by Paula Munier
But its name was about all that first lodge and its successor had in common. The midcentury-style complex she’d visited as a child was all retro space age with lots of wood, glass, and granite.
According to her grandmother, Bluffing Bear was one of the first ski resorts built in southern New Hampshire back in the Fifties. Part of the postwar ski boom fueled by soldiers, home from the battlefields of Europe and the South Pacific, now eager for adventurous outdoor sport. The brainchild of Blake Montgomery’s grandfather, Barrington “Bear” Montgomery, the resort was a Disneyland of skiing and skating and swimming, with an indoor ice-skating rink and a heated outdoor pool, a reversal of the norm that flew in the face of conventional wisdom. “At the time, it seemed a bit risqué,” cracked Patience over the Jeep’s speakerphone. “Vermonters add layers in winter, they don’t take them off.”
The business had a good run until the Nineties, when bigger, slicker, more ambitious resorts with golf courses and spas and five-star restaurants—not to mention higher and longer ski runs with lifts to match—lured away the lodge’s customers. By the time Mercy started coming here with her family, the resort had already fallen on bad times. They came anyway.
“One last question for you, Patience.” Mercy glanced over at Henry and Elvis, who were gazing together out the window of the Jeep, a double handsome profile of boy and dog. “Your friend the shrink and Troy.”
Henry looked up at Mercy at the sound of the game warden’s name.
“Text me,” Mercy told her grandmother. “We’re pulling in the parking lot of the inn.”
“Over and out,” said Patience.
* * *
MERCY HADN’T BEEN to the inn in years. The place had a weary look about it now. Certainly, Alice de Clare’s vision—the one revealed in her portfolio—would bring the lodge into the twenty-first century.
Feinberg was waiting for them in the lobby. His assistant, Jackie, a tall young woman with a skier’s outdoorsy look, offered Henry the promise of a peanut-butter snack and a Nintendo Switch loaded with video games if he’d come with her to the kitchen, an obvious if effective ploy to get him out of the way so Mercy could talk to the billionaire alone. The boy slapped his thigh, as he’d seen her do, and Elvis stepped to the boy’s side. Off they went, connected at the hip.
Smart kid, she thought, not for the first time. Her cell phone pinged and she read the text her grandmother sent her: Cal was Madeline’s therapist when she ran off to Florida with the orthopedist.
Which explained why Troy was not overly fond of the psychiatrist. Maybe he’d encouraged her to bail on the marriage; maybe not. The Madeline she remembered from high school did what she wanted to do and let the chips fall where they may.
Mercy texted Interesting back to her grandmother and then put thoughts of the complicated triangle that was Madeline and Troy and Cal aside, turning her attention to the main lobby. The large, open space was a couple of stories tall with floor-to-ceiling windows. A towering black marble fireplace anchored the center of the room.
She remembered that fireplace, which still bore the massive carving of a bear chiseled right into the rock; a high-relief sculpture of a big male standing on his hind legs, upright, handsome and fierce. She’d spent hours gazing at that chiseled bear, drinking hot chocolate in front of the fire after a long day of skiing with her family: her brother, her parents, both sets of grandparents. Mercy’s father loved this place, if only because his parents, too, had brought him here when he was a kid. Her mother preferred grander resorts, but in this one thing—skiing trips—she deferred to him.
Back then there were long curved banquettes in front of the fireplace; Mercy and her older brother, Nick, would plant themselves at opposite ends of one while their parents drank Irish coffees at the nearby bar. Nick was charged with watching her, but instead he’d ignore her and play video games. She’d curl up with a book. And contemplate the bear.
As night fell, flames would light the bear in flickering shadow. Mercy loved that bear, just the way she loved the lodge and her dad for taking them there.
“You aren’t getting rid of Fluffy, are you?” she asked him. “I love Fluffy.”
Feinberg looked puzzled. “Fluffy?”
“That’s what we called him.” She pointed to the fireplace. “The bear.”
