Blind Search

by Paula Munier

“Imagine that,” she said.

  “Cal Jacobs was there to make sure the interview went well.” He tried to keep his voice even. “The psychiatrist.”

  “I know Cal,” she said. “He’s good with kids like Henry.”

  “Right.” Troy didn’t think Jacobs was good with Henry; hell, the dogs were better with Henry than he was. He sure wasn’t any good with Madeline. Troy hoped his dislike of the man didn’t show, but when the captain winked at Dr. Darling, he knew he’d failed. “Mercy thought a walk might do the trick. Henry likes to walk. Mercy and Elvis led the way.”

  “With Cal Jacobs,” said Thrasher, with a grin.

  Troy ignored that. “Susie Bear and I followed at a discreet distance.”

  “I bet you did,” said Dr. Darling. “Harrington hates you.”

  “He hates everybody,” said Thrasher. “Or at least everybody in a Vermont Fish and Wildlife uniform.”

  “What happened on your walk?”

  “Henry walked.”

  “But he didn’t talk.”

  “No. Harrington lost his patience and yelled at Henry to start talking, and the boy reacted badly.”

  “Poor kid. All that trauma and then Harrington on top of it.” Dr. Darling shook her head. “Did that scare Prince Harry off?”

  “A child in distress? No way. He bailed when he caught his suit jacket on a branch. Ripped it good.”

  “Ah,” said the doctor.

  “A man can only tolerate so much.” Captain Thrasher paused. “Do we know how Farrow is related to the other victim?”

  “Another one of Feinberg’s guests,” said Troy.

  “Guess it doesn’t pay to be a Feinberg guest.”

  “And yet his place is supposed to be so lovely,” said Dr. Darling.

  “You’ve never been to Nemeton?” asked Thrasher.

  “I’ve only seen his woods,” she said. “And his dead guests.”

  “Mercy could get you an invitation any time,” said Troy. “He’s a big fan of hers.”

  “Aren’t we all?” she said, batting her lashes.

  Thrasher laughed.

  Troy laughed, too. What else could he do?

  “I don’t know which is more efficient, the crossbow or the longbow.” Dr. Darling poked at the arrow that pierced Farrow’s cold heart.

  “I’ve seen hunters come to blows debating that very thing,” said Thrasher.

  “Either way they pack a fatal punch,” said Troy.

  “That little boy finds bodies wherever he goes,” said Dr. Darling.

  “Two in as many days,” said Thrasher.

  “Three.” Dr. Darling looked up. “Alice de Clare was pregnant. About eight weeks.”

  Troy wondered what Mercy would make of that. “She was involved with Ethan. Odds are he’s the father.”

  “What does he say about it?” asked Dr. Darling.

  “We’re not sure yet he even knew,” said Troy.

  “As far as we know, she was single,” said Thrasher. “Apparently, Harrington is having trouble tracking down the next of kin.”

  “Two victims from the same hunting party,” said Troy. “These murders have to be connected.”

  “What about Farrow?” asked the captain. “Maybe Alice de Clare was having an affair with him and his wife found out and killed them both.”

  Troy cast a doubtful glance at the corpse. “What would she want with this guy?”

  “Well, checking to see if Farrow’s the father will be easy enough,” said the doc. “And Ethan Jenkins is in custody, so he should cooperate.”

  “Ethan couldn’t have committed this murder,” said Troy. “If the murders are connected, then he’s off the hook.”

  “We’ll see if Harrington agrees with you,” said Thrasher.

  The wind picked up, a sudden blast of cold air indicating that the day’s perfect weather was about to change.

  “It’s supposed to snow later tonight,” said Dr. Darling. “And it will be getting dark soon. We’ll be wrapping up as quickly as possible.”

  “Once the snow starts, it’s going to get progressively worse,” said Thrasher. “Two storms in a row.”

  “Detective Harrington hates bad weather,” said the doc.

  “Flatlander,” grumbled Troy. “He should move south.”

  “Not before he’s senator,” said Thrasher.

  They all laughed at that, even though it wasn’t really funny.

