Synopsis:
Love never dies a natural death . . .
Mercy Carr’s grandmother, Patience, is going to marry her longtime beau, Claude Renault, at the five-star Lady’s Slipper Inn in Vermont. It will be the destination wedding of the year.
But just as the four-day extravaganza is set to begin, the Inn’s spa director, Bodhi St. George, disappears. Mercy’s mother, Grace, dispatches Mercy and her dog, Elvis, to find him. Instead, they discover the body of a stranger skewered by a pitchfork in the barn on the goat farm where St. George lived.
Mercy works to identify the victim and locate St. George while the bride and groom’s estranged relations gather for the first of the pre-wedding festivities. Long-buried rivalries and resentments surface. And Mercy realizes they’re all keeping secrets that could tear both families apart.
When Elvis interrupts the escalating melodrama to alert Mercy to an intruder on the estate, she finds a wounded St. George in the cottage where she and game warden Troy Warner are staying. St. George is not his real name and when he disappears again, Mercy fears he’s gone for good. The wedding is imminent and the families are at each other’s throats, so finding St. George — or whatever his name is — will have to wait.
The wedding day arrives, but the families and festivities are in danger. Mercy and Elvis, along with Troy and his dog, Susie Bear, have to work quickly to find a killer, and save the bride and groom . . . before death do they part.
Review:
Author Paula Munier says her mission is to tell great stories and sell great stories because the world needs them, and in order to do so, she has reinvented herself over the years as the publishing industry has changed and evolved. She began her career as a reporter and since 2012 has been a Senior Agent and Content Strategist with Talcott Notch Literary Services. She has penned three books on writing, as well as a memoir. She is also the bestselling author of the Mercy Carr mystery series, the first installment of which, A Borrowing of Bones, was published in 2018, and nominated for the Mary Higgins Clark Award and named the Dogwise Book of the Year. Blind Search and The Hiding Place followed. Munier credits the hero dogs of Mission K9 Rescue, along with her own rescue dogs and her love of her New England home as inspiration for her stories. In fact, the rescue of a young boy with autism who got lost in the woods was the impetus for Blind Search. The Wedding Plot is the latest volume in the series.
Munier says she named her heroine “Mercy” because she loves “the so-called virtue names favored by the Quakers and I wanted her name to reflect her empathetic and compassionate nature.” She is a twenty-nine-year-old former soldier who served as a military police officer with the U.S. Army. She was wounded during her final deployment to Afghanistan. Martinez, her fiancé, who was also deployed, did not make it back. “Take care of my partner” were Martinez’s last words to her. So, Mercy came home to Vermont with Elvis, so named because he is, according to Munier, “the king of dogs,” and her research revealed that “many military working dogs are named after rock/country stars—Garth, Cash, Willie, etc.” He is a beautiful, highly intelligent, bomb-sniffing Malinois afflicted with PTSD. Together, they hike the remote Vermont wilderness, and perform freelance security and investigative work, often answering calls for help alongside U.S. Game Warden Troy Warner and his search and rescue Newfoundland, Susie Bear. Elvis never really goes off-duty, while Susie Bear is often playful and mischievous. Mercy has recently enrolled in a low-residency program through the University of New Hampshire to earn a degree in environmental science, although, in Munier’s capable hands, she will have no time to devote for her studies during the few days in June over which the story unfolds. “June is wedding season in Vermont, and weddings can be murder . . . ” Munier observes.
As The Wedding Plot opens, Mercy’s mother, Grace, has taken charge of the preparations for the lavish wedding of Mercy’s grandmother, Patience, a veterinarian. After the honeymoon, Claude, also a veterinarian with whom Patience has maintained a long-distance relationship for years, will finally relocate from Québec. The glamorous, multi-day event will be held at the tony Lady’s Slipper Inn, a three-hundred-acre luxury estate originally erected in 1794 and renovated by billionaire Daniel Feinberg, for whom Mercy works from time to time. The Inn is managed by Patience’s younger sister, Prudence, “the most sophisticated one in the family,” who previously managed a château in the South of France. But the Inn’s spa and well-being director, Bodhi St. George, has suddenly gone missing, jeopardizing the spa package Grace has arranged for the guests. Grace implores Mercy to travel to the Inn earlier than planned and lead yoga classes in Bodhi’s place.
