by Paula Munier
“Elvis?” asked Barker with a smirk.
“Elvis served in Afghanistan, too,” said Mercy. “Sniffing out explosives and taking down bad guys.”
Cara drummed long blue fingernails on the glass tabletop. “Let’s see your new drawings, Owen.”
“New drawings?” Blake and Katharine spoke in unison, leaning forward as one direct challenge. “We didn’t commission any new drawings,” said Blake.
“Well, we did,” said Cara, flipping her hair.
Barker rose to his feet, and with great ceremony spread across the long table the drawings that Mercy recognized from Alice’s portfolio. “These are the original designs. Today I thought we might discuss my suggested changes.”
“We never authorized any changes,” said Blake.
Barker spread out other drawings. “Based on Caspar and Cara’s input, I’ve been working up a few new ideas.” Barker’s designs were cartoonish, twisting Alice de Clare’s elegant take on midcentury modern into a neon avalanche of kitsch.
Cara smiled and flipped her hair again.
She really needs another move, Mercy thought.
“As lovely as Alice’s designs were, if this resort is going to be first-rate it needs much more pizzazz.” Caspar beamed, his face redder than ever.
“Pizzazz?” Katharine repeated the word as if it were an obscenity.
“Alice is not even in her grave,” said Lea quietly.
“We will not be so quick to abandon Alice’s vision,” said Katharine stiffly.
Good for you, thought Mercy. She was with the Montgomerys in principle, as well as in taste.
“I love Alice’s drawings and I see no reason to jazz up the resort.” Lea retrieved her camera from her lap and snapped pictures, documenting the travesty.
“Exactly.” Blake straightened his spine, holding his silver head high. “This isn’t Las Vegas. This is Vermont.”
“This look will appeal to a younger demographic.” Barker defended his vision. “Millennials will love it.”
“Millennials want bargains and beginner slopes,” said Blake. “Not tacky bells and whistles.”
“And we cannot afford to alienate the parents and grandparents who still foot the bill for our family bookings,” said Katharine.
Barker looked crestfallen. His flop of dark hair fell across his face. It wasn’t quite long enough to flip, but she could tell by the adoring way Cara looked at the junior architect that she very much approved of his hair.
As a matter of course, Mercy never trusted anyone who flipped their hair. There was no hair flipping in the army.
Cara and Caspar stood up, too, blustering on about appealing to the beautiful people, whoever they were. Barker regrouped, continued his jabber on winning the hearts and minds and wallets of millennial skiers and snowboarders. Katharine and Blake droned on about preserving the integrity of Bluffing Bear Inn.
“No point in throwing the baby out with the bathwater,” Blake insisted. Katherine agreed with him. Lea kept on taking pictures. Every once in a while, she would point to one of the new designs and say something like, “This doesn’t work in terms of composition.”
Tempers flared, and voices rose as everyone argued their points. Everyone except Mercy and Feinberg, who sat and observed. She wished she could read his mind. She suspected he used observation as a secret weapon, as she did.
Just as the meeting deteriorated into a shouting match, a newcomer breached the battlefield, prompting the billionaire to pound the table with his fist, instantly silencing the room.
Katharine beamed so beautifully at the new arrival that Mercy knew he must be her only child. With sun-bleached hair and stoner clothes, he looked more prepared for a skateboarding park than a business meeting.
“William, we’re so glad you could join us,” said Katharine. “We desperately need your feedback. You are a millennial after all. What do you think of these drawings?”
William glanced at the drawings new and old. Pointing to a large and ungainly neon tower on Barker’s drawing, he said, “Cool.”
“There you have it,” said Caspar.
“I knew it,” Cara chimed in.
“William, do be serious,” said his mother.
“He’s just saying that to be impertinent,” said his father.
William grinned. Like a teenage boy, he lived to upset his father. But he was no teenager. Not anymore. He just dressed like one.
“We need a considered opinion, William,” said Feinberg.
