by Paula Munier
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mercy meant to get up early so she and Elvis could get out of the house before anyone could object. But it was nearly eight o’clock when she awoke, still sore all over. She took a quick shower, washing her matted red hair carefully. She stood there under the rain showerhead, soothed by the water streaming over her weary bones, grateful for the simple gifts of hot water and lavender soap on a cold day. For the first time in forty-eight hours, she felt fully human again.
She applied moisturizer and a pale pink lip gloss and blow-dried her hair. Normally she’d just let it dry naturally, and let her unruly curls fall where they may, but it was nippy outside and she wanted to get on the road as soon as possible. She slipped on a pair of black winter-weight running tights and a striped heather-and-white thermal-knit Henley, pulled on clean socks and her prized furry Eddie Bauer snow boots. This was her idea of dressing up when snow was in the forecast.
She was glad to be back in her own clothes and her own boots. In her own house. Living life her own way.
Like going to Lamoille County this morning before anyone could try to stop her.
But she wasn’t quite quick enough. By the time she finished her toilette, as her mother called it, Troy had texted her to tell her that forensics would arrive by mid-morning and Amy was up and sitting at the farm table feeding Helena. The dimpled child was nearly a year old now—a lively bundle of joy and energy who liked nothing better than banging her spoon on the tray of her high chair.
Nothing better except for peek-a-boo. When she saw Mercy, she immediately dropped her spoon, hiding her big slate-blue eyes with her chubby little palms. Peek-a-boo was her new favorite game.
Mercy laughed and played along as she let Sunny and Elvis out the back door to do their morning business. “Oh no! Where did Helena go?” The baby squealed with delight and lowered her hands to reveal her sweet face. “There she is. There’s our little Helena.”
The game did not distract little Helena’s mother.
“You’ve got that look,” said Amy.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Mercy helped herself to a cup of coffee. Since moving in with her, Amy had embraced her daily morning caffeine ritual: grind the medium-roast organic Vermont Coffee Company beans, brew a fresh pot of coffee, warm the milk, and fuel up to start the day off right.
“You know, like you’ve got a secret you’re not ready to tell us yet.” Amy studied her as she stirred Helena’s oatmeal.
“No secrets.” She showed Amy the postcard she’d found in Beth Kilgore’s cold case files.
“I thought you were supposed to leave the files for forensics.”
“I wore gloves. And I was careful to put everything back the way it was.”
“If you say so.” Amy studied the postcard. “I don’t get it.”
“I don’t, either.” Mercy sipped her coffee.
“What does it mean?” Amy teased a spoonful of oatmeal into Helena’s mouth.
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re going to find out.”
“Yes. This was the case that haunted my Grandpa Red.”
“And it’s haunting you now.”
“I want to get to the bottom of it.” Mercy let Elvis and Sunny back in and they sat on their haunches, ears perked, waiting for their breakfast, which they knew came next. She measured a cup each of premium dry dog food into bowls. “I need to get to the bottom of it. It may or may not have anything to do with what’s happening right now, but either way I feel like I owe it to him. And to Patience.” She sipped her coffee as the dogs devoured their kibble.
“You should eat something, too. Want some oatmeal?” Amy frowned as Helena spat out a mouthful. “Gross, baby.”
Mercy smiled. “I don’t think so. I’ll get something on the way.”
Amy pulled a baby wipe from the box on the table and wiped the goopy mess gently from her baby’s face. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to go up to Lamoille County.”
“What about forensics?”
“You can handle them. I need to check on some things.”
Amy looked up at her. “Your mother’s not going to like that.”
“I’m a grown woman,” said Mercy. “I don’t have to ask permission. I don’t have to do what my mother tells me to do.”
Amy smiled. “I bet you never did what your mother told you to do.”
“True enough.” Mercy shook her head. “But you know Grace, even if I did do what she told me to do, it wouldn’t be enough.”
“Yeah.” A frown creased her heart-shaped face. “What’s up with that.”
“Mothers.”
“Mothers.” Amy pursed her lips. “Don’t worry,” she said to her baby. “I’ll never be that way with you.” She kissed Helena’s forehead.
Mercy believed it. Amy’s mother was a nightmare who’d accused her own daughter of murder. Amy would die before she’d treat her baby like her mother had treated her. “You’re a great mom. Helena is lucky to have you.”
“I try.” Amy twiddled the spoon, coaxing Helena to eat more of her breakfast.
Mercy got her pack and put on her down-filled parka with the fur-trimmed hood.
“You’re going to need that coat,” said Amy. “There’s a big storm coming in today. More sleet and snow. Changing to ice after sundown. The roads will be bad.”
“I’ve got the Jeep. And I’m leaving early, so I’ll be up there and back here in no time.”
“No, you don’t.” Amy stared at her. “The Jeep isn’t here.”
“I forgot.” Mercy sighed. She’d obviously congratulated herself on escaping the premises without incident prematurely. “It’s still at Patience’s house.”
“Brodie can drive you over there to get it. When he gets up.”
“Let him sleep.” Brodie habitually slept in like the teenager he was. “I’ll call an Uber.” She wondered how long that would take.
