by Paula Munier
Troy could see where this was going. “Let me guess.”
She smiled. “Go ahead.”
“It wasn’t a snake at all.” He pointed at Mercy with a chicken leg. “It was just a rope or a cable or something snake-like.”
“I could have told you that,” said Wyetta, as she refilled their coffee cups.
Mercy laughed. “Okay, so it’s a little predictable.”
“It’s lame.” He grinned. He liked the idea that Martinez could tell a lame story. The sergeant was a hero, but he wasn’t perfect. And yet Mercy still loved him. She would always love him. Troy wasn’t perfect, either. Maybe someday she could love him, too.
“It’s a little lame,” Mercy conceded. “But the moral of the story is good. A lot of what we’re afraid of is just rope—not snakes.”
“But by all accounts, Thomas Kilgore was a snake,” he said.
“I can confirm that,” said Wyetta. “Not that you asked.” She slapped a small stack of paper napkins on the table with one hand and held a coffeepot in the other.
They both looked up at her.
“Everyone needs more napkins when they eat my fried chicken.”
“You knew Kilgore?” asked Mercy.
“Of course.”
“So you’ve lived here a long time.”
“I was born and raised here.” She topped off their cups with hot coffee and set the pot on their table. “My people are originally from Mississippi. But my father settled here after Vietnam, said after surviving that jungle there was no way he was going back to the South. He wanted to live someplace clean and cool with lots of fresh water so he could go fishing whenever he wanted. Somewhere where there weren’t too many people around. He had an Army buddy from Vermont, told him Vermont was heaven. So he moved here, met my mother at church, and married her. They opened the first soul food café in the county. Named it after their firstborn.” She opened her arms and grinned. “That would be my own sweet self.”
“And now it’s your café.”
“After Mom died, his heart just wasn’t in it anymore. So I took over. He goes fishing, and I run the place.”
“So you know this town and everybody in it,” said Mercy.
He could see the wheels turning in her brain. Wyetta was going to get some grilling now.
“I do.” Wyetta crossed her arms across her chest and leaned back on her heels. “May I ask what you’re really doing here in Peace Junction? Not many people come up in the middle of a snowstorm to talk about a fool like Thomas Kilgore.”
“We’re here investigating a cold case,” said Troy.
“Beth Kilgore.”
“Yes,” said Mercy. “Did you know her?”
“Sorrowful little thing. Married to your ordinary, run-of-the-mill bastard. Thomas Kilgore, who ruined everything he touched, sooner or later.”
“You knew them both.”
“As well as anyone else. She was a very private person, and he wasn’t the kind of man anyone with any sense would want to get to know very well.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
“If you all are going to keep on asking questions, I’m going to take a seat.” Wyetta pulled one of the tulip chairs over to the edge of the booth and sat down, crossing her long legs. She was a good-looking woman, Troy thought. Smart and talented, too. The right kind of woman for Captain Thrasher. He wondered if she were involved with anyone. If she weren’t, well, there was no point in even thinking about it. The captain would kill him for trying to fix him up with someone. Everyone else in Northshire was already trying.
“She and her husband took off for California. The one person who didn’t believe that was her father, and he wasn’t all that bright, if you get my meaning.”
“My grandfather thought he might be right, and he was no fool.”
“Sheriff Red O’Sullivan,” explained Troy.
“Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long while.” She smiled at Mercy. “He was a good man. Always looked out for me and my family.” At their inquiring looks, she added, “He kept the rednecks at bay.”
“That sounds about right.” Mercy smiled back.
“And Sheriff Red didn’t believe that Beth and Tom went out West.” Wyetta paused. “Well, I hope he was wrong. I hope they moved out there to the Golden State and she went all California girl on him and dumped his ass.”
“That would mean that she changed,” said Mercy in a teasing voice. “And people don’t change, according to our game warden here.”
“People can’t change, but they can grow.” Wyetta looked at their plates, now empty except for tiny puddles of leftover syrup. “You finished here?”
“Sure.”
She pushed her chair back and stood up.
Troy handed her his plate and Mercy’s, too. “That may have been the best fried chicken I ever had.”
“Don’t ever let Patience hear you say that,” said Mercy.
“Your grandmother,” said Wyetta. “She’s good people.”
He could see that the mention of her grandmother was getting Mercy fired up again. “August Pitts gave me Beth Kilgore’s case files and told me to find her.”
“I heard that he passed last night.” Wyetta set the dirty plates back down on the table.
“He knew he was dying. That’s why he gave me the files.”
“Just like the man. Leave someone else to deal with it.”
“You didn’t like him,” Troy said.
“He wasn’t a bad man, but then he wasn’t much of a good man, either,” Wyetta said. “Crooked as a three-dollar bill. May he rest in peace.” She picked up the plates again. “How about some pecan pie?”
“I’ve never met a piece of pecan pie I didn’t like,” Troy said.
“À la mode?”
“Sure.”
“That’s the spirit.” She grinned at Mercy. “You?”
“If you insist.”
“I do. And it’s on the house. In honor of Sheriff Red.” Off she went with the dirty dishes to the kitchen.
