by Paula Munier
William was the first to excuse himself. Blake and Katharine followed quickly. Lea bade her and their host good night shortly thereafter.
Leaving only Feinberg and Mercy at the table.
“I need to check out that school.”
“Really?”
“Backstories.”
He sipped the last of his port. “I’m on the board of trustees. I’ll make a call.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FORECAST: UNSETTLED, WINTRY MIX, FOLLOWED BY ANOTHER FAST-MOVING STORM FROM THE GREAT LAKES BRINGING FALLING TEMPERATURES, SNOW SHOWERS, BLUSTERY WINDS.
TROY WAS TIRED by the time he pulled the truck up in front of the fire tower. Susie Bear, having the benefit of a full-time chauffeur, was snoring on the back seat. A loud and yet sonorous snuffling that amused him, and even comforted him. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone. Except maybe Mercy. She would understand.
He roused the dog with a quick, “We’re home, girl. Time for stew!”
Stew was one of the Newfie retriever mutt’s most anticipated meals. Troy made it from scratch in his Crock-Pot, with beef chuck, chopped carrots, celery, potatoes, vermicelli, and bullion. A treat for them to come home to a hot meal waiting for them after a long day of patrols. When he wasn’t too weary to eat.
Of course, Susie Bear was never too weary to eat. She scrambled into the front seat, slapping his shoulder with her thick plumed tail. He leaned over and opened the car door for her, and she bounced out of the truck, a soft landing due to the thick blanket of snow that covered the ground. She rolled around on her back, giving herself a snow bath. She loved a good wash in the cold white stuff.
Troy laughed, pulling himself out of the truck with his pack and shaking off his fatigue long enough to stomp through the snow to the red door, a spot of scarlet in a world of white. “Come on. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn to wash up.” Although he preferred a hot shower to a snow bath.
Susie Bear lumbered to her feet, shaking the snow from her shaggy coat with a slow-motion shimmy. But instead of heading toward the door, she pranced through the drifts like the snow queen she was and headed round the fire tower to the back.
He watched her go, and for a second thought about going after her. He decided against it. He was dead on his feet. It was all he could do to drag himself into the house and dump his stuff on his kitchen floor. He left the door open a few inches so Susie Bear could nose her way in when she was ready. It wouldn’t be long, as the sweet smells of beef stew overpowered Troy’s olfactory system. He could only imagine its effect on Susie Bear, whose nose was some ten thousand times more sensitive than his.
The kitchen and the bathroom were on this ground floor. The living quarters—a den that doubled as a bedroom—were on the second floor. Which meant he didn’t have to climb the stairs to get that hot shower.
A chill swept in through the front door, and Susie Bear blew in with it.
“About time,” he told the dog, slamming the door behind her. He measured out two cups of stew into Susie Bear’s bowl and topped off her water. She ignored him and her dinner and clambered up the stairs.
“Suit yourself,” he said, and headed for the shower.
Troy stood under the hot running water until his skin turned pink. Then he dried off and climbed the stairs, a towel wrapped around his hips. That’s when it finally hit him: the delicate scent of tuberose and jasmine, with a bass note of Rangoon creeper. Gucci Bloom perfume.
Madeline.
He hit the last tread and stepped into the room. Susie Bear sprawled on the sectional sofa, her pumpkin head pointed to the other side of the room. Her muzzle was closed tight in the closest thing the normally cheerful dog had to a grimace.
Troy turned, and there she was, lounging on his bed. His Murphy bed, which had been hidden in the wall behind cabinet doors when he last left the house. But the bed was down now, its blue sheets pulled tightly across the mattress, the perfect frame for Madeline Renard Warner, in her pink dress, long bare legs crossed at the knee, toes painted the same pearly blush as the dress. Her long black hair falling across her pale face, her red lips curled in a half smile, her dark blue eyes a deep lake in which he’d already drowned more than once.
“Hi, handsome.”
