In the Bleak Midwinter

Clare tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of the effortless chic of the woman standing beside her. She looked like a badly tailored crow next to Karen’s drapey wool separates and hundred-dollar haircut. Which was ridiculous. Appearance was not what was important here. She tugged her bulky, faded sweater down, revealing more of her clerical collar.

“Mrs. Burns?” Russ said. “Reverend Fergusson?”

Karen looked uneasily at Clare. “I . . . uh . . . was going to wait for my husband, but he’s being held over in a deposition . . .”

Russ tilted his head a little to the side. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Why don’t you come into the interview room with me. We can be more private there.”

Karen nodded. “Clare, will you stay with me?”

“Of course.”

Russ looked at her hard while pulling out a chair for Karen, asking what was going on as clearly as if he’d said it. Clare raised her eyebrows, radiating encouragement. He rolled his eyes at her before crossing the room and taking a seat opposite Karen. Clare seated herself.

“Mind if I tape this? I hate to have misunderstandings later on because we’re remembering different things.” He rested his hand easily on a cheap portable tape recorder.

Karen frowned. “As long as you make it clear I’m speaking without an attorney.”

“Oh? Do you need one?”

Karen flushed. “As you say, I’d just hate to have misunderstandings later on.”

He nodded, turning on the tape machine. “This is Chief Van Alstyne, interviewing Karen Burns.” He glanced at Clare. “Accompanied by her priest, Reverend Clare Fergusson. Ms. Burns is unrepresented by legal counsel.” He looked at Karen. She nodded. “The date is Friday, December tenth, and the time is . . .” he glanced at his watch, “six P.M.”

Karen took a deep breath and began. Clare listened to her voice, calm and orderly. Her recounting of the events of Wednesday night was organized, yet compelling. Clare propped her chin in her hand, struck by Karen’s poise. She must make a dynamic advocate in court. Russ, on the other hand, looked less than impressed. He sat with one hand resting on the tape recorder and the other splayed across a pad of paper. Clare supposed his expression could qualify as neutral, but she could see something underneath. Disapproval? Skepticism? She bit her lower lip. It was important that he treat Karen right. How else could he encourage this kind of honesty?

When she concluded her story, Karen folded her hands, as if waiting for comment. Russ chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. He tapped the tape machine a few times. “Your husband was driving a Honda Civic that night?”

“That’s correct. He uses it instead of his Saab when the roads are salty.”

“Has he driven it anywhere since that night?”

“Yes . . . he’s got it today. He likes me to keep the Land Rover, in case I need the four-wheel-drive. Why?”

“Was he drinking at the Dew Drop Inn before he went to Mrs. McDonald’s?”

“No, that’s in the opposite direction from our office and her house. Um . . . he didn’t actually say, but I assumed he’d gone to the Sign of the Musket after work. That’s where we usually go for Happy Hour.”

“Mrs. Burns, when you spoke to Officer Entwhistle Wednesday night, you said you own a nine millimeter Smith and Wesson, registered to yourself, and that you keep it in your Land Rover for times when you’re on the road by yourself.”

“That’s . . . correct. I have clients spread out between Albany and Plattsburgh, and a woman traveling alone can be vulnerable. What relevance does this have, Chief?”

“Is that gun still in your Land Rover?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

Russ nodded. He popped the tape from the machine and rose from the table. “Will you wait here for a moment? I’ll be right back.” He closed the door on his way out.

Karen jerked around in her seat. “Clare, I don’t like this. I do not like this at all.”

Clare rested her hand on the other woman’s forearm. “Karen, we knew he’d be suspicious. After all, you did lie before. I’m sure Chief Van Alstyne wants to check with someone at the, what was it? Sign of the Musket? And at the Dew Drop Inn.”

“You’re right.” Karen sighed. “He’s going to want to talk to Geoff, too. Oh, God, I should have just waited for him to get back from that damn deposition. We could have done this tomorrow.”

By which time, Geoff could have argued her out of talking to the police. Clare patted Karen’s arm and tried not to doubt Geoff Burns when she hadn’t even had the chance to talk with him.

The women sat in silence as the minutes crawled by. Clare got up and checked the coffeemaker, but it was cold and dry. The plate beside it was empty. No homemade strudel today.

“What on earth is taking him so long?” Karen demanded. She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to find a phone. I want to call the office and see if Geoff’s there yet.”

“Maybe you should wait until you hear what Chief Van Alstyne has to—”