Blind Search

by Paula Munier

  Mercy watched the young widow slip a satin pillowcase over the top pillow on her side of the bed.

  “This is the best for wrinkles, you know,” she told Mercy. “Always sleep on a satin pillow.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Any wrinkles she had she’d earned the hard way: on the battlefield. She thought of them as battle scars worth celebrating.

  Cara fastened a satin-padded eye mask around her beautifully coiffed head and lay back on the satin pillow.

  “Good night, Mrs. Farrow.”

  “Good night, um … Mercy.”

  * * *

  MERCY SHUT THE door quietly behind her and turned to find George waiting for her. It was kind of creepy the way he always seemed to know where she was. There was a house full of guests here, so why focus on her?

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “I got her to take the sleeping pill and to stay off social media for a little while, but the press will be here eventually, no matter how bad the weather.”

  “Understood. But Mr. Feinberg has his ways.”

  Those ways usually included bodyguards. But she hadn’t seen them around much lately. “What happened to his bodyguards?”

  “They’re here. They keep a low profile.”

  Feinberg had come into some criticism over his use of bodyguards over the summer, when they had failed to prevent a burglary. But Mercy liked the guys anyway.

  “There’s a police presence, too. Harrington has gone, but he left two officers behind as backup. At least for now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Everyone will be at dinner but Owen Barker. Mr. Feinberg sent him back to New York.”

  Mercy grinned at the banishment of Barker.

  George nearly grinned back, but seemed to catch himself just in time. “I’ll take you down to dinner when you’re ready. I assume you’ll want to change.”

  “I’ve got nothing to change into.” She looked down at the yoga pants and T-shirt she’d been wearing for two days. “I’ve been on the road.”

  “You’ve had a busy forty-eight hours,” George said dryly. “Mr. Feinberg always has spare wardrobes for his guests. I’ve brought you a few things that might work.”

  She followed him to a room where he had laid out three outfits way beyond her style grade. “Have you met my mother?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Mercy laughed. “Nothing. Thanks. I can take care of the rest.”

  George bobbed his head at her and left.

  On the bed were three ensembles: one black, one blue, one red. All looked like something her mother would buy her. If she were going to keep hanging out with billionaires, she guessed she’d have to get all that stuff out of storage.

  She chose the blue: a simple tunic with matching pants. Silk, she thought. Felt good against her skin. Maybe Cara Farrow was onto something.

  She took a quick shower, washing the smoke out of her hair, and brushed her teeth. Slipped into the tunic and pants. She glanced into the mirror. Her hair was a red-hot mess per usual. She fetched lip gloss out of her pants pocket, borrowed some translucent powder from the makeup kit in the bathroom, and powdered her nose. It would have to do.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  FORECAST: HEAVY SNOW AND WINDS THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT. TAPERING OFF TOWARD SUNRISE.

  IN THE HUGE dining room downstairs, the elegantly appointed, custom-made mahogany table could easily have seated thirty people. But gathered around it this evening were only Blake and Katharine; their son, William; Lea; and Feinberg himself.

  Always the gentleman, he rose when she entered the room. “Mercy. We’re so pleased you could join us.”

  Blake came to his feet as well, followed by the young man, who stumbled to his feet in a delayed showing of decorum, cell phone in hand.

  George frowned.

  “I think you know everyone here,” said Feinberg. “William you met briefly this afternoon.”

  “Our son,” Katharine said with obvious pride, despite the fact that the young man was obviously nursing a hangover, still drinking heavily, and even now didn’t bother looking up from his phone.

  To be fair, from the looks of it everyone had indulged in a generous cocktail hour. All their faces were flushed and animated. Except for Feinberg.

  “Nice to see you again, William,” she said.

  “Ditto,” said William, his eyes on his phone.

  George pulled out a chair for her between Katharine and Blake. The men settled back into their seats.

  Lea turned to her. “How’s Cara doing?”

  “She’s taken something to help her sleep.”

  “I’m sure she needs the rest. What a dreadful day.”

  “A dreadful couple of days,” said Katharine.

  “What do you think about all this, Mercy?” asked Blake. “You’re the trained investigator.”

  “We’ve all heard how you helped save this spectacular art collection.” Katharine waved her arms extravagantly around the room, indicating the fine nineteenth- and twentieth-century paintings hanging on the walls.

  “Dinner is served.” George appeared at the entrance of the dining room, and distributed champagne to the guests.

  Just in time, thought Mercy.

  Feinberg stood up again, raising his glass. “To Alice and Caspar.”

  “To Alice and Caspar,” they repeated gravely.

  After a moment of hushed silence, he sat back down.

  The courses began. George announced each course—and every single one featured a significant alcoholic ingredient. Starting with pumpkin soup spiked with hard apple cider, bourbon, and maple syrup, followed by escargot in garlic and wine sauce. Every course came with a wine pairing.

  As the courses went on, tongues loosened, and the wagging commenced. She was surprised anyone could speak at all, given the amount of alcohol consumed between cocktails and dessert. She was careful not to drink anything, and her abstinence did not escape notice. Katharine pointed to her glass several times and told her, “Drink up, my dear!”