  “Anything else?” asked Thrasher.

  “Not right now,” said Dr. Darling. “Harrington will want to get in and out of here fast. He should be here soon. You and Susie Bear should be long gone here before he shows up.”

  “I think I’ll make my escape, too,” said Thrasher.

  “Thanks a lot.” But the doctor smiled as she said it.

  Troy waved a goodbye to the doctor and whistled for Susie Bear as his boss strode off down the trail. He and the dog caught up with him, and together they hiked in silence back toward the inn. Both checking their cell phones and radios, all dead in the woods. As they cleared the trees and the inn came into view, their devices came to life.

  Thrasher checked his radio just as Troy got a text from Mercy.

  “Delphine says someone tried to run Mercy off the road,” said the captain.

  “A dark SUV,” said Troy, reading Mercy’s message. “I’m going after it.”

  “We’re on that. Why don’t you go see if Mercy and Henry are okay?”

  “What about Harrington?”

  “I’ll deal with him,” said Thrasher. “Make sure they’re all safe. Where are they now?”

  “She was taking Henry back to his grandmother.”

  “The house or the Vermonter?”

  Troy checked his watch. “The Vermonter is still open. Barely.”

  “Mercy will be headed there,” Thrasher guessed.

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Report in when you get there. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Harrington about sending over some uniforms.”

  * * *

  EVEN NEAR CLOSING time, the Vermonter Drive-In was busy. Its parking lot was full. Mercy was glad of it, as Henry was safer in public. Bad guys were less likely to strike if people were around.

  Or were they? Whoever killed Alice de Clare and Caspar Farrow had done it in broad daylight. Twice. Deep in the woods, though, far from the enthusiastic crowds of peepers.

  Officially, Lillian kept the store open only for breakfast and lunch. The restaurant’s stated hours of operation were seven in the morning to three in the afternoon, every day, rain, shine, or snow, from April to November. But she waived that rule every October, often staying open later to accommodate all the visitors who came from all over the world to bask in the colorful bounty that was Vermont in autumn. The state’s population swelled in October, with more traffic than any other month. For many local businesses, this was the make-or-break month that would see them through the winter. Or not.

  Not that that appeared to be a problem for Lillian. Even the tourists knew there was nothing better than a sandwich and shake at the Vermonter.

  The place wasn’t much to look at. The venue was less restaurant and more shack. It wasn’t a true drive-in either, just an oversize lean-to built of thick planks and topped with a red metal roof and a vintage neon sign reading DRIVE-IN in bright white letters. Lillian had bought the sign at auction when the local drive-in movie theater went bankrupt. Where the names of films would have been listed, Lillian served up quotes from famous chefs.

  Now it read:

  You don’t need a silver fork to eat good food.

  —PAUL PRUDHOMME

  Nowhere on the building did the words The Vermonter appear, except at the top of a chalkboard menu behind the counter. The home of the “Best Burger in Northshire” was a glorified shanty, with a large garage-size window where customers lined up to order.

  “We’re here,” Mercy announced. The dog gave Henry a nudge with his dark muzzle. At that siren call, the boy woke up, rubbing his eyes with fi
sts.

  She pointed out the window. “There’s your grandmother at the counter. She’ll be happy to see you.”

  “Nana.” Henry leaned out the side window and waved. Elvis joined him, tongue hanging out. Lillian spotted them and waved back.

  Mercy bypassed all the cars crowding the lot and parked around back by the high cedar fence that secured Lillian’s potager garden. The fence kept deer and other undesirables from raiding the homegrown herbs and vegetables that were her pride and joy, as well as the source of the secret ingredients key to her culinary success.

  They entered through the back-door staff entrance, saying hello to Chef Victor Santos and his son Lucas. Both were busy at the grill, slapping hamburger patties and Italian sausages and onions and peppers down onto the sizzling hot stove while Lillian held court at the counter, taking orders and ringing up sales.

  Chef Victor, a fireplug of a man with the arms of a wrestler, looked up at Mercy without missing a beat in his persistent rhythm of flip, fry, flip.

