All Mortal Flesh

  Sanctuary. What better place than a church?

  TWENTY-ONE

  Clare knew she was in trouble when attendance at the 7:30 A.M. Wednesday Eucharist doubled. Admittedly, only fourteen people showed up, but that was seven more than the usual group: one businessman on his way to work in Saratoga, one young mother who couldn’t make it on Sundays, and five retirees who had never warmed up to the modernized 1979 version of the Book of Common Prayer.

  Clare didn’t even recognize some of the people in the pews. That worried her. On the other hand, Elizabeth de Groot wasn’t among them. Praise God.

  Nathan Andernach, who was assisting her, finished the intercessions and glanced at her. She stepped forward. “Ye who do earnestly repent you of your sins,” she said, “and are in love and charity with your neighbors, and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God, and walking henceforth in His holy ways; Draw near with faith, and take this holy Sacrament to your comfort; and make your humble confession to Almighty God, devoutly kneeling.”

  The three people she didn’t know remained awkwardly standing for an extra beat as everyone else knelt. Clare waited for a moment to begin the General Confession.

  “Almighty God,” she said, and the others’ voices chimed in, “Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Maker of all things, Judge of all men; We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness . . .” For all that Clare preferred the simpler constructions and the more gender-neutral language of the modern Eucharist, she had always thought the Confession fell flat. “We are truly sorry and we humbly repent” sounded like an apology to a meter maid. The old Confession was written by men who knew what it felt like to have done bad things: “We do earnestly repent, and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; The remembrance of them is grievous unto us; The burden of them is intolerable.”

  Indeed.

  She pronounced absolution, focusing hard on the words to block out the voice in the back of her head that suggested she was hardly fit to be forgiving anyone’s sins. She gratefully lost herself in the ritual of the holy Eucharist: washing her hands and girding herself with a blessing; the white linen and the red book. Here, she never felt the sting of unworthiness. This was God’s miracle, not hers.

  Andernach, whose thin chest concealed a bell-like baritone, led them in their communion hymn. It was low-pitched and easy to sing, the tune a melancholy French carol from the seventeenth century. Clare, at the altar, did not sing but stood, head bowed, and listened to the grimly mystical text.

  “Let all mortal flesh keep silence,

  And with fear and trembling stand;

  Ponder nothing earthly-minded,

  For with blessing in his hand

  Christ our God to earth descendeth,

  Our full homage to demand.”

  Ten people came up to receive communion. Three did not. She and Nathan wrapped the service up quickly. She hadn’t told him yet that Elizabeth de Groot expected to take over his liturgical functions. Nathan had the fussy precision of a lifelong bachelor, but he was dedicated to his work at St. Alban’s, and she suspected it was one of the anchors of his life.

  She greeted people beside the narthex door, sheltered somewhat from the cold that billowed in whenever the great outer doors were opened. Her young mother and businessman dashed by with a hurried hello as always, but the retirees clustered around her, eyes shining with interest, to ask how she was. The new people hung at the edges, clearly dying to hear some juicy revelation but too bashful or well-mannered to come right out and ask her if her affair with the chief of police caused him to shoot his wife. Clare stuck resolutely to the weather and the upcoming spaghetti dinner fund-raiser, which, she realized, was probably going to be very well attended this month.

  Eventually, the retirees and the curiosity-seekers trickled out. A man about her own age had been dawdling along the south aisle, looking at the stained glass windows. He wore a heavy-duty parka over a coat and brightly striped shirt, and his loosely knotted tie had a picture of Snoopy on it. Not a lawyer, that was for sure.

  “Great place you have here,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “When was it built?”

  “Right around the Civil War. You’ll notice that the dedication names on that window you’re looking at have several death dates in the 1860s.”

  “Who’s the Roman soldier with the halo?”

  “That’s St. Alban, our patron. He was a centurion stationed in Britannia when he became a Christian. Legend has it, when the priest who converted him was sentenced to death, Alban switched clothes with him and died in his place.”

