In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (45 page)

“I don’t know. It’s something to do with Enrique and the orphanage she and Lane worked at in January. It looks like she got off the plane and called you.”
 

“I suppose so,” said Leslie.

“Something happened on that trip. How did she plan on paying for this camp if you hadn’t comped it?”
 

“I didn’t ask.”
 

“But you comped it?”
 

John sank another ball. “Yes. What has this got to do with the murder?”

“I don’t know. It’s all mixed up together. Why she wanted to come. What she found out in Ecuador. The first Quinn, Nicole’s brother, died in 1987. I think Lane knows something, but she’s not ready to say.”
 

“You think she will tell you?” asked Leslie, drumming his fingers on the edge of the billiards table.
 

“I do. She’s protecting someone, but it won’t last. It can’t. She’ll have to say what happened in Ecuador.”
 

Sorcha and Oliver walked in. Her lipstick was smeared and he was smiling way too much.
 

“Did you say something about Ecuador?” asked Sorcha.
 

I told her about Enrique’s adoption and Cherie’s visit to the orphanage. “I think she found something out about the adoption.”
 

She shook her head. “That can’t be.”
 

“Why not?”
 

“Because Enrique can’t be from Ecuador.”
 

Oliver held up his hand. “He’s definitely from Ecuador. I’ve seen his paperwork.”

“No. He might be adopted, but it’s not from Ecuador.” Sorcha never looked this sure about anything, except maybe the bridesmaid dresses.
 

“How do you know?” I asked.
 

“Because I interned with Valerie Fimmel, the big adoption lawyer in my second year. Adopting out of Ecuador is extremely difficult.”
 

“But they did. Enrique’s here,” said Oliver.
 

“I’m just telling you what Valerie said. Ecuador says they allow international adoptions, but they don’t want Ecuadorian children to leave the country.”
 

Leslie walked across the room, took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. His face was different without them. Familiar. I stared and he hastily put them back on. “That must be it. There was something fishy about the adoption and Cherie found out.”
 

Sorcha nodded. “Sure. She would’ve heard about the difficulties in the orphanage. They struggle to care for children and they can’t place them.”
 

I shook my head. “I don’t know. If the adoption was illegal, would it preclude Enrique from the prize?”
 

Oliver paced next to the pool table. “I can check but I don’t think there’s anything that says he even has to be a citizen. We had a Japanese kid win five years ago.”
 

“Then that’s not it. Cherie had something.” I went for the door but Leslie headed me off. “Where are you going?”
 

“To see a man about a bedsore.”
 

“What?”
 

“I need information and, for once, I don’t have to eat anything for it,” I said.
 

Leslie put a hand on my shoulder. “What should we do?”
 

What would Poirot do?

“Gather the suspects,” I said.
 

“Who are the suspects?” asked John.
 

“All the men who were in the castle that night, but bring in the women, too. I’ll meet you in the library.”
 

Leslie and John said they would take care of gathering my suspects and left.

“Can you find the library?” asked Oliver.
 

“Sorcha, you’re with me.” I grabbed her by the hand, but then dropped it and ran to watch John and Leslie walk away. “That is freaky.”
 

Oliver and Sorcha came up behind me. “What?” she asked.
 

“Them.”
 

“John makes me nervous,” said Oliver.
 

“Me, too,” said Sorcha. “He’s so…I don’t know…”
 

“Nothing?”

I nodded. “He is nothing, but there’s something in his nothingness.”
 

John turned a corner, leaving Leslie. Even after having spoken to him not a minute before, I couldn’t picture John’s face. It was nothing. Completely forgettable. Who would want that? Where would that be an asset?
 

“Mercy?” asked Sorcha.
 

“Just a minute.”
 

“Something about the case?” asked Oliver.
 

“Let me think.” But the truth was I could think all day long and not get anywhere. John was a blank and when I tried to picture either John or Leslie, I couldn’t. Not really. I could see Leslie’s glasses, his gray hair swooping back, his vest, but I couldn’t see him. His face was obscured by the rest of him. Leslie was showy like me and, like me, our veneer concealed much. That was it. Veneer.

“Okay,” I said. “I got it.”
 

“What did you get,” asked Oliver. “Because I got nothing.”

“That’s exactly the way they want it and why I have to solve this pronto.”

Chapter Twenty

UNCLE MORTY WOULDN’T open the door.
 

“I know you’re in there!” I yelled through the keyhole. “I’ve come to fix your rear.”
 

There was a couple of minutes of silence and then he bellowed, “What’re you gonna do?”
 

“I have to take a look before I decide.”

“You already looked.”
 

And my eyeballs are still burning.
 

“That wasn’t an evaluation. I don’t know if the wound is infected,” I said. “Just let me in.”
 

He cursed a blue streak and then yelled, “It’s freaking open, genius.”
 

I had considered trying the knob, but the thought that I might catch Uncle Morty naked was enough to nip that idea in the bud.
 

I opened the door and found Uncle Morty sitting at the desk, working on one of the incredibly detailed maps he put in his books. “Why are you sitting?”
 

“Working. What the hell does it look like?” he asked without looking up.
 

