let either one of you touch it. In fact”-she stepped forward, jabbing a shiny acrylic nail at Clare’s chest-“I’m going to see to it that everyone knows what a slut you are. We’ll see who wants to come to your church once they hear-”
“Shut up, Debbie.”
Clare blinked. Russ stood in the doorway to the parish hall, his hands jammed so tightly into his parka pockets that she could see the outline of every knuckle.
His sister-in-law sucked in her breath. “My God, it is true,” she said. “Linda isn’t even in the ground yet and you can’t keep away from your girlfriend.”
Russ’s boots sounded heavy as he walked up the hallway. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I’m going to cut you some slack because you’re angry and upset.”
“Angry? Upset?” Debbie stared at him, loathing written across her heavily made-up features. “You bastard. I’m going to see you strung up by the nuts for what you did to my sister.”
“You can do what you want after I’ve caught whoever killed her. I don’t care.” Russ stepped toward her. In the narrow confines of the hall, he seemed to loom even larger than usual. “You got that? I don’t care.” His glance flickered toward Clare, so briefly she wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it. “I’ve already lost everything. You want to hang me up by the balls? Fine. I’ll hand you the rope. But first, tell me who Mr. Sandman is.”
“How did you know about that?” Debbie asked. “That’s private! Have you been reading her private mail?”
“This is a goddam murder case, Debbie. There isn’t a single detail of Linda’s life that’s going to remain private by the time this thing is through. Who was she seeing? Tell me!”
Clare was utterly lost.
“I don’t know!” For the first time, Debbie sounded more defensive than angry.
“Was it the same guy she was seeing after we moved back to Millers Kill?”
Clare should have enjoyed the about-face as Debbie gasped and went pale beneath her tan, but she just felt sick. Sick for Russ, and for Linda’s sister, and for everyone who was going to be hurt by the corrosive secrets splashing out into the open.
“Hey, guys.” There was a faint creak as the door to the church swung open. “What’s going on?” Ben Beagle ambled down the hall, his eyes bright. “Chief Van Alstyne?”
“Who’s he?” Russ growled.
Clare resisted clamping a hand over her eyes. This was getting to be like a bad French farce. “Ben Beagle,” she said. “
“I’m very sorry about your loss, Chief.” Beagle fished his notepad out of his pocket. “If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“No.”
Russ’s expression would have sent most people scurrying for cover. Beagle smiled gently. “What brings you to St. Alban’s this morning?”
There was a pause. Russ’s gaze darted between Clare and his sister-in-law. “I was looking for Debbie,” he said.
Beagle’s sandy brows went up. “You knew she was here?”
“I’m here as part of an ongoing murder investigation,” Russ said. He sounded as if he were chewing on rocks and spitting out gravel. “I’m not making a statement to the press.”
“Ben.” Debbie’s voice was thin. “Please. Will you excuse us for just a moment?”
“You know, if I’m going to tell your sister’s story, I’m going to need to talk with Chief Van Alstyne.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with that. Please, Ben.”
For the first time since Debbie lit into her, Clare felt sorry for the woman. Her voice shook, and Clare realized that beneath the vitriol and bravado, Linda’s sister was a hairsbreadth away from completely losing it.
“O-kay. If that’s the way you want it.” The reporter snapped his notebook shut. “I’ll wait for you out by the cars.”
Debbie nodded. The three of them watched in silence while Ben Beagle disappeared back through the church door. As soon as it swung shut behind him, Debbie turned to Russ. “You have to understand, it didn’t mean anything.” Her voice was low, urgent.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“Look,” Clare said desperately, “I should go.”
Russ caught her sleeve. “Stay. Please.”
“You dragged her here where she didn’t know a soul and then left her alone in that moldy old farmhouse while you worked twelve hours a day. She got lonely!” Debbie shot a poisonous glance toward Clare. “At least she didn’t come yapping to you about true love. She kept it to herself and she got over it. She never forgot where her loyalties lay.”
“Who was it?”
“Some guy named Lyle. I don’t know his last name.”
Clare stared at Russ.
Russ swallowed. “Lyle,” he said. “From Millers Kill?”
Debbie nodded. “She met him at the mayor’s Christmas party, the first year that you guys moved here.” She peered more closely at Russ. “You know him?”
Russ nodded.
Clare wanted to close her eyes. How many times could your heart break for someone?
“I don’t know if he was the same guy she was e-mailing me about for the past few weeks. The Mr. Sandman guy. She was always pretty private, but she got extra quiet about what was going on after you dropped your love bomb on her. Probably worried about leaving a paper trail for the divorce lawyers.”
“There wasn’t going to be any divorce,” Russ said from very far away.
Debbie shot him a look. “The only thing I can tell you is that he was making big time after your announcement. And that she knew him from work.”
“Work,” Russ said. “She didn’t say
“I… I guess not.” Debbie’s face wavered between pain and hopefulness. “Do you think he might be a suspect? This Lyle guy?”
Russ didn’t say anything for a long moment. Clare wrapped her hand around his arm and squeezed hard. To hell with what Debbie thought.
“I don’t know,” Russ whispered. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
TWENTY-TWO
Clare showed Debbie Wolecski the way out. Or, to be more precise, the two of them stalked to the church door like cats refusing to yield territory, rigidly apart, unhappily together.
“This isn’t over,” Debbie said at the door.
“I didn’t think it was.” Clare had plumbed the depths of her priestly goodwill and discovered the bottom of it. She sounded like a bitch, and she didn’t care. She wished she could slam the narthex door on Debbie’s behind instead of watching it hiss gently and hydraulically into place.
Russ. Oh, God.
He was still standing in the corridor where she had left him, like a glaciated creature given the appearance of life because the ice all around was keeping him upright. Like the five-thousand-year-old Bronze Age man, found with flowers still fresh in his pouch. He, she had read recently, had been murdered. Betrayed, then left to the cold.
She had a flash of understanding, seeing Russ frozen there. If she let herself soften, if she held him and wept and sympathized as she wanted to, he would shatter. He would shatter, and she did not have the ability to put him back together again. She didn’t know if anyone did.
She swept her arm toward the door. “My office,” she said.
He stared, then lurched into life. She shut the door behind them, glancing at her watch. Nine o’clock. Lois would
