by Paula Munier
Laura laughed, then turned to Mercy. “Tell me why we’re here. What are we looking for?”
“I think there’s a body buried in the stables. Elvis alerted the last time we were here. I thought he was just jonesing for an apple from one of the treat buckets hanging on the stalls, but now I think I may have been wrong.”
“We haven’t done any cadaver training with Elvis.”
“That didn’t stop him and Susie Bear from finding that shallow grave in the woods last summer,” said Troy.
“True,” said Laura.
“That’s why you’re here. Your Hemingway is the best cadaver dog in the state. Before I embarrass myself by telling Detective Harrington my theory, I’d like some confirmation.”
“How long do you think this body has been in here?”
“Since the Eighties.”
“Wow. Long time. But if it’s there, Hemingway will find it.”
“You believe that this body is Richard Wilcox.” Dr. Wright stiffened, sticking her hands in the pockets of her green coat. “And you think one of my scholarship girls killed him.”
“Katharine slept with him, and she got pregnant. He wanted to marry her.”
“She would never agree to marry down,” said the professor. “Katharine was determined to marry up. To marry Blake Montgomery.”
“Richard Wilcox threatened to tell Blake, and she killed him. Caspar Farrow saw it happen, and he helped her cover it up.”
“In return, he was granted access to the circle of power,” Dr. Wright shook her head, the bright orange toque bobbing up and down.
“It was easy enough once Katharine told the others that Caspar had stopped Richard Wilcox from raping her. They were happy to make him one of them.”
“I can’t imagine Caspar Farrow was content with just that. He wanted Katharine, too.”
“Yes. She was forced to grant him all sorts of unsavory favors over the years.”
“Deplorable.” The professor pursed her lips. “I suppose she’d finally had enough.”
“It all came to a head when Alice de Clare decided to find her birth parents.”
“Lea and Blake.”
“Yes. When Katharine realized who Alice really was, she knew that her days as Mrs. Blake Montgomery were numbered. As were her son William’s days as the only heir to the Montgomery fortune. Unless she did something about it. So she convinced William to kill Alice. And she killed Caspar.”
“But William didn’t kill Alice,” said Troy.
“No, he couldn’t do it. He knew his mother would be furious with him, so when Alice turned up dead, he let her think he’d done it. That’s why she tried to hurt Henry. She knew he’d seen Alice’s murderer. With Alice and Caspar dead, the boy was the last link to William’s guilt. Or so she thought.”
“Murder, blackmail, infidelity, betrayal. It would seem that the class of 1982 has a lot to answer for.” Dr. Wright shook her head.
“I’m sure it’s an anomaly,” said Mercy.
“Let’s hope so.
“That is some story. Let’s find out if it’s true.” Laura clapped her hands, and Hemingway bounded over, Susie Bear on his heels. Elvis followed at a leisurely pace, as if to say, Calm down, guys.
“If Mercy says it’s true, it’s true,” said Troy.
“I must confess that I find it all too believable,” said Dr. Wright.
The professor led the way into the stables. They’d moved the horses to the indoor paddock, so the building was empty. All of the stall doors were open. It was a clean, well-maintained stable, but nonetheless the scent of horse and hay and manure was very strong. Mercy couldn’t imagine how the dogs could smell anything over that. But she knew they could.
She and Troy stood to one side with their dogs, while Laura and Hemingway stood in the middle of the center aisle. Hemingway looked up at Laura, his mouth twitching, ready to go. He was an intimidatingly muscular, brown-as-dirt dog, but the splashes of white on his nose and chest gave him a friendly look. And he was friendly, Susie Bear’s equal in charm and likability.
Mercy hoped Elvis was paying attention. Which meant she should be paying attention, too. Learning the art of congeniality.
“Okay, let’s see what Hemingway can do.” Laura glanced down at her happy dog, panting with joy at the prospect of playing his favorite game. “Search.”
