PATIENCE ORDERED COMPLETE REST FOR MERCY, and she got a people doctor and a CT scan to back her up. Not that Mercy got much rest.
First, there was the matter of the cat. Patience came every day to check on her, bearing food and advice and, finally, the no-name kitten she and Elvis had rescued from the Walker place.
“Hello, kitty.” She showed her grandmother into the kitchen, taking the carrier from her.
Elvis leaped up and trotted over to supervise the release of their new housemate.
The cabin was crowding up now. Amy and Helena had moved into the guest room, although in truth it was more like they had moved in everywhere. Astonishing how such a small infant could take over an entire house in no time at all. Child Protective Services had agreed that Helena could remain with her young mother under two conditions: that they live with Mercy, and that Amy finish her senior year and graduate.
They were in the living room now, the baby playing on a blanket spread out on the floor in front of the couch, surrounded by a growing mountain of toys supplied by all of her adoring fans—from Mercy and Patience to Mr. Horgan and Lillian Jenkins. Even Thrasher had presented the sweet little Helena with a new set of brightly colored blocks.
“The kitty’s good to go. But still no name.” Patience started pulling out covered dishes and groceries from her Vermont Country Store tote bag. “Any ideas?”
“Not yet.”
The little tiger tabby—who’d been so worn and weary the last time Mercy had seen her—leapt out of the carrier with an excess of feline energy and greeted Elvis nose to nose.
“She’s fattened up a bit.”
“Poor thing was starving.” Patience shook her head.
“I tried to take care of them,” said Amy. “But there were so many of them. Mom never got them fixed, she said that was unnatural.”
“Ridiculous.” Patience had zero tolerance for people who did not spay or neuter their animals.
“I know.” Amy’s heart-shaped face flushed. “When I went to live with Adam, I couldn’t take any of them with me. He is—was—allergic. I tried to sneak home sometimes, but it was hard to get away.”
“You should have reported it,” said Patience severely.
The teenager’s dark blue eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t want to get my mother in trouble.”
Patience looked over Amy’s head to catch Mercy’s eye. She knew her grandmother was thinking what she was thinking: She didn’t mind getting you in trouble.
Karen Walker had not been charged with anything to do with the murders, but Mercy knew that if Patience had her way she’d be found guilty of cruelty to animals and receive the maximum sentence, which could include jail time as well as hefty fines. Not to mention the forfeiture of all rights to the cats, which would enable the Cat Ladies to put them up for adoption. But she didn’t tell Amy that.
“It’s okay,” said Mercy. “All’s well that ends well.” She told Amy all about the rescue, including the magpie Munchkin and his stash of collectibles.
“What kind of jewelry?” asked Amy.
Mercy described what she could remember of the items, including the pendant with the pine trees.
“My necklace.” Amy gasped, and the tears that had pooled in the corners of her eyes rolled down her cheeks. “It was the first thing he ever gave to me. I thought Don stole it and pawned it.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Do you think I could get it back?”
“I’ll talk to the game warden about it,” promised Mercy.
The three of them watched the baby on her blanket, mesmerized by Elvis and the cat playing together.
“Elvis is happy to see the kitty,” said her grandmother, giving Amy a break and changing the subject.
“She’s his little muse.” Mercy smiled, and snapped her fingers. “Her name is Muse.”
“A homophone,” said Patience, rolling her eyes. “A homophone pun, no less.”
“More specifically, a heterograph.”
“I don’t get it,” said Amy.
“Don’t worry, no one else will either,” said Patience.
“Mews and muse are two words that sound the same but are spelled differently and have different meanings,” explained Mercy.
“Cute,” said Amy. “I think.”
“Don’t encourage her.” Patience frowned at her granddaughter.
“You are kind of a word nerd,” said Amy.
“Okay, okay.” Mercy laughed. “I know it’s lame. But in a good way.”
“If you say so,” said Patience. “I don’t think Jade would approve.”
“Jade?” asked Amy.
“She’s the girl who helped out at the rescue. We invited her over to meet you and the baby, and little Muse.”
