I Shall Not Want

  “Please,” he added.

  She glanced around. Unfolded herself from the chair. “There are a lot of people we know here,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  “Yeah,” he agreed.

  “Are you sure you want to dance?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With me?”

  He grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

  She drained whatever she had been drinking. “Why, then, thank you, Chief Van Alstyne. I’d like that.” She turned and handed the empty paper cup to Parteger. “Hugh, will you excuse me?”

  He took her hand—and didn’t that feel weird, holding her hand in public—and led her to the dance floor. He didn’t recognize the opening bars until the bandleader began to sing There may be trouble ahead, and Clare laughed and he swung her into his arms.

  “Did you request this?” she asked.

  “Just coincidence.”

  “You don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “No, but I’m working on believing in fate.” He put a little cha-cha into it and she followed perfectly. The tiny white lights overhead made her skin glow.

  And while we still have the chance . . .

  “There are people looking at us,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is going to be all over town by lunchtime tomorrow,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, concentrating on moving them toward the less crowded edge of the floor. Her red skirt twirled around the front of his legs. He decided if she let Parteger do it—and slid his hand up her back. No bra. Lots of bare skin.

  Let’s face the music and dance.

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you want to eat me or something.”

  He smiled slowly. “I do.”

  She stumbled. He caught her and steadied her until she regained the rhythm.

  “You make me think of those great glazed doughnuts they have over at the Kreemie Kakes diner,” he went on.

  “I make you think of a doughnut?”

  He shrugged. “I am a cop.” The music segued into “Old Devil Moon” without missing a beat. “Anyway, you know when they have them straight out of the fryer? They’re all hot and the icing is just running off them?”

  Her cheeks and chest were flushing.

  “I love ’em like that. I like to lick the icing off, bit by bit, until it’s all over me”—She made a barely audible sound—“and then I wolf it down in great big bites.” He pulled her closer and she went, unresisting, until she was pressed against his chest, their thighs moving together in the steps of the dance. She turned her face up to him, her eyes dilated almost to black.

  Finally she said, “Mrs. Robinson, I think you’re trying to seduce me.”

  He laughed quietly. They swayed together. He ran his thumb along her jaw, where a piece of her hair clung. “Actually,” he said, “I’m doing all this talking because I’m scared that if I don’t, I’m going to start kissing you. First here”—he brushed his fingers over her lips—“then here”—he trailed down her neck, making her shiver—“then here”—he rubbed his hand over her collarbone and shoulder before sliding it down her back—“and from there, God only knows.”

  She swallowed. Inhaled. “Would you like to walk me back to the rectory?”

  Now it was his turn to breathe in. “I don’t think that’d be such a good idea. In fact, it’s probably not a good idea for me to be manhandling you on the dance floor like this.” It was like bench pressing his own body weight, but he managed to push her a few inches away and resume a stance that suggested dancing more than making love.

  “That’s very thoughtful and responsible of you,” she said. “Dammit all.”

  “I’m trying.”

  She looked at him, heavy-lidded, and brushed close to him. He could feel the heat rising off her body. “Is it hard for you?”

  He groaned and closed his eyes. “Okay, I deserved that.”

  “I could walk home by myself.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “All right. Mr. Madsen and Mrs. Marshall could escort me. He’s parked in the small lot behind the church.” Which was separated from the rectory’s driveway by a tall hedge of boxwood.

  “I’ll accept that.”

  “Where’s your truck?”

  “The lot on the corner of Elm.”

  “Why, that’s just two houses down from where I live. But conveniently out of sight of the neighbors.”

  “Uh-huh. Although somebody might notice if it’s still there at six o’clock in the morning.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “My, aren’t you the confident one. Are you forgetting my live-in duenna?”

  “I thought we could play three-hand pinochle.”

  She laughed. “Nobody really knows how to play pinochle.”

  “Okay, Scrabble.”

  The music ended and they broke apart to clap. She leaned toward him to be heard over the noise. “Double score for dirty words.”

