A Borrowing of Bones--A Mystery

by Paula Munier

  “Duality,” she repeated. “Opposite sides of the same coin. Like light and dark. Good and evil. Artist and activist.”

  Feinberg smiled. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  She smiled back. He was a cagey one, this enigmatic neighbor of hers.

  Well-wishers converged on the billionaire, under the watchful eye of Harrington and his bodyguards. Mercy waved goodbye and went in search of a snack. The green was lined with vendors: the American Legion grilling hot dogs and burgers, the Friends of the Library hosting a bake sale, the Boys and Girls Club pouring iced tea and lemonade, Animal Rescue selling fried dough.

  Lured by the sweet heady scent of crispy crust and powdered sugar, she asked for a double order and smothered it in extra dustings of sugar, some of which blew onto her navy jumpsuit. She hoped her mother wasn’t watching and hightailed it to a park bench partly hidden behind a tree. She scored a seat next to Mr. Horgan and offered him some of her dessert.

  “Thank you, my dear.” The old man tore off a piece carefully. Mercy handed him a napkin.

  They sat there together quietly, watching the people pass by as they chewed on their fried dough and wiped powdered sugar from their faces.

  “Eileen loved this fountain.”

  “I know. She used to tell us stories about the three Muses.” Mercy patted his thin shoulder.

  “She fought for years for the village to refurbish it. They never listened.” The old man sighed. “Until this Mr. Feinberg came along.”

  “I’m sure she would be pleased.”

  “They did a good enough job, I suppose.” Mr. Horgan popped the last piece of the fried dough into his mouth.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  The old man wiped his sugared hands on the napkin, then pointed it at her. “You’re the Shakespeare girl.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mercy smiled. Mrs. Horgan had given her free range in the library’s Shakespeare section from a very early age. In her honor, and for her grieving husband, she recited:

  O for a muse of fire that would ascend

  The brightest heaven of invention!

  A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,

  And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!

  “Nicely done.” Mr. Horgan applauded. “I miss her.”

  “Me, too.” She took the old man’s wrinkled hand and squeezed it gently.

  Mr. Horgan squeezed back, more strongly than she expected. “She said you were too young for the tragedies, but I told her you could handle it.”

  That, she didn’t know. “Thank you.”

  “You grew up to be a soldier.” He looked at her with an expression she could not quite read. “I was right.”

  * * *

  MERCY STAYED THERE with Mr. Horgan thinking about being a soldier and fighting the good fight and finding Amy and Helena. The old man didn’t say much, just sat there drinking in the sun while the world went on around him. She wondered if he’d had anything else to eat today besides that fried dough, and if George from Meals on Wheels would drop by his house later to make sure he had more than dessert for dinner.

  But she didn’t want to take any chances. “Would you like a burger?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “No trouble. I’m going to get myself one anyway. Will you save my seat?”

  “Of course.”

  She stood in line at the American Legion booth and ordered two burgers and Cokes, and headed back toward Mr. Horgan’s bench. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of her mother talking to Lillian Jenkins. They were about twenty feet away, and her mother did not look happy. She had a terrible feeling the ebullient Lillian had said something that upset her. Probably about a certain game warden.

  Mercy watched as her mother scanned the crowd for her. She darted for cover into the arts-and-crafts tent, where she knew she’d be safe among the vendors selling homespun cloth and home-thrown pots and homemade candles. Her mother wouldn’t be caught dead buying anything in here.

  She walked up and down the double aisles, glancing at the paintings and the wood carvings and the dream catchers. At the jewelry vendors she scrutinized the displays for belt buckles like the ones found on the victims, but she didn’t discover anything remotely similar. She stopped in front of a “Natural Wonders” booth, which displayed a number of creations with a wildlife theme: sea-glass necklaces and moose snow globes and silk-screened T-shirts emblazoned with endangered species. Bats and butterflies, whooping cranes and condors, wolves and wolverines, whipsnakes and sea turtles and crocodiles.

