by Paula Munier
“Of course you do. But don’t spend too long on that computer. Not good for your head.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m going to give you half an hour, and then it’s lights out.”
“Okay.” She didn’t have much time. She waited until Patience had gone back into the kitchen, then texted Troy. He told her that Flo Herbert claimed the artist who made the buckles had retired to Ireland, and the police were trying to trace the maker’s mark. Then he told her to get some rest and signed off. Back to his patrols, no doubt.
Ireland, thought Mercy. Ireland of the Easter Rising, the famous rebellion that kicked off the Irish revolutionary period during Easter week in 1926. Calla lilies, long the symbol of Easter, had become one of the symbols of a free Irish Republic as well.
She grabbed her laptop and went to work—Googling Irish jewelry designers in Vermont, mountain-range silver pendants and 925 pine-tree necklaces, and the initials POM and calla lily logos. After dozens of searches and fifty-one websites she found a pendant on eBay just like the one the Munchkin found, designed by one Patrick O’Malley.
“Time’s up,” said Patience, looming over her.
Mercy jumped, and her head throbbed. Maybe her grandmother was right. She shut her laptop. “You startled me.”
“You need to go to bed so I can go home.”
“You’re leaving?” She wanted her grandmother to stay. Elvis lifted his head and looked at Patience. He wanted her to stay, too. Everyone always wanted Patience Fleury O’Sullivan to stay.
“I’ve got to get back to the sick kitties.”
“How are they doing?”
“So far, so good. But I need to get back.”
“What about tomorrow? Will you need help?”
“Thanks, but I’ve already arranged for help.” Patience waved her arms in the air. “I’m going out,” she said grandly.
“Going out where?”
“The reception. I wasn’t going to go, but since the cats are doing well, and you are feeling better…”
“What reception?”
“I’ve wrangled an invite to the poshest affair this town has seen in years. They’ll be unveiling the restored Fountain of the Muses on the village green tomorrow at noon. Half of southern Vermont will be there.”
“I thought that was open to the public.”
“It is. But before the unveiling there’s a very la-di-da event at the Northshire Historical Society and Museum. The society is hosting an art exhibit dedicated to the Muse, in honor of the return of the fountain. Your neighbor Daniel Feinberg is the grand master.”
“Really? I didn’t take him for the committee type.” Not that she knew that much about the billionaire whose land cozied up to her own minimal acreage. She’d only seen him a couple of times, by happenstance, on hikes in the wilderness. His wilderness, mostly.
“He’s not. But he’s a serious art collector and has been very generous to the museum. He underwrote the restoration of the fountain. And he’s donating the famous Grandma Moses painting of our village green to the museum. You know the one.”
“Yes.” Everyone in Northshire knew the one. The acclaimed primitive artist had painted the village green—with the Fountain of the Muses center stage—in the spring of 1954, and called it, simply, Northshire. The Bennington Museum down south housed the largest collection of Grandma Moses paintings in the world, and had been angling to acquire the piece for decades. But the owner had held on to the painting and refused to sell. “How’d he pull that off?”
“Billionaires have their ways, I suppose,” said Patience. “He wields increasing influence here.”
“Why is that?” Vermonters were notoriously disinclined to hand over any authority to outsiders, however well positioned. “I thought they hated guys like him.”
“They do, and they hated him, too, at first, especially when he built that enormous place out there in the woods.”
“Nemeton.”
“Right. Something to do with ancient Celts and druids and sacred groves. At least that’s what Lillian Jenkins says.”
“If anyone would know, it’s Lillian.” Mercy grinned. “Is she on his side?”
“Now she is. Feinberg made his mea culpas by buying up as much acreage as he can, in order to preserve it,” said Patience. “Saved it from the lumber companies.”
“Tree hugger.”
“Of the richest kind,” said Patience. “That buys him enormous support among a growing segment of our population.”
