“You don’t need a blood test to get married in New York,” Russ snapped. “I know you don’t like doctors and hospitals, Clare, but if something’s wrong, you’ve got to tell me-” He faltered. He knew one reason she might need a blood test. His stomach sank. “You’re pregnant.”
“What? No! For God’s sake, I’m not pregnant.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw interested faces turning toward them in the nearby waiting room.
“We don’t do any pregnancy testing here.” The receptionist sounded worried, as if this were a failing for an orthopedist. “If you think you might be pregnant, and you’re due for X-rays, you should get confirmation first.”
“I don’t need a pregnancy test,” Clare hissed.
“Would you please page Dr. Stillman for me?” Russ said. If he could just get these women out of his and Clare’s faces for five seconds-
The scheduling clerk leaned against the counter. “Sir, engaged or no, you still don’t have the right to patient information from one of our doctors.”
“I’m here on police business,” Russ said, at the same time Clare said, “I’m not a patient. Trip is just doing me a favor.”
The receptionist put down her receiver. “He’s on his way.”
Russ wrapped a hand around Clare’s arm and dragged her to the middle of the lobby entrance, as far from the waiting patients and the staring staff members as possible. “Okay. You’re not pregnant. What’s going on?” Every other reason he could think of for a blood test was worse than pregnancy. “Are you getting screened for cancer?”
“What? Why would you think that?”
“Because your sister died of colorectal cancer.” Fear made his voice harsher than he intended. “That increases your risk of breast and ovarian cancer. And you hate seeing doctors. It would be just like you to hit up a friend for a favor if you were worried, instead of getting it checked out properly.”
“No. Oh, love, no. Honestly.”
“What is it, then?”
“Look.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to get into it right now, but I promise you, I’m not going to die, I’m not pregnant, and I’m not-” She paused.
“Not what?”
She jerked her head. Trip Stillman was crossing the waiting room toward them. “Chief Van Alstyne.” The doctor shook his hand. “Good to see you again. My receptionist said you have some questions for me?”
Russ gave Clare a look that said, We’re not done with this . “Yeah. I’m afraid we’re reopening the investigation into your sister’s death. New evidence has come to light-” He broke off at the sight of Trip Stillman’s face.
“My sister?”
Russ frowned. “Ellen Bain. I was told she was your sister.” Oh, hell. If Roxanne Lunt was wrong, he was going to look a complete fool. “If there’s been some mistake-”
“Yes. Yes. Ellen.” Stillman took several shaky breaths. His skin looked waxy.
“Trip? Are you all right?” Clare glanced toward the reception desk. “Do you need help?”
“No.” He cut her off with a sharp wave. “No. My sister is dead. She died this summer in a car accident.”
“That’s what we originally thought.” But we screwed up. Russ gritted his teeth and went on. “Evidence has been uncovered that strongly suggests her death wasn’t accidental, and there seems to be a tenuous connection to Tally McNabb’s theft of army property.”
“Wait-what?” Stillman lost his Madame Tussaud’s look. “Tally McNabb? From my therapy group?”
“That’s right.” Russ glanced around. They were out of earshot, but well within everyone’s line of vision. “Are you sure you don’t want to move this to your office?”
Stillman made an impatient gesture. “Tell me what the connection is.”
“Your sister’s car was sabotaged,” Clare said. “Both brake calipers were cut, which meant once she started down the mountain, she had no way to stop other than crashing her car.”
Russ nodded. If the MacVanes were right, it must have been done by somebody at the resort. Somebody good with engines. He pictured Lyle complaining about Wyler McNabb. Spent the afternoon working on his ATV. Kevin said he was trying to boost the performance so’s he could drive it faster.
Clare went on. “Three days after your sister died, Tally stepped into her job, giving her the ability to move or launder the large amounts of cash she and her husband stole in Iraq.”
Stillman blinked several times but didn’t comment.
“It’s possible-in theory-that the McNabbs may have gotten your sister to help them before she died,” Russ said. “Did Ms. Bain ever mention them?”
“I don’t”-Stillman swallowed-“remember.”
“Did she have any unaccounted-for funds when you settled her estate?”
Stillman spread his hands. “I don’t remember.”
Russ tried to tamp down his impatience. “I understand you’re holding her paperwork and records. I’d like your permission to take a look at them.”
“At Ellen’s paperwork.”
Russ glanced at Clare. “Yeah. Stuff Ellen Bain left behind that’s stored at your house.”
“All right. Let’s go.” Stillman dug into his pants pocket and came up with a business card and pen. He jotted down his address and handed it to Russ. “My address. I’ll meet you at my house.” Stillman pivoted and strode away without further farewell.
Russ pocketed the card. “Was that just me, or was he acting weird?”
“It’s not just you,” Clare said. She took her phone out of her skirt pocket and opened it.
“What are you doing?”
“Letting Will and Olivia know they should meet us at Trip’s house.”
“No. No, no, no. I’m grateful for their help, but this is police business now.”
She gave him a look.
“I mean it, Clare. This isn’t you and your buddies carrying Tally McNabb off the field anymore. We’re talking homicide.”
“I’ve been talking homicide the whole time. You’ve just started listening.” She held the phone up to her ear. “Hey, Will. It’s Reverend Clare.”
God. For the rest of his life. What was he setting himself up for?
She walked to the office door, listening to something the kid was telling her, and pushed it open. Looked back at him. Clamped her hand over the phone. “Well? Are you coming with me?”
He sighed. “All the way, darlin’. All the way.”
The Stillmans’ house was typical suburbiana, the sort of large and graceful home that fit in everywhere and was native to nowhere. The slim, leafless trees-some sort of ornamental fruit-were hung with tiny witches and black cats, and the entryway was festooned with cobwebs and orange lights. Two skeletons guarded the front door. Each of them had a large cast on one leg.
Clare parked behind a little green four-door with a SUNY GENESEO sticker in the rear window. As she was getting out of her Jeep, Russ’s squad car rolled into the drive, followed a minute later by Eric McCrea’s SUV.
“Do you need help?” she asked Will as he slid himself from the green car’s passenger seat. The curvaceous auburn-haired girl bracing his wheelchair looked up. “We’ve got it, thanks.”
“You must be Olivia.” Clare walked up and shook the girl’s hand. “I’m Clare Fergusson.”
Russ and Eric joined them, and Will, panting, but in his chair, introduced everyone.
“I want to thank you two for what you’ve uncovered.” Russ straightened, as if he were standing at attention. “And Miss Bain, I’d like to personally apologize, for myself and on behalf of my department, for not thoroughly investigating your mother’s car earlier.”
Behind them, a BMW nosed into the last available inch of the driveway. Trip Stillman got out, squinting in the sunlight.