Double Black Diamond (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (10 page)

“Although your obsession with old bands and murderous intent is mildly interesting, I’ve got to go.”
 

“Get their autographs. Take pictures.”

“I don’t think so.”
 

“It’ll be easy. Mickey’ll love you. I’m surprised he’s not on you already.”

“Why?”
 

“Nina Symoan.”
 

Before I could answer, the door opened and my mother walked in. I gasped and she looked in my direction. Not my mother. It was instantaneous knowledge. One second I thought it was Mom and the next I knew for certain it wasn’t, but she was damn close. I didn’t often see Marilyn Monroe look-alikes, except when I looked in the mirror or at my mother. We were both dead ringers for Marilyn. The other Marilyns I’d run into were usually female impersonators and thanks to them, people sometimes assumed I was really a man. Not my favorite thing to have happen. But this one was a woman, about Mom’s age, but she wasn’t the same. Her beauty, although a vision of Marilyn, was off somehow, like it didn’t quite sit right on her skin, and she could take off that face whenever she chose.
 

“Mercy?” asked Dad.

“A Marilyn look-alike just walked in.”
 

“You have to get her autograph. It’ll drive your mother crazy.”
 

“Why? Who is it?”
 

“Nina Symoan. Mickey’s wife. She’s a softcore porn star. People used to confuse your mom with her all the time. She hated it.”
 

“Mom was confused with a porn star? That is hilarious.”
 

“God, your mother hated her. Get her autograph or I’m canceling Christmas.”
 

“Keep your pants on,” I said.
 

A shadow fell over me. “I hate it when women say that,” said a voice over me.
 

I looked up and saw none other than Mickey Stix standing over me.
 

“Gotta go.” I hung up on Dad.
 

“You are a vision. How about some pictures?” asked Mickey.
 

Without waiting for an answer, Mickey lifted me out of the chair and had me posed beside him. One of his entourage had a camera and began snapping pictures. I glanced back at his wife, who was ordering at the counter. She saw us, but I couldn’t read her expression. Hopefully, she didn’t mask murderous thoughts under all that makeup. I would’ve been thinking murder if my husband was all over a younger version of me.
 

Then Mickey laid a kiss on me that made my toenail polish bubble. That man could kiss. When he pulled back, I was light-headed and couldn’t focus. All I could think was thank god Pete wasn’t there. He was pretty good about that horrible website and my occasional stalkers, but having an aging rock star kiss me might be the last straw.
 

“I have to go,” I said, lurching toward the door.
 

Mickey caught me as I stepped outside and handed me my purse. “Don’t forget your dog. I’ll be in touch.”
 

The door closed and I stood stunned outside.
 

In touch for what?
 

I checked the time. It was after eight-thirty. Where the hell was Rory? He hadn’t texted me and I didn’t know where he was staying in the village. My phone dinged. Thank goodness.

“Whr r u?” texted Pete.

Crap!

“BRB,” I sent back.
 

I hoisted Wallace onto my shoulder. I swear she’d gained five pounds in waffle weight. The village was now alive. Skiers and snowboarders were heading to the slopes with their equipment delicately balanced on their shoulders. Shopkeepers were putting out racks of jackets and base layers with sale signs perched on top of them. The bulging sky finally let loose and fat snowflakes began floating down, lazy and beautiful. Amid the laughter and bustle there was another sound. The wail of a siren. And then another. And another. I turned and looked through the covered bridge to the road outside the village. Three cop cars and an ambulance raced by. The bustle stopped and a guy near me said, “Didn’t they just start the lifts? It’s early for an accident.”
 

“Someone must’ve fell off. It happens,” said his companion and they continued on down the path toward the mountain. I followed, listening to the continual wailing. Hopefully, it wasn’t too serious, somebody falling into the fresh powder which had to be at least a foot deep. That would cushion the fall. Another possibility popped into my mind. Wade Cave had been the only member of DBD not at the Belgian Bean. I hoped his head didn’t have a hammer-shaped hole in it. Dad would mourn again and I was pretty sure Mom hadn’t destroyed all his parachute pants.
 

