taking you to our house?”
“Because he wasn’t sure if his sports car would make it all the way to our place and back here. At the hotel”- she glared at him-“we could each have separate rooms without crowding together like we would’ve if he had to stay at our house.”
Russ grunted. The Algonquin’s unplowed driveway was indistinguishable from the gardens on either side, and he edged forward, waiting for the thump that would tell him he’d misjudged and driven over one of their low stone walls.
“And what do you mean, Mr. Sandman? Were you reading my e-mails?”
“We were investigating a homicide. The whole department’s seen your e-mails by now. Not to mention all of our bills, financial records, and phone calls.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Debbie was right behind him.
“You really thought I had been murdered?” Linda’s voice was so low, he could barely hear her over the hot air blasting from the defroster.
“I really did. We all did.”
She rested her hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry.”
The pines lining the private road swallowed them. There was less snow on the pavement, and he could see farther despite the gloom of the forest.
“Did you have any suspects? In my, um, murder?”
“Me, for one.” He risked a glance at her. “There’s a state investigator come in to run the case. I’ve been relieved of duty. The staties and the aldermen thought either I had done it or I was fouling the investigation to protect whoever did do it.”
“That’s ridiculous. Who would want to murder me that you’d protect? Your mother?” She laughed, then fell silent. “No. Not your mother.” Linda turned to him. “Clare Fergusson. They thought your lover did it.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Where are you going?”
Clare jumped. “Good Lord.” She turned to see Elizabeth de Groot next to Lois’s desk, arms akimbo, her ash blond hair and dark clericals limned by the lamplight falling from her own door. At two o’clock, the feeble, storm- grayed daylight barely penetrated into the interior of the office. “You startled me,” Clare said. “I thought you left when Lois did.”
“I considered it. Frankly, given everything that’s been going on here, I felt you needed me to stay. Are you headed home?” It was a reasonable question, given that Clare was booted and suited up in parka, hat, and gloves.
“Uh.” Clare had a pretty good idea that lying to her deacon wasn’t conducive to a good working relationship.
“So where are you going? Is there a pastoral emergency?”
Clare sighed. “Not exactly.” She pulled her hat off. “Are you going to try to make it all the way back down to Johnston?”
Elizabeth wasn’t thrown off the scent. Arms crossed, face expectant, she looked uncannily like Clare’s mother, waiting for a confession. The only thing missing was her mother’s syrup-sweet voice saying, “You might as well tell me now, because I
“I spoke with Quinn Tracey’s best friend a little while ago. He sounded very strange. So I’m going there to check things out.”
“Why? Is he one of ours?”
A question designed to make Clare snatch out her hair. She fell back on St. Luke. “The lawyer, seeking to justify himself, asked Jesus, ‘Who is my neighbor?’ ”
The deacon had the grace to look abashed. “All right,” she said, “that wasn’t well put. But even the Good Samaritan might have let the trained professionals handle things nowadays.”
“I’ve called the police and let them know. They’re sending someone over as soon as they can.”
“Then why do you have to go?”
“Because I’m afraid that Quinn Tracey is a very disturbed young man. And his best friend-his only friend-is home alone. How is he going to handle it if Quinn shows up and says, ‘Hide me’ or ‘Give me money’ or ‘Let’s run away together?’ ”
“But the weather…”
Clare dug her keys out of her pocket. “I have all-wheel drive. I can get over there and back without too much difficulty.”
Elizabeth made a noise that would have been a snort in someone less ladylike. “All right. But I’m coming, too.”
“No, you’re not!”
The deacon ignored Clare’s protest. She crossed to her tiny office and emerged with her wool coat slung over her arm.
“There’s absolutely no reason for you to go,” Clare said.
“I don’t think there’s much of a reason for you to go, either, but you’ve convinced me it’s a pastoral call. All right. I will accompany you on the pastoral call.”
Clare opened her mouth to argue. Elizabeth speared her with a look. “If you’re going to argue that it’s not safe for me to come along, you’ll have to include yourself in that assessment.”
Clare shut her mouth.
The ride out to Old Route 100 was harrowing. The wind picked up the already fallen snow and whirled it in the air to mix with the stuff pelting down from the leaden clouds. Three times, Clare had to take her foot off the gas and let the Subaru roll to a near stop because she couldn’t see two feet past the hood of the car. Other vehicles appeared out of the spidery whiteness, headlights blossoming, then winked away into the storm.
Then there was Elizabeth de Groot.
“Have you considered applying to a more urban parish?” she asked. “Perhaps in a more stimulating environment, you wouldn’t need to keep throwing yourself into risk-taking experiences like you do here.”
Clare didn’t answer.
“You know, the bishop thinks very highly of you. But let’s face it, on the overall balance sheet, have you been an asset or a debit to the diocese as a whole? What do you think?”
Clare gritted her teeth and leaned closer to the windshield.
“In the short time I’ve been here, I can see how much you care for your congregation. But don’t you think the members of St. Alban’s have a right to expect their rector to keep her focus on them?”
Clare snapped the radio on. “Traffic reports,” she said.
Later, de Groot mused, “Maybe you’re meant to be back in the military. A military chaplain. Travel. Adventure. Lots of eligible young men.”
“A church of one,” Clare muttered.
“Hmm? Do you think that might suit you better?”
Clare knew responding would only encourage her, but she couldn’t let that one stand. “The army spent a lot of time and money training me to fly helicopters. If I ever went back, I’m pretty sure that’s what they’d want me to do.”
“Really? How do you think you’ve handled the move from such a dangerous profession to such a peaceable one?”
And so the psychoanalyzing went on, until Clare was ready to drive the two of them into a ditch. The sight of the MacEntyres’ massive barn was more welcome than she could have dreamed. There was something different about it this afternoon. She slowed almost to a stop and squinted through the gray-and-white blur. A gust of wind tore open the storm’s veil, and for a moment she could see clearly the double doors at the top of the ramp, open, and the rear of a pickup truck inside. Then the wind reversed and everything vanished again.
She drove up the driveway a car length or two and parked. She didn’t want to get stuck reversing out. “Bundle
