“And you don’t have a creepy kid popping up between you and the steering wheel, sending us both crashing into the median and dying horribly?”
“Exactly.”
* * *
Do we agree with Vanessa and Marius that this couldn’t be Mercy? I’d like to, but I don’t know Mercy, which is a large part of the problem in general. She’s supposedly interested in mentoring me, and yet I haven’t heard from her since she first promised that mentoring. While I’ve tried to be patient, her siblings all consider her the “flighty” one, and that’s not a reference to Mercury’s winged boots. I’ve started to wonder whether she’d made the offer on a whim and then skipped off to a new project that caught her eye.
I’ve been called flighty myself, but when it comes to promises and commitments, I’m as grounded as Ani, and I expect the same from others. Being mercurial is no excuse for instability. Though, yes, I’m aware of the double irony there, Mercy being the very source of the word “mercurial” and the fact that the element named after her is known for its instability, in its ever-changing form.
I understand why Vanessa and Marius are defending her. She’s Marius’s younger sister and Vanessa’s younger foster sister. Vanessa and Marius being a couple would be creepy in modern times, but it was different in ancient Greece, and they’d grown up as friends more than siblings.
The point is that Mercy is their little sister. She might drive them crazy, but they love her, just as I love Hope. If someone told me Hope played a vicious prank, I’d say they were wrong. My sister doesn’t have it in her. Does that mean I couldn’t be mistaken? Nope. It just means that I can’t imagine her doing that.
As much as I want to get this painting safely out of Connolly’s car, we need to talk to Ms. Silver again. Was she as unwitting pawn in this game? Or is she part of it?
It feels as if it should be far too late to talk to her. It’s not. Okay, technically, it is too late for social visits, but with an hour to go before midnight, it’s not exactly the middle of the night.
We pull into the driveway. The house is dark. We didn’t call first—we’re not about to alert Ms. Silver.
Connolly checks his watch.
“10:58,” I say. “Yep, she may have gone to bed and really not appreciate the interruption, but it’s not late enough for her to call the cops. And if she does, I’m sure this fancy car can outrun them.”
When I start up the drive, he motions for me to wait. He heads to where he can see the left side of the bungalow. Then he crosses the lawn to the right. I think he’s checking the side windows for light, but when he walks up to me, he says, “The bedrooms seem to be to the left, if I’m interpreting the window configuration correctly. I’m going to suggest you ring the bell while I watch.”
“Ah, to see if a light comes on, but she doesn’t answer the door. Good idea.”
I walk up to the porch and ring. The bell echos through the house. I glance over at Connolly, who’s shading the neighbors’ lights from his vision. I edge closer to the door to listen. It stays silent. I back out and look at Connolly. He shakes his head.
I ring the bell again and this time I stay where I am, ear to the door. Nothing.
“May I help you?” a querulous voice calls, and I jump, spinning.
An elderly woman stands in the driveway to our right. She has a Great Dane on a lead, the dog nearly as big as her.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Connolly says. “We know it’s late to call, but we had business with Ms. Silver earlier, and there was an urgent development. We couldn’t reach her on the phone so we stopped by.”
“Ms. Silver?”
“The woman who lives here.”
“You have the wrong address, son. That’s Bert and Mabel’s house.”
Connolly frowns. “We were here earlier, and we spoke to a woman who identified herself as Ms. Silver. Do the owners have a daughter?”
“Oh, I know who you mean. The plant-sitter.”
“Plant-sitter?” I say, coming off the porch.
“They have a friend who stops by to water the plants. I said I’d do it, but they’re very particular about their tropicals. Mostly Bert. That man treats them like children. I’m surprised Mabel can drag him away.”
“Ms. Silver is their plant-sitter?”
The old woman waves a hand. “I don’t know her name. Never spoken to her. She waves, though. Always smiles and waves, friendly as can be.”
“This Ms. Silver,” I say. “Is she in her early thirties? Dark blond hair?”
The woman laughs. “Goodness, no. She can’t be a day under fifty. African-American woman.”
“Ah, well, obviously we have made a mistake,” I say. “Thank you. We appreciate your time, ma’am. Have a good night.”
* * *
As Connolly pulls from the drive, I groan and thump back against the seat.
“Taylor Silver,” I mutter.
“Hmm?”
“The name Taylor. It makes me think of the singer.” I glance at him. “Swift Silver. Quick silver.”
“Mercury.”
Chapter Eleven
Eleven
As we drive into Unstable, we pass a state police car idling at the intersection. I notice because Unstable, while small, has its own police department. We don’t want outsiders policing our quirky little town, not when those outsiders might roll their eyes at our paranormal bent and grumble about the inconvenience of managing our tourist trade.
Our taxes pay for a small force, run by Chief Salazar, descended from one of the town’s oldest families. I presume if the state police are in town, they’re consulting with her on a matter that crosses both jurisdictions. Still, the car catches my eye, so when flashing lights flip on behind us, I know exactly what it is and twist to see the police car on our bumper.
Connolly frowns. “I’m under the speed limit, and there wasn’t a stop sign. I do hope this isn’t another breathalyzer test.”
I snort a laugh. We’d had an incident where Connolly used luck to avoid a car accident, and the resulting balancing had made him so clumsy the police suspected he was drunk. Then their machine wouldn’t work—his bad luck—which only made things worse.
“That’s a state police car,” I say. “They won’t be pulling us over. Just let them pass.”
He rolls to the curb a few doors from my shop. It’s well past midnight, every window dark, even the pub closed for the night.
I expect the car to continue on. Instead, it stops behind us.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
“It’s fine,” Connolly says. “Whatever the problem, it’ll be nothing more than an inconvenience. It never is, and my luck in that has nothing to do with my powers.”
He means that he’s a white guy wearing an expensive suit, driving an expensive car. No one’s pulling him over thinking he stole the vehicle or has drugs or weapons stashed in the trunk.
Connolly rolls down the window, his license in one hand, the other on the steering wheel.
“Good evening, officer,” he says.