Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads, which sew people together through the years.
—SIMONE SIGNORET
Look at your dress.” Grace sniffed, and for one terrible moment Mercy thought her mother might cry. “And that hair.”
“I’ll take care of the dress. And the shoes.” Aunt Pru handed Mercy one of the inn’s luxe bathrobes. “But I can’t fix that hair.”
“I can,” said Wyetta.
Mercy turned to her grandmother. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind, dear.” Patience smiled. “This is one wedding no one will ever forget.”
“I don’t know how you can be so blasé about this, Mother.”
“Will this delay the ceremony?” asked Prudence.
“I don’t see why it should.” Harrington strode into the room, wearing a sleek, bronze-colored suit with a white silk shirt and gun-colored tie. “None of the wedding party is under arrest … yet.”
“Detective.” Grace planted herself in front of him as firmly as she planted herself in front of a jury when delivering closing arguments. “We’re in the middle of a wedding here.”
“And I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.”
“That my daughter has already solved for you, from what I understand. Besides, there’s only so much you can do now with this weather. There’ll be plenty of time for your investigation once the storm has passed and the celebration is over.”
Prudence joined Grace in a show of feminine force. “Why don’t you join our guests in the lobby for some champagne and hors d’oeuvre? I’ll let Mr. Feinberg know you’re on the way.”
At the mention of Feinberg, Harrington smiled. “Of course. As you say, we can continue this after the festivities.” He bowed slightly, wished Patience his sincerest congratulations, and exited as quickly as he’d arrived.
Mercy excused herself. In the bathroom, she stripped off her dress and shoes, and took a hot shower to warm up her still shivering body. She washed all the product out of her hair, happy to release all that lacquer. She turned off the water, slipping on the luscious Egyptian cotton robe and wrapping her hair up turban style, which was not so easy with one arm. Still she was feeling human again, and ready to face her mother’s wrath.
She returned to the office, where Nick was waiting to dress her bandage again.
“Try to stay out of trouble,” he told her.
Wyetta sat her down at the mahogany writing desk to work on her hair. Within the hour, Leo had returned her dress and shoes nearly as good as new and Wyetta had taken her wet mass of red tangles and transformed them into shining ringlets worthy of a Renaissance heroine.
“Wow,” said Mercy as she regarded her new bridesmaid self. She’d gone from drowned rat to lady’s slipper princess in record time, a feat she would never be able to repeat on her own.
“The trick is not to straighten your curls,” said Wyetta, “but to embrace them.”
“Thank you, Leo and Wyetta. Well done.” Her mother checked her watch. “And with ninety minutes to spare.”
Mercy was itching to find out what she’d missed while she regrouped. She texted Troy, and he told her to meet him in their room and he’d fill her in on everything. “I’ve got to go see Troy. We need to get Elvis ready.”
“This is what happens when you have animals in a wedding,” Grace told her mother.
“Elvis is family,” said Patience. “Susie Bear, too.”
“Just be glad she left all her cats at home,” said Lillian.
“What a terrifying thought.” Grace fixed Mercy with her signature death glare. “Don’t be late.”
TROY AND THE DOGS were splayed across the king-size bed. When he saw her, he sat up. “You look amazing.”
Mercy grinned. “If only Wyetta could do my hair every day.”
“Your mother must have been pleased.”
“Speechless is more like it.” She kicked off her kitten-heeled pumps and crawled onto the bed. Troy wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her perfectly coiffed head. Susie Bear licked her fingers. Elvis placed his handsome head in her lap.
Heaven, she thought, allowing herself a moment of bliss before getting down to business. When she did finally start to speak, Troy stopped her with a kiss. A long, long, long kiss.
“I won’t torture you anymore.”
“Some torture.”
He kissed the top of her nose. “I suppose you want to know everything.”
“Please.”
“Fazio claims that he didn’t kill anyone. Just scared them. He said if he’d wanted them dead, they’d be dead. Then he quit talking and lawyered up.”
“Bodhi said the same thing.”
“Speaking of the enlightened one, Harrington has put an APB out on him.”
“I’m sure he’d love to arrest him. And me, too, for that matter.”
Troy smiled. ‘We won’t let it come to that.”
“Anything new on Brittany?”
“There was an intact jaw, so between the DNA and dental records Dr. Darling was able to confirm the identification.”
“That was fast.”
“Harrington wants this case solved. Yesterday.”
