by Paula Munier
“Entertainment?” Mercy shook her head as her parents disappeared into the crowd of partygoers.
“Your mother went all out,” said Feinberg.
“I don’t understand. She doesn’t even like me. I mean, I know she loves me, but…” She threw up her hands. “Mothers.”
Feinberg smiled. “That reminds me of a story. A distraught woman went to see her rabbi. She was worried about her mother. ‘My mother never visits, so I always have to go see her,’ she told the rabbi. ‘She rarely answers my letters or my phone calls. She’s forgotten my birthday several years running. I don’t know what to do about it.’ The rabbi looked at the woman and said, ‘Your mother doesn’t like you.’”
Mercy laughed. “So I guess my mother likes me, after all. Well, except for my hair.”
“Mothers can’t help but be mothers.” Patience appeared at the billionaire’s elbow, Claude at her side. She leaned forward for a kiss.
Mercy happily obliged. “If you say so.” She gave Claude a peck on the cheek as well.
“When you were a little girl, your mother spent hours fixing your hair for you.”
“That’s right, she did.” She’d loved the feel of her mother’s slender fingers playing with her hair. “French braids were my favorite.”
Patience smiled. “Your mother was all thumbs at first, but she was determined to learn how to do those French braids prettily enough to please you.”
“I don’t remember that.” She couldn’t imagine Grace being all thumbs at anything. Poise was her mother’s middle name.
“When you have a child, you always see her as a baby, a toddler, a teenager, no matter how old she gets, even as you acknowledge her as an adult,” said Patience. “To your mother, you’ll always be three days old and three years old and thirteen years old and thirty years old, all at once. And she’ll always want to help you fix your hair.”
“Thirty is too old for braids.”
“Is it?”
Claude filled the awkward pause, much to Mercy’s relief. “Aren’t you going to tell her?”
“Tell me what?”
Her grandmother raised her left arm, still encased in its neon pink cast, and fluttered the fingers of her left hand at Mercy, flashing a dazzling diamond ring.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s an engagement ring.”
“Really?” She looked from her grinning grandmother to the beaming Claude beside her.
“She asked me this time,” he said.
“He said yes.”
“Of course he did.” Mercy gave them both a big hug. “I’m so happy for you both.”
So the Fleury-O’Sullivan-Carr soulmate gene was alive and well, she thought. Good to know.
Patience leaned in and whispered in Mercy’s ear. “I loved your grandfather, and he died too soon. But I think it’s time I gave another man a chance.”
“High time,” she agreed.
“Go greet the rest of your guests,” said Patience. “And don’t miss that buffet, catered by Northshire Union Store.”
“Shepherd’s pie?” Northshire Union Store made the best mac and cheese and chicken pot pies, but the lamb shepherd’s pie was her favorite.
“Of course.”
“What about my doberge cake?”
“Oh, there will be cake,” promised her grandmother. “And presents.”
Mercy groaned, thinking of the inescapable “you’re not getting better, you’re getting older” gag gifts to come.
She made her way around the room, accepting all the birthday wishes and jokes about aging and the inevitability of death with as much grace as possible, trying not to think about the far better people whom she’d already outlived. It occurred to her that this black birthday party humor may be the civilian version of laughing in the face of death, and she smiled.
She wasn’t altogether comfortable being the center of attention this way, but at least these were people she knew and loved. Apart from the entourage that appeared wherever Feinberg went, whether he liked it or not. Including local officials like the mayor, whom she spotted by the open bar.
Mercy made a beeline around the mayor and headed for Mr. Horgan, who sat in one of the many deeply cushioned burgundy couches that lined the perimeter of the space. He was talking to Louise Minnette, the librarian from Peace Junction. The black kitten was curled up on his lap, asleep.
“So I guess you two know each other.”
“We’ve known each other for years,” said Louise.
“Through Mrs. Horgan.”
“Yes. A lovely woman, and a wonderful librarian.”
“I see you’ve met your new kitten.”
“A beautiful feline,” said Louise approvingly.
“I’ve got a basket of kitty goodies in the Jeep,” said Mercy. “I’ll bring it in later. What will you call him?”
Mr. Horgan smiled. “His name is Shakespeare.”
