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.”
CHAPTER 27
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 torch-bearers and the crucifer 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.”