by Paula Munier
“Good job. Now we have to get you back to the estate. Mercy and Elvis and your dad will go with you. I’m going to go after those night hunters. Thanks to you, I have a good idea where they might be.”
He walked Henry back with the dogs, observing how he noticed everything around him. The kid didn’t miss a trick. But he never seemed to have much fun.
Troy leaned over, packed a snowball, and threw it. Susie Bear wouldn’t chase it; she didn’t see much point in fetching anything other than people who needed rescuing. But Elvis took off after it like a bat out of hell. When the snowball disintegrated upon impact, the Belgian shepherd sniffed the ground, then raced back to Troy.
Henry laughed. Troy threw another snowball, this time at the boy. Henry scooped up his own snowball and tossed it at Troy.
He needed to teach this kid how to throw a ball.
The snowball fight continued while the dogs leapt around them. Troy hadn’t seen Henry this animated—in a good way—since he’d met him. He’d have to tell Mercy.
“Okay, let’s not get too wet and cold. We’ve got a long way to go.”
They went back to the cabin, where Mercy and Ethan were up, packed, and ready to go.
Mercy was trying to convince Yolanda to come with them. “There’s at least one murderer running around in these woods. Probably more. You’ll be safer with us.”
“I can take care of myself. And what about Harrington?”
“You don’t have to worry about Harrington,” added Troy. “He’ll back off once we tell him about the hunters trying to take Henry.”
“We could really use your help,” said Ethan.
“Yolanda,” said Henry.
That clinched it. They waited while Yolanda tossed the bare necessities into a backpack.
She slung her bow and quiver of arrows over her shoulder, and handed her service weapon over to Mercy. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Good,” Mercy said. “We can give the bow and arrow to Harrington. It’ll help prove you didn’t kill anybody. And it’s always good to have another weapon.”
“I’m surprised you’re not carrying your gun,” Troy said to Mercy.
“I haven’t had time to go home and get it.”
They started the long hike back. It was early, and the woods were steeped in shadow.
“This is prime feeding time for deer,” said Troy. “So be on the lookout.”
It was slow going in deep snow, even with snowshoes. Which Henry didn’t have.
“Mercy, can you take my pack?” Troy asked.
“No problem.”
“Come on, Henry, you’re going to crawl on my back and I’m going to carry you.”
“I can do that,” said Ethan.
“We’ll take turns. I’ll go first.” Troy squatted down, and the boy wrapped his arms around his neck, his little legs around Troy’s torso. Troy straightened up, his arms under Henry’s knees. “Onward.”
The way back to Nemeton was more challenging than the way to the Japanese teahouse the day before.
“I know a shortcut,” said Yolanda, leading them deeper into the woods.
The birds started to chatter, the forest coming back to life after a long, hard storm. Troy and the others did their best to avoid the deeper drifts, but it wasn’t easy.
As they approached another blowdown, Henry started chanting prime numbers.
“Something’s wrong,” said Mercy. The dogs stopped, and they stopped, too.
Yolanda kept going.
“Stop, Yolanda.”
Troy trusted Mercy’s instincts. He handed Henry over to Ethan.
“Stay here,” he said quietly.
Mercy handed Yolanda back her service weapon.
“No, you keep it.”
“You need to protect Henry.”
Yolanda kept the gun, but she handed Mercy her bow and arrow.
Troy and Mercy proceeded carefully into the blowdown, dogs at their heels. In the middle of a pile of downed tree limbs stood a pair of night hunters, dressed all in black and wearing ski masks. The taller of the two poachers cocked his rifle, aiming it at something they could not quite make out in the gloom. Two steps nearer, Troy spotted the poachers’ target.
A very big bear. Probably the very same big bear that Caspar Farrow had tried to take down before he died. Troy looked at Mercy, and she nodded.
The big bear was still here.
“Game warden!” he yelled.
The night hunter spun around, gun in hand, but he pivoted too quickly, slipping in the snow. Mercy and Troy dropped to the ground, Susie Bear and Elvis at their sides. The poacher dropped his rifle and it discharged, the bullet flying toward the bear, missing it by a whisper.