Mercy grinned. “The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.”
“Precisely.” The old man grinned back.
She regarded Louise, the only person here who’d known Bea Garcia back when she was Beth Kilgore. And now, decades later, she was in the woman’s home. Had Louise recognized her? Or had she known all along?
“So you’ve met our hostess, Bea.”
“Yes.” Louise gave her that sharp hawk-eyed look.
“So cool of her to host this party for me.”
“It’s the perfect space for such an event,” Louise said agreeably.
Mercy leaned in to whisper her inquiry. “You’re never going to tell me, are you?”
Mr. Horgan coughed. “What are we talking about?”
“Reading is subversive,” Louise reminded her.
Mr. Horgan smiled. “That’s what my wife always used to say.”
“And so are librarians,” said Mercy. Whatever Louise Minnette knew about Beth Kilgore then or Bea Garcia now, she’d never tell.
The sound of acoustic guitars warming up interrupted their laughter.
“Foamflower,” said Captain Thrasher, who joined their group along with Gil Guerrette and his wife, Françoise. The captain was in uniform—Mercy had never seen him in civvies—and Gil wore a beautifully tailored navy suit. But Françoise stole the show in a pale yellow shantung dress, high heels, and a fascinator fashioned from silk jonquils. She was easily the chicest woman in the room, out-dressing even Grace. Of course, as her mother no doubt would console herself, Françoise was French.
“Foamflower?”
“The musical duo,” said Thrasher. “I think you must have Feinberg to thank for that.”
Foamflower was one of Vermont’s most talented folk acts, made up of two siblings from Northshire, a guitar-playing tenor named Tom and his baby sister Toni, a mandolin player with the voice of an angel.
“I’ve never seen them in person,” said Mercy. “But I love their songs. Especially ‘Be the Clouds.’”
“And how did Feinberg know that?” teased Gil.
Mercy flushed. She hadn’t seen Troy or Susie Bear yet, but Gil’s remark meant they must be here somewhere.
“Pay no attention to him,” said Françoise. “He is always talking nonsense.”
“This is not nonsense,” said Gil. “This is the grand gesture. But the grandest is yet to come.”
Françoise rolled her dark eyes and shrugged a perfectly Gallic shrug.
Mercy had no idea what Gil was talking about, and her confusion must have shown on her face.
“Have you not seen the gallery?” Gil waved an arm at the far end of the room, obscured by party guests and all those yellow balloons.
“Let me show you,” said the captain, offering her his arm. He led her through the crowd beyond the buffet table and open bar, where elegant mobile gallery walls stood sentry to the enormous river rock fireplace that dominated the end wall. On these gallery walls were the brilliant colorful textile art pieces she’d last seen in Wyetta’s Café.
And there was Wyetta
herself, looking radiant in a curve-hugging tea-length swag dress the color of a good cabernet. The captain couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Mercy smiled. That’s one for Troy, she thought.
“Wyetta! This is amazing!”
“Happy Birthday!” Wyetta enveloped her in a big hug.
“How did this happen?”
The artist raised her arms to the heavens and twirled around. “You have some friends in high places, girl.”
“Not by design,” Mercy said, laughing.
“Maybe not. But you got your own PR department in that game warden of yours.”
“He’s not my game warden.”
“Why not?” Wyetta raised her eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you?”
Feinberg saved her, appearing at the artist’s elbow. “So what do you think of our little art show?”
“It’s wonderful.”
“We knew that you’re a fan of Wyetta’s work, so we thought you might appreciate combining your party with an exhibition. We’re doing a silent auction, and a portion of the proceeds will go to the animal rescue.”
“That’s genius. I’m thrilled. How did you know I loved her work?”
“Troy Warner told me. And I must thank you for introducing me to her work. I’ve commissioned a piece for Nemeton.”
“That’s great.” She nodded toward the Foamflower duo, who were getting ready to play. “I understand I have you to thank for the musical entertainment.”
Feinberg smiled. “What’s a party without music?”
The musicians stood on a small stage at the head of the room, to the left of the fireplace. Her mother mounted the stage to join them, taking the microphone from the taller one.