William looked at him. “Look, the only design I know anything about is boards. All I can tell you is that if you want me to bring in the hipster skiers and snowboarders, you’re going to have to do better than this. All of this.” With that, William gave a quick salute and left.
After that, all hell broke loose.
Feinberg slammed the table with his fist, ending the chaos a second time. Mercy figured three times was his limit.
“We’ll have to convene again later. Jackie will arrange your transport back to Nemeton.”
Jackie appeared on cue and ushered the squabblers from the room.
Looking unflappable once more, Feinberg looked at his watch and turned to Mercy. “The doctor and the detective should be here momentarily.”
* * *
DETECTIVE KAI HARRINGTON arrived on time, a first in Mercy’s experience. Prince Harry usually liked to keep people waiting. But Daniel Feinberg wasn’t people, he was Rich People, and Harrington knew it.
Not that his timeliness mattered. They sat in vintage orange plastic shell chairs around a white Parsons table in a smaller version of the lodge’s conference room down the hall. Henry was between Mercy and Cal on one side, with Elvis at his feet. Harrington sat alone on the other side. Feinberg reigned at the head of the table, eyes focused straight ahead, not looking at any of them. Not taking part in what everyone but Harrington could see was an exercise in futility.
Unsurprisingly, Henry refused to answer any of the detective’s questions about what he saw that day. When Harrington pulled out the picture of the hat, the boy looked away, tucking his hand into Elvis’s collar, chanting prime numbers.
It was clear that the detective was never going to convince Henry to talk. Mercy didn’t know if he was completely lacking in emotional intelligence or just impatient. She did know he was a grade-A jerk.
Harrington glowered at Cal. “Can’t you get anything out of him?”
“Henry does not seem ready to talk about this yet. He needs more time.”
The detective tried Mercy. “What about you?”
“Maybe if we take him for a walk. He likes to walk.”
“So let’s take him for a walk,” said Cal.
She shrugged. “We can try it.”
Jackie passed out hunter-orange vests, and Mercy slipped Elvis’s around his torso. Once outside the lodge, Feinberg looked up at the mountain. “They’re working on the ski runs on Mount Northshire. But to the south, you’ll find several hiking trails. One leads up to Bluffing Bear Creek.”
“Thank you, Daniel,” said Mercy.
“Good luck.”
Mercy, Elvis, Harrington, and Cal set off for the creek. Overgrown with ferns and brambles, the trail was still easy enough to follow. The sun shone brightly through the golden bower of the trees, but the temperature had not climbed much since morning. A stiff wind from the west chilled Mercy even through her parka. She hoped Henry was warm enough.
The boy trotted ahead of them, Elvis on his heels. She hadn’t tied him to the dog; she didn’t want to embarrass him in front of Cal and Harrington. Besides, she was kind of hoping he’d give the detective the slip. Anyway, with the shepherd at his side, Henry wouldn’t get too far away from them.
“We’ll just go where he leads us,” she told Harrington. “That’s our best bet.”
Elvis perked his ears and looked back at the trail stretching behind them for just a second before rocketing after Henry. Over her shoulder Mercy spotted a flash in the foliage behind them, a
flash she recognized as Troy and Susie Bear following at a discreet distance. She wondered what they were doing here. It must be important for Troy to risk running into Harrington.
She smiled to herself. She didn’t think Harrington had a clue they were following them. Some detective he was.
Henry dashed ahead, Elvis shadowing him. They’d only gone about fifty yards when Harrington snagged his suit on scrub and cursed out loud.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere. He’s not talking.”
“It’s just going take time,” said Cal. “The wisest strategy is to let Henry hang out with Mercy. And maybe he’ll say something. He trusts her.”
Harrington snorted. “That’s one of us.”
“I’m sure you must have other avenues of investigation to explore,” said the doctor genially.
“Fine.” The detective looked at her. “If the kid says anything or does anything, I expect you to report back to me. Me, personally and directly.”
“Absolutely,” she said. As if. The overbearing man was the last person she would tell. Unless she had to.
