A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) Read online

  “You heard.”

  “I saw.”

  “Is it bad?” I asked.

  “See for yourself.” Aunt Tenne gestured to Mom’s laptop on the other side of the table.

  I went around to the computer and stopped short when I saw the screen. My family, all my family, the best and worst of them, smiled at me from in front of last year’s Christmas tree. Chuck gave me a lecherous look. Uncle Morty drank out of a container that must have held at least a quart of buttered rum and Aaron had half a piece of cake in his mouth. My dad hugged Grandma George. And Gavin was there with his arms slung around Dixie and Mom, his head thrown back in a laugh. I heard that wondrous, jolly laugh bouncing around in my head.

  My fingers brushed the keyboard and a shot of my barely restrained boobs bloomed on the screen.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “That’s what I said.” Aunt Tenne watched me from the stove with her hands on her hips.

  A slide show started, featuring me, every part of me from every angle. I sat down with a whump.

  “Those nasty old bastards,” I said.

  “You’re very popular with the over-eighty set,” said Aunt Tenne.

  I clicked on a link which brought me to a page with my head pasted on what looked like Britney Spears body (back in the good days) dancing with an enormous snake.

  “I can’t breathe.”

  “And that’s one of the nicer ones.”

  “They planned this. Those old nasty bastards planned this,” I said. “And I fell for it.”

  I laid my head on the table and moaned. One of those moans that comes up from the feet and sounds like a dying cow.

  “What’s Mom going to say?”

  Aunt Tenne rubbed my back. “I’ll pray for you.”

  “Pray for Dixie,” I said. “I deserve this. I’m too stupid to breathe.”

  “What about a therapist?” asked Aunt Tenne, still rubbing my shoulder.

  I lifted my head. “For me?”

  “For Dixie. Do you think she’ll eat the ice cream?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “She likes chocolate, right?” asked Aunt Tenne.

  “Definitely. When do you have to go to work?”

  “Ten forty-five, no later. Why? Where are you going?” Aunt Tenne furrowed her brow.

  “I thought I’d check out that church again.”

  “I thought the cops told you to beat it.”

  “They did. New shift, second chance. It won’t take long. I just want to get a look at the layout for Dad,” I said.

  “You don’t really think that bride has anything to do with Gavin?”

  “Covering the bases like Dad says.”

  “You’ve got a feeling,” Aunt Tenne said. It wasn’t a question.

  “You could say that,” I said.

  “Don’t be too long. Dixie shouldn’t be alone.”

  “That’s what Mom said.”

  Aunt Tenne didn’t say anything. She hated being compared to Mom even in the most benign fashion. I thanked her for the sandwich and shot out the back door before I got trapped in a conversation about their differences. I knew from experience, that was a no-win conversation.

  I sat in my truck and closed my eyes, but images of me, at my most Marilyn, kept popping up in my mind. That’s how the world saw me, would see me forever. I guess I didn’t believe it could go so far until then. I never saw myself like that. I was just me. The shape of my lips and the size of my eyes weren’t of much consequence. I hadn’t worked at it. I didn’t dye my hair nor have my lips chemically plumped. Call it lucky, call it a curse. It was what it was. Now I’d revealed myself and people in India knew my name. I was such an idiot for thinking I could walk through the world unnoticed or do whatever I wanted. Mom never thought that. Why did I?

  My hand fell on my purse and I felt my cell phone through the leather. No point in ignoring it. I pulled out my phone and listened to a profusion of messages ranging from the obscene to polite inquiries. Then I got to message ninety-three.

  “What did you do?” asked my mom.

  I’d only heard her tone a few times before like when I stuffed a nickel up my nose in the first grade.

  “The room service guy thinks I’m a prostitute, the cruise line wants to hire me to lip-synch cabaret songs, and I’ve gotten three hundred obscene emails in the last two hours.”

