“Mom’s an old lefty peacenik,” Russ explained. “A real tax-and-spend Democrat, just like you.”
“I heard that.” Russ’s mother appeared in the doorway, looking even more like a fireplug this time in baggy red shorts and a red T-shirt. She reached up and tugged her son’s ears, bringing his face down close enough to kiss. “Remember, my taxes pay your salary, sonny boy.”
“Then I want a raise. Mom, this is Clare Fergusson. Clare, this is my mom.”
Russ’s mother had a firm, no-nonsense handshake. Clare wasn’t surprised. “How do you do, Mrs. Van Alstyne.”
“Call me Margy.” She waved in the direction of Clare’s collar. “Now, what’s that? You a minister?”
“A priest. I’m the rector of St. Alban’s Episcopal Church in Millers Kill.”
“Well!” Margy Van Alstyne smiled, revealing teeth so uniform, they must have been dentures. “It’s about time! A woman priest. Are there many of you?”
“Quite a few, actually. The Episcopal church started ordaining women in 1976. When I graduated from seminary last year, close to half my class were women.”
“Don’t that beat all! You always want to be a priest? You look to be a few good years out of high school, if you know what I mean.”
“Mom…”
Clare suppressed a smile. “I just turned thirty-five. And no, my call came later, as it does for a lot of people. I was an army pilot before I went into the seminary.”
“So you worked for the war industry but came to your senses!” She darted a glance at her son. “What rank were you?”
“I was a captain when I resigned.”
“Ha!” Margy Van Alstyne’s elbow caught Russ in the solar plexus. “She outranks you, son! Finally, a woman who can boss you around!”
“Every woman in my life bosses me around,” he muttered, rubbing his stomach.
Clare started to laugh.
“You don’t do crafts, do you? Make little things with yarn and twigs? Sew a lot?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t know how to sew. I like to cook, though.”
“Cooking’s okay. I hate crafts. You can’t walk into a person’s house today without tripping over handwoven baskets and rag dolls covering up toilet paper or some such nonsense. I like you.” She turned to her son. “I like her.”
“I thought you would.”
“So what are you doing here? You just come out to introduce me to this nice young lady? Or you after something?”
“I’m after something. Did you ever meet Emil Dvorak, our medical examiner?” Margy shook her head. “He’s kind of a friend of mine. Last night, someone beat him up pretty bad. He was airlifted down to Albany.”
“Good Lord.” Margy pressed her fingers flat against her lips. “You catch who did it?”
“Not yet. I will.” Russ replied. Margy nodded. “Anyway, his, um, roommate went down with him, and they left behind two dogs. Clare’s helping them out by trying to find a place to board the beasts.” He crossed to the door and opened it. Bob and Gal, lying in the shade of one of the pines, looked up. Their tails began thumping as Clare and Margy walked out.
“I hate to impose,” Clare said. “When I told Paul I’d see to the dogs, I thought I’d simply have them boarded for a few days. But the kennel I spoke with said there’s no room because of the holiday weekend.” She couldn’t keep a pleading look off her face. “I’d keep them at the rectory with me, but I have an unfenced yard on a fairly busy street. They’d have to be indoors unless I was there. And I keep weird hours.”
“Well, don’t they look sweet.” Margy clapped her hands and the Berns rose, shook off pine needles and grass clippings, and trotted over. “Of course I’ll have ’em here. What are their names?”
“Gal and Bob. They’re Bernese mountain dogs.”
The dogs snuffled at Margy’s hands. “Bob? Who names a dog Bob?”
“That’s what I thought. I’ve got their bowls and toys and a sack of food in my trunk.”
“Russ can fetch those. Russell?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He held out his hand to Clare. “Keys?”
“Oh, it’s unlocked.”
He shook his head. “Of course. Of course it is.”
“He thinks I should be more careful about locking up the rectory and my car,” Clare explained as Russ toted the fifty-pound sack of dog chow into the backyard.
“He’s prob’ly right. He usually is about these things.”
“I know. I guess I just feel that if someone is desperate enough to steal what I might have, he needs it more than I do anyway.”
The dogs frisked around Russ, trying to snatch the toys out of his arms. He flung them into the backyard, and Bob and Gal fell onto the rubber bones and squeaky ducks with abandon. He dusted off his hands and returned to the stone steps. “I’m on duty, Mom, so I’d better be heading back. I’ll see you at the parade on Sunday. Got roped into driving the squad car again this year.” He looked at Clare. “You want to follow me into town?”
His mother grabbed his ears again and kissed him. “Don’t be a stranger, sweetie. And keep yourself safe! There’re a lot of crazies out on a holiday weekend.”
“Don’t I know it. Bye, Mom. Thanks.”
“Thank you so much for looking after the dogs, Mrs.—Margy. Please give me a call if you need me to sit them or take them for a while. I’m in the phone book.” She extended her hand, only to be pulled off balance by Mrs. Van Alstyne’s hug. “I don’t shake hands,” Margy said. “I like to give folks a squeeze.” The old woman felt plump and sturdy and smelled of Elizabeth Arden’s Blue Grass powder. “I’ll have Russ bring you up here for dinner sometime soon. You can cook.”
Clare laughed. “Okay, we’ll do that.”
As Clare slid behind the Shelby’s steering wheel, Margy disappeared around the back. She could hear a cacophony of joyous barking. “Your mom’s really something. Not quite what I expected.”
Russ leaned against the door of his cruiser, facing her. “Mom’s like the Spanish Inquisition in that old Monty Python skit.”
“ ‘Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!’ ” they both quoted. He laughed.
“I really am grateful to her. Now I can tell Paul the dogs are well taken care of.”
“You gonna call him?”
“I’m not sure how to reach him. I gave him my number and asked him to call me. Of course, I haven’t heard anything yet.”
“Well, the hospital should update me on the situation at some point. I’ll let you know what’s happening.”
“Why would the hospital…” He watched her as the answer came to her. “Oh. If Emil dies, it’ll be a murder investigation.” He jerked his chin in assent. She compressed her lips for a moment, and they both fell silent. Finally, she asked, “Do you have any leads?”
“Not any worth jack-all. We lifted prints but didn’t get any matches. Paint flakes that are the most common red used by Chevrolet. Our best bet right now is finding a red Chevy vehicle that’s recently gotten some damage. I’ve got Noble checking out all the area body shops and auto-parts stores this morning.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. It’s not like Law & Order—we don’t always find the bad guy before the second commercial.”
“Russ…” She paused. “What if Ron Handler was right? What if it is a hate crime?”
“I sure as hell hope it isn’t.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know the real difference between an ordinary assault, if I can call it that, and a hate crime? The ordinary perpetrator is beating up on an individual. He’s mad, he acts on his feelings, and then he’s done with it. The perp attacking a victim because of the group he’s in…” He sighed. “He might not stop until he’s run out of people to hate.”