But readers already know that Bodhi fled the Meeting House Creamery, where he rented a modest cottage from owner and proprietor, Annie Amidon. He encouraged Annie to install a security system, and even set up a goat cam for her that draws a large number of viewers, but at 3:00 a.m. he was awakened by the agitated bleating of Annie’s Alpine goats and knew it was time to leave. He took with him remnants of his old life, including a Glock and ammunition. But first, he called 911 to ensure the safety of Annie and her goats, and tossed his cell phone in the pasture, hoping it would not be discovered by “the guys gunning for him.”
Concluding that finding Bodhi might be easier than teaching yoga in his place, Mercy commences the search at the Creamery. Elvis alerts to the lockbox Bodhi left behind in which his gun was stored – which seems out of character for “a Dalai Lama guy,” as Annie describes him. Unclipping the lead from Elvis’s collar and commanding him to “search,” Mercy follows him to the barn where she finds his nose pointing to the rubber tip of a black-soled sneaker protruding from a pile of hay. In the stall, they discover a dead man with a pitchfork thrust into his chest. All it took was “one decisive plunge with considerable force behind it. A terrible way to die — but relatively quick.”
Thus begins a race to locate Bodhi St. George, immediately deemed a murder suspect by the local police, ascertain the dead man’s identity, and learn why he was murdered on Annie’s peaceful goat farm and creamery. The search unfolds against the backdrop of the upcoming nuptials and the expectations of Mercy’s family members, especially high-strung perfectionist Grace, who is determined that the glamorous and meticulously-planned celebration proceed without a blip. Mercy is scheduled to be a bridesmaid and her mother is also intent on transforming Mercy into a stylish one, complete with a hair makeover. Mercy could not possibly be less interested in her appearance when there is a murderer on the loose and a mystery to be solved.
Predictably, the yoga instructor’s name was not “Bodhi,” even though he “identified as a bodhisattva.” He makes his way to a storage unit where he retrieves his Harley-Davidson, burner phone, one of multiple passports bearing different names, and cash before proceeding on to a cheap motel and altering his appearance. He also sends a text message — to Kinney and Adler — as agreed. “102586” likely only has meaning for Red Sox fans like Bodhi and his buddies. He emerges from the motel room as Frank Hahn, having warned his pals that “the game was in play,” determined to find out who killed the man in the barn and why.
Mercy and Elvis are joined by Troy, whose divorce has just been finalized, and Susie Bear in a frantic search for a killer that needs to be wrapped up in time for Mercy to slip into that her bridesmaid dress with every hair in place to witness Patience and Claude pledge their love for each other. Of course, nothing goes smoothly. For one thing, the bumbling and arrogant local police attempt to thwart Mercy’s efforts, but she remains undaunted. Dead bodies begin piling up, and Mercy and Troy become the hunted, as well as the hunters. Munier plunges them into a harrowing vehicle chase through the Vermont hills in Troy’s beloved pickup. When Munier moves the action to the swanky Inn, danger follows and Elvis unearths old bones in the nearby woods. Given the Inn’s location and history, it becomes imperative to determine their age and whether they bear any connection to the current string of events that Munier skillfully reveals to be extremely complex and intertwined in very surprising ways.
Munier deftly incorporates family drama into the compelling mystery. Mercy’s pediatric oncologist brother, Nick, along with Duncan, her father, and Patience’s free-spirited youngest sister, Verity, all converge on the Inn. Claude’s brother, a Catholic priest known as Father Bernard, also arrives, as does Mercy’s great-uncle, Hugh, a retired colonel who helms a security agency and has been Bernard’s friend for more than forty years. Claude’s two sons, Florian and Marcel, are also in attendance, along with his nephew, Philippe. Family intrigue ensues, ranging from Grace’s consternation about Verity’s refusal to adhere to conventions about attire and decorum, to the corporate intrigue that plays out surrounding Toussaint, Inc., one of the largest dairy companies in North America, which happens to be owned by Claude’s family and operated by Philippe. He is repugnant and rumored to have ties to organized crime. Munier ingeniously intersperses several supporting characters and story threads in the plot that lead right back to the quaint Meeting House Creamery and Annie who, it turns out, produces world-class chevre cheese for which there is a huge black market.
