A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Chief Van Alstyne.” She tucked her hand behind Hugh’s elbow and pulled him forward. “I’d like you to meet Hugh Parteger. Hugh, this is Russ Van Alstyne.”

Russ was in his civvies, but as he shook hands with the Englishman, he managed to make jeans and a button-down shirt look like a uniform. “What brings you to Millers Kill?” he asked. It sounded like the beginning of an interrogation, rather than a social pleasantry.

As Hugh explained his presence in Russ’s jurisdiction, Paul dragged over a pair of slouchy canvas chairs and offered two glasses of fruit-clotted sangria. “Mrs. Van Alstyne’s using the little girls’ room,” he said, and, as if called by his words, Margy waltzed through the French doors.

“Clare!” She hugged her firmly. “And who is this Russ is talking to? Is this good-looking fellow your date?”

Clare introduced the two. Hugh looked relieved to have someone to speak with besides Russ, who, when Clare pressed one of the glasses of sangria into Hugh’s hand, asked, “One of you is a designated driver tonight, right?”

They all sat down, ranged around Dr. Dvorak. Seven weeks after his near-fatal beating, Emil Dvorak looked frail and stitched together. His hair was a stubble of new growth around pink lines of scars, and the left side of his face wasn’t quite symmetrical with the right—his eye didn’t open as wide and his smile didn’t reach as far. But as he told them stories about his hospital stay, he spoke clearly, displaying an acerbic humor that she liked right away.

The conversation turned to health care, with Margy Van Alstyne telling them the trials of life under Medicare and Hugh weighing in on the British National Health system. Clare let the talk flow around her while she sipped her icy sangria. It wasn’t until she accepted Paul’s offer of a second glass that Russ spoke to her.

“You’re not going to want to break into their bedroom and climb out the bathroom window if you have that, are you?”

She snorted. The other four looked at her with polite incomprehension. “Just…it’s a long story,” she said. “I was trying to find out more about Malcolm Wintour.”

“I trust they’re going to put him away for a long time,” Hugh said.

“The victim’s advocate interviewed me,” Emil said. “She told me Wintour’s going to plead guilty to possession and dealing but is trying to duck the murder charges.”

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose. “The DA thinks she won’t have much of a problem hanging Chris Dessaint’s death on him, but conspiracy’s difficult to prove, and we haven’t been able to give her much evidence.” He looked at Clare. “From what we can tell, Peggy was giving orders to her nephew, who, in turn, was giving orders to Chris Dessaint, who was bringing in Colvin and McKinley.”

Clare’s shoulders twitched. “It’s like puppets playing puppets.”

“Yeah. But there’s not much of a paper trail, other than a few phone calls from Wintour’s cell phone to Dessaint. And with Peggy and Dessaint both dead, there isn’t much hope of ever getting all the details. I tell you what really bugs me.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We still don’t know how Peggy hooked up with Chris Dessaint.”

“I thought Malcolm was the one giving him orders,” Clare said.

“He was. But Wintour didn’t know him before. He claims his aunt fingered Dessaint, gave him his name and phone number.” He made a noise of frustration. “You can imagine how hard it’s going to be to get the conspiracy charge to stick.” He glanced around at the others, as if recalling that he wasn’t in a private conversation. “But to get back to Mr. Parteger’s statement…You can rest assured that the three surviving stooges will be going away for a long, long time.”

Emil smiled slightly. “You know, I don’t really care. Nearly dying has a way of giving you perspective.” He looked at his partner, the strained lines of his square face softening. “We all have only so much time. I don’t want to waste what’s left to me on things that aren’t important.”

Paul smiled back. “And that makes me think,” he said. “Clare, how did your candlelight vigil go?”

“Huh? Oh, it was great. More people than I expected.” Thanks to Todd MacPherson’s new friends from the Adirondack Pride team, she said to herself. She had spent much of the evening dodging their attempts to interview her. She wanted to do the work she needed to do, but she wasn’t interested in becoming their poster priest.

“What did your congregation think of it?”

“I think it boosted attendance the next Sunday. I actually had forty people in the pews.” She decided not to mention that half of them had wanted a “little word” with her about her activism.

“Good,” Paul said. He took his partner’s hand and breathed deeply. “Because Emil and I would like to ask you to marry us.”

Clare blinked.

“Well, I guess that calls for congratulations,” Margy said stoutly. Hugh and Russ glanced at each other. Hugh cleared his throat.

“Yes, congrats and best wishes,” he said.