by Paula Munier
She sipped her Big Barn Red and wandered around the house in her pajamas, glass in hand, too restless to sit. She went to her bookshelves and stared at the spines of her beloved collection of Shakespeare and company. She pulled out the limited edition of A Midsummer’s Night Dream that she’d shown Amy.
“I should have given it to her,” she told Elvis, who snored on, ignoring her, as he always did when she talked Shakespeare.
Still thinking of the teenager, she replaced the book, thinking of that morning she’d met Amy and her conversation with her. She remembered that Amy, who’d named her baby after Helena in the Bard’s most popular comedy, had been reading Othello—a far darker reflection of “Love is blind” than A Midsummer’s Night Dream.
She found the slim volume of Othello on the shelf. When she held the paperback in her open palms, the book fell open to Act III, Scene IV.
Someone had folded down the corner of the page of the scene in which Emilia speaks to Desdemona about the nature of jealousy. The ink was smudged over the words But jealous souls will not be answered so; / They are not ever jealous for the cause, / But jealous for they are jealous: ’tis a monster / Begot upon itself, born on itself.
Mercy used bookmarks. She would never fold the corners of any pages of any of her books. As the book collector she was, she considered it a sacrilege. Just like Feinberg must feel about thieves who cut canvases out of frames and rolled them up to steal them.
Poor Amy was not an art thief, she was just a kid under a lot of stress who marked the pages of paperbacks by folding down the corners like most of the rest of the readers in the world liked to do. Which was why Mercy rarely loaned out her books.
It was obviously Amy who had marked this page and fingered Emilia’s speech about the terrible curse that is jealousy. The distraught girl could have been drawn to this passage because of her boyfriend’s possessiveness of her. Stage-five clinger.
But possessiveness was not the same thing as the sexual jealousy that drove people to murder. Amy had insisted all along that Adam was not a violent person.
If that was true—and so far it appeared to be—then maybe Amy’s marking the passage was not a reference to him, but to one of his art groupies who hated her. An unhappy ex.
Like Dr. Winters.
She shut the book. Amy had never mentioned the professor specifically, but then, she hadn’t appeared to take any of her boyfriend’s former paramours seriously. And she was young enough that she probably dismissed any rival over thirty out of hand.
But Dr. Winters was not the sort of woman you should dismiss out of hand, Mercy thought. Amy was just too naïve to know that. And as far as Mercy knew, the professor was the only one of those groupies who was still hanging around the compound. She’d gone right there after Mercy and Troy paid her that little visit to question her about Adam Wolfe. And odds were she was still there when Mercy talked to the bird-watcher, aka Adam, about Amy and the baby. Still there when Mercy got hit in the head. Still there when Adam died.
The professor had the means and the opportunity to kill him.
And the motive. Maybe she wasn’t over Adam Wolfe, after all. Maybe all of the merger-and-acquisitions attorneys in the world couldn’t make up for the genius who enshrined you in art. Maybe she was the Othello to Wolfe’s Desdemona. Or the Iago to his Othello. Either way, Amy was the Desdemona in this scenario, and that meant things could go very badly for her. And the baby.
If Mercy was right—and she knew she was—then they didn’t have much time. Dr. Winters was supposedly on her way to the south of France. So she’d need to get rid of Amy and Helena before she left.
Mercy swapped her pajamas for her usual uniform of T-shirt, cargo pants, and hoodie, and pulled her hiking boots on over thick cotton socks.
“Come on, Elvis.”
The shepherd jounced up, ready to go.
* * *
THIRTY MINUTES LATER she pulled the little red convertible onto the street where Dr. Winters lived in Bennington. She’d texted Troy, but she hadn’t heard back from him yet. She was on her own, no gun and no vest.
But she did have Elvis.
Mercy stared up at the intimidating Victorian pile that the professor called home. The painted lady was dark tonight. Only the nineteenth-century lampposts framing the walk up to the house were lit. The sun was setting now and the place was falling into a deep gloom.
