I Shall Not Want

'There were close to two hundred people there,' Beagle said cheerfully. 'You know what they say. Two hundred can keep a secret if one hundred are dead. Or something like that.' He waggled his fingers at Clare. 'Reverend Fergusson. Nice to see you again. I understand it was a little boy from your congregation who started the whole hullabaloo.'

'Uh, yes,' she said.

'For chrissakes, Clare, you don't have to talk to him.' She frowned at him. Him! 'I'm just trying to save you trouble,' he said under his breath. 'Every time you land in the newspaper your bishop has a fit.'

'Really?' Beagle's eyes lit up. 'Why is that?'

Her frown became a glare before she turned to Beagle. 'Oh, you know Chief Van Alstyne,' she said, going all southern. 'He will have his little joke.' Russ was pleased to see Beagle looked dubious. He didn't have a reputation for little jokes, and he didn't want one, either.

'A two-and-a-half-year-old wandered away from the St. Alban's parish picnic,' Clare went on. Her voice took on that precise tone people get when speaking for attribution. 'He was lost in the nearby woods for-oh, almost three hours before the Millers Kill Search and Rescue team located him, with the help of a wonderful dog handler from Saratoga. I can't recall her name, but John Huggins will have it. We're all very grateful to have him back, safe and sound. That's St. Alban's, Five Church Street, Millers Kill: Holy Eucharist Sundays at seven-thirty and nine in the summer, child care provided.' She crossed her arms and smiled sweetly while Beagle scribbled on his pad. Russ couldn't decide if he wanted to kiss her or drop her on her head.

'Thanks,' Beagle said. 'Now, Chief. About those bodies-'

'No comment,' Russ said.

'Can you confirm that they're contemporary and not historical?' Every few years, someone in the county plowed up a forgotten burial site from the eighteenth century.

'No comment,' Russ said.

'Can you confirm that the medical examiner's office has possession of them pending a homicide investigation?'

'No comment.'

The unending string of rebuffs was making Russ's jaw tight, but Beagle absorbed them without losing his serenity.

'Can you comment on the connection between the two unidentified bodies found on Sunday and the one found the Friday before?'

He managed to stop himself from demanding to know where the hell Beagle had gotten that information. It must have shown on his face, though, because the reporter's expression sharpened. 'I understand the-ah, Joe Friday was Hispanic. Kind of unusual for this part of the state. Are you considering it a possible race-related hate crime?'

Clare's brows pulled down in worry. 'You mean, somebody targeting Latinos?'

'Or migrant workers.' Beagle clicked his pen as if emphasizing the possibility. 'It wouldn't be the first time. In the teens and twenties of the last century, this area was a KKK hotbed. Lots of anti-Irish, anti- Catholic, anti-immigrant violence.'

'You're kidding!' She looked appalled. 'Russ?'

'No. Comment.'

She drew in a breath, ready to rip into him, but stopped herself. She glanced at Ben Beagle, then at Russ. Her eyes narrowed: Later for you. He wasn't sure if it was a promise or a threat. 'I need to be going,' she said. 'It was nice to see you again, Mr. Beagle.'

'Please.' The reporter took her hand. 'Call me Ben. We should get together for lunch sometime, talk about maybe doing a day-in-the-life story on your church.'

Clare smiled warily. 'I don't think we have much at St. Alban's to interest an investigative reporter.'

Beagle was still holding her hand. 'It'd be a human-interest piece. Heartwarming. Heartwarming sells papers.' He grinned at her. 'Not as much as crime and car crashes, but-this being Washington County-sometimes we run short on those.'

Clare looked amused. It struck Russ that the reporter was a lot closer to her age than he himself was, and that Beagle might even have some appeal-to some women. Like a scruffy teddy bear won at a carnival, maybe.

'Weren't you going?' he asked. It came out harsher than he intended.

She stiffened. Then smiled brilliantly at Beagle. 'I'd like that, Ben. Give me a call.' She withdrew her hand and, never once glancing at Russ, stalked away to her car.

'Good-bye,' he yelled. She sketched a wave without turning.

'Quite a woman,' Beagle said.

Russ grunted.

Ben clicked his pen again and turned to Russ. 'So, Chief. Are you going to be able to give me any information on this serial killer haunting the Millers Kill area?'

VII

POLICE DENY SERIAL KILLER, the headline read. Hadley picked the paper up from the kitchen table, where Hudson had dropped it-his morning chore was bringing the Post-Star in for Granddad-before dashing back upstairs to get his backpack.

Millers Kill chief of police Russell Van Alstyne refused to comment on the possibility that a serial killer is responsible for three murder victims found in Cossayuharie over the past week, despite strong similarities in each slaying.

Hadley shook her head. The chief would have a heart attack when he saw this.

Speaking of which… she took Granddad's medicines from the cupboard, untwisted the complicated seals, and shook his daily dose into a cup next to the coffeemaker. He hadn't been taking them regularly, despite her nagging, so she was trying to make them unavoidable.

'Hudson! Geneva! Hurry up or you'll miss breakfast!' She grabbed three boxes of cereal from the shelf and hefted the gallon jug of milk out of the fridge. Half gone. She jotted MILK on the back of the National Grid envelope she was using for her grocery list and stuffed it into her tote bag.

A clatter on the stairs, and Genny trotted into the kitchen, holding a pair of dress boots Hadley had picked up on sale at Wal-Mart a week after they arrived in the North Country. 'Mom, will you help me zip up my boots?'

Hadley pulled out a kitchen chair and deposited her daughter in it. 'Lovey, it's June. We don't wear boots in June.'

'But these are Hello Kitty boots. And I have a Hello Kitty shirt on.'

She couldn't argue with that. 'What about the sandals Grampy got you?'

Geneva gave her a look like Joan Rivers dissecting a badly dressed actress on Oscar night. 'Those are Strawberry Shortcake sandals. Strawberry Shortcake is for preschool. I'm in first grade.' She wriggled the boots on and stuck her legs out.

Hadley weighed the teacher's reaction to the unseasonable footwear versus the time lost convincing Geneva to change her mind, and decided she could live with Mrs. Flaherty thinking she was a neglectful mother. She zipped the boots. 'You get your cereal and I'll help you with the milk,' she said. She strode through the family room to the foot of the stairs and yelled, 'Hudson!'

He emerged from his room, an overfull backpack swinging from one shoulder, clutching a fistful of papers. 'I need signatures,' he said, handing them to her. 'And two checks.' Behind him, she could hear Granddad thumping down the hall.

Hadley examined the papers as she followed her son into the kitchen. Permission slip for a