  He smiled at her, helplessly. “God, I love you.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. “I better go tell poor Hugh good night.”

  He lassoed Mr. Madsen. “Clare’s leaving,” he explained, “and I don’t want her walking up to the rectory by herself. Could you and Mrs. Marshall go with her?”

  Mr. Madsen squinted toward where Clare and Parteger were talking. The Englishman didn’t look too happy. “I thought that young man was her escort.”

  Mrs. Marshall had to crane her neck to see. Parteger was gesturing toward Clare, toward the dance floor, toward heaven. Clare folded her arms and shook her head. Mrs. Marshall tsked. “Not anymore, I think. Come on, Norm, let’s rescue her.”

  Russ made a point of staying as far away from Clare as possible while still keeping himself in the public eye. He chatted with this person and that, listening to news about grandkids and vacations as if he were running for town office. In the background, he could hear a chorus of “Good night, Clare!” and “Thanks, Reverend!” Minutes later, he watched Parteger stride off toward the parking lot, head down, hands jammed in pockets. His BMW peeled out of the lot much faster than necessary. Russ hoped he would cool down before he hit Paul Urquhart’s speed trap on the Old Schuylerville Road.

  When the band leader announced the last song of the night, Russ slipped away. He walked straight to his truck and kept on going, to the back of the lot, where a tornado fence and straggly sumacs marked off the first house on the south end of Elm Street. The only streetlight was on the corner, at the front of the lot, so he disappeared into velvet dark, untraceable except for his footsteps, slapping on the pavement.

  He focused on that noise, and the thudding of his heart, and the warm dry air on his skin, and the smell of grass clippings and night jasmine. He didn’t want to think, because he was afraid he’d shoot himself in the foot if he did. He hadn’t done so well with thinking, these past months.

  Then he saw Clare’s house, just as it had been a month ago, one dim light in the living room and a glow coming from the kitchen door, and thinking became academic as all the blood rushed from his head into other places.

  He crossed the street, mounted the kitchen steps, smiled as she pulled the door open for him. Then he saw her face, pale and strained. “What is it?” he said. He looked past her. The place was a mess. The cabinet doors hung open and all the drawers were yanked out.

  “Amado’s gone,” she said, “and somebody’s torn apart my house.”

  III

  Nobody ever told you how messy fingerprint powder was. After the state police technician had photographed Clare’s closets gaping open and her clothing strewn across the floor, after she had unlocked the church for Lyle MacAuley and Kevin Flynn to search, after she had listened to Russ’s phone calls rousting Eric McCrea and Hadley Knox out of their beds and over to the McGeochs’ workers’ bunkhouse, after she had said good-bye to Russ—a stiff, grim farewell at the foot of her driveway, surrounded by officers strapping on their ta
c vests and checking weapons, already planning for the reception they would find when they knocked on the Christie brothers’ door—after all that, she shut her door against the world and tackled the fingerprint powder.

  A sudsy bucket and a couple of old T-shirt rags. The dust was everywhere because the mess was everywhere: kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath. First she had to stop to sweep up the various bits of broken glass, and then she had to keep trekking back to the sink to rinse the rags—no use streaking wet powder and grime over the picture frames, the banister, her jewelry box. Once she had the powder up, she could tackle the clothes and the books and the papers. Replace the recyclables in the bin. Restock the pantry shelves.

  She was wiping down her dresser top when she realized she had to strip her bed and wash her sheets; she had to do it right away, right now. She tugged and pulled and wrestled the linens off, and the blankets, too, and the quilt and the mattress pad as well, then lugged them downstairs to the alcove off the kitchen, stuffing them into the machine, stuffing and stuffing, unable to find the water temperature control because she couldn’t see the dials, stabbing at the button until she broke one of her already-short fingernails off at the quick, and then she couldn’t see anything because her eyes were full of tears.

  She crumpled to the floor, leaning against the cool white metal of the washing machine, crying and crying for Amado, who had trusted her to keep him safe. Crying for Russ, wearing his hard face and body armor. Crying for herself, foolish and pitiful because a few things were missing or broken. Like her heart. Like her life. And she didn’t know how to begin to clean up the mess.

