the marriage when a husband and wife act like you two have.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Russ said between clenched teeth, “but I know there’s something wrong with my marriage. And I’m going to fix it as soon as I find my wife.”
Lyle released his arm. He sighed, a flat, defeated sigh. “Right.”
Russ turned. Took the top two steps. Turned back. “The thing I don’t get,” he said, “is why? Even if you didn’t know me, you knew I was heading up the department. Why make trouble in your own backyard? Why
Lyle smiled without humor. “I’da thought you of all people would’ve figured that out.” His eyes slid away from Russ’s and looked at some point seven years in the past. “I was in love with her,” he said. “I was in love with her, too.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Clare refused to look at the paper Thursday morning. She cracked open the front door of the rectory and saw it lying on her porch in its bright yellow plastic bag to protect it from the promised storm, and wondered why she had never seen how much it resembled an unexploded pipe bomb. Or a large, malignant yellow jacket, waiting for her to reach out an unwary hand and be stung. She closed the door. Whatever was in it, she’d find out soon enough.
She dressed quickly, trying not to notice the jumbled disarray in her sweater drawer or the way her skirt hangers had been shoved to one side of her closet. In the kitchen, she opened the pantry door to get out the oatmeal and was so dismayed by the mess she shut the door again, her appetite gone. What had they thought she was hiding behind the canned tomatoes and boxes of rigatoni?
She poured coffee from the coffeemaker into her Thermos. She pulled on her boots and parka. Next to her coat tree, the phone on the wall blinked its red message light over and over and over again. She hesitated, her hand over the play button. Maybe Russ had called?
Then she thought of his face in the station, the distrustful cop mask falling over his features, and anger burst behind her eyes, bitter and salty in her mouth. No. Russ had not called. She left the phone flashing monotonously behind the kitchen door and crunched her way down her unplowed drive toward the church.
She let herself in by the back door, walking through the still-darkened parish hall toward her office. She was surprised, as she drew closer, to hear a voice from the main office. She was always the first one in. Lois didn’t show up until nine. She slowed her steps, drawing close to the doorway without entering.
The voice was talking, then pausing. A phone conversation. “I don’t know enough to make a recommendation.” Elizabeth de Groot. Goodness, she was quite the woman of Proverbs, wasn’t she?
Clare suddenly saw herself as she was, lurking in the darkness outside her church’s office, eavesdropping on a private conversation. It was not a pretty picture. She retreated a couple of steps, cleared her throat, and called out, “Hello?”
There was a second’s pause before de Groot answered, “Hi, Clare! It’s me, Elizabeth.” Then something quiet into the phone. By the time Clare came through the door, she was setting the receiver into the cradle. “I decided to get in early today,” Elizabeth said. “There’s so much I have to absorb just to get up to speed.”
“Mmm.” Clare rested her Thermos on Lois’s desk.
“I really think I can make a contribution to the ongoing capital campaign,” Elizabeth went on. “Not to mention with the stewardship committee. And I’ve been thinking more about outreach. I think we can expand it way beyond simply getting people who are already congregants back into the pews.”
Clare let the deacon rattle on while she debated asking Elizabeth what her
Elizabeth ran out of conversational steam and looked up at Clare with a mixture of sunshine and wariness.
“You’d better think about gathering up what you need and taking it home,” Clare said. “They’re predicting this storm is going to be one for the record books. You don’t want to be trapped on the Northway.”
The fine lines around Elizabeth’s eyes relaxed almost imperceptibly. “Are you going to close the office?”
Clare shook her head. “Not yet. I’ve got a couple of counseling sessions this morning. If it’s looking bad after that, I’ll send Lois and Mr. Hadley home.”
“What about Evening Prayer?”
“Let’s take a listen to what the rest of the world’s doing.” Clare switched on Lois’s radio. The Storm Center First Response Team was reading off an alphabetical list of area schools that were closed, followed by businesses shutting early and manufacturers canceling shifts. Sounded like the world and his wife were going to stay at home and sit this one out. “Okay,” Clare said. “I’ll call the snow-closing hotline later this morning and let them know there’s no Evening Prayer.” Two and a half years ago, she hadn’t even known what a snow-closing hotline was. Now she had it on her speed dial.
She left her new deacon to either pull together more information on donor programs or plot her downfall and went into her office. Mr. Hadley had left her wood and kindling in a big iron basket next to the hearth, and she laid a fire in the grate, thankful for the soothing manual task, thankful, once the kindling had caught and flames were crackling up in the strong draft, that she spent her days in a beautiful old building with real working fireplaces. And uneven floors. And drafty windows. And a yearly oil bill that probably paid for the president of Exxon’s yacht.
Her first appointment arrived promptly at eight. Chris Ellis, father of three, husband to Dr. Anne Vining-Ellis, had had a panic attack two months ago in his office. His doctor prescribed Valium and counseling. It had taken two sessions for Clare to figure out Chris Ellis’s problem: He hated his job. He hated the work, civil engineering; he hated his younger, more ambitious colleagues; he hated the management, which was bent on taking the firm national; and he hated his two-hour daily commute to Albany. In one more session, he admitted he wanted to pursue his true passion, fine furniture making, currently relegated to a basement hobby. Since then, he had been working toward either taking the leap or living with what he had. Clare privately thought he ought to go for it, but with his eldest son at Brown and the second due to start college next year, she could see why he was reluctant to abandon the regular paycheck and benefits.
She was delighted when he told her he’d accepted a paying commission. “It’s for four classic Adirondack antler chairs and a matching table. Just like the ones I did for my friend David’s restaurant. Get this-the owner of the Algonquin Waters was having lunch at David’s, saw my pieces, and asked about them. He wants a set for the hotel!”
“The owner of the Algonquin resort? Was lunching in Saratoga?”
“Yep. Name’s Oppenheimer.”
“Opperman,” Clare said. “John Opperman.”
“I didn’t actually meet him. He left word with the general manager before he left town, and she contacted me. Apparently, they’re very committed to using local craftsmen and material in the hotel.”
She blinked. First Linda Van Alstyne, then Chris Ellis. Before they knew it, half the town was going to be employed by Opperman’s company. It probably wouldn’t do any good to mention her belief that the owner of the Algonquin Spa and Resort had manipulated his two business partners to their deaths. The only other person who shared her opinion was Russ Van Alstyne, and he wasn’t about to be propping up her arguments any time soon. It was a moot point, anyway. Businesses killed people every day in some part of the world or another. Though she suspected they did it with less personal involvement than Opperman.
She said something encouraging, and Chris talked for a while about seeing if he could structure a part-time position at his firm, or maybe independently consult for them, and when they wrapped up, she was guiltily aware that she’d only given him half her attention. Encountering the same people, businesses, gossip-that was life in a small town. She thought of Ben Beagle, and his big hog-killing story. It was not a conspiracy to make her see the Algonquin Waters at every turn. It was just where she lived.