Vermont was changing, as more and more flatlanders moved in and started getting involved in local politics, often to the dismay of the native woodchucks. In some communities, the newcomers had formed majorities on planning commissions and the like, allowing for such long-outlawed travesties as overly large signage. That hadn’t happened in Northshire, at least not yet. On the plus side, many of the flatlanders were as keen to leave the wilderness alone as they were to tamper with historically strict village zoning laws.
“Good for him, I think.”
“The first viewing is tomorrow morning,” her grandmother went on, “and they’re having a fancy reception to celebrate. Anyone who’s anyone in the New England art world will be there. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”
“You know I’m not big on the news.” She avoided all manner of media, since as far as she was concerned no news was good news.
“You really need to rejoin the human race sometime soon.” Her grandmother turned to go.
Mercy remembered the flier that had led her to the parade—and disaster. She’d posted it on the fridge to remind her of her hubris, right next to the facedown photo of Martinez.
She got up and snatched it off the fridge, and carried it back to the couch. She consulted it now, looking at the activities for the day after the Fourth, which she’d ignored in her obsession with the parade. In typical no-frills Yankee fashion, the only mention of the gala was a brief listing in the schedule of events:
Sunday, July 4
10 a.m. 5K Fun Run ($20 registration fee)
Noon Fourth of July “Arts in America Parade” (free to the public)
10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Sidewalk Sale
7 p.m. Fourth of July Concert and Talent Show (free to the public)
9 p.m. Fireworks! (free to the public)*
*In the event of rain, fireworks will be held Monday, July 5
Monday, July 5
10 a.m. Northshire Historical Society and Museum Reception
(limited tickets available, contact society for more information)
Noon The Unveiling of the Fountain of the Muses (free to the public)
Noon to 5 p.m. Art Fete on the Green (music, food, face painting, arts & crafts fair, open to the public)
Her grandmother tapped the reception entry on the page. “That’s it.”
“Are you going to get all dolled up?” asked Mercy, using her grandmother’s favorite expression for dressing up.
Patience laughed. “It is a semiformal affair. Of course, this is Vermont, so the fashion bar should be pretty low. Still, one should make an effort.”
Mercy wondered what that effort might look like. She tried to remember the last time she’d seen her grandmother out of her usual uniform of pants and top—wool in winter, linen in summer—with a white veterinarian’s jacket and sensible shoes. And, as required, the appropriate outerwear, like yesterday’s raffia sun hat.
“You’ll want to hold your own with the beautiful people,” Mercy said, thinking that if all the artists in Vermont were there, Dr. Winters and Adam Wolfe could be, too. Or at least some of their friends and colleagues. “Do you think you could wrangle me an invitation?”
“Are you serious?”
“I was thinking I might want to go. You know, something to do. To rejoin the human race.”
Her grandmother wasn’t fooled. “You hate functions like this.”
“I’m very supportive of the arts.”
“Sure you are.”
“I
am in theory; you know that. Maybe I should put that into practice.”
Patience sniffed. “What about the CT scan?”
“I could go right after the reception.”
“Your parents will be there.”
Mercy sighed. “Let me guess. They’re Feinberg’s attorneys.” Time for another piece of cake. She’d need more fortification if she was going to see her mother.
“Yep.”
“So the Commonwealth of Massachusetts isn’t big enough for them?”
“They’re just a couple of his attorneys. The man must employ an army of them.”
“I bet.” Leave it to her parents to represent the man who was buying up the state. They never missed an opportunity to grow the family business.
“Of course you should get that CT scan. Or at least stay home and rest. Stay out of the heat.” Her grandmother smiled at her, a smile of collusion. “But I do happen to have an extra ticket. It was supposed to be for Claude, but he’s stuck in Quebec with a very sick stallion.”
“How did you score two invitations?”
“Friends in high places.” Patience walked back to the breakfast bar. “My reward for neutering Ralph, the mayor’s philandering dachshund.”
Mercy laughed. “Of course.”
