In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (48 page)

“Shut up,” said Cory.

“It’s alright,” I said. “I already know all about it.” I told them what happened on the bridge. Nicole and Cory looked stunned. Anthony wept and said over and over again, “It wasn’t her fault.”
 

“Yes, it was,” hissed Nicole. “She did it. She did it on purpose. I hated her. I hated that she got to keep on breathing when my brother was dead.”
 

“Shut up, Nicky.” Cory had gone pale and jittery. “Stop being so angry. I’m so sick of you being angry.”
 

“I didn’t do it so who cares what I say?” she yelled. “I’m glad she’s dead. Now I can be happy. And Mercy probably did it. Everybody hated that bitch. Who knows what Cherie did to her.”
 

Dr. Watts held up the photo. “See here. The fingers that did this were blunt and thick.”
 

“So what?” asked Tim.
 

“It was a male of good size.” She held up my arm. “Her hands are too small.”
 

“So what are we here for?” asked Deanna, holding up her glass for a refill. “What do you want to do to us?”
 

Dr. Watts held up the luminol can in one hand and the glove baggy in the other. “I’m going to match the very unique fingerprints in these gloves to—”
 

She didn’t even get to the DNA part. Cory bolted off the sofa and darted across the library past the cops and out the door. Phelong and Gerry actually stepped aside to make room for him.
 

“Get him!” I yelled and John responded. I should’ve known he’d be the one. He pulled a .22 from his waistband and ran out after Cory. Pick yanked the leash out of my hand and darted after them.
 

“Pick!” I’m ashamed to say that was my first thought. Not catch the murderer but catch the dog, Chuck’s dog. If that poodle got shot, Chuck would never forgive me. I’d never forgive me and John was totally capable of shooting him.
 

I ran over paintings, over tapestries, and scattered pieces of armor. Cory had a plan and it was pulling stuff off the walls. What else can you do when you’re a murderous idiot. Cory’s plan didn’t stop John and they were his paintings. He ran right over the Duchess of Devonshire with his Italian loafers. Pick jumped over everything gaining speed so that I barely got a glimpse of his puffy tail as he went around a corner. I jumped over an intact suit of armor and caught up with John. “Do not shoot my dog!”
 

John put on speed and turned into a long hall lined with bookcases. Cory was hauling ass down the middle with Pick attached to his rear. The poodle dragged down his workout pants, exposing his pale flabby rump. He smacked Pick’s snout. There was a rip. He lost half his pants and Pick fell to the floor. John assumed a firing position.
 

“No!” I yelled.

Cory juked to the right toward the Japanese armory and Pick leapt at him. John fired just one shot. Cory screamed and Pick hit him in the back, knocking him to the floor. Pick had him by the hoodie, snarling and tossing his head back and forth.
 

“Pick!”
 

The poodle jerked his head up and looked at me. He was fine. Cory wasn’t. The murderer rolled around, howling and clutching his rear. “I’ve been shot. My ass. My ass.”

“You could’ve killed him!” I yelled, referring to Pick not Cory. He could kill Cory, an eye for an eye and all that. Pick was another story.

“No,” said John not blinking at my outburst.
 

I poked him in his breast pocket. “What do you mean ‘No’?”

John whipped out a crisp handkerchief and cleaned the gun in it. “No, I couldn’t have killed him.”
 

“You’re that good?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“You could’ve killed the dog.”
 

“Collateral damage,” said John, disinterested at best.

I punched him in the shoulder with everything I had and it was a pathetic effort since John didn’t appear to notice. “We would’ve caught Cory eventually.”
 

“Chasing is for amateurs.”
 

That cinches it. I’m an amateur.
 

Cory rolled around yelling, “I’m going to bleed to death. I’m dying. Help me!”
 

“Shut up,” John and I said together.

“But he shot me!”
 

“It’s just a .22, you wuss. It’s barely bleeding,” I said and turned back to John. “What are we going to do now? You just shot Cory. People are going to notice. You’ll be arrested. How is that hiding?”
 

John pressed the gun into my hands. I screeched and dropped it. “What the hell?”
 

He pushed me against a bookcase and Pick ran over growling. John pointed at the dog and said, “Quiet.”
 

Pick dropped to the floor and whined.

“You’re a young woman,” said John. “Daughter of a famous well-connected man. You panicked and fired a warning shot, winging him in the butt.”
 

“No!”
 

“Yes.”
 

“When did you know that Cory did it?” asked John, loosening his grip.
 

I glared up at him. “When he ran.”
 

His grip tightened. “When?”
 

“Nicole reminded me earlier that Cory’s very good at memorizing facts and figures, but I didn’t know why he’d kill Cherie until I found out about Nicole’s brother.”
 

“Ah, yes. Cory knows a million baseball stats.”
 

“And he was standing next to me when I was holding my card with my code on it.”
 

He nodded. “That’s not enough for a slam dunk.”
 

“I was hoping for a confession,” I said.

