by Paula Munier
“What have we here?” Mercy elbowed Troy, a victorious look lighting up her pretty face.
“Get that dog out of here.” Eveline stood on the porch of the deputy’s house, a shotgun raised in her arms.
She was aiming right at Elvis.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Shoot my dog and you’re a dead woman.” Mercy started toward Eveline, but Troy held her back.
“Steady,” he said. “Let me handle this. Susie Bear, stay.”
Troy held his hands up. “Eveline, please put the gun down before someone gets hurt.”
“You’re trespassing.”
A squeal of tires distracted Eveline, and she looked away. Troy took advantage of the distraction to pull his weapon. A Lamoille County Sheriff’s Department SUV screeched to a stop behind his F-150. Eveline stared at it.
“Great,” said Troy. “Just what we need.”
“Lamoille County’s finest.”
“What’s going on?” Deputy Purdie emerged from the SUV, hands on his holster.
“She pulled a shotgun on us,” said Troy.
“She killed her brother.”
“Sheriff Pitts?”
“Yes.” Troy knew that to Purdie, Pitts was the sheriff, not Red’s deputy. “You must know about the autopsy results.”
“I heard. But that doesn’t mean she killed him.”
“We believe that he was going to change his will,” said Troy. “Leave her out. That’s motive.”
“And she had means and opportunity,” added Mercy, “there in the house with him all day and night.”
“I didn’t kill nobody,” yelled Eveline. “And you can’t prove any different.”
“Elvis is alerting to her vehicle.”
“Elvis?”
“The Malinois.” Mercy pointed to Elvis on the ground by the U-Haul. “He’s a police dog.”
Troy frowned. That was not exactly true. Elvis was once a military working dog, but now he was as much a civilian as Mercy was. Not that either one of them ever acted like a civilian.
“Whatever,” said Purdie, turning his attention to Eveline. “You need to drop your weapon, ma’am.”
“No, sir.” Eveline squared her shoulders. “These people are trespassing.”
“Technically, we’re not,” said Mercy. “We’re on a public roadway.”
“Technically, this is a private road,” said the deputy, softly enough so that Eveline couldn’t hear him.
“Well, that dog is on my driveway. That’s trespassing.”
“Why would your dog alert to the vehicle?”
“Why does any law enforcement dog alert?” asked Mercy. “Evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Illegal activity.”
Troy bit back a smile. Mercy was being just vague enough to convince Deputy Purdie that a search would be perfectly legal, because a police dog alerting to a vehicle constituted probable cause in the eyes of the law.
“You keep that dog away from my stuff.” Eveline’s voice rose to a screech. “I’ve never killed a dog before, but there’s a first time for everything.”
“Better call off your dog,” Purdie told Mercy.
Mercy whistled for Elvis, but he didn’t move.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. I guess he’s waiting for me to go over and take a look.” She whistled again. Elvis looked at her, triangular ears perked, but he did not come to her.
“That dog is a menace,” said Eveline.
“I’ll go get him,” Mercy said.
“Don’t you move,” said Eveline, pumping her shotgun.
Troy stepped in front of Mercy, pistol raised.
“She’s going to shoot Elvis,” whispered Mercy. Troy could hear the desperation in her voice.
“Nobody’s going to shoot anybody,” said Deputy Purdie calmly. “Put down your weapon, Eveline. Let’s talk this through.”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Be smart. You’re outnumbered and outgunned. And backup is on the way.”
Troy wondered if that were true, or if that was Purdie’s way of telling him that he was the backup.
“I’m covering you,” he said quietly.
“Talk so I can hear you!” Eveline was growing increasingly agitated. Troy hoped Purdie knew what he was doing.
“You can hear me just fine.” The deputy walked slowly toward the farmhouse. He held his pistol in the air. “I’m going to come a little closer so we don’t have to yell at each other. Just take it easy.”
Troy kept his weapon trained on Eveline. The woman was staring at Purdie, watching him walk toward her, her eyes focused on the deputy.
“You don’t want to do this,” said Purdie. “We can talk this through.”
The wail of police sirens sounded in the distance, and Eveline looked past them all down toward the county road.
The deputy was nearly within reach of the woman now. “Just hand me the shotgun, Eveline.”
Eveline’s face crumpled and she collapsed against her front door. She lowered her shotgun. Purdie approached her, smooth as silk, talking softly to her. Troy could no longer hear what he was saying, but he admired the deputy’s composure.
Purdie reached for the shotgun. And she gave it to him.
Troy lowered his weapon.
Two police cars swerved into sight, lights flaring and sirens blaring. Purdie handcuffed Eveline, who barely seemed to notice, seemingly transfixed by the cops swarming out of their vehicles in full SWAT gear, weapons all leveled straight at her.
* * *
TROY AND MERCY stood about ten feet away from the driveway, watching as Purdie and his team searched the U-Haul. Elvis and Susie Bear were at their feet, feasting on a surplus of treats, their reward for a job well done. Troy caught Mercy glancing down at Elvis several times, as if to reassure herself of his well-being. The shepherd had had a rough couple of days, but he seemed completely back to normal to Troy. But he didn’t think that Mercy would agree with him.
