suit was the height of funeral fashion, coal black in the style of the forties with shoulder pads and a nipped-in waist. The stand-up mink collar framed my face, making me paler and somehow more refined.
I curled my hair the way Marilyn Monroe did, waves off the face to emphasize my widow’s peak and I applied heavy makeup. I hardly ever did, unless I was pulling out all the stops with plenty of sooty mascara and a thick coat of Harlot Scarlet on my lips. I didn’t like to do it, but I had to admit the effect was startling. If I wanted them to be thrown off balance, full Marilyn was the way to go.
The suit slipped on like it should never have been taken off. A pair of seamed stockings and five-inch stilettos finished the look.
I twirled for Skanky. “How do I look?”
He barfed on my pillow. I guess I asked for that. I stripped off the pillow case and stuffed it in the washer on my way out. Pete had to stop giving me chocolate. It was sweet, but so not worth it.
I sat in the Westin St. Louis lobby for twenty minutes before the manager decided to move me to a small conference room. Apparently, I was distracting to the guests and staff and must be shut up in a wood-paneled room before I could cause any trouble. I had no intention of causing trouble, but it was nice to know I could.
The other Berrys finally came down to meet me ten minutes later. I decided to make them come to me, instead of the other way around, because it said something if they obeyed. They didn’t give orders. They took them.
The manager opened the conference room door with an appropriately solemn face. After all, half the Berry family had just been murdered, but I don’t know why he bothered. The other Berrys were anything but morose. They ambled into the room with pleasant, curious expressions. I’d chosen a seat behind the door so they’d have to look around for their visitor, giving me a few seconds to look them over. Mourning wasn’t the word for the other Berrys. They, all four of them, wore brand new athletic wear. The Rams were pretty big with them. They had the jerseys, sweat pants, hats, and wristbands. They were logoed up and that stuff wasn’t cheap, especially if your biggest earner was an assistant manager at a Walgreens.
It took them a good two minutes to spot me and the Westin manager raised an eyebrow at me before he closed the door. That eyebrow said a lot. I was, despite the whole Marilyn thing, his kind of people. The other Berrys weren’t.
“Oh, shit,” said the oldest, a man in his seventies with a narrow face and a large nose. “There you are.”
“Oh, shit is right. Holy fuck,” said the woman beside him, presumably his wife. “You look exactly like Marilyn Monroe.”
I uncrossed my legs and stood up slowly. They stared at me and I smiled. “I’m here about Abrielle and Colton.”
“Who?” asked a guy who was a forty-year-old version of his father.
“Abrielle and Colton Berry.”
“Oh, yeah. The kids,” said the woman on younger guy’s arm. She obviously wasn’t a Berry. Her face was round where the Berrys had a narrow pinched look about them.
“Yes,” I said. “The kids.”
“What about them?” she asked.
I walked over with plenty of swing in my hips and extended my hand. “I’m Mercy Watts and you are…”
“I’m Ken,” said the older man. “This is my wife Stacy and my son, Willy, and his wife, Gina. What exactly are you here about?”
I flashed them Dad’s card and said I was there on Abrielle and Colton’s behalf. It took them another second to remember once again who the kids were. I implied that the court had sent me to make sure they were fit to care for the kids and the Berrys were all over that. They had a nice house for the kids to live in, a good school district, and a dog named Trigger. Ken showed me pictures and the house was a nice split-level with a well-kept lawn. Trigger wasn’t mangy or gross, which was
I curled my hair the way Marilyn Monroe did, waves off the face to emphasize my widow’s peak and I applied heavy makeup. I hardly ever did, unless I was pulling out all the stops with plenty of sooty mascara and a thick coat of Harlot Scarlet on my lips. I didn’t like to do it, but I had to admit the effect was startling. If I wanted them to be thrown off balance, full Marilyn was the way to go.
The suit slipped on like it should never have been taken off. A pair of seamed stockings and five-inch stilettos finished the look.
I twirled for Skanky. “How do I look?”
He barfed on my pillow. I guess I asked for that. I stripped off the pillow case and stuffed it in the washer on my way out. Pete had to stop giving me chocolate. It was sweet, but so not worth it.
I sat in the Westin St. Louis lobby for twenty minutes before the manager decided to move me to a small conference room. Apparently, I was distracting to the guests and staff and must be shut up in a wood-paneled room before I could cause any trouble. I had no intention of causing trouble, but it was nice to know I could.
The other Berrys finally came down to meet me ten minutes later. I decided to make them come to me, instead of the other way around, because it said something if they obeyed. They didn’t give orders. They took them.
The manager opened the conference room door with an appropriately solemn face. After all, half the Berry family had just been murdered, but I don’t know why he bothered. The other Berrys were anything but morose. They ambled into the room with pleasant, curious expressions. I’d chosen a seat behind the door so they’d have to look around for their visitor, giving me a few seconds to look them over. Mourning wasn’t the word for the other Berrys. They, all four of them, wore brand new athletic wear. The Rams were pretty big with them. They had the jerseys, sweat pants, hats, and wristbands. They were logoed up and that stuff wasn’t cheap, especially if your biggest earner was an assistant manager at a Walgreens.
It took them a good two minutes to spot me and the Westin manager raised an eyebrow at me before he closed the door. That eyebrow said a lot. I was, despite the whole Marilyn thing, his kind of people. The other Berrys weren’t.
“Oh, shit,” said the oldest, a man in his seventies with a narrow face and a large nose. “There you are.”
“Oh, shit is right. Holy fuck,” said the woman beside him, presumably his wife. “You look exactly like Marilyn Monroe.”
I uncrossed my legs and stood up slowly. They stared at me and I smiled. “I’m here about Abrielle and Colton.”
“Who?” asked a guy who was a forty-year-old version of his father.
“Abrielle and Colton Berry.”
“Oh, yeah. The kids,” said the woman on younger guy’s arm. She obviously wasn’t a Berry. Her face was round where the Berrys had a narrow pinched look about them.
“Yes,” I said. “The kids.”
“What about them?” she asked.
I walked over with plenty of swing in my hips and extended my hand. “I’m Mercy Watts and you are…”
“I’m Ken,” said the older man. “This is my wife Stacy and my son, Willy, and his wife, Gina. What exactly are you here about?”
I flashed them Dad’s card and said I was there on Abrielle and Colton’s behalf. It took them another second to remember once again who the kids were. I implied that the court had sent me to make sure they were fit to care for the kids and the Berrys were all over that. They had a nice house for the kids to live in, a good school district, and a dog named Trigger. Ken showed me pictures and the house was a nice split-level with a well-kept lawn. Trigger wasn’t mangy or gross, which was
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