In the Bleak Midwinter (38 page)

The doorbell chimed. He headed for the kitchen to admit a snow-dusted Dr. Anne.

“My car’s blocking you in, so we’ll have to switch,” she said, unwinding an immense scarf from her neck. “How is she?”

“I’ve got her soaking in a tub of lukewarm water that I’ve been heating up gradually.” The doctor stared at him. The tips of his ears reddened. “I mean, her feet. She’s soaking her feet. In there.” He led Dr. Anne into the living room in time to see Clare standing wobbly-legged, clutching at the back of the sofa. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said, more loudly than he intended.

She grinned at him tensely. “I believe it’s called ‘walking.’ It’s all the rage of the over-one-year-old set. Hi, Dr. Anne.”

“Sit down, you damn fool woman.”

She straightened, releasing the sofa. The lines and planes of her face tightened. “I have things to do,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have to call Kristen, and Mrs. Fowler. And the deacons, to let them know I may not be able to celebrate seven
A.M.
Eucharist tomorrow morning.”

He reached over the sofa and wrapped his hand around her arm. “You don’t need to prove how tough you are. I already know. Clare, please. Sit down.”

She looked at him, then sat.

Dr. Anne dropped her medical bag on the sofa next to Clare. “As soon as I’ve checked you out, I’ll help you make those phone calls.” She glanced at Russ. “Anything in particular I need to watch out for?”

“You see anything, or hear anything that makes you feel uneasy, call the station. No, give me a call.” He scrawled his home number on the scratch pad next to the cordless phone base.

“I will, Chief. Let’s move those cars so you can get out.”

He looked down at Clare. She smiled crookedly. “Thank you. It seems inadequate, but thank you.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to get into any trouble until then, okay?”

“Okay.”

Dr. Anne waited while he pulled on his boots and coat. Outside, snow still fell furiously. His truck was already blanketed again. “I can’t thank you enough for coming to stay with her,” he said. “She’s so damn busy taking care of other people’s needs she completely ignores her own.”

Dr. Anne smiled knowingly. “Mmmm. Yes, I know the type.” She paused, one hip bumped against her car door. “Chief? I don’t mean to pry, but I heard Clare’s car was parked at the foot of your drive all night Wednesday.”

“What? That’s ridiculous! I mean, yeah, it was there, but that’s because it was snowing and I drove her home.”

Dr. Anne raised her hands placatingly. “I’m not trying to imply anything. I just wanted you to know that if I’ve heard talk, other people have too. It’s a small town.”

Russ hauled open his truck door. “Christ, isn’t that the truth. If folks are so interested in the whereabouts of Clare’s car, let’s hope somebody saw something that’ll tell us who wanted to dump it into a gorge. With her along for the ride.”

Clare looked out at her congregation as the last notes from the communion hymn faded and wondered if one of the people looking back at her wanted her dead. Alyson Shattham and her mother were in their usual spots, but the Fowlers, who usually sat nearby, were missing. As were the Burnses. Sterling Sumner was glaring at her again while Doctor Anne, who last night had argued strenuously against her celebrating the nine o’clock Eucharist, was frowning in concern.

Ronnie Allbright, her acolyte, turned a page in the huge presentation prayer book that lay propped open on the altar. Clare glanced at the text of the post-communion prayer and took a deep, slow breath, focusing on the clear channel of the words. “Almighty God,” she began, and the voice of the congregation joined her in a rumble, “We thank you for giving us the most precious body and blood of your son, Jesus Christ…” She knew the prayer like she knew the names of her family. It settled and centered her, so that when she raised her hands to bless the congregation, she could feel an honest surge of affection and support for them all.

Martin Burr attacked the organ, pumping out the opening strains of “On Jordan’s Bank the Baptist’s Cry.” The torchbearers and the crucifier assembled in front of the altar to begin the recessional. Clare glanced up from her hymnal just in time to see the inner vestibule door opening at the end of the church. Russ Van Alstyne slipped inside. Across the length of the nave, his eyes met hers.