“You’ll take the dogs with you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m taking Elvis with me. But I’d like to leave Sunny here with you.”
Amy gave her an inquiring look.
“Going back there might traumatize her,” Mercy explained. “Pitts is dying, and his sister doesn’t like dogs.” She told Amy about her unpleasant encounter with Eveline.
“She sounds like a terrible person.” Amy stood up and lifted Helena out of the high chair, balancing her on one slender hip. “Sunny is a lovely dog.”
“That she is.”
“We’ll be happy to take care of her, won’t we, little girl?”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Are you sure you’re up to this?” Amy looked Mercy over in that critical manner in which all young people viewed their elders. “I mean, you look a lot better, but still.”
“I’m up to it. I feel much better. No worries.” Mercy started to take her cell phone out of her pocket but stopped when Elvis barked and ran for the front door, Sunny on his heels.
Mercy followed the dogs and stepped outside onto the porch. It was cold and growing colder. No big snow yet, just flurries, but the occasional gust of wind blew frigid flakes into her face that even her hood could not block. She retrieved her gloves from her other coat pocket and put them on, brushing the snow off her cheeks as she watched Elvis and Sunny race out toward the driveway. Troy’s truck plowed up the snowy drive.
Bad luck, she thought. She’d almost made it out without anyone slowing her down. She grabbed the snow shovel she always kept on a hook to the left of the door and swept the snow off the steps, hoping the game warden would just go away. Wishful thinking.
He pulled his truck up to the top of the drive and hopped out. Susie Bear placed her muzzle up against the passenger window of the back cab, a clear sign she’d like to join him.
Mercy ignored him, shoveling the walk now.
“I can help with that.” Troy stood there, rooted to the ground, as the snow whirled around him.
“I got it.”
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“You could just wait until it dies down.” Elvis and Sunny bounded up to him to say hello, and then bolted for his truck to see Susie Bear. The frustrated Newfie barked her greeting, and her displeasure at being unable to join her friends. “Unless you’re going somewhere.”
She ignored the question behind that statement. “I was just leaving.” She hoped he’d take the hint and leave, too.
“Your Jeep’s at Patience’s house.”
“I know that. I’m calling an Uber.”
“Unnecessary. We’re here to take you to pick up your Jeep. As promised.”
“Oh. I forgot.” Maybe she was more tired than she thought. She shook her head as if to clear it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Where are you going?” He searched her face as if he’d find the answers printed there.
“I’m going to Lamoille County.” There was no point in lying to him. She was a terrible liar, and even if she weren’t, odds are he’d know. Like most law enforcement officers, he had a built-in BS detector.
“Why?”
“I found something that puzzles me. I want to figure it out.”
“What did you find?”
“Remember how we said there was no connection between George Rucker and Beth Kilgore? Well, I think I’ve found one.” She told him about the postcard.
“Interesting,” he said. “And now you’re going up there?”
“Yeah. I want to talk to Deputy Pitts again.”
“We could go with you. The roads are supposed to be bad. You could use an escort.”
She didn’t need an escort. But it never hurt to have a game warden around. Game wardens were the kind of law enforcement officers who made folks feel safe, rather than threatened. Unless they were poachers. “Don’t you have patrols?”
“I do. But this is related to Patience, and Patience is everyone’s priority right now. Even Harrington knows that.”
“Since when does Harrington want our help?”
Troy didn’t answer that. He just whistled a tune she didn’t quite recognize, gazing up at the sky.
“He sent you to spy on me.”
“Keep your enemies close.…”
“And you agreed?” She couldn’t believe he’d stoop to that. And for Harrington, of all people. She was going to kick him to the curb, starting now.
Troy held up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t go ballistic on me. This could work to your advantage.”
“How?” Mercy folded her arms across her chest.
“Think about it. Left to his own devices, God knows what Harrington will do.”
“True enough.”
“You want to keep your family safe and figure out this cold case. I want to keep you and your family safe, and if that means helping you figure out the cold case, so be it.”
“And Harrington?”
“We can handle Harrington.”
As soon as she heard that, she knew she didn’t have a choice. If she didn’t go with him, he’d just follow her as ordered. Although to be fair, he’d probably follow her anyway. Like most good cops, when he was on a case he was like a dog with a bone. And right now, she was the bone. “Okay. Let me take Sunny back inside.”
* * *
THEY DIDN’T TALK much on the way up to Lamoille County. The snow was falling faster and heavier now and the driving was treacherous. The farther north they went, the colder it got and the harder the snow came down. Visibility was poor.
Troy kept his eyes on the road. He was a good driver. Like all game wardens, he knew his way around vehicles—from cars and trucks and boats to snowmobiles and ATVs and Jet Skis. There were few machines he couldn’t handle—even under the worst conditions.
Even so, Mercy couldn’t relax. It wasn’t the weather, it was the memory of Madeline. Troy’s wife. Interrupting their dance. Susie Bear and Elvis had curled up in the back cab and gone right to sleep. She envied the dogs their ability to nap anywhere, anytime. Martinez could do that, too. He used to say that a good nap was a soldier’s best friend, after a good gun and a good dog.
