Patrick Mullanphy was the third generation to live in the same house in Dogtown, an adorable little brick bungalow with stone trim and an arched front door. My mom always looked at those houses with envy. I know that sounds odd, because our house with its Tudor beaming and fancy fireplaces was the envy of many, but Mom said those houses were sweet and manageable, and, let’s face it, there was only three of us on a good day and more often two. We didn’t need Josiah Bled’s six bedrooms and butler’s pantry, however much we might love it. Plus, the heating bill was outrageous.
Fats pulled up in front and said, “Uncle Moe has one almost exactly like that on The Hill.”
“I love these houses,” I said. “They’re so cute.”
“Yeah, they’re just not big enough,” she said.
“Big enough for what?”
“Me and Tiny. You know it’s probably under 1500 square feet. The bathrooms are tiny. I can’t fit in Uncle Moe’s shower. Tiny would have to squat to get his head wet.”
“I never thought about that.”
“You wouldn’t.” She got out and assumed a boxer’s stance and began air punching.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting ready. This baby’s got me all warm and fuzzy.”
This is warm and fuzzy?
“The Mullanphys aren’t suspects.”
She did a couple of side-kicks and managed to get herself in a complete split position that a gymnast would envy. “Everyone is a suspect.”
“This guy was born three years after Maggie was murdered and he’s her third cousin or something.”
Fats did a super-fast whip kick that ruffled my hair and conceded, “Alright, so he’s in the clear, but we need what he knows.”
“I’ll give you that, but don’t expect much.” I skirted Fats as she did another kick and trotted up to the front door and checked my phone for the time. The house was lit up, but dinner should be over.
It took longer for someone to answer than I expected and I had time to get nervous. No matter how many times I talked to victim’s families, I never got used to it. At least, Patrick was pretty far removed. I just hoped he wasn’t completely removed.
A girl about eleven answered the door and didn’t say a word. She saw Fats and that was the end of speaking.
“Hi,” I said. “Is your father home? I’d like to speak to—”
“For God’s sake, Marlee,” called out a woman. “No solicitors.”
Marlee started to close the door, but Fats slapped a hand against the wood and it bounced back.
“Mom!” Marlee yelled in panic.
“Pat!” yelled the woman.
“What?”
“The door!”
“What?”
They went back and forth with Marlee staring at us with embarrassment. “Those are my parents.”
“We’ve all got them,” I said. “And they’re surprisingly similar.”
Marlee didn’t think so and I had to say there was a lot of yelling and not a whole lot of listening going on in that bungalow.
“For fuck’s sake, Pat, get the door! I’m dying my hair!”
“I’m doing the quarterlies!”
“Are they dripping?”
Pat let out a stream of obscenities that got louder as he got closer. If it hadn’t been for Fats, I might’ve turned tail and taken off. Angry is no way to start an interview, especially about a family murder. But I was in luck, also because of Fats. When Pat saw her, he stopped yelling and froze in the doorway.
“We’re not selling anything,” I said, quickly. “I’m Mercy Watts and this is Fats Licata. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“I know who you are,” he said. “I just never expected you to show up at my door. I’m a huge fan.”
“Well, thanks for that,” I said. “Can we come in?”
“I didn’t mean you.” Pat rushed forward and reached past me. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you.”
Fats shook his hand and grinned at me. “You’re not the only one with a fan base.”
“Are you still competing?” Pat asked. “I haven’t seen you on the circuit.”
“I’m retired, but it’s nice that you remember me.” Fats smiled at that man in a way that I could see him melting. Unfortunately, so could his daughter, who was giving him what had to be a youthful version of her mother’s stink eye.
“Can we come in?” I asked. “It’s a bit nippy out here.”
Pat focused. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry. Sorry so. In here. Come in here.”
“Dad! What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. Go play or something.”
Marlee crossed her arms. Nope, not going to happen. “What do you want?” she asked.
I pulled out one of my dad’s cards and gave it to her. Marlee was the nut I needed to crack. “We’d like to ask your father about a case we’re working on.”
She examined the card and frowned. “Your name isn’t on here.”
Fats laughed. “You don’t miss a thing. That’s her father, the famous detective. We’re helping him out.”
Patrick shooed Marlee away and led us into the living room with his daughter in pursuit. “Please sit down. I…do you…”
“Water would be great,” I said.
“Marlee, water,” he ordered, not looking at her but staring at Fats with glowing admiration. Not a good thing.
“How about you go with her, Fats?” I asked, giving her a look. I had to get her away from Pat or it was nowhere’s-ville.
She grinned at me and then turned to Marlee, who had the stinkiest stink eye I’d ever seen. “I love these houses. My Uncle Moe has one just like it.”
“Yeah?”
“He does. On The Hill.” Fats steered her through an arched door. “Let’s get that water.”
Marlee wasn’t so easily distracted. “Mom! There are hot girls here!” she yelled as they left the room.
Pat slapped his forehead. “I’m so sorry. Marlee’s a…I don’t know what.”
“My grandad would call her a pistol,” I said.
“That’s accurate.” Patrick saw me for the first time and I had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen.
Alright. Who’s the famous one now.
“Aren’t you the girl that stank up the airport?” He sniffed and, I swear to God, I almost got up and left, but a woman wearing a stained men’s undershirt and plastic bag on her head rushed in. You know a woman’s concerned about her man when she’s willing to be seen like that. Pat had been a bad boy.
“Who the…oh, it’s you,” she said, relaxing and I waited for her to say that she wasn’t worried about me since I stank, but she didn’t. She sank into the cushy armchair opposite me and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Mercy Watts and I’m investigating a case and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions.”
“I know who you are. How could I not?”
I winced and she grinned at me. “I don’t believe everything I read, unlike some people I know.”
It was Pat’s turn to wince and I enjoyed it, I have to say.
