by Paula Munier
“Until the little magpie Munchkin stole it and hid it,” said Mercy.
“We’ll have that tested right away,” said Thrasher. “If you’re right, it would help to find the gun that fired it. With any luck it’s one of the weapons we confiscated at Feinberg’s.”
“A lot has to fall into place,” said Mercy.
“But we’re closer than ever to wrapping this up.” Thrasher smiled. “Great work.”
“What will happen to Dr. Winters?” asked Amy.
“You don’t have to worry,” said Thrasher. “She’s going away for a very long time.”
“She confessed,” said Troy. “She thought you and the baby were gone for good, and that she’d have a chance with Wolfe again. When she saw you back at the compound, she confronted him. She told him he was an idiot, and that thanks to Max he was going to end up dead or in jail, not in a love cottage with you. Only she could save him. He sent her home, but he realized that she was right about Max. He went off to find him and ran into Mercy.”
“He thought I could get Amy and Helena out of there,” said Mercy, “while he stopped Max from robbing Feinberg.”
“But Dr. Winters didn’t go home,” said Amy.
“No,” said Troy. “She was in a rage. She hit Mercy on the head. When Wolfe saw Elvis running alone on the trail, and circled back to see what happened to Mercy, the professor killed him.”
“OMG,” said Jade to Amy. “So you were there when she did it?”
“I snuck out of the tent cabin to see what was going on,” said Amy. “I saw her hit Mercy. I wanted to help, but Adam got there first. She stabbed him.” Her voice caught, and she looked away for a minute, wiping the tears from her heart-shaped face with the back of her hand. “I just ran. I didn’t try to help him. I just ran.”
“There’s nothing you could have done,” said Troy.
“I had to get Helena out of there. But she followed me and trapped us in the tent cabin. She said she’d hurt Helena if I didn’t do what she said.”
“Dr. Winters is capable of anything,” said Mercy. “You did what you had to do.”
“‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’” said Thrasher.
“More Shakespeare?” Amy asked as she cleaned the baby’s face and hands and took her out of the high chair.
“Actually, no,” Mercy said. “It’s William Congreve, from The Mourning Bride.” She recited: “‘Heaven hath no rage like Love to Hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a Woman scorned.’”
“She’s always like this,” said Amy, bouncing Helena on her lap. “Total word nerd.”
“When she’s not tracking down murderers,” said Troy, laughing.
The doorbell rang, and Mercy welcomed the opportunity to escape. This time it was a big guy in a dark suit. One of Feinberg’s bodyguards. The taller one. He handed her a package wrapped in brown paper.
“Find the folly,” he said.
CHAPTER FIFTY
“OPEN IT,” SAID AMY.
“Okay, okay. You can help me.” Patience took the baby, and together Mercy and Amy carefully unwrapped the gift.
It was a framed sketch of a striking nude woman with a crescent in her hair, holding a bow in one hand and a staff and a quiver of arrows in the other, standing tall against a background of full-leafed trees.
“Diana,” said Mercy.
“Goddess of the Hunt,” said Thrasher.
“And the woods and the moon and animals and new mothers and babies,” said Patience.
“She’s so beautiful,” said Amy.
“She’s so naked,” said Jade.
“Very appropriate.” Troy grinned at Mercy.
“It’s a Kenyon Cox,” said Thrasher. “Wonderful.”
“He wants me to find the other folly.”
“Sounds about right,” said Troy.
Mercy carried the sketch over to the fireplace and stood it on the mantelpiece. “Just until we can hang it properly.”
“Perfect,” said Patience. “Time for dessert.”
Over her grandmother’s triple-layered chocolate cake, they talked about everything from art and murder to the future of dairy farmers in Vermont. Mercy was content. Happy that there were so many people at her dining table, a prospect that would have mortified her even a month earlier.
“Other than interfering in our investigations,” said Thrasher, “what is it that you actually do, Ms. Carr?”
“Please call me Mercy.” The captain’s formality disconcerted her and she suspected that was purposeful on his part. Always the commanding officer. She wondered if anyone ever got the better of the man—and lived to tell about it.
“Mercy.” He turned those extraordinary blue-green eyes on her.
“I’ve been taking some time since my retirement to consider my options.”
“She helps me out at the animal hospital,” said Patience. “She’d make a fine vet. But her parents are pushing for her to finish her degree and go to law school. Join the family firm.”
“Really.” Thrasher raised an eyebrow.
Troy laughed. “The captain is not a big fan of lawyers.”
“Although your parents are lovely people,” Thrasher said.
Mercy smiled. “So far I’ve resisted that siren call.”
“It would be more productive if you worked with us rather than against us,” said the captain. “There’s a shortage of good working dogs and dog handlers.”
“We’re retired,” she said.