She and Elvis cased the property, but there was no vehicle in the detached garage out back and no sign of life in the house. She banged the angry-gargoyle knocker, but no one came to the door.
She considered picking the locks and taking a look inside, but she really didn’t think the professor was there. This afternoon she’d been leaving the gala reception with the mergers-and-acquisitions attorney for what looked like a little merger of her own. She could still be negotiating her next acquisition, as the night was young. And this was still the Fourth of July weekend. The fireworks were just beginning.
But Mercy didn’t believe that’s what the professor was doing. She texted Troy again, and this time he called her back right away.
“What are you doing?” He sounded angry or frustrated or both.
“I’m at Dr. Winters’s house.”
“You’re supposed to be at home. I promised Patience you would rest tonight. You promised Patience you’d rest tonight.”
That was true. The only reason Patience hadn’t come right over after hearing about the excitement at Feinberg’s estate was because Mercy had abandoned her at the gala and run off in her car. Her grandmother said she’d get a ride home but not before exacting a promise that Mercy would go to bed and stay there. “I know, but this is important.”
“What do you think you’re going to find?”
“Nothing here. The professor’s gone.”
“She’s probably out recreating. It’s a holiday, remember?”
“I think she knows where Amy and Helena are.”
“Why would she know that?”
“Othello.” She knew this was not an answer he’d like.
“What’s Othello got to do with it?” From the tone of his voice, he didn’t like it one bit.
He was going to like her explanation even less. She told him about finding the book and the quote. “She’s jealous of Amy and the baby. I think they’re in danger.”
“I’m not sure that makes any sense.”
“Think about it. She was probably still there at the compound when Adam was murdered and I was left for dead and Amy and Helena were last seen.”
“True.”
“I was wrong about her. She still loved Adam Wolfe. He dumped her for Amy, swapped her out for a younger Muse. That must have infuriated her.”
“I can see that. But you’ve done enough for one day. Let me call it in.”
“Harrington won’t do anything about it. He’ll say it’s another wild-goose chase. And by the time you convince him otherwise, it could be too late. Remember the south of France.”
Troy sighed. “She does have a lake house on Lake St. Catherine, and anyone with a lake house spends the Fourth of July weekend there.”
Lake St. Catherine was a lovely lake about an hour north of Bennington in the Lakes Region of Rutland County. The popular destination bordered Lake St. Catherine State Park, and vacation cottages and four-season houses dotted its shores. This time of year the lake attracted summer people and year-round residents alike for its swimming and boating and fishing and every other kind of summer fun. But even with all this activity, Mercy knew that many of the houses there were surrounded by trees and somewhat secluded.
“Not a bad place to hide a young mother and a baby,” she said. “We need to go now.”
“I’ll meet you there. Don’t do anything on your own. Wait for me.”
“Over and out.”
Troy texted her the address, along with another admonition to wait for him.
“Come on, boy,” she said to Elvis. “Let’s go to the lake.”
The
shepherd licked her face, and she laughed.
They got back into the convertible and headed for the professor’s house on Osprey Point Road. She punched the address into the GPS. An hour and ten minutes.
But if she drove this little sports car as fast as her grandmother did, she might make it there in under an hour.
* * *
THE WOMAN WAS infuriating. Troy stared at his cell phone. She hadn’t answered that last text he’d sent, which meant if she got there before he did, odds were she’d barge right ahead without him. Because she was stubborn and headstrong and reckless.
But she’d been right about practically everything so far.
Thrasher told him that Max Skinner still wasn’t talking, and the Herbert brothers had finally shut up. But they all insisted that they didn’t know anything about Amy and Helena. The captain thought the girl had just skipped town with her baby.
But Mercy didn’t believe that, and neither did Troy.
He and Susie Bear were up at Branch Pond. It would take them about an hour to get to Lake St. Catherine.
