In the Bleak Midwinter

Harry Connick, Jr.’s voice filled the car. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas . . .” Clare picked her bacon burger off the yearbook cover. She might as well have left Albany right after talking with Emily and Ebony, instead of waiting until the afternoon, risking driving into the storm. No one at the university’s computer center could recall seeing Katie with Wes or Alyson.

She chewed her rapidly cooling burger thoughtfully. Alyson had lied straight out to her, Russ, and her parents. Maybe Wes had thrown her over for Katie. Could she have murdered in a fit of jealousy? What could she have said to have lured Katie back to Millers Kill? Had she found out about the baby, somehow?

Keeping her eyes on the highway, Clare groped for a napkin and wiped her mouth. She found it easy to think the worst of Alyson. Something about that girl got under her skin. Who would have guessed she still had unresolved issues from her high-school days as an ugly duckling? She frowned. Maybe Alyson and Wes both did it, like that high-school couple out in Texas, who had murdered a girl who threatened their romance.

She sighed. She was going to have to call Russ and tell him everything she’d found out. The convoluted strands of this case twisted around like bad wiring, an offense to her pilot’s sense of order. Maybe he had been right to jump on the Burnses. Not because they had been guilty, but because trying to put together the events of the crime with only pieces of motivation and insight into the human heart was hopeless. Real, physical evidence, that’s what pointed the finger at the guilty. Besides, how was she going to get Alyson to talk to her? Russ was . . . was . . . not entirely right. But he was a little right when he told her to leave it to the professionals. Although if he thought she was going to admit that over the phone, he had another think coming.

She pulled into the tiny parking area behind St. Alban’s an hour or so before sunset, grateful to have beaten out the storm. She had no illusions about her winter driving skills. She unlocked the back door and made her way up to her office, pausing to plug in the coffeemaker. Lois must have turned down the thermostat when she left at noon, since the parish hall was even colder than usual. Clare could up the setting by a few degrees, but her first good look at the yearly oil bills a few days ago had shown her exactly why the church was rarely warmer than 62 degrees, even in the coldest weather. She sighed. Mr. Hadley would be in at 5:30 tomorrow morning to turn the heat up before the services. She could tough it out for a few hours this afternoon.

She carried her coffee into her office. As if in answer to her virtuous intentions, there was an iron carrier overflowing with split logs and a basket of kindling next to the fireplace. “Mr. Hadley!” she said. “You dear, sweet man!”

She had once read that a fire actually takes warm air out of a room, but you couldn’t prove it by her. With flames popping the logs and the iron fire-back radiating heat, she finally felt warm enough to take off her parka. Reaching for the phone, she shook her head in bemusement. Computers and cell phones and nuclear power and space shuttles, and here she was, heating herself like a curate in a Dickens novel.

“Millers Kill Police. May I help you?”

“Harlene? It’s Clare Fergusson. Is the chief in?”

“He sure isn’t, Clare. But I know he’s been trying to get ahold of you. I expect him back within an hour or so. Want to leave a message?”

“He’s been trying to reach me? Okay. Yes . . . tell him I called, and that I’ll be here at my office for a couple of hours. I need to speak with him about Katie McWhorter’s case.”

“I’ll do that. Have a good one.”

“Thanks, Harlene. You, too.”

She clunked down the receiver. Tapped a pencil against her lips. May as well get the messages and start returning calls. Maybe the Fowlers had spoken to Wes and persuaded him to tell the truth about his relationship with Katie. And there was Alyson to consider. It was probably a bad idea to talk with the Shatthams before she heard back from Russ.

She retraced her steps to the main office and pressed the messages button on Lois’s phone. The first message was from Russ. “Just calling to see how everything’s going. Give me a call when you get in.” The second was someone asking about early-morning services, the third was from the Cutlers, wanting to know their pledge balance. The forth and fifth were also from Russ. “I’ve tried calling your home. Are you out, or what? Give me a call when you get this, will you?” The last message was from Edith Fowler. “Reverend Clare? Vaughn and I spoke briefly with Wes this morning. I don’t want to go into it over the machine, I’m sure you’ll understand. Vaughn called the Commandant and has permission to pick up Wes for the rest of the weekend. If the driving’s not too bad, they’ll be back late tonight, otherwise he’ll stay over and they’ll return tomorrow. Can we all meet tomorrow afternoon? Let me know. 555-1903.”