Chapter 12
When Russ rolled his pickup to a stop in front of Clare’s house, Debba Clow’s Toyota Camry was still parked in her drive. He got out, shrugging into his parka and tugging a wool cap over his head. The night sky was clear, with a full moon and winter-bright stars, and the temperature, which had risen a few degrees above freezing during the day’s sunshine, had plummeted back into the low teens.
There was barely enough space for him to edge between the cars and the icy snowbanks crowding the drive. The heavy, compacted snowbanks, tossed up over four months of shoveling the drive, were slipping forward, like glaciers riding on their own melting remains. Clare’s front door, sheltered by a graceful Dutch revival porch, was inaccessible to anyone without an industrial-strength snow-blower. He clumped up the back steps to her kitchen.
The door opened before he had the chance to knock.
“Chief Van Alstyne. What a surprise.” Clare stood blocking his way, one hand cocked on her hip. She didn’t look happy to see him.
“I’d like to speak to Debba Clow.”
“Have you got a warrant?”
“Do I need one? For Chrissakes, Clare, it’s colder than the monkey’s brass balls out here. Lemme in.”
He could see in her eyes the exact moment when she calculated it wasn’t worth it. “Come in, then,” she said with ill grace, stepping back from the door.
He kicked the ice off his boots and entered. He hadn’t been in this room in over a year. It was still a bland white box, straight from the lowest-grade aisle of kitchen fittings in HQ, but she had cluttered it into warmth with a braided rug and splashy seat cushions and a surprising number of glossy green houseplants that hadn’t been there a year ago.
He stuffed his hat into his pocket and hung his parka on her coatrack. “Where’s Debba?” he asked.
She pointed to the swinging doors that led to the living room. “What are you looking for, Russ? Why do you need to question her?”
“You’ve been talking with her for an hour or so. I figure you probably have a better idea than I do.”
She shook her head. “She hasn’t told me anything”-she paused to choose her words carefully-“of a criminal nature.”
“Good. I hope she doesn’t have anything of a criminal nature to tell me, either.” He pushed through the doors into the living room. This, at least, was exactly the same as it had been last winter. A few more books in the bookcases flanking the fireplace, a few more pillows on the overstuffed couch and chairs. A few more pictures standing on the wooden console and a few less bottles on the drinks table in front of the window. Where Debba Clow sat, perched on one of a pair of tiny caned chairs.
She looked at him warily, and nodded.
“Ms. Clow,” he said. “I have a few questions I need to ask you. Mind if we sit in front of the fireplace? I’m afraid I’d break one of those chairs if I tried to sit down on it.”
He matched his actions to his words, sinking into one of the armchairs, consciously relaxing himself into a friendly, unthreatening posture. He waited while she detached herself from her chair and walked reluctantly to the sofa. She sat as far away from him as she could.
“Nice fire,” he said to Clare, who stood behind the sofa table, her arms crossed over her chest. “Takes the edge off of this cold.” He turned to Debba Clow. “It must have been pretty urgent business for you to leave your kids at home and come see Reverend Fergusson this late.”
She glanced up at Clare.
“You can tell Chief Van Alstyne whatever you feel comfortable with,” Clare said. “I’ve already told you, I won’t talk to him about anything you’ve said to me.” Her glance flickered away from Debba, toward Russ. “However, it’s been my experience that he’s a fair-minded man. And a good listener.”
He dropped his eyes to his lap so he could concentrate on not smiling. When he had his cop face on again, he said, “How ’bout it, Debba? Want to tell me what’s on your mind?”
She glanced up at Clare again, then at him. “Nothing. I’m just… going though a hard time emotionally with this… with everything going on right now. I wanted to try to sort things out with Clare’s help, instead of dumping on my mother.”
Time to play one of his cards. “How about seeing Dr. Rouse today? Was that hard, emotionally?”
Her eyes went wide, showing white like a spooked calf’s. For a moment, all she did was blink at him. He held her gaze. “He was the one who called me,” she said, her voice loud. “He wanted to see me, not the other way around. I knew I wasn’t supposed to go near him. I told him so.”
He half closed his eyes to shield his satisfaction. “So why did you agree to get together?”
She sat up, away from the sheltering corner of the couch. “Because he said he had some important information about the vaccinations. I asked him to just tell me over the phone, I did! He was the one who insisted he had to show me in person.”
“Where did you meet him?”
She looked down at the floor. “This place. Out by Stewart’s Pond. He called it the Ketchem cemetery.”
He had one of those unpleasant moments when the inside of his head tilted and everything he had assumed he knew changed. “The Ketchem cemetery? Where is that?”
Debba seemed more exasperated than upset at this point. “I can give you exact directions, ’cause he gave them to me. Take Old Route 100 north. Turn off on the Old Sacandaga Road, cross the Hudson, and go another mile and a half until you see County Road 57 on the left. Follow that past-”
“A boat launch site,” he interrupted.
“Yeah,” she said.
“You go up a short hill, then at the top you pull off.”
She was looking at him oddly. “Yeah. You know the place.”
He thought of the gravestones clustering beneath the black pines. Cold, dark water. An old woman with her hair like a shroud of seaweed, staring at him. Staring at him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know the place.” He dragged himself back to the moment. “You two met there. Was he driving his own car?”
“Of course he was.” She suddenly clamped her hand over her mouth. “There hasn’t been an accident, has there? I didn’t know-” She twisted in her seat, looking up at Clare. “He hurt himself, after we talked, I didn’t tell you. He slipped in the snow and smacked his head against one of the headstones.” She twisted back, facing Russ. “I tried to help him. Really. But he wouldn’t let me drive him. He said he had a first-aid kit in his own car.” She twisted again, the very picture of concern. “I shouldn’t have left him there all alone.” Back toward Russ. “Has there been an accident? Is he okay?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” he said, his voice mild. “He seems to have gone missing.” He rose from the oversized chair. “Can I use your phone?” he asked Clare.
She nodded, still gazing distractedly at the woman on her couch.
“Maybe you can show me where it is?” He had hung up his coat less than a foot away from where the phone hung.
Her eyes sharpened. “Certainly,” she said. “Follow me.”
Once through the swinging doors at the end of the living room, she turned to him. “What’s going on?” Her voice was pitched low.
He kept his at the same level. “Dr. Rouse’s wife reported him missing. Last time anyone’s seen him was two o’clock. She really didn’t say anything to you about this alleged slip and fall?”
She frowned up at him.
“C’mon, Clare, you can’t claim priestly confidence if she’s just told both of us.”
She worried her lower lip. “No. This is the first I heard of it.”
