A Fountain Filled With Blood

rounds in the morning. They were out back in the barn, herding hens. Now it’s time for a mid-morning snack; then they all retire to the music room for a nap. They all share one big basket.” He walked to the outside door.

Stephen’s deliberate high-pitched cheerfulness was the adult version of a kid clapping his hands over his ears, humming, and saying, “I can’t hear you!” Clare crossed her arms tightly and exhaled. Ron rolled his eyes and collected the three remaining mugs with a great deal of clattering. Russ opened his mouth, glanced at Clare, and snapped it shut.

“I ought to get going,” he said. “Thank you both for your cooperation. I’ll, uh, keep you updated.”

Clare took a deep, calming breath. “I didn’t even get a chance to tell you why I came,” she said to Stephen, who was body-blocking the two enormous Berns at the doorway while what looked like a walking carpet swarmed into the kitchen. “I was hoping you two could keep Gal and Bob here at the inn while Paul is in Albany.” It was awkward, talking about him as if he were away on a business trip, but she had a strong feeling Stephen didn’t want to be reminded of why the dogs were temporary orphans. “The kennel is full up, and the owner said it wasn’t likely I’d find—”

“I wish we could,” Stephen said. “The Berns are lovely dogs. But having them and our five would be way too much.”

“Too much hair, too much barking, and too much missing food,” Ron added, taking a box of kibble off a shelf and shaking it into five tiny stainless-steel dog bowls squared against the wall.

“They’re very well-behaved dogs,” Stephen said, frowning at his partner. He took a firm hold on each Bern’s collar and marched them toward the hall door, ignoring their whining and longing looks at the kibble. “I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty finding someone to take them in. Or leave them at Paul and Emil’s. Someone can drop by once a day with fresh food and water.” Clare raised a finger and started to speak. “Not us, unfortunately,” Stephen said quickly. “It is our high season, after all. But surely someone can.”

No good deed ever goes unpunished. Her grandmother loved that saying. Clare mustered a smile and followed Stephen and the Berns through the front hall to the porch. “It was very nice to meet you, Reverend Fergusson,” Ron called after her, emphasizing the you. Stephen released the dogs, who galloped to her car and scrabbled over the sides into their former places, leaving visible scratches on the paint.

“See?” Stephen said. “Good dogs.”

The porch creaked under the weight of Russ’s step. He paused beside her to shake Stephen’s hand. “We’ll keep an eye on your place,” he said. “If you see anything that makes you itchy, anything at all, call nine-one-one.”

Stephen nodded. “You can count on that.” He took Clare’s hand in both of his. “Come back and see us again, Reverend Fergusson. Bring the dogs for a visit.”

Clare and Russ trudged down the porch steps in silence. When she reached her car door, she paused. Stephen Obrowski had disappeared into the inn. Russ had gone to the cruiser and was leaning against the driver’s side, his hand resting on the open window. He fished into his pocket and pulled out sunglasses, which he clipped over his glasses. It gave him an aura of faceless authority, like every lawman in every movie since Cool Hand Luke, and even though they were only clip-ons and should have made him look like a middle-aged tourist, she started to get mad again. She opened her mouth to speak, but Russ beat her to it.

“Before you start in again on how wrong and insensitive I am, let me tell you that I know a place where you can board those two monsters.” He flipped the shades up, as if they were little plastic-topped visors, and her incipient tirade turned into a laugh. He removed his glasses and looked at them. “Pretty sharp, huh?” He wiggled the shades. “Prescription bifocal sunglasses are not covered by my health plan. Got these at the Rexall. Six bucks.”

“They look it.” She glanced at the dogs, who were panting enthusiastically, tongues lolling. “All right, I’ll bite. Where can I board these puppies? The county jail? Your house?”

“Sorry, no. Linda is not a pet person. We’ll take ’em to my mother’s place.”

She looked at the dogs again. She hadn’t seen much of Russ’s mother at the town meeting, but she was willing to bet Gal and Bob outweighed her by at least seventy-five pounds. “Are you sure?” Bob shook his head and saliva sprayed over the windshield of the Shelby. “Wouldn’t they do better in the care of some tall, hefty guy named Spud?”

“Trust me. Inside, my mom is a tall, hefty guy named Spud.” He put his glasses on and flipped the shades down. “Follow me.”

“This means I’m going to have to drive the speed limit, doesn’t it?”

He grinned.

They drove back across the river and onto Old Route 100, turning away from Millers Kill and heading north into the mountains. The trees crowded in against the edges of the road, which swooped, twisted, and climbed steeply enough to make Clare’s ears pop. It would be a great place for a long, hard run, cool in the shade of the trees and undisturbed by much traffic. Of course, if she were to twist her ankle, she’d have a long way to go for help. There wasn’t even the occasional dirt drive or mailbox signaling human habitation. She was beginning to think Russ’s mother must be either a hermit or a squirrel, but then the forest cover broke apart, and they were at an intersection that might have passed for a tiny town. Strung along the two-lane highway were several sagging Victorian cottages that escaped dilapidation through creative paintwork and an abundance of flower baskets. There was one road leading off to the left, squared by a two-pump gas station, a general store, an antique shop, and an art gallery.

Russ turned. The battered green sign read OLD SACANDAGA ROAD, and Clare wondered if any of the roads in northeastern New York State were new. Less than a hundred feet down the road, Russ turned right into what was either a very small dirt parking lot or a very wide grassy driveway. She pulled in beside his cruiser and got out.

“Good heavens,” she said. “Someone shrank Tara!” They were parked next to a perfect Greek Revival mansion in miniature, deeply shaded by towering pines. Tiny second-story windows peeped from underneath a pediment upheld by square columns. More windows ran along the white clapboarded side of the house, each one framed with forest green shutters. “This looks like an oversized playhouse. Is this where you grew up?”

“Nah, my old house is a museum now.” She rolled her eyes at him. “No, really!” He laughed. “The people who bought it from my mom sold it to an enterprising couple who turned it into a museum of Indian art. With a gift shop. Actually, the gift shop is bigger than the museum part.”

A former school bus, now painted purple and topped with several large rubber rafts, rattled past. HUDSON RAFTING EXPEDITIONS, its hand-painted sign read. The dogs flailed their way out of Clare’s car and went into high alert, racing around in circles and barking.