A Fountain Filled With Blood

Clare wasn’t surprised when the office phone started ringing promptly at nine o’clock. She was kneeling atop her desk, struggling to open the window. She knew it could be done, because Mr. Hadley, the sexton, had taken down the forties-era storm windows and hung screens in their place. When she had asked about an air-conditioning unit, he looked at her as if she had suggested installing a hot tub in the bathroom. “Waste of money,” he said. “Won’t get so hot an open window and a fan can’t handle it.”

And she had to admit he had been right, up until last week. The June temperatures had been balmy, and she had simply cranked open the narrow casements at the bottom of her diamond-paned windows for a little fresh air. But after the dismal Fourth, July had moved in like Sherman through Georgia. This morning, walking from the rectory to the church, she had already felt the heat rising from the pavement under her feet. Her sunny office would be an oven if she couldn’t get some cross ventilation.

Unfortunately, the rise in heat and humidity seemed to have caused the window to swell. Knees sliding on loose papers, Clare braced her hands under the sash and heaved. Nothing.

Her speakerphone buzzed. “Reverend?” Lois, the church secretary, hadn’t looked hot this morning. Lois never looked hot, or frazzled, or unkempt. Somehow, she managed to have two fans blowing vigorously in the main office without stirring a single strand of her perfectly cut bob. “It’s Robert Corlew on the phone.”

Corlew had taken over as the head of St. Alban’s vestry since the beginning of the year, after former president Vaughn Fowler had…permanently resigned. When replacing him, the vestry had decided Corlew should use the more traditional title of warden, perhaps to encourage the idea of stewardship, rather than Fowler’s approach, which had been more like Alexander Haig in crisis mode.

Clare grunted, trying the sash again. “What’s he want? And can we get Mr. Hadley in to pry this darned window up?”

“Maybe Mr. Corlew could do it for you. He sounds as if he’s ready to rip a window right out of its frame.”

Clare sank back onto her calves. “He read the newspaper.”

“He read the newspaper.” After the Monday-night broadcast that outed, as it were, Bill Ingraham, the Post-Star had taken the story and run with it. Yesterday, they had a piece on Ingraham’s death and the effect it might have on the Algonquin Spa development. Today, the Wednesday Post-Star featured a prominently placed story linking Ingraham’s murder and the Dvorak and MacPherson beatings, including comments from leaders of gay organizations. Clare’s name, and St. Alban’s, had also been mentioned in both the Tuesday edition and today’s. Lois had already cut out the articles for the church scrapbook. “It makes such an interesting change from all those community news stories about the Saint Martha’s Group tea and white-elephant sales,” she had said.

Clare clambered down from her desk. “Put him through,” she said with all the enthusiasm of an early Christian asking to meet the lions.

“Try not to sound so eager and upbeat,” Lois said before she clicked off and Robert Corlew came on the line.

“Reverend Clare?”

“Good morning, Robert. How nice to hear from you. I don’t think I’ve seen you in church more than once since Memorial Day. I’ve missed you.” She grinned to herself. Maybe she could land a preemptive strike and take the field before he recovered.

“Ah. Well, you know how it is—summertime, grandkids visiting, houseguests, sailing. And business is nonstop.” She could hear him collecting himself. “I’m calling about the article in the paper today.”

“Yes, I saw that. It mentions St. Alban’s. Did you notice? We’re really starting to get our name out.”

“That’s what I mean. I don’t think we want to ‘get our name out’ in a story about gay guys who get killed while cruising for anonymous sex!”

Clare leaned back in her old-fashioned office chair. It let out a satisfying snap. “Are we talking about the same article? The one that describes how a doctor and a video-store owner were assaulted and then a highly respected businessman was killed?”

“In the bushes in the park, yes, that article. I can read between the lines as well as the next man. Gay man plus dark, secluded area in a park means one thing.” His voice dropped into a confidential tone. “Look, I can understand. You happened to be there; your name got into the paper as a result. What’s done is done. What I’m thinking of now is damage control. I want to make sure you aren’t getting involved, that’s all.”

“ ‘Involved’?” Clare’s resolve to treat Robert Corlew with teasing good humor was cracking under the strain of his conversation. “Can you expand on that?”