  Victor had been Lillian’s right-hand man since her husband, Grant, went down to the Barn Store for a pack of cigarettes nearly twenty years ago and never came back. Some said he ran off with a ski instructor from Norway; others said Lillian drove him away by focusing on her family business instead of her husband. Patience said he was a cheat and a gambler, and that Lillian was better off without him.

  Lillian herself never said a word about her husband or his disappearance. So complete was her silence on the matter that people finally stopped asking her about him. She kept his name and raised their kids, but he ceased to exist. Mercy wondered if Lillian’s good works were meant to restore the solid-gold reputation her family had enjoyed before she married Grant. If so, it had worked.

  She had wasted no time feeling sorry for herself. In true Vermonter fashion, she hired Victor—and eventually most of his extended family, immigrants from Brazil—and carried on. He was protective of his benefactor—and he’d expect Mercy to tell him if his boss or the boy were in trouble.

  “Everything is okay?” Victor asked Mercy.

  “Everything’s fine,” Mercy told the chef. “For now.”

  He nodded and turned back to his grill.

  Lillian excused herself from the last of the customers. She gave her grandson a couple of tight hugs, looking up over his shoulder at Mercy.

  Mercy mouthed talk later behind Henry’s back. Lillian released her grip on him, and he scrambled out of her arms.

  “Are you hungry? We’re shutting down for the day, but I’m sure Victor and Lucas can rustle up a couple of burgers for you before they clock out.”

  “That would be great,” said Mercy.

  “Henry, why don’t you do the inventory while we pull together something for you to eat?” Lillian said. “That would be very helpful.”

  Henry smiled—a small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

  Lillian beamed. “Thank you, love.” She shooed him through a saloon door to the back pantry, where he could count to his heart’s content.

  “Two burgers fully dressed, one plain,” Lillian yelled behind her to Victor in a voice that would wake her ancestors.

  The plain burger was for Henry; no one else—not even Elvis—would pass on Lillian’s homegrown organic lettuce, tomatoes, onions, fresh herbs, and sweet bread-and-butter pickles, not to mention her special sauce. “Lillian’s Sauce” was sold by the bottle for those who wanted to take a little Lillian home with them.

  “We’ll talk as soon as I serve these customers. It won’t be long.” She handed Mercy a white apron with Drive-In, Northshire, Vermont splashed across the front in big red letters. “Meanwhile, you may as well help out while you wait.”

  It was way past closing time by now. Mercy tied on the apron while Lillian settled up with the few remaining customers. Food service was second nature to Mercy. She got her first job at sixteen, at a pizza place in the North End. It was a relief to be here, in this familiar place, doing familiar things, things that had nothing to do with violence and murder and the dark side of human nature.

  She was glad to help out. Lillian had that effect on everyone. You couldn’t spend any time around the woman without wanting to help somebody do something. She was all about causes, her own and other people’s. Whether that was due to her absent husband or her own good nature or some combination of both, the citizens of Northshire benefited.

  Now Lillian was the one who needed help. She kept glancing back at Henry in the pantry, worry marking her usually cheerful face. And what Mercy had to tell her wasn’t going to ease her anxiety.

  When the last of her satisfied customers drove away, Lillian told Victor and Lucas to call it a day.

  “Are you sure?” Victor asked.

  “We’re sure,” said Lillian.

  “We’re sure,” repeated Mercy. Thrasher was already tracking down the guys who’d tried to run them off the road.

  Victor wrapped their burgers and put them out on paper plates while Lucas scraped the grill clean.

  “Go on home.” Lillian closed the counter window and pulled down the metal roll-up shade. “We’ll do the rest. See you tomorrow.”

  Mercy heard the back door slam behind the chef and his son as she gave the counter one last swipe. She removed her apron and hung it on a hook.

  She walked over to the saloon doors and observed Henry taking inventory. He held a steel clipboard in one hand and a red pen in the other, rocking back and forth on his heels as he counted. Elvis sat at his feet, nose in the air, alert to the value of inventory. Henry proceeded in his exacting manner, tapping the pen on the clipboard, counting packages of hot-dog buns, Ball jars of bread-and-butter pickles and sweet relish, bottles of catsup and mustard and hot sauce, rocking, rocking, rocking—stopping only long enough to record those numbers from time to time with great fastidiousness.

