by Paula Munier
Troy wished he would just come out and say what he meant.
“You’ll just have to trust me.”
“It’s not that.” He trusted the captain. The man had gone to bat for him more times than he could count, most notably with Harrington.
Thrasher pushed his empty plate to the side, placing the stack of dirty napkins in the middle of it. He leaned against the red upholstered back of the booth, folding his arms. The captain was a patient man. That patience had worked against Troy more than once—and it looked like it would again.
“Nothing’s happened between us, if that’s what you’re asking,” Troy said finally.
“Something happened.” Thrasher uncrossed his arms and placed his elbows on the table, leaning toward him.
“Nothing happened.”
The captain waited.
He sighed. “We just washed the dishes.”
“Your fate is sealed. Did you wash or dry?”
“I rinsed, she loaded.”
“They always have to load it their way.”
“Yes, sir.” He relaxed.
The captain smiled. “I knew the first time I helped Carol do the dishes, I was going to marry her.”
“Hold on.”
Thrasher studied him. “Does Mercy know you’re still married?”
He looked away, away from the captain’s penetrating stare, away from the worry that had preoccupied his every waking moment since he’d helped Mercy wash dishes and lost his heart.
“I don’t know.”
“What kind of a detective are you?”
He laughed, a short bark of a sound that he knew sounded as bitter to Thrasher as it did to him. “Mercy’s the detective. I’m just a fish cop.”
The captain frowned. “It’s a serious question.”
“I haven’t told her, if that’s what you mean. I just assumed that Patience or Lillian or somebody would have said something to her by now.”
“If any assumptions have been made, it’s probably that you divorced Madeline when she left you, what, nearly two years ago now?”
“Not that long.” Madeline had bolted for the Sunshine State sixteen months ago nearly to the day, though Troy now realized that she’d left their marriage long before that.
Thrasher studied him. “I think it highly unlikely that anyone in Mercy’s circle would say anything to her about it, even if they knew. Which I very much doubt.”
Troy stiffened under his captain’s scrutiny. Thrasher knew that he remembered the very day, the very hour, the very minute he’d found the note that she’d written in red lipstick on the bathroom mirror: So sorry. Must go. M.
“I hear Madeline’s back in town,” said Thrasher. “You’re running out of time.”
“I know.” He meant to tell Mercy a million times. Hell, he meant to file for divorce a million times, too. But it was easier just to go out on patrol.
“Being a game warden is a job, maybe even a calling,” said Thrasher quietly. “But either way, it’s not an escape. You can’t hide out in the woods forever.”
“Sir.” He’d learned that the quieter the captain’s voice, the tougher the conversation.
“Using your professional life to avoid dealing with your personal life eventually compromises both.” Thrasher slid down to the edge of the booth and stood up. “This time’s the bill’s on you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FORECAST: BLIZZARD CONDITIONS.
MERCY CURSED THE snow aloud while carefully steering the Land Rover back to Nemeton. At this outburst, Elvis lifted his head, then flopped back down to sleep. He knew the vehicle was going nowhere fast.
It was slow going. Her friend the billionaire had built his own road up a mountain to his mansion. That was a good road.
But getting to that good road meant first traveling public thoroughfares. Crowding those streets were cars not meant for winter weather operated by people unfamiliar with winter driving methods. They were all trying to get home, or at least to a hotel. Several buses were stranded, full of leaf peepers perplexed by the incongruous sight of autumn’s red, gold, orange, and yellow foliage dressed up in a coat of white.
Many of them weren’t making it home anytime soon. They’d be lucky if they got out before the blizzard hit. All signs suggested that this was just the prologue.
Accidents slowed traffic to a standstill. The cops were out in force. But Mercy knew there weren’t enough law-enforcement folks to go around.
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time she and Elvis got to Nemeton. George let them in, ushering them immediately to the billionaire’s book-lined study. A deep and abiding love of books was one of the things they had in common. He was one of the few people she knew whose library held more volumes than hers did. Of course, more of his were first editions.
Feinberg rose from his desk to meet her, waving her into a Hepplewhite chair. Elvis stretched out on the Aubusson carpet at her feet. After she filled him in on the day’s events, Mercy had to assure Feinberg that she was just fine, despite attempts on her life.
“I spoke to Detective Harrington at length over the phone,” he said. “He’s convinced Yolanda Yellowbird is somehow responsible for the murders.”
“I don’t believe it. What possible motive could she have?” She paused. “Troy thinks it might be the night hunters. The ones he’s been chasing down in the woods. Yolanda thinks so, too.”
“But you don’t.”
“No, but the night hunters are definitely up to something, and it might be something far worse than poaching.”
Feinberg raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Drugs. Guns. You name it. According to Troy, criminal activity is on the rise here.”
“When I bought this place, I thought the worst that could happen was the occasional bear. I had no idea what goes on in these woods.”
“Like Patience says, ‘Where there’s wood, there’s wacky.’”
“This is beyond wacky. I take it that you don’t think Caspar and Alice were killed by poachers or gun smugglers.”
