A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book One)

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I WALKED INTO the breezeway between Stillman Antiques and a contemporary design studio. Stillman never locked the gate to the alley, bad for security, but lucky for me. The alley ran parallel with Hawthorne Avenue. I walked a block and crossed the street to where Lexington changed to Hawthorne. I liked the alleys. They were quick and convenient and hid me from assholes in Mustangs, not that there would be Mustangs on Hawthorne or Lexington. Still, I stayed in the alley, skirting trash cans and enjoying the quiet of the rustling trees.

  I reached the rear of the Bled property in ten minutes. My low heels felt like stilettos and I wished I’d taken Aaron’s ride. I felt a little pang of guilt for snubbing him. He was clueless, but it was possible, however remote, that I’d hurt his feelings.

  I unlocked the garage and stepped into the dark. The alarm panel glowed green. I punched in the code and flipped the light switch on. The new Mercedes Lester drove sat in its place, recently waxed but unmoved. A few leaves littered the floor. If Lester had been around, he’d have swept them away. Nicoli Bled’s 1921 Maybach had a thin layer of dust on its dark green paint. It was the same with the 1954 Borgwald Isabella convertible Millicent bought to drive around Europe. A 1950 Morgan and a 1945 Jaguar sat in the other two bays, also dusty. I couldn’t remember the last time they’d been out. Sometimes Lester or my dad drove them to make sure they stayed in working order. I’d never been allowed. The Morgan and the Jag belonged to The Girls’ late husbands and there was an unspoken understanding that only men would drive them. Frankly, I didn’t want to drive them or the convertible. I didn’t have enough insurance to fix so much as a headlamp on one of those babies. I did make out with Junior Hassleburt in the Jaguar once. It really turned him on. A little too much, if you know what I mean.

  I walked past the cars and into the stable section. The whole thing was designed to be a stable originally. Nicoli Bled didn’t like cars. He kept two teams of horses for his personal use and ponies for Millicent and Myrtle. He only gave up on buggies for his primary transportation after his wife was hit in her chaise and four by a Model A and nearly killed.

  The eight stalls had brass nameplates, straw on the floor and tack oiled and ready for use. It looked like the horses were out for a ride and could return at any moment. I took a deep breath of leather and hay, unlocked the door to the garden, and stepped out through the stone arch into the sun.

  The garden bloomed with unchecked abandon. The gardeners had disappeared along with Lester. Millicent and Myrtle couldn’t keep up with the deadheading and pruning on their own. From the looks of things, they hadn’t tried. The rose arbor sagged under the weight of heritage blossoms and their petals littered the flagstone walk. All The Girls’ flowers were antique and original to the house. The Bled garden was on the St. Louis garden tour and had been in umpteen magazines. They donated clippings to charity auctions and received unbelievable bids. Some of the flowers could be found nowhere else. I’d spent a lot of time in that garden, playing, talking, and, unfortunately, gardening. I didn’t want to dig, prune, or plant. It was too much like work, but I’d done it just the same, side by side with Myrtle. Millicent didn’t garden. She read magazines and commented on our work from the lounge chair that she continually moved to stay within talking distance.

  My heels crunched leaves and twigs as I went up the walk. The house sat silent as before, but I looked through the door glass and spied Myrtle’s purse sitting on the hall table. I rang the service bell beside the door and waited. Then I rang again. Being ignored was not one of my favorite things. I wasn’t used to it and it grated. I pushed the button like a three-year-old in an elevator and paced the low stone stoop.

  “That’s it. I don’t have all day,” I said to the door. I punched the code into the security keypad and got the green light. The black iron door slid back at the touch of my hand and the door itself wasn’t locked. I stepped into the cold, empty foyer, and closed the door behind me. The windows let in a soft, diffused light and the stale air lay heavy and silent. No heat. The Girls would have to be miserable. They needed the heat on year-round.

  “Myrtle. Millicent. I know you’re here.” I walked down the hall past huge Grecian urns and flower arrangements that had gone south, their petals forming a carpet on the beautiful marquetry floors.

  I checked the receiving room, the morning room, and formal parlor before heading to the kitchen. I hoped they were in the kitchen. I did not want to search the second floor. I pushed through the swinging rosewood door and found it empty. A clink of china led me to the servants dining room, wood-paneled and the snuggest room they had. The Girls sat at the battered walnut table with cups of tea. I’d never seen them enter that room in my entire life. Things were really bad.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” I said, knowing full well they had.

  Millicent sat her cup down with a careful clink. “We heard you, dear.”

  “Why didn’t you come?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that, too.

  “We thought perhaps you’d leave.”

  Bingo.

  “You know me better than that. Since when do I give up?”