Troy pulled his weapon and pointed it at the hunter on the ground. The other hunter turned tail and ran.
Mercy drew her bow, and Troy wondered how good she was at shooting it. If she was half as good as she was with a rifle, that would be good enough.
The bear stood on his hind legs and roared. Usually that was a bluffing move.
But the bear did not retreat. He charged.
The man on the ground screamed, but Troy didn’t move. He wasn’t going to shoot that bear if he didn’t have to. The bear rambled right by the night hunter—away from him, away from Troy and Mercy, away from Yolanda and Henry and Ethan.
Way to go, thought Troy. He smiled, thinking of the poacher who’d fled. The bear was traveling in his direction. The poacher might have thought he made a clean getaway, but only time would tell.
Back to the night hunter on the ground. Troy cuffed the guy’s hands behind his back, then jerked him to his feet, pulling the balaclava off his face. “Johnny Buskey. Fancy meeting you here.”
Johnny hung his head and cursed. Troy read him his rights. “Okay, we’re going to walk back to civilization. Which basically means jail for you.”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“Really? You were about to shoot a bear.”
“It’s bear-hunting season.”
“The sun hasn’t risen yet. You’re poaching. You’re a poacher and a murderer.”
“Murderer! What are you talking about?”
“And you’re trapping endangered species. Should I go on?”
“I didn’t kill nobody,” said Johnny. “Animals are one thing, people’s another.”
Troy looked at Mercy. “Let’s get going. The sooner we get him into custody, the better.”
“What about the other guy?”
“Maybe his cousin, Daryl. We’ll catch him later. If the bear doesn’t get him first.”
Johnny shook his head. “You can’t let that bear get him.”
“He’s armed.”
“He didn’t do nothing.”
“Once upon a time he was clean. Not anymore, thanks to you.” Troy sighed. “You’re in some real trouble now, Johnny. You and your cousin.”
“It was self-defense.”
“Right. You were pointing your gun at a bear.”
“What would you do if a bear charged you?”
“Come on, let’s go.” They walked back to Yolanda and Henry and Ethan, Troy pushing Johnny ahead of them. The dogs flanking the suspect.
“You’re going to have to ride with your dad this time,” Mercy told Henry. Ethan pulled the boy onto his back, and they trudged through the woods.
Mercy slipped ahead of the rest of them to join Troy.
“I think they’re poachers who should go to jail, but I don’t think they’re murderers.”
“And Macon Boone?”
“Nope.”
“That’s a lot of innocent criminals.” Troy laughed. “So who did it?”
“I’m not sure.” She lowered her voice, so Henry wouldn’t hear. “But I worry that Ethan could be in danger now. Maybe Alice’s baby wasn’t his. Maybe that’s what they were actually fighting about.”
When she leaned toward Troy, the memory of their spooning together the night before nearly laid him flat.
�
�While you were out with Henry and the dogs, I was looking through my cell phone at the photos I took of Alice’s diary. Most of the entries were straightforward. You know, appointments with her clients, architects, suppliers, people she worked with. The usual doctor appointments, hair dresser, manicurists, that kind of girlie thing.” She paused. “The Montgomerys, the Farrows, Lea, Daniel, they’re all in there. Ethan hardly appears at all. She may have loved Ethan, but I don’t think he was the reason she was here.”
“I’m not following.”
“Alice wasn’t here only to design the inn. She had an ulterior motive.”
“Like what?”
“She was pregnant, and she was adopted. Many women adoptees go in search of their birth parents when they find out they’re pregnant. Maybe that’s what Alice was doing. Remember, she was born just around the time they were all going to the Elliott Academy.”
“How did she make that connection?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a theory.”
“Assuming your theory is correct, the trail led from Elliott to the hunting party.”
“Exactly. The Farrows claim they hardly knew Alice, and yet their initials are all through her daybook, especially Caspar’s.”