“That’s what the old man always called him.” Blake Montgomery appeared at her elbow. “He loved that bear, too.”
At his inquiring look, she said, “We used to come here when I was a kid.”
Blake snapped his fingers. “Of course. You’re Duncan and Grace Carr’s daughter.”
“Yes.” She smiled at him, but she didn’t say more. She loved her parents, but her and their respective visions for the way she should live her life were poles apart. Getting along with them could be a struggle for Mercy. Especially with her mother.
Feinberg saved her. “Old Fluffy looks pretty good for his age.”
She gave him a glance of gratitude for changing the subject. Her parents were among the many attorneys the billionaire had working for him, in one capacity or another. He knew them, and he liked them. As most people did. But he also seemed to understand their conflicted relationship, without her explaining it.
Blake regarded the sculpture fondly. “Fluffy was modeled after a bear Dad bagged in his youth. His first, and his biggest. Best day of his life, he always said.”
She wondered what kind of man would rank the day he harvested a bear as the best day of his life—over the day his son was born, or the day he got married, or the day his ski resort opened. An obsessed hunter, she supposed. She wondered if Blake shared his father’s obsession.
“I’m surprised he didn’t have him stuffed,” she said.
“Oh, he did. He was into taxidermy.”
“What happened to the stuffed Fluffy?”
“When Dad died last spring, he had it buried with him. He left his likeness—the sculpture—to us.”
That was one funeral she was glad she’d missed. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”
“He was sick a long time. Cancer. He’s in a better place now.”
With the stuffed bear, Mercy thought, biting back a grin. “I’m glad that you’re refurbishing this place. But only if Fluffy stays.”
“Fluffy stays.” Blake smiled. “Let me take you on a quick tour.”
He led them through the rooms on the first floor. The dining room, the kitchen, the conference room, the business offices, all in various stages of disrepair. It seemed only Fluffy had survived the decades relatively intact—and the non-Fluffy trophy heads gracing the dark-paneled walls of Blake’s office. There was a bighorn ram, a moose, another bear (smaller than Fluffy), and a couple of twelve-point bucks. Two low-hanging chandeliers were made of antlers.
“Quite a change from the rest of the place,” she said.
“This was the smoking room in the original lodge. Dad kept it for his trophies. And a reminder of the good old days.” He paused. “When Dad got sick, he had his bed moved in here. He loved this room.”
The smell of old wood and cigar smoke and a couple hundred years of mountain living was thick in here, she thought. The kind of place ghosts gathered to tell tall tales of hunts long past. “Are you going to keep it as is?”
“I was hoping to add a few trophies of my own. You know, harvesting my own bear.” Blake shrugged. “I guess that won’t happen, at least not at this hunting party.”
Some party, she thought. Feinberg frowned at her, as if he could read her mind. He probably could. The man was a wonder—and not always in ways that made her comfortable.
As Blake ushered them out of his late father’s smoking room and back to the lobby, she tried to reconcile the glamorous drawings she’d seen in Alice de Clare’s portfolio with today’s languishing Bluffing Bear Inn. “It seems like you have a lot to work to do.”
“True,” said Blake. “But we’ll get it done.”
“The sooner, the better.” The billionaire frown
ed again, but this time he didn’t seem to be frowning at her. “We have an aggressive schedule. This building is basically sound, we just need to hustle on the exterior, getting it done by the new year. The interiors we can work on regardless of the weather.”
“We’re upgrading the lifts and the runs as well,” said Blake.
“We’ll miss the lucrative Thanksgiving and Christmas skiing seasons,” said Feinberg. “But conceivably we could make the winter and spring ski seasons. And we’ll be good to go for weddings and summer sports come May.”
“We need to finish the first phase of the remodel by the Bear Moon.”
She smiled. Bear Moon. The month of January, so called by Native Americans because it was when bears gave birth to their young. “I remember the Bear Moon celebration at the inn. I loved the snowshoe hikes under the full moon. And the fireworks.”
