The Hiding Place

by Paula Munier

  “The rumor was that your grandfather was having an affair with George’s wife.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow indeed.”

  “No wonder Patience didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “She’d rather believe he was faithful to the end.” Grace sighed. “What wife wouldn’t?”

  “So it was true.”

  Grace shrugged her thin shoulders. “Who knows. George’s wife was a very attractive and very adventurous young woman. She had lots of affairs with local men, if the grapevine is to be believed.”

  “That doesn’t explain why she left town.”

  “She left because she wanted more than George Rucker and Lamoille County could give her. She left because she was dying a slow death in Vermont.”

  Mercy knew her mother had felt the same way when she was young. Which is why she’d left Vermont for law school in Boston and never looked back. “Then why blame Grandpa Red?”

  “George Rucker believed that when your grandfather broke up with her, that was the last straw for her. So she took off.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Well, he was crazy.” Grace frowned. “I guess he still is. It doesn’t really matter if it’s true or not, if he believes it’s true.”

  “It matters to Patience.” Mercy slipped out of the hospital bed, looking around for her clothes and her shoes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t change the subject.” She stepped to the foot of the bed, facing off with her mother. “What do you believe? Was Red having an affair or not?”

  “I don’t know. I loved my father. But I’m ashamed to say that I liked him a little less when the rumors started.” Grace stood up, then sat down again. “A lot less, really. And then he died.”

  “Before you could find out the truth.”

  “Before I could get past it, whatever it was. I didn’t want to know the truth then. I’m not sure I want to know it now.”

  That did not surprise Mercy. Her mother was a genius in the courtroom, ferreting out the worst sort of truths from anyone unfortunate enough to inhabit the witness stand. But she ignored any truths that might complicate her life on the home front.

  Mercy left the bed and crossed the room, opening the narrow closet that stood on the far wall next to the TV. “Where are my things?”

  “Nothing salvageable, I’m afraid, thanks to the explosion.” Grace pointed to a small Coach case in the corner. “I packed you a bag of essentials.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mercy could only imagine what her mother considered essentials. Certainly not the long-sleeved T-shirts and fleece-lined cargo pants she favored this time of year. She unzipped the bag and pulled out an oversized ivory cashmere sweater and slouchy wool trousers in a slightly deeper shade of taupe. Matching wool socks and light brown leather ankle boots. At least they were pants, she thought, and not another little black dress she’d never wear. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Grace beamed. “You’re welcome.”

  I really should let her do this more often, Mercy thought. It makes her so happy.

  “There’s a headband in there, too,” said Grace.

  And this is why I don’t, she thought. “I’m going to get dressed now.”

  “You really should stay here at the hospital until the doctor says you’re well enough to leave.” Grace rose gracefully out of the orange plastic chair and stood between Mercy and the exit.

  “I need to get home to Patience and Elvis.”

  “I suppose there’s no talking you out of it.”

  “No.”

  “I could just stand here blocking the door.”

  “You could.” Mercy laughed, which pained her more than she’d ever admit to her mother. She slipped on the pants and pulled the sweater over her messy hair, tucked her feet into the socks and boots. She left the headband in the bag where it belonged. “But you won’t.”

  “I won’t.” Grace stepped aside.

  “Because?” Mercy waited for the answer she’d heard a thousand times before.

  Grace smiled. “Because there’s just no stopping you.”

  * * *

  MERCY WAS DOWN in the reception area before she realized she had no phone, no money, and no ride. Her Jeep was still parked at her grandmother’s house. And she had no idea where her keys were. She looked across the room at the elevators, where she expected her mother to emerge triumphant any moment, that Coach bag stuffed with doctor’s instructions and meds, ready to take her stubborn daughter home with her.

  Or not. Mercy could feel her cheeks redden just thinking of the humiliation to come.

  “Is everything all right?” Troy appeared behind her, Susie Bear on his heels.

  “You’re still here?”

  “We thought we’d just hang around and catch you on your way out.”

  “You could have been in for a long wait.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. We knew they couldn’t keep you in that hospital bed for much longer.”

  Since when am I so transparent? she thought. The elevator doors opened and she caught sight of her mother.

  “I need a ride,” she told him, and strode quickly toward the hospital exit.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Sure.” Troy and Susie Bear caught up with her and escorted her to his Ford F-150. He swept his citation book off the passenger seat and placed it in a back cab crowded with supplies and paperwork and weaponry, all neatly secured on one side to make room for Susie Bear on the other.

  Mercy climbed into the truck and immediately regretted her impulsive request for a ride home. Tight quarters here, with nothing but the game warden’s radio system between them, and Susie Bear leaning her heavy head on the top of the seat and panting into her ear.

  Troy grinned at her from behind the wheel. “Where are we going?”

  “Home,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road ahead of her. “But I’d like to stop at Patience’s house on the way.” It was already late afternoon and she needed to see the blast site before it grew too dark.

  “Not much left to see. The staties have been all over the place. Firefighters and state hazmat crews. The bomb squad, too.”

