In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (10 page)

“What are they doing?” asked Sorcha.
 

One of the guards was holding a mirrored stick under the van while the other one loaded the luggage on a cart.
 

“Looking for explosives,” I said.
 

“Seriously? How do you know?”

Hunt Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

“I saw it on TV.”
 

Bridget hooked her arm through mine and craned her neck up to look at the high limestone walls of the castle. “Wow. Can you believe this place? Your mom said it was good, but I had no idea. It’s bigger than your house.”
 

“My house is an apartment,” I said.
 

Her eyes roved over the multiple stained glass windows and little gargoyles. “No. I mean your parents’ house.”
 

“Your parents’ house is bigger than my parents’ house.”
 

It was too true. Uncle George opened a medical supply company about the time my dad became a cop. He worked ninety hours a week while my cousins were growing up and he made the business a success through pure toil. Until Dad retired and went private there was no question about who was the more successful brother. George built a house out in Ladue that our house would fit into with room to spare. Jilly was six when they moved. She barely remembered the cracker-box-sized house they had in Dogtown when her dad was struggling to get a toehold in the business world, which was why she was known as Spoiled Rotten. Bridget and Sorcha remembered it very well.
 

“Not that house,” said Bridget. “The Bled Mansion.”
 

“That’s not my house.”
 

“It may as well be.” She said it with the snotty tone I expected of her. She hated the birthday parties that Myrtle and Millicent threw for me, and I suspected they were the reason I got duct taped so much.
 

The guard with the mirror straightened up. “All clear.” He closed the rear lift-gate. There were all kinds of bumper stickers on it. The most popular was Steel Vipers Baseball and Immaculate Heart Varsity Baseball. The back window only had one thing on it, a memorial sticker.
 

Rest in Peace

Beloved
 

Q

March 3, 1987
 

1987. That was a long time to mourn. To be fair, my high school boyfriend had disappeared nearly ten years ago and was presumed dead. Sometimes it felt like yesterday so who was I to judge. I once wanted to put a memorial sticker on my truck, but Dad threatened my life.
 

“Good morning, ladies,” said the guard. “You’re the Watts bridal party?”
 

We said we were, but he required two forms of ID before he ran a metal detector over us.
 

“You’re clear to go in, ladies. Have a wonderful time at the castle,” he said.
 

“What about our luggage?” asked Sorcha.
 

“We’ll bring it to your rooms after we’ve x-rayed it.”
 

“You’re x-raying our luggage? Why? We’re a bridal party,” said Bridget.
 

He nodded and smiled pleasantly. “It’s just a precaution. Security is our top concern here at the castle.”
 

“And why is that?” I asked.
 

“As I said, it’s just a precaution.”
 

The security should’ve made me feel safe. Instead, I felt like a prisoner. The Girls and I had an easier time getting into Israel.
 

“Leslie is waiting for you,” said the guard and he got out a piece of equipment made for sniffing bomb-making materials.

I stared at him until a warm voice said, “Ladies, may I introduce myself. I’m Leslie, one of the owners of the castle.”
 

I turned to find a man around fifty standing under the pavilion. He had long silver hair feathered back from his face in a way that didn’t seem outdated at all, wire-rimmed glasses, and an outfit that made me want to date him despite the fact that he was the same age as my father. The man could rock a vest. He wore a white crisp shirt under a tailored pin-striped vest. The fitted jeans didn’t hurt either.
 

“Oh,” chirped Jilly and a fierce blush crept up her neck. Sorcha tossed her hair and Bridget just stared. I stared too, but I recovered quicker.
 

Sorcha whispered to me, “He looks like he should be on the cover of
Forbes
.”

“Or
Rolling Stone
,” I said.
 

Leslie smiled, showing even white teeth so perfect they had to be caps. “Morty.”
 

“Leslie.”
 

 
There was a grunting behind me and I spun around. Uncle Morty heaved himself out of the limo. Crumbs rained down on the pristine pavement.
 

Bridget yanked on my arm. “Mercy, please.”
 

“Um…right. Uncle Morty,” I said in a wheedling tone that I wasn’t going for but couldn’t control. “What are you doing out of the limo? You said you were staying in there and not coming out.”
 

“I changed my mind.” He wasn’t looking at us but at the facade. Oh no. The creative wheels were turning. It was nearly impossible to stop him once his brain latched on.
 

“But I bought you burritos,” I said.
 

“They sucked.”
 

“I’ll buy you more burritos. Better burritos.”
 

Uncle Morty scratched his belly, exposing the hairy expanse and I could feel the panic in Bridget. Uncle Morty and his…stuff was not good in an isolated castle for four days or ever, if I’m being honest. Morty was an acquired taste and my cousins had not acquired him yet.
 

I peeled Bridget’s hand off my arm and threw my hands up. “Darn. It’s too bad you didn’t pack anything. You don’t have any of your stuff. Your dragon models, your swords, your helmets. And clothes. You don’t have clothes. Clothes are essential to the writing process.”
 

“No, they ain’t,” he said. “I’ll just wear this.”
 

“For four days?” asked Jilly. Her mouth hung open wide enough for me to see her dental work.
 

“That ain’t nothing. When I’m on a writing streak, I’ve been known to wear the same shit for two weeks.”
 

“Oh my god,” said Sorcha.
 

