A Borrowing of Bones--A Mystery

by Paula Munier

“You could say the same thing about Amy Walker.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t know what I believe about Amy.” He pushed his empty plate away and yawned. “But I know what I believe about you. You’re some kind of genius, really, to figure all this out.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled shyly at him. “By the way, I think the jeweler who made the buckles and the pendant is a guy named Patrick O’Malley. You might want to check it out.” She pointed across the room to the dogs, sleeping side by side at the threshold of the front door. “I know you’re exhausted, too. Go on and get some sleep. I’ll clean up.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “It’s the least I can do.” She started clearing the table. “Elvis and I can let ourselves out.”

  “Okay.” Troy yawned again. He could really use a nap before he went out again. “But I can’t let you leave without showing you something first.”

  She followed him up the two flights of stairs, past his living and bedroom space, and up to the deck on the roof at the top of the fire tower. He slid open the sliding glass door and waved her outside.

  “Wow,” she said.

  They walked around the perimeter of the deck, which comprised the entire footprint of the tower. The view stretched for miles down the Battenkill River and out across the meadows and forest in all directions.

  He watched her as she stared out across the valley, her eyes full of unshed tears.

  “This is beautiful,” Mercy said. “‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.’”

  Shakespeare again. Whenever she seemed overcome with emotion, she quoted the Bard. He’d have to ask her about that sometime.

  But not now. Now was too perfect.

  They stood there for a few minutes, not saying anything, just drinking in the view of the land they both loved. Troy liked that she was comfortable with silence. Not that many people were, and he’d learned that the people who couldn’t handle silence often couldn’t handle life. Silence was good.

  He yawned.

  “I’ve kept you long enough,” she said quietly.

  He took her back downstairs, where she went straight to the kitchen sink.

  “I’m doing the dishes,” she said, in a voice that told him there was no point in trying to stop her.

  He handed her the “Licensed to Grill” BBQ apron that hung on a hook by the oven, a gift from his estranged wife that he wished now he’d given away, as he had most of the other reminders of his failed marriage. But Mercy needed something to protect that fancy outfit of hers.

  She took it from him. “Thanks.”

  “I meant it when I said you’re brilliant. But you need to go home now and stay out of it. And so do I. I’ll pass all this along, but it’s up to Harrington and the Major Crime Unit now.”

  “Harrington.” She frowned. “I don’t like him.”

  “I don’t like him much, either. But he is a decent detective.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It’s his case. Seriously. It’s not your job—and it’s not mine, either. He’s made it very clear that if I overstep jurisdiction again, he’ll have my badge.”

  “Understood.” She slipped on the apron, tying it behind her back. She looked far better in it than he did.

  He cleared the table while she loaded the dishwasher.

  “Go on up,” she said. “Get some rest. Elvis and I will let ourselves out.”

  “Right.” He hauled himself up to his couch on the second floor and fell into it. He lay there, willing himself to stay awake. Listening as she finished up, whistled for Elvis, and left the house, closing the door behind her and going out to the driveway.

  Troy smiled. Hard to stay away from a woman like that. Even if she could get you fired.

  He heard the car door slam and the sound of the little red convertible roaring off, and Susie Bear shambling up the stairs to join him.

  She settled at the other end of the sectional, and he texted Thrasher about Rufus Flanigan’s fingerprints. That was all he could do for now. Finally, finally, finally, he gave into his overwhelming urge to snore.

  * * *

  HE’D BARELY CLOSED his eyes when his mobile beeped. It was a text from Thrasher, asking him how he knew that the dead bird-watcher Rufus Flanigan was really Adam Wolfe, and telling him to phone right away. He sighed and placed the call.

  Thrasher picked up on the first ring. “Don’t tell me. Mercy Carr.”

  “I went out with Susie Bear on patrol as ordered, sir. When we came home between shifts, she showed up at the house with Elvis unannounced.”

  “She ambushed you.” The captain almost sounded amused.

  “She did some research and figured it out.” He told him about the meaning of the two names. “But that’s not all. We compared photos she found on the Internet to those I took of the dead bird-watcher, and it seemed possible that they could be the same man, so I agreed we should run the prints.”

  “You were supposed to stay out of it.”

  Troy paused. “She was right, sir.”

  “No denying she’s smart as a whip.” The captain chuckled. “Where is she now?”

  “I told her we had to go back out on patrol, and that the Major Crime Unit would handle it. She went home.”

  “Make sure of that. Harrington is beside himself.” The captain chuckled again, then stopped midlaugh. “It really isn’t funny. I’m doing damage control, but there’s a limit to my influence. Keep her—and yourself—off his radar.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He smiled as he hung up. The captain loved showing up Harrington as much as he did. And Thrasher would always save his sorry ass if he could.

  But it was up to Troy to save Mercy Carr’s ass.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE RED CONVERTIBLE WAS PARKED UP by Mercy’s cabin. Troy hoped that meant Patience was back on site, monitoring her headstrong granddaughter.

  No such luck. Mercy answered the door, and let him and Susie Bear in right away. Elvis greeted him with a short yelp and then both dogs bounded back toward the kitchen. No sign of Patience.