She wasn’t convinced he would put the boy’s safety first. Not before his ambition. His ambition trumped everything else. He was a grandstander, and she hated grandstanders.
Harrington turned and stalked back toward the inn. Stopping only when he encountered Troy and Susie Bear. Mercy sneaked a peek their way and winced as he yelled at them, and then continued on, talking on his phone, yelling at some other poor subordinate. She hated yellers, too.
She let Cal and Henry go ahead, dropping back to meet Troy and Susie Bear. But up ahead Henry had halted in his tracks. Apparently, the boy was not moving on without them.
Elvis and Cal waited with Henry for them to catch up. When they did, Troy said to Cal, “Don’t you have rounds?”
The doctor checked his watch. “In fact, I do.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “We can take it from here.”
“I appreciate all your help. If he says anything, let me know.” Cal took out a card. “I meant to give this to you last night. It’s my private cell number, as well as my office phone. Call me, day or night. Or text. Whatever works. I want to know what’s going on with Henry. And you.”
“Thanks.” She felt Troy’s eyes on her as she took the card from the psychiatrist, and his fingers lingered on hers. With a smile, she pulled her hand away.
He smiled back. She could sense Troy frowning.
Cal waved goodbye to Henry, making his way back down the path toward the inn.
Henry gazed up at Troy and they exchanged a look of derision. Mercy laughed. Seemed Henry didn’t like Cal any more than Troy did.
They continued down the path, deeper into the woods.
Up ahead about a hundred feet, a fork appeared. Henry stopped, and they hustled up the trail to catch up. A faded wooden sign from the lodge’s bygone days marked the crook. The arrow labeled BRIDAL WREATH PATH pointed toward the gazebo, and the arrow labeled THE PATH OF ZEN pointed toward the Japanese teahouse.
“I remember these venues. The gazebo is a pretty spot down by the creek where they perform a lot of weddings. Or they did at one time. No idea what shape it’s in now.”
“And the other one?”
“The Japanese teahouse. A meditation center, I think, where they did yoga and sat zazen and did tea ceremonies. Run-down now, I expect.” Mercy frowned. “I’m surprised you haven’t been down here.”
“Private land. They have their own security.” Troy shook his head. “For what that’s worth. Probably rife with poachers during the off-season.”
“Like now.”
“I doubt they’d risk coming around in broad daylight with all the construction going on.” Troy stepped over a large fallen log covered in moss. He held out his hand to help her over, and she took it. Her mother would be proud.
“Is the teahouse by the water, too?” he asked.
“Yeah. From what I remember, the creek winds around a lot. Both trails should hit the creek at some point.”
“That’s a safe bet. This area is loaded with streams, lakes, and marshes. Around here, all roads lead to water.”
Henry knitted his brows together, his brown eyes fierce with concentration, set on the sign marking the fork.
“Which way should we go, Henry?” asked Mercy quietly. She didn’t want to disrupt his focus.
Before the boy could respond, Elvis took off down the trail leading to the gazebo. Susie Bear lumbered after him, Henry on his heels.
“The little guy’s pretty fast when he wants to be,” said Troy to Mercy between breaths as they ran after Henry and the dogs.
She told Troy about looping Elvis’s lead around Henry’s waist. “I never should have taken it off.”
Here the path was nearly invisible in many spots, ferns and saplings and scrub obscuring the trail and crowding out the little gravel still left. But that didn’t slow down Henry or the canines. Mercy and Troy could still see the boy up ahead, but the dogs had disappeared.
Troy yelled for Susie Bear, and Mercy whistled for Elvis, but they didn’t circle back.
“They must be on to something,” he said.
Mercy and Troy caught up with Henry, and they jogged behind him as he raced forward on his thin spindly legs. The boy wasn’t too steady on his feet, and she worried he would fall. If he did, she’d have to catch him.