“Oh my god is right. My damn book ain’t working and this place is already getting my juices flowing. I’m all juicy.
 

Ew.

“I’m sure the castle is booked. Way booked.” I glanced back at Leslie, who gave me a slight shrug.
 

“Leslie can find room for me. Can’t you,
Leslie
?” said Uncle Morty.
 

What’s that about?

“How do you guys know each other?” I asked.
 

Morty got his laptop, tucked it under his arm, and belched. “We met in another life. One of many.”
 

“What does that mean?”
 

“It means we’re old friends,” said Leslie.

Uncle Morty snorted.
 

“And we understand each other. We’d be honored to accommodate Mr. Van Der Hoof.”

“Damn right.” Uncle Morty stomped past us and whipped open the big arched door to take up residence.
 

“But…” said Bridget.
 

“Our weekend,” said Sorcha.
 

“And the smell,” said Jilly.
 

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’ll…I’ll…”
 

Leslie touched Bridget’s shoulder. “The bride-to-be, I presume.”
 

She nodded like crazy.
 

“You need not worry. If I know Morty, he’ll hole up in a tower and you won’t see him at all. He’ll be working. Isn’t that right, Miss Watts?”

“Yes. He does hole up when he’s on a streak,” I said.

“Okay,” said Bridget. “You don’t think he’ll want to go to the spa with us, do you?”
 

“Not on your life.”
 

She blew out a breath. “It’s going to be great. He can work and we’ll do our activities.”
 

Leslie took Bridget’s hand and looked deep into her eyes. “It will be perfect.”
 

People said my dad and Chuck were charming, but them combined couldn’t hold a candle to Leslie. He morphed into exactly what Bridget needed and then he did it with Jilly and Sorcha. He said all the right things. No. Not the right things. Perfect things.
 

When he was done, they were smiling and going through the front door without a care in the world. Five Mortys couldn’t have ruined it. The only one who wasn’t charmed was Pick, who sniffed the around Leslie and backed up, making a throaty noise.
 

“You’re in good hands, Miss Watts,” he said, turning his spotlight on me.
 

“Who are you exactly?” I asked.

He smiled. “Leslie.”
 

“Right. How do you know my dad? What did you do?”
 

“What makes you think I did something?”
 

“It’s a given. I know my dad. If you were a cop, he’d have said so. That means you’re on the other side of the coin.”

Leslie leaned in, his breath caressed my cheek and a prickle of fear went through me, a reaction to I knew not what. “There are no sides. Only results.”
 

“What do you—”

A guard stepped up. “Leslie, the limo is clear to leave.”
 

Leslie nodded at Terrance, who hesitated by the driver’s side door. He glanced at me with uncertainty and I felt another prickle of fear zip up my back.
 

“Goodbye, Terrance,” said Leslie. “See you in four days.”
 

“Yes, sir.” Terrance gave me a meaningful look. “I’ll be here right on time or early if you need me.”
 

“Good to know,” I said.
 

He got in and drove away. Very slowly to my mind.
 

A group of people walked around the side of the castle and a man with a greying crew cut said, “It is you.”
 

“Yeah, it is,” said a teenaged boy, obviously his son. They had the same broad cheekbones and thin lips.
 

“Who is she?” asked the woman with dark brown hair, curled and sprayed. She had extra-long fingernails that made me think of claws even though they were painted with blue orchids and had tiny jewels along the tips. She was one of the few women who could wear a jumpsuit and made it look like a good idea.
 

“Mercy Watts.” The other man wore a faded Cardinals’ baseball cap and had the heavy look of an athlete who’d forgotten how to move.
 

“DBD’s cover girl,” said the boy. “She’s hot.”
 

“Quinn,” said the woman.
 

“Mom. She knows she’s hot.”
 

Leslie extended his arm to bring them closer. It was a good thing, too. I felt a bit like I was in a zoo. “Mercy Watts, this is Nicole, Cory, Quinn, and Bill. They’re with the Steel Vipers.”
 

“Steel Vipers?” I asked.
 

“Baseball. Best traveling team out there,” said Cory, the one with the crew cut.

“Dad,” said Quinn. “The Grizzlies are good, too.”
 

Cory snorted. “Enrique is good.”
 

“Speak of the devil,” said Nicole, looking down the drive as a couple of Cadillac Escalades came into view.

“Prepare to be dazzled.” Bill whipped off his cap, slapped it against his beefy thigh, and then settled it back on his head.
 

“I’ll be dazzled by Enrique,” said Cory.
 

“That’s a guarantee. That kid’s got it together. He’s in another league.”

Nicole elbowed Cory. “Quinn is a serious contender.”
 

Cory nodded and slung his arm over his son’s shoulders. “He is, but we got our work cut out for us. Remember, son, you’ve got the potential to be another Bob Feller.” Cory spouted off a mind-boggling amount of statistics comparing his kid to everyone from Oliver Jakes to Tom Terrific, whoever that was. Quinn disappointed his father by not being able to remember Sandy Koufax’s ERA in 1963. Who would? What a freak.
 

Nicole leaned over to me. “Quinn is competing for the Pickford Prize.”
 

“What’s that?” I asked.
 

All three of the adults gaped at me. Quinn gave me a perfect teenager look. Adults. What idiots.
 

“It’s the top scholarship in baseball. It’s a full ride and you can take it to any school,” said Cory.