“She is a very sweet kitty.” Amy pointed to the kitten, who had danced over to the blanket. The baby laughed, her slate-blue eyes shining, as the kitty boogied through the blocks while Elvis supervised, a noble and vigilant babysitter alert at the edge of the blanket. Both were safe with this dog, for whom duty came first. Just like his sergeant.
Mercy excused herself to text Troy. She wanted to tell him about the necklace, but not with Amy around. And after nearly a week in the house she was desperate to get out. She bet Elvis was, too. Her Jeep was back, good as new with four brand-new all-terrain tires. She whistled for the dog, hoping to sneak out before her grandmother could stop her.
“Where are you going?” Patience called her out just as she and Elvis hit the front porch.
“Two Swords K-9 Training. I thought it would be good for Elvis.” The truth was, the dog was just fine. She’d spent some time on the yoga mat with him, but she’d seemed to need it more than he did.
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought you liked that place.”
“I do. Jake is very good.”
“So we’ll see you later.”
“Be home in time for dinner. We have guests coming.”
No surprise there. Ever since word got out that Patience was coming over with dinner every day, everyone Mercy knew was dropping by to visit.
* * *
THE TWO SWORDS K-9 Training and Pet Resort was in a small converted strip mall about ten miles north of town on Route 7. She parked right next to Troy’s Ford F-150, and Elvis knew the warden’s truck when he smelled it. He barked his approval and jumped right out of the Jeep before she could get a lead on him. “Elvis! Down!”
He paid no attention, bounding for the front door, almost colliding with a lady carrying a white long-haired Chihuahua with a pink rhinestone collar in her big black purse. Realizing his mistake in the nick of time, he stopped just short of the woman, with only inches to spare. She shrieked, and her Chihuahua screeched and snarled and squirmed in her arms.
“Elvis! Get back here.”
He came back to her, head hanging. He knew he was in trouble. She snapped on the leash and they waited while the lady dropped off her dog for grooming and returned to her Lexus sedan, glaring at them both as she drove off.
“Good going,” said Mercy. “Maybe you need to go back to obedience school.” But it was her fault. She’d isolated herself since moving home to Vermont, and in so doing isolated Elvis as well. The past ten days had been the most social interaction either of them had had in months, apart from visits with Patience—and it had challenged them both. One-on-one training and long walks alone in the woods were not enough. He needed more. Maybe she did, too.
The office and grooming rooms were housed in what looked a lot like a day-care center. Several chest-high enclosed cubicles were devoted to play, full of toys and cushions and small yapping dogs, most of whom seemed to be well-groomed poodles and shih-tzus and Yorkshire terriers and cocker spaniels. The back wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling kennel cages, where larger dogs who could scale the cubicles were kept—at the moment that meant a pair of harlequin Great Danes, a German shepherd, two black Labradors, a St. Bernard, and one lone Jack Russell terrier, who bounced up and down like a bungee cord.
The receptionist behind the long counter was a purple-haired young woman with a tattoo of a smiley pit bull on her slim upper arm. She wore a name tag that identified her as Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn grinned at her and Elvis, who paid no attention to her or to any of his fellow canines. His eyes were on the double doors on the back wall. “We’re here to see Warden Warner.”
“Sure. They’re out back in the agility center.” She pointed where Elvis was looking. “Through there to the right.”
Elvis led her between the Great Danes and the leaping Jack Russell terrier and through the double doors to the outside into a large fenced rectangle of neatly trimmed grass the size of a football field. The space stretched all the way back to a line of maples and willows fronting a roaring creek. She could hear the rush of the water, even above the happy yelping and bellowing of the dogs of all shapes and sizes racing around the various obstacles that made up the agility course. There were several lanes, each with its own set of hurdles of different heights, cloth tunnels, seesaws, hoops, and weave poles. A small stand of bleachers anchored the far side of the field.
She spotted Troy and a good-looking, well-muscled guy with a shaved head on the sidelines, watching as a couple of assistant trainers in matching red shorts and T-shirts emblazoned with the Two Swords logo ran several dogs through their paces. She and Elvis trotted over to join them.