“That airport thing was my uncle. He was having a time and it got pinned on me,” I said. “Do you have time for some questions? It won’t take long.”
Fats walked in and the wife took one look and said, “You bet it won’t.”
Pat turned multiple shades of red, ombré, if you will. Dark red on the neck to pale pink on his balding head.
Marlee looked back and forth between her parents, grabbed a Coke off the tray Fats was carrying, and plopped down on the floor next to her mother. “She’s a bodybuilder and the other one is a nurse.”
“I know,” said her mother. “Believe me, I know.”
Pat’s ombré got a little darker. “I’m. I think we can answer some questions, can’t we, Nancy?”
Fats set down the tray and held out her hand to Nancy. “I’m Fats Licata, former bodybuilder.”
Nancy shook her hand and asked, “Are you sure you’re former?”
“I shake it up every now and again, but I’m retired.” Fats sat down in the chair next to her and it wasn’t easy. She barely squeezed in.
“So what’s this about?” asked Nancy. “We haven’t seen any crimes. It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood.”
“It’s not a recent crime,” I said, “and it wasn’t necessarily in St. Louis.”
“Then I don’t know how we can help you,” said Pat, starting to turn a normal human shade of pink.
I glanced at Marlee. The girl might not know and I sure wasn’t going to be the one to tell her about a family tragedy. “Can we talk in private? This may not be appropriate.”
Marlee scowled. “No way. I’m not leaving.”
Nancy pointed at the door. “Go to your room.”
“No.”
“Go.”
“No.”
“I’m your mother and I say go.”
“No.”
That went on for a good five minutes and I had the feeling that Marlee won her battles by attrition. I envied her. My mother did not get worn down. Maybe I didn’t stick to it long enough because Nancy was already wavering and Pat was already over it. Kid one. Parents zip.
“Fats, you might be a mother someday,” I interjected. “How would you handle this?”
She stood up so fast she was a blur and picked up Marlee with her arms pinned to her waist. I grabbed the Coke out of her hand before she dropped it and Fats held her straight out, stiff armed, like she weighed no more than a five pound bag of flour. “I’d take her to her room. May I?”
Nancy burst into laughter and nodded as her daughter protested about being an abused kid and calling children’s services. Marlee’s complaints faded away as Fats carried her upstairs.
“Wow,” said Pat.
“Where has she been for the last eleven years?” Nancy shot a look at Pat. “Other than the garage wall.”
Garage wall? Oh! At least I’m not the only one.
“She does security work,” I said. “And helps me on occasion.”
“Doing what? I thought you were a nurse and in that band.”
“I’m just DBD’s cover girl.”
Pat leaned forward. “You sing. We saw you at that benefit. Not bad.”
Thanks, I guess.
“Under duress, I sing. Nursing is my regular gig.”
“And all those murders.” Nancy wrinkled her nose. “How do you stand thinking about all that stuff?”
“I can’t stand it, but ice cream helps.”
She grinned and said, “Ask away before Marlee escapes.”
“She will not escape,” I said.
Pat leaned back and ran his fingers through his sparse hair. “That’s what we thought too many times to count.”
“Okay, then. First of all, let me say I’m sorry to bring this up and I wouldn’t do it, if I didn’t have to.”
They came to attention and Nancy balled up the tee shirt in her fists. “Go ahead.”
“It’s about Sister Maggie’s murder.”
“Huh?” she asked. “The nun? Wasn’t that like fifty years ago?”
Pat frowned. “It was before I was born. I never knew her.”
“I realize that, but something’s come up in her case and things have changed,” I said.
“But they know who did it,” said Nancy. “Right?”
I picked up a glass of water and took a sip. “It’s less solved than you’d think.”
Everyone got a glass and held them while I explained about the medal, leaving out Aunt Miriam’s unwillingness to cooperate, and just saying that it couldn’t be positively identified just then.
“So why don’t they just reopen the case?” asked Pat.
“Not enough evidence. I’m doing a favor and trying to find more.”
They went quiet. It was a lot to take in. I held nothing back, except Aunt Miriam’s weirdness. I told them about the bishop’s behavior, what Father Bernard said, all of it.
“Well,” said Pat, after a minute or two, “I can tell you that my family never believed the priest did it.”
“No?” I asked.
“No. Not at all. My dad said it was total bullshit.” Pat got red again, but no ombré that time, pure tomato. “He left the church because of how it was handled. Everyone did. Dad never stepped foot in another church again.”
“Because of the investigation? The church didn’t have anything to do with that.”
He scoffed. “Oh, yeah? You believe that? Dad said the church only cared about how they looked and wanted it to go away.”
“Sounds like what I’ve heard, but your dad thought that they stopped the investigation?” I asked.
“I don’t know about stopped, but they didn’t help. That’s for sure.”
“Do you know any details?”
“Faith said she was strangled,” said Nancy.
“Who’s Faith?” I asked.
“My mother,” said Pat. “I didn’t know you two talked about it. Dad hated to talk about it. He always got pissed off.”
“We only talked about it the one time,” said Nancy. “Your dad, that last Christmas, you know how he was.”
Pat went on to explain his father had a drinking problem and would only talk about his cousin’s murder if he got wasted. He’d died five years ago. His last Christmas he got really drunk and started spewing anger and obscenities. When the kids got him to bed, Faith talked about the toll Maggie’s death had taken on her husband. He and Maggie had been close, since she’d lost her own brother to cancer. Faith didn’t say much, just that Maggie had been strangled and people thought the priest did it, but Joseph didn’t.
“Did your mom believe it?” I asked.
“I never asked,” said Pat. “Probably. Mom’s all about authority. She doesn’t question much. She mostly hated Dad getting upset. It’s not like we could do anything. Cops said he did it, so he did it.”
