Small Time Crime (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 10) Read online

  “Sounds good.”

  “They’re meatless.”

  “Are they punishing you for something?” I asked.

  He considered it. “Maybe they are trying to kill me with sad food.”

  “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

  “Wait until you taste the enchiladas.” Mr. Cervantes hobbled inside and I set down my bags to fumble through my purse. Before I could dig my keys out, my door whipped open.

  “What took you so long?” Uncle Morty stood there, fatter than ever and wearing an Adidas track suit that he bought in the 80s.

  I just stood there, struck dumb by my own impossible life. I could go in and listen to he-who-made-my-life-a-living-hell or go back to the car through the gauntlet of living hell. It was a tough choice I have to say.

  “What in the holy fuck are you waiting for?” Uncle Morty bellowed.

  “A better option.”

  “What?”

  Melting ice cream won and I went in, fearing the worst and, for once, not getting it. My apartment was as I left it, moderately clean with my cat, Skanky, curled up on the new fluffy donut bed I bought him. I had been thinking about getting a nanny cam to see if he actually moved at all during the day. Now I thought I needed one as an early warning system. At least I could check my apartment and see who was lying in wait. There was no use in changing the locks. Family always gets in.

  Uncle Morty followed me into my tiny kitchen and eyed me as I unloaded my cache of hip-widening food. “I saw what happened on Twitter.”

  “Of course, you did.” I almost got out a bowl, but Uncle Morty was there and he wanted something, so I took a whole half-gallon of Rocky Road and a serving spoon into the living room. Then I went back for New York Super Fudge Chunk. I had a feeling I was going to need it.

  He plopped down in my chair, making it groan in a threatening way. “You did good.”

  The serving spoon stopped halfway to my mouth. “Say what?”

  “I ain’t saying it again.”

  “Heaven forbid. Dare I ask how I did good?”

  “You know. We don’t need to grind it into the dirt,” he grumbled.

  “We’re nowhere near the dirt.”

  “I’m gonna reward you,” he said.

  The spoon finished its trip and I closed my eyes. “Whateber,” I muttered through fudge and creamy marshmallow.

  “Focus, Mercy.”

  “Nope. Eating. I deserve it.”

  “You do. That’s what I’m saying.”

  I laid down, put the carton on my neck and started spooning.

  “Stop doin’ that you’re gonna get sick,” said Uncle Morty.

  “I’ll chance it.”

  He pointed a finger at me and said, “I don’t want you sick for tomorrow.”

  I shouldn’t have said it, but it just popped out, “What’s tomorrow?”

  “We’re going to Greece,” he said, happily.

  I snorted and peeled the top off the Ben & Jerry’s.

  “I get it, but I’m better. I been showering regular and wearing that prescription deodorant Carolina got me. I’m all set.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You said you wouldn’t try again because you had to work, but you got fired today. Time to hit the God damn road.”

  I sat up so fast the ice cream splatted on the sofa and I didn’t even care. “Are you crazy? Have you hit your head? I’m not going to Greece with you. I wouldn’t go to a gas station with you. Do you have any comprehension of what your actions have done to me? I get harassed daily. I can’t answer my phone. I can’t go to the store without the bag boy sniffing and yelling, ‘Yep, it’s pretty bad.’ And yes, I got fired. This is not fab news. My job was good. I was good. People liked me. Patients requested me. Now I don’t even have that!”

  “You didn’t get fired ‘cause of the airport. That was those stalkers. Not my fault,” said Uncle Morty.

  “Not your fault? Not your fault?”

  “Right. It ain’t my fault.”

  “Get out.”

  “No.”

  “Get out.”

  “No.”

  “I’m not going to Greece. As far as I’m concerned, Nikki is well rid of you.”

  Uncle Morty drew back and his cheeks flushed to the point of being purple. “You don’t mean it. You’re just pissed ‘cause you got fired, which ain’t my fault. And they shouldn’t have fired you.”

  “You wanted them to fire me so you could get me to Greece. Don’t lie,” I hissed.