“Mercy Carr, meet Jake Wilder,” said Troy.
“Great to meet you,” said Jake, offering her a firm handshake. “And this must be the famous Elvis.” He held out his hand for the shepherd to sniff. “Beautiful.” Elvis wagged his tail and perked his triangular ears, as if they’d been friends forever.
Susie Bear bounded over, followed by a Bernese mountain dog, a border collie, two golden retrievers, and a feisty Pembroke Welsh corgi. They all sniffed and snorted Elvis and each other until Jake said, “Down!” in such a commanding tone that every dog on the field immediately dropped onto the grass. Even Elvis. Mercy was tempted to drop down herself.
The dog trainers ran over, and Jake laughed. “Go on back to work now.” He looked at Mercy. “You can let him off the lead. He’ll behave.”
“I hope so.” She didn’t mention the incident with the Chihuahua.
The assistant trainers escorted all of the dogs back to the starting line, where they each took a lane and waited for their run at the course. She watched with Troy and Jake as the border collie went first, racing through the course like an Olympic athlete, cheered on by an assistant trainer yelling out the appropriate command before each test—go, over, tunnel, seesaw, wee-wee-wee-wee-weave!—and handing out goodies along the route for obstacles well met.
Each dog took a turn, and all performed well, although the corgi balked at the tunnel at first and had to be coaxed through with lots of high-pitched encouragement and treats. Susie Bear was up next. For her size, she was surprisingly fast—even if she looked more like a sumo wrestler than a track star. But what she lacked in grace, she made up for in spirit and strength.
Now it was Elvis’s turn, and Mercy held her breath.
“Sniffer dogs are typically well trained in agility,” said Jake. “This should be easy for him.”
If he could read dogs as well as he read people, it was no wonder he was so good at his job, she thought.
“It’s been a while,” she said. “He’s retired now.”
At the command—Go!—Elvis was off. He sailed over the hurdles, streaked through the tunnels, skimmed the seesaw, and whipped through the weave poles. Mercy couldn’t take her eyes off the sleek shepherd, and she found herself tearing up.
Because it was obvious that Elvis was having fun.
Fun.
The poor dog needed fun. He’d had fun with Martinez, as had she. In her grief she’d forgotten what a good time they’d all had together just hanging out whenever they got a break from the battlefield. Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little.
Elvis finished the course with a flourish to whoops and whistles—hers loudest among them—and raced past the finish lane and right to Mercy. She petted and praised him unabashedly. Susie Bear joined them, and for once Elvis seemed as chill and cheerful as his Newfie pal. Jake and Troy added their own plaudits of “Good job!” and “Good boy!” and “Good girl!” After another round of treats, the dogs ran back to join the others at the starting line to have another go.
“He did great,” said Troy.
“He must miss agility,” said Jake.
“I don’t know. I mean, I wasn’t his handler. I sort of inherited him.”
“A Malinois is a one-woman dog.” Jake looked at her. “Your dog.”
* * *
HE EXCUSED HIMSELF to supervise the rest of the class, leaving Troy and Mercy alone.
“So why are you really here?” he asked.
Mercy smiled at Troy. “Maybe we just wanted to see you guys.”
“Maybe.” He waited.
“Okay, okay.” She laughed. “I do have an ulterior motive. But we did really want to see you guys and meet Jake.”
“Sure you did. Go on.”
“Wolfe gave Amy the pendant. When it went missing, she figured her stepfather took it. Apparently he pawned anything that wasn’t nailed down.”
“What a lowlife. It’s a wonder nobody killed him sooner.”
“Did you find anything on Patrick O’Malley?”
“You were right. Patrick O’Malley, Irish jewelry designer and former IRA member, was living here in Vermont until about three years ago.” He leaned toward her with a half smile. “Are you really going to make me ask?”
“The calla lily,” said Mercy. “It fits.” She explained how the maker’s mark helped her identify the artist.
“He definitely left the area, but we’ve yet to confirm that he’s in Ireland.”
“You’re not going to find him in Ireland.”
“Why not?”
“He’s our body in the woods.”