A Fountain Filled With Blood

The light turned green, and he faced forward, his eyes fixed on the road. They traveled the length of Church Street in silence. He turned onto Elm and drove up the rectory drive, then put the car into park.

“Russ,” she said, “I didn’t mean it like that. Please.”

He popped the locks and got out. He released the grateful dogs, who tumbled over themselves exiting the back seat.

“Russ…”

He looked at her over the cruiser’s roof, thought about tossing off some line about cops always having critics, then found he couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy to playact with her. He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s been a long day. Just…never mind.”

Clare stood at the edge of the drive, looking at him, twisting the bottom of her sweatshirt. The dogs were already nosing at the front door, whining to be let in. He got back into the cruiser and started it up.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she blurted out. “Russ, please. I’m sorry….”

He waved a hand in acknowledgment as he pulled out of the drive. He could see her face as he drove down the street, a white oval in the darkness. The image stayed with him for a long time.

Chapter Twelve

When Clare opened her front door the next morning to let Bob and Gal out, the air was clear, the grass and leaves were sparkling in the sunlight, and she felt rotten. Guilty. Lower than a worm’s belly, as Grandmother Fergusson would have said. She leaned against one of the columns on the front porch, her hands thrust in the pockets of her seersucker robe, and tried to take some pleasure in the sight of two happy dogs sniffing out every corner of a perfect morning. But all she could envision was Russ’s face, changing from anger to pain as she fumbled and missed her one chance to take back her hurtful words.

Well, she had gotten what she wanted. She had taken a stand against homophobic violence and had raised the red flag against hate crimes. And all it had taken was eviscerating her best friend.

She walked barefoot down the steps and across the lawn to the newspaper box to retrieve Monday’s Post-Star. She took the paper back to the porch and sat on the steps, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it. She didn’t want to deal with murder, protests, arrests, real estate developments, and PCBs. Since when is Russ Van Alstyne my best friend? she wondered. It’s not like we go out bowling together or anything. Still, it rang true. She groaned and beat herself over the head a few times with the newspaper. It didn’t make her feel any better. She dropped it in her lap and bent forward, burying her face in her hands.

“God,” she said, “I believe you brought me here to Millers Kill for a reason. But so far, I mostly seem to be screwing up my own life. Please help me out here. I need to know what it is I’m supposed to be doing.”

Somewhere beyond the open double doors, the phone rang.

Clare raised her eyebrows and rose from her seat on the porch steps. In her experience, God didn’t respond to prayer with a phone call outlining His thoughts and expectations, but she was willing to keep an open mind. She tossed the newspaper on the sofa and went into the kitchen to pick up the phone.

“Hello, Reverend Fergusson? This is Peggy Landry.”

Clare couldn’t have been more surprised if it had been the Almighty. “Ms. Landry,” she said. “Um…how can I help you?”

“We haven’t met, but I believe you know my niece. Diana Berry? She’s getting married July Thirty-first.”

The whirl of speculation snapped firmly into place. Diana Berry and her fiancé, Cary—what? Wall? Ward? Wood, that was it. She remembered wondering how anyone could name a child Cary Wood. Diana had been in twice, once in February to reserve the church and once in April with her fiancé in tow for the first of the mandatory three counseling sessions. She had mentioned that her family was from the area.

“Yes, of course. I’ve met Diana and Cary. Although I haven’t seen either of them for quite some time.” In fact, the pair needed to get back in touch with her about the rest of their counseling if they wanted to tie the knot in her church.

“Diana lives in the city”—by this, Clare presumed she meant New York—“and her mother, my sister, lives over in Syracuse, so I’m helping out with organizing on this end. I’ve been running myself ragged lately with business, and I’m really falling behind on this wedding thing. But! Things have happened this weekend, and that’s why I’m calling you.”

Clare thought for a moment that Peggy was referring to Bill Ingraham’s death. She blinked. No. The jaunty tone, the brisk speech—Peggy Landry had no idea that the man who was developing her property had been bloodily murdered the night before. Good Lord. She clapped her hand over her mouth. Should she say something, or just let the woman rattle on?