In the Bleak Midwinter

“You see anything, or hear anything that makes you feel uneasy, call the station. No, give me a call.” He scrawled his home number on the scratch pad next to the cordless phone base.

“I will, Chief. Let’s move those cars so you can get out.”

He looked down at Clare. She smiled crookedly. “Thank you. It seems inadequate, but thank you.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to get into any trouble until then, okay?”

“Okay.”

Dr. Anne waited while he pulled on his boots and coat. Outside, snow still fell furiously. His truck was already blanketed again. “I can’t thank you enough for coming to stay with her,” he said. “She’s so damn busy taking care of other people’s needs she completely ignores her own.”

Dr. Anne smiled knowingly. “Mmmm. Yes, I know the type.” She paused, one hip bumped against her car door. “Chief? I don’t mean to pry, but I heard Clare’s car was parked at the foot of your drive all night Wednesday.”

“What? That’s ridiculous! I mean, yeah, it was there, but that’s because it was snowing and I drove her home.”

Dr. Anne raised her hands placatingly. “I’m not trying to imply anything. I just wanted you to know that if I’ve heard talk, other people have too. It’s a small town.”

Russ hauled open his truck door. “Christ, isn’t that the truth. If folks are so interested in the whereabouts of Clare’s car, let’s hope somebody saw something that’ll tell us who wanted to dump it into a gorge. With her along for the ride.”

CHAPTER 27

Clare looked out at her congregation as the last notes from the communion hymn faded and wondered if one of the people looking back at her wanted her dead. Alyson Shattham and her mother were in their usual spots, but the Fowlers, who usually sat nearby, were missing. As were the Burnses. Sterling Sumner was glaring at her again while Doctor Anne, who last night had argued strenuously against her celebrating the nine o’clock Eucharist, was frowning in concern.

Ronnie Allbright, her acolyte, turned a page in the huge presentation prayer book that lay propped open on the altar. Clare glanced at the text of the post-communion prayer and took a deep, slow breath, focusing on the clear channel of the words. “Almighty God,” she began, and the voice of the congregation joined her in a rumble, “We thank you for giving us the most precious body and blood of your son, Jesus Christ . . .” She knew the prayer like she knew the names of her family. It settled and centered her, so that when she raised her hands to bless the congregation, she could feel an honest surge of affection and support for them all.

Martin Burr attacked the organ, pumping out the opening strains of “On Jordan’s Bank the Baptist’s Cry.” The torch-bearers and the crucifer assembled in front of the altar to begin the recessional. Clare glanced up from her hymnal just in time to see the inner vestibule door opening at the end of the church. Russ Van Alstyne slipped inside. Across the length of the nave, his eyes met hers.

The calm and centered feeling she had been nursing vaporized. She joined the recessional, last in line, inadvertently wincing at the ache that intensified every time she put a foot down. She kept her gaze fixed on the hymnal in order to remember a song she had known by heart since childhood. At the conclusion of the hymn, she stood for a beat too long, unable to dredge up the simple words to dismiss the congregation. She could see the back of Alyson Shattham’s hair, immaculate and shining. Finally she blurted out, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord, Alleluia, Alleluia,” and bolted toward the door while everyone else was still responding with their own Alleluias.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed at Russ.

“I’m going to talk to Alyson,” he said, bending down to keep his voice close to her ear. “What are you doing up and walking around? How do your feet feel?”

“They hurt. But not bad enough to miss the Eucharist. Why here?”

“Because I want her comfortable enough to talk, of course. You’d be amazed at how many people clam up and call for a lawyer when you haul ’em into the station for questioning.”

“The whole ‘separation of church and state’ thing doesn’t carry much weight for you, does it?”

“I think the church-as-sanctuary rule went out a few centuries ago.”

One of the ushers bumped past them. “Excuse me, Reverend, but I have to get these doors open.”

Clare and Russ stepped out of the way. Parishioners clad in bulky winter wools and chain-tread boots jostled each other on the way down the aisle. “I have to do the receiving line,” she said. “I want to be there when you talk to her.”

“I figured you would.”