  “So. A soldier disguised as a priest.” He looked at her. “I hear that describes you.”

  “Ex-soldier. I used to fly helicopters, but that was a long time ago.” She smiled easily. “You doing a story on the church?”

  He grinned. “Am I that obvious?” He held out his hand. “Ben Beagle, from the Post-Star.”

  “Well, you have this slightly rumpled, Front Page kind of look going on.” She shook his hand, all the while thinking, Crap! What do I say? What do I do? She didn’t think that a word in the right ear, as Mrs. Marshall suggested, was going to do much good. On the other hand, looking at the reporter’s cheerful, intelligent face, she knew she couldn’t threaten him with a suit for slander. Or libel. Whatever.

  Then his name registered. There couldn’t be more than one Ben Beagle. “You do investigative stuff for the Post-Star, right? Didn’t you win an award?”

  He nodded, his cheeks pinkening. “Believe me, most of the day-to-day stuff is much less sexy. A few weeks ago the biggest story I had was a part-time farmer who lost a pig to somebody who decided to help himself to a Christmas ham right there in the sty.”

  She blinked. Every once in a while, she got a visceral reminder of exactly how rural her parish was. “I see your point. I guess Woodward and Bernstein didn’t get to investigate many hog butcherings.”

  He laughed. “No.” He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “I’m working on something much more significant this week. The death of Linda Van Alstyne. You’ve heard that she was killed.” It was not a question.

  “A terrible tragedy.” How had he known? She didn’t think the murder victim’s identity had been released to the press yet.

  Beagle was evidently a mind reader, because he tilted his head toward the other side of the church, where a woman sat hard against the stone of the north wall. “I was contacted by Debbie Wolecski, Mrs. Van Alstyne’s sister.”

  Clare had crashed a helo once. She had walked away from it—barely—but she had never forgotten the anxious accumulation of problems, blossoming into the realization that she was screwed. She had that same feeling now.

  “I don’t know if I can help you,” she said. “I only met Mrs. Van Alstyne a couple of times.”

  “But you do know her husband.”

  She decided to brazen it out. “Of course. Russ and I are good friends. We have lunch together almost every Wednesday at the Kreemy Kakes Diner, barring urgent police business or pastoral emergencies.”

  “According to Mrs. Van Alstyne’s sister, you two were more than just good friends.”

  Clare forced a small smile. “We live in a small town, and there are always people who are going to find it impossible to believe a man and a woman can be friends.” Lacking pockets in her alb, she slid her hands inside her sleeves and clenched her forearms. Her flesh was icy. “The chief of police and I have a lot of professional interests in common. We’re both trying to serve the well-being of the people of Millers Kill.”

  “So . . . does the chief also have regular meetings with the Presbyterian and Baptist ministers?”

  “Uh . . . I really don’t know,” she answered truthfully.

  “You know that two weeks before she died, Linda Van Alstyne asked her husband to leave their marital home.”

  Clare nodded.

  “According to Debbie Wolecski, that was because Russ
Van Alstyne told his wife that he was having an affair with you.”

  Clare closed her eyes for a moment. “Mr. Beagle—”

  “Call me Ben,” he said cheerfully.

  “Ben. I don’t know exactly what the chief said to his wife before or after their decision to separate, but I’m dead sure it wasn’t that we were having an affair. May I suggest that thirdhand quotes from a grief-stricken family member who was speaking to a woman struggling through a crisis point in her twenty-year marriage might not be the most reliable information in the world?”

  “So, you’re saying you and Russ Van Alstyne weren’t involved in a relationship?”

  God, she hated this. If she told the truth, she’d be throwing Russ to the wolves, and if she sidled around it, she’d be painting Linda Van Alstyne as a jealous, paranoid woman.

  That was it. She could tell the truth about not being able to tell the truth.

  “Anything I say at this point is going to reflect badly on Mrs. Van Alstyne and probably cause pain to her sister. I’m not going to do that.”

  He nodded. “How long have you been here at St. Alban’s?”

