A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t get introduced. Hugh, this is the Reverend Clare Fergusson; she’s the priest at our local church, St. Alban’s. Reverend Clare, this is Hugh Parteger, vice president of Barkley and Eaton Capital.”

“You’re a priest? An Anglican priest?”

Clare nodded, smiling weakly. “I told you I wasn’t a reporter.”

“What on earth did you two find to talk about? Never mind. Reverend Clare, I have a nice couple for you to meet. Cary’s great-uncle and-aunt. They’ve just returned from a lengthy trip to the Holy Land, and I know you’ll love hearing all about it.”

“Ah.” She tried to shore up her face into a cheerful and interested expression. From the dubious look Hugh was giving her, she doubted she was being successful.

“And Hugh,” Peggy continued, “circulate, will you? I’m counting on you to find some single ladies and charm the socks off them. And don’t sneak away later. I want to talk with you about a date for this financing proposal. John Opperman’s flying to Baltimore tomorrow afternoon, and he won’t be back until Tuesday. Now, off you go. Unmarried women only, please.”

She flipped her hands up, indicating both of them were to rise and go forth to entertain her guests. Clare thought, all in all, that Hugh was getting the better job. Oh, well. At least here the elderly couple couldn’t subject her to a slide show.

“Later for you, Vicar,” Hugh said under his breath as they entered the wide living room. “I think you owe me a bit of an explanation.” He peeled off in the direction of the nearest herd of young women.

“What was that all about?” Peggy asked, steering Clare toward the corner of the room. “Oh, look, here are the Woods, all set up on the table.”

Clare’s heart sank at the sight of a couple in their seventies, sitting on either side of an open laptop.

“You must be the minister Peggy’s been telling us about,” the sweet little old lady said. “Pull up a chair! We’re all ready for our Powerpoint slide show!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Clare found being half in the bag did not improve a slide show on the Holy Land. For one thing, the stupefying boredom of it was lulling her to sleep. And when she wasn’t fighting to keep her chin from dropping to her chest, she couldn’t help darting glances at the party beyond the small circle of chairs around the table occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Wood and herself. The wide French doors at the end of the room had been thrown open and couples were dancing outside on the deck. People she hadn’t seen before kept appearing and disappearing at the head of the stairs, girls in fluttery dresses, their legs bare, young men in slouchy pants and open-collared shirts. Over the music, she could hear bursts of laughter drifting from the library. It was like the sort of bad dream where you show up at work, not knowing at all what to do and having to fake competence, while all around you your coworkers are having an orgy.

“And in this series of pictures, Cyrus really got up close to show the fantastic detailing in these mosaics. Honey, can you center that picture better? As I said to Betty—she was with us at this church—you can just feel the love and devotion in every tile. Oh, look, this is where they were making repairs. Cyrus, did you get a good look inside that grout bucket?”

God, Clare prayed, if you love me, help me.

“Uncle Cyrus! Aunt Helen! We’re going to take some pictures.” They looked up to meet Cary’s cheerful face.

Angels walk among us, unawares. Clare gave him a smile of such undisguised pleasure, he started. “Reverend Clare? Would you like to be in the pictures, too?”

“Actually,” she said, “I really need to escape to the bathroom.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll catch you all later.” At the wedding, she added silently. She strode off as fast as she could manage in her high heels, crossing to the opposite end of the living room and entering the dining room. It was filled with people circling around a large table, forking up tidbits from chafing dishes and trailing phyllo crumbs behind them. “Bathroom?” Clare asked a woman who was about to bite into a miniature quiche.

“In the hallway to the kitchen,” she said, gesturing to a doorway thronged with guests. As Clare watched, the caterer pushed her way through, wedging openings with her elbows to get her platter into the dining room. “But there’s been a steady stream of customers. You’re going to have a wait.”

Clare made a face. “There must be some other ones,” she said.

“There’s one in the pool house, outside. You leave through the main door and go around the—”

“Anything closer?”