If he drove fast enough, maybe he’d get there first.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
MERCY TURNED IN AT THE DEAD END SIGN and steered the convertible slowly down Osprey Point Road. Streetlights were few and far between. It was getting late and growing dark, and the only lights out on the lake were the fireworks people were setting off from their docks and on their boats.
Osprey Point was one of the more secluded areas on the lake. The houses on the narrow gravel road sat down by the water, and most were surrounded by trees that obscured them from the street. Not many had house numbers, at least not that she could see.
Thank goodness the navigation system was still working out here. According to the GPS, Dr. Winters’s cottage was directly to her left. But she couldn’t see the house.
She parked along the street, just shy of the driveway she hoped led to the professor’s place.
“Come on, Elvis,” she said.
Together they walked quietly down the dirt driveway to a little white farmhouse that was so different from the professor’s Victorian that she thought for a minute that the GPS must have gotten it wrong. It seemed unlikely that the same woman could call such disparate places home.
They approached the unlit cottage carefully. It looked like no one was there, but Dr. Winters’s SUV was parked out front so Mercy knew she must be home. They stepped up onto the small porch that fronted the farmhouse. She knocked on the door; no angry gargoyle here, just this plain white door with a small square window in the middle.
No one answered. The house was silent. All she could hear was the crackle of sparklers and the happy chatter of Fourth of July revelers and the slap of the current against the boats as the sound carried across the lake.
Elvis whined and took off, tearing around the cottage porch. She jogged after him, whistling softly to call him back. But he ignored her and raced past the SUV. He bolted down the backyard toward a small wooden boathouse by the water.
A burst of white and gold fireworks lit up the scene at the lake. The handsome shepherd froze—his sleek profile stark against the bright flashes of light—but just for that brief, illuminated moment. Then the dog sprang to life again and flew down to the boathouse. Mercy scrambled down the lawn after him.
The door to the boathouse was closed, but that didn’t stop the determined shepherd. His triangular ears were perked, his stance military, his attitude can do. This was how he’d looked when he went outside the wire with Martinez, thought Mercy.
Elvis abandoned the boathouse. He barreled down to the shore of Lake Saint Catherine and plunged into the water. Stunned, Mercy watched as he swam over to the open end of the boathouse, the end that emptied into the lake. The dog disappeared inside.
She ran back up to the boathouse door and turned the knob. It was locked. She didn’t have the light or the time or the inclination to pick it, so she backed up, took a running leap, and crashed into the door with her shoulder. Nothing. She tried again. This time the jamb splintered and the door gave way and she lurched into the dark room.
Her eyes adjusted, and she could see that the boathouse was tiny, just big enough for one boat. Oars and paddleboards leaned against one wall, and a canoe hung from the ceiling.
There was a twelve-foot bass boat in the single bay. Fireworks blazed and boomed outside, and in the light Mercy could see Dr. Winters in the boat with Amy Walker. The professor held a hunting knife at Amy’s throat. A knife that looked very much like the Buck hunting knife that was sticking out of Rufus Flanigan, aka Adam Wolfe’s, chest. And the one that killed Donald Walker.
“Corporal Carr,” said Dr. Winters. “I see you’re back to army surplus.”
Amy’s hands were bound together with rope at her wrists, and her feet were bound together with rope at her ankles. Her mouth was gagged with duct tape. The girl’s eyes were bright with fear and tears. When she saw Mercy, those eyes widened with hope.
“Let Amy go.”
The baby was there in the boat, too, wrapped in a blanket and sleeping on a curl of rope.
“Why would I do that?” The professor’s huge eyes were wild with spite behind her thick black glasses.
Elvis swam into the boathouse and waded up to the dock. The water was shallow here, only a couple of feet deep. The shepherd leapt onto the dock.
“I loathe dogs,” said Dr. Winters.
Most people who didn’t like dogs were afraid of them. She didn’t want Elvis scaring the woman into doing something terrible. Winters had done terrible things before—and she would do them again if Mercy didn’t stop her.
“Come,” she said. He cocked his head, then shook the water from his thick coat and came to sit beside her.
