The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed.
—CHARLOTTE BRONTË
Mercy left the studio and headed back toward their hotel room. She huffed down the hallway into the lobby with Elvis, one eye on the 3,580 results of her Google search.
“Mercy!”
She looked up from her phone and spotted Uncle Hugo and Father Bernard sitting on one of the burgundy sofas, laughing and talking as if they’d been roommates together at college. The colonel spotted her and rose, starting toward her.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asked.
She stopped to consider the question. Which may have been posed as a question but sounded much more like an order to her. Elvis must have thought so too, because he stood perfectly still at her side, his gaze fixed on the colonel, ears forward. Ready to pounce if she gave him the word.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Hugo, but I don’t have the time to chat right now,” said Mercy.
“Nonsense. Sit down and have a drink with us.”
“It’s a bit early.”
“Is it? We’re on vacation. And Leo makes a mean Bloody Mary.”
“Please do have a seat,” said Father Bernard.
“Maybe one Bloody Mary.” She didn’t have the heart to say no—and she knew her mother would never forgive her if she did. As a member of Patience’s clan, she was honor-bound to accommodate the groom’s family on this wedding weekend. Certainly the colonel was doing his part with Father Bernard.
She dutifully took a seat in one of the club chairs, waving Elvis down in a Sit at her feet. “What are you two to up to?”
“Just talking about old times,” said the colonel as he flagged down a waiter.
“Old times? You already knew each other?”
“We’ve known each other for years,” said Father Bernard. “We met at a conference in Geneva, back in the 1980s, I think it was.”
The eighties—height of the Cold War, thought Mercy. When Uncle Hugo was doing God knows what over there.
“I thought you were a professor, Father Bernard,” said Mercy. “Teaching at a Catholic college in Québec.”
“And so I am. I teach theology. In my department, we save, restore, and protect valuable manuscripts. We keep one of the largest online repositories of ancient religious texts in the world.”
“So you digitize the material and then you give it back.”
“Whenever possible, yes.”
“But not always.”
“Sometimes it’s simply not safe to do so. Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, war, famine…” The priest’s voice trailed off.
“Terrorists?”
“They’re the worst offenders,” said the colonel. “Selling off whatever they don’t destroy outright. But civilians loot, too. It’s big business.”
“What about the art collectors and museums who buy these stolen treasures? They’re no better than the sellers.”
“It’s true that many turn a blind eye to provenance,” admitted the priest. “But that’s not what we’re doing. Most of these sacred writings have been at risk one way or another for hundreds of years. But at least now we have digital copies. So no matter happens to the artifacts, we won’t lose the works.”
“Art belongs to whoever will best protect it,” said Uncle Hugo.
So says the soldier, thought Mercy.
“This is religious art,” said Father Bernard. “Art created to celebrate the glory of God. It belongs to God, and to those who worship Him.”
So says the priest, thought Mercy. This seemed to be an old argument between the old friends. Her sympathies lay with those of neither soldier nor priest. “Art belongs to the people.”
“Indeed,” said Father Bernard.
“But which people?” asked the colonel. “What do today’s extremists have to do, really, with the ancient cultures that produced these priceless artworks and antiquities?”
“We are all God’s children,” said Father Bernard.
Mercy could see that this was a discussion that could go on forever, and probably would, fueled by philosophy, obstinance, and alcohol. Time to go.
“Thanks for the drink. I really have to get going.”
“Back to your investigation? Or should I say investigations, plural?” The colonel leaned toward her. “Tell us about these bones you found. Or do we have Elvis to thank for this new discovery?”
Word travels fast here at the inn, she thought. Or maybe it was just like her uncle to know everything that was going on long before everyone else. She wouldn’t rise to the bait.
“I’m here for the wedding like everyone else, Uncle Hugo.”
“Don’t kid a kidder,” said the colonel, in a tone that was more command than conversation.
Father Bernard was conspicuously silent.
Mercy stood up, and Elvis followed suit.
“I agree that you need to put aside the troubling events of the past forty-eight hours and focus on the wedding,” said the colonel in a voice that removed any doubt on Mercy’s part. Her great-uncle was definitely ordering her, not asking her.
“What I choose to do or not do is really none of your business,” she said firmly.
“I’m making it my business.”
“Wow.”
“You should stay out of it,” said the colonel in a more conciliatory tone. “Between local law enforcement and Kinney, everything’s under control.”
“I don’t know Kinney.”
“I know him. That should be enough.”
“What’s going on?” Troy appeared at the edge of their seating area.
Mercy gave him an inquiring look.
“When you didn’t show up, I figured I’d better track you down.”
“Worried she’ll go off crime-hunting without you?” asked the colonel.
Troy ignored that. “What is your involvement in all this?” He looked at Uncle Hugo with his trademark boy-next-door curiosity, which was often enough to prompt people to confess before they even knew what they were doing. But the colonel was not regular people.