I turned into Copper One and went up to the condo to find that Nancy was cooking again. She stood at the stove whisking eggs. Good. Nobody could screw up eggs. Pete was up and standing on the balcony with Calvin. I took Wallace out of my purse and she scampered through the condo, sniffing and barking like she’d never seen the place before. Pete turned around at the racket and hobbled back inside, a little dramatically to my mind.
 

“Where’ve you been?” asked Pete.

“Walking Wallace,” I said.
 

Certainly not waiting for a delivery of cannabis oil or kissing rock stars.

“Did you see what happened at the lift?”
 

“No. We went the other way. What happened?”
 

“I couldn’t see. Something by the lift. There’s an ambulance and they’re cordoning off the area.”

At least it’s not Wade, done in by Mickey Stix. Just a run-of-the-mill lift fall.
 

Calvin put on his coat. “I think I’ll go down there and see if they need any help.”
 

“You’re a radiologist, Dad,” said Pete.

“I won’t tell them that.”

“Calvin, breakfast in five minutes,” said Nancy, cranking up the heat on a skillet until it was smoking.
 

“I’ll be right back.” Calvin practically ran out the door. I suspect to escape the scrambled eggs that were currently being scorched in the skillet.
 

Pete and I sat down. Wallace ran around, still barking, and I kept my phone in my lap, willing it to ring.
 

Come on, Rory.

Nancy served the scrambled eggs and they were scorched to crusty brown, but, also, watery and pink with chunks of something. I looked down with my fork poised to strike, but I couldn’t make myself dig in. What the hell had happened to those eggs?
 

“I love your eggs and tomatoes, Mom,” said Pete.
 

Eggs scrambled with tomatoes. That I’d seen before, not like Nancy’s version thankfully. I managed to get the eggs down and they weren’t as bad as I expected. Your basic watery burnt eggs.
 

We sat there waiting for Calvin to come back until I started getting edgy. Rory still hadn’t called and we were at a ski resort and we weren’t skiing. I got up and cleaned the kitchen. That skillet would never be the same. It’d been nearly forty minutes. I had to get on the slopes or I’d go crazy waiting for Rory. Pete said he wasn’t skiing because of his ankle and he sounded a bit cagey when he said it. Nancy said she’d be ready after she showered. We were never getting out of there. I went in the bedroom, put on my base layers, and looked up Open Mind Medicinals on my phone in case I had to call them. The longer it went without Rory calling me, the more nervous I got. That old Tommy Watts feeling started in my gut and wouldn’t go away. It could’ve been the eggs, but I didn’t think so. Something wasn’t right. I wasn’t going to get that oil for Keegan and I’d better figure out what had gone wrong sooner rather than later. I broke down and called Open Mind, but no one answered. That made me feel worse.
 

Calvin came back and declared that there had been some kind of accident, but he couldn’t get close enough to find out what it was. Nancy made more pink eggs for him and I tried Open Mind once again. No answer. I’m not sure I would’ve heard it if they had answered. Wallace had gone batshit crazy at a knock on the door.
 

“Mercy, can you get that?” Nancy called out.
 

I yanked on my ski pants. They have suspenders. It’s not pretty. I waddled out of the bedroom with three inches of fluffy insulation between my legs to find Wallace going nuts. All four of her stumpy legs were stiff and she hopped back and forth, yapping her head off. I nudged her out of the way with my foot and opened the door.
 

Two uniformed cops and a plainclothes detective, wearing a grey cowboy hat that matched his three-piece suit, stood there with rosy cheeks and intense expressions. I had a mini heart attack in that moment. I didn’t even have the oil yet and I already had cops at the door.
 

“Can I help you?” My voice was high and squeaky. Real smooth, not suspicious at all.
 

“Are you Mercy Watts?” asked the detective. He said it like, “Are you a slut and a whore?”
 

If it’d been anyone else I might’ve kicked him in the shin for that, but as it was I merely blushed. Calvin and Nancy were behind me. Being between cops and parents is a bad place to be.
 

