by Paula Munier
She didn’t have an answer to that.
“We barely made it here through the storm,” said Becker. “And Detective Harrington says we’ve got to get back to Lillian’s now, before it gets worse.”
“Detective Harrington believes Yolanda is a person of interest,” says Goodlove.
Becker nodded. “He sent a team after her, but then the storm blew in. They couldn’t find her. Now there’s a warrant out for her arrest.”
Mercy made a fist and punched her palm. “Yolanda didn’t kill anybody.”
“Detective Harrington says—”
She cut Becker off. “Harrington’s wrong.”
Becker and Goodlove exchanged a glance.
“Okay,” said Becker. “What’s done is done. And we have our orders.”
“Detective Harrington says he needs us back,” said Goodlove.
“People are stranded everywhere, and we’re spread too thin on the ground as it is. Henry should be perfectly safe here with you and Elvis and Feinberg’s bodyguards. I’m sorry,” Becker said.
“Look at Henry,” said Ethan. “He’s not stressed or scared. He’s calm and, well, happy.”
“He’s your son,” said Mercy.
“You know I’m right. I called Dr. Jacobs, and even he said you’re the one Henry needs right now. You and Elvis.”
Mercy didn’t like it. But she knew that Ethan had a point. “Okay. But just until we can figure something better out.”
“Let’s go talk to Daniel,” said Ethan. “Henry, bring those peanut-butter treats with you.”
In the dining room, happy hour was in full swing for what was left of the hunting party. Mercy noticed they’d all been drinking heavily, not too surprising under the circumstances.
“Hello, Henry,” said Feinberg. “Ethan, we’re so glad you could join us.”
The little boy sat down, his attention strictly on peanut-butter brownies.
Everyone oohed and ahhed over Henry, but he ignored them all. Mercy loved him for that. He simply ate his peanut-butter brownies in his precise manner, while everyone else sampled the spectacular spread of hors d’oeuvres George had put out.
All eyes were on Ethan as he helped himself to the port. He’d lost the woman he loved, maybe even a child, Mercy thought. But everyone here—herself and Feinberg excepted—looked at him as if he’d already been tried and convicted of murder. They seemed to forget that he couldn’t have killed Caspar.
Ethan raised his glass to them. “You don’t care about Alice. Not one of you really cares.”
Mercy stood up, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s get Henry to bed.”
He slammed his glass down. “Good idea.” He gathered his weary son into his arms, striding out of the dining room without a second glance. She followed father and son up the long grand staircase to the guest wing. At her request, Henry and Ethan were now sharing a room. The name on the door read MASTER JENKINS AND SON.
The large room boasted two brass double beds dressed in navy and gold, one for each of the male Jenkinses. Paintings of naval vessels at sea hung above the gleaming headboards, and antique steamer trunks stood at the footboards. An altogether manly room for father and son.
Henry was sound asleep now.
“Let me put him to bed,” she told Ethan. “Why don’t you take a shower and cool down.”
“Fine.” Ethan headed to the bathroom.
Mercy deposited the sleeping boy on the nearest bed and pulled off his sneakers and socks. She rummaged through the highboy across the room and pulled out a pair of kid-sized navy pajamas. Courtesy of George, no doubt. She removed Henry’s jeans and sweatshirt, slipped on his pajamas, and tucked him under the covers. Elvis curled up at the foot of the boy’s bed. Henry slept on.
“Good boy,” she told him, with a quick pat. The dog was a wonder.
She settled into a red wingback chair by the fireplace opposite the beds to wait for Ethan to come out of the shower. She didn’t have to wait long. He joined her at Henry’s bedside, wearing one of Nemeton’s signature terry-cloth bathrobes over navy pajamas much like the one his son now wore.
“Are you okay?”
He raked his hands through damp hair. “I’m just so angry. I know one of those bastards killed Alice. And I can’t let them get away with it.” He sat on the navy-and-gold ottoman opposite her.
“You really loved her.”
He stared at her. “She was the one. My one.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes.”
“Was the baby yours?”
“Of course.” Ethan ducked his head, holding it in his hands. “I wanted to marry her, but she kept putting me off. Said she wasn’t ready. She even wrote me a letter telling me it was over between us. But I didn’t believe that for a minute. I was hoping that this weekend she’d change her mind, and we could announce our plans.”
“Our plans?”
He raised his head. “Well, my plans. But she was going to come around. I know she was.”
“Look, I know how hard it is to lose someone you love,” said Mercy. “I’ve been there. But this anger is a luxury you cannot afford. It won’t do you any good, and it certainly won’t do Henry any good.”
“I’ve got to do something.”
She softened her tone. “Focus on your son. I’m sorry about Alice, but she’s gone. Henry is still here and he needs a father.”
“I know.”
“Try to get some sleep,” she said firmly. “George can give you something to help if you need it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find out who killed Alice and Caspar.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for Henry. And for Lillian.”
She stood up, heading for the door. Elvis barked.
“Stay,” she told him. “Guard Henry.”