“Thank you. Welcome.” Grace smiled. “Thirty years ago today I gave birth to a seven-and-a-half-pound red-haired screamer who cried so loudly whenever I put her down that the nurse said to me, ‘Lord have mercy on you and that noisy baby of yours.’ And so her father and I decided to call her Mercy.”
Everyone laughed. Mercy had heard the story many times before, but this may have been the first time she’d ever really thought it was funny. Maybe she was growing up, after all.
“You all know her as a soldier, a military policewoman, an animal lover, and a problem solver of the first order. But to Duncan and me, she’s our Mercy. We love you. Happy Birthday.”
Foamflower played “Happy Birthday” and everyone sang along while Patience and Claude brought out three large chocolate doberge cakes so ablaze with candles they probably constituted a fire hazard, making Mercy feel very happy and very old at the same time.
“Time for presents and cake and music,” said her mother. “We’re going roll up the carpet here by the band for dancing. Enjoy. And thank you very much for coming.” She handed the microphone back to the mandolin player, and everyone cheered. Mercy, too.
Before she could wipe away the tears she felt gathering in the corners of her eyes, Elvis bounded up to her, Susie Bear on his heels. Mercy sank to her knees to receive her birthday kisses. The Belgian shepherd licked one cheek and the Newfie retriever the other, the latter adding a snort and a snuffle for good measure. She looked up and there was Troy. His parents, Harry and Lizzie, hovered behind him with big smiles so full of warmth and hope Mercy blushed.
He held out his hands and she let him pull her to her feet.
“Happy Birthday,” he said.
She felt everyone’s eyes on the two of them and released Troy’s hands. Her mother waved her over to a table laden with gifts. She thanked his parents for coming and then excused herself. While Foamflower played folk songs, she opened her presents: a red-haired Batgirl action figure from Amy and Brodie, a first edition of Strangers on the Train from Bea Garcia, silver satin cargo pants and matching leather moto jacket from her parents, a forest green fedora from Gil and Françoise, a case of Big Barn Red wine from Captain Thrasher, a subscription to the Northshire Repertory Theater from Feinberg, and a gift certificate for a new snowmobile from Patience and Claude.
“You know you need one,” said Patience. “Just learn to drive it more cautiously than your game warden.”
She didn’t even bother to correct her grandmother. She was running out of ways to say thank you with sufficient enthusiasm when Wyetta and Troy came up to her, carrying a large package wrapped in brown paper.
“We saved the best for last, if I do say so myself.”
Everyone gathered around for this final offering. Troy held the gift while she tore off the brown paper in long sheets. Revealing one of Wyetta’s one-of-a-kind quilted artworks. This piece framed the Green Mountains, a forest thick with trees in the background, the ground swept with snow, the midnight-blue sky strewn with stars. And, in the middle, a cabin, its windows lit from within, and Martinez’s flag flying in the front yard, a red-haired figure and a handsome dog illuminated in the flagpole’s spotlight.
It was her cabin: Mercy and Elvis and the Vermont woods they called home.
“It’s called Get You Home,” said Wyetta.
She smiled at the Shakespeare reference. Get you home was a phrase that appeared many times in the bard’s plays. “Thank you. It’s spectacular.”
“I’m the artist,” said Wyetta. “Not the giver. This is a present from Troy. He commissioned it for you.”
She stared at Troy. “This is too much.”
Foamflower started in on their own rendition of “Moonlight in Vermont.”
“Let’s dance,” said Troy, holding out his hand to her.
She hesitated, feeling that telltale tug in her gut.
“We’ll finish out the song this time,” said Troy, his warm brown eyes serious with intent.
“I know we will.” She took his hand and he led her out to the makeshift dance floor, an open space on the shining oak-planked floor by the band in front of the fireplace. The mellow melody of every Vermonter’s favorite song filled the air. The strums of the guitar and the picking of the mandolin and the pure sweet serenade of the familiar lyrics eased Mercy into Troy’s arms.
And they danced.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing this book was both easier and harder than writing the first two books in this series. Easier, because in many ways the third time is the charm, and harder, because in many ways it isn’t. But it was fun to write, at least as fun as anything was to do in 2020.