  People thought Mom was me. Of course it was possible, even probable, but I never considered she’d have trouble on the cruise. Did people watch YouTube on cruises? Shouldn’t they be learning to luau and playing shuffleboard? I knew she’d find out, but I thought a concerned (also known as interfering) friend would do the deed, not the cruise line.

  “It could be worse,” I said to my steering wheel. “And it will be when Mom comes home and kills me.”

  But I was right. It could be worse. I could be a widow. The thought of Dixie popped me out of my maudlin state and I remembered what I was supposed to be thinking about, Gavin and only Gavin. He was my job and maybe my ticket to redemption.

  Darkness had fallen by the time I drove to the Rockville Church of Christ. St. Louis in June had a tendency to be warm during the day and cool at night. Perfect wedding weather or so I’m told. The wind tousled my hair, blowing strands into my mouth, and I blanked out for a bit about where I was going and why. I sang along to Christina Perri’s pretty pain on the radio and felt alive and satisfied. Moments like that were all too short. I arrived at the church parking lot in record time. It was near empty, just a police cruiser, a church minivan and a Buick. I hadn’t paid attention to the church itself on my previous visit. It was well named with rough-cut rock walls and a low-slung roof. Crime scene tape crisscrossed the front entrance. I hung a left and walked around the side, lots of windows, but no doors. At the back was a playground bathed in darkness and a door. I reached for the knob, and heard a voice say, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Crap.

  I ran my fingers through my hair, careful to let some curls fall forward and brush my lips. I turned and was surprised to see one of the officers from the dayshift coming toward me with his hand on his nightstick. It was the younger of the duo, thankfully.

  “Officer…Ameche. I didn’t expect to find you still here.”

  You’re still here. Great, Mercy, very smooth.

  “I didn’t expect to see you so soon either,” he said with a slight hitch of the pants and touch of the hat. “I’d of thought you’d be busy signing autographs.”

  “Do not mention YouTube or anything to do with Marilyn.”

  Ameche took a step back. “Okay.”

  “Where’s your partner?” I asked.

  “Carl went home. You need to leave. This is still a crime scene.”

  “I’m not here to cause problems. I was hoping to talk to the reverend. Is he here?” I hoped it was a reverend and not something else. I was a lapsed Catholic and could barely keep my own religion straight, much less any other one.

  “She’s here. She, not he,” he said. “Why are you really here?”

  “I told you,” I said.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I need to talk to the reverend,” I said.

  “What about?” Ameche asked.

  “That’s a personal theological matter.”

  “A personal, theological matter that you have to talk about, at nine o’clock at night, at a church you’ve never been to before with a reverend you don’t know.”

  “You’ve got it, so excuse me, and I’ll let you get back to your duties.” I did an about-face and made for the knob again.

  “Hey!” Ameche grabbed my arm and spun me back around. I faked a fall into his chest complete with a little gasp.

  “Let go,” I said, looking up and gazing into his eyes. I’ve been told I’m exceptional at that angle. You know, the big eyes, slightly parted lips with my hair tossed back. Men could be such suckers for the dramatic, but I couldn’t help loving them for it. It was nice to know romance was
n’t dead among males, no matter their claims.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Ameche let go, backed up, lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his dark hair before settling it back on his head.

  “It’s okay. Can I go now? Please?” I rubbed my arm and pulled my top a bit lower. Ameche took in the complete picture and heaved an exasperated sigh.

  “What do you really want?” he asked.

  I calculated my odds and they weren’t good. He wasn’t stupid or horny. Or, more likely, good old Carl had given his partner an earful after my earlier appearance and Ameche wanted to follow his instructions. It was my last at bat, so I decided to go for a homer. Why not? I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Plus, I was starting to like Ameche. He hadn’t tried to cop a feel when the chance presented itself. With a body like mine, I appreciated a man with a sense of decency; there were so few around. He looked honest. The honesty was useless, but he also looked ambitious. That I could use.

  “So Carl filled you in on my dad?”

  “Yeah. What about it?” asked Ameche.

  “So you know he’s got tremendous pull in the department.”