  Mercy thought about buying a T-shirt for her grandmother, but choosing among the endangered species would be tough. Her grandmother went to Georgia during hatching season every year to help the loggerheads, but she’d also worked at a whooping crane breeding center in Wisconsin and volunteered at a wolf sanctuary in upstate New York.

  She was partial to the wolves, but maybe that was just because she had another wild Wolfe in mind.

  Wolves. Wolfe. Wolf.

  He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.

  She ran out of the arts tent as quickly as she could without spilling the sodas. Past her mother and Lillian Jenkins. Past Feinberg and his fans. Past Harrington and his dark looks.

  She slowed down just long enough to give Mr. Horgan the burgers and Cokes.

  “Aren’t you going to eat yours?”

  “No, it’s all yours. I’ve got to go.”

  “More battles to fight.” The old man smiled at her.

  She smiled back. “Yes, sir.”

  “Give ’em hell, Shakespeare girl.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE A HOT SHOWER after long patrols in the woods and a dressing-down by Harrington. Troy sang along with the Avett Brothers on the radio as he washed away the dirt and sweat and humiliation of the past twenty-four hours. Susie Bear snored loudly to the beat from the other room. He’d have time for a quick nap himself before going back out again on patrol tonight, making sure that the fireworks people weren’t supposed to have, and weren’t supposed to set off, didn’t get out of hand—which invariably they did. The storm last night had put a damper on the proper July Fourth fireworks, so everyone would be eager to make up for it tonight.

  He was tired, but it was a good tired. He’d worn himself out on the trail, the best way he knew to work off his anger and frustration. Miles of forest later, he was feeling more in control.

  He wondered what Mercy was doing to wear herself out. He knew that she must be as embarrassed as he was, but her job wasn’t on the line. His was. Lesson learned.

  From now on Troy would stick to what he was good at: reading the woods, patrolling the wilderness, protecting the wildlife, and enforcing the law of the land that would preserve it all for generations to come. Fish and game, as that smug bastard Harrington had put it.

  No more parades. No more goose chases. He knew he should say no more Mercy Carr, too, but he wasn’t sure he could. There was something irresistible about her.

  As he shut off the water and dried himself off, he heard Susie Bear scramble to her feet and lumber to the front door, barking all the way. He tied the towel around his waist and followed the dog. Through the wide front windows he saw a red Mustang convertible he didn’t recognize parked in front of the fire tower. The kind of car you only saw in this state in the summertime, usually driven by a flatlander. But this vehicle sported Vermont license plates. The top was down but the seats were empty. So much for that nap. He cursed whoever had invaded his privacy and the convertible they rode in on.

  There was a pounding on the door.

  “Sit,” he told Susie Bear, and she sat, tail thumping wildly. Which meant she liked whoever was on the other side of the door.

  He opened it—and found Mercy and Elvis. The dogs greeted one another excitedly, then took off, chasing each other around the side of the house.

  “Hi,” she said.

  She was all dressed up, as if she’d been to a part
y. He hadn’t pegged her for a party girl, but then, what did he know? About women or parties.

  “What are you doing here?” He was stunned to see her so decked out. She looked pretty great. Girly, even. He wondered where she’d been dressed like that. And with whom.

  “Sorry for just dropping by like this, but it couldn’t wait. Something amazing has happened.”

  “Uh-huh.” She was all worked up, that was for sure. Her pale skin was so flushed with exhilaration, she was practically luminescent. Damned attractive, to quote Harrington.

  “I figured it out,” she said, her voice high with excitement. “Adam Wolfe and Rufus Flanigan are the same person.”

  Troy stared her. This might be her craziest idea yet. “What are you talking about?”

  “Has his next of kin identified him?” There was a challenge in her blue eyes.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure they’ve even had time to find his next of kin. He’s not from here.”

  “You should run his prints.”