She was as lovely as ever. The most beautiful woman in the county—back when she still lived in the county. Before she took off with the flatlander from Florida.
“How did you get in here?”
She smiled, full wattage this time. “I live here.”
“Not anymore. I could arrest you for breaking and entering.”
Laughing, she raised a graceful hand and dangled a silver key from a black-and-gold Chanel ring. “It’s not breaking and entering if you have a key.”
“Trespassing, then.”
She frowned. “We’re still married. This place is as much mine as it is yours.”
“You hate this house.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve always said that it has a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“Madeline.” He used his game-warden voice. The voice that could stop a poacher in his tracks. Not that it had ever worked on her.
She patted the bed. “Come on over here, and let’s talk.”
He crossed the room, stepping inside his small walk-in closet and shutting the door. Dropping his towel and slipping into blue jeans and an army sweatshirt.
“Are you going to hide in there all night?” Madeline laughed, that tinkling sound that alarmed him more than the sound of shots fired.
Fully dressed, Troy stepped back into his living room—his living room—and closed the door firmly behind him.
“You’re leaving now.”
Madeline rose from the bed and walked toward him in a subtle sashay that said, I’m worth whatever trouble I cause and more.
But he knew that wasn’t really true. He held out his hands to stop her. She paused just as her breasts brushed the life lines of his palms.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Out.”
“Troy.”
“Don’t make me haul you down those stairs and dump you outside in the snow.”
Madeline laughed, more tinkling, and it was clear she didn’t think he was serious. He snapped his fingers, and Susie Bear tumbled off the couch and over to his side. She sat right in front of him, blocking Madeline. The Newfie weighed nearly as much as his so-called wife did.
Madeline straightened up and moved away. “Okay, I’m going.”
She paused at the top of the stairs to turn. “I’ll be back.”
“The locks will be changed.”
“We’re not over until I say we’re over, Troy Warner.”
Susie Bear growled softly, and Madeline started down the stairs. The world’s friendliest dog followed her at a not-so-friendly pace.
Troy heard the front door slam. He went downstairs and found Susie Bear waiting in the kitchen. Alone.
“Good girl.” He smiled as he scratched the dog’s shaggy head.
Whatever spell Madeline had once cast on him was broken.
For good.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Troy stood in the gray-and-white waiting room of McGrath & Sons, the law firm that had handled what little legal business he’d had during his life: the drawing up of his will when he was deployed overseas, the changing of that will when he married Madeline, and now the filing of his divorce.
“Stay,” he told Susie Bear, who was stretched out along the foot of a black leather club chair, her shaggy black head resting on its tufted seat. She was the only other visitor in the reception area at this early hour. Northshire was a small town, and Troy preferred to conduct his private affairs in, well, private. The office didn’t officially open until nine o’clock, so with any luck, no one but his lawyer would see him there.
Nancy McGrath swept into the room from her inner sanctum, offering Troy a bejeweled hand.
He shook it, wondering as he always did
how she managed to be so engaging in person and so intimidating in the courtroom. All charm on the outside and all brains on the inside, the sleek raven-haired attorney was the McGrath of McGrath & Sons, a fact that surprised no one who knew her and mostly everyone who did not. Troy was glad she was on his side.
“Come on in,” she told him, calling “good dog” over her shoulder at Susie Bear as she escorted him back into a tasteful suite, which looked more like a living room out of a decorating magazine than a law office. Nancy waved him into a deep purple club chair as she slipped gracefully into a high-backed version, crossing her long legs under a massive mahogany desk, so highly polished Troy could see his reflection.
“It’s about time,” she told him, dark eyes disapproving. “I was beginning to think you’d slunk off to Bennington rather than come to me about your problem.”
Troy risked a small smile. “Better late than never?”
She did not smile back. “You can ruin your life long before never.”
