Chapter 6 Five Hours Before the Murder

6

Sara leaned into Will as he rested his arm across the back of her chair. She looked up at his handsome face, trying not to melt like a boy-crazy teenager. She could still smell the scented bath salts on his skin. He was wearing a slate blue button-down shirt that was open at the collar. The sleeves were long and the temperature in the room was a bit warm. She saw a drop of sweat in his suprasternal notch, and the only thing that kept her from being a complete geek for referring to the indentation in his neck by its anatomical name was her desire to explore it with her tongue.

He stroked her arm with his fingers. Sara resisted the urge to close her eyes. She was feeling tired from the long day, and they had to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow for yoga, then a hike, then paddle boarding. All of which sounded fun, but staying in bed all day would've been fun, too.

She listened to Drew tell Will about what to expect on the hike, the packed lunches and the panoramic views. She could tell Will was still feeling disappointed about the campsite. Not that they were sure whether they'd actually found it. None of the McAlpines they'd asked during cocktails had been particularly interested in confirming or denying its location. Christopher had feigned ignorance. Cecil had launched into another big fish tale. Even Bitty, who was supposed to be the family historian, had quickly changed the subject.

They would try their luck with the Little Deer trail again tomorrow afternoon. There hadn't been much time for exploring today because they'd wasted a good hour doing exactly the thing that Sara hated about camping, which was getting sweaty and stomping through thick underbrush, then having to check each other for ticks. Eventually, they'd stumbled upon an overgrown clearing with a large circle of rocks. Will had joked about finding a witches' coven. Sara guessed by the beer cans and cigarette butts that they'd discovered a make-out spot for teenagers.

More likely, they'd found the site of an old campfire circle. Which meant that the campsite had to be close by. The kids at the children's home had talked about bunk houses and a chow hall and sneaking around the back of the counselors' cottages at night to spy on them. Many years had passed since Will had heard those stories, but still, there would be foundations or remnants of the buildings. Things that were carried up a mountain generally didn't get carried back down.

Sara dipped back into the conversation just as Will asked Drew, "What did the two of you do this afternoon?"

"Oh, you know. This and that." He elbowed Keisha, who was making a point of looking at the spots on her water glass. Drew gave her a firm shake of his head, urging her to let it drop, then he asked Will, "How's the honeymoon?"

"Great," Will said. "What year did you two meet each other?"

Sara unfolded her cloth napkin on her lap, hiding her smile as Drew provided not just the year, but the actual date and location. Will was trying to be better about small talk, but no matter what he said, he always sounded like a cop soliciting an alibi.

Drew said, "I took her to the home game against Tuskegee."

Will said, "The stadium is off of Joseph Lowery Boulevard, right?"

"You know the campus?" Drew sounded impressed by the open-ended question designed to verify facts. "They were just breaking ground on RAYPAC."

"The concert hall?" Will asked. "What did that look like?"

Sara let her eyes and ears wander toward Gordon, who was sitting on her left. She tried to pick up on the conversation he was having with the man beside him. Unfortunately, their voices were too low. Of all the guests, the two men were the ones who struck Sara as the most mysterious. At cocktails, they had introduced themselves as Gordon and Landry, but Sara had heard the two of them on the path earlier and she'd distinctly heard Gordon call Landry by the name Paul. She didn't know what they were up to, but she imagined Will would get to the bottom of it once he started interrogating them about whether they were in the vicinity of cottage ten between the hours of four and four-thirty in the afternoon.

She tuned back into his conversation with the caterers.

"Who else was present?" Will asked Keisha, which was a perfectly normal question about a couple's first date.

Sara dipped out again and looked down at Monica, who was listing beside Frank. Sara had purposefully not counted the drinks. At least after two. The woman was nearly in a stupor. Frank had to prop her up with his arm. He was an annoying man, but he seemed to be concerned about his wife. The same could not be said for the two late arrivals. Sydney and Max were seated closer to the head of the table. The man had his head buried in his phone, which was interesting considering the Wi-Fi restrictions. The woman kept flipping her ponytail back like a horse swatting flies.

"Twelve in all," she was telling a very disinterested Gordon. "Four Appaloosa, a Dutch warmblood, and the rest are Trakehners. They're the youngest, but—"

Sara blocked her out. She liked horses, but not enough to make them her entire personality.

Will squeezed her shoulder to check in with her.

She leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Did you find the killer yet?"

He whispered back, "It was Chuck in the dining hall with the breadstick."

