“There wasn’t going to be any divorce,” Russ said from very far away.
Debbie shot him a look. “The only thing I can tell you is that he was making big time after your announcement. And that she knew him from work.”
“Work,” Russ said. “She didn’t say her work, did she?”
“I . . . I guess not.” Debbie’s face wavered between pain and hopefulness. “Do you think he might be a suspect? This Lyle guy?”
Russ didn’t say anything for a long moment. Clare wrapped her hand around his arm and squeezed hard. To hell with what Debbie thought.
“I don’t know,” Russ whispered. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
TWENTY-TWO
Clare showed Debbie Wolecski the way out. Or, to be more precise, the two of them stalked to the church door like cats refusing to yield territory, rigidly apart, unhappily together.
“This isn’t over,” Debbie said at the door.
“I didn’t think it was.” Clare had plumbed the depths of her priestly goodwill and discovered the bottom of it. She sounded like a bitch, and she didn’t care. She wished she could slam the narthex door on Debbie’s behind instead of watching it hiss gently and hydraulically into place.
Russ. Oh, God.
He was still standing in the corridor where she had left him, like a glaciated creature given the appearance of life because the ice all around was keeping him upright. Like the five-thousand-year-old Bronze Age man, found with flowers still fresh in his pouch. He, she had read recently, had been murdered. Betrayed, then left to the cold.
She had a flash of understanding, seeing Russ frozen there. If she let herself soften, if she held him and wept and sympathized as she wanted to, he would shatter. He would shatter, and she did not have the ability to put him back together again. She didn’t know if anyone did.
She swept her arm toward the door. “My office,” she said.
He stared, then lurched into life. She shut the door behind them, glancing at her watch. Nine o’clock. Lois would be arriving at any minute. She pointed to the sagging love seat. “Sit.” He did.
She crossed to her desk and unscrewed her Thermos of coffee. She poured him a mug and stirred in three spoonfuls of sugar from her private stash. “Why did you really come here?”
He accepted the coffee without batting an eyelash at the mug’s DEATH FROM THE SKY! logo. “I . . .” He patted one-handed at his pockets. “I need someplace to look at these.” He pulled out a handful of jewel cases and dropped them disinterestedly onto the sofa.
She picked one up. An unmarked CD. “What are they?”
“The contents of Linda’s computer. Most of it.”
“Why can’t you just take these to your office?”
He shook his head. It was the first unsolicited movement he had made since Debbie’s hateful revelation. “I can’t. The state police have sent in an investigator to take over the case. Right now, she wants to ‘talk to me.’ In the best-case scenario, that’ll mean pulling me off the case due to conflict of interest. In the worst-case scenario, she could detain me.”
She didn’t have to ask what he’d be detained for. “How can the state police just come in and take over? Isn’t there something about jurisdiction?”
“They have jurisdiction. When the cops running the show are dirty.”
Stupid, stupid! She held her tongue. “What can I do to help?”
He waved a hand over the CDs. “Find me a quiet place with a computer.” He looked into his coffee cup. “I’m expecting a phone call from—a call about the vehicle the Tracey kid says he saw in the driveway. I’m going to try to follow up on that.”
“Use my office.”
He started to stand. “No, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” She pressed her hand against his shoulder and pushed him back onto the love seat. “I don’t have any counseling sessions today.” She swept her Day-Timer off the desk and pocketed her keys. “This room locks from the inside. The only people with keys are me and Mr. Hadley, the sexton.” She lifted her coat off the rack. “I’ll tell Lois I’ve turned off the heat and closed the door to save on oil.” She made a face. “Unfortunately, that’s all too believable.”
“Won’t somebody wonder why the door’s locked?”
She shrugged. “If anyone’s nosy enough to try it, they’ll think I’m worried about nosy people.” She felt a smile trying to tug at the side of her mouth. “Honi soit qui mal y pense.”
“Huh?” He sat up straighter.