She was very aware of Troy. She closed her eyes and tried to meditate. She pictured a sandy beach on a tropical island, blue waves breaking on the shore, coming in and going out, coming in and going out, just like one of the shrinks her mother dragged her to after she came home from Afghanistan had advised her to do. But she didn’t see a beautiful ocean of blue. All she saw were sharks.
“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Troy’s voice startled her.
“What?”
“Are we ever going to talk about it,” he repeated.
“No.” The last thing she wanted to do was talk about it.
“We need to talk about it.”
Maybe you need to talk about it, she thought, but I don’t.
“Okay, I’ll start,” said Troy cheerfully. “My divorce will be final by summer.”
“Congratulations,” she said, cursing herself as soon as the words came out of her mouth.
Elvis and Susie Bear scrambled upright, their naps no doubt interrupted by the tone of her voice. Susie Bear settled her square head on the console, a black furry buffer. Elvis nudged her shoulder with his nose.
“No fighting in front of the kids,” said Troy.
“We’re not fighting.”
“I think this may be our first fight.” Troy grinned. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“Shut up, Troy Warner.”
“Could we just start over again?”
“What about Madeline?” Mercy knew his estranged wife was still in town, supposedly to help her mother through her recovery after knee-replacement surgery, but no one she knew believed that. Not even Troy.
“What about her?” Troy tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “It’s over.”
“It’s never that simple.”
“It is with me.”
“It takes a long time to get over a relationship, no matter how it ends.” Even when it ends in death, she thought, but did not say aloud.
Elvis nuzzled her neck with his muzzle. Trying to calm her down. Susie Bear just whomped her tail, her upper body solidly positioned right in the middle between them. The furry peacemaker showed no sign of moving.
“You’re talking about you and Sergeant Martinez.” Troy’s voice softened. “Look, I know you’re grieving for him. And I appreciate that. But this thing with me and Madeline is not the same. Our relationship has been over for years. The divorce is just a piece of paper acknowledging that.”
“Tell that to your Madeline.”
“She has no choice.”
“Right.” Mercy wondered how much it was costing Troy to rid himself of Madeline. Pride alone would provoke the woman once known as the most beautiful girl in Northshire into making him pay handsomely for the privilege of divorcing her. Even if she had left him first. “Maybe we’re just not good at relationships.”
“You were good with Martinez.”
“I believed that once upon a time.” She stared out the window at the snow brightening the dark trunks of the maple trees and the green boughs of the pines. “Looking back, I think Martinez was the one who was good at relationships. Because he was good, I was good.”
“You’ve always been good.”
“It wasn’t me,” Mercy insisted. “I didn’t get that gene.”
“What gene?”
“The good marriage gene. My parents got it, and Patience and Red got it, and my brother Nick and his wife, Paige, got it, but I didn’t get it. You didn’t get it, either.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
“Your marriage was a disaster.” Mercy regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.
“Ouch,” he said.
“Sorry,” she said, avoiding those warm brown eyes. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“That was not an entirely accurate statement,” he said. “At the beginning, our marriage was good. We were
good. But we wanted different things out of life.”
“You grew apart.” Again, Mercy failed to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Elvis licked her ear, as if to say, Give the guy a break.
“She ran off with another man,” Troy said evenly. “So yeah, I guess you could say we grew apart.”
“But she’s back.”
“Not for long.” Troy paused. “There’s a condo in Boca with her name on it.”
So that was what the divorce was costing him, thought Mercy. She wondered what condos in Boca Raton were selling for these days. Ouch indeed.
“You know what the captain says is the secret to a happy marriage?”
“Thrasher doesn’t count.” Mercy knew that Thrasher had been happily married for twenty-five years until his wife, Carol, died of cancer a couple of years ago. He still mourned her. Every woman in southern Vermont was waiting for him to start dating again. “He got the marriage gene.”
“It takes two,” said Troy. “That’s what the captain says. It takes two.”
Mercy looked out the window and was relieved to see the sign to Peace Junction. “It’s the next exit.”
“Okay.”
She heard the relief in his voice, and she smiled. He didn’t want to talk about relationships, either. Not really. Talking about relationships was tiresome. She’d dated a guy before Martinez who was always asking her about her feelings and telling her about his feelings in the name of “communication.” It was like being stuck in a loop on the Dr. Phil show. She broke up with him out of sheer emotional exhaustion, and when he asked her why, she told him that she never wanted to talk about her feelings ever again. And she didn’t. Not until Martinez, who convinced her that life was short and unpredictable, and so you’d better tell people how you feel while you could. And then he died and she never wanted to feel anything again, much less talk about it.
“Thank you for driving, Troy,” she said formally.
“No problem.”
She directed him through the picturesque village, which sat at the junction of the Gihon and Lamoille rivers in the shadow of Sterling Mountain. They passed the antique stores and the eateries, the community college and the art center, the converted mill buildings and the old covered bridge. They came out on the other side of town and drove on through the outskirts to the country road that led to Pitts’ farmhouse.