by Paula Munier
There was a band, a silent auction, great food, and hard apple cider. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, exotic orchids graced linen-covered tables, and burgundy, silver, and gold balloons floated everywhere. A disco ball glittered over the dance floor.
The place was hopping. Her grandmother Patience and Lillian were working the crowd in their color-coordinated teal-and-yellow silk dresses, enjoying their roles as organizers of the most glamorous wild-game supper in Northshire history. Brodie and Amy and little Helena were there too, all dressed in steampunk chic. Brodie’s idea, no doubt.
Mercy was glad she’d made an effort, swapping her usual pants and T-shirt for an emerald-green velvet wrap dress and black suede heels. A good thing since even her parents were there. They’d come up from Boston just for this event. Not because Mercy had invited them, but because Feinberg had.
The billionaire pulled her aside as she made her way over toward the buffet table to say hello to her parents. “I wanted you to know that George Wilcox will be taking his nephew’s remains back to England. He asked me to thank you for finding him.”
“How is George?”
He smiled. “I’m afraid his butlering days are over. But he’s free to leave the country.”
“Thank you, Daniel.”
“What for?”
“Playing coy doesn’t suit you,” she said, and he had the good grace to laugh with her.
“You know, for all this. A glorious finish to a hunting season that started out not so glorious.”
He patted her on the shoulder and disappeared into a throng of admirers. Cara Farrow would be jealous—if she hadn’t signed that seven-figure book deal and agreed to star in the film adaptation.
Mercy moved to the hors d’oeuvre table, wondering how many of Lillian’s moose meatballs she could eat before her mother slapped her hand away.
“You look wonderful,” said the perfectly chic, perfectly blond woman who gave birth to her and loved her even if she didn’t quite understand her. “What a fabulous dress.”
“You bought it for me,” Mercy reminded her.
“As always.”
Her father kissed her on the cheek. “Looking good, kid.”
Mercy was feeling more amenable toward her parents these days. The tangled history of mothers and sons and fathers and daughters that ruined so many lives at Nemeton reminded her that however imperfect her parents may be, they did love her. As Ethan loved Henry. As Amy loved Helena.
Henry bounced up to them, happily outfitted in a full-out Batman costume, his stalwart pal Robin trotting next to him, her lead tied to his Batman waist. The poor dog was wearing a full-out Robin costume.
“Is that Batman and Robin I see there?” asked Mercy. “For real?”
Henry nodded, then looked at Elvis.
“Don’t even think about it,” Mercy said. “Elvis doesn’t do costumes.”
Henry nodded again.
“Where’s your dad?”
Henry pointed to the left of the bandstand. Ethan stood there with Yolanda, he quite handsome in a slim dark-teal suit, and she devastatingly pretty in a stylish amber-colored dress that George surely must have chosen for her. If not her mother.
Yolanda was laughing. She looked so happy and at home here at this opulent party that she was barely recognizable as the woman who’d been living in a dilapidated teahouse. She deserved all this and more. As Ethan and Henry deserved her. Mercy hoped it all worked out.
Henry scampered back to his father and Yolanda, his dog in tow.
Captain Thrasher, dashing as ever, strolled over to greet her and her parents. First, he said to Mercy, “Congratulations on another job well done.” Then to her parents, “Your daughter is quite the hero.”
Both regarded him with consternation.
“We’re always proud of Mercy,” said her mother. “Although we do wish she would try to stay out of trouble.”
Thrasher met her mother’s serious face with a hearty laugh. “I don’t think that’s possible. Trouble finds her.”
He leaned toward Mercy. “Speaking of trouble, the Buskey boys are in a mess of it. Daryl was the weak link, just as Troy predicted he would be. Daryl’s admitted to helping his cousin Johnny poach wild game and trap marten. And to setting the fire and trying to take Henry. But he says he had nothing to do with the guns or the murders.”
“I believe him.”
“We’ll see.”
