In the Bleak Midwinter

“Call the staties, let ’em know we’re going to need a diving team and a water search to recover Fowler’s body.”

“What happened?” Clare asked, her teeth clicking together.

“You mean after you did your swan dive? Fowler fired on me.”

“Oh, no. Oh no. Were you the one who—”

“No, my gun was still holstered. Mark was my backup. He’s a damn good shot.” He shook his head. “Fowler was hit. He went between the ties.” He looked at her, his eyes so deep she thought she could dive in and touch the bottom of him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“For Fowler or for Mark?” He raised a hand. “No, don’t tell me. I know. For both of them.” He took off his glasses and wiped them on a corner of the blanket. “When I saw you go over the edge like that . . .” He shook his head. “I took the fast route down by sliding down that goddamn slate embankment. My ass is going to feel that one for a month. ’Scuse my French.” He threw his arm around Clare and pulled her blanket-wrapped form tightly to his side. “Jesus Christ, Clare, what were you thinking of? Do you have any idea how fast you can die in water that cold? We had a diver standing by, for chrissakes.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be that cold,” she said, shaking uncontrollably against him. She jerked her chin toward the squalling baby. “It was worth it.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I guess it was.” He smiled a bit. Then he started to laugh softly.

“What?”

“Damn, I sure had you pegged when I said you jumped in feet-first without thinking . . .”

CHAPTER 31

At twilight, the small parking area behind St. Alban’s was already filled. Well, he should have expected that on Christmas Eve. Russ parked in the lot across the street, collected his package, and trudged across Elm toward the Gothic double doors hung with wreaths. The pavilion in the square was glowing with Christmas lights and the shining windows of the last stores open, and for a moment he could have been back in 1962, when everything in his world was safe and understandable. Where businesses never closed and marriages were forever and no one ever died.

He shook his head at his sentimentality and hauled on one of the elaborately cast bronze door pulls. Inside the church, his glasses fogged over, blinding him. The smell of pine and beeswax filled the shadowy air. From the choir stalls a soloist was singing, then stopping, going back and repeating her phrase.

“Hey. Chief Van Alstyne. Are you here to help, too?”

He popped his glasses back on. A startlingly well-scrubbed Kristen McWhorter faced him, carrying a box of tall white candles.

“Kristen. Hi. I’m surprised to see you here.”

She jiggled the box. “Reverend Clare talked me into helping with the decorating. I’m sprigging the candles. Don’t ask.”

He grinned. “Okay. How is everything?”

“Pretty good. The funerals were hard. Hard to get through. But knowing what happened to her helped. I still haven’t spoken with Wes Fowler. Which I can understand. But I have been seeing Cody.” She smiled. “The Burnses have asked me to be a godmother, isn’t that cool? He’s going to be baptized here in January.”

“That’s very cool, yeah. I’m glad for you.” He glanced around the church. A woman was twining greenery around huge standing candelabras and an elderly man was wedging votive lights into recesses in the windowsills. “Where’s the Reverend?”

“I heard her muttering something about coffee. I’d check in her office.”

The hallway was dim and quiet. He knocked on her door frame. “Anyone in?”

“Russ! Well, isn’t this a nice surprise. If you’re here for the seven o’clock service, you’re a few hours early.” Clare rose from one of her odd-looking admiral’s chairs, elegant in a tailored black blouse and long skirt. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.” She poured from her Thermos into a Virginia Seminary mug. The coffee was hot and sweet and tasted of cinnamon. He dropped his package on the shabby love seat and laid his parka over it before sitting down.

“I meant to call when I saw the notice about Fowler’s funeral in the paper.”

“I didn’t officiate. I asked Clifton Whiting from St. Ann’s in Saratoga. I thought my presence would be more of a hurt than a help.” She looked into her coffee. “I can’t help but think that if I’d been a little more on the ball—”

“You could have stopped Fowler from destroying himself? Someone once told me you can’t take responsibility for everyone around you. Seems like a pretty smart observation.”

She smiled crookedly at him. “I should have had you around to put in a good word for me when the vestry called me on the carpet to explain what had been going on. I don’t know who shocked them more, me or Vaughn Fowler.”

He slipped off his glasses and polished them on his scarf. “If you need me to let them know what a genuine help you were—”

“No, no. They just need time to readjust their worldview. I’m taking advantage of the confusion to push forward my young mothers’ mentoring program. For which, by the way, I have the support of the Burnses, who have forgiven me for narcing on Geoff’s drunk driving episode.”