“But now maybe you can prove he didn’t,” said Nancy. “That medal’s a pretty big deal for the case.”
I nodded. “It is, but I don’t know if it’ll go anywhere.”
“It’s too late for my dad,” said Pat, bitterly.
“But not your mom and everybody else.”
He put his head in his hands. “I don’t know anything and I don’t think Mom does either. Not really. Dad just railed on about the church and he was drunk. He’d say all kinds of crazy shit.”
“Anything about who he thought did it?” I asked. “Any names?”
Pat didn’t remember any names. His father’s accusations were general, not specific. But he did talk about Maggie’s job at the asylum. He didn’t like her going there, even though she worked mainly with children.
“Maybe that’s something,” said Nancy. “You’d have to be crazy to kill a nun.”
“I agree and the St. Louis cops never took a look as far as I know,” I said.
Fats appeared in the door and startled all three of us. “What about where she died?”
“Holy crap!” exclaimed Nancy. “How’d you do that?”
She grinned. “I have skills.”
Pat sighed. “So Marlee will be down any second.”
“Nope. I gave her twenty bucks to stay put.”
Nancy shook her head. “We’ve tried bribery.”
“Do you have the ability to take twenty bucks off her and no problem doing it?” asked Fats.
“Not so much.”
“Then we’re good. What about that town?”
Nancy shrugged. “I have no idea where it happened. Faith didn’t mention that.”
“St. Sebastian,” said Pat.
“Where they have that big fair?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “So does your family go there or have a special connection?”
They shrugged and couldn’t think of a reason why Maggie would go there. Joseph never said anything about it. Most of his rage was at the church. The actual murderer seemed to have slipped his mind for the most part, except that he got away with it, but that, in Joseph’s opinion, was mainly the church’s fault.
“Did your father say anything about Maggie’s death at all? How it happened? Where? Who might’ve known something?” I asked.
Pat sighed. “Like I said, he was drunk and angry. I think he couldn’t get over that the church somehow betrayed us. That’s what he talked about. He really loved her. Sometimes he’d cry and talk about how he should’ve protected her. How he was her brother since her brother died. He was my namesake. Patrick. He died young.”
“Who would’ve gotten Maggie’s belongings?” I asked. “Even nuns have stuff. Books and whatnot.”
“My grandparents, I guess.”
Fats came in and sat down. “What did they say about it?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember them ever saying her name. My mom warned me never to talk about Maggie to them after Dad was on a bender.”
“Were they there when he was talking about it?” asked Fats.
“Usually, but they would just leave the room and everyone would try to shush my dad. My Aunt Linda would get mad at Dad and tell him off. It was a mess.”
“Where’s Linda?” I asked.
“Scottsdale, but don’t ask her. She says it’s ancient history. She won’t help.”
I tried to think of more questions, but he only knew what his drunken father said and that was the height of unreliable. It was interesting that the family agreed with everyone else that knew Maggie and Dominic. They didn’t believe he did it and, like The Girls, were mad at the church over it. It was one of those where there’s smoke, there’s fire kind of things. I’d be very surprised if they were totally off base in how they felt.
“So your mother’s still around, right?” I asked.
“She’s in Florida, but I don’t think she knows any more than I do,” said Pat.
“We can call her,” said Nancy.
Pat groaned.
“It can’t hurt.”
“You’ll do it then.”
Nancy agreed and got her phone. Faith was quite elderly and, although living on her own in a retirement village in Tampa, she wasn’t good about picking up the phone. It took four tries to get her and I was reminded of Aunt Miriam. I’d say it was an old person thing, but Grandad didn’t do it and neither did The Girls. Maybe there was commonality I was missing.
Nancy greeted her mother-in-law and pointed at the phone. Pat shook his head and Nancy rolled her eyes.
“So, Mom,” she said, “I wanted to ask you something about Sister Maggie.”
During the back and forth, Pat got up and went out to peer up the staircase. He came back and said, “I’ll be damned. She’s still in there.”
“You should see how quick she trained her dog,” I said.
“Thirty minutes?”
“Five.”
Fats smiled. “Give or take ten minutes. It’s all in the tone.”
“And the fact that you could crack Moe open like a peanut.”
“Isn’t Moe your uncle?” asked Pat.
I explained that Moe was named after Moe and for good reason. That weird-looking dog with the moist bulging eyes did bear a striking resemblance to Uncle Moe who was one of the oddest looking guys I’d ever met. Even his short-cropped hair had a brindle pattern to it and Fats assured me that it was natural because who would dye their hair to look like that? I didn’t know, but I’d seen some pretty questionable fashion choices at three in the morning in the ER, including genital self-piercing and a guy who tried to dye his beard with wood stain. Nothing’s off the table.
“Alright. Faith does have a clue, ” said Nancy walking in and checking the clock. “Ah, crap. I’ve got to wash this out or I’ll look like some trailer trash biker chick.”
“Works for me,” said Pat.
“Idiot.”
He grinned as she dashed for the stairs and I chased her with Fats right behind me. “Wait. What does Faith know?”
“No details, but we’ve got the sister’s stuff.” Nancy dashed into the bathroom.
“Where?”
“Basement. She said you can have it. That box was a millstone around Joseph’s neck.” Nancy cranked the shower and slammed the door.
“I can’t believe it,” I said.
“Don’t,” said Fats. “It’ll be full of bibles and veils.”
“That is my luck.”
A door opened and Marlee stuck her head out. The girl didn’t say a word before Fats snapped her fingers and Marlee disappeared.
“You have got to teach me that,” said Pat from the bottom of the stairs.
Fats trotted down, each stair complaining as she went. “That cannot be taught. Scaring people without being scary is a God-given talent.”
“Hello,” I said. “You are scary.”
“No, I’m not. I’m direct.”
Okay. I’ll just let you live with that delusion.