“Maybe your handsome game warden will be there.”
“I doubt it. He’s on patrol. I imagine that he’s happier in the woods after this morning.” Poor Troy. No cake to comfort him.
“Wouldn’t you be happier in the woods, too?”
“I couldn’t let you go all alone. I’ll be your plus one.”
“I can think of a million reasons why you wouldn’t want to go—and only one why you would. You think you might learn something. You’re going as a spy.”
Mercy demurred, but her grandmother laughed her off. “At least this way I can keep an eye on you. So make yourself presentable. Do us all a favor and wear something your mother would like.” She kissed her cheek. “Do you have anything your mother would like?”
“Sure.” Mercy gave her a quick hug. “I have shopping bags full of clothes from Nordstrom and Macy’s and Lord & Taylor that she chose for me herself.”
“Perfect.” Patience waved goodbye as she headed for the front door. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at nine-thirty sharp. We don’t want to be late for your mother.” She turned just before she closed the door behind her and yelled, “Don’t eat all that cake in one sitting!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
AFTER TAKING MERCY AND HER DOG HOME, Troy went out on patrol for a few hours, then headed back to the office, hoping for the chance to talk to the captain about the disaster at the parade before Detective Harrington did.
But he was too late. His superior officer texted him and told him to meet him at the police station. Harrington’s turf.
“Rotten luck,” he told Susie Bear, who responded by spraying him with water as she shook off the rain. She’d been doing this off and on for half an hour now, and was still quite damp, thanks to her thick double-layered coat, which took forever to dry.
Troy was drenched, too. He wouldn’t have minded, given the heat, but going to see Harrington and Thrasher sopping wet was not ideal. He ran his fingers through his hair and mopped his face with a towel before using it on Susie Bear’s big mug.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said to her as he parked the truck in the lot behind the station. Together they went in to face the music, which he imagined that on this Independence Day would be John Philip Sousa. Or maybe the Green Mountain Boys band.
He laughed at his own dumb joke.
“What’s so funny, Warner?” Harrington appeared at the door of his office, an imposing presence in a light gray custom-tailored suit that cost twice his monthly salary. Harrington was perfectly dry.
“Nothing, sir.” Troy fought the urge to wipe away the moisture pooling on his brow from his hairline.
“Nothing funny about that colossal screwup this morning.”
“No, sir.”
“We have you and your girlfriend to thank for that.” Harrington raised his voice and the clatter of the office quieted as everyone around them strained to hear Troy’s dressing-down.
“She’s not my girlfriend.” Troy hesitated. “Sir.”
“Detective Harrington.” Captain Thrasher strode toward them. “Let’s take this inside, shall we?” He shook Harrington’s arm and drew him into the office.
“Come on.” The captain spoke to him very quietly, never a good sign. The angrier he was, the richer his baritone.
“Leave that dog outside,” said Harrington, perching himself on the edge of his large desk to underscore the fact that he was the one in charge.
“Stay,” Troy told Susie Bear, who gave him a baleful look as Thrasher closed the door on her.
“Warden Warner, that was some stunt you and that woman pulled this morning. I’ve spent all afternoon doing damage control—with the Feds and the pols and the media.”
“Sorry, sir.” Troy tightened his lips against the grin that threatened to overtake him at the thought of Harrington at the mercy of the media.
“I hate doing damage control.” Harrington pulled a yellow silk square from his breast pocket, refolded it neatly, and replaced it.
“Sorry, sir,” repeated Troy.
“That Mercy Carr is trouble, Warner. Damned attractive, but trouble.”
“She’s a decorated war veteran.” Troy willed himself not to throw the punch his clenched fist was thirsting for. He moved his hand behind his back, out of sight. “Sir.”
“That explains it. They all see IEDs everywhere.”
Troy started to protest, but a look from Thrasher silenced him.
“Look, if you want to sleep with her, sleep with her,” said Harrington, his voice now a booming stage whisper. “But stay away from her while you’re on the job.”