  “There’s always a first time.” Myrtle put up the collar of her thick wool coat and crossed her arms. She didn’t look upset or surprised to see me, neither did Millicent.

  “Can I have a cup of tea? It’s kind of frigid in here.”

  “Of course, dear. What are we thinking?” Myrtle said.

  “What happened to your arm?” asked Millicent.

  “I fell. It’s no big deal,” I said.

  The Girls hugged me and we went back into the kitchen. I perched on a tall chair at the end of the island, listening to their hushed voices talking about tea and thought about all the pie dough I’d rolled out on that marble slab. In Myrtle and Millicent’s world, ladies didn’t bake or cook, period. Making lemon tart with me was their form of rebellion and as a result I could make practically anything from puff pastry to tiramisu. I can’t tell you how often that doesn’t come in handy.

  Millicent set an eggshell teacup, big for its age, in front of me. I picked it up like it might crumble to dust at my touch and sipped the jasmine tea.

  “So, do you want to tell me or should I start?” I asked.

  They looked at me with wide eyes and said nothing.

  Great.

  “Mom sent me. She’s worried.”

  “Your mother is sweet, but there’s nothing to worry about.” Millicent patted her thick silver hair. It was coiled in an elaborate fashion on the back of her head. It was going-out hair. I could always tell with her. Myrtle’s hair stayed in the same marcel waves framing her face no matter what. But if something special was going on, Millicent would spend an eternity fixing her hair.

  “Nothing to worry about?”

  “No. Not a thing,” Millicent said.

  “You wouldn’t be fibbing to me, would you?” I sipped my tea and peered at them over the gold rim of my cup.

  “Mercy, dear, we’re fine, but we are in a rush, about to go out, you know.”

  “You’re going out?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How?”

  “What do you mean?” Myrtle asked.

  “Neither of you drive, and Lester isn’t here. Mrs. Haase says he hasn’t been around in weeks.”

  “A friend is coming. We do have to go.” They got up and looked at me. I didn’t move.

  “Look. I know you’re having a problem. What’s going on?” I set my cup on its wafer-thin saucer, stood up, and slapped my hands down on the marble tabletop.

  “There’s no problem.” Millicent took my arm, steered me away from the table and out of the kitchen.

  “Millicent, your accounts are frozen. I’m not just being nosy. We want to help.” Well, mostly my parents wanted to help. I wanted to go meet Pete and help later.

  “Mr. Cardiff handles our affairs.” Millicent’s voice was strong, but her eyes roamed everywhere except to meet mine.

&
nbsp; “Mr. Cardiff couldn’t handle his way out of a paper bag,” I said.

  “Mercy, please,” Myrtle said with her hand on her chest.

  “Sorry, but it’s true. He does estate planning and taxes. You need a litigator. Somebody who can fight.”

  “Don’t worry yourself,” Millicent said.

  Too late. I was officially worried.

  Millicent and Myrtle flanked me through the servants dining room, the cloakroom, one of the pantries into family room and out into the hallway to the front door.

  “Wait a minute. What was that?” I said.

  Myrtle fidgeted with her hands while Millicent tried to push me towards the door.

  “Nothing, dear. Have a nice day. We’ll call your mother,” Millicent said.

  I sidestepped Millicent’s hands at the small of my back and spun around. There at the door to the family room were two suitcases partially hidden by a potted palm. I walked to the suitcases and looked at the initials MB stitched into the hide of each of the cases. The Girls were going somewhere, but they weren’t going far. The cases were part of two sets, twelve pieces each. There were hatboxes, trunks and cases of every shape and size. I’d played with them, packing with old clothes for my imaginary adventures, and I’d watched The Girls pack their luggage for their many trips. They filled every piece. That luggage was serious. They’d bought it in the early sixties after one of the husbands died and Lawton was born. Myrtle had gone into a decline the way Millicent put it and she decided they needed to get away. The trip started in San Francisco and circled the earth taking two years and six months.

  “Exactly where are you going? Not to lunch, I assume,” I said.

  Millicent opened her mouth, ready with a lie, but Myrtle reached out and touched her arm. “We’re going to Prie Dieu,” she said.

  “Who died?” I asked.

  “No one, thank our dear Lord,” said The Girls, while crossing themselves.

  “Then why are you going?”

  The Girls looked around like they’d find the answer on the walls. I crossed my arms and waited. Prie Dieu was the Bled family’s ancestral home, built in the 1820s as a tribute to a lost wife. I’d been there quite a few times, usually for funerals. It was a national historic home and the Missouri Historical Society ran it, giving tours and overseeing the reenactment of a small Civil War skirmish that took place on the grounds.

  “Are you kicking out the Historical Society?” It sounded stupid even as I said it.

  “Of course not. It’s just that…” Myrtle said.

