“Hi! Ben Beagle here!” The reporter sounded much too bright and cheery, as if he’d already been up five hours, run four miles, and filed the first story of the day.
“Hi. This is Clare Fergusson.”
“Ah! What can I do for you, Reverend?” He didn’t sound anything less than happy to hear from her. She really ought to read today’s paper. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she imagined. Then he went on, “I have to warn you, the
Maybe it was worse than she imagined.
“Actually, I’m not calling about the, um, Van Alstyne business. I had a question about the story you mentioned to me yesterday morning.” Was it really only yesterday morning? It felt like a year had passed.
“Shoot.”
“The guy whose hog had been killed-what actually happened to the hog?”
“It’d been sliced up. Throat slit, cut open from stem to stern, hacked up a bit around the hams.”
“Did you see it? Did he report it to the police?”
“Yeah, he filed a report. I didn’t see the pig in situ, but he had taken pictures to show to the cops. A full-grown pig’s worth three, four hundred bucks, according to him.”
“Can you tell me who it was? The farmer?”
“He isn’t a real farmer. He’s a pediatrician down in Clifton Park. He has a big old place, raises chickens and a couple pigs every year.” In the background, she could hear paper rustling. “His name’s Irving Underkirk. Why so interested?”
“A parishioner of mine had a lamb killed last week. It sounded similar to what you described.”
“You think someone’s out there running a do-it-yourself butcher shop?”
Clare made a noncommittal noise. “Do you have a number where I could reach him?”
“I’ve got his home and work.” Beagle rattled off the numbers. Clare jotted them down in the margin of the phone book.
“ThanksMr.BeagleIappreciatethis,” Clare said. “ ’Bye.”
“Wait-” she heard, but the receiver was already in the cradle.
She immediately dialed the pediatrician’s office number.
“Clare,” Elizabeth said. “Help me out here. I’m not quite seeing how tracking down dead animals fits in with your pastoral duties.”
“She’s tackling animal welfare and snow removal at the same time,” Lois said. “I think that’s very efficient, don’t you?”
Elizabeth sidled away from the secretary.
“Clifton Park Pediatric Services,” the phone said in Clare’s ear.
“I’d like to speak to Dr. Underkirk, please.”
“Do you have an emergency?”
“No, it’s, um-” Clare had forgotten that it was impossible to actually pick up a phone and speak with a physician. “It’s not an emergency.”
“Well, then, I’m afraid-”
“Could you put me through to his nurse?”
“We have a triage nurse you can speak to.”
“It’s not a medical issue at all.” Clare breathed in. It didn’t do any good to tear the head off the hapless receptionist. “I’m looking into a series of animal killings. I understand the doctor lost a pig-”
“Oh, Lord, yes. We all heard about the pig.”
“I need to ask him a question related to the”-animal cruelty? Vandalism?-“incident,” Clare decided. “If you can put me through to his nurse, she could relay the question for me.”
“Well, that’s a pig of a different color, isn’t it. He’ll definitely want to hear about this. Hang on, you may be on hold for a while.”
Muzak again. Clare clapped her hand over the receiver and said, “Lois, would you get on the other line and call Harlene Lendrum at the police station? Ask her if there’ve been any other reports of animals being killed. Try to get the names and numbers if there have been any.”
“This just doesn’t strike me as being the church’s business,” Elizabeth said.
“Business? Mankind is our business,” Lois quoted, picking up her notepad and swiveling off her chair. “Mind if I use your phone, Deacon?”
Elizabeth made a wilting gesture toward her tiny office. Lois disappeared inside.
“I’m beginning to understand how you get sucked into these things,” the new deacon said. “You let yourself get swept away in the rush of events, and you don’t stop to think about whether or not this is something you ought to be sticking your nose into.”
Clare was about to admit that was a pretty fair assessment of her character, but the sound of a voice on the line brought her back to the pediatrician’s office.
“Hi, this is Dr. Underkirk’s nurse, Violet.” She had the kind of voice that made Clare think of overstuffed sofas and starchy, nourishing meals. “Marcy tells me you know something about Tom, Tom the piper’s son?” Nurse Violet let out a peal of laughter. Clare began to get the idea that his office staff had been less than sympathetic to Dr. Underkirk’s plight.
“I’m looking for information, actually. My name’s Clare Fergusson, and I’m trying to see if there are any common elements between Dr. Underkirk’s case and two others.”
“What do you want to know?” Nurse Violet said. “He’ll be that happy hearing someone’s looking into it. He’s had his tail in a twist since it happened. Get it? Tail in a twist?” The nurse giggled.
“Uh-huh.” Clare closed her eyes for a moment. “Does the doctor have a snowplowing service, and if so, who does the work for him?”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Clare said.
“Hang on.” She heard a clunking sound on the other end. Elizabeth looked at her, frustration and unhappiness thinning her lips, throwing previously invisible lines into relief.
“You still there?” Nurse Violet came on. “Dr. Underkirk says he gets plowed out by one of his patients. A young man named Tracey.”
Clare forgot all about Elizabeth’s premature decay.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” Nurse Violet said. “And by all means, let us know if you catch the little porker!” She was still laughing when Clare hung up.
Lois emerged from the deacon’s cubbyhole. “Bingo,” she said, turning her notepad around so Clare could see her writing on the other side. “Three reports of animals being killed in the past month, according to the dispatcher. One of them was the doctor, one is an old fellow named Herb Perkins who lost a dog, and the last is a couple of professors at Skidmore who lost one of their goats.” She pointed to the paper. “Names and addresses right there.”
Clare took the notepad. “You’re wonderful, Lois.”
“I know. And I’m not the only one. Guess who had just gotten off the phone with the dispatcher right before I called?”
Clare blanked. “Who?”
“Ben Beagle of the
“Damn. He’s a tad too quick off the mark for comfort.” She tried the professors’ number first and got their answering machine. She left as abbreviated a message as she could: She was looking into a series of animal cruelty cases, and was their driveway plowed by Quinn Tracey? Herb Perkins, who was home, didn’t seem happy to hear from a stranger nosing about his business.
“Yeah, I get my dooryard plowed out,” he said in a voice like a crumbling cigar. “Don’t see what that’s got to do with somebody killin’ one of my dogs.”
“I’m looking for a common thread between several incidents, Mr. Perkins.”
