and I felt like a world-class deviant and so early too. “The daughter is missing, of course. Don’t you watch the news anymore?”
“Are you talking about Charlotte Horton?” My turn to be satisfied. I didn’t remember the Hortons, but I did watch the news. Every once in a while. A little.
“Yes and she’s only thirteen. She’s a runaway.”
“Is that what the cops say?”
“I don’t know. Chuck won’t talk to me about it. He says it’s police business.”
“He’s right.” I hated to take Chuck’s side in anything. He was a detective on the St. Louis police force and my cousin by marriage. He was also an annoying, horny pain in the ass. Aunt Miriam didn’t know about the horny part, I hoped.
“I don’t believe a word he says. He just means they don’t know anything. I want you to look into it.”
“Are you crazy?”
Oops.
Aunt Miriam made a growling noise and I went cold. She couldn’t really do anything to me, but she always made me feel as though she could.
“What else have you got to do?” she said.
Work, live my life—you know, stuff like that. “Well…”
“Good. Then it’s all settled. I’ll expect you at church tomorrow. You can give me an update after Mass.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I said. Pointing out the obvious was a speciality of mine.
“I’m well aware. What is your point, Mercy?”
“Nothing.” I groaned. “I’ll be there.”
“That’s what I thought. Goodbye, dear.” Aunt Miriam hopped off the sofa and marched out the door.
After some fortifying coffee, I took a shower and considered my options. I could do nothing and risk being thrown out of the family. That didn’t sound too bad, but Thanksgiving was close and I wanted food. Or I could do it. A couple days poking around and Aunt Miriam would be off my back. I went into the bathroom and blow-dried my hair. Who was I kidding? I’d do it.
I considered my makeup options while pulling on my most comfortable sweats. If I had to go out, I might as well be comfortable. Makeup has always been a question for me. With it, I’m the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. Without it, people stare at me and wonder where they know me from.
That day there was a complication. My face was discolored from a problem I had while working on another case for dad. That was three weeks ago. My broken nose and cracked jaw had healed, but left a residue of bruises over my cheekbones and under my eyes. My boyfriend, Pete, who’s usually complimentary, said that I looked like I had Halloween makeup on. I hated putting anything on my squeaky-clean face, but I didn’t want to scare the Hortons either. Aunt Miriam wouldn’t like that. She hadn’t mentioned my bruises. She wasn’t much of a mentioner, especially when she was on a mission. But if I saw the Hortons like that, I’d definitely hear about it. I compromised by slathering on some base and powder to cover the bruises and left the rest of my face unadorned. I found the Hortons’ address in the parish directory, and put it into my phone’s GPS since I have direction deficit disorder. I grabbed a pad of paper and headed out.
It took me half an hour to find the house on the quiet, well-kept streets of Maryland Heights. It was a nice area. The Hortons were doing well, but not too well. I rang the doorbell and an older man answered. He was dressed in faded Levi’s and a well-pressed polo shirt. He didn’t looked surprised to see me.
“Hi. I’m Mercy Watts, Sister Miriam’s niece. She sent me over to talk to you.”
“Oh, yes. I remember you from church. I’m Carl Horton. Please come in.”
He motioned me into a homey living room with fairly new furniture in the Ethan Allen price range and loads of family pictures. I sat down and waited while he went into the hall, calling for Carol. Carol came into the living room with Carl and they sat on the couch opposite me. She was much younger than I expected with fluffy blond hair and scant makeup. With them sitting
“Are you talking about Charlotte Horton?” My turn to be satisfied. I didn’t remember the Hortons, but I did watch the news. Every once in a while. A little.
“Yes and she’s only thirteen. She’s a runaway.”
“Is that what the cops say?”
“I don’t know. Chuck won’t talk to me about it. He says it’s police business.”
“He’s right.” I hated to take Chuck’s side in anything. He was a detective on the St. Louis police force and my cousin by marriage. He was also an annoying, horny pain in the ass. Aunt Miriam didn’t know about the horny part, I hoped.
“I don’t believe a word he says. He just means they don’t know anything. I want you to look into it.”
“Are you crazy?”
Oops.
Aunt Miriam made a growling noise and I went cold. She couldn’t really do anything to me, but she always made me feel as though she could.
“What else have you got to do?” she said.
Work, live my life—you know, stuff like that. “Well…”
“Good. Then it’s all settled. I’ll expect you at church tomorrow. You can give me an update after Mass.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I said. Pointing out the obvious was a speciality of mine.
“I’m well aware. What is your point, Mercy?”
“Nothing.” I groaned. “I’ll be there.”
“That’s what I thought. Goodbye, dear.” Aunt Miriam hopped off the sofa and marched out the door.
After some fortifying coffee, I took a shower and considered my options. I could do nothing and risk being thrown out of the family. That didn’t sound too bad, but Thanksgiving was close and I wanted food. Or I could do it. A couple days poking around and Aunt Miriam would be off my back. I went into the bathroom and blow-dried my hair. Who was I kidding? I’d do it.
I considered my makeup options while pulling on my most comfortable sweats. If I had to go out, I might as well be comfortable. Makeup has always been a question for me. With it, I’m the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. Without it, people stare at me and wonder where they know me from.
That day there was a complication. My face was discolored from a problem I had while working on another case for dad. That was three weeks ago. My broken nose and cracked jaw had healed, but left a residue of bruises over my cheekbones and under my eyes. My boyfriend, Pete, who’s usually complimentary, said that I looked like I had Halloween makeup on. I hated putting anything on my squeaky-clean face, but I didn’t want to scare the Hortons either. Aunt Miriam wouldn’t like that. She hadn’t mentioned my bruises. She wasn’t much of a mentioner, especially when she was on a mission. But if I saw the Hortons like that, I’d definitely hear about it. I compromised by slathering on some base and powder to cover the bruises and left the rest of my face unadorned. I found the Hortons’ address in the parish directory, and put it into my phone’s GPS since I have direction deficit disorder. I grabbed a pad of paper and headed out.
It took me half an hour to find the house on the quiet, well-kept streets of Maryland Heights. It was a nice area. The Hortons were doing well, but not too well. I rang the doorbell and an older man answered. He was dressed in faded Levi’s and a well-pressed polo shirt. He didn’t looked surprised to see me.
“Hi. I’m Mercy Watts, Sister Miriam’s niece. She sent me over to talk to you.”
“Oh, yes. I remember you from church. I’m Carl Horton. Please come in.”
He motioned me into a homey living room with fairly new furniture in the Ethan Allen price range and loads of family pictures. I sat down and waited while he went into the hall, calling for Carol. Carol came into the living room with Carl and they sat on the couch opposite me. She was much younger than I expected with fluffy blond hair and scant makeup. With them sitting
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