I came down the stairs much slower. “Is it okay with you if we take the box?”
“Fine with me. I didn’t know it was down there.” He opened the door to the basement. “Have at it.”
I should’ve known it couldn’t be that easy. ‘Cause it’s never easy. The Mullanphy family had been in that house since 1935 and I’m pretty sure they never cleaned out the basement. Three generations of clutter were stacked up in crazy towers to the floor joists overhead, sometimes cardboard boxes were wedged in against ancient and frighteningly frayed wires and the whole thing smelled like mold and fresh dirt.
“Just like Uncle Moe’s house,” said Fats, ducking under Christmas lights hanging from hooks and a pair of dusty tennis rackets.
“A fire hazard?”
“Yes, it is. My dad thinks he’s got some serious dough stashed down there.”
Don’t ask. You do not want to be an accessory after the fact.
I clamped my teeth together and, for once, I didn’t ask the obvious question, but Fats answered it anyway.
“He robbed some banks in the eighties. He wasn’t working for Calpurnia then so he didn’t have to kick it up to her, so Dad says it has to be in that basement. He’s not living high on the hog.”
“I didn’t hear that.” I started looking in boxes and searching for labels.
“Too late,” said Fats. “It was three banks in Arkansas and Dad thinks probably another couple in Iowa. He did spend some time in Minnesota in the seventies and according to Calpurnia there was plenty of dirty going on then.”
“Shut up.”
Fats gave out a throaty laugh.
“I could tell the rookies about your dear old Uncle Moe. They’re looking for a leg up. He might do it.”
“I’m really worried about you telling the Feds about Uncle Moe.” She moved a stack of boxes that had to weigh over a hundred pounds without breaking a sweat.
“I could,” I said, digging back between towers.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’d have to tell the great, and now hanging by a thread, Tommy Watts how you know about Uncle Moe and worse, who I really am.”
“He has to find out some time,” I said.
“Nope. My grandmother will still tell you that Rocco was three months premature. She totally believes it.”
“That’s different.”
“Tommy doesn’t want to know. It’ll make his life hard.” Fats wormed her way past several towers of boxes by a combo of pushing and hip checking. I think the boxes feared her. “It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on him not understanding it.”
“Who said that?” I asked.
“Upton Sinclair.”
“The Jungle?”
She grinned at me over the boxes. “It’s about meat packing. I have an interest.”
“I bet.” I dug through some more boxes. “I think I’m seeing a pattern.”
“In me? I would think so.”
“Not you, although I can. This basement goes by decade. The deeper you go, the further back in time. Where are you?”
“Eighties. Somebody saved this thing.” She held out a crimping iron.
“My mom has one of those,” I said.
“I want to try it.”
“Don’t. It’s bad.”
We dug back through the eighties. I found a whole box of what could’ve been prom dresses. I hated to think there was a time when girls wore metallic gold dresses with a black lace overlay. I don’t even want to talk about the big butt bows.
“Seventies!” announced Fats. “That’s a whole lot of polyester. Didn’t they throw anything away?”
“No, they didn’t,” said Nancy, arriving with a towel wrapped around her head. “There are three ratty old Christmas trees down here somewhere.”
“We found them,” said Fats. “I’m thinking about reporting your house as a health hazard.”
“Fine with me. I called those junk guys once to have them clear it out and Pat nearly had a conniption. He thinks there’s buried treasure down here or something.”
I hope he’s right.
“Hey, Fats,” I said. “Can you see the label on that box way back there?”
She produced a mini Maglite and aimed the narrow beam at the box stuffed under a ton of sporting equipment, including a kayak, that was hanging from the ceiling. “Bingo. Nineteen sixty something.”
We dug through seventies camping equipment and a collection of pool toys to find the sixties off in a back corner. It was slow going with my cast getting in the way.
“I can’t get in there,” said Fats.
“Convenient,” I said. “It’s like the nest of Aragog back there.”
“Nice reference. Follow the spiders, Ron.”
“But it’s the Dark Forest.”
“Get a move on. I’ve got a wedding to plan,” said Fats.
“A wedding? Congratulations,” said Nancy and I was completely forgotten.
I pulled some boxes labeled Candice’s wedding out of the way and shivered. The closer I got to Maggie’s belongings the more I didn’t want to find them. I’m not going to claim it made any sense. I just had a bad feeling about it. Not the something’s-not-right feeling. The this-is-going-to-be-bad-for-you feeling.
“Got it yet?” asked Fats.
“Almost. Nancy, do you have any bug spray? I don’t think I’m alone back here.”
“You’re fine. We just bug bombed a month ago.”
“I don’t think it took.”
I know you can’t hear people rolling their eyes, but let’s just give me the benefit of the doubt, and say I could, in that instance, because those eyes were a-rollin’ like pinwheels.
“You want to come back here?” I asked.
“It’s your case,” said Fats.
“My case,” I muttered. “It’s not even a case.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Toss me your Maglite.”
Fats tossed it the way she does everything. Hard and fast.
“Son of a bitch!”
“You should’ve caught it,” she said.
“I’ve got one useable hand.” I rubbed the small knot on the side of my head and switched on the light. After digging for a few more minutes, I spotted a box with “Maggie” written in lovely script. It made me sad to see it back there tucked away for over fifty years all her stuff; things she cared about, shoved in beside boxes of paperbacks and unused school supplies.
“I found it,” I said.
“Finally,” said Fats. “Grab it and let’s go.”
I passed back the box and looked to see if there was another one. “Hold on.” I squatted and reached back to pull from the back and my hands touched something. Not warm. Not fur, thankfully. But something and then I felt a kind of odd tingling that wasn’t really a tingle.
“I think I feel something,” I said.
“If it’s the creeps then I’m with you,” said Nancy. “I hate it down here.”
