Diver Down (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (42 page)

“When was this taken?”
 

“Three days before you went to Honduras. The anniversary was during your trip, but this isn’t rare for her. I have it on good authority that she’s there regularly. Several times a month.”

Good god, Aunt Tenne. What are you doing to yourself?

“He didn’t go to prison, Mercy. He didn’t go to jail and he didn’t get community service. He walked away and this wasn’t the first time or the last. He hit a ten-year-old boy two years before and the boy lost a leg. His father arranged for Phillip to spend six weeks in rehab. Forest View Therapeutic Center in California. Thirty thousand dollars a month with personal chefs. It was the same with your aunt’s accident. He went on vacation.”
 

“The court agreed to that?”

“One way or another.”

“Your family thanking me won’t change anything.”
 

“It’ll balance the scales a little.”
 

I looked through the pictures again. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t remotely right, but as I looked another picture worked its way in, the picture of Aunt Tenne smiling with Bruno. On Roatan, she showed the same joy that I saw in that picture with her friends so many years ago. “Before we left, she said it was going to be different this year, that she was going to be different. You know what? She is different and it’s not just Bruno. I hate that this happened to her. I hate that he got away with it.”
 

Oz started to speak, but I cut him off. “I get what you’re trying to tell me. This bastard has been happy for over thirty years and Aunt Tenne’s been miserable. I’ve seen what it’s done to her every day of my life. I just didn’t know what caused it. But my answer is no. She’s made a new start. If something were to happen to Grint, it would be all over the news. It might jolt her out of the good place she’s in.”

“Are you sure?” asked Oz. “He deserves it. You don’t know half of what he’s done.”

I smiled. “You never know. I could change my mind. If I keep looking at these pictures, I might.”
 

“What about your godmothers then?”
 

“Oh dear lord. Please don’t say they have some horrible past that needs fixing.”
 

He chuckled. “No. Their past is just fine. I was thinking of their present. The lawsuit.”
 

“They’ll win that.” I finished the malt.
 

“Maybe. They are a little batty and this issue with you and your parents is troublesome.”
 

“What issue?”
 

“All the money, your education, the house on Hawthorne. People are starting to wonder.”
 

My queasiness increased. Shouldn’t have drank all that malt. “Wonder what?”

“What exactly did your parents do to deserve such largesse.”
 

“So do you have a folder on that,too?” I asked.

“Afraid not and it’s not for lack of trying. Are you saying you don’t know why the Bled sisters picked your parents?”

“Something about a favor. They don’t tell me anything.”

Oz dug out yet another folder.

“I knew you had another.”

“Not on your parents’ involvement with the Bleds. Open it.”
 

Inside that innocuous folder was a copy of an internal memo dated two weeks before. It directed Internal Affairs to investigate Dad for possible misconduct in dealing with the Bled family. It said all resources would be made available and the lawsuit should be watched closely for information.

“Dad didn’t do anything illegal,” I said.
 

“Are you sure about that?”
 

Um, no.

Oz finished the last of his drink. “Things are easy for my family. We’re born under a lucky star.”
 

“I don’t know about that. Lucia was nearly killed in Roatan several times.”

“But she wasn’t, because you were there. Lucky, don’t you think?”
 

“Lucky you arranged it, I guess,” I said.
 

“All the stars aligned. That’s the way it is for us and sometimes we like to spread it around. My sister got lucky. I don’t see why your family and friends can’t be lucky, too.”
 

I stood up. “We’re lucky already. We don’t need the Fibonacci stars for that. Thanks for the malt.”
 

Oz smiled, stacked up the folders, and gave them to me.
 

I took them though I didn’t want to read what they contained, so much unhappiness, except for Phillip Grint, he was way too happy.
 

“Calpurnia Fibonacci says you’re welcome,” said Oz, picking up a menu.
 

I hesitated. What did he mean by that? I nearly asked, but something stopped me, a little feeling that it was best not to know. Instead, I went for the door, having totally forgotten my burger. But Aaron was there with his hand on the door handle. He held up my bag in the other.
 

“Hey Aaron, why didn’t you come to the table?” I asked.
 

He shrugged.
 

I glanced back at Oz, who was watching us. For the first time, I noticed there was a perimeter around his booth. The cops and firefighters kept their distance, but there was a feel of respect to it, a quiet knowing that some lines ought not be crossed. And I had crossed them. I’d walked up and sat down, like it was nothing. And it was definitely something.
 

“Do you know who that is?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I put the bag on top of the files and waited to see if he’d elaborate. He didn’t. I don’t know why I expected that he would. Aaron wasn’t the king of information. He pushed open the door and practically pushed me through. “Say hello to The Girls.”
 

The door closed and I turned to watch Aaron nod to Oz and head back in the kitchen. Aaron knew Oz? Or was he just acknowledging the power in the room? That didn’t seem like Aaron. He barely acknowledged bathing.
 

I walked slowly home with the unsettling thought that I’d started something that I would never be able to end.
 

It took five hours. Not five days. Not five weeks. Five hours for the Fibonaccis to repay me. I’d like to say that was a record, but it probably wasn’t.
 

The phone rang, waking me from a burger-induced coma.
 

“Mercy!” yelled Dad. “Get to the mansion. The alarms have been deactivated.”
 

“Where are the guards?” I asked, instantly alert.

“The security company isn’t answering.”
 

“Did you call the cops?” I ran toward my front door, tripping over shoes and a sleeping Skanky.
 

