The light at Main and Church turned red and he slammed on his brakes, throwing them both against their shoulder harnesses. The dogs barked and scrabbled against the seat for purchase. He twisted so he could look at her head-on. Her hazel eyes were glittering in the light from the dashboard and he could see patchy red spots high on her cheeks.
“Is that what you think? Is that what you really think?” His rage, which had been feeding on each exchange like a fire consuming logs, died out. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and compressed her lips. Her eyes shifted away from his. “It is,” he said, a part of him surprised at how much the realization hurt. “You think I’m responsible for Ingraham’s death.”
“No. I said he might have acted differently if…if he had been aware…” She sounded strange as she tried to backpedal. It wasn’t like her.
The light turned green, and he faced forward, his eyes fixed on the road. They traveled the length of Church Street in silence. He turned onto Elm and drove up the rectory drive, then put the car into park.
“Russ,” she said, “I didn’t mean it like that. Please.”
He popped the locks and got out. He released the grateful dogs, who tumbled over themselves exiting the back seat.
“Russ…”
He looked at her over the cruiser’s roof, thought about tossing off some line about cops always having critics, then found he couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy to playact with her. He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s been a long day. Just…never mind.”
Clare stood at the edge of the drive, looking at him, twisting the bottom of her sweatshirt. The dogs were already nosing at the front door, whining to be let in. He got back into the cruiser and started it up.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she blurted out. “Russ, please. I’m sorry….”
He waved a hand in acknowledgment as he pulled out of the drive. He could see her face as he drove down the street, a white oval in the darkness. The image stayed with him for a long time.
Chapter Twelve
When Clare opened her front door the next morning to let Bob and Gal out, the air was clear, the grass and leaves were sparkling in the sunlight, and she felt rotten. Guilty. Lower than a worm’s belly, as Grandmother Fergusson would have said. She leaned against one of the columns on the front porch, her hands thrust in the pockets of her seersucker robe, and tried to take some pleasure in the sight of two happy dogs sniffing out every corner of a perfect morning. But all she could envision was Russ’s face, changing from anger to pain as she fumbled and missed her one chance to take back her hurtful words.
Well, she had gotten what she wanted. She had taken a stand against homophobic violence and had raised the red flag against hate crimes. And all it had taken was eviscerating her best friend.
She walked barefoot down the steps and across the lawn to the newspaper box to retrieve Monday’s Post-Star. She took the paper back to the porch and sat on the steps, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it. She didn’t want to deal with murder, protests, arrests, real estate developments, and PCBs. Since when is Russ Van Alstyne my best friend? she wondered. It’s not like we go out bowling together or anything. Still, it rang true. She groaned and beat herself over the head a few times with the newspaper. It didn’t make her feel any better. She dropped it in her lap and bent forward, burying her face in her hands.
“God,” she said, “I believe you brought me here to Millers Kill for a reason. But so far, I mostly seem to be screwing up my own life. Please help me out here. I need to know what it is I’m supposed to be doing.”
Somewhere beyond the open double doors, the phone rang.
Clare raised her eyebrows and rose from her seat on the porch steps. In her experience, God didn’t respond to prayer with a phone call outlining His thoughts and expectations, but she was willing to keep an open mind. She tossed the newspaper on the sofa and went into the kitchen to pick up the phone.
“Hello, Reverend Fergusson? This is Peggy Landry.”
Clare couldn’t have been more surprised if it had been the Almighty. “Ms. Landry,” she said. “Um…how can I help you?”
“We haven’t met, but I believe you know my niece. Diana Berry? She’s getting married July Thirty-first.”
The whirl of speculation snapped firmly into place. Diana Berry and her fiancé, Cary—what? Wall? Ward? Wood, that was it. She remembered wondering how anyone could name a child Cary Wood. Diana had been in twice, once in February to reserve the church and once in April with her fiancé in tow for the first of the mandatory three counseling sessions. She had mentioned that her family was from the area.
“Yes, of course. I’ve met Diana and Cary. Although I haven’t seen either of them for quite some time.” In fact, the pair needed to get back in touch with her about the rest of their counseling if they wanted to tie the knot in her church.
“Diana lives in the city”—by this, Clare presumed she meant New York—“and her mother, my sister, lives over in Syracuse, so I’m helping out with organizing on this end. I’ve been running myself ragged lately with business, and I’m really falling behind on this wedding thing. But! Things have happened this weekend, and that’s why I’m calling you.”
Clare thought for a moment that Peggy was referring to Bill Ingraham’s death. She blinked. No. The jaunty tone, the brisk speech—Peggy Landry had no idea that the man who was developing her property had been bloodily murdered the night before. Good Lord. She clapped her hand over her mouth. Should she say something, or just let the woman rattle on?
“We always have a family get-together over the Fourth of July, and this year a bunch of people decided to stay on for a few days. I thought, What a perfect time to get all the last wedding details pinned down! So I was wondering if Diana and the florist and I could drop by the church sometime today to work on the floral design.”
“The floral design,” Clare echoed.
“Yes, well, evidently you can’t just order up flowers in vases and have someone set them here and there anymore. Nowadays, the florist wants to design the site, so we need to get her in to take a look.”
Clare weighed her options. Monday was her day off. Also Mr. Hadley’s day off, since the sexton worked all weekend, cleaning up before and after the services. She wouldn’t be able to pass the buck by having him open the church for Landry and company. She would have to be there herself. Talk with Peggy Landry. Find out more about Bill Ingraham.
“Of course, Ms. Landry. I’d be happy to meet you at the church and let you all in. When’s a good time for you?”
They agreed on ten o’clock. Clare decided not to use her two hours lead time to go running—she still felt yesterday’s race in the slight stiffness in her thighs—but instead dressed quickly and put in a call to Robert Corlew’s office. Corlew was a member of St. Alban’s vestry. He was also a prosperous local builder, whose work ran to small developments with names like Olde Mill Town Homes and the occasional strip mall. Clare figured he might have some information on Ingraham and the Landry property, seeing as how he was in the same business. He hadn’t arrived at his office yet, but she left him a message.
She let herself consider her sudden interest in Ingraham’s background while she was scrambling eggs and brewing coffee. After all, if she had been right last night when she cut Russ down, his murder was more or less random, the result of being the wrong man in the wrong place. Her time would be better spent organizing that march Russ had suggested. But as soon as Peggy Landry had identified herself, Clare had felt a powerful impulse to take a closer look at Ingraham. What had Russ said to her last night? “Your version of the truth”? There’s ‘I’m right’ and there’s ‘you’re right’ and there’s ‘what’s right’, her grandmother Fergusson had always said. You can’t have but one of them. Which one will it be? The only way she was ever going to be able to face Russ again was if she let go of “I’m right” and went looking for “what’s right.”