“Shame to him who thinks evil.” The thought of what he had found out this morning wiped the incipient good humor off her face. “That’s not a bad philosophy to keep in mind, Russ. People don’t always know what they think they know.”
Lois was just taking her coat off in the main office. “Good lord, did you see the clouds out there?” The secretary followed the Weather Channel religiously. “We’re set for a big one. The National Weather Service is predicting it’ll start up this afternoon. Two to four inches.”
“That’s not bad.” No greater proof that Clare was becoming acclimatized to the Adirondacks. Two years ago, a forecast of two to four inches of snow would have paralyzed her.
“That’s just to start.” Lois dropped into her chair and switched on an all-talk AM station that gave detailed forecasts every twenty minutes.
Clare surprised herself by saying, “I’m going to make my home visits this morning.”
“Home visits! But it’s Wednesday.”
“So?”
“You always work on your sermon Wednesday morning.”
“I do?”
Lois gave her a look that said, You put the less in hopeless. “Yes, Clare. You do.”
A reason. She needed a reason that wasn’t I’m clearing out so Russ Van Alstyne can use my computer while laying low from the state police. “Well . . . I want to beat the weather.” The rationality of this caused her to smile proudly. “If we are due for a dump, I might not be able to make it around to the shut-ins for a few days. Better get them now.”
“What about your sermon?”
“Oh, I’ll wing it.”
“You’ll wing it?”
Clare grinned. “Jes’ joking. I’ll—” The sound of footsteps in the hall jerked her around.
Elizabeth de Groot entered, in an impeccably cut red wool coat with fur collar and cuffs. “Good morning, Lois,” she said. “Good morning, Reverend Fergusson.” Her alert and helpful look didn’t quite cover up the wariness left over from last night.
Clare stared at her as the idea dropped like the last ripe pear of the season into her palm. “I’ll ask Elizabeth.”
“Ask me what?”
“To deliver the sermon this Sunday.”
The deacon wrinkled her brow. “Me? This Sunday? Why?”
“Can you think of a better way to introduce yourself to the congregation?”
“Well—”
“You don’t have to preach on the readings, if you don’t want to. Make it something personal, something that will let us all get to know you.”
“That’s an idea.” Lois’s voice was carefully neutral.
“You think so?” Elizabeth brightened. “Okay. I’ll do it.” She shrugged out of her coat. “Lois, do we have another computer I can use?” She turned toward Clare. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you yesterday, but Lois is putting me up in the copy room.” The copy room was a smudge of a space off the main office, originally intended to house the bulky files and mimeograph machine that were standard office equipment when the parish hall was modernized. The file cabinets had long since been replaced by Lois’s hard drive, and the smelly mimeograph drum by a tabletop Canon.
“I’m moving the copier in here,” Lois said to Clare. “It’s not a lot of space, but we can fit a desk and a couple of chairs in there.” She narrowed her eyes at de Groot. “You’re going to need a computer.” Her long, thin fingers drummed in calculation. “Maybe I can work somebody for a donation. In the meantime, why don??
?t you use Clare’s? She’s going out on home visits.”
“No!”
Lois and Elizabeth stared. Clare had flung one hand forward, as if she were about to forcibly prevent the new deacon from leaving. She dropped her arm. “I mean, I want Elizabeth to accompany me on the home visits. It’ll give us a chance to talk.”
“Really?” Elizabeth beamed. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
Oh, God, she was such a dissembler. She was going straight to hell, no passing Go, no two hundred bucks. “Okay, I’ll get the traveling kit from the sacristy. I’ll drive, and you can get a sense of where people live. Lois, maybe you can rustle up a map and one of the parish directories—”
“I gave her one yesterday.” Lois said.
Of course. “Great,” Clare said. “Um, I’ve turned off the heat in my office and shut the door.”
Lois nodded. They were so used to penny-pinching, Clare’s statement was unremarkable. “See you later,” the secretary said. She was already turning up the latest weather news.