Sara let her gaze glance over Chuck, who was devouring a breadstick. He had a gallon water jug on the table beside him because no one trusted their kidneys anymore. Christopher, the fishing guide, was on his left. They both looked miserable. Chuck probably had good reason. Mercy had practically bitten his head off. She'd tried to cover for it, but clearly, he made her uncomfortable. Even Sara had picked up on his creepy vibe, and she hadn't said anything other than hello to the man.

She didn't get the same read off Christopher McAlpine, who appeared to be as shy as he was awkward. He was seated beside his strangely cold mother, whose lips were puckered into a frown. Bitty saw her son reach for another piece of bread and slapped his hand away like he was still a child. He put his hands in his lap, stared down at the table. The only family member who seemed to be enjoying the dinner was the man at the head of the table. He'd probably compelled them to attend. He clearly loved being the center of attention. The guests seemed enthralled by his stories, but Sara couldn't help but think he was the type of self-righteous blowhard who would cancel the prom and make dancing illegal.

Cecil McAlpine had a shock of gray hair and ruggedly handsome features. Most everyone called him Papa. Sara guessed by the fresh scars on his face and arms that he'd suffered a catastrophic accident within the last few years. In the context of bad accidents, he'd at least had some luck. The phrenic nerve, which controls the diaphragm, is formed from C-3, 4 and 5 nerve roots. Damage in that area would require spending the rest of your life on a ventilator. If you survived the initial injury.

She watched Cecil lift his ring finger on his left hand, indicating to his wife that he wanted a sip of water. He had offered Will and Sara a strong handshake with his right hand when they'd arrived for cocktails, but that had clearly zapped his strength.

Cecil finished drinking, then told Landry/Paul, "The spring that feeds the lake originates up the McAlpine pass. Follow Lost Widow Trail down to the bottom of the lake. The creek is about a fifteen-minute walk from there. Follow it for about twelve miles. That's a good hike straight up the side of the mountain. You can see the peak from the lookout bench on the way back to the lake."

"Keesh," Drew whispered hoarsely. "Let it go."

Sara could tell they were arguing about the water-spotted glass. She politely turned away, catching another conversation at the opposite end of the table. Cecil's sister, a crunchy granola type in a tie-dye dress, was telling Frank, "People think I'm a lesbian because I wear Birkenstocks, but I always tell them I'm a lesbian because I love having sex with women."

"Me, too!" Frank barked out a laugh. He raised his glass of water in a toast.

Sara shared a smile with Will. They were stuck too far away. The aunt seemed like the only fun one at the table. Sara guessed from the scars on her hands and forearms that she worked with chemicals. There was a much larger scar on her bicep that looked like an ax had taken a chunk out of her arm. She probably worked on a farm with heavy machinery. Sara could easily picture her with a corncob pipe and a pack of herding dogs.

"Hey." Will lowered his voice again. "What kind of name is Bitty?"

"It's a nickname." Sara knew that Will's dyslexia made his understanding of certain wordplay difficult. "Probably a variation on itty bitty. Because she's so small."

He nodded. She could tell the explanation had made him think about Dave, the purveyor of nicknames. Both of them had been glad the nasty prick hadn't shown up at cocktails. Sara didn't want Dave's shadow to extend into their night. She placed her hand on Will's thigh. Felt the muscle tense. She hoped this dinner didn't drag on. There were better things to eat.

"Here we go!" Mercy came out of the kitchen with a platter in each hand. Two teenage boys followed her with more platters and sauce bowls. "The starters tonight are a selection of empanadas, papas rellenas, and the chef's famous tostones, made from a recipe perfected by his mother back in Puerto Rico."

There were lots of oohs and ahhs as the dishes were placed along the center of the table. Sara expected Will to be panicked, but the man who thought honey mustard was too exotic seemed surprisingly okay.

She asked, "Have you tried Puerto Rican food before?"

"No, but I looked up the sample menu on their website." He pointed to the different offerings. "Meat inside of fried bread. Meat inside of fried potatoes. Fried green plantains, which are actually bananas, which are technically a fruit, but it doesn't count because they're fried twice."

Sara laughed, but she was secretly pleased. He really had chosen this place for her, too.

Mercy went around the table filling water glasses. She leaned down between Chuck and her brother. Sara watched Mercy's jaw tighten as Chuck mumbled something. She was the embodiment of a woman whose skin was crawling. There had to be some history there.

Sara turned away. She was determined not to get wrapped up in other people's problems.

"Mercy," Keisha said. "You mind swapping out our glasses?"

Drew looked annoyed. "It's okay, really."

"No problem." Mercy's jaw tightened even more, but she managed to twist her lips into a smile. "Be right back."

