After the Shatthams left in a swirl of silky hair and tearful glares, Russ shook his head. “Girl like that makes me grateful I never had kids. Holy shit. What a self-centered little monster. Excuse my French.”
“You wouldn’t have a girl like that.”
“I can understand why kids from crappy neighborhoods with piss-poor parents get into trouble. But how can kids with every advantage turn out so badly?”
Clare leaned forward. “Because the things you have, and the neighborhood you live in, doesn’t have anything to do with what kind of human being you are. As I’ve said before.”
“As you’ve said before.” He smiled slightly. “What do you think? Was she telling the truth?”
“I don’t know. She sure sounded pi—peeved at Wesley, though. I’d swear she was genuinely surprised that first time you questioned her, when she found out about Katie being pregnant.”
“Well, that shoots my boy-and-girl-did-it-together theory.”
“Vaughn Fowler should be back home with Wesley by now.”
“That’s assuming he wasn’t already back home last night, trying to shoot you.” From the open door, Clare could hear the sounds of coffee hour. “You probably have to go join your flock.”
“Oh, no.” She sank back into her seat. “I missed the Christmas cookie sale.” At Russ’s look she explained, “Fund-raiser for the choir. Everyone brings in cookies and you mix and match what you want to buy. I was going to show the flag by getting two bags’ worth.” She tried to pile her hair atop her head, but it was already in a French twist. She settled for pushing at the bobby pins. “I guess I may as well bow out entirely and come with you to see the Fowlers. Give me ten minutes to change out of my vestments and say good-bye.”
He looked at the ceiling. “Why don’t I just deputize you and issue you a gun, while I’m at it?”
Clare rose from the table. “No, thanks. But if there’s a paying position as departmental chaplain, I’ll take that. I’m going to need some extra money if I ever hope to replace my car.”
CHAPTER 28
It was a short drive from St. Alban’s to the Fowlers, but it was long enough for Clare to work up a full head of nerves and excitement. Fortunately, Russ was an easy person to be keyed up with; he listened to her ramble on about her ideas for the mother-and-baby outreach program, interjecting a question every time she stalled out over the realization that they were minutes away from confronting the young man who might be Katie’s killer.
As they turned down the long country road that led to the Fowler’s house, she confessed, “I’m a little tense about all this.”
“Oh? I never would have guessed.”
She punched him in the arm.
“Ow!”
“Don’t you feel it, too? This may be it! Finally.”
“I’ve done this a few more times than you, Reverend. Questioning someone doesn’t get me all worked up.” He glanced over to see her scowling. “Of course, it’s different if I think the person I want to question is going to start shooting at me. I remember one time, I was working the violent crimes unit at Mannheim, we were investigating a series of rapes. Chief suspect was a ranger who taught hand-to-hand combat. One of these guys who can disable you with his forefinger and kill you with one hand tied behind his back. Walking up to his quarters to question him, I thought I was going to piss my pants, I was so scared.”
“What happened?”
“I talked him into coming with me to the M.P. post. That’s ninety percent of police work, you know, being able to talk and keep on talking until the problem is defused.”
She pointed to a neatly plowed gravel drive. “Here it is.” She recognized the Fowlers’ Explorer and Volvo sedan. There was also a brand new Jeep Wrangler parked in front of the barn. “That must be Wesley’s truck.”
Russ parked the patrol car behind the Jeep and took a slow walk alongside it on his way to the door. Clare, staring into the windows, caught sight of herself and quirked her mouth. What did she think she was going to see, the abandoned snowmobile suit and a gun? She stepped lively to catch up with Russ, who had mounted the front steps.
Edith Fowler opened the door. Her deep-set eyes showed stark and white in her narrow face, like a spooked horse trapped in its stall.
“Mrs. Fowler? I’m Chief Van Alstyne. May I come in?”
Her social graces kicked in and her face relaxed. She opened the door widely. “Certainly, Chief. Reverend Clare, I’m glad to see you here as well.” In the foyer, she took their coats. “I’m sorry we missed church this morning, but it’s been . . . well . . .” She gestured down the hall. “They’re in the family room.”
Clare stepped out of rubber rainboots, the only foul-weather footwear she owned since trashing her leather boots last night. She was glad she hadn’t changed into civvies. Her collar and black blouse created a shield dividing the woman who had slogged through an icy stream from the priest who was here to counsel and support this morning.
The family room had obviously been a later addition to the old house. Its cathedral ceiling allowed for a Christmas tree that was easily twelve feet high, and the sweep of windows created an unbroken vista of snow and hills. The Fowler men were rising from a cluster of leather-covered love seats and chairs.
“Chief Van Alstyne.” Vaughn Fowler didn’t sound surprised to see a uniformed officer in his home at eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning.
Wesley looked startlingly like his father: same height, same strong features, same heavily-muscled build. His hair was shorter than even his father’s military clip, shaved down to a bare fuzz. His face was strained and weary. He looked older than his eighteen or nineteen years, and Clare thought it entirely possible he could have been the “older man” Katie’s roommates had seen.