With the fierce Belgian shepherd stationed at his bedside, she knew the boy was safe. She slipped downstairs, for once not encountering the omnipresent George. She found him in the dining room, overseeing the replenishment of the hors d’oeuvres and port.
Feinberg welcomed her back with a grin. No one else paid much attention as she slid into the seat next to William. The others were all feeling very relaxed despite the circumstances, thanks to food and booze. They lounged around on the generously sized upholstered chairs, as if they were at a pool rather than the formal dining room of the richest man in Vermont. Relaxed enough to talk openly about the murders as they kept eating and drinking.
Murder is a hungry—and thirsty—business, she thought.
“So, Mercy, tell us who you think killed Alice and Caspar.” William took his eyes off his phone just long enough to pose the question. But whatever she said, she figured he’d tweet it out to all the world.
“It’s a little premature to be making accusations.”
“That didn’t stop Detective Harrington from arresting Ethan,” Blake pointed out.
“Lea says the murders must be connected,” said Katharine.
“In which case, Ethan couldn’t have done it,” said Lea.
They finally figured that out, she thought.
“Does that mean it’s one of us?” asked William. “Epic.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said his mother sharply. “It’s hunting season. The woods are full of hunters. That’s where Detective Harrington should be focusing his investigation.” She turned to Mercy. “And your game warden.”
“I’m sure that they’re doing all they can.”
“I can understand that Caspar may have had a few enemies,” said Lea. “Now that I think more about it, as many people hated him as loved him.”
“He was not an easy man to love,” said Katharine.
“Cara did,” said Lea.
“But Alice?” asked Blake. “She couldn’t have had any enemies.”
“A lovely girl,” said Katharine.
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The conversation faltered at the thought of the beautiful architect with the arrow through her heart. One by one, the guests excused themselves, until just as had happened the night before, only she and Feinberg were left at the table.
“If you could loan me a laptop,” she told him, “I’ve got work to do.”
“Of course. This must be resolved. The sooner, the better.”
* * *
AS REQUESTED, HER room was next to Ethan and Henry’s. There was a laptop set up on the antique French kidney desk in the corner. And a crystal decanter of red wine with a matching glass.
Thank you, Daniel. Thank you, George.
Mercy sat cross-legged on the four-poster bed with the laptop on her knees and a full glass of wine in her hand. She was worried about Yolanda out there in the storm. She consoled herself with the fact that the army vet had weathered many storms before and survived.
She stared out the picture windows. Snow fell steadily, and according to the weather report the worst was yet to come. This was one of those storms that would last throughout the whole weekend.
Which was not necessarily a bad thing. She’d have this sequestered time to watch these people. The rub was, she’d have to know who the murderer was by the time the storm passed. And she’d have to keep Henry safe until then.
She started with Lea Sanders. Everything she pulled up confirmed what she already knew about the Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer. In the early days, Lea’s husband, Max, was the star. There were several photos of the four of them—Blake and Katharine, Max and Lea—at art shows and galleries and parties celebrating Max’s work. During the later stages of his illness, Lea’s career took off. Her photos documenting his heartbreaking decline were the catalyst, but her success continued after Max’s death. She took up the cause of children, documenting their suffering due to war and famine and disease.
Mercy moved on to Blake and Katharine. Lots of pictures of Katharine on horseback. Cutting a fine figure as an Olympian, where she brought home the bronze. If its website were any indication, her business, the Epona Dressage Center, was equally impressive. Mercy wondered how profitable her work was. And how much she relied on Blake.
Blake came from a long and storied Vermont family. They had been around here since the 1600s, building their wealth in successive waves of farming, industry, and tourism—and securing it by marrying into Boston Brahmin families even richer than their own. Blake broke that pattern of marriage-as-merger when he wed Katharine.
Whether young William Montgomery would follow his heart as well remained to be seen. Photos of the playboy athlete partying with actresses and singers were all over the Web. Here in the wilds of Vermont, he’d have to settle for ski bunnies. If William’s injury really sidelined him for good. But it seemed Katharine’s fair-haired boy might have bigger problems than injuries. He’d been in and out of several very expensive rehab centers for drug addiction. He’d been charged with possession and trafficking more than once, but so far the charges hadn’t stuck. Mercy supposed he could thank his trust fund for that.
Last but not least: Caspar Farrow and wife Cara. She was exactly who she pretended to be: a hair model who’d made a fortune as the host of Be Hair Now. Her florid-faced husband was as much of a ladies’ man as William. Five wives, like Cara had told her, but no children. Not that marriage seemed to sideline him. Online photos of Caspar with attractive women abounded. He was accused of sexual harassment and supposedly paid off a number of young women. One Web site predicted that he’d be kicked out of his own company within a year.
Then where would Cara Farrow be, she wondered. And where would Cara Farrow be now that he was dead?
On the Today show, Mercy answered her own question with a laugh.
Enough of the lifestyles of the rich and famous. She closed the laptop and finished her wine. The snow continued to fall, the wind howling around Nemeton, as solid a structure as a billionaire could build.
