A Fountain Filled With Blood

Russ tried to get rid of Clare, of course. First, he wanted her to stay at the inn and accept Ron and Stephen’s offer of a shower and a room to rest in. Then, when Officer Flynn arrived and drove them up to the construction site to reclaim their cars, he ordered her to go home, a direction he emphasized by driving past the rectory on his way to the Landry house and pointing his finger out his window at her driveway. When they got to the imposing modern house—Clare still dogging Russ’s Ford 250—and discovered that Peggy, her laptop, and two suitcases were gone, she could see he was tempted to leave her there, with the nearly hysterical bride-to-be and the poor confused Woods. She crossed her arms and simply ignored everything he said that didn’t involve her sticking around. His heart wasn’t really in it anyway. Maybe there was something about throwing up on another person’s shoes.

“I know why you’re doing this,” he said as he rifled through Peggy Landry’s home office. He, Kevin, Noble Entwhistle, and a friendly cop introduced as Duane were searching the house. “You’re an adrenaline junkie. I’m here to tell you that the only way to get over that is to live a life of quiet contemplation.” He tossed several folders on the floor. “Here, make yourself useful.” She sat on the Oriental rug and began paging through the documents. “Quiet contemplation,” he went on. “Like the priesthood.”

Officer Entwhistle stuck his head in the doorway. “Thought you’d like to know. We pulled a suitcase full of goodies from under the nephew’s bed. Meth and ecstasy, and some heroin, too. We’re leaving it in place until the lab guy can get here. It may be another hour.”

“Speedy as always. Any indications where Wintour might have gone?”

“Nothing yet. We’re still looking.” Entwhistle glanced over at Clare, who sat cross-legged on the floor, and raised his eyebrows. “Helping out, Reverend Fergusson?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’ll, uh, leave you two to it, then.” He retreated down the hall.

“That’s great,” Russ said under his breath.

“What?” The folder held an endless correspondence between Landry Properties, Inc., and its insurance carrier, dating back several years. Even letting weekend warriors play paintball on your mountains was apparently a potential pitfall of litigation.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just another misunderstanding.”

“Huh,” she said, trying to decipher the arcane agreement that had BWI paying a portion of Peggy’s insurance on the land not leased for the spa. Statements for January, February, March…then something different in April.

“Russ. Come take a look at this.” He knelt beside her. She laid the paper on the rug and they both bent over it. “If this says what I think it does, Peggy’s share of the BWI insurance was canceled in April.”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Would that include that provision Opperman told me about? Where she gets paid out of insurance money if the project didn’t go forward?”

“I’m guessing so.” She flipped through another few pages. “Look at this. Her insurance company writes her that they’ve been refused payment because BWI’s dropped her policy.” She underlined the words with her fingernail. “Hugh Parteger,” she glanced at him, “a financier I met at Peggy’s party, he told me BWI was overloaded with debt and looking for cash.”

“Her insurance situation wouldn’t be that big a deal so long as the construction was going through,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “But if she thought Ingraham was going to pull the plug on the project…”

“She’d be left with nothing except a hunk of cleared land and a reputation as someone who had a major deal drop through her fingers. She’s spent years trying to make something of that property.”

He nodded. “Could be she decided that if Bill Ingraham was out of the way, the spa could be built without him. Opperman said pretty much the same thing to me. With the design all in place, all Ingraham was doing at this point was acting as the lead contractor. Could be she thought she could safeguard her investment.” He shook his shoulders. “Remind me to stay away from real estate speculation.”

There was a screeching noise outside, and the sound of flying gravel. Someone shouted from the main floor.

“What the—” Russ was on his feet and pounding down the hall before Clare had a chance to get up. She followed him, two steps at a time, up the stairs to the main floor, guided by the shouts and slamming doors. The elderly Woods were huddled beside a grandfather clock in the foyer. “Which way?” Clare said.

Cyrus Wood pointed to the front door. She burst outside in time to see both the squad cars gunning down the sloping drive, wheels spinning, stones rat-tat-tatting. Russ was flinging open the door of his pickup. She put on a burst of speed and ran headlong into the truck, banging on the hood. “Let me in! Let me in!”