Troy looked at Mercy. If anyone knew if her grandfather had an affair with Ruby, it seemed like Wyetta would. “Are you going to ask her about Ruby Rucker?”
“Of course.” Mercy slipped out of the booth. “But first I’m going to check out the rest of the art.” He watched as she moved around the restaurant, stopping before each piece to study it. When she stopped at the booth next to theirs, she said, “You have to see this one.” He joined her in front of a twenty-four-inch by twenty-four-inch square quilted painting of a dark tunnel of trees that looked a lot like the Vermont woods. In the background on a hill beyond the forest was a small white building shining in the distance like a beacon. She leaned in. “See the people?”
He leaned in, too, looking more closely. There was a trail of shadowy figures tucked along a narrow path between the trees, barely visible in the gloom of the woods. “Who are they?”
“Slaves on their way to freedom,” said Wyetta.
“It’s so compelling. It reminds me of Faith Ringgold’s work,” said Mercy.
“Thank you,” said Wyetta. “This piece is my tribute to her, and to my father and his Army buddy.”
“The one from Vermont.”
“That’s right. His great-great-great grandfather was a Quaker. Very active in the anti-slavery movement. His farm was a stop on the Underground Railroad.”
“Your work should really be in galleries.”
Wyetta smiled. “I did the whole starving artist in Soho for a while after art school. But then Mom got sick and I came home. I wouldn’t have lasted long in the big city regardless. I missed the woods, the mountains, the peace and quiet.”
“I understand,” said Mercy.
Troy understood, too. He didn’t much like cities. Whenever he found himself in an urban environment, he had to fight the urge to flee to the nearest patch of green.
“One more question,” asked Mercy as Wyetta served their pecan pie à la mode. “What about Ruby Ruck
er? Did you know her, too?”
“Ruby Rucker.” Wyetta laughed. “Now she was a piece of work. Ran off on that hapless husband of hers not much more than a year after she married him. George Rucker wasn’t man enough for Ruby.”
“You liked her,” said Mercy.
If Wyetta did like her, thought Troy, she was the first person they’d met who had.
“I did. Lots of folks around here didn’t like her much, but I thought she was a hoot. She used to come in here all the time for lunch, nearly every workday. Big tipper.”
“Great pie,” he said. So good he figured he’d let Mercy ask the rest of the questions, so he’d have time for another piece.
“She worked?” asked Mercy.
“Sure. She was smart. Certainly smarter than George.”
“What did she do?” asked Mercy between bites of pie.
“She worked for George, of course. The family business. Rucker Real Estate.”
“What did she do for them?”
“She sold houses. That woman could sell ice in Alaska.”
“We passed a Rucker-Smith business on the way here,” said Troy. “Any relation?”
Wyetta nodded. “When Ruby went back to Vegas and George ended up in jail, that was the beginning of the end of the Vermont Ruckers. George’s parents died of mortification, if you ask me. The business went to their distant relations. A second cousin once removed from New Hampshire named Mary Lou Rucker-Smith took over everything. Changed the name from Rucker Real Estate to Rucker-Smith Premiere Properties, but that doesn’t fool anyone.” Wyetta grinned. “You should go talk to her. She’s the biggest gossip in town. If you want to know anything about Ruby, I’m sure she’ll give you an earful.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Rucker-Smith Premiere Properties offices were located three blocks south of Wyetta’s Café in a big old gingerbread Victorian pile painted in every shade of purple from pale lavender to eggplant. To Mercy, it looked more like a funeral home on steroids than a real estate office. But the sign out front was big and bold and the windows were full of pamphlets and brochures of local houses, so this was definitely the place.
At Wyetta’s insistence, they’d left the two dogs in the café to sleep off their lunch with Earl. Apparently, Mary Lou Rucker-Smith was not very fond of animals, so much so that she boycotted the restaurant on account of the basset hound.
Mercy tramped up the stairs with Troy, and they stopped for a moment to stare at the ornate plum-colored front door with its stained-glass panel of a psychedelic peacock before venturing inside.
A tinkling bell announced their presence as they stepped into a huge entryway with an elegant staircase leading to the second of three floors. The house may have been all painted lady outside, but inside they’d taken down most of the walls, leaving big open spaces on either side of the foyer. The walls were all painted a pale sky blue with bright white baseboards and crown molding and hung with elaborately framed architectural drawings of fine houses from every era. The furniture was an eclectic mix of antiques and modern pieces.
A well-groomed woman in what Mercy’s mother, Grace, would have disdainfully called a St. John knockoff knit suit approached them. She wore lots of gold jewelry and her hair was an auburn helmet that had been sprayed into submission. She was attractive in that “let me find you the home of your dreams” real estate agent kind of way.
“Mary Lou Rucker-Smith,” she said, holding out a perfectly manicured hand to shake, setting off a rippling of thin gold bracelets along her wrist. “May I interest you in a property here in Lamoille County?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Mercy.
“Not this time,” said Troy, introducing himself.
“So you’re not a couple.” She looked Troy up and down with renewed interest.