“It’s not—ow—son of a—shit!” I came spinning out of the depths of the basement, flapping my arms and screeching. For once, Fats didn’t leap into action. The snippets I caught were of mouths dropped and astonishment.
“Help me!” I yelled. “They’re biting me.”
“What?” asked Nancy.
“I don’t know.”
“Spiders!”
That’s right. I got overrun by spiders, hundreds of spiders. Face. Eyes. Arms. Legs. Other places. And what did Calpurnia Fibonacci’s bad ass bodyguard do?
“I’m out!” Fats booked it up the stairs, hitting each tread so hard I thought the whole thing would come down on my head. Getting knocked out might not have been the worst thing at that point, but still, come on.
Nancy grabbed a hideous prom dress and smacked me with it. “Get your clothes off! They’re in the clothes.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I screamed and stripped. Chuck dreamed of me stripping that fast, but that was spider-induced psychosis. I would’ve done anything to get those things off me. If someone said, “Shoot Nancy and those spiders will be off you,” it’d have been bye-bye, Nancy. I was gone, totally and completely gone.
Down to my cast and the granny panties I’d decided to wear that day, I wildly screamed and smashed spiders. “Get them off! Get them off!”
“Water!” yelled Nancy.
She found a bucket, filled it with ice water, and threw it at me. Freddie Mercury couldn’t have hit the note that came out of me. Every dog in the neighborhood started barking and Nancy’s cat burst through their cat door and wasn’t seen for three days. I think I damaged my own hearing. On the upside, it worked. Spiders don’t like getting doused in ice water anymore than humans and they either died or ran back to the nether regions of that God-awful basement.
I stood there, shaking violently with a burning, raw throat and squashed spiders all over me.
“Jesus!”
Did I think about who said it or that I was basically naked and that my granny panties had several holes that I didn’t mind because they were super comfy? No, I didn’t. I turned around. Standing at the base of the stairs was Pat, carrying a fire extinguisher, Fats, carrying a can of roach spray, Marlee with her twenty dollar bill, and a boy about fourteen years old with eyes coming out of his head like Roger Rabbit.
“You have really big boobs,” said Marlee.
That got everyone moving. Nancy threw a bridesmaid’s dress at me and yelled, “Get him out of here, Pat!”
Pat dropped the extinguisher and forced his kids up the stairs. Marlee went willingly. The word “spiders” did it for her. Pat had to use a broom on the boy and I’m not sure that would’ve worked without the threat of losing Fortnite for the rest of his life.
I wrapped myself in an extraordinary confection of shiny purple with white fur trim. Somebody wore it in a wedding. No kidding. Nancy emailed me the picture later. Faith in 1973. It was worse in a group and included a fur muff that would’ve been handy for my frozen hands.
“I’m so sorry. I thought the water would help,” said Nancy.
“Really?” asked Fats, still holding out the roach spray at arm’s length.
“Shut up,” I said through chattering teeth. “You were going to spray me with poison.”
She lowered the can but didn’t concede that poison wasn’t a great idea. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing was her motto.
Nancy got me upstairs, past her lingering son, who got a stinging smack for looking, and I went into the shower to defrost until the water heater ran out way too quick with a bag over my already soggy cast. My clothes went into the washer, spiders and all, and I ended up dressed in some of Fats spare gym clothes because Nancy, a fifty-year-old mother of three, didn’t have anything big enough to fit over my butt.
“That’s it,” I said, sitting at their kitchen table hunched over a cup of Tension Tamer.
“You’re not giving up on Maggie, are you?” asked Pat. “Please don’t say that.”
“I’m giving up on ice cream. It hates me and my butt.”
Nancy towel-dried my hair and said, “You’re not fat. You’re curvy. Curvy’s in. Look at Kim Kardashian. Now that is a big butt.”
She thought she was helping, but knowing my butt wasn’t quite as big as Kim Kardashian’s wasn’t going to do it.
“My leggings are too big for you,” said Fats, still clutching her can o’poison.
“Only because you’ve got bigger thighs than The Rock.”
She stuck out a leg. “You think so? I’ve been working on it.”
“Is that a good thing?” asked Nancy. Her eyes said no.
“Ya, it is,” said Pat, earning him a smile from Fats, but Nancy gave him the stink eye and he slunk back down to the basement with Fats’ spray to carry up the box.
“We should go,” said Fats. “We’ll be late.”
“If you think I’m going out to dinner,” I said, “you’re out of your mind.”
“We have to. Tiny’s meeting us at Kronos in fifteen minutes.”
“Tiny can meet me in the dumpster out back. ‘Cause that’s where I’m going to throw myself.”
“It’s not that bad,” said Fats.
I stood up and spread out my arms. Nancy recoiled, but Fats gave me a look and shrugged. “You’ve looked worse.”
I have, but I’m not admitting it.
“You’re out of your mind. Look at me.” I had on the stuff she threw in her bag for emergencies. What emergencies would require pink and purple tiger-striped leggings and a neon green hoodie with “Ain’t No Bitch” printed on it was a mystery. And don’t let me forget, underneath I had on one of Nancy’s old nursing bras because it was the only thing I could stuff my “really big boobs” in. No, I didn’t have panties. They were optional. A bra was not.
“Nobody will care. It’s Kronos and you have to talk to Tiny.”
“I’m covered in spider bites and Calamine lotion. I’m pink polka-dotted.”
“Sorry we didn’t have the clear stuff,” said Nancy. “We never use it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We invade your house. Bring up an ancient murder and wreck your basement and give your son an eyeful. It’s me that needs to apologize.”
Nancy smiled. “Never mind that. Pat agreed to clear out the basement. He hates spiders. I owe you.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she said. “I think your phone’s been buzzing.”
I sighed and reluctantly took a peek. Uncle Morty. Awesome. I ignored him but couldn’t ignore Nancy and Fats taking a closer look at my arm.
