A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by A.W. Hartoin for Amazon

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Copyright © A.W. Hartoin, 2015

  www.awhartoin.com

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  Cover by: Karri Klawiter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Young Adult fantasy

  Flare-up (An Away From Whipplethorn Short)

  A Fairy's Guide To Disaster (Away From Whipplethorn Book One)

  Fierce Creatures (Away From Whipplethorn Book Two)

  A Monster’s Paradise (Away From Whipplethorn Book Three)

  A Wicked Chill (Away From Whipplethorn Book Four)

  Mercy Watts Mysteries

  Novels

  A Good Man Gone (A Mercy Watts Mystery Book One)

  Diver Down (A Mercy Watts Mystery Book Two)

  Double Black Diamond (A Mercy Watts Mystery Book Three)

  Drop Dead Red (A Mercy Watts Mystery Book Four)

  Short stories

  Coke with a Twist

  Touch and Go

  Nowhere Fast

  Dry Spell

  Paranormal

  It Started with a Whisper (Sons of Witches)

  For New Orleans, my favorite American city and home to a part of my heart.

  Chapter One

  MY PENANCE WAS about to begin. Or rather, it would begin if I ever got out of my truck. The convent sat on a hill under low clouds, fat with snow. With its high stone walls and arched windows, it could’ve been transported from Provence. The convent was beautiful, a place of hope and tranquility, but it contained the terror that was my Aunt Miriam.

  My family had kept the truth from her for as long as they could. But news of my modeling contract with the bad boys of rock, Double Black Diamond, had finally slipped out at my Aunt Tenne’s birthday party last week, thanks to my so-called partner, Aaron. He’d been bragging about being hired to cater the shoot, and Aunt Miriam’s sharp ears picked it up. Honestly, it was almost a relief. It’d been a month since I’d signed, and I kept waiting for the sound of a cane hitting my door with everything an elderly nun could muster. She might actually hit me with that big stick. It wouldn’t be the first time. She was much fonder of it than she was of me. Like with a spanking, the waiting was the worst part.

  Now the waiting was over. I’d been summoned to the convent for lunch. I didn’t know what to expect. This had never happened before. There could be a bunch of nuns with canes waiting for me. Canes are big with my aunt’s friends. I could just hear their hushed accusations. “You’ve disgraced the name of Watts.” “Your poor parents. How could you?” “Mercy Watts, you are now a brazen hussy.” People considered me a hussy no matter what I did, but I still didn’t want to hear it again. Especially not from a nun. That’s why I was sitting in my truck, wasting gas and praying that something would happen to stop me from going in the convent.

  Nothing did, of course. But I could just leave. Nobody would stop me. My best friend, Ellen, needed me to…to take her to someplace that was imperative. Not good. I had the flu. No, no. I was at risk for Ebola. I was a nurse. That was perfect. I could avoid Aunt Miriam and her dreaded disapproval and lengthy lectures on decorum for weeks. Finally, irrational fears were working out for me. I grabbed the gearshift and smiled.

  Crack!

  I screeched like someone put an ice cube down my back and looked out the window, then I screeched again. Aunt Miriam stood at my window with her cane raised up, ready to strike my window a second time.

  I gave her a rather limp finger wave and she rapped my window in response. I kind of wished I had a communicable disease. An isolation ward was sounding pretty good. I cranked down my window slowly. One of those times when having a vintage truck paid off.

  “What are you doing out here?” asked Aunt Miriam with frozen breath streaming out in a rush.

  “Um…nothing.”

  “You’ve been out here for fifteen minutes. I don’t have time for this. We have a situation to discuss.” Steam jetted out of her nose, making her look dragon-like in appearance as well as character.

  “I’m sorry. I know I’ve disappointed you,” I said in my best repentant tone.

  “I’m not best pleased with your recent shenanigans, but that’s not the situation I want to talk about. Get out of this truck.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Get out of the truck.”

  I shut off the engine and climbed out like I was older than Aunt Miriam. “So what’s the situation?”

  She hit me. Her spindly arms hauled back, she assumed the stance of a major league baseball player, and she whacked me good on the shoulder.

  “Ow! You said it wasn’t about the modeling,” I protested.

  “It isn’t. It’s about your godmothers.” Aunt Miriam planted her cane on the icy blacktop and glared at me.

  “What happened to Myrtle and Millicent?”

  Her cane went back to hitting position again.

  I held up my hands. “Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.”

  Aunt Miriam dropped the cane and gave me a piercing look. “I know you will.”

  “Then why’d you hit me?” I asked, trying not to whine. She hated whining worse than bikini shots and that was saying something.

  “How else will you ever learn? Nothing else has worked.” She turned around and marched up the stairs to the convent.

  I wanted to protest, but I would definitely remember that pain the next time I was tempted to do something the family wouldn’t approve of. I would probably still do it, but I’d remember.