  “It’s just that we need someplace to go,” Millicent said, her brown eyes fixed on my face, stoic, yet sad.

  “Someplace to go? You can’t stay here?” Blood rushed to my face, and my good hand went to my hip.

  “We simply can’t afford it,” said Myrtle. “It’s not that bad, dear.”

  “Not that bad? That’s pretty bad. Who is it? Who’s doing this to you?”

  They looked away and Myrtle started fidgeting again.

  “You know I’ll find out,” I said. “You might as well tell me and save some time.”

  “We don’t want to upset you,” said Myrtle.

  “That ship has sailed. Who is it?”

  “Our cousin Brooks,” said Millicent.

  “Brooks! Who the hell is Brooks?”

  “Mercy!” said Myrtle.

  “Sorry. Who’s Brooks? Do I know him?” I sat down on the long bench next to the cases and put my cast on the large Egyptian dog’s head that made up the armrest. Across from me was a small tasteful display of family pictures.

  Millicent picked up a picture of an elderly lady wearing a hat the size of a garbage can lid. “You may have met at Great Aunt Eulalie’s funeral.”

  “That was five years ago.”

  “He doesn’t visit much,” said Myrtle.

  “Obviously,” I said.

  Millicent set the picture down next to my favorite, a black and white photo of an extremely stylish and beautiful couple standing next to a Venetian gondola. Stella and Nicky were the most interesting of all the Bleds and that was saying something, considering they had Josiah Bled to compete with. I was always Stella when I packed my bags.

  “Promise you won’t tell your mother,” said Myrtle.

  “I will not. Even if I did, she’d get it out of me. You know how she is.”

  “Yes, we do.” They smiled at me, but I was unamused. The day was going downhill. The next thing I knew, I’d be breaking out in hemorrhoids.

  “So what’s the plan? You do have a plan?” I asked.

  “There’s a competency hearing next month,” said Millicent.

  “So Brooks is trying to say you’re crazy.” I rubbed my head. My painkillers had worn off, and my arm ached. I could’ve used that twilight feeling just about then.

  “Incompetent, dear. He says we’re incompetent,” said Myrtle.

  “Well, you’re not incompetent or crazy. You don’t talk to walls or wear tinfoil hats. You’ll definitely win.”

  “That’s why you shouldn’t worry,” said Myrtle.

  “But Mr. Cardiff can’t defend you,” I said.

  “He’s very good.” Millicent crossed her arms.

  “He’s good at taxes. When’s the last time he was in a courtroom?”

  The Girls looked at each other. I’d stumped them.

  “You have to have a litigator. You can bet Brooks is gonna have one.”

  “You may be right. We’ll think it over,” said Millicent.

  “So what’s his problem? Did he gamble away his money or what?”

  “No, he still has it,” said Millicent.

  “Then why’s he telling everybody you’re crazy, sorry, incompetent?”

  Myrtle sighed and sat down beside me. She put her hand, soft as a feather, on my leg and said, “It’s about the name.”

  “Your name? Bled?”

  “He wants to start another brewery and use the name Bled. We head the family now, and we said no.”

  “How come?”

  “Brooks isn’t a brewer. He doesn’t know the business. Francesca heads the brewery now. She worked beside her father since she was twelve and she was very upset,” said Myrtle.

  “Does Francesca know what Brooks has done?”

  “Not at all. Francesca is...unpredictable. We can handle this,” said Millicent.

  I didn’t blame them for not telling Francesca. She was absolutely fierce when it came to the Bled brewery. We were the same age and she’d taken to her family business the way my father wished I’d taken to ours.

  “And we can help you.” I stood up and walked to the front door with them. “I’m telling Mom. She’ll find you a good lawyer.”

  “If you must, dear,” they said in unison.

  I stepped through the doorway and into the warm June sun. It felt like life on my skin after the cold of the house. It’d be alright. The hearing was a month away. We had plenty of time to figure out a decent defense.

  “Bye, dear. We’ll call your mother from Prie Dieu,” they called after me and the black iron gate started to close, but I caught it before it latched.

  “Wait. What evidence does Brooks have?”

  “Hardly a thing. Don’t worry yourself,” said Myrtle.

  Yeah, I’d heard that before.

  “Come on. What’s he saying?” I insisted.

  “He doesn’t like how we spend our money,” Millicent said.

  “Oh. Bye.” I let go of the gate and it clicked shut. What was wrong with the way they spent their money? Nothing had changed as far as I knew.

  I walked down the path past the silent fountains and heard a voice call over my shoulder. Mrs. Haase in her floppy hat waved a pair of pruning shears at me. I waved back and dashed through the front gate. Mrs. Haase wanted to hear some secrets, but I wasn’t telling.