In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (15 page)

“You want to give people live goldfish as a wedding favor?” This was worse than the exploding invites that spewed glitter all over the recipient’s house.

“It’ll be so cute,” said Sorcha. “Beautiful goldfish with those long lacy tails. Whenever your guests look at them, they’ll think of your wedding.”
 

“Exactly,” I said. “When they’re flushing their dead fish, they’ll think of your wedding.”
 

“Ew,” said Jilly.
 

“No goldfish,” said Bridget. “How about Lovebirds?”
 

Oh my god.
 

I didn’t answer that. I didn’t trust myself not to use words that Uncle Morty would use. I helped Joanie unwrap Tiny, who could barely contain himself. “I wanna go to this wedding.”
 

“You can be my date for the madness,” I said.
 

“Deal.”
 

The Vichy shower turned out to be pretty relaxing or it would’ve been if Bridget hadn’t kept going on about Lovebird life expectancy while we laid on our tables and got sprayed. The worst part was the green smoothies they gave us for lunch. I’d been juicing since New Orleans, but my juices didn’t taste like dirt and ginger. I drank it because I figured it was my punishment for hoping Joanie would aim the shower nozzles at Bridget’s face.
 

After the Vichy shower, I figured we were done. What the heck could be left? As it turned out, quite a bit. We got our hair done. I said no Marilyn curls and the stylist promptly ignored me. Then we got our hands dipped in wax. That was weird and, I suspect, pointless. It was almost five o’clock and I was so done when Bridget said, “Let’s do yoga before dinner.”
 

Tiny and I looked at each other. I don’t know who was more afraid, but it would almost be worth it to see Tiny do yoga. He’d need two mats or possibly three.
 

“Do we have to?” he asked.
 

“You got a pedicure, but you won’t do yoga.”
 

“I can’t do that stuff.” Tiny attempted to touch his toes. Let’s just say it didn’t go well.

The Troublesome Trio were discussing downward-facing dog when I stretched in my squashy armchair and said, “I think we’ll skip the yoga. That wasn’t on the schedule, was it?”
 

Bridget gasped. “Oh, no. You have to go. We haven’t really talked yet.”
 

Who talks during yoga? Wait. Think about who you’re talking to, Mercy. Hello.

“There’s plenty of time for that.” I stood up and realized I didn’t have my map or a clue where I was in the castle. Fantastic.
 

“But yoga is relaxing,” said Sorcha. “You need to relax with the whole people trying to kill you thing.”
 

“I’m plenty relaxed. An hour long shower massage will do that,” I said.
 

“Let’s just hang out,” said Jilly. “I want to hear all about Chuck and New Orleans.”

That’s a hard pass.
 

“You’re supposed to relax,” said Sorcha. “Aunt Carolina told us to make you relax.”
 

“Consider it done,” I said.
 

“And eat,” said Jilly.
 

“Huh?”
 

“You’re supposed to eat.” Bridget clapped her hands. “Perfect timing.”
 

Aaron came in, carrying a wide silver tray. No prosecco and chocolate this time. Something much worse. Individual soufflés.
 

“I can’t eat that,” Tiny and I said together.
 

Bridget narrowed her eyes at me, shockingly similar to my mother’s look of disapproval. “Why not?”

Tiny hastily said, “I’m on a diet. I got to lose another hundred pounds.”
 

The trio nodded and turned to me.
 

“Um…” My heart was pounding. The soufflés were Grand Marnier, tall and crusty. They filled the spa lounge with a wonderful orangey smell and made my mouth water in spite of myself. Aaron placed one in front of each of us and rubbed his hands together, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet.
 

“I think we have to eat it,” whispered Tiny.
 

“I can’t.” I needed lettuce, nice clean guilt-free lettuce.
 

“You can’t,” he said. “I shouldn’t.”

“We’re quite a pair,” I said.
 

Sorcha, Bridget, and Jilly broke the crusty tops of their soufflés and groaned with pleasure at their first bites. Tiny and I held our spoons like weapons, trying to fight off the ultimate temptation. Tiny was flushed and glassy-eyed. I was nauseous.

Aaron kept bobbing up and down, going faster and faster. He looked like he had springs in his heels.
 

“Looks fantastic,” I said.

“Great,” said Tiny.

My spoon broke through the top and a wisp of steam swirled up. The dish was hot in my hands like my Mauser in New Orleans.

“I can’t.” I shoved my soufflé into Aaron’s hands and dashed out the door with echoes of “Mercy!” ringing out behind me.
 

I got lost, naturally, and found myself in the copper pot kitchen again. There was no one there, but traces of Aaron’s Grand Marnier soufflés remained in scattered mixing bowls beside the La Cornue stove. I looked at those bowls and bit my lip. Aaron would be so hurt that I didn’t eat what he made. How could I explain it to him? I couldn’t even explain it to myself. The days of eating his food were over. I hadn’t had one of his burgers since before New Orleans and I couldn’t imagine a time when I could sit in Kronos and order like I used to.
 

