In the Bleak Midwinter

“You know, they encourage citizens to call in and report suspected child abuse.”

“Not when the child is twenty and hasn’t lived with the parents for two years. Then it becomes our business, not DSS’s. Besides, I’m not a citizen. I’m a law enforcement official. An agent of the state.”

“Look, Mr. State Representative. Call up. Let them know Grandpa McWhorter is under criminal investigation and that you have a warrant—which means Judge Ryswick thought you had probable cause—to test his blood and see if he’s the baby’s father. That alone should tell them to put the brakes on changing the baby’s custody. You don’t need to mention Kristen.”

“Damn, Harlene, you’re right!”

“Uh huh. Like usual.”

“Why don’t you leave that switchboard and become an officer, huh?”

“Because you need a mastermind sitting here in this office more than you need another uniform out there, driving around with nothing to do.”

“Something to do now,” he said, waggling the papers in the air.

“Delivering orders to get a blood test. There’s a thrilling day’s work. No thanks, I’ll stick with the phones.” She grimaced. “Besides, I look terrible-bad in brown.”

From the address, Clare had expected the Burnses’ office to be in one of the late-nineteenth century brick commercial buildings that gave upper Main Street the genteel air of another century. Instead, she found herself in a brand new post-and-beam construction that looked as if it had been lifted straight from the pages of Architectural Digest. Climbing to the second floor law office, she caught disorienting glimpses of the Christmas decorations on the street below through odd, geometric windows.

The reception area was an uneven pentagon, with narrow I-beams crisscrossing the ceiling and large, dramatically colored abstracts on the walls. No wonder Karen and Geoff had goggled at her office. It looked like a curiosity shop next to this place.

“Hello,” she said to the receptionist. “I’m the Reverend Clare Fergusson. The Burnses are expecting me.”

“Please take a seat, Reverend,” the young woman said. “Ms. Burns will be with you in a moment.” Clare sat in one of the plump chairs covered in what looked like hand-loomed upholstery and wondered when she’d stop getting the urge to whirl around looking for the real priest whenever she was called “Reverend.” When she was a kid, of course, it had always been “Father” Such-and-so, and that title still sounded more . . . authentic to her ear. Reverend is an adjective after “the,” not a title after “hello,” Grandmother Fergusson sniffed. A proper word for female priests corresponding with “Father” had been on her wish list for years. She supposed they’d think up one right about the time the Roman Catholics began ordaining women.

“Reverend Clare!” Karen strode across the reception floor, her hands outstretched. Clare rose. “I’m so glad you could come on such short notice. Come on into my office, please. Geoff is still stuck in court, I’m afraid.”

Karen Burns’s office was clean and spare, with more abstract artwork that blended perfectly with the Shaker-style furnishings. Clare sat in a severely cut chair across from the desk, surprised at how comfortable it was. The lawyer went to the window, then toward the door, then back to her desk.

“Can I get you some coffee? Tea? Water?” Karen was too elegant a woman to actually bustle, but she was close to it now.

“Karen,” Clare said. “Sit down. Tell me what’s happened.”

“Oh, God,” Karen exhaled, collapsing in her chair. “We got a call this morning from a man named Darrell McWhorter. He claims to be Cody’s grandfather, and said that he had already talked to DHS and was pressing for custody of the baby.”

Clare shook her head. “I’m sorry, I should have called you yesterday. Yes, he is Cody’s biological grandfather.” Should she say anything about Kristen’s accusations?

“Presuming that the murdered girl was Cody’s mother. That won’t be conclusive until the DNA results come in.” Karen’s shoulders sagged. “That’s the law, anyway. Cold comfort. We all know Katie McWhorter gave birth to Cody.”

“Why was Mr. McWhorter calling you, Karen?”

The lawyer sat bolt upright. “He wanted us to buy Cody, that’s why.”

“What!”

“Oh, he didn’t come right out and say it. He’s smart enough to know that baby selling is against the law. He could land himself in jail for the offense, and lose his chance at custody.”

“You didn’t . . . you didn’t agree, did you?”

“God, no. If it ever got out, it would render any adoption null and void. We’d face jail, the loss of our licenses . . . no.” She paused, took a deep breath. “But we did ask him to meet with us on neutral territory, as it were, and see if we could try to work out some sort of . . . accommodation.”

Clare frowned. “What sort of accommodation, Karen?”

Karen leaned forward, forearms against her desk. “We need your help. He’s agreed to accept you as a mediator if we can get you.”

“Get me? Mediating what?”