All three dogs took off. And all three nosed around. Elvis went straight to the stall where he’d alerted last time, settling into a Sphinx pose in the middle of the stall. Hemingway trotted in after him, with Susie Bear lumbering along behind him. Hemingway sat down on his haunches near Elvis, and Susie Bear squeezed in between them, stretching out her big body along the hay-strewn floor.
“I think we have a consensus,” said Laura.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FORECAST: CLEAR, MILDER, SUNNIER, UNSEASONABLY WARM.
IT WAS A beautiful day for a barn raising. Although technically it was more of a burger-joint reno, thought Mercy. She and Elvis rolled up to the Vermonter in her repaired Jeep on four brand-new tires, courtesy of Daniel Feinberg. He wanted to buy her the Land Rover, but she demurred. She liked her red Jeep just fine.
The parking lot was packed, so she had to pull up on the side of the road onto the grass behind a long line of other vehicles stretching nearly a mile in either direction. The snow was all gone now, and autumn was again at its shining best. Everyone in town seemed to be here, all heeding the call to help Lillian Jenkins get her restaurant up and running again before all the peepers went home until spring. They’d been at it for a week now, and today was the last push before the popular eatery opened to hungry customers again tomorrow.
She reached over and opened the passenger door for Elvis. The shepherd leapt out, waiting like the gentleman he was for her to join him. Together they walked down to the torched Vermonter, where dozens of people swarmed around queen bee Lillian’s hive like devoted worker bees. There were painters slathering thick red paint on the exterior, roofers swapping out the fire-warped metal panels for bright new white ones, vendors carrying in new appliances, electricians and carpenters and firefighters ordering the volunteers about in an impressive show of energy and enterprise.
Elvis ran ahead to greet Mr. Horgan, the elderly retired restaurateur manning the refreshments table. His late wife had been the town librarian for many years, and like everyone else in town, Mercy had loved her. As had Mr. Horgan. He still visited her grave site every day.
The old man patted the shepherd between his dark triangular ears.
“Shakespeare girl,” he said by way of greeting.
“Good morrow, sir.”
He grinned at her, tapping his cane in appreciation. “Would you like some root beer? Or a slice of pizza?” He leaned toward her. “Courtesy of Pizza Bob. Not half bad, and still hot.”
“Thanks, but we’d better do something to earn our supper first.”
Mr. Horgan nodded, but she saw him slip Elvis a breadstick anyway.
The dog chomped it down in two bites and then took the lead, trotting around to the back of the restaurant. She followed him, passing up half a dozen teenagers painting the fence a shiny white to match the new roof under the watchful eye of Yolanda and Ethan. She waved at them, and they waved back, brushes in hand. They both looked relaxed and happy and very comfortable with one another. She remembered their spooning to stay warm in the teahouse during the blizzard, just as she and Troy had done. The beginning of something good for them—and for Henry. She was happy for them all.
She and Elvis slipped through the fence gate and up the temporary ramp protecting the newly stained deck to the back door. Inside there were even more people at work. The sooty walls had been stripped to the studs and the whole place fogged to counteract the telltale smell of smoke. The new drywall and trim were in place. Volunteers were painting the walls a deep golden yellow and the trim a bright white. As cheerful as Lillian herself.
“About time.” Patience stood before her wearing painter�
�s overalls and a big smile. She handed Mercy a gallon of yellow paint, a brush and a roller, a paint pan, and a pair of color-splashed overalls that looked like they’d been worn to a paintball party. She pointed to a gray-primed wall. “I’ve been saving that one for you.”
“Roger that.” She slipped the overalls on over her yoga pants and T-shirt. “You can stay here and risk yellow splotches soiling your pretty tawny coat,” she told Elvis, “or you can go hang out with Mr. Horgan and beg for breadsticks. Your choice.”
“Some choice.”
She heard Troy’s voice behind her as Susie Bear barreled toward her, black plumed tail swishing ominously close to the still-wet yellow walls.
“Get that beast out of here before she ruins my new paint job,” said Lillian cheerfully, stepping into the kitchen from the pantry where she’d nearly lost her life. Henry was right behind her, new clipboard in hand.