I heard voices in the hall and dashed for the door. It was the right door, for once, and I was outside. The sun was still up, but getting ready to tuck behind the rolling hills in an hour or so. I was in the castle’s kitchen garden. Rows of herbs and vegetables grew in neat rows, all tagged and ready for the summer growing season to start. A gardener came out of a door in the base of the nearest tower with a double tank contraption strapped to his back. He saw me and waved. I waved back and watched him head out into the formal garden to spray something on the rosebushes.
 

The formal gardens, beyond the kitchen garden, were done in the French style. They reminded me of Villandry in the Loire Valley. Villandry had Myrtle and Millicent’s favorite gardens in France and we’d been there many times to walk through the maze and flower beds. They’d take notes and I’d explore the love gardens. Cairngorms had the same setup in their ornamental garden, tender, passionate, flighty, and tragic love sections separated by hedges with a fountain in the center. I wandered through each square, admiring the details. The Girls would be impressed.
 

The castle loomed over me but no one came out and I had time to calm myself and get a grip. The castle was easier to understand from the back. It was built in a hook shape with the hook part curving around the kitchen garden. My tower was easy to spot. The other towers had stained glass windows, but mine had leaded glass in an intricate design. I’d opened my window so my room must be on the other side.
 

I left the love gardens and followed a trail around the last tower to find a rock garden that extended around the whole other side of the hook. The red and black gravel was carefully raked in concentric circles. Beyond it was a large stone building with five sets of wide doors. That must be the carriage house where the ball players were staying. Farther away was the stable, just as large as the carriage house but with white-fenced paddocks.
 

“Do you ride?”
 

I jumped and John was at my side. “You scared me.”
 

“I apologize. You were looking at the stables. Would you like to take a horse out?”
 

“No. That’s okay. I was just getting the lay of the land.”
 

John nodded. “Your cousins are coming this way. Perhaps you should stay here.”
 

“A ride sounds great,” I said and John nearly had an expression or maybe it was wishful thinking on my part.
 

He walked me down to the stable and introduced me to Jamie, the groom, and suggested I ride down to the ball fields. John pointed at a trail through the thick trees.
 

“Where are the Shut-ins?” I asked.
 

“Johnson Shut-ins are beyond the ball fields.”
 

“Do we have access?”
 

“With your code,” he said. “But they’re officially closed. The water’s at a record high. Swimming is extremely hazardous.”

“Who would want to swim now? The water would be freezing.”

“You’re not supposed to leave the grounds in any case.”

It wouldn’t be hard to forget Dad’s orders and I fingered the code card in my pocket.

“You need to destroy that card immediately,” said John.
 

“How do you know I didn’t?” I asked.
 

He watched me without blinking, very robotic.
 

“I will.”
 

“Good.” John left without another word and Jamie came out with a tall chestnut gelding, who was dancing on the end of his lead.
 

“My notes say you’ve got experience,” said Jamie.

“You have notes on me?” I asked.
 

“Of course. John and Leslie are very thorough. What’s your level?”

“No clue.”
 

“Lessons?”
 

“Yes. My godmothers think riding is part of a well-rounded education, but I’m wearing flip-flops.”

Jamie smiled. “If you don’t think you can handle it…”
 

“Oh, I can handle it. What’s his name?” I asked.
 

“Sly dog.”
 

That’s not a good sign.
 

“Good name.”
 

“His real name is Out of the Frying Pan,” he said.

“Weird.”
 

Jamie shrugged. “It’s a thoroughbred thing. His sire is Cast Iron.”
 

“That sounds familiar,” I said.
 

“Third in the Preakness, but he had a biting problem. And there was kicking. You want Western or English?”

I kept a close eye on Son of Biter and took a step back. “English.”
 

Jamie tied my ride to a post and got the tack. I was up on Sly Dog in five minutes and regretting it. There was something going on with that horse. He kept tossing his head and giving me the stink eye over his shoulder.
 

“Where’re you headed?” asked Jamie.
 

“The ball fields, I guess.”
 

“No. You don’t want to spook him with all the cheering. Go toward the valley.” Jamie pointed out the trail and told me never to give Sly his head. I promised I’d keep it at a trot and gave him a little kick. I expected a horse with so much energy while on a lead to take off, but I was sorely disappointed. I barely got a walk out of him. It took us fifteen minutes to get around the stables to the trail and he stopped when we got there.
 

“What are we doing?”
 

Sly blew out a breath.
 

“I thought you wanted to go. You were all excited,” I said with a gentle kick.
 

Nothing.

“Do I have to get off and push?”
 

Another blow.
 

I looked up at the trees. This weekend was getting longer and longer. Even the horse was slow.
 

“Do you want me to—”

That’s all I got out because Son of Biter took off. Full speed. Let’s go. We’re galloping. Off the trail. Through the brush.
 

“Oh shit!” I yelled.
 

I should’ve gone Western. There was nothing to hang on to and Sly knew it. He was jumping gullies and making hairpin turns. I thought I was a pretty good rider, but that was on regular horses. Ones without evil. I barely kept my seat. He tried everything, including bucking. I managed to stay on by grabbing his mane and I thought I’d worn him out. I should’ve known better when he slowed down and joined the trail again. Sly Dog wasn’t a settling down kind of horse. I got myself back on the center of the saddle and took a deep breath just as he veered off the trail, ran through a thicket with his neck stretched out. Downhill. We’re going downhill. Sliding. His haunches went down and my head went up.