The police officers had been slowly emptying out the trailer, spreading its contents out on lengths of plastic covering the driveway. Mostly odd bits of furniture, moving boxes, and garden tools.
“Just junk,” said Purdie, emerging from the back of the U-Haul and surveying the remnants of August Pitts’ life.
Mercy pointed to the trunk that the uniforms were carrying out of the trailer. “There you go.”
“That old thing?” Purdie shook his head.
Elvis jumped up, abandoning the rawhide bone he’d been chewing. Mercy grabbed him by the collar just as he lunged forward.
“Whoa,” said Purdie.
“That’s the footlocker that went missing from Bea Garcia’s house,” said Mercy. “You’ll find guns and lots of money in it.”
“How did Eveline know it was there?” Troy asked her quietly.
Mercy pointed to the FOR SALE sign in the front yard. “Mary Lou is her Realtor. She must have told her about the judge and the parties and the money. Or she just bullied her brother into telling her about it. Either way, she knew enough to get the list of houses. Bea’s house is on that list, one of the properties that Mary Lou managed to sell before the crash.”
Purdie instructed the gloved officers to put the trunk down and open it.
“It’s locked,” said the taller of the two.
The deputy looked at Mercy. “You got a key?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know what’s in it?”
Troy grinned. “Why don’t you let her show you?” He handed her a pair of gloves from his pocket.
They all watched as Mercy unpicked the lock and pulled up the lid.
“I see guns,” said Purdie, waving at the officers to unload them from the trunk. “Where’s the money?”
“Oh ye of little faith,” she said.
“Not me,” said Troy.
She removed the false bottom, revealing the many neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
Purdie whistled. “I’m a believer now.”
* * *
MERCY WAS QUIET on the way home. She didn’t say much, and Troy’s efforts to engage her in conversation failed. Even the dogs were subdued, sensing her mood. Maybe he’d misread the signs that pointed to a growing closeness between them. Maybe she was just tired. He knew he should just leave it alone, leave her alone, and try again tomorrow.
Still, he couldn’t help but ask how she was feeling before he dropped her off at the cabin.
He steered his truck up her driveway and pulled to a stop. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She made no move to get out of the truck.
Troy waited for her to reveal herself. He knew she would eventually. Like waiting for wildlife in the woods.
“There’s an old story about a struggling student who goes to the Buddha for advice,” she said finally, not looking at him, her eyes straight ahead. “The student tells the Buddha that all of the various teachings he’s been hearing at the monastery are confusing him. ‘Can you just explain Buddhism in one line for me?’ The Buddha does not hesitate, saying, ‘Everything changes.’”
Troy thought about that for a moment. “Good one. Is that one of Martinez’s stories?”
“No,” she said. “It’s one of mine.”
She reached for the handle, gracing him with the smile of a sad Madonna. “Goodnight.”
She did not ask him and Susie Bear in for a Heady Topper, as she usually would to celebrate their solving a crime together. She simply opened the door and got out, letting Elvis out of the cab. Susie Bear bounded after the shepherd before she could stop her.
“We’ll walk you to the door.” Troy hustled out of the Ford F-150 to join Mercy. The dogs were long gone, making their usual loop around the property: down to the barn and around the backyard and finally up to the flagpole in the front garden.
Mercy and Troy paused there as they always did to salute the flag, which flew day in and day out in honor of Martinez and their fallen brethren. She lowered her arm slowly and stood perfectly still, staring past the Stars and Stripes to something only she could see. He stood here, hands folded behind him, at ease. He’d stand there all night if that’s what she needed.
Several minutes passed. It was late afternoon now, and the sun was sinking behind the cluster of cumulus clouds on the horizon. The dogs were still racing around, oblivious to the chill in the air.
“I keep seeing Eveline aiming that shotgun at Elvis,” she said finally, not looking at him.
“Elvis is fine.” He stepped behind her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s over.”
“It’s not over.” She shook off his hands and spun around. “It’s never over.”
“It is over.”
“For now.” Her freckles stood out plainly against her pale skin. Her cheeks were splotched with patches of red from the growing cold.
“Now is all we’ve got.” He reached up and brushed a curl from her forehead. “You’re the yogi. I thought you knew that.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He tugged on her parka and pulled her close to him. “Right now everything is good.”
“Until the next time.” Mercy leaned back, away from his embrace, until her spine aligned with the flagpole. “That’s what Hallett said. Until the next time.”
“That’s life.” He’d be lying if he said that it was over forever. Nothing was over forever. “Hallett knows that. He’s just trying to guilt you into giving him Elvis.”
“It’s working.” She blinked, lashes wet with tears.
“Don’t give him the satisfaction.” Troy fought the urge to kiss her tears away.
“There have been so many next times.” Mercy raised her index finger. “One, the time Elvis got shot in the woods.”
“That bullet just grazed him.”
She held up another finger. “Two, the time they tied him up in the woods and left him to die of cold or starvation or worse.”
“We found him. You found him.”
A third finger went up. “Three, the time he nearly drowned in a frozen lake.”
“You saved him.”
