THE BLACK SUITS TRAILED MERCY AND FEINBERG back down the staircase to the ground floor of the museum. The galleries were empty now, the guests having retreated outside to the village green. Only the cleanup crew and the security guards and the art remained.
“Heavy security,” she said as they stepped out onto the porch and the guards shut the doors behind them.
“Can’t be too careful. Art theft is on the rise statewide. So we’ve upgraded the security measures here.”
“Smart.”
Feinberg nodded. “We’ve put in the very latest in alarms, infrared and microwave motion detection, scanners, twenty-four-hour video surveillance, staffing vetting and security, et cetera. It’s been quite an education, really.” They stood on either side of one of the fluted columns that supported the roof of the porch, surveying the scene in front of them. The village green looked much like it did in the Northshire primitive painting that so celebrated it: the First Congregational Church anchoring one end, the happy pedestrians walking the gravel pathways, young couples picnicking on the grass, vendors selling balloons and cotton candy, elderly citizens sunning on park benches, children playing by the three-tiered fountain. The only real differences being the arts-and-crafts tent that housed the artisans and their wares and the makeshift stage where a local eighties tribute band now played “Maneater.”
“Grandma Moses would love it,” said Mercy. “Except maybe for the Hall & Oates.”
“Don’t you?”
“I do. But Vermont is more than charm.”
Feinberg laughed. “Agreed. That’s why I like it so much.”
Together they walked down the middle path of the village green for a closer look. The Fountain of the Muses was truly restored to all its former glory. Now cast in durable aluminum and painted in a striking burnished dark antique copper, the Three Muses—Melete, Mneme, and Aoide—glistened in their diaphanous gowns as they sat in contemplation of the arts, crowned by curls of water spraying forth from the mouths of cherubs.
“You’ve done a good thing here,” she said.
“The merits of charm aside.”
“Yes. But this is more than charm for charm’s sake.”
“Thank you. That was the intent. Besides, charm can be fun.” He waved his arms, encompassing the scene. “This is fun.”
Fun. One of the shrinks her mother had dragged her to after she came home from Afghanistan had once told her that his richest clients came to him for one reason: to learn to have fun. They’d spent so much time working that they had no idea how to play. Now they had money and time and no idea what to do with it. Feinberg knew how to play. He played with art.
“I imagine your own private collection is quite impressive. Not just fountains and follies.”
“I’ve been collecting art for more than twenty-five years.”
“Did you ever meet Max Skinner or the Herbert brothers?”
“I know the Herbert brothers—or at least of them—because my groundskeeper caught them poaching on our land a couple of years ago. We didn’t press charges, but we warned them to stay off my private property.”
“Hard to know sometimes where your property begins and ends.”
Feinberg smiled. “If you’re referring to my buying more acreage, that’s true. But we allow snowmobilers and hikers to use the trails on the land, except for those that pass too close to the house. We allow hunters during the season, with permission. We’ve posted ‘No Trespassing’ signs wherever it’s appropriate to do so.”
Mercy nodded. “All good.”
“And hunting out of season is against the law, no matter whose land you’re on.”
“Yes.” She thought of Troy, whose dangerous job it was to catch those people hunting out of season. He certainly didn’t think much of the Herbert brothers, even if they could play the fiddle. They obviously weren’t the brains of whatever operation was going on here. Which may or not involve explosives at all, no matter what Elvis alerted to. Nothing had happened at the parade and nothing had happened at the art gala and nothing was happening here at the unveiling of the Fountain of the Muses. Nothing but people having fun. Just like Feinberg said. But there remained the question of the tall man. “What about Max Skinner?”
“Adam talks a lot about his buddy Max, but we’ve never actually met. He did arrange for me to see some of his art in Quebec. But I didn’t connect with it.”
“Why not?”
“I found Skinner’s work too dark and disturbing. While it’s true I consider my art an investment, I also have to like what I buy.”
They circled the fountain, appreciating it from all angles. Feinberg’s presence was beginning to attract notice, and several people came up to greet him, Harrington among them. He glared at her and she glared back.
“I’m sorry,” Feinberg said, shaking her hand. “Do come to the house. I’ll arrange a tour.”
“I’d like that.” She turned to go, then thought better of it. “Did you ever buy that Borduas?”
“It’s hanging over the fireplace,” Feinberg said. “You’ll like it. It’s called Chinoiserie, aka Birches: Winter.”
“Two names?”
“Yes. Two names, like Paul-Émile Borduas. Adam says it’s the nature of duality.”
“Duality,” she repeated. “Opposite sides of the same coin. Like light and dark. Good and evil. Artist and activist.”