Munier melds her surprisingly complex and creative mysteries with charming and often hilarious domestic complications, placing Mercy and Elvis at the center of all of it. Mercy is resilient, empowered, and dedicated, as well as exceedingly stubborn. She knows herself well and traverses her own path, but loves her family and her refusal to permit them or their concerns about the wedding from interfering in her mission is affectionate, even-handed, and often infused with compromises that make her cringe with annoyance. What begins as a search for a missing spa director quickly evolves into dangerous, sprawling mysteries involving numerous ancillary characters. Troy remains at her side throughout it all, supporting her efforts, yet intent upon ensuring her safety, as does the ever-faithful and always vigilant Elvis. It all plays out at a steadily accelerating pace as surprising developments and revelations take the tale in unexpected directions while the appointed time of the wedding draws closer. Grace grows more and more panicky as the prospect of the smoothly elegant ceremony she has meticulously planned dims, in part due to an impending storm. As the story careens toward a dramatic and shocking climax, Munier showcases her beloved Vermont. She transports readers from the state’s gently rolling hills to the Creamery and its cheese cellars, the Inn and its unique treehouse cottage, and the picturesque forty-acre Eshqua Bog, a nature preserve known for the wild orchids (lady’s slippers) for which the Inn was named that Patience so dearly loves.
Will there be a wedding? Finding out is an entertaining, engrossing, and delightful experience. Seemingly effortlessly, Munier combines charm and intrigue, family conflict and life-or-death decision-making, humorously genuine relationships, and murder into an absorbing story set in gorgeous locations that play an intricate role. She compassionately highlights the value of the work performed by dogs like Elvis and Susie Bear, as well as the real struggles of veterans like Mercy who, after serving with honor and integrity, find it difficult to assimilate back into their old lives because, for them, nothing will ever truly be the same again. She portrays a family whose quirky members get on each other’s nerves, but love each other unconditionally, and does it all in a credible, believable manner. It’s no wonder the Mercy Carr series has received so many accolades.
Munier says her goal for “every book is that readers reach ‘The End’ and feel good about the time they’ve spent with Mercy and Elvis, and look forward to spending more time with them in the future.” She has achieved her goal. After enjoying The Wedding Plot, readers who have not read the first three volumes will want to do so while they eagerly await publication of the next installment.
Excerpt from The Wedding Plot
Chapter One
A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person. ~~ Mignon McLaughlin
— Meeting House Creamery, Vermont —
The bleating began long before dawn. Bodhi St. George heard the mournful maah of the goats and wondered what was wrong. He shifted his weight on the futon where’d he fallen asleep reading Lion’s Roar and cursed as his shin banged the wooden frame. He rubbed his leg. He really needed to get a decent couch.
Three o’clock in the morning, according to his G-Shock watch, one of the few remaining remnants of his old life. Early, even for the Alpine goats, who were clearly agitated. He’d lived in the cottage here on the creamery long enough now to distinguish cries of hunger from those of happiness. This was the does’ shriek of distress.
He waited for the slamming slide of the barn door. That slam roused him every morning—his landlady, Annie, going out to feed and milk the herd.
No slam. More bleating. She must surely hear that racket.
Bodhi inhaled deeply and exhaled deeply as he lay there, just as he taught others to do to reduce stress, to dissipate anxiety, to dispel fear. It wasn’t working. He tried again. Trying to breathe through the tension that electrified his every pore. Imminent threat or PTSD, he didn’t know. But his body knew. Threat.
He listened, hard, for the sounds beyond the obstreperous blatting. A faint rustling rolled him off the futon onto his knees on the hardwood floor. Away from the south-facing windows, which looked out upon the barn and the main house and the pastures beyond.