“Hi, Henry,” said Mercy.
Henry smiled at her. Right at her.
“Why don’t we get some root beer from Mr. Horgan,” said Troy to the boy.
“Breadsticks.”
“Fine,” said Troy. “And then we’ll find something useful to do that doesn’t involve paint.” He winked at Mercy. “See you later.” He ushered the boy and the dogs outside.
She watched him go, and blushed when she realized Patience and Lillian were watching her watching him.
“Time to paint.” She poured some yellow paint into the pan and dipped her roller into it.
Lillian and Patience howled with laughter, causing many of the volunteers to look up from their posts.
“Pay no attention to the ladies behind the curtain,” she announced as she rolled swaths of yellow onto her designated wall.
The two old friends settled down and joined Mercy in the painting effort.
“Lillian has a problem,” her grandmother said, roller in hand.
“You mean besides all this?”
“Yes.”
“We need a new venue for Northshire Annual Wild Game Supper,” said Lillian.
The whole town typically turned out for this gala, a Vermont-style wild-game potluck where Northshire’s finest donated harvested meat for the hungry and the homeless and prepared a feast large enough to feed all its citizens and then some. It drew a big crowd every year.
“I heard about the church.” The supper’s traditional venue, the Northshire First Congregational Church, had lost part of its roof in the big storm.
“And Lillian here volunteered to find a new place.” Patience rolled her eyes at Mercy. “Like she doesn’t have enough on her plate.”
“Somebody’s got to do it.” Lillian dipped her brush into the can of white trim paint.
“It doesn’t always have to be you,” said Patience.
“If we have to cancel, it will be the first time since World War Two.” Lillian held up her dripping-white brush and pointed it at her.
“That would be terrible,” said Mercy.
“It would,” said Lillian in her best fund-raising voice. “Any ideas?”
“What about Nemeton? I could ask Daniel.”
“That was our hope,” said Lillian. “If you think he’d let all the riffraff of Northshire into his mansion.”
Patience grinned. “I wouldn’t call us riffraff exactly.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mercy with a smile.
For her own part, Mercy loved the gala, if only for the fabulous spread of Vermont delicacies. The best dishes were awarded prizes. For Patience, that meant bringing her venison stew. For Lillian, that meant bringing her moose meatballs. For Mercy, that meant bringing her fork.
“And you know Daniel would do anything for you,” said Patience.
That was probably true. The billionaire had approached her after his hunting party had dispersed once and for all and asked what he could do for her in appreciation. Mercy didn’t say anything at the time, but she’d thought about it and had come up with a couple of things. One, give Yolanda a job. Two, move Ethan Jenkins from the New York office back home to Northshire. Maybe she could add one more thing to the list.
“Just call Daniel and tell him what you need. Tell him I sent you.”
“Perfect.” Lillian held out her paintbrush to Patience. “You can finish the trim. My work is here is done. I’ve got to check on my grandson.”
“You worry too much,” said Patience, putting down her roller and taking up Lillian’s brush. “He’s fine with Troy.”
“I know. But after all that’s happened, I just can’t seem to let him out of my sight.”
“How is Henry?” asked Mercy.
“Better.” Lillian smiled. “He’s been playing cards with Cal Jacobs. I’m not sure how much good it’s doing, but at least he’s not wandering around the woods alone.”
Lillian left them, and Mercy and her grandmother kept on painting. Gradually the gray-primed walls brightened into a golden bower much like the maples glowing outside. The autumnal colors would be gone soon, but this sunny kitchen would survive the winter to come, and beyond.
There was something very satisfying about this kind of work, she thought, watching the damaged restaurant transform all around her. Instant gratification.
Troy returned just as she was finishing up her wall.
“The dogs are with Mr. Horgan. Did you talk to her yet?”
“I assume you’re talking about me,” said Patience. “What are you two up to?”
“Henry needs a dog.” Mercy filled in the white edges of the wall near the ceiling with yellow paint.
“Lillian does not like dogs.”
