“I’m sure you do. Prefer to think of it that way.”
The doorbell chimed. He headed for the kitchen to admit a snow-dusted Dr. Anne.
“My car’s blocking you in, so we’ll have to switch,” she said, unwinding an immense scarf from her neck. “How is she?”
“I’ve got her soaking in a tub of lukewarm water that I’ve been heating up gradually.” The doctor stared at him. The tips of his ears reddened. “I mean, her feet. She’s soaking her feet. In there.” He led Dr. Anne into the living room in time to see Clare standing wobbly-legged, clutching at the back of the sofa. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said, more loudly than he intended.
She grinned at him tensely. “I believe it’s called ‘walking.’ It’s all the rage of the over-one-year-old set. Hi, Dr. Anne.”
“Sit down, you damn fool woman.”
She straightened, releasing the sofa. The lines and planes of her face tightened. “I have things to do,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have to call Kristen, and Mrs. Fowler. And the deacons, to let them know I may not be able to celebrate seven A.M. Eucharist tomorrow morning.”
He reached over the sofa and wrapped his hand around her arm. “You don’t need to prove how tough you are. I already know. Clare, please. Sit down.”
She looked at him, then sat.
Dr. Anne dropped her medical bag on the sofa next to Clare. “As soon as I’ve checked you out, I’ll help you make those phone calls.” She glanced at Russ. “Anything in particular I need to watch out for?”
“You see anything, or hear anything that makes you feel uneasy, call the station. No, give me a call.” He scrawled his home number on the scratch pad next to the cordless phone base.
“I will, Chief. Let’s move those cars so you can get out.”
He looked down at Clare. She smiled crookedly. “Thank you. It seems inadequate, but thank you.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to get into any trouble until then, okay?”
“Okay.”
Dr. Anne waited while he pulled on his boots and coat. Outside, snow still fell furiously. His truck was already blanketed again. “I can’t thank you enough for coming to stay with her,” he said. “She’s so damn busy taking care of other people’s needs she completely ignores her own.”
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.”