He sighed. He wasn’t sure if Nancy knew Mercy Carr or not, but she definitely knew his mother and Patience O’Sullivan and Lillian Jenkins. All women who wanted him free of his estranged wife, the sooner the better, for one reason or another. Most of which had to do with Mercy. Although he suspected none of them had ever liked Madeline. “I’m here now.”
Nancy pulled a legal-size pad of cream-colored paper from a drawer in her shiny desk and popped the cap of a fancy cream-and-gold fountain pen. Pen poised in her fingers, she gave him a quick nod. “Shall we get started?”
An hour later, he was sweating from the exhaustive postmortem of his failed marriage.
“Now what?” he asked, desperate to escape this chic office and get home to his fire tower for a long nap. After that, he would lose himself in the wilderness, with nothing and no one but Susie Bear for company.
“We’ll get the paperwork going.” Nancy pushed back her chair, rising to her feet. “Since you’ve been living separately for far longer than the required six months, there should be no problem.” The attorney paused. “She’ll need to sign the papers, of course.”
He frowned. Until last night, he’d believed that she was in Florida with that orthopedist she’d run off with. Nancy knew all about that. All of Northshire knew all about that.
“Will that be a problem?”
“No.”
“I hear she’s back in town.” Nancy regarded him with something like concern. “Women like Madeline don’t like sharing. Even when it’s something they don’t want anymore.”
He thought about Mercy and Thrasher and washing the dishes. And about Madeline showing up at his place uninvited. “I don’t care what it takes. I want a divorce.”
“Good.” At last, Nancy favored him with a smile.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Live to learn. Learn to live.
—THE ELLIOTT ACADEMY MOTTO
ELVIS RODE SHOTGUN AS Mercy steered the Land Rover along snowy Sussex Road to Elliott Academy. Few vehicles were on the road; most people were probably still digging out. A thankless task with another storm on the way. They passed a few lonely snowplow trucks, but that was all.
About fifteen miles northeast of Northshire, the school dominated the village of Sussex. Apart from the pizza place, gas station, and post office, most of the buildings lining both sides of the one-street town belonged to the academy. A hodgepodge of styles from at least three centuries—Colonial clapboard and Georgian brick and solar-paneled dorm—formed a campus of extraordinary beauty, thanks to the one common denominator that made all the difference: money.
Mercy was grateful to George, who had once again played fairy godmother and supplied her with another attractive outfit: slouchy dark-gray wool trousers and a pale-pink cashmere sweater, black leather riding boots, and a black wool car coat. Not her style, but her mother would approve, especially given the venue.
One year of tuition here cost twice Mercy’s annual army salary. What was it Cara Farrow had said? Having money is good.
The rich kids who went here probably thought having money was good, too. There weren’t many about; maybe they were all in class studying or at the ice rink skating or on the mountain snowboarding. She wondered how many high schools besides Elliott boasted their own ski slopes. Maybe William’s Rockies Preparatory School.
She braked the Land Rover at the crosswalk and studied two young women in jeans, down jackets, and hiking boots giggle past her. No uniforms here. They looked like teenagers everywhere.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever been that young. Although it wasn’t so long ago, she felt like she’d lived several lifetimes since she was a teenager. She pulled into the parking lot flanking Elliott Hall, an imposing nineteenth-century Federalist building that served as the public face of the three-thousand-acre campus.
She parked, and she and Elvis set out on a quick tour of the grounds, taking the long way to administration, winding around dormitories and laboratories, the dining hall and music conservatory, the performing-arts center and the woodshop.
Mercy could picture Blake and Katharine and Lea and Max here thirty years ago, looking much like the students now, skipping class and disappearing into the woods to hang out and smoke dope and talk about life. It was more difficult to picture Caspar Farrow here. He seemed too coarse for a place that prided itself on civility.
An efficient-looking woman of indeterminable age led Mercy and Elvis into the headmaster’s high-ceilinged, darkly paneled sanctuary as soon as she mentioned the magic words Daniel Feinberg.