An attractive couple approached the captain, and Thrasher waved them over. “This is Gil Guerrette and his lovely wife, Françoise.” Gil wore a dark-gray pinstripe suit and Françoise wore a shimmering gray silk dress, with high-heeled black boots and a festive black velvet fascinator.
“Of course,” she said with a grin. “Tyrolean.”
Gil shrugged. “It is my duty to educate my clueless bon ami about hats. And other of life’s refinements.”
Françoise rolled her eyes. “Pay no attention to him.”
“I do love your hat,” Mercy told her. “You look amazing.”
Gil beamed. “What do you collect?”
“Is this a trick question?” She looked to Françoise for clarification, but she just smiled enigmatically at her.
“Every woman collects something. For ma cherie, it is hats. And you?”
Thrasher answered for her. “That’s easy. She collects mysteries.”
Mercy shook her head. “I was going to say Shakespeare.”
“Same difference,” said the captain.
Thrasher and the Guerrettes wandered off to greet other guests. The event had attracted an unusual mix of people. Northshire’s leading lights mingled with regular townsfolk, hunters, and Feinberg’s fancy friends from New York City.
Blake Montgomery was present, looking thin and worn-out if still stylish. Lillian was talking to him, no doubt trying to cheer the poor man up. Not easy given the fact that his wife, Katharine, was in jail for murder and his son, William, was facing accessory charges. Feinberg was not convinced those charges would stick, and Mercy knew he was doing all he could to make that happen. Just as he was helping Lea fight her indictment.
She wondered if Blake would keep the inn or sell it. For Alice de Clare’s sake, she hoped he’d keep the place and remodel it in line with her vision. Her legacy.
Dr. Wright suddenly emerged from the crowd. “I came to pay my respects to your dog.”
Mercy laughed and pointed toward the buffet table, where Elvis had assumed his Sphinx position, an elegant beggar if ever there was one. She snapped her fingers, and he picked his way through the crowd to join them.
“Dr. Wright, you remember Elvis.”
The professor gave the handsome shepherd a good long scratch between his ears. He tilted his head at her.
“He likes you.”
“Smart dog.”
“That he is.”
Together they watched as Lillian made her way to the stage. After the band played a short musical introduction, Lillian took the microphone.
“Welcome to Northshire’s Annual Wild Game Supper. Thank you for coming. First let us thank our generous host, Mr. Daniel Feinberg, for this splendid venue.”
Everyone cheered at this, Mercy included.
Lillian went on. “Now, eat, drink and spend a lot of money bidding on the silent auction. Remember, all proceeds go to the hungry and the homeless. Because here in Northshire, we take care of our own. Have a great time.”
Everyone clapped and the band started up again. Feinberg led Lillian to the dance floor for the first dance, a lively number that drew other couples to join them on the dance floor.
The next song was a slow dance, “Moonlight in Vermont,” obligatory dancing even for nondancers.
Mercy’s parents were quick to dance to this one. Patience, too, thanks to her longtime beau Claude, an animal surgeon from Quebec and an excellent dancer. Elliott Academy headmaster Mike Robbins pulled a blushing Dr. Wright onto the dance floor. And Ethan and Yolanda made a very pretty pair out there, her amber-col
ored skirt flying as he dipped her nearly to the ground.
Cal Jacobs walked over to Mercy. “May I have this dance?”
“Sure.” She’d hoped Troy would be here, but he was probably out on patrol. Anyway, she’d worn a dress; no point in wasting it. Cal led her to the dance floor. He smelled good. He looked good. He held her close.
She liked him, but he wasn’t Troy.
It turned out he was a good dancer, she had to give him that. She suspected the doctor was good at practically everything. She wondered why she was thinking of Troy Warner when she was dancing with this attractive, intelligent, compassionate man.
She closed her eyes and danced with the man who asked her.
“Excuse me.” She opened her eyes and there was Troy, tapping Cal on the shoulder.
“May I?”
Cal bowed his head and let go of her. The next thing she knew, she was in the game warden’s arms. “Where’s Susie Bear?”