  If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought he was a little embarrassed. I didn’t really believe he could do embarrassed, especially after the airport incident, which he shrugged off completely.

  “They shouldn’t have fired you. You did good today,” he said.

  “There has been nothing good about today.”

  “You talked that kid down. That’s good.” Uncle Morty heaved himself out of the chair and picked up my ice cream containers, carrying them into the kitchen.

  “Hey, I was eating that,” I said.

  “Use a friggin’ bowl. What are you, some kinda animal?”

  “You should talk. I’ve seen you eat.”

  He brandished the serving spoon at me. “You wanna use me as your role model?”

  “Not remotely.”

  “You’re getting a bowl.”

  I got a generous bowl, including all four kinds and a normal spoon. I shoveled the mixture in my face and said through mouthfuls, “You can leave now.”

  “I got tickets for tomorrow. Air Canada. Different airline. We’re all good,” he said, settling down and kicking his scruffy Adidas up onto my coffee table.

  “I’m not doing it. You had your chance and you blew it, while screwing me over royally.”

  He steepled his fingers. “That’s why you’re going.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “And right. You need to get outta Dodge until people get over it. Three weeks oughta do it.”

  “I can’t go to Greece for three weeks. I have to get a job. I need money,” I said. “I’d miss Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s no problem.”

  “It really is. All of it is. I’m the nurse that gets clinics rammed by schizophrenics and the neighborhood nuts.”

  “Do what you’re supposed to do and work for your dad. Tommy’ll be thrilled,” said Uncle Morty. “He could use some good news.”

  I combined all four flavors into a questionable blob and ate it without answering. Uncle Morty wasn’t wrong. My dad was a high-profile private detective, who wasn’t so high-profile anymore. He used to work with the FBI a lot, but, in an effort to protect the agency, they did their best to keep him from my mother after her attack. I uncovered the reason and that led them to a serial killer graveyard in Kansas. The FBI didn’t look good and I wasn’t exactly quiet about what they did to my parents, particularly my mother. My dad had a kind of breakdown after her attack and they used that as an excuse to cut him loose and they weren’t quiet about the reason, citing instability.

  “I’m a nurse, not a private investigator,” I said.

  “The hell you’re not. You might as well get paid for it. Tommy’ll give you the big bucks. He makes bank.”

  “Not right now. Their caseload is down two-thirds.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.” I considered licking my bowl but thought about baking the crappy pizza instead. I hadn’t had my required amount of grease yet.

  “He’ll get the FBI back. That’ll raise his profile back to normal,” said Uncle Morty.

  I’d gone into the kitchen but turned right back around. “Dad’s not normal. He’s on vacation with Mom at Cairngorms Castle. He’s getting pedicures. And Claire says he only checks in three times a day.”

  “What do you want from the man?” he asked. “He’s being with your mom.”

  “It wasn’t her idea. She wanted to go with Grandma and he horned his way in. Mom wants him working and not pestering her. Instead, he bought her an
80,000-dollar car they can’t afford and is living in her back pocket.”

  Uncle Morty scratched his five o’clock shadow and I could see the wheels turning, whether it was about Dad or getting me to Greece, I couldn’t tell. I put my yuck pizza in the oven and set the timer.

  “So I would like to invite you to leave and not come back,” I said.

  “You can fix that crap when you get back from Greece.”

  I should’ve known.

  “I can’t fix it. I tried.”

  “Then there’s nothing to stop you from fixing my life. Carolina will like it. She likes Nikki. I was happy with Nikki.”

  “She didn’t like it when someone thought she was me and called her ‘Stinky bitch’ at Target last week,” I said. “She’s only just starting to go out again.”

  “Oh, shit. Not Carolina.” He put his head in his hands and then yanked out his phone.

  “Do not call Mom.” I tried to get the phone away from him and failed.

  “I ain’t calling her.” He swatted at me and said, “Go check that pizza. It stinks worse than I did.”

