Double Black Diamond (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (9 page)

“Are you sure it’s not broken?”

“I don’t think so.”
 

Calvin dropped onto the sofa and picked up the remote. “I told you it’s not broken.”
 

“You never take anything seriously. Mercy works in the ER,” said Nancy.
 

“I’m a radiologist, for goodness sake,” said Calvin. “I think I know a broken bone when I see one.”
 

“Do you have an x-ray machine with you? I don’t think so.” Nancy stuck a thermometer in Pete’s mouth. “Would you like some dinner? I made your favorite. Tacos.”

That’s tacos? It can’t be.

But it was. Nancy’s secret recipe included half-cooked hamburger, which gave the tacos an unexpected rubberiness. “I think hamburger should be left a little al dente. Don’t you agree, Mercy?”
 

Al dente hamburger? Uh, no.
 

Then there was the sauce, ketchup with melted American cheese and anchovies. No, you didn’t read that wrong. Anchovies. I’ve had better tacos that gave me food poisoning. But the tacos were nothing compared to the alternative. Nancy, the wife of a successful radiologist and teacher of high school physics, was a frugal woman at heart. She had food from home in case someone wanted a sandwich instead. She’d packed deli meat and cheese in her suitcase. No ice. Just meat and cheese in a ziplock. Since we were at the airport for over four hours, in the air for two, and driving for another two, you can imagine the state of that food. The cheese slices had melted together in an odd surrealist way and the turkey had a strange tint to it. I was not having a sandwich. The weird fishy beef ketchup thing was better, if only because food poisoning from the ham would stop me from getting the oil from Rory in the morning.

As it turned out, I need not have worried.
 

I was up before seven o’clock, not because I wanted to, but because Wallace woke at five and proceeded to scratch on my door until I broke down and let her in. Then she barked until I put her on the bed. She slept in her upside-down donut, stinking up the joint until I got up. Pete of the oh-so-injured ankle slept on the reclining chair in the living room so his ankle could be elevated. Nancy slept on the sofa. I use the term sleep loosely. I think she was watching her baby boy’s every breath.
 

When I tiptoed out she waved to me and held her finger to her lips. It was kind of sweet how she loved Pete. My mother would probably scoff and tell me I was fine. Mom wasn’t much of a babier. It took at least a hospitalization to get some sympathy out of her. Myrtle and Millicent were the ones who were big on sympathy, but even they didn’t watch me sleep.
 

I slipped into the bathroom, showered, and got ready all without Wallace scratching on the door. When I stepped out I found out why. Wallace was leashed up, wearing a new purple hoodie with snowflakes. At first I didn’t know what was wrong with her. She stood frozen with her snout pointed at the door with one front paw and one hind paw lifted up and sticking straight out from her pudgy body. I looked at Nancy, who was poised above Pete’s sleeping face with the thermometer.

“Can you walk her for me, please?” she whispered.
 

Hell, no.

“Sure.” I grabbed my ski coat and put on my pee boots. Wallace hadn’t moved. It was weird, but I liked the silence. I picked up her leash and went out. Wallace came out behind me, not with her usual scamper and bark, but silent with a bizarre march. Her legs were stiff and each step went out high, straight in front of her.
 

“What is wrong with you?” I asked the stink dog. A better question might’ve been what wasn’t.

She had stopped, completely frozen. I looked closer and saw Wallace was wearing booties. They were the same color as her fawn coat. They even had little black toenails embroidered on them.
 

“I guess I’m supposed to feel sorry for you,” I said.
 

Bark.

“Well, I don’t. Walk in your ridiculous booties, you little pee pot.”
 

Bark.
 

Well, the joke was on me, because it took Wallace ten minutes to get to the elevator. I felt sorry for me. We’d never make it to the Belgian Bean on time. I picked up the stink dog and I swear I heard her make a snort of happiness. When I put her down outside to pee, she did so with her legs so splayed she was practically flat on the ground. The lifts didn’t open for another forty minutes or I would’ve had people asking what was wrong with my dog. Short answer: everything.
 

I picked her up and stuffed her in my purse on the way to the Belgian Bean. The morning was overcast with heavy clouds threatening to dump a foot of snow on us and the village was quiet with only a few early birds like me crunching around on the icy walkways. Most people were snug in their condos with fires roaring and bacon frying. I could smell it, along with a hint of sweetness that turned out to be coming from the Belgian Bean.
 

The waffle and coffee shop was new to me. Myrtle and Millicent always made buttermilk pancakes and bacon when we were at Copper and our coffeepot was always full. From the smell of the shop, I’d been missing out. I checked my phone for the time, five to eight, and hurried across the snow-covered walk. The building was surprisingly modern with lots of glass and geometric angles with wooden beams, but it fit in well with the surrounding chalet-style condos.
 

Bark.
 

“Quiet,” I said. “You can’t mess this up.”
 

Bark.
 

“If you’re quiet, I’ll get you a waffle.”
 

Wallace snuggled down in my purse as I opened the door. The place had only one family at a table, all suited up and ready for when the lifts opened at eight-thirty. They waved and I smiled back. Love that ski town friendliness. I ordered a hot cocoa and two waffles and found a table far off to the right. Eight on the dot, but no Rory. I checked my phone. No text. Maybe he was punishing me for being late last night. I ate my waffle while slipping bits into my purse. My pretty taffeta lining would never be the same from the slobbery sounds of Wallace eating in there.
 

