In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (41 page)

“Just from around tournaments. He’s okay.”
 

“Does he say anything nasty to you?”
 

“No. It’s more the parents from other teams. The Grizzlies and the Vipers aren’t that bad. They just act like Mom’s not good enough, but she never did anything wrong.

She did something to somebody.
 

“Did you go down to Ecuador with your mom and Lane on that church trip?” I asked.
 

Taylor jerked to attention. “Why’re you asking about that?”
 

“Because it’s an interesting coincidence. Enrique is from there.”
 

“I didn’t go. I had training.”
 

Pick banged against the door. I had to wrap it up or that fool would injure his tiny brain.
 

“Where did they go?” I asked.
 

“I don’t remember. Some orphanage. They dug wells and stuff.”
 

An orphanage. Ding. Ding. Ding.
 

“Did your mom say anything about Enrique when she came back?” I asked.
 

He shrugged. “No. Why would she?”
 

“I don’t know yet. I have a feeling that this is the key.”
 

“To what?” asked Taylor. “To who did it?”
 

I nodded. “Do you know how this trip was paid for?”
 

“Mom paid for it.”
 

“Did she tell you she paid for it?” I asked.
 

He shrugged again. “I don’t know.”
 

Pick went batshit crazy, ramming himself against the door.
 

“I have to go,” I said. “He’s berserk.” I braced myself and opened the door an inch so I could hopefully snag his leash. No hope. One inch was enough for Pick to shoot through. He charged past me and hurled himself at the fire pit.
 

“What the hell!” I yelled.
 

Pick leapt onto the pit and dove into the ashes. The lodge instantly filled with soot. I dove across the room, grabbed Taylor, and dragged him out. We fell out the door, gagging.
 

After I hacked up a lung, I asked, “Are you okay?”
 

“Yeah.” Taylor sat up and looked at his formally white uniform. “Mom would be pissed.”
 

“We look like chimney sweeps,” I said.
 

“Hey, your dog stopped barking.”
 

He had stopped and the sudden silence was weird. I’d gotten used the torrent of noise. “If he’s dead, Chuck’s going to kill me.”
 

“The guy in the video?” asked Taylor.
 

“You saw that?”
 

“Everybody saw that. My friend Cassie has it as wallpaper on her phone. Is that him?”
 

“Yes,” I groaned as I went to the door with Taylor at my elbow.
 

“Do you hear anything?” he asked.
 

“Not really.”
 

The inside of the sweat lodge wasn’t bright normally. Now it was dark and murky with all the soot in the air.

I squinted into the darkness. “Pick?”

There was a scrambling of nails on adobe and then a muffled sneeze.
 

“Oh thank god. Get out here, you nut.”
 

Muffled bark.
 

“I’m not going in there to get you. I already look like a coal miner.”
 

Muffled bark.
 

Taylor pushed past me. “I’ll get him.”
 

I snagged his jersey. “I’ll do it. Stupid dog.”
 

Taylor followed me in. The soot settled and a beam of dim sunlight spotlighted Pick. He stood on the fire pit with his four paws spread apart on the rim.
 

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Get down.”

Muffled bark.
 

“He’s got something in his mouth,” said Taylor.
 

I held out my hand. “Drop it.”
 

Pick dropped something both crispy and soft in my hand.
 

Please don’t be a dead rabbit.

“What is it?” asked Taylor.
 

“I don’t know. Grab his leash, will you?” I asked.
 

In response, Pick shot through the door and shook, letting off another cloud of soot.
 

Taylor and I followed him out into the sunlight slanting down in beams through the tree branches. Taylor grabbed Pick’s leash and peered into my hands. “Are those gloves?”
 

They were gloves or at least I thought they were. But they weren’t normal gloves made of leather or cloth. Those gloves were made of a woven plastic material that had been half melted in a fire.
 

“They’re mechanic’s gloves,” I said, examining the pattern. It matched the marks on Cherie’s neck.
 

“Mechanic’s gloves?”
 

“People used them for other stuff. My godmother’s used them for trimming their rose bushes because they’re tougher than ordinary gardening gloves.”
 

A flake of something broke off and fluttered to the ground.

“There’s some paper in-between them,” I said. “But it’s mostly burnt.”
 

“Can you read anything?” asked Taylor.

I knelt down and peeled apart the plastic. I shouldn’t have. Dad would be pissed, but I had to know what was in there.
 

“It’s a newspaper.”
 

A piece of intact newsprint fell into my lap. It wasn’t large, about three square inches.
 

“What does it say?”
 

I held it up. “It’s about a band and some fairgrounds.”
 

“What band?”
 

“The Charlie Daniels Band.”
 

Taylor wrinkled his nose. “Who’s that?”
 

“I think they’re country. My grandpa likes them,” I said.
 

“What fairgrounds?”
 

“I don’t know. It just says the concert was a benefit for flood victims and had record attendance.”
 

Taylor paced with a panting Pick at his side. “Do you think this has something to do with my mom?”
 

Cherie was strangled with those gloves, but I wasn’t about to tell her son that.

