“Or clubbed to death with a nine-iron . . .”
“Or strangled with a shetland sweater from Talbots . . .” They both laughed. Clare smiled at him. “I’m really glad you came over.” She pushed her hair back with one hand. “Finding her has been weighing on my mind all day, but there was no one I could talk with about it.”
Russ removed his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt. “Yeah. You need to talk to someone who’s been there. That’s why cops tend to go off-duty straight to the nearest bar instead of going home. It’s not any different than coming off patrol someplace, you and your buddies getting together to drink too much and tell lousy jokes and talk about what happened over and over again.”
“Because nobody else will understand.”
“Yeah.” They looked at each other in agreement, then she turned to the fire. He rolled the mug between his palms, watching the play of firelight over the many textures in the room. They sat for awhile, the fire hissing and popping occasionally, comfortable with not talking. Russ finished off his coffee and smiled to himself. It was so many years since he had made a new friend, he’d forgotten how enjoyable it could be, getting to know someone whose mind was both fresh and familiar.
“What?” Clare asked.
He hadn’t realized he had been smiling at her. “Oh, just that you remind me of myself. Cops and priests have a lot in common, don’t you think? Confessions, sin, helping folks no one else wants to help . . .”
“Funny uniforms, working odd hours, lousy pay . . .”
He grinned. “Laughing at things no one else could laugh at . . .”
“Heck,” she said, “it’s just like the army, except without free medical coverage.”
Russ groaned and pulled himself out of his chair. “Speaking of odd hours, I’d better head home before Linda decides I’m out on a call and puts my dinner back in the freezer.” He glanced at the fire, burning bright and clean. “Make sure you bank that fire before you go to bed. You don’t want to have the volunteer fire department out here in the middle of the night.”
“I promise.” Clare got up and headed for the foyer. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow at church?”
He snorted. “Maybe not for the whole service. That might blow a gasket on this old unbeliever.” She handed him his parka. “What’s the best way to make sure everyone has the chance to look at the photos?”
“Hmmm. If you station an officer near the main door of the church, and you take the parish hall, we should be able to ensure anyone who wants to help out will be able to get ahold of a picture.” She looked up at him while he shrugged on his coat. “Can we try to keep this as low-key as possible? There will be little kids there, you realize.”
Russ paused from tugging on his heavy boots. “I realize that. I’ll take care to be as unobtrusive as possible. I promise.”
“Just promise me you’ll look into every possibility, and not just focus on the Burnses.” She touched his arm briefly. “As far as we know, the last thing she wanted in life was for her baby to be settled with them. I’d really like to see that happen.”
“I promise I’ll conduct a thorough investigation. Don’t worry, my own theory won’t stop me from chasing down any other leads. It’s not so much that I want to nail Geoff Burns, Clare, it’s that I want to catch whoever did this. Do you realize that if I’d started Friday night’s patrol at the kill instead of ending up there, that girl would be alive today?” He kept his eyes on his gloves as he pulled them over his hands.
She rested her hand on his arm again, saying nothing, looking at him with those clear, bright eyes. They were more brown than green tonight. He shook his head sharply.
“Oh, shit, I know I can’t stop bad things from happening. But I don’t have to like it. Excuse my French. This is my town. My home, where I grew up. They could have hired anybody to do my job, but they gave it to me, and sometimes I get the feeling, Clare, I tell you, like when I first held my sister’s newborn, like I had been given something amazing and valuable, and it was up to me to guard her and protect her.” He let out his breath explosively. “Am I making any sense at all?”
Clare nodded. “Yes.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I’m not the sort to usually get melodramatic.”
She shook her head. “Telling the truth isn’t melodramatic. And I certainly don’t think taking your responsibilities seriously is melodramatic.” She smiled up at him, a small, thoughtful smile. “Sounds to me like you have a vocation, Russ. You’re called to your profession.”
“Huh.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “If that’s a calling, it’s a damned uncomfortable feeling.”
“It can be, at times. Other times, it carries you on like nothing else in the world, because you’re doing what you know you’re meant to do.”
He grinned at her. “Are you going to bring God into it, now?”
She crossed her arms. “No, you’ll have to wait for tomorrow for that. And don’t forget something for the collection plate.”
He laughed. “I’ll be there.” He held his hand out, and she shook it in her firm, no-nonsense way. “See you in church, Reverend.”
“Police work in the parish hall. It should make for an interesting Sunday.”
CHAPTER 7
Waiting her turn to recess down the center aisle behind the choir, Clare inspected the crowd, taking the emotional temperature of her flock. The Right Reverend Malcom Steptoe, one of her teachers, had pounded in the importance of seeing the congregation as a whole. “You’ll meet with individuals and small groups all the time,” he would say. “Once a week, you have a chance to see the whole family of communicants together. Are they peaceable? Satisfied? Discontent? Angry? You must know!”
Right now, at the end of the Eucharist, several of her family looked entirely disapproving. It wasn’t from her homily on Cody, she knew. That had been a tight piece of writing, comparing the baby to the infant Jesus, and his waiting for a family to the Christian waiting for the advent of Christ on Earth. It segued nicely into her plea for help for the Burnses. And it was under fifteen minutes long, always a plus for a sermon.
The last of the choir crossed the chancel. Nathan Andernach, the deacon, lined up shoulder to shoulder with Sabrina Campbell, today’s reader, and Clare took her place at the end of the line. “The king shall come when morning dawns,” the choir and congregation thundered, “and earth’s dark night is past.” The three trod slowly down the steps, past the altar rail, into the aisle. “O haste the rising of that morn, the day that aye shall last.” From her unquestioned place in the front pew, Mrs. Marshall gave Clare a look that said, “This is not the way we do, things, young lady.”
No, this was definitely about the two police officers in the back of the church. During announcements, in between calls for donations to the soup kitchen and volunteers for the Christmas Eve greening of the church, she had outlined the situation as briefly as possible and asked for everyone’s cooperation with Chief Van Alstyne, who had risen from his seat in the last pew and nodded soberly to the crowd. There had been a buzz of conversation, cut short by the offertory and the celebration of the Eucharist. “And let the endless bliss begin, by weary saints foretold,” the congregation sang. Sterling Sumner tugged the end of his scarf around his throat and glared at her as she marched past his pew. “When right shall triumph over wrong, and truth shall be extolled.” Vaughn Fowler was scanning the congregation, frowning slightly. Probably picking out who was going to be most disturbed by looking at pictures of a dead body.
The choir fanned out in two lines against the back of the church. “The king shall come when morning dawns, and light and beauty brings.” Their harmony soared above the congregation’s melody. Russ Van Alstyne was singing along, his finger tracing across the hymnal, following the words. Now that was a surprise. Nice baritone too, from what she could hear with the choir reverberating only a few feet away. “Hail, Christ the Lord! Thy people pray, come quickly, King of kings.”