In the Bleak Midwinter

“Of course he was.” Edith Fowler frowned at Clare. “If you had to speak with us about our son cheating on his girlfriend, Reverend Fergusson, I’m afraid I don’t see the point. Nor do I see that it’s any business of yours.”

Clare bit the tip of her tongue. “Katie McWhorter had a baby just a week or so before she was killed. So far, the police haven’t been able to identify the baby’s father.”

“So far? Are you suggesting—”

“Calm down, Edie. Clare, you don’t know our son. If anything, he’s overly responsible. And devoted to Alyson. Maybe he did have a little romance with this girl, but there’s no way he’d be so thoughtless as to risk a pregnancy.”

“This is ridiculous. How do you know it’s not some other boy anyway?”

“I have a photograph of them taken at the Infirmary Christmas party last year. It’s—” she reached into her pants pockets, coming up with nothing more than a fistful of change and a wadded tissue. “I left it in my coat pocket.” She let her hands drop. “I’m not saying that your son is involved in Katie McWhorter’s murder. I’m suggesting that he may have fathered her child. We know she had a boyfriend that she didn’t want her family to know about. Somebody accompanied her to a local motel around Thanksgiving and stayed with her while she had the baby. She named him Cody, wrote a note asking that he be adopted by Geoff and Karen Burns, and left him on the kitchen steps at St. Alban’s, despite having no connection to the church.” She flipped her hands open. “Don’t you see? Wes had a reason to want to stay anonymous. He was home around Thanksgiving, right?”

Vaughn Fowler nodded.

“And he’s a member of the church. He would have known about the Burnses looking for a child.”

Edith Fowler covered her mouth for a moment. “Oh, dear God. Vaughn, do you think . . . ?”

“I don’t know. It’s a long chain of supposition from just one link.” He looked at the floor, frowning. “Have you been to the police with this, yet?”

“No. Chief Van Alstyne is . . .” she paused, reining in the anger she still felt from yesterday. “. . . anxious to find the killer. He’s been frustrated so far, and he’s pouncing on possibilities without giving them much thought.” Had Geoff Burns been arrested yet? Not that Karen would call and tell her. “I’m afraid that if he hears about the connection between Wes and Katie, he’ll leap straight to the conclusion that Wes murdered her. And probably Darrell McWhorter as well.” Darrell had looked at the parish bulletin board before changing his mind about giving Cody to the Burnses. He had seen Wes’s picture there, with his family. And made a phone call that afternoon. “Does Wes have access to any money?” she asked.

“What?”

“Certainly. He has an account with a bank in West Point.”

“Sorry, I was just thinking.” A scared kid with his own cash made an easy target for blackmail. She glanced at Mrs. Fowler, leaning against her husband. Maybe their son was a murderer. One way or another, though, she was going to make damn sure she had gathered some evidence before handing the boy over to Russ’s tender mercies. “Let me check this out some before we involve the police,” she said.

Vaughn nodded. “I want Wes here to answer questions.” He looked at his watch. “I can head for West Point later this afternoon and bring him back tomorrow morning first thing.”

“Good. I’m going down to Albany. Katie’s sister gave me the address yesterday. I’ll talk to Katie’s housemates, and see what they remember. Do you have a picture of Wes I could borrow?” She looked around the room. All the family photos were framed and hanging on the walls.

“Here, take this.” Edith Fowler grabbed a large bound volume off the coffee table. “It’s his high school yearbook.”

“Thank you. I—”

“I’d like to see that photograph you have,” Edith went on. “Just to make sure there’s no mix-up.”

“Of course.”

Vaughn opened the door. In the kitchen, the Shatthams were intently poring over cookbooks. Clare wondered how soundproof the study door was.

“All set. We’ll just see Reverend Fergusson out.”

In the hall foyer, Edith handed Clare her coat. “Thank you. It’s—” Clare yanked her gloves from the pocket and dug inside. “—right here.”

The Fowlers examined the Polaroid. Edith made a soft noise.

“It’s him, all right,” Vaughn said, his voice gravelly. “I’ll get him on the phone right away. I want to get to the bottom of this.” He shook his head. “May we keep this?”

Clare reached for the picture. “I’d like to take it with me to Albany. I hope it’s nothing, but it may need to go to the police.” She deposited it back into her pocket.

There was a noise from the kitchen entrance. “We wanted to say good-bye,” Mitchell Shattham said hesitantly.

“Edie, are you all right?” his wife asked. Edith Fowler shook her head.

“We’ll want to get in touch with you as soon as you’re back from Albany,” Vaughn said.