Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material (12 page)

T
he gold walls, the rose-based Oriental rug, the drapes printed with a botanical pattern of orange, crimson, and green butterflies and hibiscus, and the gilded chairs in the ballroom of the Black Tie Club were a welcome relief from the darkness of the church and the sadness of the occasion. The men and women who had come to pay their respects to Innis Wheelock and his family were relieved that the funeral was over and they could rejoin the land of the living. They ate, drank, chatted, and joked, happy for their reprieve and proving to themselves that life goes on.

Valentina traveled from table to table, accepting condolences and good wishes, expressing her gratitude to people for making the effort to come and pay tribute to her late husband. Between tables, Zack Underwood took her arm.

“Could we talk for a few minutes?” he asked.

“Of course, Zack,” said Valentina. “Why don’t we go into the bar?”

They seated themselves on the tufted leather sofa against the wall just inside the entrance. At the side of the room, the bartender continued to serve the guests who came in with their requests for wine, beer, and soft drinks.

“That’s an attention grabber,” said Zack as he observed the mounted bigmouth bass that hung on the persimmon grass-cloth-covered wall.

“Something tells me you don’t want to talk about taxidermy, Zack,” said Valentina.

“You’re right,” said Zack. He angled his body toward hers and leaned a bit closer. “First of all, I wanted to tell you, though I’m sure you’ve never had any doubt, that Innis loved you very much, Valentina. We worked quite closely together over the last year, and sometimes his eyes would fill with tears when he mentioned your name. It was touching.” Zack reached over and took her hand. “I know that this must be so hard for you, Valentina, and I’m hoping there’s something I can do to help.”

Valentina smiled weakly. “Thank you, Zack. I just have to take it day by day.”

“What if Innis was trying to tell us all something, Valentina?”

She looked up at him, unaware of anyone standing at the bar or coming in or out of the room. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Innis had me sign a confidentiality agreement about the work I did on Pentimento, but I guess when someone dies, the pledge of secrecy dies with him.”

“Meaning what?” Valentina asked apprehensively.

“Meaning I think that Innis was constructing some sort of puzzle, and I think I know what the first clue might be.”

She waited. He explained about the numbers on the greenhouse pot and how he’d discovered that they were the map coordinates for the spot where the crashed car had been found twenty years earlier.

“But why would Innis point to that?” Valentina asked tensely.

“I don’t know,” said Zack. “But I have a feeling that there are other things—other clues—that are going to tell us what he wants us to know.”

W
as that what the great Innis Wheelock meant when he said he was going to make sure that people found out? When he said that time was running out to confess and repent? Had he left behind one of his crazy puzzles that would lead to exposure?

How dare he! A puzzle was a cowardly way to do it. Instead of standing up like a man and dealing with everything, Innis had chosen to remove himself but leave a posthumous trail behind for others to follow.

That bastard wasn’t going to win.

Innis sensationalized his death so that all eyes would be on Tuxedo Park. But if the stigmata was the way Innis chose to grab attention, he could certainly be one-upped.

Suicide by stigmata was grotesque enough. What would Innis think about carrying the theme further?
Murder
by stigmata—not just using the five bodily wounds but incorporating some of the other physical and psychological injuries Jesus suffered? Even Innis wouldn’t have thought of something as perverse as that!

Clearly Zack Underwood didn’t understand how stupid it was to talk where he could be so easily overheard. But that didn’t mean Zack was stupid. If he was onto West Lake Road and thought there were more clues built into Pentimento, he would surely follow through and try to figure things out.

This had to be taken care of right away, before it went any further.

The Internet made so much fascinating information available so easily.

Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, had entries on stigmata and the Passion, the Christian theological term used for the physical, spiritual, and mental suffering Jesus Christ endured at the time of the crucifixion. The wounds he suffered while on the cross weren’t the half of it.

