“No. He became very close to Mrs. Ketchem in her final illness. He was with her when she died, you know. I think he became caught up in her vision of what the clinic could mean for the town. He knew darn well the board of aldermen would never find anyone as dedicated to the job as he was.” Her smile tipped up on one side. “And it didn’t hurt that they revisited his salary after Mrs. Ketchem died. It’s funny,” she said, her eyes easing into nostalgia. “During the years when you’re living on macaroni and cheese and falling into bed exhausted each day from taking care of little kids, you long so for the future. And it isn’t until the future arrives that you realize how wonderful it all was.”
Clare reached for Mrs. Rouse’s hand at the same moment Russ reentered the dining room. Without turning to look, she knew he was there, circling around the shining walnut table, coming through the archway, crossing the floor. “Mind if I interrupt you two?” he said. Mrs. Rouse’s relaxed expression tightened into taut lines of reined-in panic.
He squatted next to the love seat, resting one hand on the cover of the cardboard box. “The first thing I want you to know is that we’ll be calling the friends that you said you were calling the night your husband disappeared. We’re not checking up on you-”
Oh yeah? Clare thought.
“-but maybe talking with the police will jar some memories loose.” He smiled, an I’m-on-the-job-so- everything-will-be-all-right smile that seemed to ease Mrs. Rouse’s tension.
“I’ve got a lot of your husband’s financial information here,” he said. “Bank account statements, credit card bills, things related to your expenses. There were also a lot of miscellaneous papers in the middle drawer of his desk; I’ve packed them up, too.”
“I can’t imagine what use all that will be, except for you to see I spend too much on clothes.” Renee Rouse laughed, a brittle sound that died away almost before it had begun. “What do you think you’re going to find?”
“I don’t know yet. But if we go on the assumption your husband is alive, then either he’s taken himself off deliberately, or he is, for some reason, unable to come home to you. I’m going to look for something that might give us a push in one direction or another.” Clare watched Mrs. Rouse’s face as she came to the realization that there could be explanations behind her husband’s disappearance almost as painful as his death.
“One thing we know is that he had his wallet and his checkbook with him. You two keep your accounts at Key Bank, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d like to contact the manager and have them place an alert notice on your accounts. They’ll notify us if a check is written on the account or if he uses his ATM. Obviously, this’ll be a lot easier if you aren’t writing checks and using your card-”
Mrs. Rouse held up one hand. “I have a separate account that I use most of the time. Allan’s checkbook and ATM card are to our big joint account, and I hardly ever draw on that. He was-” She caught herself, her eyes terrified by the way she had put him into the past tense. “He is,” she began again, “the bill payer in our house.”
At that moment, a single voice in a one-woman conversation flowed out of the kitchen, cascaded through the dining room, and began to swirl around the living room. “Here comes the coffee! And Lacey has the tea. Nancy, you go back and bring out the tray with the sugar and cream on it, will you? I hope everyone is okay with leaded. I couldn’t find the decaf. But nowadays they say it’s not the caffeine that’s bad for you, but the stuff they use to take it out. So we’re probably all better off.”
Renee Rouse stood. “Yvonne’s finished in the kitchen.”
“Now, Renee, you sit right down and rest! That’s what we’re here for, to make things easier for you. Who wants a cup? And there’s another crumb cake in the kitchen I’m going to bring out.”
Russ, who had evidently already met Yvonne, squared the box of documents under his arm and thrust his hand toward Mrs. Rouse. “I’ll let you know the minute we have any news,” he said, his voice pitched low. “You have my card. Call me at any time, day or night, if you need to.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
“It looks like a homemade crumb cake. You can always tell because the store doesn’t use enough butter to hold things together. Of course, enough butter, you might as well just call ahead and book your bypass surgery. So who made the crumb cake? Fess up!”
Russ glanced at Clare, as if he might say something, then settled for nodding and disappearing through the living-room door as fast as he could.
“Reverend? How about you? Coffee? Crumb cake? You don’t look like you have to watch what you eat, like some of us. Of course, all black is very slimming, isn’t it? Maybe I should join the clergy, too. Ha!” Yvonne tipped her head back and hooted.
Clare turned to Mrs. Rouse. “I have to catch Chief Van Alstyne. I have a question for him.”
Renee Rouse nodded. Clare ducked through the door, snatched her parka out of the coat closet, and was through the front door before Yvonne’s voice could pick up again. She spotted Russ next to his truck, the cardboard box wedged awkwardly between his hip and the driver’s-side door as he fished in his jeans pocket for his keys.
She tumbled down the steps. “Russ?”
He turned. “Hey.” He drew the keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. “You leaving so soon?”
“I can’t. I rode here in Mrs. Marshall’s car. I’d be willing to walk home to avoid that Story woman, but then I’d still have to get over to Mrs. Marshall’s house to pick up my car.”
He tilted his seat forward and shifted the box onto the narrow back bench. “Gee,” he said. “I’ve got a truck right here. Drives and everything.”
Her grandmother Fergusson said,
“Let me see if Mrs. Rouse or Mrs. Marshall need me,” she said to Russ. “If not, you’ve got yourself a passenger.”
Chapter 19
Russ was sitting in the cab, idling the engine and scanning the radio for music performed by someone free of piercings or tattoos. Nowadays everything on the air seemed to be by so-called artists who were younger than his favorite pair of jeans or by groups he had first listened to on 45s and AM radio. He could live happily without ever hearing “My Generation” again. He pressed the play button on the CD, taking his chance with whatever he had left in there last. The voice of Bonnie Raitt poured out of the speakers like a long, tall branch-and-bourbon.
Clare popped the passenger door open, and he turned the music down a notch while she swung up into the seat. She grinned at him. “It was okay. One of the other ladies had corralled Yvonne Story, and Mrs. Rouse’s sister is on her way over. They didn’t need me.” She buckled up, worrying her lower lip. “I’m bad. I shouldn’t feel this relieved to escape.”
He shifted the truck into gear and pulled away from the curb. “What, you mean Yvonne? Don’t be. My mom used to volunteer at the library when she was there. Had to quit. Said she was going to commit homicide if she didn’t.”
She laughed. “How is your mom?”
“Happy as a clam. She’s decided coal-fired electrical plants in the Midwest are responsible for our acid rain problem, so she and her cronies are busing to Illinois in April for a big protest rally.”
“Uh-oh. What if she gets into trouble again?”
“If she does, at least it won’t be me arresting her, thank God. Janet and I will stand by with bail money and Western Union.”
Clare twisted sideways in her seat and looked at him. “You look tired.”
