“Russ? Yoo-hoo. Let me in. What are you thinking about?”
“Jimmy Carter,” he said. He quirked his mouth in a half smile and glanced at her, but instead of the amusement or puzzlement he expected, she met his eyes with a look of such utter understanding that he had to shift in his seat from discomfort and chagrin.
She ducked her head and straightened in her seat as well, facing forward. She looked straight ahead as he slowed and turned onto Meersham Street, with its small, neat houses and evenly spaced trees. “What are you going to do?”
“About Malcolm?”
“Yes, about Malcolm.”
Screw Malcolm, he wanted to say, but instead he forced his mind into the familiar and safe channels of investigation and deduction. “I’d like to have a talk with Peggy Landry about him. Nothing formal—just feel her out. What his relationship was to BWI Development, instead of just what it was to Ingraham. If he has any income she knows about, and where it’s coming from. If she’s noticed any behavior that might indicate drug use.” He glanced at her for a second and then returned his attention to driving. “Do you think she’d talk to me about him? Willingly?”
“She seemed more exasperated with him than protective,” Clare said. “She strikes me as the sort who would throw him out of the house if she knew he had illegal drugs there, for his own good. You know. Tough love. He seemed protective of her, though, in his conversation with the other guy.”
He nodded. “I’ll think of a good reason to drop in on her, then. I don’t want to ask her to the station or make it seem like another round of questioning on what she knows about Ingraham.”
“Help me get my car.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow. It’s still parked at her house. I’ll need someone to drive me up there so I can retrieve it. If you take me, it will seem completely unrelated to the investigation. I can come up with something to ask her—a question about the wedding. Then you can get into a conversation with her.”
“You’re very sneaky, for a priest.” He felt her shrug, rather than saw it.
“What can I say? I was a sneaky kid. Probably a sneaky officer. I was trained to fly under the radar.”
He turned onto Elm Street, approaching the rectory the back way. Her house was the last one on the street, just before you reached the church on the corner. He turned into her drive and twisted the key in the ignition. “Okay,” he said into the silence once the engine had died. “I’ll take you there. Do you need to have your car back at any particular time?”
She opened the passenger door and climbed out. “I have a wedding in the morning. I was going to do some grocery shopping in the afternoon, but I can always walk over to the IGA.”
He popped his own door open and swung himself out. “I’ll walk you up,” he said.
“That’s not necessary.”
“When are you going to get an automatic floodlight so you can see if someone’s in your yard after dark? They’re butt-easy to install. ’Scuse my French. You could probably do it yourself.”
Instead of heading up the drive toward her kitchen door, she walked across the lawn to the wide front porch. “I hate those things. They go off every time a squirrel walks across the lawn. I don’t like lights coming on and waking me up.”
She walked up the three steps, and he followed her. “Get some curtains,” he said. Unlike his own heavily accessorized windows, Clare’s didn’t have a single valance, balloon shade, or drapery.
“There’s an idea. You think maybe I could hire your wife to do them up for me?” The twist in her voice when she said “your wife” startled him. He stopped where he stood, one foot on the top step. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
He could smell roses heavy in the warm, humid air. He wondered if the church’s flower committee worked on her garden, as well. He looked at Clare, who was standing between the steps and the double door, almost invisible in the dark because of her black clothing.
“Thanks for bringing me home,” she said.
“I’ll call you tomorrow about retrieving your car.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t move. Neither did he. “You’ve walked me to the door. I’m safe. You can go now.”
“You go in first. And lock the door behind you, for once.”
There was a rustle as she crossed her arms. “Why can’t you leave first?”
He took the last step up onto the porch. “You know why.”
Her chin jerked up. Her face a pattern of pale and dark. She stood absolutely still, watching him. Measuring him. He didn’t think he could move even if a car jumped the curb and came straight toward them. Then she was gone, a whirl, the swish of cloth, and the door clunked shut behind her. He heard the clack of the bolt turning.
He backed down the steps, watching the house, but no lights came on. He climbed into his seat, fired up the truck, and pulled away. He unrolled the window, hung his arm outside, and, half-seeing the stars, drove all the way home.
Chapter Twenty- Six
When Clare woke up Saturday morning, she lay in bed for a long time, not moving. She hadn’t turned the fan on last night, and the air was thick and still, like another blanket weighing her down. From her open window came the drone of a lawn mower as someone got to their yard work early, before the heat and humidity became unbearable. She knew she should get up and get her run in early for the same reason. She lay on her back and studied the ceiling. There was a smear in the semigloss paint that looked like a bank of cumulus clouds. If she didn’t get up now and run, she would be cutting it too close to the time of the Veerhoos-James nuptials. The bride-to-be had described it as a “brunch wedding,” although no one would be eating before noon, since the service didn’t begin until eleven o’clock. Clare had turned down the invitation to the reception, so she would be free after the photos in the church. She wouldn’t want to run then, because it would be