“Your friend Annie is safe,” said Uncle Hugo to Mercy as if Troy were not there. “Let the police handle it. I understand Harrington is a good man.”
Mercy smiled. “Harrington is an opportunist.”
The colonel smiled back. “Aren’t we all?”
“No,” Mercy and Troy said in unison.
“I see.” Uncle Hugo looked at them with what seemed like a combination of indulgence and pity. “You’re a couple of idealists.”
“I do not believe that realism and altruism are incompatible,” she told him. “But I really have to go. If you’ll excuse me.…”
“You need to stay away from St. George,” said Uncle Hugo. “He’s no good.”
Mercy and Troy exchanged a look. The cagey old lifer was showing his hand.
“What do you know about him?” asked Troy.
“I know that when he shows up somebody gets hurt.”
“He got hurt himself,” Mercy reminded him.
“The next time, it could be you.” Uncle Hugo frowned. “I know he was special forces. Those guys are different; they’re not normal soldiers. You should know that.”
“They’re not gods,” said Troy with a grin. “They just think they are.”
“Try telling them that.” Uncle Hugo turned to Mercy. “You’re as stubborn as your grandfather was. When he was on a case he was like a dog with a bone.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Let’s go, Troy.”
The colonel put up his hand to stop her. “But this is not your case. You’re a civilian now.”
“And you’re retired,” Mercy shot back. She glared at her uncle, and he glared back.
Troy stepped between them. “Since I’m the only law enforcement professional here on active duty, I say we need to take this down a notch.”
“I’m just trying to keep everyone safe,” Uncle Hugo said to Troy.
“Then tell us what you know about all this,” said Mercy. “You’re holding out on us.”
The colonel sighed. “I don’t know anything about your cold case. As for the murder at Annie’s farm, I know that Bodhi St. George was special forces and so was the victim. Part of an elite force, a team that blurred the lines between soldier and spy. Who knows what they got up to over there—but whatever it was, it wasn’t good.”
“That was years ago,” said Mercy. “At least for St. George.”
“These guys have long memories,” said the colonel.
“I just want to talk to St. George. Make sure he’s all right, and more important, that Annie will be safe. Then I’ll be back.”
Uncle Hugo turned to Troy. “You’ll go with her.”
Another statement rather than question. Troy didn’t seem to mind, but she did. “I can take care of myself.”
“Seems you’re always tripping over bodies, my child,” said Father Bernard, finally speaking up. He crossed himself. “Do be careful.”
“I’ll go with her,” said Troy. “And we’ll have the dogs as backup.”
“Talk to him and get it out of your system,” said the colonel. “Then come back and focus on your grandmother and the wedding. That is why we are here.”
“Promise,” said Mercy. But it was a promise she was not sure she planned to keep. Her grandmother was why she was here, but until she knew for sure that the violence that had come to Annie’s goat farm and the Lady’s Slipper Inn would not come to the wedding as well, she would not leave it alone. No matter what the colonel said.
Back in their hotel room, Susie Bear greeted them with enthusiasm.
“You’d think she’d be peeved that the three of us left her here,” said Mercy as she hugged the friendly Newfie and Elvis gave her a quick snuffle.
“She never holds a grudge,” said Troy. He pulled some treats from his pocket for the dogs while Mercy sat cross-legged on the bed and went back to the research she’d been doing when Uncle Hugo interrupted her.
“The colonel knows more than he’s saying,” said Troy, sitting down on the bed next to her.
“Yeah. I am not happy with that man.” Mercy scanned the results from her Om Vasudhare Svaha Google search, clicking on the first one. When the post came up, she stopped short.
“What?” asked Troy.
“Listen to this. This mantra is actually a prayer to the bodhisattva called Vasudhara. She’s a wealth deity known as ‘The Bearer of Treasure.’ People pray to her for abundance and prosperity. Both spiritual and corporeal.”
“You mean money.”
“Exactly. Om Vasudhare Svaha is a money mantra. You’re supposed to chant it a hundred and eight times.”
“Why a hundred and eight times?”
“It’s a sacred number for Hindus and Buddhists.”
“And yogis.” He kissed her shoulder. “That’s one.”
“And yogis. There are a hundred and eight prayer beads in a mala.”
“Whatever that is. I do know there are a hundred and eight stiches in a baseball. I believe in baseball.” He kissed her shoulder again. “That’s two.”
“I believe in bodhisattvas and baseball.” Mercy smiled. She needed to get to the hospital to see Bodhi, but there was no reason to waste a perfectly good hotel bed. “The first to hit a hundred and eight wins.”
IN THE END, IT was a tie.
“A hundred and eight is my new favorite number,” said Troy. “And Vasudhara is my favorite bodhisattva.”
“You and me both.”
“I still don’t get why St. George chanted Vasudhara’s mantra to you.”
“Maybe he’s just reminding me of one of the basic rules of investigation.” Mercy kissed Troy one last time and scrambled out of bed. “Follow the money.”