“Do you think he might have fathered her baby?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dr. Darling will figure it out, if she hasn’t already.” He looked at Mercy. “Why would a woman like Alice de Clare sleep with a guy like Caspar Farrow?”
“No idea. But then, different strokes for different folks. There’s no explaining attraction.”
Troy grinned, thinking of the night they’d spent together, not sleeping, not making love, just breathing. “True enough.”
As soon as they crossed onto the grounds of the estate, he called Thrasher. The captain was happy to hear from him, but worried about Harrington.
“He won’t be pleased that you’ve made another arrest that should have gone to him.”
“Nothing I can do about that.”
“I’ll have him send a couple uniforms over to pick up Johnny Buskey as soon as the plows can get through. And I’ll put an APB out on his cousin Daryl Buskey.”
“Thanks.”
“As far as Harrington is concerned, the case will be closed.”
“That’s not what Mercy thinks.”
Thrasher laughed. “Of course, it’s not.”
Troy told the captain about Henry and the license-plate numbers. “I’ll send you a photo of the list.”
“Okay. I’ll try to get out there as soon as I can. In the meantime, keep that kid safe. And it might be best if you kept the poacher with Gunnar.”
“Great idea,” said Troy. “It will be good to have him out of the way.”
* * *
DANIEL FEINBERG GREETED them at the service-entrance door. That was a first, thought Troy.
“Thank goodness you’re back and all is well.”
Ethan excused himself and took Henry off to get into a clean and warm set of clothes. The dogs went with them.
“Who’s this?” asked George, turning to the prisoner.
“Johnny Buskey,” said Troy. “He’s under arrest, for poaching, and maybe more.”
“Shall I call Detective Harrington?” asked Feinberg.
“Sure, I already called Captain Thrasher, so you can do those honors.”
“Consider it done.” The billionaire regarded Yolanda with interest.
“This is Yolanda Yellowbird,” said Troy.
She extended her hand. The billionaire shook it solemnly. “A pleasure.”
Gunnar arrived at the door, followed by his dogs. “I’ll take the prisoner off your hands.”
“If you don’t mind,” Yolanda said to Troy, “I’ll stay with Gunnar. Help him guard Buskey.”
“I do not need help.”
“Go ahead. Save me the trouble of backup.” He suspected she did not feel comfortable in the billionaire’s house. She’d feel more comfortable with Gunnar, who was the kind of guy who looked like the woods itself. Besides, the more people paying attention to anything Johnny Buskey may say or do, the better.
Yolanda went off with Gunnar, and Mercy turned to Feinberg. “I know it’s still relatively early for your guests, but I wonder if it’s possible for you to get them out of their rooms for a while?”
“I won’t ask,” he said. “Consider it done.”
Troy escorted Mercy to the staircase, waving an arm to indicate she should go first and then following her up the stairs.
He liked the way she moved.
* * *
SHE COULD FEEL his eyes on her as she made her way up to the second floor. She went back to her room, took a hot shower, and changed clothes, giving George time to get everybody out of their rooms. The butler had put out a new outfit for her. Where he found them, she had no idea, but the black wool pants and nubby cream-colored sweater were just her size. She ran her fingers through her hair and brushed her teeth and put on lip gloss. She didn’t look too bad for a woman who’d spent the night wide awake in a blizzard, in the arms of a man she’d never kissed.
Mercy knew the key to these murders must lie with Alice and her baby. She needed to find the fatal connection between the hunting party and Alice.
She started with Cara’s room, but the grieving widow was still there. Mercy heard her inside doing a Skype interview.
“I’m not feeling well,” Cara said to her through the door, but she knew that was a lie.
Not that Mercy thought she was the murderer. If Caspar were the father of Alice’s baby and if he left her for Alice, Cara would happily challenge the prenup, take half of everything and more—milking the divorce drama in the tabloids. She’d come back to the grieving widow later.
She moved on to Lea’s room. Nothing but clothes and toiletries in the closet and bathroom. On the dresser there was a framed photograph of Max and Lea, Katharine and Blake, on one of those picnics they’d talked about, lolling on a blanket by the lake on a bright spring day, looking very stoned, very free love, very hippie commune.