“Claude saved him.”
“You saved him.”
“Not to mention his confrontations with armed robbers and arsonists and murderers and crazy rednecks with shotguns.” Mercy held up both hands and wiggled all of her fingers.
“You forgot the poachers and kidnappers.”
“Not funny.”
“I’m not being funny.” He caught her hands in his own. “Look, none of this is your fault.”
“Sure it is,” she said, but she didn’t let go.
“Elvis is a bomb-sniffing military working dog trained to guard the good guys and attack the bad guys.” At the sound of his name the handsome shepherd raced up to them, coming to a tight halt right at Mercy’s side.
“He’s retired.”
“Could have fooled me. He even stands like a soldier. It’s who he is.”
Mercy ruffled the Malinois’s triangular ears. “Who you are is not what you do.”
“I’m not sure he’d agree with you there.”
Susie Bear lumbered up to join them, squeezing between Troy and Mercy for a good petting. Elvis stood his ground, refusing to topple in the wake of the big black shaggy dog.
“You could be right. Or I could be right,” she said, scratching the Newfie’s broad chest. “Either way, Elvis can’t tell us which life he’d choose. So I have to choose for him.”
“Martinez left Elvis in your care. Not Hallett’s.” At Martinez’s name, the shepherd perked his triangular ears. Or maybe it was Hallett’s name that caught his attention. Troy wondered what the dog made of this conflict between his former handler and Mercy. He knew Elvis could feel the strain between them; no one was more sensitive to your emotions than your dog.
“Martinez thought we’d leave the war behind and move to Texas and he’d train dogs and I’d teach Shakespeare. That’s what he chose for Elvis. Not this.”
“He knew he was dying,” Troy said softly. “He knew that future life would die with him. He still chose you to care for Elvis, not knowing what your future without him would bring.”
Mercy wiped away the tears from her cheeks before Troy dared to do it himself. “Don’t you ever feel guilty about the danger you put Susie Bear in?”
Troy thought about it. “Not really. Look at her. Her tail never stops wagging.” To prove his point the Newfie thumped her tail wildly, feathering the snow and scattering the gravel.
“Patience calls her The Happiest Dog in the World.” Mercy sighed. “Which begs the question, is she happy because she loves search-and-rescue? Or because she loves being with you?”
“Try not to overthink this. Maybe she’s happy because she’s not in that kill shelter waiting to die anymore. What does it matter as long as she’s happy.”
“If it were that simple all rescued dogs would be happy.”
Troy thought that most of them were, but he could see that nothing he could say was going to make a difference. She was going to have to figure this out herself. For better or worse. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” She snapped her fingers and the shepherd jumped to his feet. “Goodnight.”
Troy stood there with Susie Bear, watching as Mercy and Elvis disappeared inside the cabin. Susie Bear nudged his hip with her big pumpkin head and licked his hand. He scratched her head absently.
“Mercy’s right,” he told the Newfie. “Everything changes.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Wesley Hallett was staying at the Seth Warner Inn, a lovely bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of town. The nineteenth-century Colonial was a favorite of hikers in the summer, skiers in the winter, and Troy Warner, too, no doubt, given the family connection. She wondered if Hallett knew the two Warners were related.
Intitially she was surprised that Hallett would choose the inn rather than a more modern hotel. But as
she followed him into the General John Stark game room, she realized he might be more comfortable in this space celebrating military heroes like Seth Warner and John Stark, the New Hampshire warrior who’d served as a major general in the American Revolution and won the hearts of all Vermonters as the hero of the Battle of Bennington.
Hallett waved her into one of the two taupe velvet wingback chairs by the window and settled himself in the other. An antique chess table set to play a new game sat between them.
“What’s up?”
“You can have Elvis.”
Hallett stared at her. “Why the change of heart?”
“I’m no good for him.” She filled him in on recent events.
“I’m glad to hear that your grandmother is all right.” He balanced his elbows on the game table, careful not to disturb the chess pieces, and folded his hands as if he were praying. “That all of you are all right.”
“Elvis could have died.” She looked past him across the room to the portrait of a stern-looking General Stark that hung over the fireplace. A framed cross-stitch of his famous words, Live free or die, rested on the mantel under the general’s picture. She’d believed that once, and she’d chosen to live her life accordingly. Today was proof that she still believed it. She may no longer be a soldier but she still chose to live her life accordingly, even as a so-called civilian. But she didn’t have the right to make that choice for Elvis. She looked away from the general and met Hallett’s eyes.
“You were right. He’s earned his retirement.”
Resting his chin on his intertwined fingers, Hallett smiled slightly. “It sounds like you did good. You and Elvis.”
“We did.” She sat up a little straighter. “He did. But like you said, he’ll be safer with you.”
Hallett gave her a sharp look that she knew was intended to unsettle her. A look that probably worked on some soldiers, who’d falter under that commanding gaze and spill their guts. She wasn’t about to spill her guts; why she felt the way she felt was none of his business. But she would try to explain her decision, for Elvis’s sake if not her own.
“Martinez used to tell a story about a young bishop on a fine horse who came to visit his village in Mexico,” she began.