  Over the third course—sea scallops in Grand Marnier sauce—their host steered the conversation toward the good old days. Everyone toasted Alice de Clare and the inn, then plunged into what amounted to an obituary for Caspar, listing his Broadway business triumphs. But all his successes didn’t make him any less loathsome in Mercy’s eyes.

  He’d been a wolf. She’d come across them from time to time in the army and had been forced to protect herself more than once. She knew how to handle them. Their civilian counterparts were usually sheep, comparatively speaking. That said, she’d gotten a bad feeling about Caspar Farrow and was not entirely surprised to find him dead. Nor would she be surprised to find out that a woman killed him. Time to shake the pot a bit.

  “I know you were at school together, but frankly I’m surprised you were all so close,” she said. “Caspar Farrow seemed so different from the rest of you.”

  Katharine smiled. “You mean he was crass.”

  “He had his faults, but he was a loyal friend,” Lea said.

  “He was like a little brother,” added Blake. “He drives you crazy, but you know he’d lay down his life for you. So you love him anyway.”

  Mercy couldn’t see Farrow laying his life down for anyone. She wondered how these people managed to convince themselves otherwise. The blind loyalty of childhood friendships, she supposed.

  “We’d heard the rumors, of course,” said Katharine.

  “Rumors?”

  “Of sexual harassment,” said Lea.

  “All unproven,” said Blake.

  “A dozen lawsuits settled out of court,” said Lea. “Not to mention five wives.”

  “I don’t know why a babe like Cara would stand for it,” said William.

  “All his wives were beautiful,” said Katharine.

  “Some men aren’t cut out for marriage,” said Blake. “But Caspar seemed to settle down when he married Cara.”

  If that were true, she thought, it was only beca
use he’d met his match in his enterprising fifth wife.

  Feinberg guided his guests back to the subject of Alice de Clare. “The authorities need to notify her next of kin. But they’re having trouble finding family members.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Katharine. “I believe her parents died in a car crash a couple of years ago. She struck me as a lonely young woman.”

  “She was adopted,” added Lea. “As far as I know, she had no brothers or sisters.”

  “Did she ever make any effort to find her birth mother?” asked Mercy. “Her birth parents?”

  “Not that I know of. But she may have. Many adopted women do look for their birth parents when they get pregnant.”

  “So you knew?”

  “I guessed.” Lea shrugged. “I spend my life taking pictures of people. I notice things.”

  “Did she tell you who the father was?”

  “It must have been Ethan,” said Blake.

  “Not necessarily,” said Katharine. “She was as lovely as she was ambitious. Alice had many admirers. And let’s remember, she was French.”

  “Katharine,” said Blake, with a note of warning.

  “Don’t be so provincial, darling. I certainly wouldn’t think any less of her.”

  By the time the braised beef in tawny port arrived, everyone was in their cups. Time to take them back in time to the beginning.

  “I understand you were all at school together.”

  William, a sullen drunk if there ever was one, looked up from his phone long enough to groan. “Oh God, don’t get them started.”

  “Now, William, be nice,” said Katharine, in that chirping way indulgent parents have of chastising their children to no effect. “We were inseparable,” she said to Mercy. “Blake and I, Lea and Max.”

  “Max is gone now,” said Lea quietly. “He died in 1985.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He was the loveliest man,” said Katharine. “A genius, really. So talented.”

  “Max was an artist,” said Lea.

  “A very gifted sculptor,” said Blake.

  “You met at college?”

  “Prep school.”

  “Elliott Academy,” said Katherine.

  Elliott Academy was a famous—some would say notorious—boarding school about fifteen miles north of Northshire. The academy was founded by villagers for public education in the early 1800s and transformed into a progressive powerhouse by radical educators in the Sixties. New England was a hotbed of boarding schools, the kind of schools where foreign dignitaries and princes sent their kids to be educated with the offspring of the most popular entertainers, the most powerful politicians, and the most ruthless business tycoons. Royalty: American, European, and otherwise.

  “That must have been an amazing experience,” said Mercy. Vermont had its share of these institutions, some more than two hundred years old. But Elliott Academy was one of a kind, known for its liberal views, flexible schedules, and unorthodox curricula. Prep school for millionaire hippies, some called it.

  Lea laughed. “It was fun.”

  Katharine laughed, too, a drunken giggle that seemed incongruent with the self-possessed woman she usually presented to the world. “We were young and free and more or less unsupervised.”

  Even Blake grinned. “It was a wild time, and we were wild, too.”

  One of Mercy’s best literature professors at Boston College was an Elliott graduate. He claimed that his alma mater produced more MacArthur genius grants than any other high school in the country. “You must have had very inspiring teachers.”

  “I suppose,” said Blake. “But we didn’t spend much time in class. We’d meet with our advisors in the morning, then pack a picnic and hike into the woods, spending afternoons smoking dope and skinny-dipping.”

  “We would stay up half the night playing games,” said Lea.

  “You girls always beat us at Scrabble and Boggle,” said Blake.

