“No, he’s off to college as well. That’s her sweetheart, Wes Fowler. He was another volunteer.” Foubert laughed softly. “They used to take breaks together, go out to his car. Later I’d see them come in all pinked up and grinning. Kids.” His smile faded. “What a waste. What a terrible waste. I remember once when—”
Clare sat back in her chair. Foubert’s voice seemed to come from far away, as if he were on the radio in another room. Her ears buzzed.
Wes Fowler.
What had Doctor Anne’s son said about the boy? Serious, studious, hard working. Just like Katie.
Golden boy. From a family that had everything the McWhorter’s didn’t. The Fowlers three-thousand-square-foot dream home was maybe ten miles from the apartment on Depot Street, but it could just as well have been on the other side of the planet.
A boy who had everything going for him, including an appointment to West Point and a beautiful girlfriend from a family as well-respected as his own. What would a boy like that do to hide a screwup? A really big, life-altering, won’t-go-away-for-the-next-eighteen-years screwup?
Wes Fowler.
The boy Katie didn’t want her family to know about. He evidently felt the same way about keeping it secret.
She was going to have to tell Vaughn Fowler and his wife about this. Oh, God.
“—you’d think, wouldn’t you? Reverend Fergusson?”
“Huh?”
“Are you okay? You look odd.”
“I feel odd. I mean—yes, I’m okay.”
She stood up. Foubert rose with her, clasping one huge paw around her arm. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, thank you.” She smiled at him, a kind of social grimace. “I do need to be going, though. I just remembered something important.”
“Alright, then.” He cradled his pipe in the ashtray. “I wish I knew who to send my condolences to about Katie. She never talked about her family.”
“She has a sister, Kristen. She’s asked me to perform the burial service, as it happens. If you’d like, I’ll let you know when and where. She has to wait until the police, um . . .”
“Yeah. I do. I’d like that, please.” Foubert plucked a business card off his desk and handed it to her.
Hand halfway to her pocket, Clare stopped. “Paul, could I borrow the photograph of Katie? I’ll return it.”
He squatted and peeled the picture off the board, balling up sticky gum between his fingers before giving it to Clare.
“Thank you.”
He opened the office door and ushered her out. “I’ll be hearing from you, then. Stop by the next time you’re visiting, will you?”
“I sure will do that, yes.” She took off with indecent haste. The photograph of the young couple, projections for the cost of the church roof, Karen Burns’s angry face, all jostled for space at the front of her consciousness.
There was a Pathfinder parked next to the Fowler’s Explorer at the top of their long, well-plowed drive. Clare pulled in close behind them and killed her engine. The two hulking SUVs could probably four-wheel-drive straight over her windshield and down the back of her car without noticing more than a little bump. She rested her head on the steering wheel for a moment, reaching for the sense of someone outside her and within her, looking for strength, looking for courage. Asking for the right words to come when she needed them.
Gravel and snow crunched underfoot as she walked up to the side porch. The Fowler’s home was a modern interpretation of a Georgian house, a sweep of white clapboard frequently broken by double-glazed windows with Palladian arches. At some point, the rolling acreage upon which the house sat must have been a farm, but it was all pleasure land now, the pastures used only for cross-country skiing and snowmobiling. Idyllic spot to be a retired gentleman. Pressing on the bell, Clare felt like the angel with the flaming sword, sent to roust the inhabitants out of their Eden.
“Reverend Fergusson! What brings you out here?”
Edith Fowler was a horsy-looking woman whose extreme slenderness was beginning to look bony with age. Her short brown hair was clipped to a sporty, no-nonsense length and she wore pearls and a shetland sweater over a monogrammed turtleneck. Clare pulled her hat off.
“Honey? Who is it?” Vaughn Fowler crowded around his wife’s shoulder as she was standing back to let Clare in the door. “Clare. This is an unexpected pleasure.”
Clare stuffed her gloves into the pockets of her oversized parka and pulled it off. “I apologize for intruding, but I needed to speak with you.” Edith Fowler took the coat and hung it in the hall closet. “Both of you.”
The couple looked at each other. “We’re entertaining right now . . .” Edith said hesitantly.
“It shouldn’t take long. It is important.”
Vaughn gestured her through the kitchen door. “Of course.” Inside the kitchen, preparations for a brunch were obviously in progress. Bowls of batter, a carton of eggs, cutting boards of chopped vegetables. And, sipping what looked like mimosas, were the Shatthams. Clare smiled feebly. Great. They were probably getting ready to toast Wes and Alyson’s engagement or something.
The Shatthams greeted her warmly, which made her feel even guiltier for what she was about to lay on the Fowlers. “Clare needs to speak with me and Edith for a few minutes,” Vaughn said. “I know you two can entertain