”You’re closer. Get over there and take the Luger.”

“But—”

“There’s twenty million dollars worth of art in that house. Go! Now!”
 

I ran back into my bedroom and found the antique Luger my great grandfather brought back from World War Two nestled between two Christmas sweaters. Dad insisted that I be armed after Gavin got killed. I bypassed the Luger, despite Dad’s orders, and chose the smaller Mauser. I yanked it out of the holster, found the clip in my handy box ‘o clips, flipped off the safety, locked the slid and checked the chamber as Dad had taught me. I slapped the clip in and heard the ever so satisfying clack of the slide racking into place. Safety on, I shoved it in my pocket as I ran out of the apartment.
 

I bypassed my truck and sprinted across the street. A biker in full Tour de France wear saw me, swerved, and hit Stillman Antiques’ oversized sidewalk sign, tumbling ass over teakettle. A car squealed its tires and there was the sound of crashing metal behind me. Stillman Kelley ran out of his shop’s front door and yelled at me. “You aren’t supposed to run!”
 

“It’s me, Mr. Kelley, Mercy,” I said as I stooped over the dazed biker.
 

“Dude,” said the biker.
 

Mr. Kelley pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911 and then shook a finger at me. “Your mother can’t run and neither should you. It’s not safe for people.”
 

My dad had banned running for Mom after she caused a three-car pileup. This was a first for me. Usually, I could get away with it.
 

“I didn’t mean to. It’s The Girls. Something’s happened,” I said.
 

The biker’s hand came up and brushed my breast like I wasn’t going to notice that. I smacked it away and he groaned.
 

“You’re okay,” I said. “If you can grope, you’re fine.”

Mr. Kelley pointed to the alley. “Just go. I’ll handle this. You can only make it worse.
 

I resented that, but it was probably true. I ran through the alley and ended up on my parents’ end of Hawthorne Avenue. It was quiet. I didn’t see any crazed getaway drivers. Maybe it was a mistake. A power outage or something. I sprinted down the Avenue under flickering gas lamps. It was safe. There were no drivers to distract.
 

I found Myrtle and Millicent’s gate open. My feet crunched the dead leaves on the wide front walk as I ran up to the house in which I’d been born, a 1920s Art Deco mansion that was one of a kind to say the least. It had geometric ironwork that suggested Egyptian hieroglyphics, three story conservatories, and more green marble than you’ve ever seen, outside a quarry.
 

I flung open the door and almost fell over the enormous pile of luggage in the foyer. It was The Girls’ luggage, hat boxes, trunks, twenty-four pieces in all.
 

I pulled out the Luger, just in case. “Myrtle! Millicent!”
 

No answer. I ran through the big empty rooms with all the furniture and priceless art covered in starched white sheets. Everything looked intact. All places filled. The house was enormous, so it took a while, but I finally found the intruders by the smell of baking cookies. They were in the kitchen, two little old ladies wearing Prada and colorful silk aprons, because that’s practical to bake in.
 

“What happened? What’s going on?” I set the Mauser on the marble pastry table and gasped for air.
 

Millicent eyed the pistol and patted her silver hair, elaboratly swirled going-out hair. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

“What are you doing here? The alarms are off. The guards are gone.”

“We sent them home and the alarms wouldn’t hush up, so we shut them off. Technology is such a fuss.”
 

“But why?” I asked.

“It’s over,” said Myrtle.

“What is?”
 

“The lawsuit. Brooks dropped it two hours ago. We wanted to surprise you.”
 

“Holy crap! Why?”

The Girls grasped the heavy pearl necklaces that encircled their necks. “Mercy, please.”
 

“Sorry,” I said. “Um.. Why’d he drop it?”
 

Please don’t say he’s dead under mysterious circumstances.
 

“He just changed his mind,” said Myrtle. “Perhaps he realized you don’t treat family that way.”
 

I seriously doubt it.

Millicent came over and hugged me. “You don’t seem happy, my darling girl.”

I hugged her back, feeling how tiny and delicate she was. Sometimes I forgot how old they both were. I really shouldn’t do that. No one goes on forever. “I’m thrilled, but curious.”
 

“His lawyer didn’t say why and, oddly enough, he’s going to pay all our lawyers’ expenses,” said Myrtle.

“I don’t care why,” said Millicent, “just as long as I don’t have to answer any more questions. Those lawyers have no shame. They seem to think there’s no such thing as privacy.”
 

Myrtle gave me a madeleine cookie, fresh from the oven. Heaven.
 

“What did they want to know?” I asked.
 

“They kept asking about Uncle Josiah’s house and your parents, as if Brooks has a right to know our private matters. It is our money and it was our house. It’s none of his business what we choose to do with either.”

Myrtle opened the oven and a wave of heat filled the kitchen. Lovely after the house had been cold and alone for two months.
 

“So,” I said, “why did you give them the house?”
 

Millicent gave me the same look that made me quiet in French restaurants and airports since I was little, but I was no longer little. I wanted to know.
 

“The house was an amazing gift. I just want to know why you gave it.”

“You are as bad as the lawyers. We raised you better than that.”
 

You think so, but not really.

Myrtle slid in another pan of madeleines and set the timer. “Come, dear. Help us unpack. We picked up some chocolates from Bissingers, your favorite dark chocolate caramel suckers.”
 

They aren’t going to tell me. Why is this such a secret?

“Mercy?” said Myrtle.
 

“Of course. I’d unpack the Ringling Brothers for those suckers.”