Bottle Blonde (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 11) by A.W. Hartoin

Author:A.W. Hartoin [Hartoin, A.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: A.W. Hartoin

Chapter Thirteen

I tried to be fast, but Myrtle spotted us in the garage from the back of Nicolai Bled’s 1921 Maybach as Rocco drove in.

So close.

My beloved godmother opened her door and got out, “Where do you think you’re going alone?”

“I’m not alone,” I said and pointed down. When I said us, I meant me and Pickpocket. For the first time in her life, Fats was slow, not to mention a little loopy from the double cream hot chocolate. We’d outrun her.

Myrtle wasn’t satisfied and she asked again, “Where are you and Pick going?”

“St. Seb,” I said. “I’m not fired yet.”

She came over to kiss my cheek. “Fired? How ridiculous. Who would fire you?”

Ann, Shawna, my old temp firm, a couple of doctors’ wives.

“Nobody today,” I said. “So I have to, wait, what’s happening?”

Rocco helped Millicent out of the car and grimaced at me. He usually loved driving the Maybach so something was up.

“Nothing, dear, just getting ready for the party,” said Millicent.

Party?

“Oh, right,” I said as Fats lurched into the garage.

“I’m ready. What are we waiting for?” she said.

Crap on a cracker.

“You, I guess,” I said. “Are you okay? There wasn’t alcohol in that hot chocolate, was there?”

“No, but I haven’t had that much fat in one sitting in…ever.”

The Girls went for Fats, trying to stand on their tiptoes to test her temperature and failing to reach the heights of her forehead.

“My dear, you don’t look well at all,” said Myrtle. “Come back in the house.”

“I’m taking Mercy to St. Seb,” said Fats, leaning down to have her head examined.

“No fever,” announced Millicent. “But we’re not taking any chances with that baby. Back in the house.”

“I can’t,” she said.

The Girls tried to herd Fats toward the house, looking like a couple of sleek birds in their Chanel suits trying to move a building from the Las Vegas strip.

Rocco kept an eye on them as he began pulling packages out of the front seat of the Maybach and whispered to me, “We went shopping”—he had a wild look about him—“for crackers and cheese.”

Well, there you go. The dreaded crackers and cheese.

I smiled at him and whispered, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Maybe. I don’t know what it was,” he said.

“Did you do olive oil and vinegar?”

“I tasted so much oil I feel slippery to the touch,” he said. “Have you done this shopping trip?”

“So many times,” I said, leaning over. “What party?”

“Christmas for the staff.”

“Holy crap. I forgot. Enjoy the arranging.”

“Arranging?” Rocco asked, his eyes wide.

“You have to figure out which oils go with which breads.” I went for the exit, but he snagged me. “Hey, Millicent!”

“Yes, Rocco?” The Girls turned back and Fats attempted to dart around them, but Myrtle had a lot better reflexes than you’d think and blocked her.

“My sister looks like he— bad. I think I should go with Mercy and Fats should take it easy and do the arranging,” he said, dripping with brotherly concern.

“Beat it, Skinny MacSwizzle Stick,” said Fats. “That’s my gig.

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