A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (38 page)

“Can you leave?”

“Rod would kill me.”

“Doreen at the Crab Shack wants to give me all the crab I can eat,” I said.

“Let’s go.” Aaron took off his apron and nodded to Mario.

“Aren’t you going to tell Rodney?” I asked.

“Why?”

“Won’t he wonder where you went?”

Aaron looked at me through his smudged lenses. He wasn’t following.

“Never mind. You have to drive,” I said.

Aaron took the keys for Rodney’s 1978 Charger and motioned for me to go out the way I came in. The Charger sat in the alley under a car cover that was made for a minivan. Rodney wasn’t taking any chances. It was his high school dream car and it didn’t matter that its rear bumper was rusted off and the paint was three shades of red. It was his baby. I had second and third thoughts about taking the Charger. Rodney memorized every dent and scratch, and he’d tell you about them, if you couldn’t get away.

“Maybe you should clean your glasses,” I said.

“What for?”

“So you can see the road, other cars, stuff like that.”

“I’m cool.”

Yeah, real cool. He still had his hairnet on.

I almost told him, but Aaron’s hairnet was as much a part of his ensemble as his dirty glasses and stained tees. I settled into the seat, trying not to get pinched by the cracked vinyl. I’d forgotten all the other reasons why driving the Charger was a bad idea. The vinyl for starters, the radio on the floor, and the smell of condoms and cigarette smoke that I’m sure had nothing to do with Rod.

I rolled my jaw trying to work up enough spit to swallow a Vicodin. No go. Isn’t that always the way? Vicodin gave me dry mouth and I needed spit to take a Vicodin. My headache increased to the point of nausea when Aaron pulled into the Crab Shack parking lot. The smell of crab drifting in through the vents was enough to make my stomach do a Gabby Douglas.

“I can’t go in there.”

“Huh?” Aaron looked dimmer than usual and my instincts were divided between shaking him and running away from the smell.

“The crab’s making me sick. Go in and tell Doreen I’m out here.”

I got out, leaned on the hood and studied the chips and scratches on it. A breeze kicked up and lifted the stink. Doreen trotted out with a big smile. She caught one look at me and stopped dead in her tracks. If our positions were reversed, I’d have stopped dead, too. Doreen was a changed woman. She’d had a makeover that was nothing short of shocking. She’d cut her hair short so that it framed her face and accentuated her eyes. The new hair was colored a true honey blond with intricate highlights and no green. She took a deep breath and started walking again. As she got closer, I could see her makeup was subtle and flattering, no more cakey orange.

“Please tell me that Bart didn’t kick the shit out of you.”

“He’s innocent for once,” I said.

“Thank God almighty.” Doreen leaned against the Charger and lit a cigarette. “What happened?”

“I guess you haven’t watched the news lately.”

“Nope, I been a busy girl. You too, I guess.” She stole a sidelong glance at me. “That Aaron didn’t mention your face or the cast.”

“I doubt he noticed,” I said.

“It’s hard to miss, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

I shrugged and said, “I’m not feeling that great and I need to take a Vicodin. Could you get me something to settle my stomach?”

“Vanilla shake do it?”

I nodded and Doreen got me a shake. It was excellent, real ice cream, whipped cream and a cherry. I downed my pill and said thanks.

“When your stomach settles, you got to come in and see my boys.”

“Why aren’t they in school?”

“Teacher work day, so they’re here, slinging crab with me. Are you gonna tell me what happened or what?” Doreen wiggled her pedicured toes and admired her gold ankle bracelet.

“I found the guy that killed Gavin, I mean, Mr. Flouder.”

“What did he find you with, a bat?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

“The cops got him?”

“Yes. Thankfully.”

We leaned against the car in silence and Doreen took a long drag on her cigarette.

“I love the hair by the way,” I said.

“Thanks. A customer told me to go to this Aveda salon and they gave me the works. Everybody acts like it’s a big difference, but I thought I was good before.” She looked at me for confirmation.

“I think it makes you look younger,” I said.

“Younger than thirty-one?”

Err…

Some guy yelled for Doreen from the door, and I was spared the lie that was sitting on the edge of my swollen lips.

“You better?” Doreen asked.

I said I was and we went into the Crab Shack. Aaron sat at a table with two young boys sharing an obscene pile of crab legs and fries. Doreen went to the kitchen and I walked over to the booth. About halfway there I discovered a definite advantage to going facedown in gravel. No one mistook me for Marilyn. I didn’t get a single second look. I did get a few grimaces and I heard one guy say, “Whoa, bad accident,” but that was it. I’d finally achieved something I’d been going for since breasts. I was wallpaper and I have to say I dug it.

“Dude, what happened to your face?” one of the boys asked.

“Accident. Always wear a seatbelt,” I said.

Both of the boys nodded slowly and went back to the crab.

Aaron slurped the meat out of a leg. “Want some?”

“No, man. It’s all for you.”

Aaron smiled at me with juice dripping down his chin. He wiped it with his shirt and kept going. Doreen introduced her boys to me. They were more impressed with Aaron’s crab-eating abilities than me, but I liked meeting them. The broken wrist was worth it.

We left in an hour after Aaron decimated Doreen’s crab leg supply. I was worn out and the Vicodin had taken full effect. Aaron helped me to the car and belted me in. Doreen told us to come back soon and Aaron drove out of the parking lot, revving the engine until the seats vibrated. My cell starting ringing and ignoring it wasn’t going to fly. Whoever it was kept calling back and Aaron pulled over to answer it.

He handed me the phone. “Tommy.”

After a deep breath I said, “Hey Dad.”

“Where are you?”

“Eat,” I said.

“What?”

“My client’s restaurant.”

“You finished?” Dad asked.

