MERCY TEXTED HER GRANDMOTHER, and by the time Troy dropped them off at the cabin, Patience was waiting for her at the dining table. As the storm raged on, Patience listened to her sad story of humiliation and defeat at the Northshire Fourth of July “Arts of America” Parade with generous offerings of sympathy and red velvet cake. The dark red sheet cake was iced in white cream cheese frosting and decorated with blueberries and sliced strawberries to look like the American flag. Lovely and delicious and perfectly suited to the holiday. The next best thing to carrot cake.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“The proper answer would be ‘CT scan.’”
“Not in this weather.”
“They say the storm will be long gone by morning. It’s just going to last long enough to postpone all the fireworks until tomorrow night.”
“I’ll go tomorrow. Promise.”
“The swelling is down, and your vitals are good, but I’m still going to hold you to that. Better safe than sorry.”
“I feel good. Really. My pride may be hurting but my head is fine.”
Her grandmother watched her wolf down her painstakingly created dessert with those bright blue eyes. “Certainly your appetite is healthy enough. But you still need your rest.”
Mercy glanced over at Elvis, who was curled up on his side of the couch, snoring lightly, content after the good vet’s ministrations and an early dinner of steak and hash browns. “Elvis would obviously like the rest of the day off.”
“Why don’t you join him in a nap?”
She popped a blueberry into her mouth. “I won’t be able to sleep. Amy and Helena are out there somewhere.”
“The police will find them.”
“But maybe not in time. Harrington doesn’t think Amy’s in trouble, he thinks she killed Walker.”
“Then you’ll find them.”
Mercy wished she could channel her grandmother’s confidence in her. “My mind keeps circling back to some fleeting something just out of reach. The key to this whole business.”
Her grandmother poured her another glass of milk. “Drink up. You need your calcium.”
“And vitamin D.” Mercy grinned. She’d heard this before. “I got plenty of vitamin D at the parade this morning. A useless exercise, other than that.”
“Not really. Your grandfather used to say that eliminating possible solutions was as important as nailing the right one.”
Having finished off the cake on her own plate, Mercy plucked another blueberry off the sheet cake. “I eliminated one solution in high style today. Grandpa Red would be proud.”
Patience slapped her hand away from the cake playfully. “And now which are left to investigate?”
Mercy stared at her. She reached for her borrowed phone. “Troy said he was going to text me the photos of the pendant we found at the crime scene.”
“The magpie Munchkin.”
“Exactly. We think maybe the jeweler who made the belt buckles made this, too.”
“Why don’t you take a look while I clean up. But try not to think too hard. Give that pretty little red head of yours a break.”
“Thanks.” Mercy abandoned the table for the couch, giving the dozing Elvis a sweet scratch between the ears before settling on her side with the phone and her laptop. She pulled up the photos and looked at the maker’s mark on the pendant. She read off the letters and numbers that ran along the perimeter of the back of the piece: POM 925, followed by an image of a calla lily:
“What did you find?” Her grandmother stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.
She pointed to the symbols. “POM should be the designer’s initials; 925 means it’s sterling silver, that is, 92.5 percent pure silver. And the calla lily is probably the designer’s logo.”
“And you know this how?”
“Mom.” Mercy’s mother knew all there was to know about the finer things in life.
“Of course.” Patience laughed. “Who would believe that I would raise such a fashion plate?”
“I need to track down this artist.” The initials and the calla lily held the secret to the jeweler’s identity. Just as a jeweler’s stamp should.
“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!”