Feinberg smiled. “That’s one way to look at it.”
She smiled back. He was a cagey one, this enigmatic neighbor of hers.
Well-wishers converged on the billionaire, under the watchful eye of Harrington and his bodyguards. Mercy waved goodbye and went in search of a snack. The green was lined with vendors: the American Legion grilling hot dogs and burgers, the Friends of the Library hosting a bake sale, the Boys and Girls Club pouring iced tea and lemonade, Animal Rescue selling fried dough.
Lured by the sweet heady scent of crispy crust and powdered sugar, she asked for a double order and smothered it in extra dustings of sugar, some of which blew onto her navy jumpsuit. She hoped her mother wasn’t watching and hightailed it to a park bench partly hidden behind a tree. She scored a seat next to Mr. Horgan and offered him some of her dessert.
“Thank you, my dear.” The old man tore off a piece carefully. Mercy handed him a napkin.
They sat there together quietly, watching the people pass by as they chewed on their fried dough and wiped powdered sugar from their faces.
“Eileen loved this fountain.”
“I know. She used to tell us stories about the three Muses.” Mercy patted his thin shoulder.
“She fought for years for the village to refurbish it. They never listened.” The old man sighed. “Until this Mr. Feinberg came along.”
“I’m sure she would be pleased.”
“They did a good enough job, I suppose.” Mr. Horgan popped the last piece of the fried dough into his mouth.
“It’s beautiful.”
The old man wiped his sugared hands on the napkin, then pointed it at her. “You’re the Shakespeare girl.”
“Yes, sir.” Mercy smiled. Mrs. Horgan had given her free range in the library’s Shakespeare section from a very early age. In her honor, and for her grieving husband, she recited:
O for a muse of fire that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention!
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
“Nicely done.” Mr. Horgan applauded. “I miss her.”
“Me, too.” She took the old man’s wrinkled hand and squeezed it gently.
Mr. Horgan squeezed back, more strongly than she expected. “She said you were too young for the tragedies, but I told her you could handle it.”
That, she didn’t know. “Thank you.”
“You grew up to be a soldier.” He looked at her with an expression she could not quite read. “I was right.”
* * *
MERCY STAYED THERE with Mr. Horgan thinking about being a soldier and fighting the good fight and finding Amy and Helena. The old man didn’t say much, just sat there drinking in the sun while the world went on around him. She wondered if he’d had anything else to eat today besides that fried dough, and if George from Meals on Wheels would drop by his house later to make sure he had more than dessert for dinner.
But she didn’t want to take any chances. “Would you like a burger?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No trouble. I’m going to get myself one anyway. Will you save my seat?”
“Of course.”
She stood in line at the American Legion booth and ordered two burgers and Cokes, and headed back toward Mr. Horgan’s bench. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of her mother talking to Lillian Jenkins. They were about twenty feet away, and her mother did not look happy. She had a terrible feeling the ebullient Lillian had said something that upset her. Probably about a certain game warden.
Mercy watched as her mother scanned the crowd for her. She darted for cover into the arts-and-crafts tent, where she knew she’d be safe among the vendors selling homespun cloth and home-thrown pots and homemade candles. Her mother wouldn’t be caught dead buying anything in here.
She walked up and down the double aisles, glancing at the paintings and the wood carvings and the dream catchers. At the jewelry vendors she scrutinized the displays for belt buckles like the ones found on the victims, but she didn’t discover anything remotely similar. She stopped in front of a “Natural Wonders” booth, which displayed a number of creations with a wildlife theme: sea-glass necklaces and moose snow globes and silk-screened T-shirts emblazoned with endangered species. Bats and butterflies, whooping cranes and condors, wolves and wolverines, whipsnakes and sea turtles and crocodiles.
Mercy thought about buying a T-shirt for her grandmother, but choosing among the endangered species would be tough. Her grandmother went to Georgia during hatching season every year to help the loggerheads, but she’d also worked at a whooping crane breeding center in Wisconsin and volunteered at a wolf sanctuary in upstate New York.
She was partial to the wolves, but maybe that was just because she had another wild Wolfe in mind.
Wolves. Wolfe. Wolf.
He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.
She ran out of the arts tent as quickly as she could without spilling the sodas. Past her mother and Lillian Jenkins. Past Feinberg and his fans. Past Harrington and his dark looks.
She slowed down just long enough to give Mr. Horgan the burgers and Cokes.
“Aren’t you going to eat yours?”
“No, it’s all yours. I’ve got to go.”
“More battles to fight.” The old man smiled at her.
She smiled back. “Yes, sir.”
“Give ’em hell, Shakespeare girl.”