  “I thought you were going back out on patrol.” She’d changed back into her usual hiking clothes, a blue hoodie over a white T-shirt and tan cargo pants with hiking boots, her Red Sox cap covering her red hair. Not as sophisticated as the girl in the navy jumpsuit, but even more beautiful somehow.

  “I thought we should check on you first.” He looked around the neat kitchen, where a backpack sat on the counter, next to bottles of water and packages of beef jerky. “Where’s Patience?”

  “She’s still in Northshire, hobnobbing with Vermont’s beautiful people.”

  “And you’re going out?”

  “Just a little walk in the woods.”

  “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  “Elvis is a little rattled. This will calm him down.” She looked at him with those bright blue eyes, all innocent concern over her dog, who seemed perfectly at ease, sitting there in his Sphinx pose with Susie Bear, waiting for a beef jerky treat.

  “Right.” He laughed, as much out of frustration as amusement. “You are a terrible liar.”

  She started to protest, then laughed with him. “So I’ve been told.”

  “What are you really up to?”

  “Just a little walk in the woods.” She grinned. “That may take us past the compound.”

  “Why? We’ve been there, the crime scene techs have been there, whatever is there to be found has been found.”

  Mercy shook her head, and those red curls fell around her face. “We didn’t know who the victim was then. And it was dark. I’d like to get a look in daylight. See what we’re missing.”

  “If anything.”

  “If anything.” She smiled at him. “But I know we’re missing something.”

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “Never give up, never surrender.” She was dead ser
ious now.

  “Thrasher says I need to keep you out of this investigation.” He was dead serious, too.

  “I thought Thrasher was a good guy.”

  “He is,” Troy said. “But Harrington is another story.”

  “Yeah.” Mercy hesitated. “He’s got it out for you and your boss.”

  “And you.” Troy weighed his options. “But you were right about our victim. And we still don’t know where that baby is.” He was not convinced that going out to the compound again with her was a good idea, but he couldn’t babysit her all afternoon, and he couldn’t have her traipsing around the crime scene without him. And he and Susie Bear had to go back out on patrol anyway.

  “Or her mother.” Mercy reached over across the counter and touched his hand. “I promise I’ll follow your lead.”

  Troy sighed. “We’d better get going, it’s nearly four o’clock.”

  “Just a little walk in the woods,” she said.

  Just a little walk in the woods that could get me fired, thought Troy.

  Or solve the case.

  * * *

  THE CRIME SCENE techs had come and gone. They’d made pretty quick work of it, probably urged on by the desire to get back to their families for the rest of the July Fourth festivities. The woods were quiet now. The summer sun was on its long descent toward evening. There were only a few hours of daylight left, and then the last of the holiday celebrations would begin in earnest—fireworks and beer, not necessarily in that order. A recipe for disaster—and one that would undoubtedly occupy Troy’s evening hours. All the more reason to get through this exercise as quickly as possible.

  “Not much changed here,” he said, pointing to the area where she’d found the victim, which looked much the same, apart from the obvious comings and goings of the crime scene techs and the scavengers. “We’ve been all over this before. And so has the forensics team.”

  “We need to go back to the basics,” said Mercy. “Means, motive, opportunity.”

  “Okay,” said Troy. “Let’s assume for now that Max Skinner had both means and opportunity, since he was known to Wolfe and was seen here at the compound and knew the Herbert brothers, who were hunters with access to hunting knives.”

  “And he’s from Utah, which means he’s probably a hunter, too. In any event, it’s realistic to assume that he could get his hands on a common hunting knife like the Buck that killed Wolfe.”

  “Which leaves us with motive,” said Troy, “at least for the sake of this discussion.”

  “Envy,” said Mercy. “Feinberg told me that Skinner was an artist, too. But he wasn’t as successful as his friend. Wolfe tried to help him, and he approached Feinberg about buying his art, but he declined.”

  “So he was jealous?” Troy shook his head. “That wouldn’t explain why Wolfe came to you as Rufus Flanigan, and told you where Amy and Helena were. Or why he called in the AMBER Alert in the first place.”

  “He must have believed that Amy and Helena were in danger,” she said. “Max could have been jealous of his family as well as his art.”

  “Or maybe Wolfe wanted Amy and Helena back, and used the AMBER Alert to help locate them,” he said. “He came to you as the bird-watcher to find out how much you knew. He told you where they were so you’d go after them, and then once you were distracted, he bonked you on the head and left you to die in the woods.”

  “Only, someone killed him first,” she said. “Wolfe is the key to this whole thing. If we understood him better, maybe we’d understand why someone would want to kill him.”

  “Thrasher says the Rufus Flanigan passport is a fake; a good one, but a fake. So he definitely had something to hide. Otherwise, he wouldn’t need two identities.”

  “The nature of duality, that’s what he said, according to Feinberg,” said Mercy.

  “Duality?” He grinned. “Yin and yang?”

  “Very funny.” She laughed. “But yes, you’re right. Two identities. Two homelands. Two styles of sculpture.”

  “Two women.” He had to admit that he liked the way her mind worked, when he could follow what she saying. He liked watching her think. She stood by the barbwire fence, her hands on her hips.