  Lillian came up and stood beside her. They stayed still for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the boy count boxes of paper straws.

  Quietly, Mercy updated her on Ethan and Caspar Farrow and then told her about the incident on the way home.

  “Are you sure he’s all right?”

  “I think so. Hard to tell.”

  “Let’s get you fed and then we’ll talk.” Lillian leaned over the saloon doors. “Time to eat, Henry.”

  The boy did not seem to hear. He went on counting, then paused to write something on the clipboard. “All done.”

  “Great,” Mercy said. “I’m famished.”

  Elvis leapt to his feet. Henry laughed. He shuffled through the saloon doors with Elvis. Lillian handed them paper plates, along with a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and a bowl of water for the dog. “Why don’t you all eat outside while I finish closing up?”

  They settled in with their burgers at the old weathered picnic table at the edge of the potager garden, a beauty of knots and raised beds ringed by rows of fruit trees fronting the high fence that enclosed the entire space. This time of year, the bounty included carrots and kale and pumpkin and winter squash, along with grapes and apples and pears and her trademark herbs. The reds and golds and greens of the garden shone in the late afternoon sun, echoed by the reds and golds and greens of the forested mountains all around them, the high fence the only break in the riot of color that was Northshire in October.

  Only a privileged few were allowed back here, according to the laminated sign in the middle of the table that read, RESERVED FOR VISITING DIGNITARIES ONLY.

  In other words, grandchildren.

  A ten-foot-high fence kept out most people and most animals. Except for the diggers.

  If someone didn’t tell you, you wouldn’t even know the garden was there. In Lillian’s private world, she raised the ingredients that made all the difference in her fabulous recipes. Whether it was a grass-fed beef burger or a veggie burger, a croque monsieur or a gyro, her sandwiches were the best, and this garden was part of the reason why.

  Henry didn’t say a word. But Mercy could see that he was
glad to be back in his grandmother’s garden. This was a safe place.

  As they ate, the only sound was the snapping of Elvis’s jaws as he inhaled his burger, followed by the slurping of water from his bowl. Henry consumed his burger with the same precision as he did his mashed potatoes and gravy, systematically nibbling around the perimeter. She ate her own meal at a polite pace; still, by the time she’d swallowed her last bite, Henry had made little progress with his dinner.

  She watched the circle of bun and burger slowly shrink in diameter as the boy pecked his way around his meal, as fascinated by his constancy as she was frustrated by his lack of urgency.

  It takes as long as it takes. That’s what they said about training dogs. No rushing it. No rushing Henry, either.

  Elvis sat at the boy’s feet in his preferred Sphinx position. Patient as a dead pharaoh. Far more patient than Mercy.

  Lillian had been inside for a while. Mercy figured she was busy closing up shop, cleaning up, and cashing out the register. She should probably go offer to help but didn’t want to leave Henry, even with Elvis in attendance. They were all more rattled by the day’s events than she’d realized.

  The dog leapt up, barking madly.

  “What’s the matter?” She stood up, alert to any untoward sound or movement.

  Nothing. Only Elvis’s increasingly frenzied bellowing.

  Henry looked up at her, fear plainly showing on his small face. His eyes dark with worry.

  Elvis tore back toward the restaurant, and Henry ran after him.

  “Wait!” Mercy sprinted after them. She made it to the back door before Henry. But not before Elvis. The shepherd jumped up on hind legs, tearing at the door with his claws.

  “Down, Elvis, down!”

  He didn’t budge, so she grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled him away. She pushed open the back door—and was greeted by billows of smoke. She fell back, raising her arm to keep the boy away. “Stay back. And don’t move. Elvis, sit.”

  She jerked her cell phone out of her pocket and handed it to Henry. “Call nine-one-one. You know how to do that, don’t you? Tell them the Vermonter is on fire and to send an ambulance.”

  Henry reached for the phone, his brown eyes huge.