She couldn’t help but think of Lillian in the hospital and Henry in his bed, Elvis at his side, his grieving father in the bed next to him. She thought of Alice de Clare and her unborn baby and Caspar Farrow, who unlike Alice and her child probably deserved his grisly end.
If anyone deserves such an end.
And finally, she thought of Troy. That smile. That grace under pressure. That down-home moral compass. Troy was the kind of man you could depend on. He’d proven it today, just as he’d proven it before.
She hoped he’d prove it tomorrow when she called him and asked him to come help her find the murderer.
* * *
ONLY HE CALLED her first. Half an hour later.
“I’m downstairs,” he said.
She raced down to the kitchen, where Troy and Susie Bear were waiting for her.
“I checked the tape of the night hunters last night. No sign of them, but there was interesting footage of a suspect in a balaclava and a crossbow.”
“So you’re right and it’s the night hunters after all,” said Mercy.
“You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t believe that the people here at Nemeton are innocent, which is not the same thing as saying they are guilty of murder.”
“There’s something else.” Troy pulled a long cream-and-slate-barred feather from his pocket. “Remember the bob-house?”
“Where we found Henry. Where Yolanda said she’d seen night hunters.”
Troy nodded. “I went back to hide a camera there during patrols last night, and I found this tucked under the gutting table.”
“Another peregrine falcon feather.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t we find it the first time?”
“We were looking for Henry.”
“Or it wasn’t there.”
“I’m going back tonight to check the camera.”
“I’m going with you.”
Troy grinned. “I suppose there’s no stopping you.”
“No.”
“What about Elvis?”
At the sound of her friend’s name, Susie Bear leaned against Mercy.
“May I be of any assistance?” George appeared at the kitchen door, as if he’d been listening all along.
“Elvis and I need to go out with Troy and Susie Bear for a while. Could you ask Daniel if one of his bodyguards could guard Henry until we come back?”
“Of course. Right away.”
She ran upstairs to fetch Elvis. Henry was sound asleep, as was his father.
“Come on, Elvis,” she whispered. The shepherd hesitated, reluctant to leave his charge.
“Come,” she said firmly, and he trotted over. She shut the door softly behind him, nodding to the bodyguard already waiting outside in the hall. Henry would be safe.
George appeared again, handing her a pair of gloves, a knit cap, and a pair of snow boots.
“Thank you,” she said.
The dogs raced ahead to the truck, eager to be on the job together. Mercy was eager, too. She grinned at Troy as he opened the back cab for the dogs, who scrambled onto the back seat. He opened the passenger door for her, and she climbed into the front seat, greeted by the not-unpleasant smell of forest, man, and dog.
Troy drove down the long drive that led to Nemeton, parking on the other side of the gate that marked the entrance to the estate proper.
“Shortcut,” he told her. “This way we can avoid getting wet.”
When they all piled out, he handed her a pair of night goggles and a rifle. “Just in case.”
He fastened a lighted collar onto Susie Bear; she did the same for Elvis.
“Good to go?” he asked, without looking at her.
“Good to go.”
Mercy followed Troy and the dogs into the woods along a trail leading to the back of the marshland where they’d found the bob-house. The night’s temperature was below freezing—and only a sliver of a moon peeked out from dark clouds obscuring most of the stars. They had crunched along in the snow for nearly a mile when the t
rees began to thin. The forest gave way to wetland, quickly icing over.
They didn’t speak, just stomped along, watching the bouncing lights that were Elvis and Susie strobe the way ahead. That was one of the things she usually most appreciated about Troy. He never rushed to fill the quiet. He was comfortable with silence. She was comfortable with him. But tonight was different. He was quiet, yes, but there was no peace or companionability in his silence. He was tense, holding his shoulders high and tight.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine.”
But she knew he was lying. Usually he was honest to a fault. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.” He pointed ahead. “There it is.”
She peered through the gloom and could just make out the shadowed shape of the ice fishing shack on the edge of the ice-covered marsh. “Did you ever find out who it belongs to?”
“Nope. But maybe this camera footage will tell us.”
Elvis and Susie Bear raced for the shed and disappeared. She and Troy were about twenty feet away when she heard the first bark. Elvis. A second bark. Susie Bear.
Mercy and Troy sprinted for the bob-house. A shot rang out, barely missing Troy and splintering a birch behind him.
That was close, she thought. The shooter must be wearing night goggles.
Another shot, closer this time.
Mercy hit the forest floor. Troy followed suit. He turned to her, motioning for her to put on night goggles and ready her rifle. He put on his own goggles and pulled out his pistol.
He waved his arm and together they crawled on their bellies over the frozen marsh toward the bob-house. When they reached a stand of cattails, the only shield between them and the shed, he said, “Stay here and cover me.”
Before she could protest, he was off. She squatted behind the cattails, her weight splitting the ice. She sank into cold shallow water, cocked her rifle, and raised the barrel through the cattails. Aimed for the bob-house.
Troy ran pell-mell toward the shed.
Silence. All she heard was the cracking of the ice under Troy’s boots.
A figure in black eased around the corner of the ice shack, and Mercy caught sight of a glint of metal.
She aimed. Fired. Watched the figure fall.