It was probably nothing, but he couldn’t be sure. He was never sure. Paranoia or prescience? That was the question he asked himself every time. So far, he’d erred on the side of paranoia, but he knew that could change. Part of him believed that they were coming for him. That they were always coming for him.
He reached under the futon for the lockbox. In the box was the other remnant of his old life, the Glock he kept holstered on a belt with an ammo pouch holding two magazines, along with a couple of extra cartridges. Without looking he punched in the four-digit code on the digital keypad by rote and retrieved his weapon with his right hand, while he pulled his boots out from under the coffee table with his left hand.
Buckling the gun belt around his waist over his sweats, he tugged his boots onto his stockinged feet. Slapping the box shut, he kicked it back under the futon. He grabbed his backpack from the table, yanking it over his shoulders and slipping his cell and keys into the side pocket of his sweats. He crawled on his belly across the floor to the relative safety of the hallway.
There he rose to his feet, sprinting for the laundry room, where he could escape through the back door to the forest. Where he could reconnoiter until he figured out what the hell, if anything, was going on.
The woods encroached on the north side of the property, a couple hundred yards from where he stood at the edge of the door, surveilling the ground he had to traverse. The summer night sky was lit only by starlight and a slim crescent moon. The main house was dark; nothing had triggered the outside lights. He could barely make out the woven-wire fencing that surrounded the pastures. No sign of life, no sound except the continuous bleating.
A crumbling, dry stone wall ran from the driveway where his Jeep sat parked by the cottage right into the forest. His only cover. He hoped it was enough.
Bodhi bolted out of the house to the wall, hunkering down behind the stacked stones. The barn rocked with the wicked yodeling of the goats. He called 911, worried about Annie and her Alpines, and then tossed his cell over the woven-wire fencing and in the direction of the farm. The phone landed silently on the soft high grass of the pasture. He wondered who would find it first: the goats or the cops. He just hoped it wasn’t the guys gunning for him.
He waited just long enough to ensure that he was the only human out there in the dark, and then ran, crouched, alongside the old granite barrier that led right into the murky gloom of the woods. The summer canopy of fully leafed maples and sycamores and oaks blocked what little moonlight there was, and the ferns that crowded the forest floor made navigating the overgrown trail tricky in the dark. He huffed along for a few minutes, then turned to see if he could still make out the farm beyond the woods.
Nothing but the looming shadows of the trees.
If I can’t see them, they can’t see me, he thought, unzipping his backpack and retrieving his flashlight.
Bodhi switched it on and shone the light deeper into the forest. He started to run, the bleating of Annie’s goats ringing in his ears.
Chapter Two
If I had a flower for every time I thought of you . . . I could walk through my garden forever. ~~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson
“Houston, we have a problem.” Mercy Carr scratched the sweet spot between Elvis’s ears as she watched the shiny blue Volvo tear up her driveway. Split-spoke alloy-rimmed tires screeched, signaling the squalling to come. Hell hath no fury like her mother on a mission.
Mercy and the Malinois had been having a lovely time together on the porch. Her housemates Amy and baby Helena were still asleep, both having been up half the night, thanks to the indignities of teething.
So she and Elvis had this glorious morning all to themselves. Gazing out at the garden, breathing in the extraordinary scent of lilacs and lilies, irises and peonies, sage and salvia. A brief shower had washed the blooms at dawn, and their dewy petals glistened in the sun as she listened to silly love songs on her phone, luxuriating in the giddiness she felt whenever she allowed herself to think of a certain game warden. She indulged herself like this only when she was alone. The dog didn’t count. Elvis knew how to keep a secret.
Vermont in June. That was part of the problem. Between the weather and the weddings everyone went a little love crazy this time of year. Romance was in the air here now—and even those who were not romantic by nature could get swept up in the insane sentimentality of it all. Even her grandmother, who was getting married at midsummer and had in her engagement euphoria named Mercy’s mother Grace as matron of honor.
“It has to be Grace,” Patience told her. “You know she loves hosting events. And she is my eldest daughter.”
Mercy knew her grandmother was right. Certainly she had no gift for party planning, and her exacting mother was bound to take over one way or another, so why not let her handle the arrangements from the beginning.