Water splashed onto the table as she picked up the two glasses and walked back into the kitchen. Drew and Keisha exchanged sharp looks. Sara guessed caterers were just as incapable of turning off their picky catering brains as medical examiners and detectives. And plumbers' daughters. The glasses were clean. The spots came from the mineral deposits in hard water.

"Monica," Frank said, but quietly. He was loading her plate with fried food, trying to get something into her stomach. "Remember the sorullitos we had in San Juan at that rooftop bar overlooking the port?"

Monica's eyes seemed to come into focus as she looked at Frank. "We had ice cream."

"We did." He held her hand to his mouth for a kiss. "Then we tried to dance the salsa."

Monica's expression softened as she looked at her husband. "You tried. I failed."

"You've never failed at anything."

Sara felt a lump in her throat as they stared into each other's eyes. There was something so poignant between them. Maybe she had misjudged the couple. Either way, it felt like an intrusion to watch. She looked up at Will. He had noticed, too. He was also waiting for her to start eating so that he could.

Sara picked up her fork. She speared an empanada. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized she was ravenous. She'd have to be careful not to get too full because she was not going to be the woman who went into a food coma the first night of her honeymoon.

"Mom!" Jon burst through the doors. "Where are you?"

They had all turned at the racket. Jon didn't walk so much as stagger across the room. His face was bloated and sweaty. Sara would guess he'd had almost as much to drink tonight as Monica.

"Mom!" he bellowed. "Mom!"

"Jon?" Mercy rushed out of the kitchen. She held a glass of water in each hand. She saw the state of her son but kept her cool. "Baby, come into the kitchen."

"No!" he yelled. "I'm not a fucking baby! You tell me the reasons! Now!"

His words were so slurred that Sara could barely understand him. She saw Will turn his chair from the table in case Jon lost his balance.

"Jon." Mercy shook her head in a warning. "We'll do this later."

"The fuck we will!" He walked toward his mother, his finger pointing in the air. "You wanna ruin everything. Dad has it planned out so we can all be together. Without you. I don't wanna be with you. I wanna live with Bitty in a house with a swimming pool."

Sara was shocked when Bitty made a noise that sounded almost like triumph.

Mercy had heard it, too. She glanced back at her mother, then told her son, "Jon, I'm—"

"Why do you ruin everything?" He grabbed her arms, shaking her so hard that one of the glasses slipped from her hand and shattered onto the stone floor. "Why do you gotta be such a bitch all the time?"

"Hey." Will had stood up when Jon had grabbed his mother. He walked over, telling the boy. "Let's go outside."

Jon spun around, screaming, "Fuck off, Trashcan!"

Will looked stunned. Sara felt the same. How did this kid know about the terrible name? And why was he screaming it now?

"I said fuck off!" Jon tried to shove him away, but Will didn't move. Jon tried again. "Fuck!"

"Jon." Mercy's hand was trembling so hard that the water sloshed in the remaining glass. "I love you, and I'm—"

"I hate you," Jon said, and the fact that he hadn't yelled the words felt far more devastating than his previous outbursts. "I wish you were fucking dead."

He walked out, slamming the door behind him. The sound was like a sonic boom. No one spoke. No one moved. Mercy was frozen.

Then Cecil said, "Look at what you did, Mercy."

Mercy bit her lip. She looked so stricken that Sara felt a sympathetic flush in her own face.

Bitty tsked her tongue. "Mercy, for godsakes, clean up that glass before you hurt anybody else."

Will knelt down before Mercy did. He took the handkerchief out of his back pocket and used it to hold broken shards from the water glass. Mercy shakily knelt alongside him. The scar on her face practically glowed with humiliation. The room was so quiet that Sara could hear the pieces of broken glass clicking together.

"I'm so sorry," Mercy told Will.

He said, "Don't worry. I break things all the time."

Mercy's laugh was cut off by a gulp.

"I say." Chuck put on a funny voice. "Apple doesn't fall far from the ye olde tree."

Christopher said nothing. He reached for another breadstick. He took a noisy bite. Sara could not imagine the rage she would feel if someone said anything even remotely bad about her little sister, but the man just chewed like a useless fool.

In fact, they were all staring at Mercy as if she were inside a tent at an old carnival freak show.

Sara addressed the table. "We should probably eat this delicious food before it gets cold."

"That's a good idea." Frank was likely used to ignoring drunken outbursts. He added, "I was just reminding Monica of a trip we took to Puerto Rico a few years back. They have a type of salsa that's different from the Brazilian samba."

Sara played along, "In what way?"

"Shit," Mercy hissed. She had cut open her thumb on the glass. Blood dripped onto the floor. Even from a distance, Sara could tell the wound was deep.

Sara automatically stood up to help, asking, "Is there a first aid kit in the kitchen?"