  “Are you trying to bribe me?”

  “I’m trying to help you,” I said.

  “I’m not a total fucking idiot. You don’t want to help me. You want to get in the scene and you can forget it.”

  Damn it.

  Ameche was getting brighter by the minute, but, then again, that made him even more ambitious.

  “Let me guess, you want to be a detective, right?”

  “And you’re gonna help me make it. You must think I’m a complete asshole,” he said.

  “Not at all.” I reached in my purse and fished out my wallet. I opened it and held out a picture. “That’s Gavin Flouder and my dad at his retirement party. They were once partners. Gavin was murdered on Sunday. You hear anything about that?”

  “I might’ve.”

  “I think Gavin’s death has something to do with the murder here. My dad is on a cruise, barfing his brains out, or he’d be here talking to you. Actually, he wouldn’t. Chuck Watts, my cousin, would’ve already given him the keys to the kingdom. Now Dad wants me to do this, so I’m damn well gonna do it. Gavin wasn’t just Dad’s partner twenty years ago, he was our friend. He and Dixie had Easter dinner with us, for Christ’s sake. That was the last time I saw him unless you count the slab, something I’m personally trying to forget. So cut me some slack here, and I swear Dad will talk you up. Unless you have a dozen high-profile busts under your belt, I’m guessing you need it,” I said.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Don’t expect help on anything, ever. Dad has a long memory as do I.”

  Ameche considered his options carefully. I’d seen that look before and I knew it’d go in my favor. In my senior year of high school I decided to ask Werner Schneider to homecoming. My best friend, Ellen, told me not to, but, me being me, I did it anyway. Werner was good-looking in a geeky sort of way, but that wasn’t why I chose him. First of all, if I didn’t ask a guy, I’d have no date, again. I scared guys for some reason. I liked Werner for it because we’d had several conversations in Chem class, and he’d never once looked at my boobs. Ameche had the same look Werner had when I said, “Hey, want to go to homecoming with me?” He wanted it, oh yes he did, but he also had a certain standing to uphold. In Werner’s case, he was supposed to be above all the trivial society gatherings of all us peons. He was an academic. Ameche was afraid of getting caught and never being left on his own again.

  “What exactly do you want to do?” Ameche asked.

  “Check out the layout. Do some timing and look at where the body was found. I won’t touch anything. Come with me.”

  “Your damn skippy I’m coming with you.”

  Ha! Got him. Another guy dancing against his better judgment.

  “One more thing,” I said.

  Ameche let out a low groan, and said, “Now what?”

  “Did you get a look at any of the evidence?”

  “Like what?”

  “Did they bag a cell phone?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see what got bagged. What’s the deal?”

  “I need to know if they found a cell phone near the body and, if possible, whose it is.”

  “Why?” His fists were on his hips and I thought that I might’ve gone too far.

  “Long story,” I said.

  “What do you expect me to do?” Ameche lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his hair again.

  “Get a look at the evidence list or the evidence itself. Chuck might have it on his desk. He likes to look at stuff while he’s working things out in his head.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Cause my dad does the same thing and Chuck’s his protégé,” I said.

  “If Chuck’s your cousin why don’t you just ask him?”

  “I would, if he’d tell me, which he won’t. We don’t get along all that well.”

  “Why not?” Ameche looked at me like I might be worse than he thought, if my own cousin didn’t trust me.

  “We have this thing. He hits on me. I insult him. It’s like that,” I said.

  “Your cousin hits on you,” Ameche said, his upper lip curling in distaste.

  “He’s not my real cousin. His mother married my uncle when he was three,” I said. “He just does it to piss me off.”

  “Works, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I’ll be sure to remember that.” Ameche smiled.

  “Swell. Now are you going to get a look at that cell for me or what?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And there’s one more thing,” I said.

  “Of course there is,” said Ameche.

  “I need to know who my dear cousin was interviewing the morning after Sample’s death.”

  “Dare I ask why?”