“Those stay, too. You’ll have to come back when we re-open.”
“I will.” She looked up at Fluffy again, and changed the subject. “I guess you’ll need to find a new architect. Sad for Alice.”
“We’re asking her protégé to take over the project. A talented young man named Owen Barker. He’ll keep as close to Alice’s original vision as possible.”
“Her swan song.” She wondered how close the relationship was between Alice and her protégé. She wouldn’t be the first architect murdered for art. Or love.
“Yes. We’d like to honor that.”
Blake made a show of looking at his watch, a vintage Rolex. He caught her glancing at it.
“My dad’s.”
“Nice.” Despite the elegant man’s success as an investment banker, he remained in his old man’s shadow. Maybe remaking Bluffing Bear Inn in his own image was his way of stepping out into the sun.
“Will you rename the place?”
“Oh no.” Blake pulled his sleeve back over his father’s watch. “That stays. Just like Fluffy. And Bear Moon.” He tapped his father’s Rolex. “We’ve got that meeting with Owen Barker, Daniel.”
“Go ahead. I’ll join you shortly.”
Feinberg touched Mercy’s shoulder and gently guided her outside to the wide deck overlooking Bluffing Bear Mountain. She could see workers already cleaning up the ski runs up and down the mountain.
His dark eyes met hers. “You know more about Alice de Clare’s vision than you’re saying.”
“I saw architectural drawings in her room,” she admitted. No point in hiding it. He knew she couldn’t help but investigate when circumstances demanded it. Maybe even when they didn’t.
“I suspected as much.”
“Your butler tattled on me.”
“Yes.”
“When did you decide you needed a butler?”
“Every house needs a butler. Butlers run a tight ship. After what happened this summer, I decided Nemeton needed one.”
“You don’t think Ethan did it.” She figured self-made billionaires must be good judges of character.
“Of course not.” He looked disappointed in her for even mentioning it.
“How is Ethan now?”
“I convinced Detective Harrington to keep him under house arrest at Nemeton. He’s confined to the guesthouse. At least for now.” He shrugged. “It won’t last. Detective Harrington’s like a dog with a bone. You need to exonerate Ethan before Harrington locks him up for good.”
“Me?”
“Playing coy doesn’t suit you.”
Mercy smiled. “Agreed. But this is police business.”
His eyes narrowed. “Harrington isn’t up to the task.”
“He hates me. Plus, he’s already warned me off this investigation.”
“You need something to do.”
“I help Patience at the animal hospital,” she said with a laugh.
“That’s not a real job.”
“Don’t let Patience hear you say that.”
“What I mean is that it’s not a real job for you. Your talent lies in investigative work.”
Mercy didn’t say anything, because she knew he was right.
“Work for me. Starting with this murder. Find out who killed Alice.”
“Lillian already asked me.”
“All the more reason.”
“But not your reason. I know Alice de Clare was your architect, but…” Mercy stopped midsentence. “You’re worried about bad publicity. How the murder could affect the viability of this lodge.”
“It’s not just that. I liked Alice, what I knew of her. And her plans for the inn. And I like Ethan, and if that little boy really saw that murder…” He paused. “I know you’ll want to keep him safe.”
“Of course. But I’m already keeping an eye on him.”
“You know that’s not enough. Henry won’t truly be safe until the real killer is in custody. Shall we say a hundred dollars an hour to start?”
“I’m already doing it for free.”
“But you shouldn’t. You need a job.”
“Have you been talking to my mother?”
“I doubt this is what she had in mind for you.”
Mercy grinned. “Which I admit is actually a point in your favor.”
The billionaire grinned back. “Then it’s settled.”
“Hold on. I’m not sure I can deal with having a boss again. Even you. The army was enough boss for a lifetime.”
“You’ll be working for yourself, not for me. Just report your findings to me.” His dark eyes warmed up, along with his pitch. “Everyone needs a job. Part of your recovery.”
And Elvis’s, she thought.