The calm and centered feeling she had been nursing vaporized. She joined the recessional, last in line, inadvertently wincing at the ache that intensified every time she put a foot down. She kept her gaze fixed on the hymnal in order to remember a song she had known by heart since childhood. At the conclusion of the hymn, she stood for a beat too long, unable to dredge up the simple words to dismiss the congregation. She could see the back of Alyson Shattham’s hair, immaculate and shining. Finally she blurted out, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord, Alleluia, Alleluia,” and bolted toward the door while everyone else was still responding with their own Alleluias.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed at Russ.

“I’m going to talk to Alyson,” he said, bending down to keep his voice close to her ear. “What are you doing up and walking around? How do your feet feel?”

“They hurt. But not bad enough to miss the Eucharist. Why here?”

“Because I want her comfortable enough to talk, of course. You’d be amazed at how many people clam up and call for a lawyer when you haul ’em into the station for questioning.”

“The whole ‘separation of church and state’ thing doesn’t carry much weight for you, does it?”

“I think the church-as-sanctuary rule went out a few centuries ago.”

One of the ushers bumped past them. “Excuse me, Reverend, but I have to get these doors open.”

Clare and Russ stepped out of the way. Parishioners clad in bulky winter wools and chain-tread boots jostled each other on the way down the aisle. “I have to do the receiving line,” she said. “I want to be there when you talk to her.”

“I figured you would.”

She pasted on a pleasant expression, shaking hands, exclaiming over bits of news, thanking those who offered to volunteer for the Christmas preparations, all the while watching as Russ intercepted Alyson and her mother in their pew and spoke with them. Alyson shook her head. Russ jerked his thumb toward the door. Alyson said something to her mother, who fluttered her hands like a bird afraid to fly. Russ leaned forward. When he stepped back, both the Shatthams collected their things and followed him up the side aisle toward the parish hall.

Clare had no idea there were so many people in her congregation. She felt as if she had shaken five hundred hands and listened to at least that many comments about yesterday’s storm before the last of them left the vestibule and she could painfully stump her way up the aisle, through the hall, and into the meeting room.

This time, Russ was the one sitting with his back to the window. Brilliant sunshine from a sky swept clean by the storm glowed around him, partially obscuring his face. Alyson slouched in the chair opposite him, twisting a strand of hair around two fingers.

Clare shut the door against the hum of conversation and the clink of coffee cups coming from the parish hall. “Good morning, Alyson, Mrs. Shattham.”

“Reverend Clare,” Barbara Shattham said, “Chief Van Alstyne says he needs more information about the dead girl. And that we’ve been waiting for you?”

Russ rose and ceremoniously pulled out a chair. Clare cocked an eyebrow at him. “I know your feet must be hurting you after your ordeal last night,” he said.

“Ah.” She got it. “Yes, thank you.” She hobbled more obviously toward the table and sat down.

“Where’s your husband, Mrs. Shattham?”

She frowned. “At home. He’s not feeling well. He went cross country skiing yesterday and overdid it.”

Clare shot a glance at Russ, but his eyes never left Barbara Shattham’s face.

“Did you go with him?”

“It’s not a sport I enjoy.” She turned to Clare. “Reverend Fergusson—”

“Did he get home early or late?”

“What?”

“From skiing. Did Mr. Shattham get home early or late?”

“I don’t know! Early evening. Seven or eight o’clock. What’s this all about?”

Now Russ looked at Clare. She bit her lip, thinking. Could Mitch Shattham have been the man who attacked her? He was about the right height and size, inasmuch as she could tell from a bulky snowsuit. Just how much would he do for his little girl?

“Yesterday evening,” she turned toward the Shatthams, “there was a phone message waiting for me when I got back from Albany. I believe you knew I was going to Albany, Mrs. Shattham.”

Barbara Shattham blinked, then nodded.

“And you told Alyson about what had happened at the Fowlers. That I discovered Wes and Katie McWhorter had been dating.”

“Yes, I did. It concerned her, after all.”

Clare looked directly at Alyson. “But you weren’t surprised when your mother told you that Wes had had another girlfriend last year, were you? You already knew about him and Katie.”

Alyson’s fingers twitched at her hair. “No, I didn’t.” Sweet. Simple. A child who had never been called on cookie-stealing or missing homework.

“Katie has three roommates who have identified you from photographs as having visited her at the beginning of the school year.” Russ’s voice was calm. “Now, we can have them all come up for a live lineup—”

“A lineup? You mean as in arresting my daughter?”

