Free In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) by A.W. Hartoin

and I sucked in a breath before going back inside. The stink had cleared somewhat with all the open windows, but the pizza/burrito combo had soaked into the seat leather. When I sat down, a poof of stench came up. The Troublesome Trio had tissues pressed to their noses and Uncle Morty wore an expression of malicious delight as he pounded away on his keyboard.  
    “Almost there,” I said.  
    “Good,” choked out Bridget.  
    “The grounds are beautiful.” Sorcha wiped her eyes. She made it through almost the entire drive before her mascara ran. It was a record. Weepy cried at everything, including adorable kid’s birthday cakes and sappy commercials. I don’t know how she lasted over two hours with Uncle Morty and bride magazines.  
    I stuck my nose out the window like a cocker spaniel and agreed. The grounds were beautiful. Plenty of dense trees and rolling hills dotted with spring wildflowers. After ten minutes, the castle came into view, just as I remembered it, gothic and a bit cobbled together. Cairngorms Castle wasn’t a traditional castle. The main part looked like a cathedral with a long peaked roof, a cross on top, and a rose window. Under the window was a pavilion with cutout crenellations on the top like a medieval tower. Inside the pavilion was the main entrance with enormous arched black walnut doors. The rest of the castle was a smaller cathedral-like section with two towers stuck together on the side, another cathedral, another tower and so on. Each tower was different and the castle gave the impression that a child had put smaller buildings together to make one big one, but somehow the whole thing flowed well.
    Terrance stopped at the pavilion behind a white Toyota Sienna with two blue-uniformed guards standing beside it. We got out without waiting for him to open the door. If it meant thirty seconds longer in the Morty stink, we weren’t waiting. Pick leapt out and began shaking, presumably to get the smell out of his hair. Uncle Morty had offered the poodle some burrito, but Pick had the sense to turn it down and snort in derision.  
    “What are they doing?” asked Sorcha.  
    One of the guards was holding a mirrored stick under the van while the other one loaded the luggage on a cart.  
    “Looking for explosives,” I said.  
    “Seriously? How do you know?”
    Hunt Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
    “I saw it on TV.”  
    Bridget hooked her arm through mine and craned her neck up to look at the high limestone walls of the castle. “Wow. Can you believe this place? Your mom said it was good, but I had no idea. It’s bigger than your house.”  
    “My house is an apartment,” I said.  
    Her eyes roved over the multiple stained glass windows and little gargoyles. “No. I mean your parents’ house.”  
    “Your parents’ house is bigger than my parents’ house.”  
    It was too true. Uncle George opened a medical supply company about the time my dad became a cop. He worked ninety hours a week while my cousins were growing up and he made the business a success through pure toil. Until Dad retired and went private there was no question about who was the more successful brother. George built a house out in Ladue that our house would fit into with room to spare. Jilly was six when they moved. She barely remembered the cracker-box-sized house they had in Dogtown when her dad was struggling to get a toehold in the business world, which was why she was known as Spoiled Rotten. Bridget and Sorcha remembered it very well.  
    “Not that house,” said Bridget. “The Bled Mansion.”  
    “That’s not my house.”  
    “It may as well be.” She said it with the snotty tone I expected of her. She hated the birthday parties that Myrtle and Millicent threw for me, and I suspected they were the reason I got duct taped so much.  
    The guard with the mirror straightened up. “All clear.” He closed the rear lift-gate. There were all kinds of bumper stickers on it. The most popular