In the Bleak Midwinter

“Dispatch ten-fifteen, this is unit ten-fifty-seven.” Russ gingerly picked up the Styrofoam cup of hot cocoa and blew on it.

“Unit ten-fifty-seven, this is dispatch.”

“Hey, Harlene. You get ahold of Lyle and Noble yet?”

“I reached Lyle, he said he can come on in. Haven’t been able to find Noble yet.”

Russ took a sip and swiped whipped cream off his upper lip. His arteries were probably clogging even as he idled in the Kreemie Kakes parking lot, but on a stormy winter afternoon, nothing beat their homemade hot chocolate. He’d do penance later tonight when Linda served up frozen diet dinners. “Keep trying. Two Saturdays before Christmas, nobody’s gonna let a snowstorm stop ’em from shopping. I want to make sure we have enough men on the road once folks start plowing into each other.”

“That’s why I’m doing all my Christmas shopping over the phone this year.”

Russ took another sip before keying his mike. “Did you know Linda wants to put out a catalogue?” It was all she could talk about when he had picked her up at the train station noontime.

“Does she? Good for her! Sell enough of those fancy curtains and you can retire a rich man. Let her support you.”

“That’s the plan.” He slid the hot chocolate into a plastic cup holder. The prices she had been quoting for publishing the damn thing would have made his eyes pop out if he hadn’t been wearing his glasses, but she was convinced the increased sales would make it worthwhile. Linda knew a damn sight more about the care and feeding of money than he ever would. He hadn’t asked if increased sales would make their lives more worthwhile.

“Dispatch, I’m rolling out of Main and Canal, heading for Route forty-seven. Anything else?”

“Reverend Fergusson called a half hour ago. Said she’d be in her office in the church until five thirty or so. Want me to raise her for you?”

He tapped the microphone against his chin. “No,” he said, “I’ll swing by that way. Let me know if you can’t get Noble, we may have to call in one of the part-time guys. It’s gonna be a mess out here within a few hours.”

The church was dark when Russ pulled into the tiny parking area out back, but he could see lights shining from the attached building that housed the offices and parish hall. The kitchen door was locked tight. He followed the walkway shoveled around the parish hall until he reached the big double doors. Open, of course. He shook his head. It wouldn’t occur to her to lock the door behind her.

“Clare? Hey, Clare, it’s me. Russ.” He brushed snow off his parka. The coffeemaker squatting on the table was on. So were the hall lights. In Clare’s office, the remains of a fire burned low on the brick hearth. Her appointment book, a fistful of pink phone message slips and a half-full mug of cold coffee sat on her desk.

“Clare? You here?” Maybe she had run over to the rectory? He backtracked outside, crossed the parking area and craned to see over the tall boxwood hedge separating Clare’s driveway from the church grounds. The rectory was dark. No tire tracks or footprints marred the fresh snow on her steps.

Frowning, he returned to her office. What the hell had taken her in such an all-fired hurry she couldn’t bank the fire or turn off the coffeemaker? He glanced at her appointment book. Nothing for Saturday except a morning visit to the Infirmary. He flipped through the pink phone message slips. Nothing. He walked down the shadowy hall to the cold, dark church. A single votive candle hung in a red glass container to the left of the altar, washing a carved wooden cabinet with a ruddy glow. “Clare?” he called. His voice echoed back from hard lines of stone.

He slapped his gloves against one thigh, talking himself out of the unease creeping up the base of his skull. She had probably been called away on one of those mysterious “pastoral emergencies.” No big deal. There was nothing compelling him to find out what it was. Of course, if he listened to the answering machine, he might be able to figure out where she had gone without making an ass of himself calling around. He stalked back up the hall, annoyed at Clare for being so damn hard to get hold of, annoyed even more at himself for wasting time worrying about it.

The main office was as dark as the church. He snapped on the lights, dropped into the secretary’s chair, punched the blinking red button on the answering machine. It beeped and obediently began reciting its messages. Next to the phone was a spiral-bound book for written messages, yellow carbon copies, and unused pink tear-out squares. He sat up straighter. There were carbon records of his calls, that one about the baptism, a meeting, and there, slopping over two spaces, a detailed message he hadn’t seen on Clare’s desk.