She wondered if they’d ever swapped partners. Supposedly it was like musical chairs back then.
But Blake had made it clear that he fell for Katharine right away, and hard. They had obviously paired off early.
If Alice suspected that a pair of early-1980s Elliott students were her biological parents, she would check out those people. And she had met the Montgomerys first, at the d’Arcys’ party in Boston—and maybe she’d engineered that meeting on purpose to meet Blake and Katharine. Blake and Katharine, who were high-society and aspiring high-society, and for whom a baby out of wedlock would be a faux pas. And who went on to have William. That was a lot of maybes.
Or maybe Max and Lea were the biological parents. But Max died of AIDS and he and Lea had no children. Then again, they were both dark haired and dark eyed and Alice was a fair blonde like Blake and Katharine. Not that either was conclusive proof one way or the other.
Mercy stopped herself. Too many variables. No point in more conjecture until she had more to work with.
Next to the picture was Lea’s camera bag. Inside she found the Nikon camera, the one she’d been using since Mercy first met her, in the glen where she’d found Alice de Clare’s body.
She flipped through the photos on the digital camera. Pictures of this weekend, mostly. Dinners. The woods. The couples. The crime scene. Nothing Mercy had not seen before.
She put the camera back where she’d found it and closed the bag. Time to search Blake and Katharine’s room.
Their corner suite was down the hall, situated to command the most spectacular views Nemeton had to offer, from the pool and waterfall behind the house to the forest and mountains beyond. It was a space that even the discerning Katharine could appreciate. How had she described the apartment Alice de Clare had designed for her? A postmodern Louis XVI gem. Well, this was more like something out of Versailles itself. Cream-and-gold paneled walls, an intricately carved and gi
lded black marble fireplace, and an elaborately corniced king-size bed draped with yards and yards of Wedgewood blue silk.
Mercy checked the walk-in closet, where his-and-her designer Montgomery wardrobes hung pristinely, shoes lined up neatly below, and suitcases empty. George at work again.
In the room proper she went through the drawers of the antique Louis XIV armoire and found little of interest, apart from obscenely expensive sweaters and lingerie. In the black-and-white all marble en suite bath, Blake’s grooming essentials were laid out between the double sinks. Katharine had commandeered the dressing area, its gilded vanity topped with three mirrors.
The better to see you with, my dear Katharine, she thought. A mirrored tray held all manner of toiletries—creams and lotions, Oriflame makeup, perfumes and colognes. Dr. Wright was right. Katharine took good care of her assets.
A freestanding cream-and-gold jewelry chest held her enormous collection of jewelry. And this is only what she traveled with. One drawer held rings, a second bracelets, a third necklaces. Two drawers were devoted to earrings alone.
No nostalgia here. Katharine had happily left her dairy-farm past behind, and if Dr. Wright were to be believed, Blake Montgomery was her best memento from Elliott Academy.
Only one place left to search.
This would be tricky, given George’s apparent gift for surveillance and sudden appearances. Carefully she made her way to the butler’s room, in the lower level of the house where the service quarters were. Even down here, each room had a door with a plaque.
MR. WILCOX, it read. His room was nicely appointed. Not as nicely as the upstairs rooms in the guest wing, but nicely appointed, nonetheless, reflecting George’s position in the household.
An antique highboy, four-poster bed, nice Berber carpet, and mahogany paneling. A man’s room. Suitable for a butler. A suite with a sitting area and a private bath.
She quickly searched the room and found nothing. In the bathroom, she found an elegant leather Dopp kit. She went through it and realized it had a false bottom. She lifted it up; in that false bottom lay an old faded color photograph of a young Katharine Montgomery wrapped in nothing but a white bedsheet, a man’s arm draped over her shoulder. Mercy couldn’t see the man. The photo was cut off, but she saw a man’s hand. On his hand was a signet ring just like the one the butler wore. She looked closer and saw they were surrounded by hay.