Fifteen minutes went by. Still no Rory and no text. Maybe he was hung over or something. I wasn’t that late on him. I texted Philippa to check on Millicent. She was fine. I checked my email. Nothing from Spidermonkey, but I didn’t expect anything. It would take a while to access the Bled Brewery employee records and comb through them for possible occupants of the Bled plane that he thought my dad was on. Normally it was kind of nice to put that on the back burner and not worry about what Dad may have done, but at that time it would’ve been a nice distraction. The longer I waited, the more nervous I got. Did he forget? Did his father change his mind about Keegan?
 

I ordered another waffle, and the counter guy, Stephen, brought it out to me.
 

“You can really put ‘em away.” He grinned at me. If he saw my purse wiggling, he didn’t mention it.
 

“Skiing works up an appetite,” I said. “Do you by chance know Rory Dushane?”

“Sure I know Rory. He’s hard to miss. Why?”

“I was supposed to meet him here. Have you seen him this morning?”
 

“Not this morning, but he can always find a party. Probably overslept.”
 

The shop door flew open, but it wasn’t Rory but Mickey Stix and Double Black Diamond instead.

“Oh crap,” said Stephen.
 

“Not good customers,” I whispered.

“Great customers. They’re just crazy. Yesterday they were here and Wade threatened to kill Mickey with a hammer. By the time they left, everybody was laughing. Craziness.”
 

“Yeah. I saw them last night at Aprés. I thought they would come to blows,” I said.

“When you first came in, I thought you were her.”
 

“Her who?”
 

“Gotta go,” said Stephen.
 

DBD and their people, twelve in all, had sidled up to the counter in slow motion. They were so cool it was weird, like they thought they were being filmed. The family raised their eyebrows at me and I mouthed, “Double Black Diamond,” at them.
 

The parents blinked in surprise and looked again. Then they recognized what used to be the biggest band on the planet. The guys were showing their age, but looked pretty good considering what they’d put their bodies through in the late seventies and eighties. If I remembered correctly, all four remaining members were recovering alcoholics or drug addicts or sex addicts or perhaps all three. The fifth member had died from an overdose. I only remembered that because Dad went into a month-long mourning, which consisted of him playing their CDs constantly and dressing in parachute pants. He only stopped because Mom threatened to barbecue his vintage DBD concert posters if he didn’t. I was right there holding the lighter and it took some work to convince me not to barbecue the CDs. Mom bribed me with chocolate.
 

Dad would totally lose it if he knew I was in the same room with “The Band” as he called them. Since Rory still hadn’t showed and I had to stop myself from laughing I called Dad. He must’ve been working, because it took five rings for him to answer, and by that time, I was biting my lip so hard I probably had a permanent indent. The parents at the other table were losing it, too. Their teenage children were staring at DBD like they were seeing some sort of accident. Wade Cave, the lead singer, was absent, but his brother, Jimmy, was posing next to the counter with Darren Echols, the bassist. You would’ve thought they were in the middle of a photo shoot with a thousand adoring fans, instead of hanging in a waffle joint with five people who were thinking they’d suffered some kind of head injury. There was lip pouting and snarls at the ceiling.
 

“What?” bellowed Dad into the phone.
 

“Hi, Dad,” I said. “Miss me?”
 

“Are you gone?”
 

“I’m in Colorado.”
 

Dad growled. “With the boyfriend.”
 

“With Pete, yes,” I said.
 

“How much does the mother hate you?” I could hear Dad perking up. He was pretty sure I shouldn’t be allowed to date until I was thirty-seven, but Mom had overruled him. I’d been with Pete longer than anyone before and Dad was starting to get nervous. My getting married was a subject that he refused to acknowledge as a possibility and he figured Nancy would get rid of me with a quickness. The thought made him happy and he didn’t try to hide it.
 

“She doesn’t. Even her pug dog likes me. Can you believe it?”
 

Silence.

“Dad?”

“Is that what you interrupted me to say?” he asked, his voice low and throaty.

“No. I just wanted to let you know that I’m breathing the same air as your favorite thing on earth.”
 

“A convicted murderer on death row?”
 

“That’s your favorite thing on earth? A murderer beats out Mom, me, cheeseburgers, and hockey?”
 

“You’re in the top ten,” said my father, the one who gave me life and had vowed to spend the rest of his life annoying the crap out of me.
 

“Forget it. You don’t deserve to know.” I hung up.
 

Five seconds later my phone rang. I knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it.
 

“What is it?” he asked in his charming voice that he saved for those not related to him.
 

“DBD.”
 

Silence.

“Dad?”
 

“Are you serious?”

Thank goodness I was or I think Dad would hurt me when I got home. “Yep. They’re sitting ten feet from me, eating waffles.”
 

“They eat waffles. What kind of waffles? Did you get their autographs? Is Mickey there? Are they speaking?”
 

Dad went on and on. He was such a fanboy. It was kind of embarrassing. I answered his questions as best I could and took some pictures to send him.
 

“Do you think they’re getting back together?” asked Dad. “There are rumors.”

“If this is getting back together, I’d like to see what breaking up looked like. Wade threatened to kill Mickey with a hammer yesterday.”
 

“That’s good. They’re really talking. Of course there’s the chance that it won’t work out and Mickey finally blows his last gasket. My money’s on strangling.”
 

“You think they might actually kill each other?”
 

“It’s a possibility.”

“You always think people are going to kill each other,” I said.
 

“I’m a homicide detective. What’d you expect?” asked Dad with a laugh.

“I thought you loved these guys,” I said.
 

“I do. One of the reasons is because they’re always on the edge of homicide, but have never done it. People have killed for a lot less than what Wade has pulled on Mickey. They’re fascinating.”