A Fountain Filled With Blood

“We can hardly get a rep as a more conservative group,” Terry said. “I think the last parish census showed the average age of our congregants was fifty-six. It’s not like we’ve been bringing new blood into St. Alban’s with what we’ve been doing.”

“Didn’t someone say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting new results?” Clare said.

“That holds true until you start thinking about having children, dear,” Mrs. Marshall said.

“Or playing the stock market,” Terry added.

There was another pause. Clare could hear the quick thwap-thwap-thwapping of the sail as it lost the wind. “I’m going to tack,” Corlew said. He hauled in the jib and released the boom. Clare and Terry dropped down into the bench and ducked as the boat turned and the boom sliced through the air over their heads. “Reverend Clare, can you get up there and tie off the boom?” he asked. “Terry, take the wheel. I’m going below for a sec.”

She scrambled over the hatch and secured the boom in its new position. The wind had lessened from its earlier slipstream rush and now the boat sailed up the lake like a determined woman through a crowded fairground, sweeping past the people and the glittering carny amusements, making her way steadily up the midway, headed for the open air.

She stood mastside for a few minutes, feeling the easy motion of the boat through her feet, hearing Corlew clumping around in the cabin below and the square clinking of ice in glasses.

“Reverend Clare, you want another one?” Corlew twisted backward to see her from the hatch.

She slid down to the rail deck and walked to the cockpit. “I’d better not. I’ve got to drive. And tonight’s that party at Peggy Landry’s.”

“Is that Margaret Landry? I used to know her mother,” Mrs. Marshall said. “How did you come to meet her? I don’t believe any of the Landrys have attended St. Alban’s since old Mr. Landry died, and that was before the war. World War Two,” she added.

Clare sat on the edge of the cockpit and braced her feet against the seat cushion. “Her niece Diana is getting married at St. Alban’s next month. She and her fiancé have been putting off their premarital counseling sessions, and when I pushed Diana on it, Peggy asked me to come to her house and sit down with them before this party. I guess she figured she owed me a dinner if I drove out there for counseling. I have to confess I’m not wild about attending. Standing around making small talk with a bunch of New Yorkers. Plus, I’ll have to wear heels. I hate wearing heels.” She waggled one sneaker-shod foot.

“I hope we’re getting a good donation for the use of the church,” Terry said. He reached past Clare’s legs and accepted a new beer from Corlew. “We’re becoming awfully popular with the wedding crowd. Maybe we ought to institute a series of fees. You know, one rate if you have some family connection, another if you’re a total stranger. It’s not as if their pledges are supporting our expenses.”

“Peggy ought to be good for a hefty chunk of change, after what she got in that deal with BWI.” Corlew emerged from the hatch with his own drink and took the wheel from Terry. “Word is, that spa is going to put her into the big leagues. I didn’t think she was ever going to be able to unload that white elephant, to tell you the truth. I know someone out of Albany who looked pretty seriously at trying a vacation condo community there, but it never went through.”

“Why not?” Clare asked.

“Who knows? It’s a tough site. Environmental impact, the old PCB issue, and it’s remote. People want to vacation where they can reach things, not where they have to drive half an hour to get a burger and a movie. Peggy needed an outfit like BWI, with deep pockets and a long-term plan. They’re going to need to pump a hell of a lot of money into that place for the first few years.”

“You mean to build the place? Or to keep it running?”

“To build clientele,” Terry said. “It usually takes several years for any resort or vacation-oriented property to have enough name recognition to start making money, instead of spending it. Even when there’s an established attraction nearby, like a good ski resort or”—he waved a hand, encompassing the water and mountains around them—“a lake. When the bank structures a loan for a resort-related development, we figure in a minimum of three years before we can expect any profit.”

“So BWI isn’t just going to build the place and put in the staff. They have to keep it afloat for the next several years?”

“That’s why BWI is the perfect partner for Peggy,” Corlew said. “They don’t wait for visitors to discover nearby attractions. They are the attraction. I’d love to know how a small-time player like Peggy got their attention.”

Sumner cleared his throat. “I understand that Landry’s nephew was a particular friend of the late Bill Ingraham.”

“What?”

“Get out!”

“Where on earth did you hear that?”