“Clare Fergusson. Well, I’ll be. What can I do for you this hour of the night?”
“Yes, he’s here.” Margy Van Alstyne’s voice sounded as if only good manners kept her from asking why St. Alban’s rector was calling her son at 10:30 on a Friday night.
“It’s business,” Clare assured her.
“Oh, it’s none of my—never-mind. Let me give him the phone. Here he is.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Russ had been lying back in his mom’s ancient La-Z-Boy recliner, watching Roger Clemens getting shelled by the Angels. He had stayed well past the time it took to replace a few boards on the porch and have dinner, enjoying the comforting familiarity of his mom’s house, where no one ever redecorated and the walls had been the same color since she moved in a quarter of a century ago.
Clemens had given up five runs in the last two innings, and the Yankees were going down hard. Now Mel Stottlemyre was marching out toward the mound. “Give him the hook, already,” Russ told the pitching coach. “Any relief pitcher could do better than that. My mother can do better than that.”
Stottlemyre was talking to Clemens, who was evidently arguing. Now the catcher was coming out to the mound. “Oh, for God’s sake, it’s not the UN. Get him offa there.”
His mother walked into the living room, holding the phone and eyeing him speculatively. She clamped her palm over the handset. “It’s Clare Fergusson,” she whispered. “Says it’s a business call.” She handed him the phone.
“Clare?” His mother stood there watching. He frowned and shooed her away. “What’s up?” He glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I wake you up?”
“No, I’m not spending the night. I was just hanging out, watching the Yankees lose to Los Angeles. What’s going on?”
“I’m at a party at Peggy Landry’s house.”
He listened for the usual background noises you could hear during a phone call in the middle of a party. Nothing.
“It’s a pretty quiet party.”
“I’m calling from my car. I can’t go in.”
“You can’t go in. Clare, you’re not making any sense.” A thought struck him. “Have you been drinking?”
“Yes, but that’s not why I—”
“You’re not planning on driving that car anyplace, are you?”
“No. Well, not yet. I’m going to wait here until I’m fit to drive again.”
He closed his eyes. Christ on a bicycle. “Okay,” he said, enunciating clearly. “Get out of the car and give someone your keys. Then ask Peggy Landry to fix you up with a ride home.”
“I told you, I can’t go inside!” Her whisper sharpened. “Will you please listen to me?”
He clicked off the game. “Go ahead.”
“I was in Malcolm’s room tonight. Here. At Peggy’s house.”
“Who’s Malcolm?”
“Her nephew. He used to be Bill Ingraham’s boyfriend.”
“His
“I’m trying to tell you!”
He pushed up his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go ahead.”
“I got talking with someone at the party about Peggy’s business, and about Malcolm, and I thought it would be a good idea to see if there was anything connecting him to Ingraham’s death—in his room.”
“How much had you had to drink at this point?”
“That doesn’t matter! Listen. Malcolm knows something about Ingraham’s death. I’m sure of it. And he’s selling drugs!”
He walked past his mother, who was methodically folding and stuffing envelopes for a fund-raiser, listening to his every word. He opened the fridge and grabbed a soda. “Uh-huh.”
“Don’t patronize me. I know he’s selling drugs because he was talking to someone in the room with him.”
That brought him up short. “This guy was in the room at the same time you were?” His mom’s head perked right up at that. He frowned at her.
“He and another man. The other guy was talking about Ingraham’s death. At least I’m pretty sure he was. He was scared. And then Malcolm gave him something, some sort of drug.”
He put the soda can down on the counter, unopened. “What did they do? Shoot up? Do you know what they were using?”
“No, not like that. Like a payment. Or a payoff. I didn’t actually see anything. I was hiding in the bathroom.”