  “Uh.” She thought he’d keep pressing her about Russ. His switch to another topic threw her. “A little over two years.”

  “Where were you before this?”

  She snorted. “At seminary. And before that, in the army.”

  He grinned. “Interesting career choice.”

  “It kind of chose me.”

  “Hah. Right. Well, thanks for talking with me.” From the depths of his parka, a cell phone began to ring. “If I have any other questions, I’ll call you.”

  I’ll make sure I’m out, she thought. Beagle checked the number and half-turned away from her to take the call.

  She headed up the aisle toward the sacristy, eager to shed her alb and stole and get into her office, where there was at least an occasional wheeze of hot air from the vent. Something tickled in the back of her mind, something off, but it wasn’t until she was stripping the alb over her head that she realized: The woman who had been sitting near the north wall had disappeared. There was no way she could have gotten past Clare at the main entrance, which meant that she had to be back in the offices or in the parish hall.

  Maybe Linda Van Alstyne’s sister had to use the ladies’ room before leaving.

  Maybe the archbishop of Canterbury was going to come through the door to congratulate her on a job well done. Clare hung up the long white robe, checked herself in the sacristy mirror—hair still up in its usual knot, blouse buttons done up around her clerical collar, no obvious lint clinging to her long black skirt—and strode down the hall toward her office.

  She didn’t make it very far. Debbie Wolecski stood in the doorway, arms crossed, glaring at Clare. Linda Van Alstyne had been a beautiful woman, and her sister had traces of her looks in her large blue eyes and her delicate bone structure. But Debbie Wolecski’s features had been dried to hardtack by a lifetime of Florida sun, and the roundness that had softened her sister had been ruthlessly banished. Clare could see Wolecski’s collarbones slicing across the neckline of her skimpy sweater.

  “I want to talk to you,” the woman said.

  “All right.” Clare gestured toward the door. “Do you want to come into—”

  “My sister would be alive right now if it weren’t for you.”

  Clare gaped.

  “You ran around with her husband, and filled his head with lies about Linda, and then when push came to shove you gave him an ultimatum, didn’t you? You told him it was you or her.”

  Clare meant her response to be a measured I’m so sorry about your loss. Instead, she blurted out, “That’s not true!”

  “You must have brass balls to get up in front of a church and pretend to be all holy. You’re nothing but a cheap tramp home wrecker. You wanted my dear brother-in-law? Well, now you got him. Did you know he was a boozer? He used to drink himself into a stupor every night. And when he wasn’t drinking, he was off on deployment or on a case. Did he tell you that my sister had three miscarriages and he wasn’t there for a one of them?”

  Clare went pale.

  “Didn’t get into that during your romantic interludes, did he? Bet he didn’t tell you he left the army because he had a fucking breakdown and nearly got his whole platoon blown up, did he? Or that he dragged my sister back to this godforsaken hole because he was such a mama’s boy he couldn’t cut a real job in Phoenix?”

  It was like being battered by a howling wind, her breath snatched away, her eyes tearing.

  “What did you get? Flowers? Fancy dinners? Dirty weekends at expensive hotels? You know who bought that? My sister! Every penny he has comes from her, her work, what she got from our parents. I’ll see you in hell before I let either one of you touch it. In fact”—she stepped forward, jabbing a shiny acrylic nail at Clare’s chest—“I’m going to see to it that everyone knows what a slut you are. We’ll see who wants to come to your church once they hear—”

  “Shut up, Debbie.”

  Clare blinked. Russ stood in the doorway to the parish hall, his hands jammed so tightly into his parka pockets that she could see the outline of every knuckle.

  His sister-in-law sucked in her breath. “My God, it is true,” she said. “Linda isn’t even in the ground yet and you can’t keep away from your girlfriend.”

  Russ’s boots sounded heavy as he walked up the hallway. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I’m going to cut you some slack because you’re angry and upset.”

  “Angry? Upset?” Debbie stared at him, loathing written across her heavily made-up features. “You bastard. I’m going to see you strung up by the nuts for what you did to my sister.”