Clare had to pass her closed door twice, to retrieve the traveling kit—did she hear the sound of a computer booting up?—and to leave by the back way to collect her car.
She and Elizabeth paused on the parish hall steps. The clouds piling up along the edge of the mountains looked like a fleet of battleships, menacing their small town from an arctic sea. Lois was right. Of course, Lois was usually right. Something caught at the corner of her eye—a movement behind the diamond-paned windows of her office. “We’d better get going,” she said, steering Elizabeth toward the new Subaru. She was careful to keep herself between the deacon and the building. “I want to make sure we beat the snow.”
“It sure looks like a storm’s coming, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” Clare said. “It sure does.”
TWENTY-THREE
The morning visits went better than Clare had hoped, considering she had trapped herself voluntarily with the bishop’s watchdog. Elizabeth de Groot never asked her outright about her “I had an affair with him” statement last night, a fact that would have eased Clare more had she not been sure that de Groot would find someone else to pump for details. Terry McKellan? Geoff Burns? One of the vestry was bound to get an invitation from the new deacon to meet for lunch. A very informative lunch. Clare found herself counting votes in her head, calculating who on the parish’s governing board would be for her and who against. Which is why she wasn’t paying as much attention as she should when de Groot complimented her on her new car.
“So practical for the weather around here,” the deacon said. “I had heard you had some sort of sports car.”
Would Norm Madsen be in her camp? He was conservative, which argued against it. “You’re thinking of my Shelby Cobra,” she said. “It got blown up this past November.” On the other hand, he was sweet on Mrs. Marshall. She might sway him to the pro-Fergusson side.
“It got . . . blown up?”
Oops. “In a manner of speaking.”
Elizabeth looked at her strangely. “That must be a manner of speaking with which I’m unfamiliar.”
Clare wrenched her attention away from vestry vote-counting and diverted the conversation by giving de Groot a complete rundown on the shut-in parishioners they would be seeing.
Elizabeth was good in people’s homes, a little formal, but with a well-honed gift for asking questions about photos and mementos that encouraged conversation. Year-round, there were always a few shut-ins, but the number tripled in the winter months, when snow and ice kept many of her frailer parishioners off the sidewalks and away from the roads.
“Have you thought about volunteer transportation for some of these people?” Elizabeth asked after they had left one lively old lady’s house. “It sounds like Mrs. Dewitt would come on Sundays if she had a ride.”
“I’ve tried,” Clare said. “It hasn’t been too successful. You get, say, a younger couple to volunteer to pick somebody up. Then two weekends later they decide to go skiing instead of coming to church, and the arrangement tends to fall all to hell after that.”
“When it comes to volunteer jobs, I’ve found it’s not so much having a rota of names to call, as it is having one person responsible for riding herd over them. I could take on the task, if you’d like.”
“Really?” Clare hadn’t seriously thought of de Groot as an asset to St. Alban’s. She felt a little embarrassed by her oversight. “That would be great.”
“I want to be of use.” Elizabeth’s face was serene and serious. Clare wondered if the woman ever laughed or cracked a joke. “You’ve taken on an enormous job all by yourself, when you think of it.”
“I don’t really think of rectoring as an enormous job. And I’m certainly not alone.”
“Well . . . I was under the impression you haven’t made a lot of connections with your fellow ministers here in town.”
“Dr. McFeely and Reverend Inman are supportive enough, I guess. It’s just they’re both a good twenty, twenty-five years older than I am, so we don’t have a whole lot in common. We’ve gotten together at a few ecumenical events. They both like talking about their grandchildren. They have these little photo albums.”
“There are younger priests in the area in our own church. That fellow down in Schuylerville, and Philip Ballentine at Christ Church in Ballston Spa. You haven’t gotten the chance to make their acquaintance, have you?”
