Read A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red for Free Online Page A

bottle I’d hidden beside the door. I was a bad niece, but sometimes I couldn’t resist bothering the old crab. She sure bothered me. I held up the bottle in front of the peephole and knocked.
    “Who is it?” hollered Aunt Miriam. I’m pretty sure hostesses aren’t supposed to holler.  
    “Who do you think?” I hollered back.  
    “Someone who ignores the lessons I’ve taught her.”  
    That was pretty accurate.  
    “I was born in a barn.” I continued the hollering thing. It was fun.  
    The door whipped open again and Aunt Miriam was mid-rant when she saw the bottle. She swiped it out of my hand and eyed the label. “Bordeaux?”  
    “It goes with meatloaf,” I said, dipping down my chin to look properly chastened.
    “How did you know we were having meatloaf?”  
    Because we already had pimento loaf.  
    “It’s snowing. Seemed like a meatloaf night,” I said.  
    She stepped back and let me in like it was a real honor. “Sit down. I’m ready to serve.”  
    I sat, as ordered, and watched as she popped the cork out of the bottle with a slim little screw better than a man with bulging biceps. I had to have one of those special cork removing gizmos that take no arm strength whatsoever. Aunt Miriam poured me exactly one ounce of wine, because I was working later, and then plated the famous Watts meatloaf. It was famous because it was Aunt Miriam’s mother’s recipe from the depression. Meat was scarce, so Great Grandma Cecile filled her meatloaf with boiled eggs. At some point, whole olives got added to the mix. Nobody knows who did that.  
    Eating Aunt Miriam’s meatloaf was an art, one that depended on being visually impaired. Just eat it. Don’t look at it. I was lucky she didn’t make liver and onions. Gag. I really wanted the info on the Klinefeld Group, but I wasn’t sure I wanted it that bad.  
    After we finished and I washed the dishes, Aunt Miriam handed me the stepladder and pointed at the mustard on the ceiling. I was hoping she’d forget. Who was I kidding? She never forgot anything.  
    “Are you going to tell me about the Klinefeld Group?” I asked, while spraying the mustard and getting the mist in my eyes.  
    “Yes,” she said.  
    “Well?”  
    “Scrub.”  
    “I am.” Boy, did I scrub. The mustard had set. It did more than set. It stained the ceiling. I scrubbed so hard the paint came off, but the stain didn’t even budge. How was that even possible? “I can’t get it.”  
    Aunt Miriam sent the ceiling a scorching look. I’m surprised the mustard didn’t peel off in fear. “Alright. I was afraid of this. You will have to paint it. Touch up paint is in the storage cupboard. Sister Margaret Anne has the key.”  
    I nearly fell off the ladder. “Are you kidding me? I have to work tonight.”  
    She patted my calf and laughed. “I’m funny. Come down.”  
    Hilarious.  
    I climbed down and we settled in for movie terror night. Before she pressed play, I put my warm hand on her cold one. “Tell me about the Klinefeld Group.”  
    “After the movie,” she said, her eyes not straying from the small screen.  
    “I promise I’ll watch and be scarred for life. Just tell me.”  
    “Fine. His name was Jens Waldemar Hoff and he was extremely polite.”  
    It was the only time I’d ever heard Aunt Miriam call someone polite with disdain in her voice. She didn’t warm to Hoff, despite his good attitude. He’d come about The Girls, my godmothers Myrtle and Millicent Bled, and the Bled Collection. Jens Waldemar Hoff came with a promise and a threat. He wanted me to get The Girls to give the Klinefeld Group all the WWII artifacts in the Bled Collection, or they would expose the family as thieving racists that stole from the Jews even as they were forced into the gas chamber. They would expose Stella Bled Lawrence as a collaborator with the Nazis. They would ruin the Bled family, my family by association, and get the artifacts anyway.  
    “He made it