s problem, I wanted it over quickly. In my experience, slinky red dresses are good for that. And the Smith file wouldn’t be easy. It was one of those pesky payment defaults Mom usually dealt with. Gerald Smith had hired my dad to find his first wife, Ursula, who divorced him about thirty seconds after he came back from WWII. Gerald’s second wife died a year ago, and he needed a replacement. He thought finding Ursula was easier than recruiting a whole new woman, providing Ursula was still alive. She was, but not at all eager to reconnect with Gerald. She told Dad that if Gerald tried to contact her again, she’d have him shot.

That was six months ago. Gerald refused to pay because Ursula wanted to shoot him. He thought Dad must’ve put it to her wrong and it was Dad’s fault that he didn’t have his replacement wife. He was hungry and his house was a disaster area. Gerald thought Dad should pony up for a housekeeper and cook, preferably Filipino.

I spent the morning driving around looking for Gerald, who despite his eighty-nine years was on the go from sunrise. I went to his house, his health club, the coffee shop he frequented, his chiropractor, his friend Ed’s house, his favorite bar, and finally got a tip that the VFW was having a shindig at two.

Shindig was right. The Ballwin VFW’s parking lot was full and the street was parked up for two blocks. I took off my heels and stood on the hot pavement looking up at the beautiful brick mansion the VFW had destroyed with weird additions and a red, white, and blue paint job. I joined the queue of elderly walking to a side door. They were all men in various states of disintegration and wearing hats weighed down with medals, ribbons, and pins. Their skinny necks and sparse hair made them look like the buzzard from the Bugs Bunny cartoons, but they hobbled along, smiling and laughing. I remembered how long it’d been since I’d seen my grandpa. He was a Vietnam vet, and technically old, but it was hard to connect him with those weathered men. Grandpa Ace wouldn’t be caught dead in a VFW. He preferred to forget.

“Hello, honey. Coming to see your grandpa?” asked one of the men with a hat so encased in medals that no fabric showed through.

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m looking for Gerald Smith. Do you know him?”

“I certainly do. He’ll be here, rest assured. I’m Jed Avery and you are?”

“Mercy Watts. Pleased to meet you.” I shook his large, rough hand and glanced into his faded blue eyes. Mr. Avery was one of the few moving without a cane or walker. I saw in his eyes the young man who still resided there.

We walked together chitchatting about his grandchildren and various health problems until we got to the double doors.

“That didn’t take too long,” said Mr. Avery.

I guess twenty minutes isn’t too long if you’ve lived nearly a century. I was about to tear my hair out when we walked through the doors. A long table covered in a tattered tablecloth filled half the vestibule and three veterans sat behind it selling tickets and bingo cards. When Mr. Avery and I got to the table they all frowned. I knew my attire wasn’t the best, but I expected to see Gerald at home or his bar. I thought getting money out of an old guy would be helped by a formfitting dress, not hindered.

“Hi Abner,” said Mr. Avery. “How much?”

Abner squinted at me. “Five to get in and two per card.”

“That’s highway robbery. Five is way too high.”

“It’s all for the Christmas party this year. We’re going to have a doozy,” Abner said, still squinting.

“What about my friend here?” Mr. Avery patted my shoulder. “She’s looking for Gerald Smith. Is he here?”

“He is, but he just went to the bathroom. He could be in there for an hour.”

“I’ll wait. Just need to speak to him for a moment. It’s a business thing,” I said.

“Don’t matter. I can’t let you in.”

“I’ll pay the five bucks. No problem,” I said, opening my purse.

Abner looked at Mr. Avery who shrugged.

“Can’t do it. Not unless you’re a member of the VFW. Are you?”

“No. I just need to speak to Mr. Smith. That’s it.”

“Can’t let you in without a membership,” said Abner.

The vestibule was crammed with old guys and the smell of Aspercream was getting overwhelming. I breathed through my mouth. “Come on. It’s just a couple of minutes. Can’t you do something?”

“Come on, Abner. Don’t be such a hard-ass,” said Mr. Avery.

Abner coughed a deep, phlegmy cough that reminded me of Dad. I had to get in there or I’d spend hours tracking Gerald down again.

“Please, please. I’ll make a donation,” I said.

Abner squinted again. “One hundred bucks.”

“I’ll give you twenty-five,” I said.

“Seventy-five,” said Abner.

“Fifty.”

“Done.” Abner shook my hand and gave me a sheaf of papers.

“What’s this?”

“Standard release form.”

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” said Mr. Avery. “Abner’s just our resident worrywart. You’re not going to sue us if you slip and fall, are you?”

“Not a chance,” I said.

“Then sign it and you can get on with the rest of your day,” he said.

I slipped on my shoes, flipped to the last page of the release, signed, and made out a check for fifty bucks. What a pain in my ass. I didn’t suppose there was a chance of getting Dad to reimburse me. He’d argue that I could’ve held out for less.