How convenient it was to have a list of the Instruments of the Passion. Among them: the chains used to bind Jesus overnight in prison; the whip used for the thirty-nine lashes at his scourging; the reed that was mockingly placed in his hand as his royal scepter; the hammer used to drive the nails into his hands and feet; the robe of Jesus and the dice that the soldiers cast for it; thirty pieces of silver, the price of Judas’s betrayal; and the shroud used to wrap Jesus’s body before burial.

There was more, much more. Each of the cruel and vicious acts that Jesus endured had the potential to be acted out in a different way, in a different time, on a different victim—if it came to that.

A
t one of the round tables, there was an empty seat next to Zack Underwood. Eliza went over.

“May I?” she asked.

Zack looked up, his expression welcoming when he saw her. “Please join me,” he said, standing up and pulling out the chair.

Eliza sat down, and they made small talk while they ate. When they had finished, she brought up their first meeting at the party.

“I remember you saying that Innis told you he had something special planned for that night,” she said.

Zack sat back in his chair and shook his head. “God, if I’d known what he meant, maybe I could have done something that would’ve stopped him. I feel terrible about this.”

“Me, too,” said Eliza. She told Zack about her conversation with Innis at the fountain. “I could tell that something was bothering him, but I had no idea of the depth of his despair.”

“I don’t think anyone did,” said Zack. “I keep asking myself why. Why would Innis do something like this? He’d been so happy when we finished the renovations. In fact, I recall him telling me that he had never been more satisfied.”

“Zack,” began Eliza, “I want to talk to you about something. We have a picture taken in the greenhouse that shows a pot with numbers on it. Numbers that correspond to a spot where a mysterious accident occurred two decades ago.”

Zack sighed deeply, a sigh Eliza interpreted as relief. “I’m so glad you know about it, too,” he said. “I just figured out what those numbers meant myself. And only this afternoon I spoke with Bill the bartender, who’s been around this place forever, and asked if that West Lake Road location meant anything special to him. When he told me about the accident that had taken place there, I got this horrible feeling. As if Innis were trying to tell me something. Tell us all something.”

“Did you put those numbers on the pot?” asked Eliza.

“No, Innis did,” said Zack. “Even though I told him that they were distracting, he insisted on keeping the numbers and the pot on display. But, you know, there were other things he asked me to do that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me.”

“Like what?” asked Eliza.

Zack looked around the room. “I don’t really feel comfortable talking about them here.”

“Would you be willing to talk to me about it in private?” asked Eliza.

“Yes, I think I would,” said Zack. “If Innis is leaving us some sort of message from the grave, that isn’t something I’d want to deal with alone.”

E
liza finished her coffee and looked around the ballroom. She spotted Russell and went over to speak with him again.

“I want to say good-bye to your mother, too,” she said. “But I can’t find her. Would you thank her for me and tell her I’ll call when I get back this weekend?”

“I will,” said Russell. “I know she’s so happy that you’ll be spending time up here. I am, too. She needs her friends now. Bad enough she lost her husband, but now this Eunice thing. I don’t know what she’s going to do.”

“Your mother is a strong woman,” said Eliza. “I hope you have people you can lean on, too, Russell. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love very much.”

Russell nodded, and Eliza saw him swallow hard as he tried to keep his emotions in check.

“Don’t go out the way we came in, Charlie,” said Eliza, taking the map B.J. had printed out for her from her purse. “Turn left when you leave the courtyard and follow the road around the lake.”

They passed the swimming pool and the outdoor tennis courts and an enormous white Greek Revival–style building in which court tennis and squash were played. Then the road curved and rose and fell gently, as if inviting the travelers to slow down and enjoy the loveliness of the surroundings. One after another, each different in architecture and coloring, some of the prime residences of Tuxedo Park appeared: Tudor, Dutch style, Federal Colonial, English Arts and Crafts, Spanish Mission style, Jacobean Revival, and French Château. Some had single gables; some were built of stone and shingles or brick and granite. All of them were carefully placed on a unique parcel of land and were designed to satisfy their demanding original owners. The homes continued to please the residents who came to live in them for the century afterward.