Alyson’s mouth dropped open. Her hair fell from between her fingers.

“She could do the lineup voluntarily. Or, she could do it after we’ve arrested her.” He stared at the girl. “Or, she could tell us what she knows right here.”

“I didn’t do anything! Mummy, honestly, I didn’t hurt anyone!” Her blue eyes swam soft and liquid with tears.

“There, you see?” her mother began.

Russ rose from his seat. “Alyson Shattham, I’m placing you—”

Alyson squealed. Russ sank back into his seat, slowly. The girl glanced at Clare and dropped her eyes. “Okay, I did know Wes was hanging around with Katie. I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her, okay? I only went down to Albany to tell her to lay off because it was like, time for the school-year fling to be over.” She turned to her mother. “I mean, can you really see some chunky girl from Depot Street going with Wes to the Academy Ball? She was like, so wrong for him.”

Clare leaned into the table. “You didn’t know she was pregnant when you fought with her in Albany, did you?”

“God, no! That’s so gross!” She raised her eyebrows. “I think Katie must have done it on purpose. Like to get him to marry her. Or for the welfare money. You know what those girls are like.”

Clare opened her mouth but Russ stopped her with an upraised hand, shaking his head minutely.

“Why did you lie to us about not having seen Katie, Alyson?”

The girl glanced at her lap. Her shoulders twitched in what might have been a shrug. “I… um…”

“Where were you yesterday evening?”

“Huh?”

Mrs. Shattham frowned. “She was at home all afternoon and evening.”

“Did she receive any phone calls?”

“Are you kidding? Of course she did. If Mitch and I didn’t have our own line, we’d never be able to use the phone.”

Russ removed a small notepad from his chest pocket. “Can you give me her number, please?”

“Why?”

“It’ll make things go faster Monday morning when we contact the phone company for a record of all her outgoing calls.”

Clare watched Alyson. She had never seen anyone actually go white before. Barbara Shattham started to protest. Clare laid a hand over her arm, stilling her. “Last night,” she said, “a young woman claiming to be Kristen McWhorter called the church and left an urgent message for me to join her.” She looked steadily at Alyson. “This young woman left directions for me to drive. I’m not very familiar with this area yet, as you know, so it helps a lot if I have directions. These ones weren’t so good, however. They led to a washed-out road crossing a gorge. My car went in. I was fortunate—very fortunate—to walk away. My car was totaled.”

“Dear God,” Barbara Shattham said. “Are you suggesting my daughter had a hand in this? That’s outrageous.”

Alyson’s gaze darted between Clare and Russ.

“I was stranded on Tenant Mountain with no vehicle and no cold-weather gear,” Clare went on. “But that wasn’t the worst. The worst was when a man in a snowmobile suit began shooting at me.”

Everyone was silent for a moment. Russ clicked his pen and poised it over the notepad. “We can get a list of Alyson’s calls first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “We’ll be able to see right away if she called the church office yesterday.”

Barbara Shattham stood abruptly. “She’s not saying anything else until we see our attorney.”

Russ leaned back, crossing his arms. “Well, that’s certainly your right, ma’am. I was hoping we could sort things out right now, though.” He shifted, splaying his hands on the table. “Let me make my position clear. Katie McWhorter and her father are both dead. Your daughter was seen arguing with Katie, who was poaching on her territory with Wes Fowler. She has access to a four-wheel-drive vehicle, she was in town during both murders, and when Reverend Clare found out about Katie and Wes, I believe your daughter sent her off on a wild goose chase designed to get her killed.” He pinned Alyson with a level stare. “Either you give up a better suspect, Alyson, or I’ll arrest you on two counts of murder and one of attempted murder.”

The girl let out a nasal whine. “It wasn’t me!”

“Alyson, don’t—”

She swung her head violently, her perfect hair cascading everywhere. “I’m not going to jail for Wesley Fucking Fowler, Mother! Not after the way he’s blown me off!” She reached across the table toward Russ. “He sent me an e-mail yesterday afternoon. Asked me to call and say I was Kristen. He was all sweet, just like he used to be, you know? It was just, like, a joke, because the Reverend had been poking around. I didn’t know anyone was going to be hurt. I swear! I should have known he was yanking my chain. He’s been, like, thanks but no thanks ever since he started sneaking around with that bitch.”