Writers need solitude to work, but during lockdown solitude takes on a whole new meaning. Time to write, but also time to brood and blunder and beat my head against the book as I wrote it. Luckily, I was quarantined with patient, compassionate, sentient beings, namely Michael, Mom and Dad, and our rescues: Newfoundland retriever mix Bear, Great Pyrenees and Australian cattle dog mix Bliss, Malinois mix Blondie (yes, just like Elvis!), and Ursula The Cat. My sons, Greg and Mikey, visited in-person when they could (safely), bringing wine and chocolate and love and laughter, and my daughter, Alexis, and granddaughters, Elektra, Calypso, and Demelza, brightened my spirits all the way from Switzerland via Skype.
That said, it takes a village to make a book, even if it was a virtual village this time around. Thanks to my fabulous agent and leader and friend, Gina Panettieri, whose generosity and wisdom exceed all expectation, and my talented Talcott Notch colleagues Saba Sulaiman, Dennis Schleicher, and (the one and only) Amy Collins. A special shout-out to my Career Authors pals Hank Phillippi Ryan, Brian Andrews, Jessica Strawser, and Dana Isaacson, as well as my fellow Stone Cold Writers Archer Mayor (and Margot Zalkind), Sarah Stewart Taylor, and Julia Spencer-Fleming, all of whom humor me and enlighten me and inspire me in equal measure.
For some thirty years I’ve relied on my Scribe Tribe to keep me writing through good times and bad: Susan Reynolds, Meera Lester, John K. Waters, Indi Zeleny, Mardeene Mitchell, Barb Karg, and Colleen Sell. The same is true for our beloved crime-writing community, whose magnanimous members I am proud to call fellow authors and friends: Lee Child, Ann Cleeves, Jane Cleland, Deborah Crombie, Karen Dionne, Hannah Mary McKinnon,
Hallie Ephron, Joe Finder, Lisa Gardner, Kellye Garrett, Elly Griffiths, Carolyn Haines, Edwin Hill, Kimberly Howe, Larry Kay, Jon Land, William Martin, Louise Penny, Spencer Quinn/Peter Abrahams, and Lori Rader-Day. And of course all of my clients, good writers and good people, one and all.
In a time when book events, conferences, and festivals were canceled more often than not, many adapted and went online, providing precious time with writers and readers and booksellers. My heartfelt thanks to indies everywhere, most especially Barbara Peters’ Poisoned Pen, Forum Books, Gibson’s Bookstore, and bookshop.org. More love to the Tucson Festival of Books, Michael Neff’s New York Pitch Conference, ThrillerFest, Bouchercon, the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop, the New Hampshire Writers Project, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Dog Writers Association of America, and the New England Crime Bake.
And thank you, too, to the librarians and reviewers and bloggers and media personalities who help spread the word about books in general and my books in particular, most especially Katherine Bollenbach, Dru Ann Love, Kristopher Zgorski, Lesa Holstine, Sandy Kenyon, Sandra Beck, and Carolyn Hennesy. And most especially to Mark Combs: You are missed.
You may hear writers complain about their editors, but what you’ll hear from me is nothing but praise. “Pit Bull Pete” Wolverton is a genius—seriously!—and he makes me a better writer and a better thinker with every book. Thanks to the entire Minotaur team at St. Martin’s Press: Andy Martin, George Witte, Kelley Ragland, Hannah O’Grady, Allison Ziegler, Kayla Janas, Lily Cronig, Edwin Chapman, Jonathan Bennett, Elizabeth Curione, and Julie Gutin. You’re simply the best.
I also owe great thanks to those who shared their time and expertise with me: Dr. Jen Sula, Dr. Liz Kellett, and everyone at Blackwater Veterinary Services; Amy Knight and Susan Cable of White River Animal Rescue; all the volunteers at Mission K9 Rescue; Susan Warner, Director of Public Affairs for the Vermont Fish and Wildlife Department; Vermont State Game Warden Rob Sterling; Donna Larson Crockett, founding member and VP of the New England K9 Search and Rescue (nek9sar.org); Gardner “Bud” Browning and Scott Wood of the TSA; and Stasia Tretault, innkeeper at the Seth Warner Inn. Any mistakes are solely my own.