“Maybe. They didn’t burn them for no reason. The gloves look to be in good condition, but this newspaper is old.”
 

“How old?” He turned to face me, his young face somber and sadder with the layer of soot decorating it.
 

I got to my feet. I can’t tell, but it’s pretty yellowed. I’ll figure it out.”
 

“How?”
 

“My uncle’s pretty good at gathering information. I’ll get him on it right away.” I took Pick’s leash back.
 

“Did you eat enough?” asked Taylor.
 

“Lane told you about that, huh?”
 

“Did you?”

I hooked my arm through his. “If I didn’t, I’ll eat more. My partner, Aaron, makes an incredible hot chocolate. That ought to buy me something. You should have some, too. I’m guessing you didn’t eat.”
 

“Not very hungry.”
 

“I thought so.” I tugged on his arm.
 

“I’d rather stay here.”
 

“You need a shower and we need information.”
 

Taylor agreed reluctantly and we walked back to the castle.

“Don’t tell anyone about the gloves or newspaper,” I said.

“What about Lane?” he asked.
 

“You can tell her, but we don’t want anyone else to know we have it.”
 

Taylor frowned. “What do you think the…murderer would do if he knew we had it?”
 

“I don’t want to find out and while we’re at it no need to mention the mess in the sweat lodge to John and Leslie. It wouldn’t be healthy for Pick.”
 

“I won’t tell them anything and I’ll drink your hot chocolate if it helps,” he said.
 

“I’ll take my own medicine. You just keep your ears open and your mouth shut.”
 

We approached the love garden and saw the police tape. Taylor fell silent and his body tensed. I squeezed his arm as I scanned the building. All those windows, anyone could see us. And anyone with half a brain could figure out where we’d been.
 

Chapter Nineteen

AN HOUR LATER, Uncle Morty bent over the scrap of newspaper with a magnifying glass he’d found in a drawer. It was a real Sherlock Holmes special and made me want to go creeping around moors at night in a deerstalker cap.
 

“It’s about the Charlie Daniels Band and a flood benefit,” he said.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” I said with a grin after I flopped on the bed. I’d showered in Uncle Morty’s bathroom and was swathed in the fluffy bathrobe that luckily he hadn’t used.
 

“Shut it, smart ass.”
 

“Well, I already knew that and I didn’t need a magnifying glass to figure it out.”
 

“There’s a tampon ad on the other side,” he said.
 

“Also not so useful.”

Uncle Morty growled at me. “I don’t need any freaking criticism from the likes of you. There’s soot all over my room and you washed that damn dog in my tub. I gotta work in here.”
 

At the word dog, Pick put his head on Uncle Morty’s pillow and sneezed. I’m not going to lie. It was gross. Black stuff sprayed out.
 

“He found a clue and, let’s face it, you’re not using the shower.”
 

“You don’t know.”
 

“I can smell the evidence. Take a shower. That’s gross.”
 

He growled at me. “You’re not creative. It’s flowing here. I can’t wreck it.”
 

“And soap wrecks it? You’re nuts.”
 

“You’re a nurse. What’s creative about that?”
 

“Good care includes creativity.”
 

“Bullshit. Get out.”
 

“I will not.” I poked Pick. “Sneeze. A big juicy one.”
 

Uncle Morty stood up and winced. “What’ll it take to get you the hell outta here?”
 

“Promise to get me more information about that newspaper,” I said.
 

“How’d you expect me to do that?”
 

“That newspaper’s important to Cherie’s case. I need to know why.”
 

“Hell. It could be about your disappearing body in the woods.” He pointed to the scrap. “The shooter could’ve burnt the gloves and newspaper to hide gunpowder residue.”
 

I slid off the bed and loosened my belt. “It’s not the shooter’s stuff.”
 

“How the hell do you know that?”
 

“Because John is the shooter and he wouldn’t make that mistake.”
 

Uncle Morty’s mouth fell open. I’d astonished him. At least I thought he was astonished. He might’ve been having a stroke.
 

“Uncle Morty? Are you okay?” I asked.
 

His mouth snapped closed. Then he grabbed his chair and wedged himself in with a grimace. Thank god. It really looked like a stroke for a second. “You think it was John?”
 

“I know it was.”
 

“How?”
 

“The cameras for that section were conveniently out and that’s his area. He wasn’t remotely surprised or worried about blood in the woods. Most of the staff wasn’t here that night and I’m guessing they don’t have the kind of money it takes to bribe Flincher to cremate the body. It’s John, and Leslie knows.”
 

“Still got no idea who it was?”
 

“Nope, but this isn’t the first time there have been gunshots in those woods. Right now, I’m more interested in Cherie. Are you going to research that paper or what?”
 

He raised a bushy eyebrow. “What do you suggest? That I find out how many newspapers ran this particular tampon ad and go from there?”
 

“You could or you could go with a flood benefit, The Charlie Daniels Band, and record attendance,” I said.
 

He smiled, revealing what I feared was a two-day old piece of onion between his teeth. “You ain’t as dumb as you look.”