This was why not. In her zeal to create the perfect wedding, her mother was driving the bride crazy. In desperation, Patience asked Mercy to help rein in Grace’s over-the-top plans. Mercy found herself caught in the middle of a wedding war where the opposing parties were willing to draw blood over such issues as church or resort, afternoon or evening, red velvet or chocolate.
Grace parked the car and got out, slamming the door. She stormed up the garden path, a wedding-planning warrior in a pink linen Chanel shift.
Looked like another minidrama was about to unfold. Mercy was not dressed for it. Her ultrachic mother had high fashion standards that her only daughter rarely managed to meet. At least her green tank and camo cargo pants were clean, but her curly red hair was its usual mess. She pulled a scrunchie from her pocket and tucked the tangle into a ponytail. That would have to do.
“Here comes Bridezilla,” she told Elvis. “And she’s not even the bride.”
Mercy stood up, and the shepherd followed suit. She wondered what the issue was this time, feeling sorry for whichever vendor had displeased her mother now. “What’s up?”
“Must something be up?” Grace stepped forward to air-kiss her on both cheeks. “Can’t I drop by to see my baby girl just to say hello?”
“Not with the wedding in four days.” Patience’s wedding was to be a wildly expensive three-day extravaganza taking place over a long weekend at the Lady’s Slipper Inn, a three-hundred-acre estate in the Upper Valley, a region known for its natural beauty, outdoor activities, and arts and cultural events. Mercy’s friend and occasional boss Daniel Feinberg had bought the run-down two-hundred-year-old Colonial, transforming it into a luxury getaway for the Town & Country crowd. The billionaire had hired her grandmother’s younger sister Prudence to run the place. Aunt Pru was the most sophisticated one in the family; she’d lived in Europe for decades, managing a château in the South of France, and everyone in the family was surprised that she’d ever leave Europe, even for Feinberg.
Grace frowned, abandoning all pretense of a casual visit. “I need you to go up there. Now.”
“I don’t understand.” Mercy sat back down again, Elvis still close to her side. “We’re all going up on Friday.”
“The director of spa and well-being is gone,” said Grace.
“The guy with the man bun?” Mercy had seen his picture on the brochure. Good-looking guy in great shape who was a big hit with the ladies, according to Aunt Pru.
“He’s a real draw for the resort.”
“What? Like the rest of the place isn’t enough?” Mercy knew that Feinberg never did anything halfway. The estate had its own private mountain and lake, putting greens and tennis courts, potager plots, farm-to-table cuisine, and twenty-thousand-bottle wine cellar.
Grace ignored her. “His name is Bodhi St. George. Massage therapist, yoga instructor, physical therapist, meditation teacher.”
“Life coach? Rolfer? Past lives regressor?” Mercy couldn’t help teasing her mother, as she always responded so badly.
“It’s a disaster. Peak season now, so there’s no one to take his place.”
“Do you really need him? It’s not like he’s the chef or anything.”
“Of course we need him. We’ve arranged a spa package for our guests.” Her mother paced up and down the porch in her matching Chanel slingbacks.
Mercy shrugged. “There are plenty of other things they can do.”
Her mother stopped in her tracks, thinking. “As in?”
“Swim, golf, badminton.”
At the word “badminton,” Grace blanched.
“Okay, okay, no badminton.” Mercy laughed. “What does Aunt Pru say?”
“She says everything will be fine. That at least one thing always goes wrong at every event and that she’ll take care of it.”
“And you don’t believe her.”
“You know how she is. All poise and self-possession. Who knows what she’s really thinking?”
Mercy nearly smiled. The same could be said for her mother, who took after her aunt Prudence far more than she did after her mother, Patience.
“This is supposed to be a very exclusive event at a very exclusive venue. The spa is a critical part of that.” Grace sniffed. “You could take his place.”
“What?”
“You can run the yoga classes. And give them some of that Thai massage you do.”
“Impossible.” Mercy looked away and counted to ten in German, French, and Spanish. Her way of tamping down the urge to say something she might regret. In English.
“It’s not like you have anything else to do.”