“Where I go, Elvis goes.”
“Of course. A hundred twenty-five dollars an hour then, for the two of you.”
That would keep Elvis in chew toys for a while. She changed the subject. “Your friends are all suspects. I’ll be looking in their affairs.”
“Understood.”
“Speaking of your friends, there’s something I don’t understand.”
“Only one thing?” He smiled at her.
“Caspar Farrow.”
“I have friends, and I have fellow investors.” Feinberg looked at her.
“And Farrow falls in the latter category.”
“Precisely.”
“You know that you’re a suspect yourself.”
“And if you think I killed her, you go right to Detective Harrington.”
“You’re not a murderer. You have more effective ways of dealing with difficult people.”
He ignored that. “You notice things others miss. So does your dog.”
“You don’t miss much yourself.”
“Obviously I missed something here.” He cleared his throat, close to revealing emotion she knew he’d rather not let show. “Alice was a guest in my home. And Ethan is my employee. And my friend.”
“Understood.” She paused. “How well did you know her?”
“I wish that I’d met her. Ethan handled our dealings with her. What I know of her I know through her work.” He closed his eyes just long enough for Mercy to imagine he was picturing Alice’s dream of the new inn. He blinked and opened them again, the dream lost.
“Even if you had met her, odds are you wouldn’t have known her well enough to predict what happened. Everyone has secrets.”
“Find out what hers were.”
“All right.” Mercy was going to do it anyway, and she might as well get paid. Besides, Elvis would love it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Blink Bear: a shaggy black magical animal companion with the ability to appear and disappear whenever summoned by the Ranger.
—HENRY’S GAME
“WE’LL SAY THAT YOU and Elvis are here to help with Henry,” said Feinberg.
“That’s true enough.” The best cover stories were always true enough.
“Let’s start with the meeting with Owen Barker.”
He led the way to the south side of the lodge and a bright conference room with more floor-to-ceiling windows and a high slanted ceiling with p
ine beams.
At a long glass-topped table surrounded by Queen Anne ghost chairs sat the members of yesterday’s disastrous hunting party: Blake, at one head of the table, the regal Katharine to his right, queen to his king. Lea sat to her right, the ever-present Nikon in her lap. Across the table were Cara and Caspar Farrow. The hair model looked bored and her husband looked belligerent, all per usual. Perched in his seat next to the other head chair, presumably Feinberg’s, was an impeccably dressed young man who reminded Mercy of a whippet, a sleek and elegant dog breed known as the poacher’s best friend for its ruthless chase of rabbits. He skittered to his feet when Feinberg entered the room.
“I think you know everyone, Mercy. Except for Owen Barker. Owen, Mercy Carr.”
Alice de Clare’s protégé, she thought.
As he settled into the head chair, the billionaire waved Mercy into the chair to his right, forcing Barker to move down a seat. He scowled at her, and she smiled back sweetly. She was no scared rabbit, but he didn’t know that. Yet.
“I intend to preserve as much of Alice de Clare’s vision on this project as is humanly possible,” he announced to the group.
She wondered if that were really true. Architects were artists, and artists preferred their own visions over anyone else’s. Now that Alice was gone, she figured it might just be a matter of time before the whippet made his move.
Feinberg looked pointedly in her direction, as if in rebuke. The man really could read minds.
Cara and Caspar beamed at one another at this pronouncement, as if their only child had just made honor roll.
“Mercy is here on behalf of Ethan, for Henry’s sake,” said Feinberg.
“The babysitter,” said Barker. “I thought this was a professional meeting?” He spoke with a faux Continental air that made Mercy suspect he’d been born and raised in Newark.
Everyone at the table turned to stare at the man brash—or foolish—enough to question Feinberg.
“Mercy is former military police,” said Feinberg, “having served with honor in Afghanistan and elsewhere. Given what has transpired over the course of the weekend, we could all use an extra layer of protection. She and Elvis will be around, watching over the boy—and us all.”