  Someone was knocking at the door, a steady rat-tat-tat that sounded as if it must have been going on for a while. She lurched to her feet, grabbed a washcloth from the clean laundry teetering atop the dryer, and scrubbed her face with it.

  She went to the kitchen door and looked out. Elizabeth de Groot. Oh, God. Just what she needed. She unlocked the door.

  “I came over as soon as I heard,” Elizabeth said, barging through the door. She looked around the kitchen, wide-eyed. “Good heavens. This is awful. You poor thing.” She turned toward Clare. “You’re all right, aren’t you?” She swept Clare with an appraising glance, taking in her crumpled dress, which now seemed indecently bare, given the hour and the events. “I mean, he wasn’t still here when you got in, was he? He didn’t. . . .” Elizabeth let her voice trail off, suggesting A Fate Worse Than Death.

  “I’m fine,” Clare said. “Whoever did this was gone before I arrived.”

  Elizabeth stripped off her windbreaker and hung it over a chair back. “What do you mean, ‘Whoever did this’? There were two police cars over at the old Peterson place looking for Amado Esfuentes. That’s how I found out what happened.” She shook her head, then began picking cans up off the floor. “Where do these go?”

  “Elizabeth.” She had to take control of the situation right now or God knows what rumors would be whipping around town. “The police are looking for Amado because he could be a victim. They think he may have been taken by the—by whoever killed those other men.”

  Elizabeth stacked the cans on the counter and bent to retrieve two more. “That’s what that nice officer I spoke with said. But he also said Amado might be the murderer.” She straightened and glanced around the kitchen. “Seeing this mess, I can believe it. Was anything stolen?”

  “Fifty bucks. The MP-Three player I use when I run. A few pieces of jewelry. Nothing of much value.”

  “Ah.” Elizabeth put the cans on the counter. “Easy to drop in his pocket and walk away with. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wrecked this place because he was angry you didn’t have any more. Thank God he didn’t go for the communion silver.” She looked at Clare. “He didn’t, did he?”

  Clare shook her head. “I was over there earlier with Deputy Chief MacAuley. Nothing’s missing. And I reprogrammed the alarm system,” she said, cutting off the question forming in the deacon’s eyes. “I left a sticky note on the front and back doors, so, hopefully, no one will try to get in tomorrow before me.” She resisted the urge to sit at the kitchen table and bury her face in her hands. “I’ll have to think of some way to let everyone know.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. I made a few phone calls while I was driving over. To the vestry and the wardens. I asked them to let others know. Sort of an informal phone tree.”

  “You did what?” This time, she didn’t resist. She needed a chair to support her. “Good God, Elizabeth. Next thing you’ll tell me you’ve already informed the bishop.” There was no answer from the deacon. Clare raised her head and glared at the other woman. “Elizabeth? Tell me you haven’t spoken to the bishop.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s ten thirty at night. I wouldn’t pester the bishop at this hour.”

  “Good, because—”

  “I left a message with his chancellor. And with Deacon Aberforth, of course. You ought to call him, by the way. He was very concerned about your well-being.”

  Clare wanted to knock her head against the wall. No, she wanted to knock Elizabeth’s head against the wall. “There was absolutely no need—” she began, but Elizabeth cut her off.

  “The bishop isn’t just our superior, Clare, he’s our pastor as well. Wouldn’t you want to know if one of your flock had been assaulted and vandalized?”

  “I wasn’t assaulted!”

  “You were a month ago. That Amado Esfuentes was neck deep in it then, and instead of letting the police handle it, you brought him into the rectory. Lord knows, I’d never say ‘I told you so’—”

  Oh, yeah?

  “—but these things do happen to you, Clare, and it’s because you simply don’t think before you act.”

  Clare opened her mouth to argue, then thought of the dance. Russ, and the music, and the warm night air, and the words. Walk me back to the rectory. She hadn’t exactly been thinking then, had she?

