THE GALA WAS NOW IN FULL SWING. People wandered from room to room of the graceful mansion, taking in the art that represented the best of the Green Mountain state.
The prized Grandma Moses painting stood on an easel, covered with a midnight-blue silk cloth, in the middle of the Grand Gallery, a huge space with twelve-foot ceilings, an imposing white marble fireplace, and ornately patterned inlaid hardwood floors.
The covered masterpiece was the featured centerpiece of the room, set off by swags of red velvet rope strung between brass posts and guarded by two uniformed police officers. With the viewing an hour away, partygoers were focused on drinking champagne and eating hors d’oeuvre and networking, networking, networking. Mercy’s idea of hell.
But she had a job to do.
While her mother trotted her around to meet the various potential sons-in-law in situ—a tax attorney, an intellectual property attorney, a mergers and acquisitions attorney—Mercy smiled sweetly at the perfectly nice young men and surreptitiously checked out the museum’s artwork and the security measures in place to protect that art. She spotted motion sensors in the corners, and video cameras hanging from the ceiling, providing full coverage of the galleries.
In addition to the uniforms, plainclothes cops roamed from gallery to gallery. She also noticed some private-security types in black suits and earphones slipping in and out of the building. Maybe they were the billionaire Feinberg’s guys.
Patience rescued her just as her mother was introducing her to a personal-injury attorney, whom she knew could not be her parents’ first choice. That was probably why her mother did not resist all that much when her grandmother pulled her aside.
“They must be getting desperate,” she whispered to Patience.
“They just want you to be happy.”
“They have no idea who I am.” Her parents had not initially approved of Martinez, a soldier from Las Vegas with Mexican illegals for parents whose career goals began and ended with the military K-9 dog training school in Texas, of all places. Which is how her mother referred to anywhere outside the Northeast. While they eventually came around, and were truly sympathetic and supportive when he died, Mercy never could quite forget their initial reaction.
“It’s nearly time for the viewing of Northshire,” her grandmother said. “Come on.”
Everyone started gravitating toward the roped-off area in the Grand Gallery, clustering in a crescent in front of the easel.
She held back while her grandmother and her parents edged forward with the rest of the partygoers. Daniel Feinberg and the mayor stepped up to begin their presentation. All eyes on the prize now—except for those of Mercy, who scanned the crowd, noticing the people she knew: Mr. Horgan, Lillian Jenkins, her own family members, Captain Thrasher, Pizza Bob, the owners of the Northshire Union Store, and all of the single age-appropriate lawyers known to her mother.
No Adam Wolfe. No Max Skinner. No Herbert brothers. No Dr. Candace Winters. And no Amy and Helena.
The speeches began, and Mercy tuned out. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a silver tray and downed it. What a waste of time and effort and Ralph Lauren this had been. The bubbly rushed to her head, and her skull started to pulsate. She should have known better. Sparkling wine gave her a headache even when she didn’t have a concussion.
Head pounding, she went in search of a ladies’ room and a cool, damp cloth. The restrooms were in the back of the building, by the kitchen, and because nearly all of the gala guests were at the viewing, for once there was no long line of women snaking out of the ladies’ room door.
Mercy walked right in, and there she was, preening in front of the long mirror: Dr. Candace Winters, dressed in her signature subterraneanly sensuous style, in a tea-length powder-blue piqué dress with a white Peter Pan collar that seemed thoroughly prim and proper when seen from the front, but was completely backless, revealing a sinuous and sexy stretch of creamy skin from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine.
In comparison, Mercy felt practically puritanical in her cold-shouldered jumpsuit.
“Dr. Winters,” she said, acknowledging her with a nod.
The professor finished applying her trademark red lipstick before she spoke. “Corporal Carr.” She smiled as she slipped her lipstick tube into her matching blue clutch and turned to greet her. “I didn’t know you were an art connoisseur.”
“My family is very supportive of the arts.”
“Ah, those Carrs.” Dr. Winters regarded her thoughtfully with those huge gray eyes of hers, magnified through her nerdy black glasses.
Mercy changed the subject. “What do you think of the exhibit?”
The professor leaned in toward her and whispered, “It’s not the best curation, is it? But it does have its moments. Have you made it to the West Gallery yet?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You won’t want to miss it. Second floor, on your left.”
“Sure. I’ll check it out.”
Dr. Winters pursed her ruby-red lips. “I hardly recognized you. You look so presentable.” With that, she swept out of the ladies room, her bare back glistening with what Mercy swore was a subtle glitter.
What a piece of work is woman, she thought, remembering Thrasher’s words and paraphrasing the Bard. She ran a paper towel under the faucet and wrung it out before patting her forehead and cheeks and collarbone. The damp cloth felt cool against her face, and the throbbing in her head subsided.
She made her way quickly back to the viewing area, where Dr. Winters had joined the crowd, which was far larger now that the speeches were winding down and the moment they’d all been waiting for approached. There must have been at least three hundred people in the gallery. Standing room only.
The mayor stepped forward to pull the ceremonial covering from the easel with a flourish, revealing the work. Painted with oils on a sheet of Masonite about two feet wide by three and a half feet long, the naïve work pictured the village green in early summer, children in their Sunday best playing around the Fountain of the Muses, their parents looking on under a canopy of trees and a blue sky. The Northshire Historical Society and Museum was there, too, along with the First Congregational Church with its classic New England spire.
The crowd oohed and ahed and surged forward. Mercy lost sight of the professor. But then she spotted her again, over by the entrance, on the arm of the mergers and acquisitions attorney her mother liked so much. They seemed quite enthralled by one another, if the way he ran his hand up and down her bare back was any indication. She wondered if he’d ever been to the south of France.
By the time she made her way through the throngs of gala guests, Dr. Winters was out the double front doors and gone. So was the attorney.
Mercy considered going after them, but given the fact that they probably had sex rather than murder on their minds, she wasn’t sure what that could achieve, other than embarrassment on her part.
Besides, she had no car and no plan and Harrington was blocking her way.