Mike Robbins was a tall, fit man with a big smile who looked more like a politician than a headmaster. He waved her into a black leather Eames chair as he stood across from her, leaning back against the edge of his Shaker-style desk. “You’ll have full access to our archives. But you should know that a lot of our files from a few decades ago are missing.”
“Why’s that?” She mistrusted people who claimed information had gone missing.
“Fire in the late Eighties. Destroyed a lot of documentation.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Before computers, you know.”
Mercy thought about that. “Is there anyone who was around back then I could talk to? A teacher, staff member, maybe a former student?”
Mike pursed his lips. “Our alumni are scattered the world over. Leading good lives, doing big things.”
“Right.” She bounced to her feet. “Well, then, let’s hope whatever files you have left prove useful. I’d hate to tell Daniel that I’ve come and gone empty-handed.”
Headmaster Robbins blanched. He tapped his fingers on his Shaker desk, then abruptly stopped and snapped them. “There is someone who might be able to help you. Dr. Ruth Marie Wright. She taught biology and chemistry here for many years. She’s retired now from teaching, but she still works part-time in the library.”
Mercy had great affection and admiration for librarians, part-time or otherwise. She’d never met an unhelpful one. “Where can I find her?”
* * *
THE LUDLOW LIBRARY was a renovated nineteenth-century barn two hundred yards west of Elliott Hall. Inside, the space was warm, bright, and peaceful, with towering windows and a solar-paneled roof and row upon row of books. Quiet, too, with students tucked into corners with open books and laptops.
Dr. Wright sat surrounded by thick volumes at a long table at the back of the building in a former tack room that now served as the archive. There was a large orange tomcat on her lap and an elegant old-school fountain pen in her hand. The freshman who’d guided Mercy and Elvis to the library waved goodbye and quickly retreated, as if cowed by the elderly educator’s very existence.
Mercy could see why. Dr. Wright was a short Boston bulldog of an old lady, with a shock of white hair and blue eyes that looked right through you. The kind of tough octogenarian New England was famous for.
Dr. Wright watched the girl depart. “All earnestness and entitlement.”
She wasn’t sure if the older woman was talking to her or not.
> “Cat got your tongue?” The professor’s voice was as strong and sharp as a new whip.
“No, ma’am.” She choked back a laugh.
“Do you find something amusing?”
“No, sorry. You just remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
“Ezekiel Watkins. My drill sergeant at Fort Leonard Wood.”
She appeared pleased by that. “I’m Dr. Ruth Marie Wright.” She stroked her cat. “This is Newton.”
“And this is Elvis.”
The dog stood quietly at her side. Watching the cat. As the cat watched him.
“Mercy Carr.” She held out her hand, and the old lady firmly gripped it. She probably still chopped her own wood.
“The headmaster said you were a soldier. Did you see combat?”
“Two tours in Afghanistan. Military police. And Elvis here served as a bomb-sniffing dog over there.”
“Well done, you.” The professor paused. “And now you’re investigating these dreadful murders in the woods. Which somehow leads you here.”
“One of the victims attended this school.”
“Caspar Farrow.” She frowned.
“That’s correct.”
“An altogether unpleasant young man. Did you know him?”
“We met briefly.”
“I don’t suppose he improved much with age?”
“I don’t think so, at least not that I could see in the short time I knew him.”
“One always hopes that the deficiencies of character one takes note of in the young are softened if not corrected by the erosion of time, but sadly that rarely proves the case.” Dr. Wright sighed. “We do our best here to mold our students into finer versions of themselves, but as often as not we fail. Of course, it’s possible that without Elliott Academy they would turn out even more unsatisfactorily.”
“Sergeant Watkins would agree with you.”
Dr. Wright laughed, a surprisingly youthful sound that was almost a giggle. Newton purred loudly. Elvis cocked his triangular ears. “How can I best help you?”