“It has to come off,” said Fats.
“You’re going to cut off her arm?” asked Marlee. “Ew.”
“Her cast, stinky,” said Nancy. “Go tell your dad to bring in his toolbox.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Smell it.”
No need to sniff. The odor had a way of getting into my nose whether I wanted it to or not. I hadn’t been the best at keeping it dry and the only place I sweated was in my cast. Now that it was seriously wet, it really smelled.
Fats poked and said, “It’s soft and lumpy.”
“Fine. I’ll go in tomorrow and take care of it.”
Nancy scoffed. “Our basement tried to eat you. I’ll take it off.”
“Well—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve done it loads of times. My family specializes in broken bones. That peeping Tom upstairs has broken his arm twice and his foot once. This is a piece of cake. I’ll just use some snips. Five minutes tops.”
Nancy knew her stuff and had my wrinkly red arm out of its prison in no time and into a dry, non-smelly brace and sling. While she was working, my phone kept buzzing. Uncle Morty.
“Just answer it,” said Nancy. “How bad can it be?”
“You don’t watch the news very often do you?” I asked.
“I do, but it’s your uncle.”
“He’s the smelly one and crabby and demanding.”
She smiled and adjusted my sling strap. “Sounds like family. Are you forced to live above a spider breeding ground?”
“I said we’ll clean it out,” said Pat. “That stuff might be worth something.”
“It’s worth incinerating.”
Pat threw up his hands. “I give up.”
“Finally,” said Nancy. “All set, Mercy?”
I stood and hitched up my tiger-striped leggings. “I guess. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” said Nancy. “You’ll let us know what you find out about Maggie?”
“I will. Did you look in the box, Pat?” I asked.
Pat closed his toolbox, slowly snapping shut the latches. “You know, I was going to, but when I started to open it, I couldn’t.”
“Spiders?” asked Fats with a shiver.
He chuckled. “Yeah, it was the spiders.”
Nancy went over and hugged him fiercely. “Go up to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He hesitated and she shrugged. Pat nodded to us, slightly pink, and headed upstairs.
Fats produced a toothpick out of nowhere, snapped it in half and ate it. I will never get used to that. “Do I need to have a talk with somebody?”
Nancy sighed. “What good does talking do?”
“Obviously you’ve never seen me talk.”
“I have,” I said. “It leaves an impression.”
“It’s fine. He’s a bit of an idiot, but he always manages to redeem himself,” she said with a laugh.
“What does your husband do for a living?” asked Fats.
“We own Mullanphy Motor Works. Hence all the posters of you up in our garage.”
“You’re on posters?” I asked.
“I did a little modeling,” said Fats. “Me with an engine is a surefire hit.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t picture it. I really couldn’t. Maybe if Fats was punching the engine.
“I believe that,” said Nancy. “Pat has your entire collection. One of our distributors gives them to him.”
“That can’t be comfortable,” I said.
“It’s better now that I’ve met you two.” Nancy walked us out to Fats’ truck and gave us hugs. “Thank you for getting that box out of here and doing something about the murder. It’s weighed on us for far too long.”
Nancy got teary-eyed and so did I, mostly about being too big for mom jeans and covered in spider bites, but still it was an emotional moment.
We got in the truck and Fats said, “You’re pathetic.”
I blew my nose and snuffled, “I agree.”
“They’re just spider bites. How long before they go away?”
“No idea. And don’t say ‘just’. You ran. I know your Kryptonite now.”
“What are you going to do?” Fats asked. “Carry a bag of spiders?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Answer your phone.”
“I don’t want to. We’re late and I’m not going to dinner,” I said.
She looked at me, produced another toothpick, and said, “I already canceled during the crying.”
“Is Chuck pissed?”
“Who cares? I still haven’t forgiven him for taking the side of that douchebag, Julia.”
Fats peeled out and we careened through the streets until we merged on highway forty at nearly a hundred miles an hour. That’s how I knew she was serious. Fats was a great driver, but that’s where her anger came out. Julia was a cop who’d given me some serious problems during the case where I broke my arm and Chuck backed her, not me. He had his reasons and we were working on it. Fats still wanted to pummel him.
“Answer your phone,” she said, snapping her toothpick in half dramatically.
“Fine,” I said. “Hello.”
“What the fuck did you do?” Uncle Morty yelled.
So many things.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Screw that. You did something.”
“I got Maggie’s personal effects from her family,” I said. “What’s wrong with that?”
He thought about it. “Nothing. That ain’t it. What else?”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s lighting up like a friggin’ Christmas tree over here.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve got emails flying left and right. What did you do? I know it’s you. Nobody kicks up a crap heap like you.”
He wasn’t wrong. I was a crap heap kicker, but that time it was totally innocent. About the time Fats and I were heading into Pat and Nancy’s basement, the church started talking. Bishops to the archbishop and back. The priests at the cathedral to the priest at St. James. They were all talking about Sister Maggie’s murder.
“How do you know?”
“I freaking tagged the bastards, of course.”
“You mean you put a worm in the church’s computers,” I said and Fats raised an eyebrow at me. I raised my palms back.
“Like you’re surprised. It’s what I do and it’s a damn good thing I did,” said Uncle Morty.
“Why? What’d they say?”
The answer was not much and I mean that. They were talking about Maggie and Dominic, but they knew less than we did. Uncle Morty said that when he started poking around in the church records, he came up with nothing on Maggie. She was there, listed as a nun in Aunt Miriam’s order, birth and death date. No details. Her murder had been glossed over. We knew that but didn’t know that Father Dominic had been scrubbed. He wasn’t listed anywhere. No pictures. He wasn’t in the hospital archives. There were records from his home state of New York, birth, school, and where he was ordained. But nothing from St. Louis, not even a death certificate.