“Could have fooled me.”
* * *
THE LITTLE PARTY broke up. Patience packed up the dirty casserole dishes and cake pans and promised to come back the next day with new delights. Thrasher offered to drop Jade off at her grandparents’ on his way home, and Amy settled the baby down for the night. Bath, book, bed. Just like her grandmother ordered.
Mercy and Troy did the dishes and then took Elvis and Susie Bear outside. Usually she took visitors out to the back deck, but tonight she felt the need to sit out front, where she could see the flag. So much had happened over the past ten days that she felt alienated from Martinez, from the life they’d shared and the life they’d planned, from his memory and from her continued remembrance of him and what they were to each other. She didn’t want to forget him or get over him or move on with her life without him. But she had a terrible feeling that was just what she was doing.
While the dogs ran around the yard, Mercy and Troy settled onto the wide front porch. She sat in her grandfather’s white cedar rocking chair, and he sat in her grandmother’s matching one. Patience had given both of them to her when she’d moved in here. “You always need a pair,” her grandmother had told her. “One for you, and one for your guest.”
Troy was her first guest.
“Been quite a July so far,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You and Elvis make a good team.”
“We’re working on it.” She smiled as she watched Elvis bound down to the barn, Susie Bear on his heels. “He’s certainly my better half.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Oh, it’s true. All this time I’ve been so worried about taking care of him, while he’s actually been the one taking care of me.” For the first time it occurred to her that maybe that was what Martinez had intended all along.
“Dogs are like that.”
“I thought I was helping him get better.”
“You were. He is better.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Maybe it’s your turn now.”
“Maybe.” They looked out across the garden as the two dogs raced up from the barn and around the flower beds, brushing by the lavender and filling the air with its sweet scent as the sun set and the stars appeared in the dark summer sky.
“‘Blessed be the man that spares these stones,’” she quoted quietly. “‘And cursed be he that moves my bones.’”
“Shakespeare again. You said that in the woods when we found the bones.”
“Seems like a l
ifetime ago.” She felt like she’d lived several lifetimes since that day in the woods.
“Which play is it from?”
“It’s not from a play. It’s his epitaph,” said Mercy. “The assumption is that he wrote it. But no one knows for sure.”
“Right.”
“I was just thinking about the bones we found in the wilderness. No epitaph for him.”
“Not yet. But soon, thanks to you.”
“I hope you’re right. I’m sure Patrick O’Malley would prefer to spend eternity at home in Ireland.”
Troy stopped rocking and turned toward her. “May I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” She stopped rocking, too, but kept her eyes on the dogs.
“What’s up with all the Shakespeare?”
Mercy laughed. “Amy asked me the same thing.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her the truth. That reading his stories made me feel better about being human.”
“Pretty heavy for an eighteen-year-old.” Troy paused. “But it makes sense to me.”
He leaned back in his chair, and she followed suit. They sat there in silence for a moment, the only sound the panting of the dogs and the squeaking of the rockers and the hooting of the owls.
“So I guess tomorrow you’ll be back out looking for people lost in the wilderness.”
Troy smiled. “I’ve got patrols.”
“Right.” She smiled back. In his own way, the game warden was a rebel, just like his famous ancestor.
“So I guess tomorrow you’ll be back out looking for art lost in the wilderness.”
“Trade you,” she said.
He laughed. The man had a nice laugh.
“Martinez told me this story once about a monk who was lost in the wilderness. He came to this river too wide and wild to swim across. So he built himself a raft out of downed limbs and vine, and used it to ford the turbulent waters safely to the other bank. He continued his journey, carrying the raft with him. He carried it for a long time, until he could no longer smell the scent of water in the air. Then he put the raft down and set it on fire. After the flames burned out and nothing was left but smoke and embers, he went on his way. Ultimately he left the wilderness and went back home.”
Troy thought for a moment. “Why burn the raft? Why not leave it for the next guy who gets lost in the wilderness?”
“I asked the same questions.”
“And?”
“Sometimes you need to build your own effin’ raft.”
He laughed, and she laughed with him.
* * *
THEY SAT THERE together for a long time. Not saying anything. It seemed to Mercy that everything had been said, at least for now. Elvis and Susie Bear tired eventually, and came running back to the porch, curling up on either side of the rocking chairs.
It was a perfect warm summer night, filled with the deep sweep of starlight and silence. The sweet seesaw of the rocker lulled Mercy to sleep, and when she woke up, she found herself covered with a quilt, the handsome shepherd still at her feet. Troy and Susie Bear were gone.
Dawn was breaking, and she could see Orion rising over the horizon. Orion the hunter, beloved of Diana, goddess of the hunt, who was so distraught over his death that she turned him into the brightest constellation in the sky.