"I'm fine, I—" Mercy's uninjured hand covered her mouth. She was going to be sick.

Cecil muttered, "For chrissake."

Sara wrapped her cloth napkin tightly around Mercy's thumb to help stop the bleeding. She left the rest of the broken glass to Will and guided Mercy into the kitchen.

One of the young waiters looked up, then quickly returned to preparing the plates. The other was intently loading the Hobart. The chef was the only one who seemed to care about Mercy. He looked up from the stove, his eyes tracking her across the room. His brow was furrowed in concern, but he stayed silent.

"I'm okay," Mercy told him. Then she nodded to Sara. "It's back here."

Sara followed her toward a bathroom that looked like it served as a pass-through to a cramped office. There was an electric typewriter on the metal desk. Papers were stacked all over the floor. There was no telephone. The only nod to modernity was a closed laptop sitting on top of a stack of accounting ledgers.

"Sorry for the mess." Mercy reached underneath a row of hooks that held jackets for colder weather. "I don't wanna ruin your night. You can just hand me down that first aid kit and get back to supper."

Sara had no intention of leaving this poor woman bleeding in the bathroom. She was reaching for the kit on the wall when she heard Mercy retch. The toilet lid popped up. Mercy was on her knees when a stream of bile came up. She hacked a few more times before sitting back on her heels.

"Fuck." Mercy wiped her mouth with the back of her good hand. "I'm sorry."

Sara asked, "May I look at your thumb?"

"I'm all right. Please, go enjoy your supper. I can handle this."

As if to prove her point, she grabbed the first aid kit and sat down on the toilet. Sara watched as Mercy tried to open the case with one hand. It was clear that she was used to doing everything by herself. It was also clear that she couldn't maneuver this particular situation on her own.

"May I?" Sara waited for Mercy's reluctant nod before she took the case and snapped it open on the floor. She found the usual assortment of bandages along with emergency fluids, three suture packs, and two Stop the Bleed kits—a tourniquet, wound packing gauze, hemostatic dressings. There was also a vial of lidocaine, which wasn't strictly legal for a kitchen first aid kit, but she imagined they were used to doing their own triage this far from civilization.

She told Mercy, "Let me see your thumb."

Mercy didn't move. She stared blankly at the first aid supplies as if she were lost in a memory. "My father used to be the one who gave people stitches if they needed them."

Sara could hear the sadness in her voice. Cecil McAlpine's days of having the dexterity to patch someone up were over. Still, it was hard to feel sorry for the man. Sara couldn't imagine her own father ever talking to her the way Cecil had spoken to Mercy. Particularly in front of strangers. And her mother would've snatched the beating heart out of anyone who dared say a word against either of her daughters.

She told Mercy, "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault." Mercy's tone was clipped. "Do you mind opening that roll of dressing for me? I don't know how it works, but it'll stop the bleeding."

"It's coated with a hemostatic agent to absorb the water content from blood and promote clotting."

"I forgot you're a chemistry teacher."

"About that," Sara felt her face redden again. She hated outing herself as a liar, but she wasn't going to subject Mercy to battle dressing. "I'm a medical doctor. Will and I decided to keep our professions quiet."

Mercy didn't seem fazed by the dishonesty. "What's he do? Basketball player? Tight end?"

"No, he's an agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation." Sara washed her hands at the sink as Mercy took her time absorbing the news. "I'm sorry we lied. We didn't want to—"

"Don't worry about it," Mercy said. "Considering what just happened, I'm in no position to judge."

Sara adjusted the temperature of the water. In the harsh overhead light, she could see three red marks slashing the left side of Mercy's neck. They were fresh, probably no more than a few hours old. The bruising would be more pronounced in a few days.

She told Mercy, "Let's flush out your wound in case there's any glass."

Mercy stuck her hand under the faucet. She didn't even flinch, though the pain must've been significant. She was obviously used to being hurt.

Sara took the opportunity to study the red marks on Mercy's throat. Both sides showed damage. Sara imagined if she wrapped her hands around the woman's neck, the lines would match her fingers. She had done the same thing many times with patients on her autopsy table. Strangulation was a common feature in domestic violence-related homicide.

"Look," Mercy said. "Before you keep on helping me, you should know that Dave's my ex. He's Jon's father. And he's obviously the jackass that told Jon your husband was called Trashcan a million years ago. Dave does petty shit like that all the time."

Sara took in the information in stride. "Is Dave the one who strangled you?"

Mercy slowly turned off the faucet, not answering.

"That could explain your nausea. Did you pass out?"

Mercy shook her head.

"Are you having difficulty breathing?" Mercy kept shaking her head. "Any changes in vision? Dizziness? Problems remembering things?"

