A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (34 page)

Pop Pop’s family tomb appeared in front of me first. It was very tall and ochre yellow with a double row of vaults, each with a plaque inscribed with names and dates. I divided the sunflowers and put them in the vase at the base. I’d forgotten about water, but, with all the rain, it was taken care of.
 

“Hi, everyone. It’s Mercy, the last egg, come to see you,” I said, feeling silly, but Nana said you had to talk to them out loud or it didn’t count. She was probably crazy, but what the hell. The cemetery was empty, not a tour group in sight, so I told them, my people, all that had happened. I ended with Sheila and found myself overcome with regret and tears.
 

“I think I got that girl killed.” I put my hand on the plaque that contained my great grandmother Amelia’s name. “I wish you could tell me I didn’t. Maybe you could give me a sign. Anything would do.”
 

I waited like an idiot and nothing happened. I dropped my umbrella and let my tears get washed away. The rain kept coming and all was silent in the domain of the dead. I wasn’t surprised, but you never know.

I leaned over and kissed the plaque as I’d been taught to do. “Look out for Sheila, if you can. I’d appreciate it.”
 

My phone started ringing, but I wasn’t inclined to answer. This was my time to feel rotten and I didn’t want any intrusion. But it wasn’t family. It was Spidermonkey. I’d completely forgotten about him and the Klinefeld Group. New Orleans made me forget that there was another world entirely.

“Where are you?” Spidermonkey asked.

“New Orleans.”
 

“Still?”
 

“Connecting the dots takes time.”
 

“They’re not connected yet?”
 

“I’m on to something. I’m just not sure if it has anything to do with Donatella. I think it does. I have a feeling that it does.”
 

“So it does.”
 

“Let’s hope. What’ve you got?”
 

“I, too, have been finding some dots. I found the first connection between your family and the Bleds prior to Myrtle and Millicent giving your mom the house. It took me two days in the St. Louis University archives to do it, but I got it.”
 

“Seriously? What has SLU got to do with it?”
 

“The Bleds helped your mother get in. Josiah Bled wrote a letter to the Dean of Admissions.”
 

“How in the world did you find that?”
 

“I got desperate. Nothing was coming up. The Bleds donate big bucks to the university yearly. Your mother went there. I was going through the records to see if their paths ever crossed. Josiah was a guest lecturer. I thought they met that way.”
 

“They didn’t.”
 

“Not that I know of, but did you know that your mother received a 50 percent scholarship to the prelaw program?”
 

“No way. I didn’t know that.”
 

“Well, she did and all the freshmen that received scholarships got together to take a picture. Your mother was in that year’s picture, naturally. And surprise, surprise, so was Josiah Bled.”
 

“Why would he be there?”
 

“He’s named as a university benefactor, but he never appears in any other photo with the scholarship winners. Then I took a look at your mother’s application and, no offense, she shouldn’t have gotten that scholarship. She’d done well in high school, just not that well.”

“That’s weird.”

“I thought so, too. So I looked into admissions. Turns out Josiah Bled and the Dean of Admissions were old friends. Knew each other during the war. I went through the dean’s papers and that’s where I found the connection.”
 

“Which is? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
 

“Josiah Bled wrote a recommendation letter to Dean Frank for your mother. He suggested that she be admitted and given a 50 percent scholarship as a favor to the Bled family that he would personally fund,” said Spidermonkey.
 

“Did he say why?”
 

“Unfortunately no, but Frank knew Josiah very well because all Josiah said was that Frank would know the reason and left it at that. Your mother was admitted and given the scholarship. Carolina wasn’t to know anything about it, and I can’t find any evidence that she did. She still might not know, even now.”
 

“Why do I feel like we’re getting both closer and farther away at the same time?”
 

“We’re getting closer, much closer. It just isn’t coming together yet.”
 

“What’s next?” I asked.

“I’m looking into the job that brought your grandparents to St. Louis and you are looking into your grandparents.”
 

“Me? What can I do?”

“You’re staying in your grandparent’s house. Search it.”
 

“I can’t do that. They’re my grandparents.”
 

“Exactly. Something in that house connects your family with the Bleds. Go find it.”
 

“I’m not going through their stuff. It’s creepy and weird.”
 

Spidermonkey heaved a sigh. “Look. Public records will only take us so far. This is personal. Very personal. The Bleds trusted your parents. We have to find out why.”
 

“Would you want your granddaughter searching your house if she suspected you were Spidermonkey?”
 

“I see your point. So start with the easy stuff. Check out their books. There might be inscriptions by the Bleds. Photo albums. Expensive artwork. Your grandparents were known to the Bleds before your mother applied to college. Look around. The answer might be right on the wall.”
 

I hung up and rubbed my eyes. Great. Just great. I didn’t want to look through anything in my grandparent’s house. And how was I going to do that with Chuck and Stevie right there? Impossible.
 

I touched the cold stone. The marble was real and sent a chill up my arm. “One of you knows, don’t you?”

A couple walked by and gave me a funny look. Talking to graves. That wasn’t so odd, was it? What was the point of visiting if I couldn’t talk to them? They were my people, after all.
 

I waited for the couple to turn the corner and then rested my forehead on the stone. “Please help me figure it out. Millicent and Myrtle need this. I need this. The Klinefeld Group isn’t joking.”

My phone rang again. I expected Spidermonkey this time, but it was Oz.
 