  “You’d better come in.” Troy whistled for Susie Bear, and she barged into the house, Elvis on her heels. He stood aside and waved Mercy inside. For the second time in as many minutes he found himself admiring the way she filled out the jumpsuit she was wearing. Which was what he thought you called it. Not the kind of thing he ever expected to see her in, or that he expected her to look so good in. She wore it well, but it still seemed to him as if she were in costume. He thought he liked her better in her usual uniform of cargo pants and T-shirt.

  “Very cool place,” she said, taking in the large kitchen, which commanded most of the first floor.

  “Thanks.”

  Mercy stood just inches away from him. So close he could count the faint freckles on her nose and breathe in the scent of lavender and lemon in her red hair.

  “I think Max Skinner killed him.”

  “Like he blew up the parade.”

  The dogs alerted. Two pairs of canine ears, one triangular and one floppy, perked up.

  “I know I was wrong about that,” she said in a low voice. “And I’m so sorry. But this is different. I’m not wrong now.”

  “We’ve just come off patrol, and we have to go back soon.” He stepped back, away from that freckled little nose and that red hair. The dogs relaxed, along with their ears.

  “Please let me explain,” she went on. “I can prove they’re one and the same person.”

  Troy hesitated. If that was true, then that would be amazing. She’d been right about everything else … well, except for the explosives. The woman was nothing if not stubborn, but she was smart, too. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me all about it.” He pointed her to a chair at the kitchen table. “From the beginning.”

  “Okay.” But she didn’t sit down.

  “I was just about to make us some supper before we go out again. Are you hungry?”

  Both dogs barked at the sound of one of their favorite words: supper.

  “Why don’t you feed them while I change? The Crock-Pot on the counter has Susie Bear’s stew in it. You’re welcome to share it with Elvis. There should be plenty.”

  “Smells good.”

  The dogs thought so, too. They each sat down on the wide pine planks of the kitchen floor as close as possible to the Crock-Pot. Susie Bear was so big that she simply laid her pumpkin head right on the counter and waited. Elvis could not quite reach that far, so he craned his neck, snout up in the air, and sniffed.

  “I make it myself,” he said. “Beef-stew meat, chopped carrots, celery, potatoes, vermicelli, and bouillon. Eight hours in the Crock-Pot and it’s good to go.”

  “Lucky Susie Bear.”

  “If Elvis likes it, I’ll give you the recipe.” He headed across the room. “Dog dishes in the pantry. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

  He climbed the stairs to his living and sleeping quarters, and changed into a clean uniform. Just in case she wanted to see the rest of the house, he lifted the Murphy bed back into the wall, and tossed the dirty clothes into the hamper. There was nothing he could do about all the dog hair, but she had a dog, too. Of course, nothing shed like a Newfie. He’d lucked out as far as the slobbering went—Susie Bear didn’t slobber nearly as much as most Newfoundlands—but the hair, man, the hair was everywhere. Sweeping it up was a daily battle he hadn’t had the time to fight lately.

  He pulled a record from his vinyl collection on the far wall. The Lumineers. If he couldn’t get any sleep, at least he’d get a little “Ho Hey.” He put the record on the turntable and then went back downstairs.

  He found Mercy chopping up tomatoes and cucumbers for the salad she’d made. The rich smell of Mocha Joe’s Hometown Blend hit him hard. Just what he needed.

  “I found the box of produce from the farmers association in the fridge,” she said. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Great. I’ll make the omelets while you chop and talk. Cheddar cheese okay?”

  “Sure. I’m afraid between the two of them they finished off all of the stew.” She watched as he beat eggs in a bowl and poured them into a skillet.

  “That’s okay. I don’t eat Susie Bear’s stew.”

  “Oh.” Mercy frowned. “So you cook for your dog but not for yourself?”

  He laughed as he grated the cheese and added it to the eggs. “I’m not a fan of the Crock-Pot. More of a grill guy myself. I do share my meat with Susie Bear.”

  She nodded, and he was struck by the sadness that washed suddenly over her face, and then was gone. He flipped the omelet on a plate and placed it in front of her with a side of the salad. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  He poured them each a cup and then sat down at the table with her. “Let’s hear it. From the top.”

