Dry Spell: A Mercy Watts Short Read Free

years?”
    “About.”
    “That house was built in the fifties, so it doesn’t have much of a history. If anything had happened, they would’ve heard about it by now. People love to tell people about grisly murders on their property.”
    “Does that mean you won’t look into it?”
    “No. I’ll do it. I’m simply telling you what I’ll find. What are you going to do?” Dad asked, still scratching.
    “I’m having dinner over there tonight. I guess I’ll talk to Janine.”
    “Good luck. Four-year-olds are shitty witnesses. Try coloring, but nothing too distracting.”
    “Thanks, I guess. Ellen will be grateful no matter what you turn up.”
    “Well, I need to pay her back for all the nights she drove your drunk self home.”
    “It was only that one time.”
    “I’m sure it was,” said Dad.
    That afternoon I woke up in my bed, restless and exhausted. I had to force myself to get up. I made a cappuccino and took a shower. At four-thirty, I walked out of my cool apartment into the thick air of a St. Louis summer. I was surprised by the intensity of the heat, as I always was. We were in the middle of a drought, the first in years. I couldn’t remember when it last rained. I wished for an air-conditioned tunnel to my truck, but braved the heat without one. I could’ve fried an egg on the hood, and my rear didn’t appreciate my sitting before I thought. I should've put a towel down. On that sunny afternoon, a dinner at Ellen’s didn’t seem like such a necessity. The sun baked the fear right out of me, but since canceling wasn’t an option, I went.  
    Well, I went eventually. I decided a quick pit stop was prudent. I loved Ellen more than I could say, but she could not cook. She was the kind of mom where the house would be super clean, all costumes would be hand-sewn, pictures would be beautifully scrapbooked, but food came out of a can, bag, or box. My mother was the opposite. Everything, including bread, was made from scratch and the one costume she ever made me had no arm holes or a head hole for that matter. That was a rough Halloween. I wore my costume upside-down. I hoped I would be a cooking mom because cleaning certainly wasn’t my thing and I had to do something. Until that time, I had Aaron and Kronos. Dad assigned Aaron to be my partner when I was forced to investigate his former partner’s murder. Kronos was the Star Trek-inspired restaurant Aaron owned with Rodney. They were both friends of my Uncle Morty and that’s how I knew them. I guess I’d say we were friends, but they felt more like family. I certainly didn’t pick them.  
    I parked in back of the restaurant and went in through the staff entrance. Manuel was manning the grill, but there were only a few things on the flat top, since it was before the evening rush when Kronos became the neighborhood place to be.  
    Manuel turned toward me like the former marine he was, his muscular arms tense and his long spatula ready to whack the crap out of me. Manuel could kill me with that spatula. I wouldn’t even know what hit me.  
    “Hey, Mercy,” he said, lowering his weapon of choice. “You want something? It’s early for dinner.”  
    I cringed. “Dinner at Ellen’s.”  
    Manuel chuckled. “You don’t want can o’ soup and box o’ stuffing. You’re getting picky.”  
      “She’s not that bad,” I said. But she was. Actually that would be a good meal for Ellen. You can’t screw up can o’ soup. And I was picky. Mom had raised me to eat well. She didn’t believe in cans or boxes or bags.
    “I had that pie she brought to your mom’s birthday party. What was that?”  
    “Nobody knows,” I said, breaking into a smile. “Can I get a quick Worf burger?”  
    “Fries?”  
    “Nah. I have to eat something over there,” I said.  
    “I wouldn’t.” Manuel started making my burger and I went out into the restaurant to find Aaron and Rodney behind the long vintage walnut bar, adding up receipts under a display