Clare and Russ stepped out of the way. Parishioners clad in bulky winter wools and chain-tread boots jostled each other on the way down the aisle. “I have to do the receiving line,” she said. “I want to be there when you talk to her.”
“I figured you would.”
She pasted on a pleasant expression, shaking hands, exclaiming over bits of news, thanking those who offered to volunteer for the Christmas preparations, all the while watching as Russ intercepted Alyson and her mother in their pew and spoke with them. Alyson shook her head. Russ jerked his thumb toward the door. Alyson said something to her mother, who fluttered her hands like a bird afraid to fly. Russ leaned forward. When he stepped back, both the Shatthams collected their things and followed him up the side aisle toward the parish hall.
Clare had no idea there were so many people in her congregation. She felt as if she had shaken five hundred hands and listened to at least that many comments about yesterday’s storm before the last of them left the vestibule and she could painfully stump her way up the aisle, through the hall, and into the meeting room.
This time, Russ was the one sitting with his back to the window. Brilliant sunshine from a sky swept clean by the storm glowed around him, partially obscuring his face. Alyson slouched in the chair opposite him, twisting a strand of hair around two fingers.
Clare shut the door against the hum of conversation and the clink of coffee cups coming from the parish hall. “Good morning, Alyson, Mrs. Shattham.”
“Reverend Clare,” Barbara Shattham said, “Chief Van Alstyne says he needs more information about the dead girl. And that we’ve been waiting for you?”
Russ rose and ceremoniously pulled out a chair. Clare cocked an eyebrow at him. “I know your feet must be hurting you after your ordeal last night,” he said.
“Ah.” She got it. “Yes, thank you.” She hobbled more obviously toward the table and sat down.
“Where’s your husband, Mrs. Shattham?”
She frowned. “At home. He’s not feeling well. He went cross country skiing yesterday and overdid it.”
Clare shot a glance at Russ, but his eyes never left Barbara Shattham’s face.
“Did you go with him?”
“It’s not a sport I enjoy.” She turned to Clare. “Reverend Fergusson—”
“Did he get home early or late?”
“What?”
“From skiing. Did Mr. Shattham get home early or late?”
“I don’t know! Early evening. Seven or eight o’clock. What’s this all about?”
Now Russ looked at Clare. She bit her lip, thinking. Could Mitch Shattham have been the man who attacked her? He was about the right height and size, inasmuch as she could tell from a bulky snowsuit. Just how much would he do for his little girl?
“Yesterday evening,” she turned toward the Shatthams, “there was a phone message waiting for me when I got back from Albany. I believe you knew I was going to Albany, Mrs. Shattham.”
Barbara Shattham blinked, then nodded.
“And you told Alyson about what had happened at the Fowlers. That I discovered Wes and Katie McWhorter had been dating.”
“Yes, I did. It concerned her, after all.”
Clare looked directly at Alyson. “But you weren’t surprised when your mother told you that Wes had had another girlfriend last year, were you? You already knew about him and Katie.”
Alyson’s fingers twitched at her hair. “No, I didn’t.” Sweet. Simple. A child who had never been called on cookie-stealing or missing homework.
“Katie has three roommates who have identified you from photographs as having visited her at the beginning of the school year.” Russ’s voice was calm. “Now, we can have them all come up for a live lineup—”
“A lineup? You mean as in arresting my daughter?”
Alyson’s mouth dropped open. Her hair fell from between her fingers.
“She could do the lineup voluntarily. Or, she could do it after we’ve arrested her.” He stared at the girl. “Or, she could tell us what she knows right here.”
“I didn’t do anything! Mummy, honestly, I didn’t hurt anyone!” Her blue eyes swam soft and liquid with tears.
“There, you see?” her mother began.
Russ rose from his seat. “Alyson Shattham, I’m placing you—”
Alyson squealed. Russ sank back into his seat, slowly. The girl glanced at Clare and dropped her eyes. “Okay, I did know Wes was hanging around with Katie. I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her, okay? I only went down to Albany to tell her to lay off because it was like, time for the school-year fling to be over.” She turned to her mother. “I mean, can you really see some chunky girl from Depot Street going with Wes to the Academy Ball? She was like, so wrong for him.”
Clare leaned into the table. “You didn’t know she was pregnant when you fought with her in Albany, did you?”
“God, no! That’s so gross!” She raised her eyebrows. “I think Katie must have done it on purpose. Like to get him to marry her. Or for the welfare money. You know what those girls are like.”
