by Leigh Tudor
She attempted a wry smile. “Maybe I’m overreaching, and it’s not the time—”
“It’s past time,” Mercy interrupted. “We’re ready now. Just start at the beginning.” She glanced over at a remarkably subdued Loren.
“Very well. When I was seven years old, my mother moved us from our small village in Montbazen, France, to a town within my father’s duchy and near his primary residence. My naïve mother assumed living closer to my father would encourage a relationship. Unfortunately, she died when I was twenty and, in all that time, had yet to convince the man that I was worthy of his public acknowledgment.”
She stood and turned on the burner to heat the tea kettle sitting on the stove. Loren opened a side cabinet and held out a box of chamomile tea to her, avoiding eye contact.
Mercy bet money her sister wasn’t buying any of it.
Loren was highly suspicious by nature and due to personal experience.
But deep down, Mercy fostered an overwhelming desire to believe Madame had nothing but good intentions and sound reasons for her deceit.
The two settled back in their seats, and Madame continued, “As far as he was concerned, I was nothing more than the consequence of an unfortunate moment of weakness and the source of his family’s humiliation.
“When I discovered I was with child, I went to him for help, and he denied me, saying that I was no better than my French whore of a mother. A woman, mind you, who’d asked nothing of him other than to love me. He said he had supported my mother and me and now that I was an adult, I was no longer his responsibility. What few pounds he sent were only intended to save face amongst his peers. Even the upper crust must bear some responsibility for their transgressions. You don’t have to acknowledge their existence, including when everyone knows the truth, but you certainly can’t allow them to live in squalor. That was frowned upon.”
Madame forged on. “The father, proof that I was a rather poor judge of character, was unwilling to marry me. Apparently, the admiration from his peers for snogging a duke’s daughter, albeit illegitimate, didn’t warrant lowering himself to such an undesirable marital alliance. I was quite alone and fearful that my child would suffer the same indignities I had. Children are brutal when it comes to the illegitimate progeny of the aristocracy. At least they were back then. I was in my final year at university, an expense my father gladly refused in light of my indiscretion. I was enceinte, with child, lacking a degree, and without a pound to my name. So I met with the local pastor and asked if he would grant me a position and locate a family outside of Great Britain as potential adoption candidates. The deal we struck was that as long as I continued to follow through with the adoption and cleaned the church daily, I’d be given room and board. Or rather, a closet-sized room with a wash basin. I was also promised a small amount of money for my… trouble.” Madame’s eyes turned down at the corners. “I guess, one could say, payment for my baby. But I wanted nothing more than for my child to live with a good family, as far away from my father as possible.
“A couple of weeks before your mother was born, the pastor found a lovely couple in the United States who were unable to have children. I was so young and desperate, living off the welfare of the church. I really had no other choice, or so it seemed. So, after twenty-two hours of labor, I handed your beautiful mother over to a perfect stranger. I did take the liberty of naming her, and the couple was kind enough to keep it.”
“What was her name?” Mercy asked, testing her story, more for Loren’s sake than hers.
“Amelie.” Madame became uncharacteristically sullen and glassy-eyed.
The teapot began to whistle, bringing everyone back to the moment at hand. Mercy considered what a difficult life Madame had lived during her early years, and like her and her sisters, without a mother. She watched Madame take her time fixing three cups of tea, allowing the information she had shared to sink in.
Setting cups in front of Loren and Mercy and keeping one for herself, she sat back in her chair, bringing the steaming brew to her lips.
Loren seemed to gain her bearings, presumably thanks to the citrusy drink from earlier, and asked, “What did you do after that?”
Madame looked straight ahead, one side of her mouth lifting. “I was so angry. Angry with a father who refused to accept my true identity as his daughter in any compassionate way. Angry with the father of my baby and those schoolmates who had treated me with such acrimony. I decided, that if I wasn’t going to be acknowledged for who I was, why not earn a living pretending to be someone else?”
Mercy glanced at Loren, who was cradling her teacup like a lifeline.
“You became an actress?” Mercy asked, consumed with finally hearing the details of this woman’s life and shocked out her mind to discover how she, Loren, and Cara were intrinsically involved—and related.
“Goodness, no. I sent my CV, otherwise known as a résumé, to the UK’s domestic counter-intelligence and security agency known as MI5.”
Mercy connected the dots. “You were a British spy?”
Madame chuckled. “Barely. By not having quite earned a diploma, the lack of rolled papyrus became a detriment. I was well educated, having attended a private secondary school and university. A mandate for the money my father doled out. But I had failed to complete my degree before he shut down his benevolent financial support.
“Now, had I been one of his legitimate children, my education would have been window dressing while I’d led a life of leisure. As that was not the case, my education would determine my future and reflect on him. So, he also ensured my studies would be of a nature to sustain me financially and for the sake of appearance. But when I showed up at the front steps of his estate, with child and just shy of a degree, he gave me the cut direct and told me never to show my face again.”
Mercy decided at that very moment, if dear old Great-Grandad ever showed up, she was giving him the cut direct. With a dull spoon.
