One Was a Soldier

ever.”

“Ron,” Stephen warned.

“I kid, I kid. Look, why don’t you show them where everything will be set up, and then we can go over the menu and the notes Mrs. Fergusson faxed.” Ron tilted his head toward Clare. “I don’t like to leave the kitchen while we still have guests eating breakfast.”

“Notes Mrs. Fergusson faxed?” Russ said, at the same moment Clare said, “If this is a bad time…”

“Of course not.” Obrowski steered them toward the archway on the left while his partner vanished back down the hall. “Now, we thought we’d put the pianist here in the double parlor”-he pointed to a grand piano-“and leave the rest of the furniture pretty much as it is, to encourage folks to sit and talk.”

“There’s a pianist?” Russ looked at Clare. “I thought it was a DJ.”

“The DJ will be outside, in the dancing tent,” Stephen said.

Clare was starting to get a bad feeling. “When you say ‘dancing tent,’ does that imply there’s going to be a non dancing tent?”

“That’s right. The dining tent will have roll-down walls and heaters, to keep everyone comfortable through dinner and the toasts and all that.” Obrowski looped them through the second parlor, emerging back in the wide entrance hall. “We’re going to have the coat check back here, with a rolling rack tucked beneath the stairs, and then right here in the hallway, we’ll have one of the bars.” He looked at Clare hesitantly. “I know it’s a little unorthodox, but I thought it would keep traffic flowing and prevent the guests from bunching up around the drinks.”

“ One of the bars?” Russ shook his head. “Christ on a bicycle. It’s like the sacking of Richmond in reverse.”

Clare caught the look on the innkeeper’s face. “It’s fine, Stephen. Russ’s idea of a wedding is fifteen minutes in front of Judge Ryswick.” And boy, wasn’t that getting more appealing by the minute?

“Ah. Of course. I understand. Trust me, it sounds like a lot of fussy details right now, but the night of your wedding, when you’re here with your beautiful bride on your arm, you’ll be glad we took pains to get everything just so.” Stephen hurried ahead and cracked open the doors on the other side of the hall. He peeked inside.

“Having you on my arm is not what I’m looking forward to on our wedding night,” Russ said into her ear.

“Hold that thought.”

Stephen beckoned to them. “We have a couple of guests eating breakfast, so we’re just going to walk through the dining room and then on to the kitchen. We can collapse the dining room table by a few feet, but we can’t remove it from the room, so the plan is to have the desserts and coffee served from here.” He opened one door. “Excuse us, folks. We’re just doing a wedding walk-through.” He led them into the elaborately paneled room. “We’ll take the chairs out, of course, and put the tea service on the sideboard-”

Beside her, she could feel Russ stiffen. He was staring at the other end of the mahogany dining table, where a forty-something woman in a starched shirt was buttering toast and a young black man with very little hair was working his way through eggs and sausage. The woman’s eyes opened wide. She put her toast and her knife on her plate. “Chief Van Alstyne.”

***

“I see you decided not to head all the way back to Fort Drum. You hoping to become better acquainted with our little town?” Russ’s tone triggered Clare’s early alert system. This wasn’t some tourist whose purse had been returned by the police department.

The woman’s nose pinched in and her mouth thinned. “I did a little research and became better acquainted with you last night. Twenty-two years in the army, twenty of them as an MP, retired as a CW5. Purple Heart, Bronze Star, Presidential Commendation with Valor. Investigator in chief for the 6th Military Police Group, Fort Lewis, training command at Fort Leonard Wood…” She steepled her fingers. “So what was the Deputy Dawg act yesterday?”

His service records, Clare thought. The only place that information was accessible-and then only by authorized military personnel.

Russ crossed his arms. “Why don’t you tell me why you really came here looking for Tally McNabb?”

The woman’s eyes flicked toward Clare and Obrowski. Clare would go if Russ asked her, but she was damned if she was going to back down for anyone else. The innkeeper was another matter. “Stephen,” she said, “can we meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes?”

“Absolutely,” Stephen said, with the gratitude of a man whose job made him privy to more dirty laundry than he wanted to hear. He headed for the door. Paused. “I’ll have Ron make a fresh pot of coffee.” That thought seemed to make him happy again.

When the door swung shut behind him, the woman stared at Clare with a gaze like a dissecting knife. “Who’s she?”

Instead of answering her, Russ pulled a chair away from the table. “Clare?” She sat. “I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Colonel Arlene Seelye of the U.S. Army Finance Command.” He gestured toward Clare. “The Reverend Clare Fergusson.”

She wasn’t sure what was going on, but since it looked like Russ had already taken the role of bad cop, she figured she ought to be the good cop. She smiled, showing many, many teeth. “Hello!”

“This isn’t a matter for a civilian, Chief. Even if she is a priest.”

“Didn’t I mention?” Russ took the chair next to her. “This is also Major Clare Fergusson of the 142nd Aviation Support Battalion.”

The private, who had stopped eating when it was clear Russ wasn’t going to keep moving along, straightened in his seat.

“I don’t care if she’s commander of the Big Red One. I’m not going to-” Seelye slapped her napkin down. She looked at Russ. Despite the heat in her voice, her gaze was cool. Assessing. Whatever she saw, she decided to change tactics. “Mary McNabb, a.k.a. Tally McNabb, was under investigation for peculation.”

Russ cocked an eyebrow. “She had her hand in the battalion cookie jar?”

“We believe she made off with a considerable sum.”

“I have a feeling the army and I probably have different ideas as to what constitutes a considerable sum.”

Colonel Seelye paused. “In the neighborhood of a million dollars.”

Russ whistled.

“Nice neighborhood,” Clare said. Seelye looked at her as if she had just spat chewing tobacco on the table. Clare tried not to let her cheeks pink up.

“That’s a hell of a lot of money to sneak off with under the army’s nose,” Russ said. “Didn’t she have any oversight?”

“McNabb altered the records. Destroyed data. She was very skilled. And the chief financial officer of her unit was… lax.”

Clare nudged Russ’s thigh. He nodded to her. Go ahead. “Tally had been stateside since March,” she said. “Her discharge came through in May, and she’s been living openly in Millers Kill since then. How come you’re only now showing up to investigate her?”

Seelye crossed her arms over her chest. The private stared at the eggs congealing on his plate. Clare looked at Russ. What did I say?

“I don’t think it’s because they’ve been taking their own sweet time. I think they didn’t know about it before now.” He twisted in his chair and propped an elbow on the table, for all the world as if he and Clare were having a postbreakfast chat over the paper. “Tally McNabb may have been a damn good bookkeeper, but she wasn’t any sort of criminal mastermind. I think she had help covering the theft up. From the inside.” He glanced toward Seelye, then back to Clare. She frowned. From the inside? The whole Army was one big “inside.” “From another MP,” he clarified.

Quentan Nichols.