A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Oh, Christ!” Russ launched himself at the lip of the door. A shot resounded. Clare flung her arms over her head and ducked, a useless, instinctual move. Just as Russ was heaving himself over the edge, Opperman crawled into view.

For an endless second, Clare waited for Peggy to follow, imagining her looming over the injured man in the doorway. Russ would never be able to get his weapon up in time. Peggy would gun them all down and eat the last bullet herself. And the only thing Clare could think of was the Act of Contrition from her eighth-grade confirmation class—“Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest of all my sins”—and it wasn’t even an Episcopal prayer.

Then Opperman clambered to his feet and reached down to help Russ into the plane. Russ disappeared for a moment and then returned. He looked at her, his face more grim than she had ever seen. And she realized Peggy Landry was never going to appear in that doorway, or any other, again.

Chapter Thirty-Two

When the farmhouse door opened, Clare thrust her flowers into Paul’s hands. “Welcome home,” she said.

He wrapped one meaty arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. “I’m glad to be here, believe me.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Hello! I’m Paul Foubert.”

“You said I should bring a date,” Clare said, stepping aside to let the two men shake hands. “Paul, this is Hugh Parteger.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Hugh said, handing Paul a bottle of wine.

“Whoa. You’re not from around here, are you?”

“You can tell,” Hugh said, his face falling. “No matter how I work on the accent, people can always tell I’m Swedish.” Paul laughed.

“Hugh is based in New York City, but he has ambitions to be a summer person in Saratoga,” Clare explained. “He was up this weekend, so when he called me, I asked him along.”

“Wonderful!” Paul said. “Stephen and Ron’s inn was full up tonight, so they couldn’t get away. Now it’ll just be us and the Van Alstynes.”

Clare kept her smile firmly in place. “I’m looking forward to meeting Mrs. Van Alstyne.”

Paul looked at her oddly. “From the way she’s been talking about you since she got here, I assumed you two had already met.”

“Linda Van Alstyne was talking about me?” Her stomach lurched. Which was ridiculous. She had nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing.

Paul’s face relaxed. “No, Margy Van Alstyne was talking about you.” He turned to Hugh. “Chief Van Alstyne’s mother. Dynamite woman. She took care of our dogs for us while I was with Emil in Albany.” He gave them as much of a confidential glance as his broad, open face was capable of. “We invited her first, before the chief and his wife. I get the impression that the daughter-in-law doesn’t show up at social events where the mother-in-law will be present.”

Clare felt almost giddy with relief. “Speaking of the dogs, where are—” A chorus of happy dog noises cut off her sentence.

“The hairy beasts are out back, on the patio. We’re taking advantage of the breeze. I decided to have dinner at 6:00 because Emil gets tired so early, but it’ll work out perfectly with the weather. The thunderstorms should hold off for a few more hours. That gives us lots of time to eat, talk, and swill down this very nice merlot you’ve brought.”

“Oh, Lord,” Hugh said. “I hope mine isn’t the only drink available. From what I’ve seen of the vicar, she’ll polish it off before the hors d’oeuvres.” He grinned at Clare, who elbowed him in the ribs.

Paul led them through the living room and dining room to a set of French doors open to the evening light. The dogs rushed them in a wiggling mass of silky hair and wet noses as they came out onto the flagstone patio. Clare scratched their heads and shoulders as they ecstatically butted against her linen shift.

“Go lie down, Bob.” Paul tugged at the Bern’s collar. “No, Gal. Down.” The dogs retreated to a spot beneath a glass-topped iron table already set for dinner. “No,” Paul warned. The dogs gave him a pitiful look and dragged themselves into banishment next to a low stone wall. “Hey, Emil. This is Clare and her friend Hugh Parteger.”

With the help of a cane, Emil Dvorak rose from one of the teak benches that edged the patio. Clare took his outstretched hand.

“I’m happy to meet you,” he said. He had a precise, almost European way of talking. His speech evidently hadn’t been affected by his brain trauma. “Paul’s told me so many wonderful things about you. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

She felt her cheeks go pink. “It wasn’t anything.” Where he grasped his cane, his knuckles were white. “Please, sit down.” Beside the medical examiner, Russ had risen, as well. He nodded to her.

“Reverend Fergusson.”

“Chief Van Alstyne.” She tucked her hand behind Hugh’s elbow and pulled him forward. “I’d like you to meet Hugh Parteger. Hugh, this is Russ Van Alstyne.”

Russ was in his civvies, but as he shook hands with the Englishman, he managed to make jeans and a button- down shirt look like a uniform. “What brings you to Millers Kill?” he asked. It sounded like the beginning of an interrogation, rather than a social pleasantry.

As Hugh explained his presence in Russ’s jurisdiction, Paul dragged over a pair of slouchy canvas chairs and offered two glasses of fruit-clotted sangria. “Mrs. Van Alstyne’s using the little girls’ room,” he said, and, as if called by his words, Margy waltzed through the French doors.

“Clare!” She hugged her firmly. “And who is this Russ is talking to? Is this good-looking fellow your date?”

Clare introduced the two. Hugh looked relieved to have someone to speak with besides Russ, who, when Clare pressed one of the glasses of sangria into Hugh’s hand, asked, “One of you is a designated driver tonight, right?”

They all sat down, ranged around Dr. Dvorak. Seven weeks after his near-fatal beating, Emil Dvorak looked frail