“Over there with Elvis.” He lifted his head toward the south end of the barn, and she saw the two dogs in the corner. Both sat quietly, watching the buffet table with great interest, but not moving.
“How long do you think before they go for Patience’s venison stew?”
“Not my dog. Maybe yours.”
Troy laughed, and he whirled her around. He could dance, too. Who knew? She laughed with him.
“Do you think maybe we could go on some kind of real date sometime? You know, no kids, no cops, no suspects, no dogs.”
“No dogs?”
“Well, maybe dogs.” He tightened his arms around her waist. Mercy closed her eyes and laid her head against his chest. Dancing with the man she hoped would ask her.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice cut in.
She opened her eyes and there stood a strikingly attractive woman. Madeline Warner. Mercy hadn’t seen her since high school, but she was as beautiful now as she’d been back then. Madeline looked at Troy with an unmistakable possessiveness. A gauntlet thrown at Mercy’s feet.
“I’d like to dance with my husband.”
“What?” Mercy fell back, teetering on her high heels. Surely she’d heard that wrong.
“I can explain,” said Troy, putting his arms out to steady Mercy.
She shook him off, twisting herself out of his long-armed reach. Elvis appeared at her side, ears cocked, standing at alert.
“You don’t belong here,” Troy said to Madeline.
His wife laughed. “You can’t get rid of me so easily.”
“I can, and I will.”
She hadn’t seen this coming. “You’re still married.”
“Of course he is,” said Madeline.
Mercy stared at Troy. Suddenly, she had no idea who he was. Elvis barked, one of his signal barks, a warning. A warning she should heed.
“Not for long,” Troy told her. “I’ve filed for divorce.”
Time to leave, she thought. But she was rooted to the ground. Elvis nuzzled her hand with his cold, wet nose, bringing her back to her senses. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat.…
She executed a clean about-face despite the high heels and did a double-time march off the dance floor to the last chords of “Moonlight in Vermont.” Troy ran after her. But Elvis was faster.
“Mercy, wait.”
She didn’t look back. She threw aside the curtains that were drawn across the opening of the hunting-lodge tent and Elvis rushed past her, leading the way out into the perfect autumn night. She stopped and stared up at the stars, reminding herself to breathe. Elvis circled back to her, tilting his handsome head at her as if to say, Let’s blow this joint.
“Thanks for getting me out of there,” she told him. “Give me a minute, and we’ll go home. Promise.” The shepherd leaned against her, letting her know that he wasn’t going anywhere without her.
That’s what I get for wearing a dress, she thought. That’s what I get for dancing to “Moonlight in Vermont.”That’s what I get for thinking I could ever love anyone else but Martinez.
“Mercy.” Troy stood behind her. She could feel his eyes on her, hear Susie Bear panting at his side.
She started down the winding road that led to the iron gate, and Elvis came with her.
“I’m sorry.” Troy followed her.
She swirled around, skirt flying, to face him. He looked miserable, but she didn’t care. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t mean to.” He reached out to her, but she brushed him off.
“When were you going to tell me?”
He started to speak, but she ran right over him.
“That’s just it. You weren’t going to tell me.”
“I know I should have told you sooner.”
“You were just going to let me believe that you were a free man.”
“But I will be a free man. My lawyer has filed the papers.”
“It doesn’t matter.” It doesn’t matter because you’re not the man I thought you were. It doesn’t matter because even if you were, you’re not Martinez.
“I don’t love Madeline.”
“Don’t start.”
“I love you.” He looked at her with those warm brown eyes.
“That’s enough.” She couldn’t listen to him anymore. She couldn’t look at him anymore. “Come on, Elvis.” She pivoted sharply and strode away as fast as her three-inch heels could carry her. Another stupid thing, wearing heels. She never wore heels for this very reason. When you wanted to make a quick getaway, you couldn’t.
“At least let me walk you to the Jeep.” He hurried after her, and Susie Bear bounded ahead of them both.
