A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (7 page)

Both she and Myrtle waited in the doorway, and I was at a loss. If I let them in, they’d plant themselves, and I’d never get to Gavin’s house. If I didn’t let them in, they’d tell Mom, and I’d never hear the end of it.

“Please come in. What a nasty day today,” I said.

“Yes, dear. Bad weather accompanies bad news, don’t you think? Is dear Mrs. Flouder here?” said Millicent.

“I’m here.”

I turned to see Dixie coming down. Her eyes were dry and she’d fixed her hair.

“I do hope we’re not intruding. We wanted to pay our respects,” said Myrtle.

“Not at all.” Dixie hugged them and herded us all towards the parlor.

Morty stomped out of the kitchen bellowing, “What the hell is taking so long?” He stopped short when he saw the Bled sisters. Morty had an unnatural respect for “The Girls”, as they were known on the Avenue, and was on his best behavior when they were around.

“Ladies, I didn’t see you there. How are you?”

“Morton,” they said.

“Why don’t we all go into the parlor.” I led Dixie and The Girls to the parlor while Uncle Morty stood in the hallway, shuffling his feet and giving me pointed looks. I supposed he wanted me to abandon my guests and finish our discussion. Fat chance.

We sat down on Mom’s odd, mismatched collection of sofas and wingback chairs. Millicent and Myrtle covered their knees with a pair of lap blankets kept there especially for them. They were cold no matter the temperature and expected blankets would be afforded them wherever they went. They were rarely disappointed. Morty came and stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. I ignored him and listened to Millicent’s intricate description of her casserole. Before long my mouth was watering. The Girls could cook. People were always surprised when they discovered Millicent and Myrtle were Bleds. The Bled Brewery was a St. Louis institution, and the name had a certain mystique. No one expected elderly ladies raised with nannies and private tutors to make the hell out of a casserole, but they could.

“Miss Bled, you’re making me hungry,” said Dixie.

“Now, dear, I told you at Christmas, call me Millicent. Why don’t we have some? Mercy?” said Millicent.

“Sure. Sounds great. Let’s go to the kitchen.” The Girls followed me down the hall close at my heels. They thought eating in the kitchen quite daring. Dixie set places, Morty poured drinks and soon the table was covered with chips, dips, relishes, rolls and, of course, casseroles. Morty sat as far from The Girls as possible and kept giving me sullen looks. Despite his displeasure, he managed to eat half a casserole and finish off the peach wine. Millicent and Myrtle ate the other half. I’d never seen them eat so much at one sitting.

“Dixie, dear, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you’re looking thin. You must eat more. Your dear husband would want you to take care of yourself,” said Myrtle.

“I don’t mind, but it’s the clothes, not me. I’ve done nothing but eat since I got here. I’m wearing Carolina’s things. They’re a bit large on me. I haven’t gone home yet.”

“Poor thing. Such memories there. Sometimes it can be difficult to walk in one’s own home…without remembering,” said Millicent.

My mother’s clothes engulfed Dixie. She lacked Mom’s generous hips and chest and needed her own clothes, but who could blame her for not wanting to go home. Morty let out a loud cough, and raised his eyebrows at me while muttering, “Excuse me.”

Duh. Why hadn’t I thought of that? It was the perfect cover. I’d pick up clothes for Dixie and search the house while I was at it. All I had to figure out was how to get rid of Morty and from the look of him, it wouldn’t be easy.

“You know what I’m in the mood for…whiskey sours. Anyone else?” I said.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said The Girls.

“Sounds nice,” said Dixie.

Morty ignored my suggestion, and got up to make coffee.

“Come on, Uncle Morty. Don’t make us drink alone.” I made my eyes as big as possible and batted them twice. This move worked on plenty of men, including my father if he wasn’t wary. The eyelash batting wasn’t my favorite maneuver, but occasionally it was necessary. Uncle Morty wasn’t easily swayed. His mouth twisted, and his eyes went to the ceiling. Then he looked at me like I’d just stuffed a potato chip up my nose. I’d have to pull out the big guns.

“Miss Millicent, Miss Myrtle, don’t you think Uncle Morty needs a drink? After all, he was quite close to Gavin, and has been grieving excessively.” The Girls stood up and, with looks of extreme compassion on their faces, went to Morty.