  “Are you coming?” she yelled over her shoulder.

  “Are you going to hit me again?”

  “Does it matter?”

  It didn’t. I had to go, or my mother would demand a reason why. Saying that a ninety-pound nun might hit me wasn’t going to cut it. So I followed, keeping myself out of cane range. Mom would say that you can’t pick your family. Obviously. Nobody would pick this.

  It took a good twenty minutes to get to Aunt Miriam’s studio apartment in the elder wing. We were slowed down by several novitiates, wanting to say hello to Aunt Miriam and asking advice about prayer and whatnot. They smiled, their earnest faces glowing with goodness that I could never ho
pe to aspire to. Even more disconcerting, was Aunt Miriam. She smiled. She took their young hands in her wrinkled age-spotted ones and counseled them warmly. What the heck? The woman just whacked me with a cane.

  One sister, with a pink round face surrounded by her snug veil, took my hand as we passed by and said, “You are so blessed to be Sister Miriam’s niece.”

  “I wonder why I’m so blessed all the time,” I said in all seriousness.

  “It is His will and I will endeavor not to envy you in your blessing.”

  “You should never envy me,” I said, thinking of my aching shoulder.

  The sister hugged me and hurried after the other novitiates. I watched them go and, for the first time, wondered if a religious life wasn’t the sanest choice for someone like me. No. It would never fly. Nobody would buy me as a nun. They barely bought me as a nurse, even when I was wearing scrubs and a hospital badge. Vows were out.

  I caught up with Aunt Miriam at her door as she was turning the big brass key. She eyed me. “What did you say to Sister Clarence? I hope you didn’t crush her spirit. She has a warm, generous heart.”

  “I don’t crush people’s spirits. Why would you say that?”

  “You wreak havoc wherever you go.” Aunt Miriam tossed her cane onto her love seat, she only carried it for intimidation purposes, and went into the little galley kitchen.

  “I do not.” I watched her dig around and, to my dismay, pull out pimento loaf. I didn’t actually hate pimento loaf. It was more the idea of meat in a loaf that I hated.

  “People die when you show up.”

  “Not true. Nobody died in Honduras.”

  “Luck.”

  “Nobody died in Colorado.”

  “Close enough. That boy will never be the same.” She gave me the stink eye as if I was the one who did the deed. “I’ve been praying for him, and you should, too. It’s all your own fault that you’ll have to handle this situation. Your father’s too busy, thanks to you.”

  “I’ll take care of whatever it is.” And I would, too. Dad was a retired police detective gone private. Business was always good due to my dad’s media presence and reputation, but, since my latest havoc-wreaking in Colorado, it’d gone through the roof. The name Tommy Watts was everywhere and somehow the media made it sound like Dad had sent me to Copper Mountain to save Mickey Stix’s wife, Nina, and solve an attempted murder. Dad had nothing to do with it, but it was paying off in new clients.

  Aunt Miriam slapped together a couple of sandwiches and gave us each ten baby gherkin pickles. She put the plates on the tiny breakfast bar and ordered me to get the mustard and mayo out.

  I put the mayo on the counter and found an empty mustard jar tucked away in the back of the fridge.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about your godmothers?” Aunt Miriam asked.

  I already did, you crazy old bat.

  “What happened with Myrtle and Millicent?” I asked, dutifully.

  “What’s wrong with that mustard?”

  “It’s empty.”

  “It’s not empty. I can get six or seven more sandwiches out of that jar. Microwave it.” Aunt Miriam hadn’t grown up during the depression, but you’d never know it. She never threw anything out. It was amazing that she hadn’t poisoned herself with her five-year-old salad dressings.

  I popped the nearly empty jar in the microwave and pondered how long to choose. Asking would only get me a lecture.

  “I had a visit yesterday,” said Aunt Miriam.

  “Oh, yeah?” I picked fifteen seconds. A good wholesome number.

  “From a member of the Klinefeld Group.”

  I stopped breathing and the microwave beeped. The Klinefeld Group was the nonprofit trying to get control of my godmothers’ fabulous art collection, using any means necessary. There were even accusations that The Bled Collection included art stolen from Jewish prisoners during the Holocaust, which it didn’t.

  “Mercy. Mustard.”

  “Of course.” I got the mustard and, the second it cleared the microwave, the top exploded off and shot the remaining six sandwiches of mustard straight up onto the ceiling in a spectacular starburst pattern. I think I screamed, but I’m going to pretend I didn’t.

  I did look at Aunt Miriam. She sighed and said, “You were saying something about not wreaking havoc.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “It always is with you,” she said. “There’s a sponge and cleaning spray under the sink. I assume you’d like mayo on your sandwich now.”

  “Yes, please.” I went to get her step ladder. She kept one in her bathroom because she couldn’t reach the top shelf of her medicine cabinet.