Mr. Avery paid for his ticket and a dozen bingo cards. He held out his arm and squired me into the ballroom filled with the remnants of wars past. On one side a furious game of bingo was going on, complete with cussing and threats. I knew from Aunt Miriam that bingo was practically a contact sport. On the other side, a swing band played my favorite Glenn Miller song, “Chattanooga Choo Choo”. In the middle, a bunch of guys were arguing around a king-sized map with pins and arrows all over it. At first I thought it was a WWII map or maybe Vietnam. But when we got closer, it proved to be a Civil War map, centering mostly on Fredericksburg, Virginia. From what I could tell, the Union was getting its ass handed to them. Two men stood nose to red nose, clinging to rickety walkers hollering about General Burnside’s performance. They both seemed to think he was an idiot, just how much of one was in question.

“That’s Carl and Lamont,” said Mr. Avery. “They love to hate Burnside.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“I see your toe tapping. Care to cut a rug?”

“Why not?” I took Mr. Avery’s hand and he swung me out on the dance floor. Not bad for an old guy and considerably better than any young guy I’d ever danced with, including my boyfriend Pete, who pretended dancing didn’t exist.

The “Chattanooga Choo Choo” goes on forever, in a good way, and by the time it finished I was out of breath and panting. Another man took my hand and we jitterbugged until he passed me to someone else. Somewhere along the line the crowd started clapping and I felt it down to my toes and out to my fingertips. I was just plain happy. Gavin wasn’t dead. I wasn’t doing grunt work for Dad. I wasn’t tired and I definitely wasn’t having my period. I was perfect. I never felt so good swinging around, laughing and dancing in a world before my time.

The band stopped playing, saying they needed a break. Half the brass section bent over and wheezed past their instruments, red-faced and trembling. Mr. Avery insisted on taking my picture with one of his buddies. I bent over and kissed his soft, lined cheek and then smiled as Mr. Avery clicked away. I posed with other vets until my cheeks hurt and Mr. Avery took pity on me and stopped the picture-taking.

“How about some dessert?” he asked.

“Love some,” I said.

I inhaled a piece of chocolate peanut butter pie and spied Gerald Smith, coming out of the bathroom.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I see Mr. Smith.”

I got myself ready to chase him out the door once he saw me, but Gerald just smiled. “I guess you got me.”

“Yep, time to pay up.”

“I thought your mother collected the bills, but I guess you’ll do,” said Gerald.

“Whatever. Just write me a check for four hundred dollars,” I said.

Gerald pulled out his checkbook, filled out a check, tore it off, and handed it to me. It was even for the correct amount. I expected him to try to give me a check for forty instead of four hundred. Dad said he was a wily old bastard.

“How about a picture to commemorate the moment,” said Gerald.

“You want to commemorate paying your bill?” I asked.

“I’m eighty-nine. I commemorate taking a whiz.”

“Whatever.” I turned and smiled with Gerald, who kept peeking down my dress.“That’s it. I’ve got to go.”

The whole room stood up (those that could stand) and clapped. I bowed low, gave them a finger wave, and flounced out the door.

Score. I couldn’t believe it’d been that easy. I’d never had fun when doing something for Dad. I’d have to remember this one, because it wouldn’t happen again. I climbed into my truck, kicked off my heels, and smiled into the rearview. I’d done Dad’s crappy errand and it was almost like a good deed. God I was good.

It took me another day to get to the morgue. Not that I couldn’t make the time. I was up on eight doing orthopedic work. I could’ve gone down anytime I pleased, but I wasn’t a big fan of morgues. It was a good thing nursing school didn’t include a course in gross anatomy. I never would’ve made it. Dad, on the other hand, ate rare roast beef sandwiches during organ weighing. I didn’t inherit his strong stomach, not that I missed it. Also, I wasn’t crazy about using Dad’s name to get information. It made me feel like I was back in fifth grade forging his name on my permission slips. My procrastination skills were working great until Aunt Miriam told me Gavin’s chart review was done and the body was ready to go to the funeral home.

I sucked it up and went down into the bowels of St. James on Tuesday afternoon. As usual, it was quiet and took awhile to get some attention. Then I found myself in an office that looked like it’d been decorated by Jessica McClintock and it wasn’t a good thing. There were no less than five dried flower arrangements, a wreath, two framed needlepoint canvases of cabbage roses, and a deep-pile lavender rug on the floor. The name on the desk was A.M. Forester, so I expected a woman to walk in. A. wasn’t an Alice or Anne, but Alan and he looked like a young Mr. Rogers gone homicidal. With that décor who could blame him? I assumed his wife was at fault, at least I hoped so. Pictures of a pretty woman with enormous permed hair hung in a series behind the desk. Her pink and purple eye shadow said Jessica and cabbage roses to me.