"I wish I couldn't remember things."

Sara asked, "Do you mind if I examine your neck?"

Mercy sat back on the toilet. She tilted up her chin by way of agreement. The cartilage was aligned. The hyoid bone was intact. The red marks were prominent and swollen. The pressure on her carotids combined with the compression of her trachea could've easily led to her death. The only thing more dangerous was a chokehold.

Sara guessed that Mercy was aware of how close she'd come to dying, and she knew that lecturing a victim of domestic violence had never stopped a future act of domestic violence. All that Sara could do was let the woman know that she wasn't alone.

She said, "Everything seems okay. You're going to have some bad bruising. I want you to find me if at any time you feel like something's wrong. Night or day, all right? I don't care what I'm doing. This could be serious."

Mercy looked skeptical. "Did your husband tell you the real story about Dave?"

"He told me."

"Dave gave him the nickname."

"I know."

"There's probably other shit that—"

"I honestly don't care," Sara said. "You're not your ex-husband."

"No," Mercy said, looking down at the floor. "But I'm the dumbass who keeps taking him back."

Sara gave her a moment to collect herself. She opened the suture kit. Laid out the gauze, the lidocaine, a small syringe. When she glanced up at Mercy, she could tell the woman was ready.

Sara said, "Hold your hand over the sink."

Again, Mercy didn't flinch when Sara poured iodine into the wound. The cut was deep. Mercy had been handling food. The shard of glass had been on the floor. Any one of these things could lead to an infection. Normally, Sara would've given Mercy a script for antibiotics just in case, but she would have to make do with a warning. "If you feel feverish or see any red marks, or experience unusual pain—"

"I know," Mercy said. "There's a doctor in town I can follow up with."

Sara could tell by the tone of her voice that she had no intention of following up. Again, she spared the woman a lecture. One thing that Sara had learned from working in the emergency department in Atlanta's only public hospital was that you could treat the injury if not the disease.

Mercy said, "Let's get this over with."

She was compliant as Sara draped paper towels across Mercy's lap. Then she put a drape from the first aid kit on top of that. Sara washed her hands again. Then used the hand sanitizer.

"He seems nice," Mercy said. "Your husband."

Sara shook out her hands to dry. "He is."

"Do you …" Mercy's voice trailed off as she gathered her thoughts. "Does he make you feel safe?"

"Completely." Sara looked up at Mercy's face. The woman didn't seem like the type who easily showed her emotions, but her expression was one of profound sadness.

"I'm glad for you." Mercy's tone was wistful. "I don't think I've ever felt safe around anybody in my life."

Sara couldn't find a response, but Mercy didn't seem to want one.

"Did you marry your father?"

Sara almost laughed at the question. It sounded like neo-Freudian hokum, but this wasn't the first time she'd heard the turn of phrase. "I remember when I was in college, I got so angry when my aunt told me that girls always marry their fathers."

"Was she right?"

Sara thought about it as she slipped on the nitrile gloves. Will and her father were both tall, though her father had lost his lankiness. They were both frugal, if frugal meant spending countless minutes scraping the last ounce of the peanut butter out of the jar. Will wasn't one for dad jokes, but he had the same self-deprecating sense of humor as her father. He was more likely to fix a broken chair or patch a wall himself than call a handyman. He was also more likely to stand up when everyone else stayed seated.

"Yes," Sara admitted. "I married my father."

"Me, too."

Sara gathered she wasn't thinking of Cecil McAlpine's good traits, but there was no way to follow up. Mercy went quiet, lost in her own thoughts as she stared down at her injured thumb. Sara drew lidocaine into the syringe. If Mercy noticed the pain from the injections, she didn't say. Sara guessed if you spent your day dealing with bruises and strangulation, a needle piercing your flesh was a small inconvenience by comparison.

Still, Sara made quick work of closing the wound. She dropped in four sutures, spacing them close together. Mercy already had one scar on her face that likely served as a reminder of a bad time. Sara didn't want her looking down at her thumb and remembering another.

Sara recited the usual precautions as she wrapped the gauze. "Keep it dry for a week. Tylenol as needed for pain. I'd like to look at it again before I check out."

"I don't think I'll be here. My mother just fired me." Mercy gave a sudden, surprised laugh. "You know, I hated this place for such a long time, but now all I do is love it. I can't imagine living anywhere else. It's in my soul."

Sara had to remind herself not to wade into their personal business. "I know it seems bad now, but things are usually better in the morning."

"I doubt I'll make it that long." Mercy was smiling, but there was nothing humorous about what she said. "There's hardly a person on this mountain right now who doesn't want to kill me."