  I didn’t give up. Giving up is not my thing. We spun around in a circle in the living room until my boyfriend, Chuck, came in. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  “Trying to get his phone,” I said.

  “How about you answer your own phone,” said Chuck. “People are trying to get ahold of you.”

  “I’m against that.” I lunged for Uncle Morty, missed, and he bulldozed his way past me to lock himself in the bathroom. “I ain’t calling your mother!” he yelled.

  “You better not!”

  “Pack your bags, sister! We take off at noon tomorrow!”

  “I’m not going!”

  “Bullshit!”

  Chuck came up behind me and thrust a bunch of printouts in my face. “I have an hour. Let’s look through these and make a decision.”

  “Let’s do it tomorrow,” I said.

  “You’ll be flying to Greece!” yelled Uncle Morty.

  “No, I won’t!”

  Chuck got in front of me, bending over me with blue eyes intense. “You can’t go to Greece. We have to find an apartment and move.”

  Oh, my God!

  “We can talk about that later,” I said.

  “After Greece!” yelled Uncle Morty.

  Chuck got me away from the bathroom and tried to put me on the sofa until he spotted Skanky licking up the ice cream I spilled.

  “What happened there?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I tried to get past him, but he wasn’t having it and there was a look in his eye that said this was happening one way or another.

  Chuck and I had decided to move in together after the Porter Weeks case and I instantly regretted the decision, not because I didn’t want to live with him. I did. I really did. I just didn’t know it was going to be a thing. I didn’t want to move. I loved my apartment. It was close to my parents, by that I meant my mother, and my godmothers, who were elderly and were starting to worry me a little. I tried to tell Chuck that, but he didn’t seem to absorb the information and kept showing me apartments.

  “Did you look at any of the listings I sent you?” he asked.

  No.

  “I scanned them. It was a busy day.”

  “Okay.” He sat me at the breakfast bar. “Here’s this one in Chesterfield. I like the terrace. You can grow tomatoes.”

  Tomatoes. Me?

  “It’s…nice, but that’s not walking distance,” I said.

  “Walking distance to what?”

  “Here. I don’t want—”

  “Look at this kitchen. All that storage.” Chuck grinned at me. His excitement should’ve been infectious, but all I could think about was my mom. What if she fell? What if something happened? She still wasn’t comfortable being alone in the house. After Dad had gone back to work, such as it was, she’d call me and I’d walk over. I could tell she was afraid there in that house where it happened. During the day, someone was usually there, Claire, Aunt Tenne, Manny, somebody and it was okay. But in the evening, when they were gone, it wasn’t. She tried to hold out and not call, but she did or I’d walk over, just to check in. It was nice. I liked it. She needed it.

  “Chuck, I don’t think that terrace is enough—”

  “Space? I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

  Same page. We’re not in the same book.

  “This has been a really long day and I don’t want to do this right now,” I said.

  He got stiff and, it might’ve been my imagination, but I think his face got more angular, his shoulders wider. Veins were definitely popping out on his neck. “You don’t want to move in together?”

  “It’s not that.”

  More veins. Plus, one on his forehead.

  “I do want to move in together. You can move in here.”

  “Here? We can’t live together here. What about my stuff?” he asked.

  “Your stuff came from your mother’s third husband that you hated,” I said. “I think we can safely ditch that ten-year-old futon and the bed.”

  “Fourth husband.”

  “Whatever. Please let’s do this tomorrow.”

  Uncle Morty yelled from the bathroom, “You won’t have to talk about it tomorrow. You’ll be on a plane.”

  “Shut up!” I yelled and then kissed Chuck. “Tomorrow.”

  “These properties are going fast and what’s wrong with my bed?” he asked.

  “It’s so worn out it’s like sleeping in a hot dog bun.”

  “I like it.”

  “You’re the only one,” I said.

  “Pick likes it,” Chuck said, like he had some kind of trump card.

  “The poodle doesn’t get a vote.”

  In response, he slapped down another listing. “Speaking of Pick, this is a house out in Manchester. We can get a yard. Pick would love a yard.”