I groaned and went to the bed with my supplies. Mom had packed my kit. I always traveled with the basics, especially after my trip to Honduras. It pays to be prepared, but I didn’t have the right antibiotics if Uncle Morty was bad. Mine were broad spectrum and bedsores were specific. I gloved up. “Come on, Pus Butt. I’ve got stuff to do.”
 

“Pus Butt?”
 

“It’s your new nickname, short for He Who Sits Too Much.”
 

Uncle Morty glared at me and then went back to his map. “You want something.”
 

“Yeah, I do. And I’m not the only one. That’s got to be painful. Let’s work on it.”
 

He grumbled and then pried himself out of the chair, slow and in obvious pain. When he got close I caught a whiff of pus. The Henry VIII comparison was getting a little too close for comfort. I don’t know how I missed it before, but the onion pizza stink that enveloped him was pretty strong.

“Alright. Lay on the bed face down and we’ll get this done,” I said.
 

Uncle Morty crossed his arms. “What do you want for fixing my butt?”
 

“First of all, I can’t
fix
it. This is a time and treatment thing. There’s no magic wand.”
 

“And second?”
 

“I want you to look into Enrique’s adoption.” I told him what Sorcha said and his eyes lit up. “Maybe the adoption was illegal, but I think it’s something more. She was out to help her son. The adoption wasn’t enough.”
 

He nodded. “How many times are you gonna fix me?”
 

“Hello,” I said. “Just the one time.”
 

Once is so much more than enough.
 

“You’ll have to see your primary care when we get back.”
 

“I hate that guy. He tells me stuff,” he said.

“I can imagine,” I said. “I’m going to tell you stuff, too.”
 

“Screw that.”
 

“You’ve got a giant ulcer on your butt.” I pointed at his chair. “This lifestyle isn’t working out for you.”
 

“I like sitting.”
 

“Obviously. Lay down.”
 

Uncle Morty lay on the bed, protesting my evaluation of his sedentary lifestyle as if crabbing changed it. “I want you to treat my sore until it’s better and I’ll do that adoption thing.”
 

“I’m not a doctor.”
 

“I don’t need a damn doctor. Tommy’ll want you to do it.”
 

Dad would want me to do it. You do for family, no matter how gross. That’s all there was to that. I grabbed his waistband and mentally prepared.
 

Not Uncle Morty. Just another butt belonging to some guy you do not know.
 

I pulled down his sweats and got to business. It was worse than I originally thought, nearly a Stage III. How he stood the pain was beyond me. I cleaned and dressed the wound and, in the process, discovered two more sores in Stage I so I cleaned them and applied some barrier cream.
 

Uncle Morty wasn’t happy, but I ignored the cursing and the insults to my character and did my job. It wasn’t easy, but at least he didn’t need debridement. I can’t imagine what he would’ve said or rather yelled.
 

“Am I done?” he asked, his face contorted in pain.
 

I pulled up his sweats, grimacing at the griminess. “For now. They’re not too bad, but that Stage II will require a dressing change once a day. You need to take a sponge bath and have fresh clothing, including underwear.” I unplugged his laptop.
 

“What’re you doing? Don’t touch that,” he bellowed, rolling over and gasping in pain.
 

I rolled him back on his stomach. “No sitting. On your belly for now.” I put the laptop in front of him and got out my phone.
 

“Who you calling? You ain’t telling nobody about this.”
 

Hmm. This could be useful in the future.
 

“I’m telling Dr. Watts, so she can bring some more dressings.”
 

“I’ll kill you if you tell her about my sores. I’ll kill you good.”
 

I whacked him on the shoulder. “I’m real worried. You can’t even sit. Get on that adoption stuff or I’ll tell her you cried like a girl.”
 

“You’re evil.”
 

“Whatever it takes, buddy.” I texted Dr. Watts and she said she’d bring out fresh supplies. Which, of course, meant that I’d have to look at Uncle Morty’s hairy rear repeatedly. My life was not working out for me. “Okay. You stay here and I’m going to the library to corner a killer.”
 

“Wait. Wait. Where’s Tiny? Why isn’t he here?” he asked.
 

“You wanted Tiny to see this?”
 

“Hell, no, but he’s supposed to be watching you.”
 

I packed up my stuff and put it on his desk. “He’s sick.”

“What’d you do to that kid?” he asked.
 

“Nothing. Honestly, you and Dad are doing more to him than me.”
 

He began typing, going to some international adoption site. “What’d you mean by that? He wants a career. Tommy wants to give him one.”
 

“I’m not sure it’s the right career. How much background did you do on Tiny?”
 

“I do good work. You’re pushing it with this butt blackmail thing.”
 

“You did it to yourself. Take a walk for heaven’s sake. And you have to change your diet or this will just keep happening.”
 

He hissed at me like one of his dragon characters and I rolled my eyes before checking my phone. Phelong and Gerry were in the castle, fingerprinting the gardening room door. Good. We could use all the evidence we could get.
 

“If I change my diet, I won’t have to give you anything,” said Uncle Morty with a satisfied smirk.
 

I smirked back. “But you’re stuck for now. Wasn’t there anything in Tiny’s medical records from the Marines?”
 

“Like what?”
 

“He has PTSD. He told me.”