The squad car was freezing. He cursed the heater, cursed the weather, cursed the drive back to a dark and empty house. Why the hell had Linda gone on this fabric-buying trip anyway? He wanted her home. Only two more days. Then he’d feel better.
CHAPTER 19
Clare knew she ought to be more interested in the boiler. She flexed her chilly fingers together and glanced at the papers on the black oak table, listening for the telltale hiss and rattle of the radiators. She seemed to be the only one who noticed that the meeting room—the entire parish hall—never warmed up, so Robert Corlew’s projections on repairing the aging water heater ought to have her spellbound. Contractors, unfortunately, rarely made compelling speakers.
“—rests directly on blocks, so that the insulation can be applied—”
She needed to be getting more sleep. Through diamond-paned windows, she could see the front corner of St. Alban’s, its stone walls massed like a storm front against the wan December light. So little daylight on a Friday afternoon, she thought, already noon and only four more hours ’til sunset. A month or more until she could see longer days. She flexed her shoulders back, stretching the neckline of her thick wool sweater, causing her collar to tug against her throat. She turned her attention back to the table, where Vaughn Fowler was calling the vote.
“Aye,” she said, copying the rest of the votes. Had she just agreed to replacing the hot water heater with a nuclear powered furnace?
“All right, then, we’re agreed to hold off replacing Old Bessy until the replacement prices go down this summer.”
Serves you right, missy, she could hear her grandmother Fergusson say. If you’re cold, put on another sweater.
Terence McKellan and Mrs. Marshall pushed their high-backed chairs away from the table. “Before you go,” Clare said, “I’d like to update you on the Burnses’ situation. The letter-writing campaign is going very well, with lots of participation. The police have a strong lead on the identity of Cody’s father, and as soon as he’s identified, we’re going to try to persuade him to sign adoption papers naming the Burnses as parents.” At least she hoped someone would be able to get the paperwork in front of him before Russ hauled him off to jail. “With that in mind, I have some more facts and figures about the mother-and-baby outreach project that I intend to present at our next meeting.”
Sterling Sumner harrumphed, but the rest of the board managed at least polite expressions of interest. The meeting adjourned. Clare headed straight for the coffee machine. She poured herself a cup, yawning convulsively.
“Tired?” Terry McKellan grinned. His coat’s moulton collar, the same color as his moustache, made his fat, friendly face look like Mr. Badger in Wind in the Willows.
Clare nodded. “You’d think with sixteen hours of night, I’d be getting more sleep, wouldn’t you?”
He grinned. “Only if you’re not up on police business.”
Clare started. She hadn’t told anyone about chasing down Darrell McWhorter’s murder scene or questioning Kristen. “What? I’m sorry, I don’t . . . ?”
“I understand there was a cop car in your driveway last night.” He winked. “And your car was at the police chief’s all night Wednesday. Small town, Reverend Clare.”
She gaped. “Good heavens.” Gossip had simply never occured to her. Especially when the whole thing was so innocent.
McKellan grinned again, wiggling his badger-colored eyebrows for effect. “May be time to trade that MG of yours for something less conspicuious. Come to my bank, I’ll make sure you get a great rate on a loan.”
“Mr. McKellan! Chief Van Alstyne is a married man!”
“So?”
She sighed with exasperation. “He had been in an armed confrontation earlier that day. I was at his place Wednesday for counseling.” Stretch the truth too far, missy, and it’ll snap back to hit you in the nose, her grandmother said. She ignored the waspish voice. “It was snowing hard by the time I left, so he drove me home instead of me taking my car, which, as everyone keeps pointing out, is terrible in winter driving conditions.”
McKellan looked disappointed.
“Last night, he stopped by around dinner and I invited him to share a little stew with me while we discussed the Burnses and the baby.” It really had been entirely innocent. She had never done or said anything to Russ that she couldn’t have done or said in front of the entire vestry. So why did she feel like she was lying to Terry McKellan?
He squeezed her sweatered arm. “I’m suitably chastized. Next person I hear talking about it, I’ll set him straight.”
“Thank you.”
“You should still come in and see me about a car loan, though.”
In the parish office, Clare hitched one hip onto the unnaturally neat desk. “Lois, have you heard any gossip about—” she looked at the secretary’s disdainful expression. “Never mind.”
Lois tore off a pink memo slip and handed it to the priest. “Gossip.” She sniffed. “Never listen to it, never repeat it.”
Clare glanced at Lois’s Parker-penmanship writing. “The Department of Social Services? For me? How did—” she looked at the memo again, “—Ms. Dunkling sound?”
“Ms. Dunkling sounded just a tad put out.”
“Just a tad, huh? Guess that means the letter-writing campaign is having some effect.”
Lois lowered her reading glasses and raised her eyebrows. “Uh-huh.”
“No sense putting it off. Better beard the lion in her den. Lioness.” Clare reversed step in the hall and poked her head back through the door. “And can you speak to Mr. Hadley about getting some wood and kindling into my office? I don’t intend to shiver all winter long with a perfectly good fireplace just sitting there.”
She pretended to ignore the warning that floated down the hallway after her. “Winter hasn’t even begun yet, Reverend . . .”
The radiator was wheezing under its window in a respectable effort to take the chill off. Clare slipped her copy of Mr. Corlew’s report in the “Building Maintenance” file, which already took up an entire desk drawer and threatened to spill over into a cardboard filing box at any moment. She poured a cup of coffee from her thermos, grimaced at the taste, and abandoned it on the bookshelf cabinet. Her desk chair creaked and snapped as she sat down and reached for the phone. Waiting for Ms. Dunkling to come on the line, she flipped through her calendar. Infirmary visits. Music meeting. Stewardship committee. Marriage counseling. “Yes, hello. Angela Dunkling, please. Clare Fergusson.” She frowned and jotted down a note to call Kristen McWhorter about the funerals. “Ms. Dunkling? This is Clare Fergusson of St. Alban’s.”
“Yes, Ms. Fergusson. I called you about these letters I’ve been getting from your membership.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded nasal and inflectionless, like someone who had long ago memorized her speech and could recite it without thought or effort. “DSS is not an organization you can lobby, Ms. Fergusson. We have a legislative mandate to answer only to the best interests of the families we serve. Taking time out to read and answer a bunch of letters only results in less time and resources for our vital mission to protect the children of New York.”