Mercy saved him. “We’re colleagues. I’m Mercy Carr.”
Mary Lou ignored her, focusing her laser-green eyes on the handsome game warden and favoring him with a seductive smile. “I’m always happy to help out law enforcement in any way I can. How can I be of service?”
She must be wearing colored contact lenses, thought Mercy. Nobody’s eyes were really that color.
“We’re here to talk about George Rucker,” he said.
“George Rucker,” she said. “I am sorry to inform you that he is no longer a resident of Lamoille County. He’s a resident of Sneedville Farm, a maximum-security corrections facility in the middle of nowhere, Mississippi. But then you must know that, being an officer of the law.” She curled her finger at him, red nails flashing, and sashayed out of the entryway to their right, her four-inch heels clicking on the well-polished parquet floors.
Troy shrugged at her and followed Mary Lou. Mercy sighed, knowing that they needed to interview this woman and yet dreading the hoops she’d make them jump through. She’d parse out information like dog trainers parsed out treats for dogs during training sessions. Troy would have it worse, unless Mary Lou was his type and he enjoyed the back-and-forth dance of reward and punishment to come. Surely he’d learned his lesson with Madeline; high-maintenance women like his wife and the Realtor were rarely worth the effort.
Mary Lou swirled around gracefully and leaned her narrow hips against the edge of her antique kidney-shaped writing desk. Hiking up her skirt just enough to tempt the game warden, should he be tempted. Mercy peeked at Troy out of the corner of her eye to see if it worked, but his eyes were on the woman’s face, not her legs.
“I really should have changed the name of the business when I had the chance,” Mary Lou said. “But the understanding was that we’d compromise. Of course, now that Uncle Edwin and Aunt Martha are gone, and George is incarcerated, I suppose there’s nothing to stop me changing it.” She smiled alluringly at Troy. “How does Mary Lou Smith Premiere Properties sound to you?”
“Didn’t George object to your taking over the business?” asked Mercy.
“George Rucker was in no position to complain. He’s lucky I took over. I’ve really turned the place around.”
“What do you mean?”
Mary Lou drummed her long acrylic nails on the exquisite inlaid parquetry. Mercy imagined she could hear the desk screeching in protest. It was all she could do not to do so on its behalf. “George was a terrible businessperson. In the short time between Ruby leaving and his going to jail, he managed to make a lot of bad deals. Deals I inherited—and when the recession hit, I really had to scramble to keep the lights on.”
“And now?” asked Troy.
“And now we’re back on track.”
“What happens when George comes home?”
Mary Lou laughed. “George killed a cop. He’s not coming home anytime soon.”
He frowned. “So you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
“Rucker has escaped from prison.”
Mary Lou stared at him. “I don’t believe it.” She looked from Troy to Mercy. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” said Mercy.
“It’s possible he’s on his way back here.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” She straightened up from the desk and tucked her hands in the pockets of her suit as casually as a runway model. “The George Rucker I knew was barely capable of surviving jail, much less escaping it.”
“Maybe so, but as it turns out he has survived years in prison, and now he has escaped.”
Mary Lou removed her hands and pointed to the two upholstered Victorian balloon chairs that flanked her desk. “You may as well sit down. This calls for chocolate and coffee. Or maybe something stronger. I’ll be right back.”
Mercy and Troy exchanged a glance as the Realtor disappeared through a door at the back of the room.
“Why didn’t the local authorities warn her about George?”
“I don’t know,” said Troy. “Something to check out.”
“Maybe they did tell her, and she’s lying about it.”
“Why would she lie?”
“I don’t know. But I
don’t trust her. I suspect she’s a very good liar.”
“I’ll ask the captain to put out feelers.”
The clatter of high heels signaled Mary Lou’s return. She flitted in, carrying a silver tray set for coffee and placing the tray down on her desk. She handed a Queen Victoria bone china dessert plate heaped with chocolate macarons to Troy. “Have a cookie, Troy. May I call you Troy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, not sure whether to be insulted or flattered. Mercy choked back a laugh, taking a macaron and using it as cover.
“I’ll pour.” Mary Lou filled three Queen Victoria cups with strongly brewed coffee from the intricately engraved silver coffeepot and served Mercy and Troy with the aplomb of a geisha.
“Help yourself to milk and sugar.” She settled herself in the tufted taupe armchair behind her kidney desk and sipped her coffee.
“There is a possibility that Rucker could be on his way here,” said Troy.
“Why would he do that? There’s nothing for him here.” She placed her coffee cup on the desk and leaned back in her chair. “I imagine he’s halfway to some country we don’t have an extradition treaty with.”
“Why do you say that? His home is here, his family business is here.”
“And his share of the profits is deposited every quarter in his bank account by our firm’s attorney. All aboveboard.”
“So he’s still a partner,” said Mercy.
“A very silent partner,” said Mary Lou with a smirk.
Mercy smiled at her little joke, but behind the Realtor’s friendly if unnaturally green eyes was a very calculating mind. An ambitious woman who had no intention of giving George back his family business. Not that that should be possible, but if it were ever possible, Mary Lou Rucker-Smith would never allow that.