“She likes Elvis.”
“And Susie Bear,” said Troy.
Patience smiled, but she kept her eyes on the trim as she painted. “True.”
“And what Lillian wants more than anything is for Henry to be safe.” She told her grandmother how she’d taken Henry for a walk to the general store, using Elvis to course-correct the young wanderer.
“Very clever of you and Elvis.”
“You’re the vet,” said Mercy. “What kind of dog do you suggest?”
“A herding breed would be good. But one big enough and strong enough to keep Henry from going where he’s not supposed to go.”
“And smart,” said Mercy. “Although no dog is as smart as Elvis.”
“Or Susie Bear,” said Troy.
“Or Susie Bear,” granted Mercy.
“I know a dog trainer who’s been working with service dogs to help children like Henry,” said Patience. “The dogs accompany the kids at home, at school, and everywhere in between. They keep the kids calm and on track.”
“Sounds good,” said Troy.
“Let me make a call.”
“Let me make a call,” repeated Mercy. “One of the most beautiful lines in the English language.”
“Shakespeare aside,” teased Troy.
* * *
HENRY WAS NOT lost. Paladin was right, he always knew where he was. The problem was that the grown-ups didn’t know where he was. They were lost without him.
It was the perfect day for a walk with a dog. That’s what Nana Lillian said.
And now he had his own dog. She was a Great Pyrenees and Australian shepherd mix, with brown eyes, a long nose, and pretty fur that was all different colors depending where you looked. She had a brown face and brown ears, a white belly, and a brown-and-gold back—brindle, Patience called it—and white-and-brown spotted legs. She had a big fuzzy curly feather of a tail like Susie Bear, and was nearly as big, which was way bigger than he was. And his dad said she was just as smart as Elvis.
“Come on, Robin.”
This was their first walk to the Northshire General Store alone. Robin was his sidekick, and they were tied together. They were a team. Just like Mercy and Elvis. Troy and Susie Bear. Batman and Robin.
Henry was wearing his new Batman boots, so his feet were warm. Robin had fur on her feet. She didn’t need boots. Even though they did make boots for dogs, he
’d seen it on Animal Planet.
He saw a peregrine falcon soar over the meadow toward the woods. Migrating south for the winter. Maybe the West Indies. Maybe Panama. Maybe Mexico. Peregrine falcons liked to wander, that’s what peregrine meant. Wanderer.
Henry plowed after the falcon. But he didn’t get far.
Robin stood on the sidewalk and wouldn’t move. Solid as a rock. Henry tugged and tugged, but she wouldn’t budge. She didn’t like it when he tried to go into the woods. She liked to stay on the sidewalk.
“Falcon.” He gazed up at the sky and watched the bird of prey as it dove for dinner. Maybe a red-wing blackbird. Falcons liked red-wing blackbirds. He liked peanut butter and crullers. So did Robin.
His dog was waiting for him to get back on the sidewalk that led to the crullers. No chasing after falcons. No counting trees in the woods.
He’d have to count mailboxes instead. One, two, three … They kept walking, and Henry kept counting. Four, five, six …
Not all those who wander are lost, that’s what Paladin said.
* * *
THE NIGHT OF the Northshire Annual Wild Game Supper was as crisp and clean and star-filled as a night in October in Vermont should be. Autumn’s last hurrah before winter truly set in. Which could happen as soon as midnight.
Mercy and Elvis arrived fashionably late. Lillian and Patience must be pleased, she thought. Their annual supper was always popular, but this year the prospect of going to the billionaire’s estate was too good for anyone to pass up. Everyone in the county was there. And in the wake of the storms and the murders and the fire at the Vermonter, they were ready to celebrate.
Feinberg had a special structure erected on the wide expanse of lawn across from the pool. The makeshift hunting lodge was in fact an elaborate tent, big enough to house the entire population of the county, and swank enough to attract photographers from Town & Country magazine. Mercy had never seen anything like it, and she was pretty sure no one else in Northshire had, either. Except maybe Feinberg himself.