Hmm. Was I finished? I didn’t want to say yes, but my head was too thick to lie.

“I guess,” I said.

“Good. I need you to go home and pick up my camera and laptop and bring them to 1109 Shiloh in Chesterfield. You getting this?” I could hear Dad tapping a pencil against the phone.

“Dad. I’m really tired. Can’t Mom do it? You have people. What about your people?”

“Everybody’s busy. We’re backed up since I’ve been out and Mom’s shopping for the cruise,” he said.

I guess shopping trumps multiple injuries.

“Mercy, do you have that?”

“Dad, come on. Why do I have to do it?” I asked.

“It’s for the family,” he said.

Isn’t it always?

THE END

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This is an excerpt from
Diver Down
by A.W. Hartoin.

Mrs. Lane Sanders was the kind of woman who usually didn’t approve of me. Her grey hair flowed back from her widow’s peak in thick waves and landed on her white silk blouse that was buttoned as high as possible and, just to make sure, sealed with a heavy amber brooch that weighed a pound at least. No one was getting those buttons undone, by god.
 

I sat in the walnut-paneled waiting room opposite Mrs. Sanders, very aware that it was her domain, not mine. The room matched her perfectly, cold and dignified. I’d never been accused of being either. She sat behind her oversized desk with arms crossed and refused to say where her boss was. That was nearly the last straw. I’d had enough of lawyers and their critical secretaries. Two days left before vacation and Arlene Cobb, a lawyer my father referred to as the Duchess of Dirt, hadn’t even bothered to show up to pelt me with obnoxious questions about my godmothers’ sanity in the civil case against them. I had better things to do than be deposed, buy flowered sundresses that I’d never wear again and wax things that really ought not be waxed. In the last month, I’d found myself involved in four high-profile cases, where the lawyers were happy to bill as many hours as humanly possible, wasting my time in cold offices, repeating cold facts. I think they were trying to freeze some sort of confession out of me. Fat chance. All four of the offices were so similar I often forgot which one I was in and which high-priced shark sat across the table. This wasn’t going to be one of those days.
 

I would’ve walked out and, in retrospect, I should’ve, but Myrtle and Millicent needed me. Their nephew, Brooks, was trying to get control of their money and their lives. He was using my family to do it. So I sat as far away as possible from Mrs. Sanders, which put me directly across from the stenographer, a spindly redhead that was probably forty but looked twenty. He definitely
did
approve of me and not in a good way. It was all my fault for letting my mother pick out my outfit. She insisted and I’d learned the hard way that it was easier to comply than fight, so I was wearing a wrap dress that was supposed to make me look like I meant business, yet be stylish. It did neither job well. Mom’s theory that the hideous print of black and yellow daisies would be distract from my chest might’ve worked if the top would’ve stopped gapping open and the skirt didn’t part to expose my thighs.
 

Jay the stenographer loved that dress, couldn’t take his eyes off it. More to the point, he couldn’t stop trying to look up my skirt. So I got to sit there holding my dress together, while listening to my lawyer, Big Steve Warnock, yelling in the hall behind me. Big Steve’s voice had been known to go through three feet of concrete and we got to hear every curse word he uttered and there were a lot of them. I say we but Lane and Jay didn’t seem to be paying attention. Lane’s expression had gone to glaring and Jay had slid down in his seat in an effort to get a better view up my skirt. Why is it when someone’s trying to look up your skirt, you get an irresistible urge to cross and recross your legs?Maybe it’s just me, but I had to recross my legs. It had to be done. Jay licked his lips and I put my right leg over my left and felt a little pop in the twenty-dollar pantyhose I’d bought for their supposed durability because Mom said I had to wear pantyhose to depositions. I leaned forward and a spidery run raced down my thigh to my knee.
 

Freaking great.
 

“I can help you take those off,” said Jay, licking his lips.
 

Just then Big Steve stalked in, still on his cell. “Get her here now!” He tossed me the phone and popped Jay in the head with the back of his hairy hand. “Shut up, fool, or I’ll fire you so hard you’ll have to sell your equipment for scrap.”
 

Jay blushed as red as his hair. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
 

“Damn straight it won’t.” Big Steve sat next to me and I scooted over to make room, even though he was in another chair. He was that kind of guy, the kind that took up a lot of space in every room, whether a closet or an auditorium. You just couldn’t stop looking at him, even when he was quiet, which was rare.
 

“We’ll give Arlene another fifteen seconds and then we’re out of here.”
 

“Thank goodness,” I said.
 

Big Steve looked at his watch. “Ten seconds.”
 

I smiled. Jay the stenographer looked terrified, a normal reaction to Big Steve. Lane sighed and got on the phone.

“Five seconds. Grab your purse, Mercy.”
 

“Got it.”
 

A young man with a receding hairline and watery blue eyes ran through the door, clutching six inches worth of paperwork and a battered laptop. “I’m here. I’m here.”
 

Big Steve pushed past him. “We’re out and you’re not Arlene. Don’t think I don’t know the difference, although that is a tie a fifty-year-old woman would wear.”

“Please don’t leave. Mrs. Cobb will kill me if I don’t get this deposition done.”

“Where is she? And don’t tell me she got caught up in court. She has nothing on any docket today.”

“Um…” said the young man and I began to feel sorry for him.
 

“Um is not an answer.” Big Steve gently pushed me out the door.
 

“Arlene has a new boyfriend!” yelled out the young man behind us.
 

“Leonard,” said Lane, “are you out of your mind?

We turned slowly. Big Steve looked like it was his birthday. “How old is this one?”
 

Leonard clapped his free hand over his mouth.
 

“Too late for that, boy. The new cat is out of the bag. I’m truly going to enjoy my next committee meeting with Arlene.”
 

“Please don’t tell her I told you,” begged Leonard.