“Andrew Marlin,” he said.
 

“Who? What?”
 

“The other Berrys’ Andrew is Andrew Marlin.”
 

“Great. Who is he?” I asked.
 

“I don’t really know. All I have is the name,” said Oz.
 

“Well, how’d you get that?”
 

“Ken Berry bankrolled a small-time meth operation and this Andrew is involved.”
 

And these were the people trying to take Donatella’s kids. Scumbags.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“I’m sure your Uncle Morty can take it from there.”
 

I thanked him and hung up as the rain increased, deepening the puddles. I had to hop over one to avoid getting thoroughly soaked. Even so, my toes were freezing. I sped up to find Nana’s family tomb. It was very different from Pop Pop’s. His was conservative, simple. Nana’s wasn’t. That side of my family made a show of death. Don’t tell anyone, but it was my favorite. It was so big, I could see it several rows over. The gothic stone cross on top towered over the neighbors and proclaimed exactly who they were being compared to.
 

I rounded the corner, smiling, only to stop short at the sight of a figure inside the wrought iron fence. The gate was hanging open and I squinted through the increasing sheets of rain. I couldn’t make out the intruder at such a distance, only that they had a huge black golfing umbrella and were on my family’s property. I pulled out my pepper spray. If this was the guy in the black hoodie, he was going to get a face full. I stomped over in my squishy shoes and hollered, “What are you doing in there?”
 

The umbrella tilted to the side and it was Chuck, leaning on my family tomb and reading a book. “About time.”
 

“What are you doing here?” I asked, coming through the gate. I reached back to close it and my umbrella tipped and let the rain hit my face. Chuck put his umbrella over me and closed the gate.
 

“I’m waiting for you. I had a feeling you’d make your way here.”
 

There was no vase for Nana’s tomb, so I placed my flowers on the altar in front and wished fervently that Chuck would go away so I could talk to them and ask them for their guidance. But he wasn’t going anywhere, the big clod. On second thought, this could be useful to me.
 

“Can you do me a favor?” I asked.
 

He moved in closer. “Anything.”
 

“I want you to give Morty a name for me, but you can’t say where it came from.”
 

“And where’d you get it?”
 

“Doesn’t matter. Promise?” I asked, wanting to put my damp hand on his dry chest.
 

“Promise.” Chuck crossed his heart and grinned.
 

“Andrew Marlin.”
 

“As in the Andrew the other Berrys mentioned?”
 

“Maybe. I hope so.” I could tell he was curious about how I got my information if it didn’t come from Morty or Spidermonkey. Clearly, Aunt Miriam hadn’t told anyone about my meeting Oz at the convent. Maybe senility was kicking in. She never missed a chance to nail me. Chuck started to say something, probably designed to get the info out of me, so a distraction was necessary.

“Why are you really here?” I asked, giving him a knowing glance.
 

“Tommy called,” he said.
 

“Tell you off, did he?”
 

“You could say that. He’s afraid Stevie will lure the Costillas to the grandparents.”
 

“He probably will.”
 

“If they show up, I’ll be there,” he said, the brilliant blue of his eyes had darkened to a grayish hue, making him seem more serious than usual.
 

“Going to take on the Costillas single-handedly?”
 

“If necessary, I’m not leaving you here alone.”
 

My hands went to my hips. “And why is that? You think I can’t handle it by myself?”
 

“It’s a lot.”
 

I thought about Sheila. I hadn’t told anyone about her yet. I don’t know if it was the steady rain, sealing us in under Chuck’s umbrella, or my ancestors theoretically looking on, but I blurted out, “Sheila’s dead.”
 

He stiffened. “Who?’
 

I explained who she was, my interview with Mrs. Schwartz, and the mysterious call to Donatella’s school.
 

“What has this got to do with the listeriosis?”
 

“Maybe nothing. The Berry’s might just have hideous luck.”
 

“Or great luck, depending on how you look at it. The kids are alive because of that little bacteria.”
 

“Eye of the beholder, I guess.” I turned away and pressed my palm against one of the plaques.
 

Please help me. Nana believes you can. I believe it, too. Or maybe I’m just desperate. Desperate and standing next to Chuck. Not a good combo. He smells good. And he hasn’t done anything sleazy. That’s good. No. Stop it. It’s Chuck, woman. Get a grip.

I opened my eyes and my hand was on the oldest vault. Robard Boulard died Nov.1831.
 

Of course it’s you. Here I am, standing next to Chuck and asking you for help.

Robard was the one who purchased the tomb and, according to family legend, was quite something. He made and lost several fortunes. If the rumors were correct, Robard was a serious ladies man. There was another tomb a few pathways away that belonged to the Plasketts, a gens de couleur libres family. Robard was supposed to have had an octoroon mistress, Josephine Plaskett, that he signed a binding marriage-like contract with and then fathered a second family with her. Mom said it wasn’t true. Our ancestor wasn’t a dirtbag. In my experience, whenever you have to say someone isn’t a dirtbag, they most certainly are. I’d seen Robard and his wife’s portraits in
The Cabildo
museum. She was a small blond with a tight look around the mouth and he was a handsome devil, sure of himself to the core. Actually, he reminded me a lot of the man standing over me with his knowing attitude and rakish grin. Trouble, pure and simple.
 

“I can’t stand it,” said Chuck, edging closer and filling my mind with his presence. “What are you doing?”