Just like the detective to rush to hot judgment on a cold case.
“The crime scene techs also found a necklace with the bones. Like one of those Pandora things, with multiple charms.”
Mercy smiled. The fact that Troy knew Pandora meant that he’d bought more than one for his ex-wife Madeline. The woman was nothing if not high-maintenance.
“What kind of charms?”
Troy consulted the notes on his cell. “They’re still being cleaned up, but it looks like a dolphin, the Eiffel Tower, a gold ring, one hiking boot, and a ball and glove.”
“The Eiffel Tower. She wanted to go to Paris.”
“Maybe a gift from her so-called boyfriend in Amsterdam.”
“Maybe.” But she thought it more likely that Brittany had bought it herself as a kind of talisman—the promise of a new life abroad.
“And the cause of death?”
“Blunt force trauma. The skull revealed clear evidence of a fatal blow to the back of the head.”
“Poor Brittany.” Mercy clicked on the camp video again. She fast-forwarded it to a frame featuring one of the coaches, a blond teenager wearing a baseball cap low on her brow. “It’s not a great angle, you can’t see her whole face, but it could be Brittany.”
“Maybe. The hair is right.” Troy frowned. “Her family might be able to ID her.”
Between the grainy aspect of the videotape, the baseball caps shading their faces, and the distance the players were from the camera, it was really hard to identify anyone. Only Jojo stood out, but maybe the only reason Mercy could see Bodhi in the grinning, freckled little boy on the tape was because Father Bernard had pointed him out to her.
Her cell pinged. “It’s showtime for Patience and Claude.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, a hard rain was pelting against the French doors, the wind was rattling the windows, and thunder and lightning were nature’s drums and cymbals accompanying the string quartet playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D in the newly created Wedding Ballroom. It was only five thirty in the late afternoon, but the charcoal-streaked skies of the storm made it seem more like midnight. Candlelight illuminated the mauve-and-white cymbidium orchids on the skirted tables and on the gold and silver pedestal candelabra and flower stands, and all the china and crystal glinted in the glow.
It reminded Mercy of a fairy tale in which the heroine wanders into an enchanted meadow lit by fireflies in the middle of the deep forest after dark. A beautiful, if untraditional, setting for a wedding—and if the electricity should fail, no one would even notice. With Wyetta’s help, Prudence had outdone herself.
The guests made their way from the lobby and the bar, lining up along each side of the deep lady’s-slipper-pink carpet that ran up to the raised stage. Running along the front of the stage was the head table, elegantly laid out for the bride and groom and the rest of the wedding party. A side table was already filling up with sumptuously wrapped gifts.
The ceremony itself would take place on the raised stage under a simple arch of woven grapevine and mauve-and-white cymbidium orchids, set against the dramatic storm raging just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the ghostly garden beyond. The perfect ambiance for a Gothic novel or a Victorian séance or a wedding for two people who’d weathered life at its best and its worst and still wanted to spend the rest of their days together, come what may.
Mercy and the wedding party were gathered by the bar at the entrance of the ballroom. Claude was there, looking nervous but happy, his brother Father Bernard at his side, smiling and blessing the bridesmaids and groomsmen in turn. They’d be the first down the aisle when the time came for the procession. Patience was still in Aunt Pru’s office, waiting with Lillian for her grand entrance.
Prudence and Uncle Hugo were deep in conversation, a fact that vaguely worried Mercy. Verity was flirting outrageously with her new favorite billionaire Feinberg, who’d been called in as a spare groomsman in case a Renault pulled a disappearing act. Either way, he’d walk Lillian Jenkins down the aisle when the time came. Mercy grinned at Feinberg, who was, if not the world’s most eligible bachelor, certainly Vermont’s. He grinned back, and she was reminded that here was a man who was as clever as he was rich, and for once she was more concerned for Verity than for the man she was toying with. Thrasher and Wyetta looked on, amused by the entire scene.
Little Toby the ring bearer was running around, his shirt undone. Nick and Paige were sitting at the bar, as were Brodie and Amy, Helena the flower girl half asleep on her mother’s lap.
Troy was there with the dogs. An orchid-laden Susie Bear was hitched to a small beribboned white cart that would carry Helena down the aisle. Elvis in his bow-tied collar would accompany Toby the ring bearer as a sort of bodyguard. Insurance that both little ones made it to their destination with as little commotion as possible.