“He was never declared dead?” I asked.
“Not that I can find. What’d you do?”
I yawned. “I’ll tell you when I get home.”
“I ain’t there.”
Yes!
“How come?”
“I don’t have to keep you on it. I gotta get you off,” he said.
“Huh?” I said.
“I gotta get it done so we can leave.”
I should’ve known, but I wasn’t about to complain. I told him about the confirmed timeline and Father Bernard.
“That’s interesting. I don’t think the current guys have a clue about what went on.”
“So what are they worried about?”
“What do you think? Looking bad again. You going through that box tonight?” Uncle Morty asked, but it was really more of an order.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He started a fresh rant and I hung up. I planned on curling up with a big dose of Tylenol and a new episode of Outlander, not some poor murdered woman’s things. It was too depressing. I wasn’t sure I even wanted it in the apartment. The smell of roach spray, mold, and misery pervaded the truck and I didn’t fancy living with it indefinitely.
Fats turned onto my street and said, “What’s going on here?”
We couldn’t pull onto the street behind my building to park. There were construction vehicles totally blocking it up.
“Are they done?” she asked, leaning forward to look at the building behind mine.
“Not even close,” I said. “Go around the front and drop me.”
Fats parked illegally on the sidewalk, but I knew better than to warn her about a ticket. Calpurnia’s people didn’t get tickets or even a sideways glance. I got out and opened the front door for Fats since she was carrying Maggie’s box. I was behind her when I heard Chuck’s voice ring out. “Mercy!”
“What?” I kept a groan on the inside. I so didn’t have the strength to deal with whatever his deal was. I barely had the strength to put on fresh Calamine lotion, which I sorely needed.
Chuck tried to get around Fats. “Did you get that worksite shut down?”
Holy crap. The rookie came through.
“Me? With what? My magical control of the building inspectors?”
“Goddammit, Mercy. Command is all over me on this.”
“I didn’t do it and, even if I did, it’s not your deal,” I said.
“You are my deal.”
Fats dropped the box with a thud and radiated anger. “You got a problem?”
Chuck paled. “Hey, Fats. I…uh…no. I just need to find out what happened—oh my God what happened to you?”
“Spiders,” I said.
I guess there was nothing to say about that because my hot boyfriend has never looked blank like that before or since.
“She was working on Sister Maggie’s case and got attacked by spiders,” said Fats. “And you want to talk about some douchebag construction site? Be my guest. Give that a shot.”
Chuck woke up and squeezed past Fats to hug me. “Spiders? Seriously?”
“Yes. I was attacked by tiny carnivores.”
“Where’s your cast?”
“Had to cut it off.”
“Are you mad?” he asked as he shifted from foot to foot.
“I’m mad,” said Fats, squatting to pick up Maggie’s box. “We’ve got things to do and we’re not doing them.” She stomped up the stairs, leaving a kind of heat behind that made Chuck nervous. I totally enjoyed that.
“Do you want me to carry you?” he asked.
“No. I’m fine, itchy but fine.”
“But spiders. Were they poisonous?”
“We’ll find out.” I trudged up the stairs with Chuck fretting behind me and offering to go get me a Worf burger from Kronos. That sounded fantastic, but I was still wearing Fats’ clothes, an unsightly reminder that I needed a salad with oil and vinegar dressing.
Fats stood at my door with the box, eyeing my boyfriend with expectation.
“Let me take that,” said Chuck.
“About time,” said Fats.
I opened the door and sniffed. No Morty stink. He really was gone. I led them in and Chuck set the box on the floor next to the TV. Skanky ambled in, probably wondering what was for dinner, took one look at the box, went up into spiky arch, and began a constant hiss. My sentiments exactly.
“What’s in there?” asked Chuck. “It stinks.”
“Sister Maggie’s stuff.”
“Really?” He went and got himself a beer. “Where was it? The convent?”
“Her family had it in their spider-infested basement,” said Fats.
“And they just gave it to you? No receipt? No nothing?”
“Nope,” I said.
He took a long swig. “Why? Families never just hand me their stuff. Half the time I have to get a search warrant and that’s when they want me to catch the perp.”
“The cousin has a crush on Fats and he wants it solved. There’s a lot of family pain there,” I said. “Nobody else is interested.”
He nodded. “I get it. Now about that construction site.”
“I didn’t do it.”
Chuck tried to approximate Aunt Miriam’s stink eye, but he just looked constipated. It was oddly adorable. “Come on. You did something. You are all over this.”
“The rookie did it,” I said.
“What rookie?”
“Gordon and, before you ask, I did not ask him to.”
Two spots of pink appeared on Chuck’s high cheekbones and his voice went an octave lower. “Why?”
Fats sat down on the sofa and mimed eating popcorn, which made him scowl more.
I laughed and said, “He heard the guys calling me a skanky whore.”
“What else?” Fats ground her toothpick to powder and her hands went to fists.
“Smelly slut,” I said. “Among other things.”
Chuck didn’t say a word. He did an about-face and left, slamming the door. I ran after him and yelled down the stairs. “Where are you going?”
“I’m taking care of it!” he yelled back.
I groaned. Men. Nothing could stop it. If it wasn’t the construction workers, it was guys on the street. I hated it, but I’d yet to find a cure for asshole.
And then it got worse. I went back in my apartment to find Fats on the phone saying, “Get me Calpurnia. I’ve got a situation.”
I dove for the phone, but Fats stiff armed me. I did everything I could to get that phone, but it wasn’t going to happen.
“Do not tell her. The rookie handled it,” I said.
“That’s not handling it. They’ll be back.”
“Chuck’s on it.”
She snorted. “Cops. You’re under the Fibonacci umbrella and they will be made to understand that.”
