SEVEN O’CLOCK IN the morning on a Saturday and my doorbell was ringing like a woodpecker wanted in. I looked out for a second time: no one. That could only mean one thing: Sister Miriam, my great-aunt. She was the only person I knew who was short enough not to be seen through a peephole and insistent enough to keep trying.
“I know you’re home, Mercy. Do you know the Hortons?”
I groaned and opened the door. Aunt Miriam charged in like she was in danger of me slamming the door in her face. She stalked around my living room and attached kitchen as fast as her little legs would carry her. She was probably looking for dirt. Luckily, I went on a cleaning binge after watching Hoarders and the place was spotless. No fault to find.
Still, she kept going, circling like a black hawk. Aunt Miriam was in her full nun’s habit, something she did when she wanted to intimidate people and by people I meant me. Aunt Miriam wasn’t a mean person, but in her habit, she was more terrifying than a dark alley on the north side of St. Louis.
“How are you, dear?” she said.
“Just fine, Sister.” Aunt Miriam didn’t like it when I called her Sister. She preferred Aunt, in private. But if she could pull out the habit at seven o’clock in the morning, I could pull out Sister.
“That’s Aunt Miriam to you. Did I wake you?”
She knew full well she did. My PJ’s and ratted hair were a dead giveaway. Besides, who in their right mind got up early on a Saturday?
“No, Aunt Miriam.”
She ignored the sarcasm in my voice and got to the point. “I was just at your father’s.”
Poor dad.
“He said I should come see you.”
Silent groan. “What for?”
“I’m not asking much. Just a token really, a trifle.”
Now we’re quoting Ursula, the Sea Witch. Aunt Miriam was a great fan of The Little Mermaid , Disney style. It would’ve made more sense if she’d quoted The Exorcist . She scared people on a regular basis.
“Why didn’t Dad do it?”
“He says he’s up to his eyeballs in a case right now.”
I knew my father wasn’t up to his eyeballs. He’d been on the golf course five times that week. My father was a private detective and he’d rather be sniffing out a suspect than playing golf any day. He wasn’t interested in what Aunt Miriam was selling and decided to pass it along. I wasn’t a detective. I was a nurse, but being raised by a detective made me qualified for some scut work.
“He always says he’s busy. What’s the problem?”
“So, do you remember the Horton family?”
“No. Should I?”
“You know, the Hortons, Tom and Carol.” She knitted her sparse brows and looked more like a spider than usual. Aunt Miriam was seventy, if she was a day, and weighed about ninety pounds. She thought sunscreen was a marketing ploy and it showed in her paper-thin wrinkled skin. When I was little I thought we were related to Plastic Man, because her scrawny limbs had amazing properties. She could reach an unnatural distance to pop me in the mouth for saying a bad word. “They’re in our parish.”
Right. I went to church twice a year, at Christmas and Easter. And then it was only for the decorations and treats after.
“I don’t know them. Sorry.”
“Dear, I’m really worried about you. You’re forgetting the people in your own parish, your faith.” Her expression hardened. “And what you owe to your fellow man.”
In Aunt Miriam’s world, a little guilt never hurt anyone.
I sighed. “What’s wrong with the Hortons?”
“Not them. Their daughter.” She went and sat, gingerly, on my sofa. She set her favorite black, patent leather handbag on her lap and began picking imaginary lint off her skirt. She had no lint. It wouldn’t dare.
“All right. What’s wrong with the daughter?” Like it or not, I was curious. Some things were inbred. My father was counting on it.
“First your faith and now your knowledge of the world around you.” She made a tsk noise with her tongue,
“I know you’re home, Mercy. Do you know the Hortons?”
I groaned and opened the door. Aunt Miriam charged in like she was in danger of me slamming the door in her face. She stalked around my living room and attached kitchen as fast as her little legs would carry her. She was probably looking for dirt. Luckily, I went on a cleaning binge after watching Hoarders and the place was spotless. No fault to find.
Still, she kept going, circling like a black hawk. Aunt Miriam was in her full nun’s habit, something she did when she wanted to intimidate people and by people I meant me. Aunt Miriam wasn’t a mean person, but in her habit, she was more terrifying than a dark alley on the north side of St. Louis.
“How are you, dear?” she said.
“Just fine, Sister.” Aunt Miriam didn’t like it when I called her Sister. She preferred Aunt, in private. But if she could pull out the habit at seven o’clock in the morning, I could pull out Sister.
“That’s Aunt Miriam to you. Did I wake you?”
She knew full well she did. My PJ’s and ratted hair were a dead giveaway. Besides, who in their right mind got up early on a Saturday?
“No, Aunt Miriam.”
She ignored the sarcasm in my voice and got to the point. “I was just at your father’s.”
Poor dad.
“He said I should come see you.”
Silent groan. “What for?”
“I’m not asking much. Just a token really, a trifle.”
Now we’re quoting Ursula, the Sea Witch. Aunt Miriam was a great fan of The Little Mermaid , Disney style. It would’ve made more sense if she’d quoted The Exorcist . She scared people on a regular basis.
“Why didn’t Dad do it?”
“He says he’s up to his eyeballs in a case right now.”
I knew my father wasn’t up to his eyeballs. He’d been on the golf course five times that week. My father was a private detective and he’d rather be sniffing out a suspect than playing golf any day. He wasn’t interested in what Aunt Miriam was selling and decided to pass it along. I wasn’t a detective. I was a nurse, but being raised by a detective made me qualified for some scut work.
“He always says he’s busy. What’s the problem?”
“So, do you remember the Horton family?”
“No. Should I?”
“You know, the Hortons, Tom and Carol.” She knitted her sparse brows and looked more like a spider than usual. Aunt Miriam was seventy, if she was a day, and weighed about ninety pounds. She thought sunscreen was a marketing ploy and it showed in her paper-thin wrinkled skin. When I was little I thought we were related to Plastic Man, because her scrawny limbs had amazing properties. She could reach an unnatural distance to pop me in the mouth for saying a bad word. “They’re in our parish.”
Right. I went to church twice a year, at Christmas and Easter. And then it was only for the decorations and treats after.
“I don’t know them. Sorry.”
“Dear, I’m really worried about you. You’re forgetting the people in your own parish, your faith.” Her expression hardened. “And what you owe to your fellow man.”
In Aunt Miriam’s world, a little guilt never hurt anyone.
I sighed. “What’s wrong with the Hortons?”
“Not them. Their daughter.” She went and sat, gingerly, on my sofa. She set her favorite black, patent leather handbag on her lap and began picking imaginary lint off her skirt. She had no lint. It wouldn’t dare.
“All right. What’s wrong with the daughter?” Like it or not, I was curious. Some things were inbred. My father was counting on it.
“First your faith and now your knowledge of the world around you.” She made a tsk noise with her tongue,
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