“What a prick,” she belted, and then softened her tone, “I mean, total dill hole.”
“I do believe, in this case, your crass expletive is on the mark, my dear. He was quite the prick,” Madame mused. “But I would be remiss were I not to admit that the mention of his name provided me an adequate amount of clout.
“When I applied to MI5, I unapologetically bandied his name about as leverage to grant me a position. I knew he would have hated that, so I did it with relish. As a result, I got my feet in the door as an analyst, and after a few years, I had earned the position of covert technical operations specialist.”
Mercy sat back in her chair. “So, how did you make it to the US and the Center?”
“I had retired early from MI5. Exhausted from living a life of espionage and tracking down ne’er-do-wells. I had already finished my degree decades prior but went on to earn my masters. All these years, I had kept watch over you three girls and your mother, admittedly from afar. But I wasn’t aware of the accident until months after it had occurred. By that time, you had been adopted by Halstead, and without having my past connections, I could find no way to get to you. So, I crafted a rather creative CV that garnered me the position of Charlotte Halstead’s governess and business manager. And then I reached out to your FBI and convinced them to take me on as a field agent.”
Madame cleared her throat. “I want you both to know how difficult it was to get close to you while at the Center. I tried to find ways to gain contact, but Halstead was obsessive about keeping you all very busy and adequately separated. I was only permitted to spend time with Charlotte and would have been fired on the spot had I so much as spoken to either one of you.”
“The vial,” Loren said out of nowhere. Mercy had no idea what that meant but based on Madame’s reaction, she did.
“I engaged the assistance of Master Petrov, who agreed to place the vial where you might find it.”
“What vial?” Mercy asked, looking back and forth between both women.
“The vial of poison I laced Halstead’s past
rami sandwich with the night he died,” Loren replied.
“You? You did that?” Mercy asked, her voice high. “And you never told me?”
Loren nodded her head solemnly. “The less you knew about it, the better.”
Loren’s gaze reverted to Madame, her tone measured. “Why leave the vial at that moment in time? Why not sooner?”
Madame inhaled and took another fortifying sip. “Jasper informed me that I needed to cancel some of Charlotte’s scheduled performances. When I asked for the reason, as this was revenue-affecting and Halstead would never have agreed to such a thing, he said that she was to undergo a procedure that would require a long-term recovery. He refused to tell me what the procedure entailed or its purpose. Only that she would be incapacitated for some time and that Dr. Halstead was the one who had ordered the procedure to be done.
“It was a week later that I overheard a conversation between Dr. Vielle and Jasper. They were discussing the surgery, how long it might take before they could determine failure or success, and what newly enhanced skills Charlotte was to potentially acquire and the probabilities of any financial benefit.”
Madame paused for a bit, while Mercy glanced at Loren for a temperature check.
She was expressionless.
Madame turned toward Mercy. “This conversation solidified the intel the Bureau had received outside of the Center, regarding how you and Cara, Charlotte at the time, acquired your… prodigious capabilities. I had to stop them. But everyone working within the Center was committed to the research and followed Halstead as if he were a demigod. With the exception of Dr. Petrov, that is. He had met with me after hours, outside of the Center, sharing grave reservations regarding the validity of each of your diagnoses. After telling him of the conversation between Vielle and Bancroft, we connected the dots with what little intel we had been able to gather, and decided that timing was such that we needed to do something quite drastic, something of the criminal variety, to stop the surgery.”
Mercy tilted her head to the side. “So you came up with a vial of poison?”
“Yes. A fatal dose of thallium sulfates.”
Loren nodded, sitting back in her chair. “Rat poison.”
“A rather easy substance to obtain, however, made somewhat difficult as I did this without the Bureau’s knowledge or consent.” She took another sip. “But it was meant for Dr. Vielle, not Halstead. Loren, or Ava at the time, found the vial as planned but used it before Vlad could advise to whom it was to be administered and why.”
A fair amount of guilt washed over Madame’s face as she hazarded a glance toward Loren. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have put you in such a difficult position. To place the vial within your reach without a note or indication that you had people on your side and that you weren’t alone in this act.”
Loren responded with a raised eyebrow. “Think nothing of it. I didn’t hesitate. Not for a single minute. I needed a vial of rat poison, not a pat on the back or an attagirl.”
Madame’s face flushed at the caustic response.
Mercy swallowed and asked the question weighing heavily on her mind. “Why ask Loren to do it? You had the poison. Why not do the deed yourself?”
Loren answered for her. “Because if I did it and got caught, they would chalk it up to my meticulously documented serial-killer psychosis. If she did it and got caught, she would be facing first-degree murder charges and life in prison.”
Bringing her folded hands to her mouth and then lowering them back to the table, Madame responded, “All fair questions, and presumptions. Unfortunately, I have no avenue for proving my motives as Vlad is no longer with us.”
“How convenient,” Loren remarked, crossing her arms and causing Mercy to whip her head toward her. Mercy threw her a set of crazy eyes, silently telling her to calm the eff down and hear the woman out.