She shrugged. “It seems to me these murders strike closer to home, Daniel.”
His brown eyes darkened with concern. “What do you mean?”
“These murders were personal: their timing, the choice of weapons, the fact that Alice was pregnant.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Any idea who the father was?”
He shook his head. “I’d assume it would be Ethan. You should talk to Katharine and Lea. They knew her better.”
“I will. But first I need to see your security tape.”
“Harrington has it all. But I’m not sure it matters. We’ve got cameras at the service entrance and the front door, but if you really wanted to get out, there are a lot of other ways to get out of the building without being seen.”
Mercy frowned.
“We’re really more focused on keeping people out than keeping them in. That said, George keeps track of everyone’s comings and goings. He may be able to help.”
She leaned forward. “I need to talk to all of them again. Casually. So they don’t know I’m doing it.”
He checked his watch. “Dinner is at eight thirty. It’s eight now. We’re putting out a big spread. It’s been a long day, and everyone needs a good meal. I’ll tell George to add a place for you, and to keep the wine flowing. Loosen people up. If there’s anything to find out, I have every confidence you’ll find it.”
“In vino veritas.”
“Indeed.” He rang for the butler, and George promptly appeared.
She suspected he’d been standing just outside the door the whole time.
“Mercy needs to know what the security tapes revealed.”
“Inconclusive, sir.” George looked from his boss to Mercy. “The guests all appeared to be out of the house at the time of Ms. de Clare’s murder. Except for William Montgomery. Who had not yet arrived.”
“Everyone was at the inn for the meeting with Barker the morning Farrow was
killed,” she said. “When did they come back to the house?”
“Not until later,” said the butler.
“We reconvened for lunch at the inn. But everyone was on their own between the meeting with Barker and lunch. About an hour, I’d say.” He looked to George.
“Yes, sir. During the time that Detective Harrington said Mr. Farrow was killed.”
“That narrows it down,” she said. Not.
“I’m sure you’ll learn more at dinner tonight.” He explained their strategy to George, who promised to serve alcohol with all that evening’s several courses.
There was something mysterious about George. Something elusive. Something she’d like to get to the bottom of. Feinberg seemed to trust him, but she didn’t, at least not yet. Everyone was a suspect—until they weren’t.
The butler had a backstory. Mercy needed to track down what that was. She needed to track down all of the backstories of all of the guests.
George coughed. Butler code for I need to say something.
“What is it?”
“Mrs. Farrow is still quite upset, sir. Mrs. Montgomery, Ms. Sanders, and myself—we’ve all tried to calm her down, but with little success. I worry that she might be spending a lot of time online, on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter, sharing her woes with the world.”
“Uh-oh,” said Mercy.
“Quite right,” said Feinberg. “Bad for all involved. We don’t want a swarm of reporters descending on the estate.”
“The weather will keep them away for at least a little while,” said Mercy. “But as Mrs. Farrow is the queen bee of social media, I doubt you can keep them away forever.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“I thought perhaps Ms. Carr here could have a word with her,” said George.
“Good idea.” Feinberg grinned at her. “If anyone can talk sense into her, it’s you.”
She wasn’t so sure. “I can’t imagine I’ll have any more influence with her than Lea or Katharine, but I’ll give it a try.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll take you to Mrs. Farrow’s room.”
She followed George up the magnificent staircase to the wing with the guest rooms. She quietly knocked on Cara’s door.
“Good luck,” said George, making a quick exit.
“Yes?” called a wavering, high-pitched voice.
“It’s Mercy Carr. Are you all right?”
“Mercy Carr.” The voice trailed off. “I don’t know a Mercy Carr.”
“We spoke in the woods, after Alice de Clare’s body was found?”
“Oh, yes, of course! You found my poor Caspar. You must come in.”
Mercy could practically hear the drumroll. She opened the door and found Cara Farrow in full makeup, sitting up in an elegant antique hard-carved Art Deco bed tufted in cream linen. The hair model herself was resplendent in a blue silk dressing gown. She’d set up her iPad and was Skyping. Despite the remote location and an approaching snowstorm, Cara was having no trouble getting online. You could always get a connection at Nemeton.
Cara tapped the screen and whoever was on it disappeared before Mercy could get a good look.
“It’s so very important that we speak. Is it really true someone murdered my husband?”
“I’m afraid so.” Mercy felt awkward standing by the woman’s bedside, so she pulled over a matching Art Deco chair and sat down.
“Oh, of course, do sit down. Where are my manners?”
Mercy felt sure her manners came and went like the wind.
“Who would do such a thing?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Did your husband have any enemies?”
“No, everyone loved Caspar.” Cara flounced her luxuriant hair. She did have incredible hair.
“Somebody killed him.”
“None of us.” Cara gave her a shrewd glance. “I mean, I didn’t know Alice de Clare. But she couldn’t have killed him, right? She was already dead.”
“That’s true.”
“Do you think the same person killed them both?”
“I don’t know.”
“OMG. I could be next.” She widened her eyes as if auditioning for a horror movie. “I really need to get out of here. Get him out of here.”