  She nodded, and in between bites she told him about the Historical Society’s gala reception. “You know, where they unveiled the Grandma Moses painting.”

  “Lillian Jenkins,” he said.

  “Exactly. I went with my grandmother.”

  That explained the party clothes, he thought.

  She told him about her conversation with Daniel Feinberg about Adam Wolfe and Paul-Émile Borduas and his comment about two names. “I think he was referring to the names of his two personas—Adam Wolfe and Rufus Flanigan.”

  “Kind of a stretch.”

  “Not really. Something about the bird-watcher had been bugging me. I knew I was missing something. And then it hit me. Wolves.”

  “Wolves.” He had no idea where she was going with this.

  “They had this arts-and-crafts tent on the town green today. There were all the usual vendors, you know, clothes and jewelry and pottery. One guy was selling silk-screened T-shirts with pictures of endangered wildlife on them.”

  “Like wolves.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Go on.” This was getting interesting.

  “Adam Wolfe. Rufus Flanigan.” She grinned at him. “Is your Latin any better than your Greek?”

  “Not much,” he admitted. “I know that Canis lupus familiaris is the scientific name for dog, and Canis lupus lupus is the scientific name for wolf, from the Latin. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Canis lupus lupus refers to the common wolf. But the scientific name for the red wolf is.…” She looked at him, like a patient teacher waiting for her favorite student to do well.

  “Canis lupus rufus.” He didn’t know what else to say. It was just bizarre enough to be true.

  “I looked up the etymologies of Flanigan and Adam, too. Adam is Hebrew, and means ‘red,’ supposedly a reference to ruddy skin or to the red soil in the Garden of Eden from which he was made, according to the book of Genesis.”

  “The Bible.” Troy wasn’t too sure how helpful that source would be to the case.

  “Yes.” Undeterred, she went on. “Flanigan is Gaelic, a diminutive of flann, which means—”

  “Let me guess,” he interrupted her. “‘Red.’”


  “‘Red’ or ‘ruddy,’ yes.” She hesitated. “So Adam Wolfe means ‘red wolf’ and Rufus Flanigan means ‘red wolf red.’”

  “There’s two reds in there. Like the two lupuses. It almost makes sense.”

  Mercy frowned. “I supposed it could be just some crazy coincidence, but I don’t think so.”

  “It’s not crazy.” He laughed. “It’s brilliant. And it sounds like the kind of thing this guy would do.”

  “I followed it up. And it checked out.” She pushed over the cell phone that Patience loaned her. “Here are the images of Adam Wolfe I found on the Internet.”

  He flipped through the photos of a hippie-looking long-haired dude with a full beard and mustache while he tried not to inhale his food. “Looks like a cross between Hagrid and Van Gogh.”

  “Yeah.” She leaned across the table. “Now picture him with a short haircut like yours—no beard, no mustache, no wild mane.”

  Troy tried to imagine that. He pulled his own phone out, and compared the photos of the dead Rufus Flanigan and the living Adam Wolfe. “It’s possible. I’ll talk to Thrasher about running Flanigan’s prints if they haven’t already.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “Why would he need two identities?”

  “For his two personas. Artist and activist.” Mercy pointed to each likeness in turn on the phones. “The question is, which one was murdered? And why.”

  “When he was murdered, he was Rufus Flanigan.”

  “But that doesn’t mean the murderer knew him only as Rufus Flanigan.”

  “Maybe that’s the reason he was killed,” said Troy between bites. “Because someone found out about his double life—and didn’t like it.”

  “We have to find this guy Max Skinner,” she said. “He was in the position to know about both Wolfe and Flanigan. I’m sure he’s behind the murders and Amy and Helena’s disappearance.”

  “You know they questioned him and let him go.”

  “But he’s the only common link,” she said. “He’s connected to Wolfe and the Herbert brothers and through them, to Dr. Winters and Amy and Helena and Donald Walker.”