She gathered the quilt around her, and stood up. She glanced up at the flagpole, where the flag rippled gently in the slight wind from the south.
Mercy saluted. “Martinez.”
She whistled, and the shepherd hustled to his feet. As the sun rose slowly over the mountains and cast the cabin in shadow, Mercy and Elvis went inside.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The way I came to write A Borrowing of Bones is a serendipitous one. I was working on The Writer’s Guide to Beginnings for Writer’s Digest Books, and I needed an opening chapter of a story that I could use as an example, one that I could take through several revisions, illustrating the many iterations required to nail those first pages.
So I wrote a scene inspired by the military and law enforcement working dogs I’d met at Leo Maloney’s swell fundraiser for Mission K9 Rescue (www.missionk9rescue.org), which I’d been invited to attend thanks to the lovely Michaela Hamilton of Kensington Publishing. I was so impressed by the dogs, their handlers, and Kristen Maurer and Louisa Kastner of MK9R that I went home determined to rescue another dog. Michael and I somehow ended up with our son’s cranky old beagle, Freddie, and rescued a torby tabby named Ursula, but our beloved rescue mutt Shakespeare had died a couple of years before and I hadn’t had the heart to adopt another dog. Yet. But now I was ready.
And along came Bear, the goofy and gregarious Newfoundland retriever mix we adopted sight unseen from Alabama, with the help of Chey Ottoson of the fabulous Double Dog Rescue (www.doubledogrescue.org). Bear is simply the best—and, as you’ve probably guessed, Susie Bear is his female doppelgänger.
All this found its way into that sample chapter for The Writer’s Guide to Beginnings. That might have been the end of it, but my dear friend, agent, and mentor Gina Panettieri read it and persuaded me to finish what I’d started—and she sold it as the first in a series to the indomitable Pete Wolverton of St. Martin’s Press/Minotaur.
So thank you to everyone who contributed to this fortuitous turn of events, including the aforementioned folks as well as Phil Sexton, Cris Freese, and Rachel Randall.
A special shout-out to my Scribe Tribe—Susan Reynolds, Meera Lester, John K. Waters, Indi Zeleny, Mardeene Mitchell—and my pal Michael Neff, for their support and encouragement. And to the magnanimous and magnificent Lee Child, Jane Cleland, Hallie Ephron, Lisa Gardner, Larry Kay, William Martin, Spencer Quinn/Peter Abrahams, and Hank Phillippi Ryan, all of whom were kind enough to say nice things about this book.
But back to Pete, who asked me during the rather rigorous revision process if “everything in Vermont had to be the best.” Maybe not, I conceded at the time, but here I state unequivocally that her people (and dogs) are the best, most notably Susan Warner, Director of Public Affairs for the Vermont Fish & Wildlife Department, who introduced me to the generous and knowledgeable Vermont State Game Warden Rob Sterling and his magnificent K9 Crockett. Much appreciation also to the energetic and empathetic Donna Larson, founding member and VP of the New England K9 Search and Rescue (nek9sar.org), the always engaging and enlightening Gardner “Bud” Browning and Scott Wood of the TSA, wicked-smart author and retired homicide detective Brian Thiem, the fabulous folks at the splendid Northshire Bookstore, dog trainer extraordinaire Michael MacCurtain of Five Rings K9 services, and the delightful Stasia Tretault, innkeeper at the Seth Warner Inn. All shared their expertise freely and graciously, and any mistakes are solely my own.
And back to Pete again: Best. Editor. Ever. And to Pete’s aide de camp, the ever-cheerful and talented Assistant Editor Jennifer Donovan, the brilliant Andy Martin, the inimitable Kelley Ragland, the indefatigable Martin Quinn, the vigilant Karen Richardson, and all of the swell folks at St. Martin’s Press/Minotaur, my dearest thanks and appreciation.
To Mom and Dad, my children Alexis, Greg, and Mikey, and Michael—my endless love and gratitude for, well, everything.
And a final heartfelt thanks to the wonderful community of readers, writers, editors, and publishers that make up the literary universe in which I have worked and played and dreamed all my life. I would not wish for any companion in the world but you …
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAULA MUNIER is the author of the bestselling Plot Perfect, The Writer’s Guide to Beginnings, Writing with Quiet Hands, and Fixing Freddie: A True Story of a Boy, a Mom, and a Very, Very Bad Beagle. She was inspired to write A Borrowing of Bones by the hero working dogs she met through Mission K9 Rescue, her own Newfoundland-retriever-mix rescue, Bear, and a lifelong passion for crime fiction. She lives in New England with her family, Bear, Freddie, and a torbie tabby named Ursula. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Thursday: July 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Friday: July 2
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Saturday: July 3
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Sunday: Independence Day July 4
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Monday: July 5
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