“Sir.”
“And while we’re on the subject of your job, let me remind you that your job is not homicide. Homicide is my job. Your job is fish and game.” Harrington said this last bit with such contempt Troy felt sure that if he didn’t hit him, Thrasher would.
But he was wrong.
“Warden Warner is needed out on patrol right away,” said Thrasher. “This storm is bound to hit hard.”
“Patrols.” Harrington nodded. “That’s where you belong, Warner. For the foreseeable future.”
Troy looked Harrington in the eye. He saw resolve there. He answered it with a resolve of his own. “Sir.”
“Women are women and work is work,” said Harrington. “Don’t shit where you eat. Every damned fool knows that.”
Troy bounced on his toes. The captain placed his hand on his shoulder, and guided him out of Harrington’s office and through the station and outside into the torrent. Susie Bear followed on his heels.
They ducked into a bus stop shelter, out of the worst of it as the rain pounded the roof and the wind rattled the glass-paneled walls.
“Breathe, son.”
Troy exhaled, and steadied his temper. “Yes, sir.”
“That debacle at the parade was the final straw. He wants your badge.”
“Can he do that?” Troy watched the water stream down the sides of the shelter. He loved his job. If he weren’t a game warden, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.
“He’s got powerful friends.”
“So do you.”
“True.” Thrasher rocked back and forth on his heels. “But that may not always be enough. No more stepping on his toes. Make yourself scarce for a while.”
“Patrols.”
“Yes. Meanwhile I’ll do what I can to keep a lid on him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Together they stood in silence as the wind blew and the thunder clapped and the lightning streaked across the darkened sky.
“I like patrols,” said Troy.
Thrasher smiled. “Just as well.”
MONDAY
JULY 5
CHAP
TER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING MERCY LAID out the gifts her mother had given her since she’d come back from Afghanistan: at least a dozen outfits, due to her insistence that her only daughter needed an entire new wardrobe now that she was a civilian again and would be applying to law schools in big cities soon, preferably in Boston or New York. Her mother was not at all discouraged when Mercy went instead to Vermont and lived off her small pension and modest life savings until she could figure out what to do next; she believed that sooner or later her daughter would come to her senses and get a life. The life her mother had always wanted for her.
Martinez had also left an insurance policy, naming Mercy as beneficiary. But much of the small payout had gone to saving Elvis, and the remainder she’d earmarked for his siblings’ education later down the road. His Social Security benefits went to his mother in Mexico, and helped support the large family he’d left behind.
Her mother knew all this, and had told her more than once that the best thing she could do for his family was to become a lawyer and make a lot of money. Mercy hated this argument, if only because it did hold some merit. How could she help his family hiding out here in the woods? Couldn’t she help them more if she had a good job?
Understanding her daughter so well, her mother had not given up. Mercy figured that she never would. Martinez always called her stubborn, but he’d never met Grace O’Sullivan Carr.
The gifts were mostly work clothes, what her mother like to call “power suits,” featuring tailored jackets, two paired with pants and three paired with skirts, all in various shades of gray, from dove to charcoal. For “after hours” wear, she’d curated no fewer than four little black dresses. Her mother was very big on little black dresses. Nothing Mercy would actually be comfortable wearing, as they’d all show either too much leg or too much décolletage.
One shopping bag left. Mercy prayed for something normal, at least as normal as her mother could buy. She pulled out a navy jumpsuit made of light cotton jersey, with wide palazzo-style pants and a cold-shouldered top.
She grinned. She could definitely move in this, without showing too much skin. Even better, the pants had deep pockets, and she could add the Chanel fanny pack—a little quilted black purse on a leather and gold chain belt—at her waist. Plenty of room to carry a cell phone, her Swiss Army knife, and whatever else she might need. For once she was grateful for her mother’s obsession with pricey accessories, though she shuddered to think what this outfit, all told, had actually cost.