  I think Uncle Morty was laughing in the bathroom. I was not laughing. And I wasn’t laughing through the next five listings either. One was all the way over in Millstadt, for crying out loud.

  “Hold on,” said Chuck, when he paused to take a breath and answer his phone.

  I jolted up to get away, but his long arm shot out and nabbed me. “She’s right here. I don’t know why she won’t answer.” He gave me his phone. “Fats wants to talk to you.”

  There was more laughter in the bathroom. That door must be made of papier-mâché. I held up my hands and backed away, shaking my head. The last thing I needed was Fats Licata crawling up my butt about one more thing that was not, I repeat, not my problem.

  “Come on,” said Chuck. “This cannot be a problem.”

  Sure it can. I have so many problems, I’ve lost count.

  I shook my head and mouthed, “Not here.”

  “She knows you’re here.” He frowned. “Somehow.”

  “Answer the phone, Mercy!” Fats bellowed and let me say that when Fats Licata bellows, you do it, no matter what it is.

  I took the phone. “Hi.”

  “What is your malfunction?” asked Fats.

  “I don’t know anymore. I’ve had a craptastic day. Can we get to the point pronto?”

  “Sorry you got fired.”

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “I know a guy, who knows a guy. Plus, it was on the news.”

  I slapped my forehead and blindly went for the freezer. “It was on the news? Me getting fired is newsworthy now?”

  “No, you talking some psychic kid into giving up, so the cops don’t shoot him is. Channel Five broke into Days of our Lives. You were Breaking News,” said Fats.

  I got the Ben & Jerry’s. No bowl. “It’s a new low.”

  “You’ve been lower. I’ve seen it. Let’s get cracking. When are you going to talk to Tiny?”

  Tiny was my distant cousin from New Orleans. He worked for my dad and had become, almost instantly, the love of Fats’ life.
r />   “Never. This is not my job,” I said. “I can’t make Tiny do anything. I can barely make myself do things.”

  There was renewed laughter from the bathroom.

  “Shut up! And get out of my bathroom!” I yelled at the door.

  More laughter.

  “Who’s in the bathroom?” asked Fats.

  “Uncle Morty. He wants me to go to Greece.”

  “I thought you weren’t speaking to him.”

  “I’m trying not to. Believe me,” I said.

  “So about Tiny,” Fats started in. Chuck booted up my laptop and started making a spread sheet apartment pro/con list and Uncle Morty came out of the bathroom. He did not leave. He crossed his arms and leaned on the wall, waiting, like the know-it-all bastard he is.

  “Did you ever think that maybe you shouldn’t do this?” I honestly don’t know where that came from. Desperation, but more likely insanity.

  There was silence on the phone and I went all in, like I tend to do, ‘cause I am crazy. “You’re a modern woman. You don’t need a man.”

  Chuck frowned. Epically. It was an epic frown.

  Uncle Morty smiled and I knew it was bad.

  “Fats?” I asked.

  Nothing.

  I’m scared.

  “I’m just saying you’re independent.” Large. Terrifying.

  “And pregnant,” she said.

  “You can take care of things.” Assuming you don’t crush the baby accidentally, like a beer can. “Lots of people don’t get married.”

  Chuck’s face kind of collapsed in on itself, he was frowning so hard, and Uncle Morty had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep in the laughter.

  “You don’t think Tiny will marry me?” asked Fats in a low, throaty voice.

  I swear I peed a little. She made me incontinent.

  “I’m…I’m sure he will. Once he knows—”

  “I want him to ask me because he loves me, not because I’m pregnant. I’m coming over there,” said Fats.

  “Don’t come over here!”

  Uncle Morty ran back into the bathroom and slammed the door, his laughter rattling it on its hinges.

  “I want your help,” said Fats. “I love your cousin and I’m pregnant. I’m feeling a little…”

  Please don’t say irrational.

  “Irrational.”

  Dammit!

  “It’s fine. Really it’s fine. I’ll think of something to inspire Tiny.”