“Consider it done.” John let go of me and stalked over to the writhing Cory, whose hollering had gone up in pitch. He kicked him over, knelt, pried off his hand and grabbed his rear.
 

I followed and grabbed John’s arm. “What’re you doing?”
 

John squeezed. “Why did you kill Cherie?”
 

Cory screamed, a piercing howl that hurt my ears.
 

“Stop! Stop!” I yelled.

John looked at me.
 

“They never confess,” I said. “I should’ve known better than to try.”
 

“You’ve been listening to the wrong people or should I say the good people. He squeezed again. “Answer me, Cory. I haven’t got much patience and you’re not accustomed to pain.”
 

Cory gasped. “I…I…”
 

John squeezed and was answered with a scream.
 

I yanked on John’s arm, but he didn’t budge. “Did you work at Abu Ghraib or what?”
 

“I only offered some tips,” he said.
 

“Are you kidding?”
 

“I have no sense of humor.” John dug his fingers in and Cory answered with, “I wanted her to confess.”
 

“To?”
 

“To killing Quinn. Nicole never got over it. She obsesses. If Cherie went to jail…”
 

“But she wouldn’t confess,” I said.
 

“No.” Anger flashed across his face. “She said she didn’t give the vodka to him. Lying bitch. She ruined Nicole. She ruined my life.”
 

“So you strangled her.”
 

“I didn’t mean to. It just happened. If she would’ve agreed, I would’ve stopped.”
 

“It’s all her fault. She made you kill her,” I said.
 

“Yeah, yeah. It’s not my fault.”
 

I tapped John’s arm and he squeezed, not one of my proudest moments, but damn did it feel good to watch Cory writhe in pain, a man who blamed his victim.
 

“She didn’t give it to him,” I hissed in Cory’s ear. “You killed an innocent woman.”
 

John glanced at me. “Leslie told you.”
 

“He did.” I removed John’s hand and took the handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it to Cory’s rear. There was a small amount of blood, not nearly as much as he deserved to lose. I felt around and discovered entry and exit wounds. It was clean and through the muscle, the perfect shot with minimal damage. .22s could take some pretty interesting paths in the body. I’d seen one enter the buttocks, spiral down, and exit out the knee. Much more painful. I wish that had happened to this scumbag.

Cory howled as I pressed the handkerchief to the exit wound and John smacked him in the jaw, not a light smack but a full on brain rattler.
 

“Enough,” said John and he got to his feet as Tiny and Dr. Watts ran around the corner. Tiny was feeling around his waist and stopped short at where I’d dropped the weapon.
 

“My gun,” he said, looking at it on the carpet.
 

“I borrowed it,” said John. “Mercy accidentally shot him.”

Dr. Watts knelt beside me. “Oh really. I seem to remember that
you
didn’t have that gun.”
 

“Um…”
 

She glanced at John and narrowed her eyes. “I see.”
 

Everyone else came up behind her with wide eyes. Nicole screamed and ran to Cory, cradling his head. “What did you do?” she hissed at me.
 

I couldn’t answer. It was confess to John’s crime or out him. My fingerprints were on the gun. I was me and he was a supposedly gentile innkeeper with a well-laundered past.
 

John straightened his tie. “It was an accident. Mercy was only firing a warning shot. He darted into it.”
 

“Mercy?” asked Tiny with a furrowed brow and I shrugged as the rest of my former suspects ran up. They saw Cory caterwauling on the floor and the questions came, fast and furious.
 

The Troublesome Trio pushed through the gathering crowd.
 

“That blood looks so real,” said Sorcha, hanging onto Oliver’s arm.
 

Tiny wavered on his feet as he stared at Cory’s blood. Dr. Watts stood up and steered Tiny around Cory and into the armory. She waved Oliver in after him. He obeyed without question.
 

Bridget shook her head. “It’s too watery. They could’ve done better.”
 

I stared at her.
 

“But it’s very well done,” said Jilly quickly.
 

“It’s real blood,” I said, holding up the stained handkerchief.
 

My cousins laughed.
 

“You are so good at this,” said Bridget.
 

“Good at what? This is blood coming out of a gunshot wound. A .22 but still.”
 

Dr. Watts pointed at Phelong, who was hovering at the back of the crowd. “Go get my bag. It’s in the hearse.”
 

“You brought the hearse?” I asked.
 

“Convenient, huh?”
 

Nicole burst into tears.
 

“Oh hush up,” said Dr. Watts. “He won’t die. This is a measly flesh wound.”

Nicole screamed at Gerry, pointing to me, “Arrest her! She shot my husband.”
 

“Nobody is arresting anybody but your husband,” I said.
 

“What? Cory didn’t do anything,” said Nicole.
 

Dr. Watts raised an eyebrow at me. “He confessed, didn’t he?”
 

“Oh, yeah,” I said.
 

Leslie gave John a fresh handkerchief and he wiped the smear of blood off his hands. “Cory strangled Cherie in an ill-fated attempt to get her to confess to killing Nicole’s brother in high school.”
 

Nicole stared at John and then switched her gaze to her husband. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Did you?” she asked.