“My dear man. What have we been thinking? You’ve been so quiet. Come have a drink. Perhaps you would favor us with a story about Gavin. I’m sure Sharon would like to hear a good memory,” said Millicent.

“Yes, do tell us,” said Myrtle. She tucked her arm around Morty’s and led him back to his chair. I made the fastest batch of whiskey sours, extra strong, of my life. When no one was looking, I filled my own glass with water.

“This is pretty strong, Mercy,” said Morty.

“I’m sorry. I guess I got carried away.” I sipped my water and made a face. “Should I make another batch?”

“No, no, dear. They’re fine, just fine,” said Dixie.

“I think they’re very good,” said Millicent.

Three pitchers of whiskey sours, three glasses of water for me, and Uncle Morty was in no condition to go anywhere.

“Dixie, why don’t I go pick up some of your clothes? That way you won’t have to worry about it,” I said.

“Wonderful idea. Make some more drink things before you go. My keys are in my purse, but I don’t know where that thing’s got to,” said Dixie, her voice slurring.

“Don’t worry about it.” I made a fourth pitcher, and poured another round. Morty watched me with a glazed expression. He knew I was up to something, but he couldn’t connect the dots.

Morty swayed in his chair. “Sign anything away lately, Marilyn?”

“No, I didn’t. And don’t ever call me Marilyn.”

“You sure about that?” He belched and laughed at the same time. It made him sound like a Budweiser frog.

“Whatever. Bye, now.” I saluted him and he swayed again.

I jogged around the house looking for Dixie’s purse, and praying the cops hadn’t beat me to Gavin’s house. The purse sat in the receiving room under a pile of coats. I took two steps at a time up to the second floor and Dad’s office. His collection of crime scene cameras sat on a shelf above the desk, coated with dust and looking lonely. Dad had it covered from the 1970s on. His favorites got prime position in the front. A Konica Minolta, an ancient Polaroid, and a hefty Nikon with an auto advance sat alongside high school basketball trophies, various plaques, and an unbelievable number of books on crime. Dad had it covered from footprint analysis to profiling. A thin layer of dust covered the camera. Dad wasn’t taking a whole lot of crime scene photos anymore, but back in the day he was known for doing the crime scene photographers’ job for them. Dad always said, learn from your mistakes and improve. On Dad’s first murder as the primary detective, no one bothered to document the scene thoroughly. They took shots of the body, the scene of the struggle and point of entry or what they thought was the point of entry. Later on, Dad discovered they had it wrong, and an element of the crime was lost, and the conviction along with it. Dad never forgot the mistake and he took it to heart. He bought the Konica and used it well. Dad shot everything from the front door to the trash cans, and he solved a few cases because of it.

I chose the less-loved, but totally rocking Sony Cyber-shot. Dad preferred film over digital, but bowed to the practicality. He liked the smell of the film canisters and said that there was something magical about hearing the film advance. He was nuts.

I put the camera and Dad’s work iPad in a backpack. I went over everything he’d told me about shooting a scene as I left without saying goodbye. I doubt they noticed. I snuck through the dining room and used the servant’s door to the pantry to escape unnoticed. Uncle Morty was telling an old story about Gavin and the naked burglar. I heard them laughing all the way to my truck.

Chapter Six

DIXIE AND GAVIN’S house was a trek from my parents’ house in the Central West End and one of the reasons Dad and Gavin didn’t stay partners for long. Both of them wanted home offices, and they couldn’t decide which would be the primary location. So Dad stayed in the city and Gavin out in the burbs.

Florissant was filled with strip malls and planned communities. The houses were nearly identical one-story fifties bungalows on curving, confusing streets. I think the planners did that so the owners would concentrate on where their house was, rather than how it looked like every other one on the block. People told me my parents’ neighborhood was creepy. The huge trees, mansions dripping with wrought iron, and flickering street lamps unnerved them. A lot of the houses may have had a certain Scooby Doo quality, including my parents, but at least they didn’t look like something out of
The Stepford Wives
.