  “Clare.” Elizabeth sat down opposite her. “I’m not here to be right. I’m here to help you get it right.” She patted Clare’s hand. “Don’t look so glum. I know you’re trying to keep your promise to the bishop. He’s not going to blame you for this bit of nastiness.” She stood up and faced the kitchen, hands on hips. “Now, let’s tackle this—”

  The door swung open. “Clare?” Anne Vining-Ellis tumbled in. “Oh, thank God, you’re okay. Mrs. Marshall just called me and told me what happened.” Clare stood to greet her and was almost knocked down by a bear hug. “Elizabeth, are you taking her home?”

  The deacon looked surprised. “Well . . . no. I’m here to help put the rectory to rights.”

  “What, tonight? To hell with cleaning up. Clare, go get your pj’s and a change of clothing. You’re coming to my place.” Dr. Anne sounded every inch the emergency room physician, snapping out orders and making split-second decisions.

  Clare hadn’t thought of leaving, hadn’t been thinking of anything except putting the pieces of her life back together, but the idea, the freedom of simply walking away for a while, stunned her. “Really?” Then she remembered. “I can’t. After morning Eucharist tomorrow, I’ve got to go down to Fort Dix for National Guard training. I won’t be back until Tuesday evening, and I can’t stand the idea of coming back to this disaster.”

  “You won’t. Karen Burns is already organizing a crew to take care of everything tomorrow. Tonight, you’re going to come home to where my large and thuggish sons can protect you, put your feet up, and have a good stiff drink. I’m sure Elizabeth will take tomorrow morning’s service for you.”

  “Well.” Elizabeth looked doubtful. “It’d have to be Morning Prayer instead of Morning Eucharist—”

  “Perfect. It’s settled, then. Elizabeth”—Dr. Anne slung her arm over the deacon’s shoulders—“however in the world did we get along before you came to St. Alban’s?”

  It took Clare five minutes to throw her things into a duffel and get back downstairs. In that time, Dr. Anne had gotten Elizabeth de Groot back into her
windbreaker and was easing her out the door, slathering the deacon with comfort and praise and appreciation like it was so much melted butter. “Night-night, Elizabeth,” Dr. Anne called out the kitchen door. “See you tomorrow!” She shut the door. Turned toward Clare.

  “Thank you,” Clare said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Lacey Marshall told me she was headed for your house. I figured I’d better get over as fast as I could to prevent the murder-suicide.”

  Clare laughed shakily.

  “C’mon. I meant it about the drink.” She opened the door again. “I heard Russ Van Alstyne was practically necking with you at the dance tonight, and I want all the juicy details.”

  IV

  Kevin started to worry when he heard the dogs.

  It had been exciting, getting the call from the deputy chief, everybody pulled back on duty, digging the tac vests out of the trunk of his squad car. He was sorry Reverend Fergusson had been upset and that her place was trashed, of course he was, but—tac vests! The chief had commandeered both his cruiser and the second vest, and, with Kevin riding shotgun and MacAuley and Noble right behind, headed out to the Christie farm in Cossayuharie.

  In daylight, they could see the place from Seven Mile Road, but to reach it they had to go across a narrow side road and then up a rutted dirt lane. A gate barred the way, a metal pole-crosspole fastened to a sturdy-looking fence that ran off into the darkness in either direction.

  “What’s that for?” the chief asked.

  “They raise sheep,” Kevin reminded him.

  “And they roam all the way down here? Huh. Open that thing for me, Kevin.”

  He sprang out of the car. And that’s when things started to go to hell. He had taken one step toward the gate when two pole-mounted motion-sensor lights blazed on, flooding the lane and its surroundings, spotlighting him like a Friday-night quarterback.

  Then he heard the dogs; a full-throated baying, as if a pack of hellhounds had been set loose up by the house.

  And they were headed for him.

  “Kevin,” the chief shouted, but he didn’t wait to be ordered back into the car. He pounded toward the latch, popped it free, and pushed the top rail as hard as he could. It fetched up against something, jarring his arms, making him stumble back.