“I don’t want to be under anything. No. Do not do it.” I charged her and she batted me away, accidentally brushing my injured arm. I gasped and she let down her guard for a second, but a second wasn’t long enough. I still missed the phone by a good foot.
“Give it up,” she said, amused. “You can’t best me.”
“I can do it.” I believed because Mom said that was half the battle.
“That’s adorable.”
I was starting to get the feeling my mother was wrong about a lot of things.
“Hang up.”
“No,” said Fats. “What was that? How long is the massage? Okay. I’ll wait.”
On the other hand.
“I won’t talk to Tiny,” I said.
Fats gave me a look designed to make a man think twice, but I wasn’t a man. It didn’t work on me. I knew she could pound me. I also knew she wouldn’t.
“I love you and I love him, but I’m not owing Calpurnia for one more thing,” I said.
“Hey, Cosmo,” said Fats. “I might’ve found another angle.” She paused and then said, “I’ll call back if I need it. Thanks.”
I tossed myself on the sofa and sighed. “Thank God.”
“You’re welcome.” She sat down next to me and the springs underneath us groaned.
“Somebody’s full of themselves. You may be built like you came from Olympus, but you are not a goddess.”
She said nothing and knotted her hair up on the top of her head in a way that was perfectly messy and in style. When I tried that, I looked like I spent the night in the drunk tank. “You love me.”
“When I say love, I mean you’re alright,” I said. “Let’s not go overboard. We’re not picking out china patterns here.”
“Love means something in my world.”
“Mine, too, but, keep in mind, I love Uncle Morty, so the bar isn’t that high.”
“You are my best friend,” she said, not looking at me.
I thought about all the other women in my life. There was my friend, Ellen, who I rarely saw since she had kids, and of course, Claire, Mom, Aunt Tenne, my nursing school friends, and Aaron. I know he wasn’t technically a woman but the guy didn’t really qualify as a dude either. So, I wondered who was my best friend and how did you rate that anyway. I spent the most time with Fats and Aaron, but that wasn’t so much by choice.
“I don’t know who my best friend is,” I said.
“Not me,” she said with just the tiniest hint of sadness.
“We’re new friends and we’re always getting shot at.”
She grinned. “If that isn’t friendship, I don’t know what is.”
“You’re weird and I don’t understand you,” I said.
“Have you seen yourself lately?”
“Point taken. Don’t get me wrong. You’re up there. Ellen’s my oldest friend and she’s been there through the parent stuff and the…other things.”
“The boyfriend disappearing?” asked Fats and I jerked to attention. I didn’t know she knew, which was stupid. Calpurnia had me researched. She probably knew what kind of tampon I preferred.
“Yeah. She knows it all,” I said.
“For me, that’s Gibson.”
“I thought you didn’t have any female friends.”
She laughed. Gibson was her trainer and she started with him when she was ten. He was a sixty-five-year-old former middle-weight boxing champion from Detroit and he served as friend, surrogate father, confessor, and occasional punching bag. I thought that was sad, but she clearly didn’t. To say she adored Gibson, who apparently didn’t have a first name, was an understatement.
“Well, I’m not Gibson,” I said.
“And I’m not Ellen.”
But we were both there and that counts for a lot in the world of friendship.
“Let’s go through that box,” said Fats.
“Let’s don’t and say we did.”
The door opened and Chuck sauntered in. I recognized that look. Somebody was pretty proud of himself. “Done. You will not hear another word from that site.”
“Great,” I said. “Now go out and yell at every dude with low self-esteem and a general dislike of women.”
“What?” he asked.
Fats stretched and all the vertebrae in her back popped. It was disturbing. “She gets yelled at daily. Where have you been?”
“By who?”
“She just told you.”
“Bastards.”
“Pretty much,” I said, getting up and laying a kiss on him. “But I like you.”
“That’s good.” He nuzzled my neck.
Fats stood up and forcibly parted us. “Aren’t you going to Kronos?”
Chuck looked at me and I weakened. “The usual would be great.”
“I’ll have two double Worf burgers, double cheese, cheese fries with that sausage Aaron makes, and an extra-large Metaphysical malt. Hot fudge and sprinkles on the side.”
We gaped at her, but Fats didn’t seem to notice. She went over and used a pen to open the top of Maggie’s box, in case there were spiders at the ready.
Chuck mouthed at me, “Is she okay?”
I mouthed, “Long day.” And then I said out loud, “I’m going to shower again and put on more Calamine lotion.”
“Do that. Pink polka-dots are a good look,” said Fats as she pulled a veil out of the box. “I don’t know if there’s anything useful in here.”
Chuck left and I waited until he was definitely gone before I said, “I thought you didn’t want anyone to know you’re pregnant?”
“I don’t.” Fats looked up. “Why?”
“Two double Worf burgers? Cheese? You eat kale salads with dressing on the side.”
“Is that going to give it away?”
“Only in a huge way.”
Fats considered that and it was a conundrum. She wanted fat, a new experience for her. When Chuck came back, I cut him off from the barrage of questions that were coming and got him back out the door with his own sad little bag of food to go.
“Why am I leaving? I bought the food.” he said. “I yelled at an entire construction crew.”
I kissed him so hard and long, he didn’t know which end was up or even what he was complaining about.
“You’re right and I will make it up to you,” I said. “It’s a girl night tonight.”
“How will you make it up to me?” he asked.
“I’ll go look at houses.”
Chuck grinned. “Yeah? Tomorrow good?”
“Aren’t you working?” I asked.
“Dammit.”
“I’ll look at the new listings you sent me.”
He grudgingly agreed and was on his way. Sadly, I went back to the hungry and hormonal. We sat up half the night, talking wedding plans for the wedding that wasn’t happening yet and the baby, who for the record was a girl and would someday love boxing, her mama, and low-carb diets. I had a feeling that Fats was in for some tough times.