  “If Chuck was interviewing them, they couldn’t have killed Gavin.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Ameche.

  “Okay then. Let’s go.” I moved towards the door, but then thought better of it and motioned for Ameche to lead the way. He gave a quick look skyward, as if to say, “Please God don’t let me get caught.” Then he opened the door and I went inside.

  Ameche switched on the light. We were in an antechamber used for storage. Racks of choir robes, stacks of chairs, and boxes of children’s books, bibles, and hymnals littered the floor. There were no signs of a forensic technician going over the place.

  “Didn’t they search this area?” I asked.

  “It was locked at the time of the murder. This way to the crying room. That’s where the body was found.” Ameche led me down a hallway past several doors into the main section of the church. He closed the door behind me and said, “That door was locked after the ceremony and was still locked when we showed up.”

  We walked down the aisle of the chapel, still decorated for the wedding. Small bouquets of flowers garnished each pew along the center aisle and the white satin runner covered the floor. The smell of rotting gardenias lay heavy in the air, making me remember why I hated gardenias. Ameche opened one of the entry doors to the chapel, the one the bride goes through on her way to her vows. The heavy walnut paneling didn’t quite match the understated elegance of the chapel with its white walls and tasteful bible scenes painted fresco style at regular intervals. A six-foot-tall golden cross with no decoration sat behind the simple altar. It couldn’t have been more different than the cathedral I attended as a child. Everything was bright and crisp with no hint of pain or sacrifice. All blissfully guiltless, but it felt wrong to me without the intricate mosaics, rich colors, and stained glass. The chapel might’ve been pure in its devotion, but I missed the mystery.

  Ameche ushered me through the doors into a little antechamber. To my left and right were two more identical doors. Each had fingerprint powder residue at strategic points and were open. Ameche put his hand on the small of my back. “Don’t t
ouch anything. The geek squad has been here three times already. All I need is for them to find new fingerprints.”

  I clasped my hands behind my back and walked in. It was a typical crying room with two rocking chairs, small round table and chairs, and a changing table. All of which had been dusted for prints and, from the look of it, they’d found plenty. Four red plastic numbers at the far right end of the room marked specific evidence. The bench against the right wall had a number one marker next to it. On the back wall was the changing table with the numbers two and three on the floor next to the leg nearest the bench. In the center of the room was the last number, four, next to a bloodstain about two feet in diameter. The stain wasn’t a pool. It looked more like someone had went over the floor with a bloody mop.

  “I thought she was strangled,” I said.

  “She was, but she took a pretty good blow to the head on the bench, too.”

  “But strangling was the cause of death?”

  “As far as I know,” Ameche said.

  Other than the evidence markers and blood, the scene was relatively undisturbed. The rocker nearest to the changing table lay on its side, but that was it. Not a bit like I imagined it would be. I expected the scene to look like a cyclone had torn through there. Get a damp sponge, right the rocker, and the room would be good to go.

  “Lot of fingerprints,” I said.

  “Yeah, dozens. It’ll probably take those techs awhile to sort through them.”

  “And probably to no avail.”

  “How come?” asked Ameche with a frown. “They think this was a crime of passion. I doubt he took the time to put on gloves.”

  “Most people get killed by people they know. Everybody she knew was probably at the wedding and could come up with a reason for being in here.”

  Ameche nodded. “The whole bridal party got dressed in here. I think I heard the photographer used it to store some equipment, too. It’s all bagged and down at forensics.”

  “Okay. How many exits?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, let’s take a look, shall we.” I led him back into the hall and through the opposite doorway. It was a cloakroom with hanging racks and a couple of boxes of stray hats, gloves and boots. More folding chairs were stacked against the wall. It was windowless like the crying room and hadn’t been dusted for prints. Presumably because there would’ve been no reason for the killer to have used the room since it had no exit or it’d been locked. Ameche watched me while I walked around the room and then followed when I exited. I went over to the chapel’s front doors. They were massive, lightly carved and had dusting powder on the hand panels and surrounding area.