“I’ve met quite a few people at the diocesan convention. The work here in Millers Kill has kept me pretty close to home the rest of the year.”
“Then that’s something else I can do for you.” Elizabeth sounded pleased. “Free you up to be not just St. Alban’s priest but the diocese of Albany’s priest as well. You must miss the collegiality you knew in the seminary.”
“I guess so.”
“I knew it. There’s a get-together at Father Lee’s house in Saratoga this Friday. Evensong at Bethesda followed by potluck. Why don’t you let me cover for you that afternoon, and you can go.”
“Uh . . .” The last thing Clare wanted was a social obligation with a bunch of priests she barely knew. Recent events had rubbed her raw; the only thing she wanted to do on Friday night was make soup and curl up in front of a roaring fire in her living room. Alone. Or with one other person, her mind mocked. And if you’re alone, what’s to keep you from calling him and inviting him over? She realized de Groot was watching her. “That would be great,” she said.
“Wonderful.” Elizabeth touched her fingertips together. “I appreciate your willingness to hand over some of the reins to me. I realize you must be used to a pretty independent style of leadership. Anyone who headed up a helicopter crew during Desert Storm has to be more comfortable making important decisions on her own.”
“Not crew,” Clare said. “I’m a—I was a pilot.” Oh, what did it matter if de Groot got the names wrong? All at once, it occurred to her that the new deacon knew a great deal about her. As in, read her personnel file at the diocesan offices. What else might they have let de Groot be privy to, if she was to be Clare’s Virgil, guiding her safe through the circles of disobedience and inappropriate relationships? The evaluations from her teachers at VTS? The psychological profile from her discernment process? And what about this potluck she had been so deftly manipulated into? Was it going to be stocked with a carefully vetted array of line-toeing peers? Maybe a few unmarried men thrown in, for interest?
Would there even have been a potluck if she hadn’t just agreed to go?
No. No, no, no. She wasn’t going to make herself paranoid. This was her diocese, after all, the same people whose monthly newsletter had at least ten typos and who had never managed to get all the box-lunch orders right at the annual convention. Besides, she was one very junior priest. She wasn’t worth that much effort.
Right?
For the rest of the morning, Clare remained taciturn, listening closely to de Groot’s statements—she noticed they were framed as questions, but worded in such a way as to call
forth only one reply—before speaking. By the time they got back to St. Alban’s she was tense, jumpy, and more paranoid than she had been since her “capture” and “questioning” during SERE training, back in her army days.
Bless her heart, in the three hours they had been gone, Lois and Mr. Hadley had started the conversion of the copy room into de Groot’s office. The promised desk and chairs were in place, along with a small bookcase and a pair of lamps Clare recognized as white-sale donations. The copier now squatted in front of Lois’s desk, blockading Clare’s favorite spot to park herself when she and Lois conferred. Oh, well. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make. There was, of course, still no computer, but the sexton had drilled a hole through the baseboard and run a phone line in, connecting the new deacon to the wider world.
Clare left Elizabeth expressing her gratitude and hustled down the hall toward the sacristy. Her door, she saw, was still shut. Not that that meant anything. If Russ had left, he would have closed it behind him. She stashed her traveling kit and returned to the office. On the way, she tried her door handle.
It was locked.
“Lois, I’m going to hunker down and try to catch up with the paperwork,” she said, interrupting an exchange of office supplies.
Elizabeth’s eyes brightened. “Anything I can help with? Or should know about?” She shifted a box of envelopes and a rubber-banded bundle of pencils to one hand, indicating her readiness to tackle anything.
“No, no,” Clare waved away her suggestion. “It’s routine stuff I’ve let pile up. The best thing you can do is to get that homily out of the way. And . . . and . . .” She needed another task, in case the frighteningly competent deacon turned out to be someone who wrote her sermons in under an hour. “And Lois can give you the stewardship and capital campaign files. You’ll need those to get a clear picture of the parish.”