In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (39 page)

“Your lips didn’t do it. You are, let me just say, a great kisser. Like crazy good. If I didn’t love someone else, I’d be all about it,” I said.
 

“Go on.” He gave me a look of such utter seriousness that I burst into laughter and he joined me. We laughed until we fell against the wall, clutching our stomachs.
 

“I hope he’s worth it,” Oliver managed to wheeze out.
 

“He’s not speaking to me actually,” I said.
 

That made us laugh more.
 

“I think we might be pathetic,” he said.
 

“I know we are.”
 

Tiny came out of the dining room. “What’re ya doing out here?”
 

“We repulse people,” said Oliver.
 

I wiped my eyes. “We do.”
 

“I don’t know why that’s funny,” said Tiny.
 

“Me either.”
 

“Are you going in?”
 

“There’s another woman in there to repulse. Hell yeah,” said Oliver and he walked through the archway still quaking with laughter but with his head high.
 

“You get weirder all the time,” said Tiny.
 

“Tell me about it.” I spun him around and we went in. Oliver was seated next to Sorcha and he did not repulse her. Dinner took over two hours and by the end, they were sitting so close their noses were touching. Can I matchmake or what?
 

“Alright,” I said. “I can see my work here is done.”
 

Oliver and Sorcha didn’t look up. They were discussing burger joints in Brooklyn. They each had a top five list and they didn’t match. That topic could take until midnight. The merits of Pho took forty-five minutes.
 

“Where’re you going?” asked Tiny. He was slumped in his chair, dejected after his healthy Thanksgiving dinner. His green beans were steamed, not sautéed with bacon and shallots. No gravy. No stuffing. The big man was sad, but he practically licked the plate.
 

“Pick needs a walk,” I said. “John texted me that he’s back from the kennel.”

“Alright.” He got up slowly, casting longing looks at Sorcha’s untouched pumpkin pie.
 

I told him he didn’t have to come, but that only got me a scornful look and a pat on the bulge in his waistband. He did let me run up the stairs and leash up Pick all by myself. I had a feeling that Tiny’s protection had gone into overdrive and I’d be lucky to go to the bathroom alone.
 

We walked out of the castle and followed a path around the side toward our tower. This might’ve been Cherie’s path and the thought gave me the creeps, but the night was beautiful. Pick sniffed every rock and then attempted to pee on them. He ran out of fluid after the first three, but that didn’t stop him from lifting his leg.
 

We made it to the back of the castle and saw the yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze. I stopped on the edge of the rock garden. Most of the windows that overlooked the garden were dark, but a few notable ones were bright yellow.
 

“They’re all here,” I said.
 

“Who?”
 

“Our suspects. On the map, they were all here in rooms overlooking the first crime scene.”
 

“You think that it was dumb luck that got Cherie killed?”
 

“Not exactly. It was dumb luck that the killer had a room overlooking this area. I think he looked out, saw her, and came out to kill her. He made a decision. That wasn’t luck.”
 

“How can we tell which room it was?” asked Tiny.
 

“We can’t. But there are still interviews to do. We haven’t talked to the men yet and we can only cross one off our list so far.”
 

Tiny readjusted his weapon and stared up at those ominous yellow lights. “Who?”
 

“Bill. Deanna alibied him by hearing the breathing machine going all night,” I said.
 

“That woman’s a drinker. How would she even remember?”
 

“She doesn’t have any reason to lie so I’m going with it for now.” I tugged on Pick’s leash. He stopped his latest attempt to wee on a rock and ran back to me, wagging his fuzzy tail. “We’ll find out tomorrow anyway. It all comes down to tomorrow.”
 

“Why tomorrow?”
 

“The sheriff comes back the day after. It’s tomorrow or we’re the losers who had to turn it over to Springfield.”
 

Tiny shook his head. “Failure is not an option.”
 

I took his offered arm and we strolled back to the copper pot kitchen. John stood in the shadows by a tree sculpted into a square, reminding me of what was expected. No. He reminded me of what was required. Tiny was right. Failure was not an option.
 

Chapter Eighteen

I WOKE UP the next morning with a crick in my neck, my back, and both my feet. I didn’t know you could get a crick in your feet, but I’m here to tell you it happens.
 

Tiny did sleep in my room. He took the bed because, let’s face it, he couldn’t fit anywhere else. I took the settee, which seemed like a good idea until I laid down on it. Tiny offered to take the settee but, since he’d have to sleep bolt upright, I said no. Now regret was imprinted on my every muscle. It wasn’t long enough even for me. I slept with my head up on one hard wooden arm and my feet up on the other. Actually, slept was a bit too generous. Dozed maybe. To go along with my night on the rack, I had Pick and Tiny’s snoring, the music of severely deviated septums. By the morning I was ready to crack Tiny in the nose with an iron skillet to force him into a surgical repair. He competed with Uncle Morty and that’s saying something.
 

I was so happy when Tiny went back to his room and I showered in silence. Then we met in the hall and headed down to breakfast. Tiny led me, talking about how great my bed was. Pick sniffed every inch of the stairs, getting under foot and annoying me.

Tiny took the leash and made Pick heal, something I’d never accomplished. “I slept great,” he said. “How’re you feeling?”
 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

“Did you sleep?” He asked.
 