Elvis stayed close to Mercy, as if she were a perimeter to be guarded.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” He pulled ahead of her, and turned to face her, jogging backward to keep up.
If she weren’t so angry, she would have laughed. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“It would be worth it.”
He sounded so sincere she almost forgave him right then and there. But even a lie of omission was a lie. There was no forgiving a lie.
“Leave me alone, or I’ll cut through the woods.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Then go.”
He stopped short, and he let her pass him by. She heard him call for Susie Bear, and the dog lumbered back to him. She could feel them standing there together, man and dog, watching her and Elvis as they continued along the first of the road’s hairpin curves. She didn’t look back until she knew they were out of view.
It started to snow.
She stumbled down toward the gate, Elvis close to her side. He kept nudging her knees as she walked, his way of saying he was sorry, too.
“It’s okay, Elvis. I’m fine.” She saw her Jeep through the trees. “Nearly there.”
She skittered along, her feet chilled to the bone. Snow was falling. It was a beautiful night, even if she wasn’t dancing with Troy Warner. Even if he had lied to her. Even if …
She didn’t know what to think. “We’re not going to think anymore, Elvis.” She kept walking, Elvis trotting alongside.
The Belgian shepherd stopped short, cocking his triangular ears. Alerting. His fur rippled with anticipation. She knew that look. He barked, just once. Signal bark. She stopped.
There he was.
The big bear.
Stomp-walking toward them.
The beast stood, rising on his hind legs to his full height.
A very big bear, she thought. Troy’s monster black bear. The bear that had survived the hunting party and the poachers and the twin storms of the century.
His blue-black furry breast was marked by battle scars. A warrior among bears.
She stood very still. He was probably bluffing, but you could never be sure with a bear.
Elvis barked noisily and fiercely and continuously. Doing Gunnar’s elkhounds proud.
The bear ignored the shepherd.
He roared at he
r, a deep and thunderous rolling bellow.
She roared back.
A long wail of rage and regret escaped her. A sound as dark and desperate as his.
Startled by her response, the bear stopped midroar.
“Steady, Elvis,” she said, silencing the well-disciplined dog into a reluctant stay. She waited.
The bear moved his head back and forth several times, chomping at the air, and finally turned and dropped down to all fours. He lumbered away.
All bluster, no charge, she thought.
The bluffing bear.
Together Mercy and Elvis watched the grand beast disappear into the forest.
Back where he belonged.
She turned to Elvis.
“Exit,” she said, “pursued by a bear.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, the writing of a book requires me to call upon the wisdom, generosity, and grace of a number of compassionate beings, human and otherwise.
Most importantly, I thank my agent, Gina Panettieri, and my editor, “Pit Bull Pete” Wolverton, for holding my hand as I made my way through the perilous journey that can be the second book of a series. My family, too, most notably Mom and Dad and Michael, for their extraordinary patience as I wrote and rewrote this novel. And Bear and Bliss, our two rescue dogs, and Ursula, our rescue cat, who invariably provide inspiration and comic relief throughout my writing process.
The best part of writing about the wilderness in New England is what I learn about our flora and fauna—and from whom I learn it. For all things bear, I thank Andrew Timmins, the New Hampshire Fish and Game Bear Project Leader. Thanks also to Susan Warner, Director of Public Affairs for the Vermont Fish & Wildlife Department, Vermont State Game Warden Rob Sterling, and K9 Crockett, Donna Larson, founding member and VP of the New England K9 Search and Rescue (nek9sar.org), and Gardner “Bud” Browning and Scott Wood of the TSA. All shared their expertise freely and graciously, and any mistakes are solely my own.
A special shout-out to my dear son Mikey and the Nerd Council, for allowing me to sit in on their D&D game and interrupt with questions all night. Grazie, my darling daughter, Alexis, who took us to see Sacra di San Michele while we were in Italy, thereby planting the seeds of this story in my subconscious. And to my sweet son, Greg, one of my most perceptive beta readers, along with sister agent, Terrie Wolf, and editor extraordinaire, Dana Isaacson.