More fireworks exploded outside the boathouse. The baby slept on. Babies and dogs could sleep anywhere. Mercy envied them that.
Elvis, dripping wet, scooted to the edge of the boathouse dock, as close to Helena as possible without falling into the water or the boat himself. He was alert and ready for Mercy’s next command. But she had no idea what to tell him to do next. She needed to try to talk the professor down.
“Why don’t you put the knife down and tell me all about Adam Wolfe.”
“She stole him from me.” Dr. Winters did not drop the knife. The young girl squirmed and the professor tightened her grip. “Sit still, harlot.”
“How did she do that?”
The professor ignored her and looked down at the sleeping child. “I wanted a baby. I begged him for a baby.” She kicked at the coil of rope, just missing the infant’s head.
Amy jerked toward Helena, and the knife nicked her throat slightly.
“Sit still, or you’ll never see your baby again.”
Mercy held her breath and watched as tiny drops of blood pooled at the cut on Amy’s pale neck.
“It was the art,” Dr. Winters said. “Always his precious art. He said it came first, that his art was his baby.” She glared at Helena.
Mercy wept inside. The infant slept on, innocent and good and yet the object of such hatred.
“And then he has this … this, bastard child.” She put out her foot again and jostled the coil of rope with the toe of her boot. “He left me for this abomination.”
Mercy edge forward, her eyes on that boot.
“Don’t move.” Dr. Winters’s voice was thick with rage.
Elvis growled, the low guttural warning that only a fool would ignore. Or a crazy woman. The baby stirred and began to whimper. Elvis snarled at the professor. The infant’s whimpers became wails. The dog barked furiously. Another blast of fireworks rang out like shots.
“I told you, I don’t like dogs.” Dr. Winters yelled over the din. “Or bastards.” She turned away and reached back with her free hand to turn on the motor. She held the button down for a second, then released it. The engine rumbled to life.
Mercy lunged for the knife. The professor let Amy go and slashed at Mercy, the blade shiny in
the gleam of the fireworks. The weapon sliced Mercy’s left shoulder, and she punched Dr. Winters in the stomach with a hard right. The professor dropped the knife, which clattered to the bottom of the boat. She collapsed in on herself, gasping for air and grabbing for the throttle.
The boat pitched forward, slamming against the dock. Dr. Winters pulled the throttle back, and the boat shot backward.
Amy toppled over, bumping her head against the edge of the boat.
“Elvis, go!” Mercy clutched at her bleeding arm.
The aggressive shepherd launched himself toward the moving vessel and landed onboard in the stern. Dr. Winters fell back and tumbled on top of Amy. The young mother kicked her away and tried to curl her bound body around her screaming baby.
The professor scrambled to escape Amy’s jerking legs. She caught her breath and retrieved her knife and righted herself to attack again. But Elvis was faster. He chomped down on her wrist with his teeth and she dropped the knife.
Mercy ran after the boat as it plowed backward out of the boathouse. She leapt for the bow but missed by about six inches. She landed in about two feet of water and stumbled onto her knees into the silty muck of the lake bottom. Rising to her feet, she splashed through the boathouse.
Now the boat was moving forward once more. The professor must have pushed the throttle again. The water deepened, way over her head now. Mercy dove forward, swimming after the boat, desperate to catch up. But her aching shoulder was still bleeding and every stroke was an exercise in pain. The water was cold and her concussed head throbbed.
The lake was dark and choppy in the face of a light wind from the west. But by the staccato flash and thunder of the exploding fireworks overhead, she could spy Dr. Winters struggling with Elvis and trying to find the knife with her other hand. She watched Amy kick it away, and she swam harder. The sooner she got to the boat to help Amy, the better.
Mercy hoped that the baby was all right. She couldn’t hear the infant’s cries anymore. She couldn’t see anybody else close by; Lake St. Catherine was large and the other boats were scattered across it like dark jewels on black velvet. But she could hear people laughing and talking and singing along to a radio blaring “Red Solo Cup.”