“Do you think Aaron has an iron skillet I can use?” I asked.
 

“Why you need an iron skillet?”

We entered the kitchen to find Aaron hovering over multiple pots. “I’ll show you later.”
 

When you least expect it.
 

“Hi, Aaron,” I said. “What tortures have you prepared for me today?”
 

He didn’t even turn around but began tasting several pots and muttering.
 

“Okay. We’ll just have coffee.”
 

Aaron stopped with a spoon halfway to his lips. “You hungry.”
 

“For lettuce, but I’m probably going to need some more info from Uncle Morty so I’ll eat your food for credit.”
 

“I made biscuits and gravy.”
 

Shudder.
 

“Bring it on. Where’s the coffee?” I asked.
 

Aaron pointed past me to the fireplace. There was a deluxe commercial espresso machine built into the wall. Next to it in the corner was Lane, wrapped in a quilt and hunched over a mug. It was too early to face such overwhelming grief.
 

Why? Can’t we just have a Mr. Coffee? Pour and go. Pour and go.
 

Before I could attempt to make something with that monstrosity, one of Aaron’s assistants ran over and whipped up a cappuccino for me and straight espresso for Tiny. He gave me my cup topped with lovely foam and whispered, “Can I have your autograph?”
 

I smiled. “Let’s see how the cappuccino is first.” I sipped and, oh my god, I could’ve been in Rome. The foam was so thick I’d have to eat it with a spoon. “You’re a genius. What do you want me to say?”
 

I signed his apron with, “Emil, you’re my favorite baker. Love, Mercy Watts.” He was embarrassed, but I was happy to do it, especially after he showed me his escargot pastries. Chocolate pistachio has always been my favorite and I’d never gotten a good one outside of Paris. Emil’s looked so good I almost wanted to eat it.
 

“Please eat that,” said Tiny. “Cuz I can’t.”
 

Emil smiled with an eagerness that reminded me of a cocker spaniel, and Aaron was watching from the stove, no doubt taking note. What the hell? I had to eat something and nothing in Aaron’s pots was going to resemble lettuce so I took a pair of chocolate pistachios over to Lane and sat on the hearth next to her. “Want one?”
 

She didn’t glance up. “I’m not hungry.”
 

“Me, either.”
 

“Then why are you eating?”
 

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” I took a bite. Heaven but not a bit like lettuce and the guilt settled in around my heart. I shouldn’t be eating and enjoying.

Lane peeked at me from under her thick lashes. “Why do you have to eat?”
 

“It’s a long story, but it has to do with your mom’s case. I need information and eating is how I get it.”
 

“That’s weird.”
 

“You haven’t met my father’s best friend. He’s the devil to deal with.”
 

“Is he the writer? My brother said there was some writer in one of the towers.”
 

“That’s him. He’s helping me with the case. Have you thought of anything new to help me?” I asked.
 

Lane’s eyes snapped back to her mug. “No.”
 

“I found some things out about your mom yesterday.”
 

“Like what?”
 

I glanced around the kitchen. Everyone was well away, letting us talk in private. I scooted closer. “She had a problem with cutting.”
 

A tear fell onto the edge of Lane’s mug.
 

“It was something she dealt with as a teen and she’d started up again here at the castle, right?”
 

Lane produced a ratty tissue from the depths of her quilt. “How do you know all that?”
 

“The doctor told me.”

“She’s doing an…”
 

“Yes, she is,” I said quickly to avoid the word autopsy. In my experience, it’s best that way. “Just procedure and it’s being handled respectfully. Dr. Watts is very good at this.”
 

“Okay.” Lane blew her nose and sniffed.

“Why do you think she was cutting again?”
 

“I don’t know. She tried to hide it, but I saw the bloody towels. She had them soaking in the tub.”
 

“Did you ask her?” I asked.
 

“Yeah, but she said she was fine. She said everything was fine. Yeah, right.”
 

“Do you think the cutting had to do with your brother and the prize? She worked hard to get Taylor here and it might not work out. ”
 

She looked me in the eye for the first time. “No way. She said it was in the bag.”
 

“The prize was in the bag?”
 

“Uh huh. Taylor was going to win for sure. She said so.”
 

Weird. Cherie
knew
Taylor would win? She was the only one.
 

“How come? Enrique’s a strong contender.”
 

“That’s what I said, but Mom said don’t worry about him.”
 

“That’s interesting,” I said. “Lane, I figured some other things out, too.”
 

She shredded the tissue and Aaron brought her a new box and a little trash can. “What else is there?”
 

“The timeline.”
 

“Timeline?” she squeaked out.
 

I took her moist hand in mine. “You might as well confirm it. I already know you weren’t asleep in your room.”
 

“I was too.”
 

“No, you weren’t.” I gave her the timeline, point by point. I didn’t want to hurt the girl, but I needed to know where she was, who she was with, and if she’d seen anyone up and about at the time of her mother’s death.
 

Lane held it in for a good two minutes before she admitted to going out of the castle to meet one of the players, Parker from the Grizzlies. They’d had a thing for about a year, mostly long distance.
 

“He didn’t do anything to my mom,” she said. “He wouldn’t. He loves me.”

“You were with him all night?”