A Fountain Filled With Blood

She dug into her purse for the lighted compact her sister Grace had given her years ago and examined the damage. Her lipstick was long gone, her skin was blotchy, and her mascara and eye shadow were smeared. She popped open the glove compartment and retrieved one of the little wet foil-wrapped towels she kept there, a habit of her mother’s that had stuck with Clare throughout the years. After she mopped off her face, she used the compact light to check out the rest of her appearance, which was even more disreputable-looking than she had imagined. Her elegant pantsuit was crumpled, the jacket gaping open where her buttons had come off, one leg stained with something dark and unidentifiable—though from the smell, she thought she must have picked it up when she rolled into the trash can.

She snapped the compact shut and closed her eyes. She didn’t care if it was rude; she was not going back in to join the partygoers. She might not be sober enough to drive, but she sure wasn’t drunk enough to appear looking like she had been out for a roll in the clover. She could hide away here in her car, and when the rest of the alcohol had worked its way out of her system, she would drive home. Then tomorrow, she would call Russ and tell him that—

Her eyes snapped open. Call Russ. Holy cow, he needed to know about Malcolm’s little business venture. And that it sounded like Bill Ingraham’s ex-lover knew a lot more about his death than what he had read about in the papers. She fumbled in her purse for her phone, letting her grandmother’s voice—which was saying No lady would ever call after ten o’clock at night—wash away on a tide of exhaustion, relief, and the remnants of several kir royales.

As she pressed the send button, she had a flash of panic. What do I say if his wife answers? The phone rang. Once. Twice. She clicked it off, sagging back into her seat. Coward. Then she remembered. Friday. Dinner at his mother’s. Maybe he was still there. She called information for the number and dialed it, hoping against hope that she wasn’t about to wake Margy Van Alstyne, who might have retired early.

“Hello?”

Margy’s voice sounded crisp. Clare closed her eyes in relief.

“Mrs. Van Alstyne? Margy? It’s Clare Fergusson.”

“Clare Fergusson. Well, I’ll be. What can I do for you this hour of the night?”

You see? Her grandmother said. Calling after ten is an imposition. Clare repressed the urge to apologize and hang up. “I was just wondering…I needed to speak to Russ, and I recalled he said he was going to be at your house for the evening. Is he there?”

“Yes, he’s here.” Margy Van Alstyne’s voice sounded as if only good manners kept her from asking why St. Alban’s rector was calling her son at 10:30 on a Friday night.

“It’s business,” Clare assured her.

“Oh, it’s none of my—never-mind. Let me give him the phone. Here he is.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Russ had been lying back in his mom’s ancient La-Z-Boy recliner, watching Roger Clemens getting shelled by the Angels. He had stayed well past the time it took to replace a few boards on the porch and have dinner, enjoying the comforting familiarity of his mom’s house, where no one ever redecorated and the walls had been the same color since she moved in a quarter of a century ago.

Clemens had given up five runs in the last two innings, and the Yankees were going down hard. Now Mel Stottlemyre was marching out toward the mound. “Give him the hook, already,” Russ told the pitching coach. “Any relief pitcher could do better than that. My mother can do better than that.”

Stottlemyre was talking to Clemens, who was evidently arguing. Now the catcher was coming out to the mound. “Oh, for God’s sake, it’s not the UN. Get him offa there.”

His mother walked into the living room, holding the phone and eyeing him speculatively. She clamped her palm over the handset. “It’s Clare Fergusson,” she whispered. “Says it’s a business call.” She handed him the phone.

“Clare?” His mother stood there watching. He frowned and shooed her away. “What’s up?” He glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I wake you up?”

“No, I’m not spending the night. I was just hanging out, watching the Yankees lose to Los Angeles. What’s going on?”

“I’m at a party at Peggy Landry’s house.”

He listened for the usual background noises you could hear during a phone call in the middle of a party. Nothing.

“It’s a pretty quiet party.”

“I’m calling from my car. I can’t go in.”

“You can’t go in. Clare, you’re not making any sense.” A thought struck him. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I—”

“You’re not planning on driving that car anyplace, are you?”

“No. Well, not yet. I’m going to wait here until I’m fit to drive again.”

He closed his eyes. Christ on a bicycle. “Okay,” he said, enunciating clearly. “Get out of the car and give someone your keys. Then ask Peggy Landry to fix you up with a ride home.”