Loren returned with a slight shrug, saying fine, let’s see what other fairy tales she has up her sleeve.
“Go on,” Mercy coaxed.
Madame took a lengthy inhale, and then let it out. “I have no proof of this, but that was the plan. I was to be the one to douse Dr. Vielle’s food with the poison. However, before getting the chance, I was asked to leave the premises and was sent to my suite of rooms to gather my things. I was also informed that I would not be returning for several weeks.” She clutched her hands together as they rested on the table in front of her. “Luck was on my side as I came upon Dr. Petrov in the corridor on my way to gather my things, and whispered, while passing, for him to meet me that evening outside of the Center, where I handed over the vial. I told him of the now more imminent plans and to see that Loren received the vial and that Dr. Vielle consumed it.”
“Why not Vlad?” Mercy asked. “Why would you not ask him to do it?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Loren said with far less open-mindedness.
“Loren, you had a regularly scheduled weekly meeting with Halstead, to discuss upcoming jobs and other matters of business. Is that not true?” Madame asked directly.
Loren’s seemed to mull that question. “Yes, that’s true.”
“And did you not have one of those scheduled meetings that very evening?”
“I did.”
“And did those meetings usually occur in his office while he was eating his dinner?”
Loren’s head nodded with growing affirmation. “They did.”
Mercy looked back and forth between the two, once again confused. “I still don’t get it. Why didn’t you tell her to dump the poison on Halstead’s food versus Dr. Vile’s if you knew all this?”
Keeping her gaze fixed on Loren, Madame asked, “Who came in after you with their own weekly update?”
“Dr. Vielle. Who also ate dinner while updating Halstead.”
Madame nodded solemnly. “You were the one person I knew who, without a doubt, would see Dr. Vielle that very evening and hopefully find a way to compromise his food and put a halt to the surgery. I must admit, I wasn’t altogether sure if this would go as planned. It was a rather poorly cobbled, last-minute desperate attempt to stop them from harming Charlotte.
“I harbored tremendous guilt as I had been unable to pull together enough of a case to warrant an arrest by the authorities. And please know that under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t condone the snuffing of one’s life. But in this particular case, I would do it again. The man was a narcissistic monster. And to your credit, the result of tampering with Halstead’s dinner, as opposed to Dr. Vielle’s, turned out to be quite the preferred outcome.”
Loren worried her lower lip as if taking in this information and reassessing. Mercy regarded her sister with an amused flick of an eyebrow.
And then Loren’s demeanor softened, her facial features taking in Madame as if seeing her for the first time. “You saved Charlotte’s life. If not for you, she would have possibly had the surgery, suffered complications, and would have never had the chance of becoming Cara.” Her hands reached out to cover much older ones. “Thank you.”
Mercy released her breath along with a sob, not realizing she was holding it in while waiting for Loren’s cue.
Thank God.
If Loren would have denounced Madame, Mercy wasn’t sure what she would’ve done. She had always blindly followed Loren’s nonverbal cues. And she was so freaking ecstatic she didn’t have to worry which direction her hot-headed sister was going to take.
“So,” Mercy said, tapping her finger to her lip. “Does this mean I get to call you Granny?”
To which Madame replied dryly, “Not if you care to receive a response.”
Mercy caught a smirk from her sister and wanted to cheer with the joy of it all. “How do you feel about Madame Grand?”
Madame inhaled in contemplation. “I do believe that might very well work.”
Chapter Five
“A composer is a guy who goes around forcing his will on unsuspecting air molecules, often with the assistance of unsuspecting musicians. — Frank Zappa
/>
Alec sat at the tall bar table with Trevor on his left and Jimbo on his right. They had closed the store for the night and decided to have dinner before parting ways.
They had only been able to talk Jimbo into joining them as Loren had a late afternoon appointment.
The three men were quiet and equally sullen about different things.
Trevor was ruminating over Mercy’s new beau, and Alec was trying to come up with a way he could gift Loren a military-grade German Shepherd that was trained to kill on demand, without her becoming the wiser.
Trevor had offered up Sugar Plum but had sabotaged his efforts when mentioning earlier in the day that the dog was deep in the throes of a chronic dry-humping stage. So far, Sugar Plum had defiled every pillow in the house and the neighbor’s Siamese cat. And Trevor had the two-inch claw-sized lacerations on his arms to prove it.
So, Alec declined Sugar Plum as a viable option. There wasn’t enough room in his sprawling house for two sexually deprived males. Although, to be fair, Sugar Plum seemed to be compensating just fine—and that only pissed him off more.
Then he noticed Jimbo pulling at his collar and clearing his throat, after which he started to move the utensils back and forth on the high-top table, finally bringing them back to their original placement.
“You okay?” Alec asked as perspiration beaded on his friend’s forehead.
Before he could answer, Gus showed up at the table. “You here to eat or drink?”
“Both,” Trevor replied, citing his order of blackened salmon with a baked sweet potato and a Sam Adams Whitewater IPA.