I parked in Gavin’s carport behind a police cruiser thirty-five minutes later. Damn, I was too late. It shouldn’t have taken so long to get there, but I made three wrong turns. The house was on Orchard Avenue. I turned on to Orchard Street, Orchard Boulevard, and Orchard Lane before striking gold. The planners thought up about ten names for their roads, and used them well. I got out of my truck, and listened to the quiet of suburban life. It was too quiet, unnatural. At least my parents had the distant hum of Kingshighway traffic and the foot traffic of stylish people on their way to little shops selling everything from vintage clothes to French chocolates. Florissant had nothing going and I mean nothing. I swear even the leaves were limp with boredom.

I peeked in the cruiser. Empty. I snapped shots of the house’s exterior, driveway and trees. No one saw me. If someone had, I wondered if they would’ve cared. No one appeared to be involved in anything save their own square plot of earth. A couple of cars drove by, but the drivers didn’t even turn their heads. Of course it might have been that texting was more interesting than me snapping pictures.

It wasn’t often that I didn’t merit a second look and no cop came out to yell at me. I felt luckier every minute. The property wasn’t cordoned off, and the doors were free of crime scene tape. It was practically an invitation, so I unlocked the side door, and went into the cheerful yellow kitchen with its alphabetized cookbooks and shiny stainless appliances.

“Hey,” I yelled. “Is anybody here?”

There was no answer and I felt free to snoop.

My cell vibrated. “Hello,” I said.

“Is this Mercy Watts?” a male voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Hey, guys, it’s really her. So what are you wearing?”

“What the hell?” I hung up.

My cell rang again and I had a similar conversation with a guy who identified himself as Russell the Love Muscle. I hung up on Russell and ignored my ringing phone. I didn’t waste time with less than witty prank callers.

Dixie’s kitchen was neat and clean with a few dishes in the sink, but that was the only sign that something unusual happened. She never left dishes unwashed normally. I shot the kitchen with special attention to the door and windows. The living room was the same, no signs of a struggle or a break-in. The windows and front door were locked. On Dixie’s new leather sofa, a book lay open with its binding cracked and pages face down on a worn afghan. I’d read
Alive
by Piers Paul Read forever ago and never again. That copy was dog-eared. I guessed it was Gavin’s. Dixie read romances of the Danielle Steel variety. I took a picture of the book on its afghan. I tipped up the book with my fingernail. Gavin was halfway through. I took note of the page. For some reason, it was comforting to know what he’d last read. Carefully, I lay the book back as I found it.

All three bedrooms and the two bathrooms were unremarkable and undisturbed. The shower and sink drains were clean. I didn’t expect to see splashes of blood or the killer’s hair in the drain, since it wasn’t that kind of murder, but you never knew. Plus, I knew Dad would’ve looked. I wasted more time on those rooms and moved on to Gavin’s office, taking pictures of the door, both sides, and the view into the office. It was messy as I expected. For a small room, Gavin packed a lot in. Three of the four walls had floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled to overflowing. The bay window seat was stacked with how-to manuals on home improvement. Gavin collected how-to books like my father collected crime manuals. Some of the books were scattered on the floor. Gavin wasn’t a neat freak, but I doubted he’d let his books fall and not pick them up. I shot the window seat from several angles, and continued to look around. The chair was across the room about four feet from the desk, and there were several papers and a couple of file folders on the floor.

I got Dad’s iPad out of my backpack and noted the names on the folders. The files appeared to be intact, so they probably didn’t mean anything. They were just in the way. I went through the papers and books on the desk using my fingernails to lift and shift. I wrote down every name and phone number I found.

My phone kept ringing nonstop. I gritted my teeth and answered. All I heard was raucous laughter and rude noises. I hung up, switched to vibrate, and threw the phone in the bottom of my backpack. I feared turning it off altogether, in case Mom or Dr. Grace called.

I shook off the freaky phone calls and pressed the play button on Gavin’s old school answering machine with my pen. The machine said, “No Messages.” That was odd. Dad usually had a ton of messages. I flipped up the lid and found the cassette holder empty. The landline was only used for business, so I guessed I was looking for a client or someone who knew a client. If the killer had thought to take the tape, he’d want to take his file, too. I hadn’t thought much about Gavin’s files. The drawers were closed, and there were no signs of the struggle around it. I checked it out anyway, and opened the top drawer.