“Um.”
 

“Well?” asked the detective his lip curling.
 

Wallace squeezed past my padded legs, bounded across the threshold, and bit him on the ankle. Not a nip. A chomp. And she didn’t let go. The detective spun around, swinging Wallace in a circle while screaming like a two-year-old getting a vaccine. The two uniforms and I watched. They seemed frozen in shock. I was not. He deserved a good chomp, so I let Wallace have her day.
 

“Mercy, what’s going on?” asked Calvin.
 

“Nothing.” I went into the hall, closed the door, shoved the spinning detective against the wall, and plucked Wallace off his ankle by her curly tail. “Sorry about that. She didn’t like your tone.”
 

“What’s my tone got to do with it?” the detective yelled.
 

“Everything and you know it.” I squatted. “I’m a nurse. Let me take a look.”
 

Wallace had done pretty well, biting through wool trousers and a thick sock. There was a full set of pug-sized teeth marks on his hairy ankle.

“Call Animal Control, Sullivan,” yelled the detective.
 

“Oh, you’re alright,” I said. “She didn’t break the skin and the bruising will be minimal.”
 

“Sullivan!”

I stood up and put my hands on my substantial hips. “Do you really want to call this in? We’re not talking Rottweiler here.” I glanced at the uniforms. They were keeping straight faces, but only just. The detective wasn’t their favorite guy and, unless I was very off base, the pug attack story would become legendary.
 

The detective straightened his jacket and assumed a dignified stance. “Never mind.”
 

The door opened. Pete and his parents peered out at us. I gave Nancy her attack pug. “It’s fine. Go get dressed.”
 

“What’s going on, Mercy?” asked Pete.

“I guess I don’t need to repeat the question,” said the detective. “I’m Detective Ronald Carey and you need to come with us.”
 

“No, thank you,” I said, pleasantly. “What’s the deal?”
 

“Are you working?” he asked.

Working? He must know about Dad and the whole detective thing.

Calvin came up beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. Very dad. I loved it. “We’re on vacation. What’s this about?”

“Whether or not Miss Watts is actually on vacation for one,” said Carey.

“No patients around here. She’s a nurse. So definitely on vacation.”
 

“Funny. You don’t look like a nurse.” Carey held up a wrinkled screenshot from the heinous website, featuring me at my worst in a skintight red wrap dress with my leopard bra hanging out. Since I’m pretty busty, there was a lot hanging.

Nancy gasped and I wanted to die. Of course I didn’t. Death is never around when you need it.
 

Chapter Seven

“What is that?” asked Nancy as Pete pulled her back into the condo.
 

“Nothing, Mom,” he said, closing the door.
 

Yeah, nothing that I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
 

Calvin stayed right by my side, his arm securely clamped around my shoulder.
 

“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
 

“Out of the pocket of a attempted murder victim. Care to tell me how it got there?”
 

My first thought was Fergus Borthwick, my new stalker. That screenshot was the kind of thing people wanted me to sign. I never did, by the way. I can’t sign things that I’m pretending don’t exist.

“Whose pocket was it?” I asked, trying not to picture young Fergus half dead.
 

“You don’t know?”

“That’s on a website I didn’t authorize. Anyone could print it,” I said.

Sullivan got out his phone and started searching around for me, I assumed. Pete came out and stood on the other side of me. He was flushed and didn’t look at me.
 

“Are you telling me that it’s just a coincidence that my victim had a picture of you in his pocket and you’re Tommy Watts’s daughter?” asked Carey.

“I’m not telling you anything because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
 

Sullivan held out his phone.
 

Please don’t be the bikini shot.

It was the bikini shot, me climbing out of the ocean with Ursula Andress’s Bond Girl bikini photoshopped over my real one, and worse, it was the CNN page dedicated to the story with the headline, “Bombshell Beauty Solves Attempted Murder.”
 

“You work for your father and the Fibanacci crime family apparently,” said Carey. “What are you doing in Copper?”