Wrong, thought Mercy. She did, in fact, have plenty to do, but nothing her mother would approve of. When she first came home from Afghanistan, she’d struggled to make the transition from military to civilian life, unsure of her next career move. In the meantime, she helped out her grandmother at her veterinary clinic and did freelance security and investigative work for Feinberg. Part of the gig economy, like everyone else in her generation. Not that her mother even had any idea what a “gig economy” was.
“You’re just sitting here. Doing nothing.”
What her mother didn’t know was that Mercy had enrolled in a low-residency program at the University of New Hampshire to earn a degree in environmental science. She’d been taking online classes in biology and wildlife management, inspired by the too-short life of Joey Colby. Colby was a scientist studying Vermont’s imperiled moose population when he was murdered while tracking a young calf. Mercy always put herself in the other person’s shoes when working a case, and in putting herself in Colby’s she’d found herself drawn to him and his work. His mission to protect the flora and fauna of his beloved Green Mountains was one that Mercy could embrace. She only hoped she’d be half as good as Colby was. It had been years since she’d gone to school, and the entire venture could prove an epic fail, so she didn’t tell anyone about it. Well, except for Elvis.
Grace clapped her hands to get her daughter’s attention, just like she’d done when Mercy was a child. “You are a certified yoga teacher, are you not?”
“That was a long time ago.” Mercy had studied yoga when she was a teenager, happily horrifying her parents by going off to the Berkshires to do her yoga teacher training one summer instead of doing the obligatory internship at the family law firm. Her grandmother paid her tuition, a generosity her parents had yet to forgive the poor woman for, especially since Mercy abandoned higher education for the Army not long afterward. Somehow her mother had surmised that all that alone time on the mat had convinced her daughter that she did not want to be a lawyer. Ever.
“Yoga is like riding a bicycle,” her mother said imperiously. “One never forgets.”
As if she’d ever done a down dog in her life, thought Mercy. Her mother did not approve of exercise, apart from the obligatory business meeting on the golf course. And meditation, well, that was for snowflakes, not serious people.
Grace regarded her daughter with her trademark cross-examination glare. “You still do yoga all the time.”
“That’s my own practice. I haven’t taught yoga in years.”
“That doesn’t matter. You have a natural authority.” Grace smiled the smile of a self-satisfied shark. “You get that from me.”
“I don’t think so, Mom,” said Mercy, with that natural authority of which her mother was so proud. Two could play this game.
Grace’s smile faded. “I’ve spent so much time creating the ideal destination wedding for my mother.” She blinked, suddenly seemingly close to tears.
Mercy stared at her. As manipulative as her mother could be, waterworks were not part of her arsenal. Grace never cried. She considered it a mark of weakness. Mercy was done for if her mother cried. “Please don’t cry.”
“I do not cry.” With a well-manicured hand, Grace wiped away the single tear that ran down her subtly rouged cheek.
“I know.” Mercy changed the subject. “What happened to the spa guy?”
“He just took off. No warning, no explanation, no nothing. Completely unprofessional. It’s enough to make me rethink the entire event. And the venue. Not the best hotel in the world, no matter what Forbes may say. Or Aunt Pru.” Grace was angry now, having made her usual swift transition from sad to mad.
Uh-oh, thought Mercy. Her grandmother and her mother and her aunt could come to blows if Grace changed the location in a fit of pique this close to the nuptials. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. You’ll figure something out.”
“Of course the most elegant solution would be to find him.” Grace sat down next to her in the other rocking chair and crossed her long tanned legs. Ready for battle.
Mercy considered this. Finding the guy might be easier than teaching wedding guests to stand on their heads. It would certainly be less stressful. Besides, she knew her mother would not move from that rocker until she agreed to go. “I suppose I could take a look around.”
Grace glided to her feet. “That’s my girl.” She leaned over to give Mercy a kiss on the top of her head. “If you leave within the hour, you’ll be there by noon.”
“Roger that,” said Mercy, without a trace of irony.
“Be sure to pack your bridesmaid dress, and enough suitable outfits for several days. I don’t think you’ll have time to come back before the wedding.”
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