As the car climbed upward, it came to Pentimento. Eliza looked out the window at the Italianate mansion as they passed. Such a beautiful house, perched in the hills in such a glorious spot, and yet the owner of the home had been so hopelessly troubled.

If only I had known, if only I had known.

After Pentimento there were a few more mansions tucked away behind the trees. Then a long stretch where there was nothing but hills and vegetation on one side of the road and the shore of Tuxedo Lake on the other.

“Can you slow down, Charlie?” Eliza asked as she consulted the marked map.

As the car crept along, Eliza craned her neck to get a better view. Trees, bushes, some large boulders, and, through the growth, the sparkle of the sun on the lake.

There was nothing else to see.

O
nce the last of the luncheon guests had departed, Russell escorted his mother home from the club.

“Are you sure you’re all right with my going back now, Mother?” he asked when they entered Pentimento.

Valentina squeezed her son’s hand. “Yes, dear, I understand. You’ve so much to do, and those professors at Columbia don’t want to hear any excuses about not having your work done. And if you want to go on to Harvard Law, every single grade counts. But do you have a few minutes to sit and talk before you leave?”

“Sure I do,” said Russell.

Valentina led the way down the long hall and into the main living area. She stopped at the bar, took the cover off the ice bucket, and looked inside. “No ice,” she said. “Eunice would have made sure there was ice ready and waiting for the drink she knew I’d need. She took such good care of me, thinking of everything.”

“We’ll find a replacement, Mother,” said Russell. “Try not to worry.”

They sat in the two armchairs that flanked the fireplace. Valentina began the conversation.

“Everyone had such good things to say about your father, Rusty. You’ve got a lot to live up to.”

“I know that, Mother. I’ve always known that.”

“The world is your oyster, Rusty. Your father and I have so many friends from our years in politics, and if your turn comes to run, they’ll be there to help you.”

“If?” Russell asked sharply.

“You are in a very privileged position, Rusty. ‘Of those to whom much is given, much is expected.’”

Russell nodded solemnly.

“Always remember: Any sort of scandal could ruin everything.”

C
hief Clay Vitalli reviewed the security logs, checking to make sure that the nonresidents who had entered the park for the funeral luncheon were safely out now. Satisfied that everybody had left, Clay turned to the guard at the security gate.

“I’m taking a ride into town,” he said, running his finger under the starched collar of his shirt. “Then I’m going home and getting out of this uniform.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he was exiting the guardhouse, a car was coming down the hill. The late-model, dark green Audi convertible slowed to a stop next to Clay. Russell Wheelock was behind the wheel.

“I want to thank you again for all you did to make things go smoothly today, Clay,” said Russell. “My mother and I really appreciate it.”

“Your father meant the world to me, Rusty,” said Clay. “I’d do anything for him and your mother.”

“And you have,” said Russell. “Thanks a lot for helping me out with that other thing.”

“Which one?” asked Clay.

“The speeding ticket, of course.” Russell grinned.

“Oh, yeah. It’s not funny, Rusty. Watch that heavy foot of yours, will you? It could get you in trouble.”

Russell raised his hand. “I hear you. I hear you,” he said.

“Good.”

“Another thing, Clay. With Eunice gone, my mother is all alone in that house—”

Clay cut him off before he could continue. “Don’t worry. I’m putting more security on the house. My guys will be checking on her.”

As the young man drove away, Clay was filled with resentment. A kid in college tooling around in an expensive ride like that. That kid didn’t know how lucky he was. His parents had given him everything, made sure that all his problems were solved, paved the way for him in every possible respect.

Rusty Wheelock was the chosen one, the heir apparent. And he took too much for granted.

Meanwhile Clay’s own child, his twenty-two-year-old daughter, Cleo, would never drive a car and never go to college. Hell, he’d be thrilled if Cleo could learn to read.

It wasn’t fair at all.