  “You can do what you want after I’ve caught whoever killed her. I don’t care.” Russ stepped toward her. In the narrow confines of the hall, he seemed to loom even larger than usual. “You got that? I don’t care.” His glance flickered toward Clare, so briefly she wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it. “I’ve already lost everything. You want to hang me up by the balls? Fine. I’ll hand you the rope. But first, tell me who Mr. Sandman is.”

  What the hell?

  “How did you know about that?” Debbie asked. “That’s private! Have you been reading her private mail?”

  “This is a goddam murder case, Debbie. There isn’t a single detail of Linda’s life that’s going to remain private by the time this thing is through. Who was she seeing? Tell me!”

  Clare was utterly lost.

  “I don’t know!” For the first time, Debbie sounded more defensive than angry.

  “Was it the same guy she was seeing after we moved back to Millers Kill?”

  Clare should have enjoyed the about-face as Debbie gasped and went pale beneath her tan, but she just felt sick. Sick for Russ, and for Linda’s sister, and for everyone who was going to be hurt by the corrosive secrets splashing out into the open.

  “Hey, guys.” There was a faint creak as the door to the church swung open. “What’s going on?” Ben Beagle ambled down the hall, his eyes bright. “Chief Van Alstyne?”

  “Who’s he?” Russ growled.

  Clare resisted clamping a hand over her eyes. This was getting to be like a bad French farce. “Ben Beagle,” she said. “Post-Star.”

  “I’m very sorry about your loss, Chief.” Beagle fished his notepad out of his pocket. “If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “No.”

  Russ’s expression would have sent most people scurrying for cover. Beagle smiled gently. “What brings you to St. Alban’s this morning?”

  There was a pause. Russ’s gaze darted between Clare and his sister-in-law. “I was looking for Debbie,” he said.

  Beagle’s sandy brows went up. “You knew she was here?”

  “I’m here as part of an ongoing murder investigation,” Russ said. He sounded as if he were chewing on rocks and spitting out
gravel. “I’m not making a statement to the press.”

  “Ben.” Debbie’s voice was thin. “Please. Will you excuse us for just a moment?”

  “You know, if I’m going to tell your sister’s story, I’m going to need to talk with Chief Van Alstyne.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with that. Please, Ben.”

  For the first time since Debbie lit into her, Clare felt sorry for the woman. Her voice shook, and Clare realized that beneath the vitriol and bravado, Linda’s sister was a hairsbreadth away from completely losing it.

  “O-kay. If that’s the way you want it.” The reporter snapped his notebook shut. “I’ll wait for you out by the cars.”

  Debbie nodded. The three of them watched in silence while Ben Beagle disappeared back through the church door. As soon as it swung shut behind him, Debbie turned to Russ. “You have to understand, it didn’t mean anything.” Her voice was low, urgent.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Look,” Clare said desperately, “I should go.”

  Russ caught her sleeve. “Stay. Please.”

  “You dragged her here where she didn’t know a soul and then left her alone in that moldy old farmhouse while you worked twelve hours a day. She got lonely!” Debbie shot a poisonous glance toward Clare. “At least she didn’t come yapping to you about true love. She kept it to herself and she got over it. She never forgot where her loyalties lay.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Some guy named Lyle. I don’t know his last name.”

  Clare stared at Russ. Oh, God, she thought. Not this. Please, not this.

  Russ swallowed. “Lyle,” he said. “From Millers Kill?”

  Debbie nodded. “She met him at the mayor’s Christmas party, the first year that you guys moved here.” She peered more closely at Russ. “You know him?”

  Russ nodded.

  Clare wanted to close her eyes. How many times could your heart break for someone?

  “I don’t know if he was the same guy she was e-mailing me about for the past few weeks. The Mr. Sandman guy. She was always pretty private, but she got extra quiet about what was going on after you dropped your love bomb on her. Probably worried about leaving a paper trail for the divorce lawyers.”