  Susie Bear pushed her large cold nose under Mercy’s arm and forced it onto her pumpkin head, which now dominated the center console between her and Troy. The radio system teetered dangerously toward the gearshift. She reached for it just as Troy did the same, and their fingers briefly touched.

  Mercy remembered how she’d clung to him earlier in the hospital when Hallett had been in the room. She hoped he didn’t remember.

  “Got it,” he said, so softly that she knew he remembered, after all. He propped the radio system back up, while she gently moved the Newfie’s head back to accommodate it. Then she changed the subject. “How’s Harrington?”

  “He’s in his glory. Between this and the Colby murder he’s getting more press than he can handle. He’s even made the national news.”

  “What Colby murder?”

  Troy filled in her on the untimely death of the wildlife biologist.

  “That’s terrible.” Mercy wondered who would kill a guy whose mission in life was to save moose calves. She wondered who would save the moose calves now. There were always more missions than there were men and women to take them on. Or maybe it just seemed that way on her bad days. This was one of her bad days. “Do you think there’s any connection between Patience’s pipe bomb and what happened to Colby?”

  “Hard to say. We don’t know who killed Colby, or why.”

  A moose hater, thought Mercy. “The killer stole his gear and his clothes and his boots. Left him with only his socks.” A moose hater and a petty thief.

  “That’s right. His camera is missing, too.”

  A moose hater and a petty thief and an amateur cinematographer. Mercy’s head ached. She obviously wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “Are you okay?” Troy looked at her with those warm brown eyes.

  “I’m fine.” She tried fo
cusing on Colby. “Maybe Colby surprised the murderer when he raided his camp. He panicked and killed him.”

  “It’s a good theory, but he wasn’t killed at the campsite. At least he didn’t appear to be. He was found about a hundred yards due north.”

  “What was on the camera?”

  “As far as we know, moose calves. At least that’s what Colby was shooting.”

  “Moose as a motive for murder.” Mercy paused. “Poachers?”

  “It’s possible. So few moose can be hunted legally these days that most harvested moose are taken by poachers.”

  Mercy knew that only hunters who won the moose lottery could harvest moose legally in Vermont. And then only in October during the hunting season. Given the shrinking population, fewer and fewer lottery winners were awarded hunting licenses for moose.

  “Besides,” Troy went on, “most moose poachers are trophy-game hunters, looking for the adult males with the biggest racks. Wrong time of year for that.”

  “Because they lose their antlers every winter.” Mercy grinned.

  “Yep.” Troy nodded. “By now all but the youngest have shed their paddles.”

  “When I was a little girl, maybe six or seven, my Grandpa Red took me hiking in the woods like he always did on Thanksgiving morning. We caught sight of a big bull shaking his enormous head. I’d never seen a moose that close up before. His left antler fell right off, and I was terrified for him. My grandfather clapped his hand across my mouth before I could scream.” She laughed. “I was so worried about the moose, but Grandpa Red explained that he’d lose the other one, too. I really, really, really wanted to take that antler home to show my brother Nick, but Red told me we should leave it there, for the squirrels and mice and porcupines to eat.”

  Troy smiled. “Your grandfather sounds like a good guy.”

  “Yeah. I thought so.” Mercy told him about the rumors that he’d had an affair with George Rucker’s wife. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  “For better or worse.” Mercy changed the subject. “What about food? Could Colby have caught someone poaching moose for food on his camera?”

  “Maybe if they’re hungry enough. One moose can feed a family for a year.”

  “Even if Colby did catch someone in the act, murder seems like an extreme reaction.”

  “Hunters can be a little crazy.”

  Mercy nodded. That’s what made Troy’s job so dangerous: He was always going after guys with guns in the forest. And most of them were good shots. “You said he was hit in the head and left naked except for his socks.”

  “Right.”

  “Wouldn’t a hunter just shoot him and hide his body?”

  “Exactly.” Troy shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. We’re hoping forensics will tell us more.”

  “Who knows what he actually caught on camera.”

  “We need to find that camera.”

  “And George Rucker?”

  “Still at large. As is his former fellow prisoner Rocky Simko, who was seen in the area where Rucker escaped. Simko was released a couple of weeks ago after serving time for auto theft and carjacking.”

  “Nice.”

  “Too many variables. Too many unknowns. All we have so far are some strange coincidences.”

  Mercy counted them off on her fingers. “One, George Rucker escapes from prison in Mississippi. Two, a wildlife biologist is found with his head bashed in deep in the Vermont woods. Three, someone plants a pipe bomb on my grandmother’s porch.”

  “Rucker is connected to Patience,” said Troy. “But there’s no connection between Colby and Patience, or Colby and Rucker.”

  “That we know of.”

  “That we know of,” Troy conceded. “We need to know more.”

  “I forgot one.”

  “One what?”

  “One coincidence.” Mercy told Troy about Deputy Pitts and the cold case files he’d given her.

  “What does this cold case have to do with what’s happening now?”

  “Maybe nothing. Nothing at all. But Pitts is connected to Patience and Rucker.”

  Mercy found herself smiling. This was one of the things she missed most about not seeing Troy these past couple of months. Talking through the aspects of a case, analyzing the facts, debating theories, finding and fitting pieces of the puzzle. Together.