  Aunt Miriam force fed me my pimento loaf sandwich and a glass of Tang before I climbed the ladder.

  “Are you going to tell me what the Klinefeld Group wants with you?” I asked after chugging the Tang.

  “When you’re done cleaning my ceiling.”

  Groan.

  I sprayed one spray before my phone belted out the Darth Vader theme song. Aunt Miriam took my phone out of my purse and glared at me. “You gave your father the Darth Vader ring tone?”

  “I thought it was funny,” I said.

  She pursed her lips so hard they went white. At least it wasn’t my mother. Her ring tone was the Wicked Witch of the West. That would’ve gotten me another caning.

  Aunt Miriam started poking random buttons on my phone without success. Couldn’t she just let it go to voice mail? Seriously? I was cleaning mustard off a ceiling. That counts as busy.

  She finally hit the right button. “Hello, Tommy. It’s Auntie.” She paused and then said, “Your father wants to talk to you.”

  “I’m cleaning here. You don’t want this mustard to set.”

  She held out the phone. “I’ll risk it.”

  I took the phone, while balancing on the rickety ladder. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Aunt Miriam doesn’t sound happy. What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Silence.

  “Well, there may be mustard on the ceiling,” I said.

  “Sounds about right. Clean it up and get over here.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Gioia’s,” he said and my mouth began to water. House-made salami. Not a loaf in sight.

  “I’m having lunch with Aunt Miriam.”

  “How is it?” he asked with plenty of amusement in his voice.

  “Delicious,” I said with a winning smile at Aunt Miriam. She narrowed her faded blue eyes at me. How did she always know when I was lying? I was a decent liar. Some would say an excellent one. No one related to me seemed to think so though.

  “Bullshit. Get over here. We’ve got a situation to discuss.”

  “No more situations. I just came back from Colorado. That whole thing was a nightmare.” I didn’t mention the Klinefeld Group thing in case he didn’t know.

  “Look here, girl. One of your people needs you. You’ll get over here and you’ll smile while you’re doing it.”

  “I don’t have people. I have patients.”

  Dad snorted. “Patients. Whatever. I’m waiting.”

  “Dad, I can’t. I have a thing. Aunt Miriam needs me to—”

  Click. He hung up on me. Unbelievable, but not wholly unexpected. Dad wasn’t fond of the word ‘no’. And what did he mean by ‘Patients’ with a snort? I was a nurse. A darn good one, in my unbiased opinion. Dad usually described me as a ‘sort of nurse’, which was, I supposed, a dig at my PRN status. I worked through an agency and filled in when someone was short a nurse. My parents considered it one shift short of a real job. But they didn’t complain when I was available to do all the scut work at my dad’s agency. Then they liked it just fine.

  Aunt Miriam tapped my ankle. “What thing do you have?”

  “This, right now, is a thing.”

  “Use proper sentences.”

  “Do you want me to clean this or not?”

  “Tommy wants you to go to Gioia’s, so you
go. The ceiling can wait.”

  Forever, I hope.

  “What about the Klinefeld Group?” I asked.

  “Come back promptly at six and I’ll tell you.”

  Groan.

  “Fine.” I climbed down and dropped the sponge in the sink. “But give me a hint.”

  Aunt Miriam narrowed her eyes at me. “I’ll tell you at six.”

  “I’m not going until you tell me,” I said, crossing my arms. I was stubborn, too. Where did she think I got it from?

  “Don’t make any other plans. Tonight’s movie night.”

  The blood drained right out of my face. “What?”

  “You heard me. We will have dinner, discuss the Klinefeld Group, and watch a movie.”

  I pointed at her. “I can’t believe it. You planned this.”

  Watching movies with Aunt Miriam could not happen. She loved horror. It was super creepy, a nun loving horror. The Exorcist was her favorite, followed closely by Saw.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t plan that you would spurt mustard all over my ceiling.” She smiled and I doubted every word.

  “If anyone could, it would be you. Where’s Sister Francis? She’s your movie person.”

  Aunt Miriam whipped out a DVD case from behind a stack of cookbooks. She had it there the whole time, waiting for her chance to pounce. “Francis is out of town visiting family. You’ll have to do. I’ve been saving this one just for you.”

  “Annabelle? That’s still in theaters,” I said, backing away. If I watch that, I’ll never sleep again.

  “Tommy found me a bootleg copy. Such a sweet boy.” She followed me, waving the DVD. “Tonight. Six.”

  “What about Sister Clarence? She loves you. I’m sure she’d be happy to watch it.”

  “Annabelle would scare Clarence.”

  “It’ll scare me. I can’t handle horror. You know that.”

  She backed me up into the door. “Don’t be ridiculous. You were nearly murdered in a funeral home.”

  “That’s right. I probably have PTSD.”

  “There was that girl in that disgusting bar, the scuba diving incident, and who knows what all? You can handle it. You’re tough.”