The trail took a wide swing to the left, and the forest opened up onto a clearing. There sat the gazebo, a large, solidly built Victorian-style structure, the kind often seen gracing town commons across New England. Where a local band would play, and townspeople would gather to dance the night away. Another anachronism that Blake’s father had let stand for the ages.
The octagonal-shaped gazebo’s faded wood was peeling white paint and had loose and missing shingles on the roof. Its gingerbread trim in need of repair. Mercy could imagine brides meeting their grooms here to say, “I do,” decked out in white satin and lace and lots of tulle, promising to love, honor, and cherish till death do they part as birds chittered and the stream gurgled and onlookers blinked away tears.
The dogs were waiting for them at the top of the stairs. Elvis sat on his haunches, absolutely still, triangular ears cocked. Susie Bear was next to him, plumed tail flying high but unmoving. Defenders on guard.
But guarding what?
Henry reached the steps before they did.
“Wait,” she ordered.
Henry paid no mind. He charged up the stairs, which were in no better condition than the rest of the gazebo. She could see several of the boards on the stairs were rotted.
“Careful, Henry.”
As soon as the boy reached the top, Elvis leapt to his feet, blocking Henry from the grandstand floor. The shepherd barked, and the Newfie mutt joined in. Together they made a lot of noise.
Henry put his hands over his ears, and walked around the dogs, heading for the center of the gazebo.
Mercy and Troy raced up the stairs, coming to a dead stop.
“Stop right there, Henry.” She used her command voice, and Elvis stopped barking. Susie Bear followed suit.
Henry kept on walking.
“Whoa,” said Troy.
A woman with long, dark hair stood in the middle of the gazebo. She looked up, and Mercy was struck by her beauty, her face a striking contrast of shapes, shadows, and cheekbones. Her black eyes had a haunted look.
At her feet was Caspar Farrow, laid out flat on his back, legs splayed. The belligerent florid-faced man stared straight upward. Shot dead with an arrow to the heart. Blood staining his shiny new L.L. Bean field jacket. Looking far more vulnerable in death than he did in life. Death being the great equalizer.
Just like Alice de Clare.
“Don’t touch, Henry,” said Mercy.
The woman straightened, then bolted across the grandstand. She leapt over the railing of the gazebo, a drop of about six feet. Mercy heard her land with a soft easy thud. She sprinted toward the creek. The woman
was in good shape, she thought.
Henry rushed to the railing, as if he were going to leap after her.
“No, Henry!”
He didn’t listen to her. He climbed over the railing and dropped out of sight with a thwack not nearly so light or graceful as the woman’s landing before him.
Troy cursed.
The dogs vaulted after Henry, Elvis in a swift, elegant soar. Susie Bear in a slower, slightly less elegant leap.
Mercy ran for the railing, hurdling it easily and sticking her landing like the high-school gymnast she’d once been. Her coach would have been proud. Troy landed heavily beside her.
The gazebo was about twenty yards from the creek. The woman disappeared beyond the weeping willows lining its banks. Henry trailed her, the dogs flanking him.
Mercy and Troy darted after them, breaking through the weeping willows just in time to see the woman navigate several wide stepping stones running across the creek. Henry stood at the water’s edge, watching her.
The dogs barked warnings.
“Don’t do it, Henry!” She scrambled down the bank, just in time to see the boy take a first step. She yelled at him again to stop. The dogs tried to block his way, but he pushed through them. Henry stepped onto the first rock, then the second. Hearing her behind him, he briefly looked over his shoulder before turning his attention back to the creek. He jumped from stone to stone.
“Stop, Henry,” yelled Troy, now at her side. The dogs plunged into the water after the boy. Mercy and Troy waded toward him.
Before they could reach him, Henry slipped. His feet flew out from under him, and he tumbled headlong into the fast-moving water. He came up, sputtering.
“Grab one of the rocks,” she yelled.
The boy splashed around, flailing his arms, feeling for one of the granite boulders. He found one, and he grabbed on.
“Hold on tight.”
But his little hands were wet, the rock was slick, and the current strong. Henry lost his grip.