  “Two follies.”

  “Follies?”

  Mercy told him about the follies and the natural sculptures that Feinberg had commissioned Wolfe to create on his land. “Maybe he wasn’t trying to kill me, maybe he just hit me over the head trying to keep me away from the folly.”

  “Why would he do that?” She’d lost him once again.

  “I don’t know. But there’s nothing more to be learned here. Let’s go take another look at the folly.”

  They called for the dogs, who were chasing each other around the compound. He followed her to the section of the fence where she’d cut it, and they pulled it apart. She led the way to the folly.

  “This is the first one he finished,” she told Troy. She ran her index finger along the markings on the stones, which looked like this: Ερατω.

  “Greek to me,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes at him in response. “Couldn’t resist, could you?”

  “Nope.” He grinned at her.

  “I think this is the name of a Muse,” she said, serious again. “Feinberg commissioned nine follies, one for each Muse.”

  “But Wolfe only finished two of them. Which one is this?”

  “I don’t know. Feinberg didn’t know, or at least he didn’t say. I snapped a photo of it with my phone, intending to look it up later on the Internet when I got home, but then of course, I got hit on the head and someone stole my phone.”

  “Do you think that could be why?”

  “I don’t know. I did look up the Nine Muses, and their Greek names, to try to jog my memory. If I had to guess, I’d guess that this is Erato, Muse of erotic love.”

  “I wonder if that was meant for Amy or the professor.” Troy took some pictures of his own of the folly.

  “I’d bet on Amy. Feinberg believes that he loved her, and the baby.” Mercy snapped a couple on her grandmother’s phone as well. “Not that Erato seems to be helping us.”

  Together they went round the arched structure again, looking for something, anything, that might tell them something. They squatted down to examine the dry riverbed of stone, searching for meaning in the patterns. But the lovely whirls and swirls revealed nothing to them.

  “See anything?”

  “No.” Mercy plopped down onto a large downed limb. “Maybe this is my folly.”

  “That’s not true.” Troy sat down next to her. “You saved the baby. You found the bones. And Don Walker. And you figured out who Rufus Flanigan really was.”

  “We still don’t know why Elvis alerted to explosives. And Amy and the baby are still out there somewhere.”

  He knew that he should just send Mercy and her dog home. And get on to his patrols. But he didn’t think she’d go, and he couldn’t just abandon her here in the woods. “What you said before, about how knowing the victim will help us figure out the motive. Well, what do we know about him?”

  “We know nothing about him was as it seemed.”

  “Right.”

  “Amy told me that he was very secretive about his art. He wouldn’t let anyone see it until he was finished.”

  “Looks like he was secretive about everything.”

  “That’s true. He hid his studio on the compound, and his girlfriend and his baby in a tent cabin, and his folly in the forest.”

  “And then there’s the name thing. He didn’t just pick any name for his second identity, he picked one with a hidden meaning.”

  “A puzzle,” said Amy.

  Troy looked back at the folly again. “This folly is a puzzle, too. It’s constructed like a Jenga—pull out one piece and the whole thing might fall down.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. He’s far too clever for that. He’s built this to last, at least as long as Mother Nature allows. That’s what Dr. Winters said.”

  �
��If that’s true, then conceivably you could pull out a piece.”

  “Now that would make a good hiding place.”

  They looked at each other, then jumped to their feet, jostling one another. Mercy stumbled, and Troy steadied her, catching her hips with his hands.

  “You start at one end, and I’ll start at the other.” She went to the right-hand side of the folly’s arch and started running her fingers along the edges of the granite stones. Troy went to the left-hand side and did the same. They’d nearly met in the middle when his thumb caught on the edge of the block just to the left of the keystone. He pulled the wedge of stone out.

  “Look,” he said. The block was not nearly as deep as the others.

  “Well done.” Mercy peered up into the space where the stone had been.

  “What’s in there?”

  “See for yourself.”

  There, on a narrow ledge, was a small rectangular box, the kind used for gift cards. “You do the honors.”

  Carefully she removed it from the cavity and held the box out to him in the palm of her hand.

  “Go ahead, open it.”

  She slipped the top off and revealed the prize: a slim blue plastic card that looked much like a credit card or a hotel key card. “Odd.” She plucked it up by the corners and presented it to Troy. “What is it, exactly?”

  He held it up by its edges. “I think it’s a security pass card, the kind employers issue to their employees to get in and out of their offices.”

  “Why would he have that?”

  “We didn’t see anything that he’d need it for at the compound,” he said. “So there must be somewhere else he used it.”

  “Feinberg was talking about this at the gala. He underwrote the whole thing, including comprehensive new security measures. He specifically mentioned staff vetting and security.”

  “Art theft is often an inside job.” Troy nodded. “You look to the family first when there’s a murder, and you look to the staff first when there’s a theft.”

  “Art theft.” Mercy gave him back the box. “All that packing material we found in the steel trunks could be used to pack stolen art just as well as legitimate art. Feinberg has a very valuable art collection. Wolfe knew it. He must have been planning to rob him all along. Like you said, an inside job.”