I Shall Not Want

'Like what?'

'Like you want to eat me or something.'

He smiled slowly. 'I do.'

She stumbled. He caught her and steadied her until she regained the rhythm.

'You make me think of those great glazed doughnuts they have over at the Kreemie Kakes diner,' he went on.

'I make you think of a doughnut?'

He shrugged. 'I am a cop.' The music segued into 'Old Devil Moon' without missing a beat. 'Anyway, you know when they have them straight out of the fryer? They're all hot and the icing is just running off them?'

Her cheeks and chest were flushing.

'I love 'em like that. I like to lick the icing off, bit by bit, until it's all over me'-She made a barely audible sound-'and then I wolf it down in great big bites.' He pulled her closer and she went, unresisting, until she was pressed against his chest, their thighs moving together in the steps of the dance. She turned her face up to him, her eyes dilated almost to black.

Finally she said, 'Mrs. Robinson, I think you're trying to seduce me.'

He laughed quietly. They swayed together. He ran his thumb along her jaw, where a piece of her hair clung. 'Actually,' he said, 'I'm doing all this talking because I'm scared that if I don't, I'm going to start kissing you. First here'-he brushed his fingers over her lips-'then here'-he trailed down her neck, making her shiver-'then here'-he rubbed his hand over her collarbone and shoulder before sliding it down her back-'and from there, God only knows.'

She swallowed. Inhaled. 'Would you like to walk me back to the rectory?'

Now it was his turn to breathe in. 'I don't think that'd be such a good idea. In fact, it's probably not a good idea for me to be manhandling you on the dance floor like this.' It was like bench pressing his own body weight, but he managed to push her a few inches away and resume a stance that suggested dancing more than making love.

'That's very thoughtful and responsible of you,' she said. 'Dammit all.'

'I'm trying.'

She looked at him, heavy-lidded, and brushed close to him. He could feel the heat rising off her body. 'Is it hard for you?'

He groaned and closed his eyes. 'Okay, I deserved that.'

'I could walk home by myself.'

He shook his head. 'No.'

'All right. Mr. Madsen and Mrs. Marshall could escort me. He's parked in the small lot behind the church.' Which was separated from the rectory's driveway by a tall hedge of boxwood.

'I'll accept that.'

'Where's your truck?'

'The lot on the corner of Elm.'

'Why, that's just two houses down from where I live. But conveniently out of sight of the neighbors.'

'Uh-huh. Although somebody might notice if it's still there at six o'clock in the morning.'

She raised one eyebrow. 'My, aren't you the confident one. Are you forgetting my live-in duenna?'

'I thought we could play three-hand pinochle.'

She laughed. 'Nobody really knows how to play pinochle.'

'Okay, Scrabble.'

The music ended and they broke apart to clap. She leaned toward him to be heard over the noise. 'Double score for dirty words.'

He smiled at her, helplessly. 'God, I love you.'

She opened her mouth, then closed it. 'I better go tell poor Hugh good night.'

He lassoed Mr. Madsen. 'Clare's leaving,' he explained, 'and I don't want her walking up to the rectory by herself. Could you and Mrs. Marshall go with her?'

Mr. Madsen squinted toward where Clare and Parteger were talking. The Englishman didn't look too happy. 'I thought that young man was her escort.'

Mrs. Marshall had to crane her neck to see. Parteger was gesturing toward Clare, toward the dance floor, toward heaven. Clare folded her arms and shook her head. Mrs. Marshall tsked. 'Not anymore, I think. Come on, Norm, let's rescue her.'

Russ made a point of staying as far away from Clare as possible while still keeping himself in the public eye. He chatted with this person and that, listening to news about grandkids and vacations as if he were running for town office. In the background, he could hear a chorus of 'Good night, Clare!' and 'Thanks, Reverend!' Minutes later, he watched Parteger stride off toward the parking lot, head down, hands jammed in pockets. His BMW peeled out of the lot much faster than necessary. Russ hoped he would cool down before he hit Paul Urquhart's speed trap on the Old Schuylerville Road.

When the band leader announced the last song of the night, Russ slipped away. He walked straight to his truck and kept on going, to the back of the lot, where a tornado fence and straggly sumacs marked off the first house on the south end of Elm Street. The only streetlight was on the corner, at the front of the lot, so he disappeared into velvet dark, untraceable except for his footsteps, slapping on the pavement.

He focused on that noise, and the thudding of his heart, and the warm dry air on his skin, and the smell of grass clippings and night jasmine. He didn't want to think, because he was afraid he'd shoot himself in the foot if he did. He hadn't done so well with thinking, these past months.

Then he saw Clare's house, just as it had been a month ago, one dim light in the living room and a glow coming from the kitchen door, and thinking became academic as all the blood rushed from his head into other places.

He crossed the street, mounted the kitchen steps, smiled as she pulled the door open for him. Then he saw her face, pale and strained. 'What is it?' he said. He looked past her. The place was a mess. The cabinet doors hung open and all the drawers were yanked out.

'Amado's gone,' she said, 'and somebody's torn apart my house.'

III

Nobody ever told you how messy fingerprint powder was. After the state police technician had photographed Clare's closets gaping open and her clothing strewn across the floor, after she had unlocked the church for Lyle MacAuley and Kevin Flynn to search, after she had listened to Russ's phone calls rousting Eric McCrea and Hadley Knox out of their beds and over to the McGeochs' workers' bunkhouse, after she had said good-bye to Russ-a stiff, grim farewell at the foot of her driveway, surrounded by officers strapping on their tac vests and checking weapons, already planning for the reception they would find when they knocked on the Christie brothers' door-after all that, she shut her door against the world and tackled the fingerprint powder.

A sudsy bucket and a couple of old T-shirt rags. The dust was everywhere because the mess was everywhere: kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath. First she had to stop to sweep up the various bits of broken glass, and then she had to keep trekking back to the sink to rinse the rags-no use streaking wet powder and grime over the picture frames, the banister, her jewelry box. Once she had the powder up, she could tackle the clothes and the books and the papers. Replace the recyclables in the bin. Restock the pantry shelves.

She was wiping down her dresser top when she realized she had to strip her bed and wash her sheets; she had to do it right away, right now. She tugged and pulled and wrestled the linens off, and the blankets, too, and the quilt and the mattress pad as well, then lugged them downstairs to the alcove off the kitchen, stuffing them into the machine, stuffing and stuffing, unable to find the water temperature control because