“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. They’ll have to do a full postmortem.”
At her blank look, Mercy added. “An autopsy. It could be several days before they release your husband’s body.”
“And what will I do until then?” Her voice rose into a shrieking wail. Not a true keening; Mercy had seen that up close and personal before. This was a manufactured sound, like electronic music of mourning. She wondered how much this woman really loved her husband, and how much she was enjoying the dramatic notoriety of it all.
“Caspar’s killing is all over the Internet. The most wonderful people are posting their condolences all over social media.”
“That’s great,” said Mercy. “I think.”
“Oh yes, Caspar was incredibly respected and popular. Lots of friends and colleagues. And of course, my fans have rushed to my side at this terrible time.”
Just the way she said it, Mercy knew she’d rehearsed that last line over and over again.
“I don’t want to talk to any more policemen. I didn’t like that Detective Harrington. He’s coarse.”
“He’s just doing his job.”
“I don’t think so.” Cara smoothed the satin bodice of her dressing gown with a perfectly manicured hand. “He seems to think I murdered my husband. But why would I kill the world’s dearest, loveliest man? He supported all my endeavors. Did you know that he was helping to raise financing for a film of my own? A Rita Hayworth biopic.”
“I can see that.” She had the hair, anyway.
“I know, right?” Cara flashed a starlet-worthy smile. “And that’s not all.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, revealing the results of a perfect boob job. “We were working together on my one-woman show.”
“Wow.” She wondered how you could get a ninety-minute show out of one head of hair.
“Caspar backed a lot of Broadway shows.”
“By all accounts, your husband was a very wealthy man.”
Cara narrowed her heavily mascaraed eyes. “What are you saying? I know that detective thinks I killed Caspar for his money. It’s totally ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Of course, it is.” Cara held up her pointer finger. “Number one, I signed a prenup.” She paused dramatically. “Just like all his other wives. Except wife number one. She took him to the cleaners. That’s why he does prenups now. Uh, did.” She waited while two perfect tears rolled down her cheeks. “Poor Caspar. He’ll never need a prenup again.”
Maybe she was a better actress than the world gave her credit for, thought Mercy.
Cara wiped away the tears with her pointer finger, then raised her middle finger as well. “Number two, without Caspar, my movie deal might fall through.” She held up a third finger.
She waited, but Cara didn’t say anything.
“And number three?” she prompted.
“Everything might fall through.” Cara curled her fingers into a fist and pounded the bed.
If she were telling the truth, then no wonder she was more focused on the potential her husband’s murder could offer her in terms of temporary notoriety than on his actual murder. Her goal was to make that notoriety stick. In lieu of her scotched one-woman show.
If anyone could do it, it was Cara. She had the resourcefulness of a Kardashian.
Mercy scooted her chair closer to her bedside. “What’s your strategy going forward?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m just wondering if you’re holding out for the A markets.”
“I’m getting interview requests all across the board from blogs, websites, podcasts.”
“That’s all online, and that’s great, but I’m picturing you talking to Gayle King or Stephen
Colbert, maybe Ellen?” She let those glorious images sink into Cara’s hair-heavy head.
Her baby blues lit up at this pretty thought. “Don’t you just love Ellen?”
“Everybody loves Ellen.”
“Right. That would be the best.”
“Let me text my agent. Tell him to hold out for the biggest shows.” She tapped at her phone. “You know, I really should get a new agent.”
“One thing at a time.”
“I know, right?” She sighed. “Caspar was my manager. I consulted with him on all things.” A true shadow of grief passed over her fine features. Then it was gone.
“You’re going to have to take care of yourself now.”
“I know,” said Cara. “The good news is, with all the stress, I’ve lost two pounds.”
Mercy felt the corners of her mouth pull, but she wouldn’t let herself smile. The happy side of misery: weight loss.
“Mr. Feinberg has arranged a special dinner tonight. A sort of remembrance for Alice and Caspar.”
“Oh, I couldn’t face all those people.”
She choked back a laugh. Cara was talking to the world on the Internet, but she couldn’t face her husband’s friends and colleagues. “Maybe you should just take a hot bath and go to bed. George has left something to help you sleep, if needed. You don’t want bags under your eyes.”
Cara shrieked. An authentic cry, this time. “I have to look my best for the camera. HDTV is the worst, you know. Shows every blemish.”
Mercy handed her a glass of water from the crystal pitcher by the bed, along with one of the sleeping pills the butler left for her. She watched Cara take the pill.
“Now get some sleep.”
Cara lay back against the mountain of pillows, then shot back up again. “You don’t think the power will go out, do you?”
She laughed. “Not here. Daniel has plenty of generators up and running, ready to go should the power go out. I don’t know about the rest of the woods, or the state, or even the country, but Nemeton will be fine.”
“Having money is good,” Cara said, in all seriousness.
Not knowing what to say to that, Mercy patted the woman’s shoulder and retreated, pausing at the bedroom door. She looked at Cara, and she had to admit that she was impressed by the hair model’s poise. Cara looked camera ready. She probably didn’t have a bad side. And that incredible hair.