  She stole a glance at Troy as he steered into the drive that led up to her grandmother’s house. He was smiling, too.

  His smile faded as he pulled the truck up to the side of the house. From here they could see the front of the Victorian. Where a front porch once stood welcoming guests to the front door—an antique made of solid mahogany adorned by a peephole and that bronze woodpecker knocker—now there was only a gaping hole. The porch and the lovely old door were gone.

  A narrow temporary ramp made of plywood led up to the former entryway, where her cousin Ed was pounding nails into more plywood in an attempt to close up the empty space fronting the house.

  “Hyah, Mercy.” Ed put down his hammer and came down the ramp to greet her, powerful arms out, ready to wrap her in one of his signature bear hugs.

  She stepped back. “Not really up to a hug, Ed.”

  He dropped his arms to his sides. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little sore all over.”

  Ed took a good long look at her. “You look tired. And your hair is a mess.” He grinned at her.

  “My hair is always a mess.”

  “And we like it that way.” He reached out and gently brushed a wayward curl from her forehead with a large calloused hand. “Except for Aunt Grace.”

  “Ed.” Troy grinned at him.

  Her cousin clapped Troy on the shoulder, then squatted down to give Susie Bear a hug. “You know I love Elvis, but this, this is a dog.” He looked up at Mercy. “You know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean. She’s the friendliest dog in the world.” If Ed were a dog, Mercy thought, he’d be this happy Newfie mutt. They were kindred spirits. “Where’s Joiner?”

  “I left him at home. There’s enough animal-related excitement around here right now.” Ed rose to his feet. “What can I do you for?”

  “I don’t remember much. I feel like I’m missing something.”

  “Something important.”

  “Yeah. I thought maybe if I came back here, it would help jog my memory.”

  Ed retrieved his hammer. “You can go ahead and look around if you want. The bomb squad photographed everything, sorted through all the evidence, labeled it, packed it up, and took it away. They’re sending it to the FBI for analysis.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “I’ve been hanging around keeping the place safe for the animals. And telling the reporters to get lost. As you’ll see, the explosion impacted the porch the most. Thanks to that great old mahogany door, there’s less wreckage inside than you’d expect. There’s some damage to the hallway, but the rest of the house is in pretty good shape.”

  “And the veterinary wing?”

  “Solid. But the patients went a little nuts. Claude and the Cat Ladies are still there trying to calm them down. Go on in and see for yourself.” Ed started pounding away at the plywood again.

  Mercy led Troy and Susie Bear around to the back of the house, to the official entry of the Sterling Animal Hospital, named in honor of her grandfather, Sterling “Red” O’Sullivan, himself named after the Sterling Mountain of his native Lamoille County. Walking into the cheerful yellow-and-orange reception area, you’d never know that the front of the building had been ripped apart by an explosive device. The lines were clean and bright and modern, the walls and floors and furniture coordinated in a palette Patience described as zen. Her grandmother believed in the healing power of color: passing through the warm and welcoming reception area to the calming blues and greens of the surgery and treatment rooms and into the soothing violets and purples of the rec
overy and post-op rooms was like taking a ride through a rainbow.

  In the huge Rufus Ruckus Room—a riot of dog toys and tunnels and cones in primary colors—they found Patience’s longtime boyfriend, Claude Renault, sitting on a box jump surrounded by dogs of all shapes and sizes. One harlequin Great Dane, two black labs, three border collies, a basset hound, and a miniature dachshund ran circles around the silver-haired animal surgeon, while a clutch of chihuahuas in a play yard clamored for his attention. Mercy was thrilled to see Sunny sitting calmly at his side, her head on his knee. But when the golden noticed the three of them coming into the room, she darted over to greet them, exchanging sniffs with the Newfie mutt and offering her forehead up to Mercy for a quick scratch between her ears.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” Mercy told the deputy’s dog. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to her.

  “Who do we have here?” Troy held out his fist to let Sunny have a sniff.

  Mercy told him about Deputy Pitts begging her to take the golden retriever.

  “So of course you took her, no questions asked.” Troy grinned. “You’re always saving somebody.”

  “Not true,” she said, even as she was thinking he might be right. But she wasn’t going to admit that to him.

  Claude didn’t notice them arrive; he’d swapped out Patience’s preferred playlist of kirtan and reggae for Québécois folk songs, and he was humming along as he played with the dogs.

  “Claude!” Mercy raised her voice to be heard over the cacophony of barks and bellows and yips and yaps and accordions and fiddles and Ginette Reno and Raoul Roy.

  “Le silence commence!” roared Claude, and all the dogs stopped dead in their tracks. He waved a long arm toward the floor and they all dropped to their haunches. Even the chihuahuas. And Sunny and Susie Bear. The only sound was the last soaring note of “l’Alouette.”

  Claude rose to his feet. “Reste,” he told the dogs, as he joined Mercy and Troy. “Everything is okay. I treated the animals who needed immediate care. The Cat Ladies are calling all the owners, and most of them are coming to collect their animals today if they haven’t already. We’ll keep the ones who require additional care or whose people are out of town or otherwise unavailable.”