  “And you boys beat us at poker.”

  “We didn’t just play games,” said Katharine primly. “We’d have long debates on philosophy, art, politics. Those were the most interesting conversations of my life.”

  “We solved all the problems of the world,” said Lea.

  “Caspar Farrow, too?”

  “Eventually,” said Blake. “He was younger than we were, so we mostly ignored him at first.’

  “Just another freshman adoring us from afar.” Katharine laughed. “He had to try harder.”

  Blake and Lea laughed with her.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” said Katharine, looking at her husband and her friend, grief marking her fine features. “How can it be?”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “It seems like just yesterday we were at school together,” said Blake.

  “And you’ve stayed close all these years?”

  “Yes,” said Lea.

  “We got married and had William,” said Katharine. “Max and Lea got married. We stood in each other’s weddings.”

  “Then Max got sick,” said Lea. “AIDS.”

  “It was early on. No one knew what it was,” said Katharine. “She started documenting Max’s illness.”

  “Lea always took pictures,” said Blake.

  “But the ones she took of Max were the ones that made her famous,” said Katharine.

  “She changed the world with those photos,” said Blake. “Nobody was doing anything about AIDS and her pictures helped change that.”

  “She won the Pulitzer Prize,” said Katharine. “Max near the end.”

  “I’ve seen that picture,” said Mercy, remembering the devastating portrait of a dying young man.

  “Max was very brave,” said Lea.

  “So were you,” said Blake. “You cared for him all that time.”

  Lea smiled gratefully at her friends, and Mercy was moved by the strength of their bond, even after all these years.

  George and Mrs. Espinosa brought in dessert: drunken pear cobbler with sherry and brandy. Served with port.

  “Lea also photographs children,” said Blake between bites. “Kids all over the world.”

  “It started with children with AIDS,” explained Lea. “And went from there.”

  “She takes happy pictures, too,” said Katharine. “Like our wedding.”

  “I am a sucker for a good wedding,” said Lea.

  “And you?” Mercy turned to Katharine and Blake. “How’d you two get together?”

  “I fell for Katharine the first time I saw her. She was on a horse.”

  Her confusion must have shone on her face. Blake laughed.

  “Katharine was a talented equestrienne even back then,” he said. “She came to Elliott on a full scholarship.”

  “They have a very prestigious horse-riding program,” explained Lea, “and the school dressage team is among the best in the country. Katharine was captain of the team senior year.”

  “She worked hard,” said Blake. “Half the time when we were out fooling around, Katharine was on her horse. Sometimes I thought she loved that horse more than she loved me. Sometimes I still do.”

  “It’s a toss-up,” said Katharine. “I do love my horses.”

  Mercy could picture the slim, elegant woman astride a horse, picking out fancy steps with poise, being one with the horse. “Do you guys ride, too?”

  “I grew up riding horses here at the inn in the summer,” said Blake. “But I’m not the professional that Katharine is.”

  “William rode when he was small,” said Katharine. “He was good, too. But then he discovered snowboarding.”

  William raised his glass to his mother. “Cheers.”

  “The men in my life are not as passionate about horses as I am,” Katharine said with a trace of bitterness.

  That was the wine talking, Mercy thought.

  “I run my own stables, breeding and training dressage horses.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Mercy wondered how Katharine had manage
d that, along with raising a family and being the wife of a man like Blake, although she figured being rich helped. “You must be very busy. Your own business, and now the inn.”

  “That’s Blake’s thing.”

  “She’ll be the inn’s official hostess,” said Blake. “But Katharine has her horses.”

  The way Blake said it, Mercy felt he was trivializing his wife’s interests. Mercy wondered why he felt compelled to do that, and how she felt about it.

  “And what do you do besides snowboard?” she asked William.

  The table felt silent, and Mercy realized she’d asked an awkward question.

  “I’m a trust-fund baby,” William answered with a smirk.

  “William is a champion snowboarder,” Blake quickly corrected.

  “Was.” William tapped his left leg with his fork. “I blew out my knee last year at the X Games.” He said it lightly, but his sarcastic expression was gone.

  “William is playing an active role in expanding and redesigning the snowboarding runs here,” said Blake. “He’s taking an interest in the family business.”

  If his parents had their way, William’s trust fund–baby days might be over. Mercy wondered how he would feel about staying close to home. If he had been really a champion, he’d be a definite draw to the inn. If he didn’t spend all his time partying. He’d spent most of dinner texting and grinning to himself. She’d love to get a look at his phone.

  “We’re just thrilled to have him involved.” His mother beamed.

  Katharine didn’t come from money, she thought. It must be Blake’s trust fund supporting William. Supporting them all.

  “Did you go to Elliott Academy, too?” she asked William.

  “No way.”

  “William had a full ride at the Rockies Preparatory School in Colorado,” said Katharine. “Followed by Colorado State.”

  “Good times,” said William.

  Dinner was winding down. Maybe it was the drunken pear cobbler, or maybe it was Mercy’s inadvertent faux pas, but suddenly everyone was ready for bed.