Nick and Paige were drinking martinis with Mercy’s parents. The fact that Grace was already imbibing meant that she either believed she had everything under control or she’d decided she’d done everything possible to prepare and it was time to let the chips fall where they may.
Troy gave Mercy a kiss on the cheek, taking the opportunity to whisper in her ear. “Claude’s sons are missing in action.”
“Great.” Mercy was glad her mother had had a few drinks.
“Do you want me to fetch them?”
“Let me talk to my grandmother first.”
As she hurried through the lobby, the ever-watchful Aunt Pru caught up with her.
“Are we checking on the Renault brothers?”
“Yes.”
Prudence frowned. “What a family.”
They found Lillian and Patience ensconced in Prudence’s office in her gold-and-white Louis XV chairs, drinking. They were on their second bottle of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label brut.
“Courtesy of Leo,” Lillian said, holding up her glass. “A very fine man, that Leo.”
Aunt Pru frowned. “Yes, well, we’re here to talk about two not-so-fine men.”
“Two? The sons, or one of the sons and a nephew?” asked Lillian.
That really was the question, thought Mercy. Was it the Renault brothers or their cousin Philippe or some combination thereof who’d hired Fazio and Crouse to find Bodhi and force him into agreeing to sell Toussaint Inc.? She supposed the answer would have to wait until after the ceremony.
“Fortunately Philippe is not in the wedding party,” said Prudence. “If he doesn’t show, it’s not our problem.”
“Let me guess. My soon-to-be stepsons.” Patience smiled. “You know, ‘stepson’ in French is ‘beau-fils’—‘beautiful boy.’”
“What a misnomer.” Lillian leaned toward Patience. “Not that their real names are any better. Florian. Marcel. Two very fancy names for two very—”
Prudence cut her off. “Just be glad they’re grown and gone.”
“Now you know why I didn’t marry Claude years ago.” Her grandmother burped. “Excusez-moi.”
“Seriously.” Lillian high-fived Patience.
“Claude texted me half an hour ago to tell me he’d sent Marcel to fetch Florian.”
Mercy and Prudence exchanged a look.
“Second floor,” said Aunt Pru.
Mercy and her aunt huffed up to the west wing on the second floor and down the hallway to the large suite Claude and his sons had been sharing, at least until tonight. After the reception, Patience and Claude would retire to the Bridal Cottage, arguably the most luxuriously appointed space on the property, to start their honeymoon off right in a lush setting decked out like a luxe Swiss chalet.
They could hear male voices arguing loudly inside. Mercy couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, as the voices were garbled and the men were speaking French. Prudence pounded on the door, then shouted, “Coming in!” and let Mercy and herself in with her skeleton key.
They found the brothers Florian and Marcel and their cousin Philippe standing on opposite sides of the fireplace, faces red, jaws clenching, tempers blazing.
“What do you want?” said Florian in English, none too nicely.
“We’re here to escort you to the wedding ceremony. We’re about to begin.”
“Forget it,” said Marcel. “I’m not going.”
“You’re going,” said Prudence.
“You’re all going,” said Mercy. “Now.”
“What are you going to do about it? You’ve only got one good arm.”
“What do you know about that?”
He ignored that remark. “And your killer dog’s not here.”
“You’re both going because it’s the right thing to do,” said Prudence.
“And because me and my killer dog will track you down if you don’t.”
“We’re not afraid of you,” said Marcel.
“You should be.”
“Come on, Marcel, we can kick her ass after the wedding,” said Florian.
“I’m not going. The whole thing is a joke.”
“Why don’t you want your father to marry my grandmother? Worried about your inheritance?”
“That is our family business,” said Philippe.
“Tout reste dans la famille.” Mercy smiled. “But you don’t believe that, do you? You’re desperate to sell, but you can’t do it without support.” She looked from Florian to Marcel. “Maybe one of you is willing to betray your father to help out your cousin here.”
Marcel nodded at his brother. “You should ask Florian about that. He’s the one who’s so tight with Philippe.”
“Or you could force your cousin Jojo to agree to the sale.” She stared at Philippe. “You know, whatever it takes.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Ask Florian,” said Marcel. “He’s Mr. Tough Guy.”
“Tais-toi!” said Florian.
“We are leaving now. All of us.” Prudence held the door open.
“This is not over,” Marcel told his brother.
Florian shrugged. “Nothing’s ever over with you.”