Sunday, March 19, the Second Sunday in Lent
Russ hung up his parka in the mudroom, pried off his boots, and walked into his darkened kitchen on stockinged feet. Lord, he was tired. He had pulled two shifts a day since Friday, and his body was letting him know he was too old for that schedule. Contrary to his less-than-charitable thoughts, Lyle, like Noble, really had been knocked out by a nasty stomach flu. His deputy chief had told him over the phone that he hadn’t been more than five feet from the bathroom since the thing started.
He flicked on the light and went to the refrigerator to see if there was anything to eat. Linda was gone again—off for a week to visit her sister in Florida. Her girlfriend Meg had driven her down to Albany to catch the plane, because covering one-fourth of his department hadn’t left Russ with enough time to do it himself. That rankled. He hated not being there for her when she needed him.
He pulled a Coke out of the fridge, nudged the door shut, and wandered into the pantry, hoping there would be some Tuna Helper or something. Although he normally enjoyed cooking, tonight he wasn’t up for anything more than opening a box and a can. Thank God he had had the sense to assign his two part-time officers tonight duty. If he’d had the patrol tonight, with its homeward-bound tourists getting lost and running into each other, or its domestic calls, which were always worse on Sunday nights, after a weekend of togetherness with another crappy Monday morning staring people in the face . . . he’d probably have driven off the Route 100 bridge into the river.
No Tuna Helper. He slid a box of macaroni and cheese off the shelf and got a pan from under the counter. He should have just told his mom he was coming over for dinner tonight, but the price for a hot meal would have been listening to her razor-thin slices at Linda for abandoning her hardworking husband for sun and fun with a divorcée. He had pointed out that he was welcome to join Linda on her annual sisterfest. The last time he had gone had been two years ago, and the pleasure of escaping from the cold March weather hadn’t made up for the boredom of hanging around a Fort Lauderdale condo while the two women shopped and got their nails done. Plus, he called the station house so many times to see how they were doing without him that Linda claimed flying back home would be cheaper than the phone bill.
He put water on to boil and collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs with his Coke. Linda had done something different with a St. Patrick’s theme. There was a new tablecloth on the table, new place mats and napkins, and curtains festooning the windows. All green-and-white fabrics, tweed and tiny gold-edged shamrocks and presumably Irish shepherds helping Irish shepherdesses over a stile. Their house was a laboratory for Linda’s burgeoning drapery business, which meant they were more or less in a state of constant redecoration. At least she had farmed out some of the work—three neighboring women stitched away at ruffles and blinds and whatnot, so Linda could meet her orders without sewing eighteen hours out of twenty-four.
The rattle of the lid on the pot told him the water had come to a boil. He heaved himself out of his chair and poured the macaroni in, stirring it with a big wooden spoon. Maybe he should have just said the hell with it and gone to Florida. Maybe he would. Just fly down there, surprise her. They could go out to dinner together, take a long walk, rent a boat and get out on the ocean. Well, no, she didn’t really care for long walks and she didn’t do too well on the water unless she was in something pretty big. Okay, he could swallow his dislike of sunbathing and lie around on the beach with her. He could make the ultimate sacrifice and take her shopping. Anything. They just needed to spend some time together and talk about something other than who bought the groceries and who was going to the bank.
He drained the pot, went upstairs, and changed out of his uniform into sweats. Back downstairs he ate his mac and cheese in front of the TV, flicking from one lousy show to another, wondering why the networks couldn’t schedule one of the NCAA finals on a night when he was at home. He rinsed out his bowl and loaded the dishwasher. He wandered down to his cellar workroom, but the thought of putting in time on one of his projects made him feel as if a lead blanket had been placed on his shoulders, so he went back upstairs. He thought about calling a few airlines to see how much it would cost for a last-minute ticket to Florida. He thought about calling his sister Janet, catching up with what his nieces were doing. He thought about calling his mom.
He picked up the phone and dialed Clare’s number.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Russ.” He could hear her smile. “I knew it was you.”
“How did you manage that? I didn’t know I was going to call until I had finished dialing.”
“I’m your Psychic Friend.”
He laughed. “Does that mean I’m being charged by the minute for my call?”
“Yeah, but think about it. Isn’t a dollar ninety-nine a minute a small price to pay to have all your secrets revealed?”
“God, I hope not. I don’t think I could live with all my secrets revealed.”
“Mmm.” There was something—an audible quality to Clare’s listening. He couldn’t ever put a finger on what it was, just that he could hear the force of her attentiveness. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m beat to the ground from working double shifts for the past few days, and Linda’s left for Florida, and there’s nothing on TV, and I guess I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself.”
“Why don’t you invite yourself to stay at your mother’s? She’d love to fuss over you.”
“I don’t need fussing over. I just need . . .” He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.
“A little human connection.”
“Yeah.” He pulled another Coke from the fridge and strolled into the living room. “What have you been up to lately?”
“Let’s see. Robert Corlew and I met with the roofing guys. It’s going to be a big job. The engineer says the chances are good that water has been spreading through the roof laterally, so there may be additional structural damage they’ll have to replace and more framing before they actually get to the reshingling and gutters. He quoted us some material costs. My Lord, you wouldn’t believe how expensive this waterproof-barrier stuff we’re getting is.”
He sat in his favorite chair. “I’ve checked it out myself. I believe it.”
“I have to confess, I’ve been feeling guilty as sin over taking Mrs. Marshall’s trust fund money and stiffing the clinic, but I walked away from the meeting so grateful that we at least have that option. I got the impression that the whole north aisle was ripe for a cave-in.”
“Well . . .,” he said, his skepticism showing through.
“I know, I know. But even if the damage is only half what they’re predicting, it’s still going to be a costly job.” She sighed. “When I became a priest, I surely didn’t think I was going to be spending so much time worrying about leaking roofs and the price of oil and water heaters.”
He laughed a little. “Every job has its boring scut work. It’s one of the great universal truths.” He drank from his can.
“What are you drinking?”
“Decaffeinated Coke.”
“I’m having a Saranac Winter Ale. Ha ha ha.”
He laughed. “Do you normally taunt recovering alcoholics with your beer drinking?”
“Just you. You’re special.”
They were silent for a beat. Then he said, “What else did you do?”
“I had a couple counseling session on Friday. Spent the afternoon in Glens Falls Saturday with one of my parishioners who’s undergoing surgery. So I missed my stint at the historical society.”
Russ clucked disapproval.
“It’s okay. I told Roxanne I’d be in Monday. Then, we had a nice Eucharist this morning. Practically a full house. I think everyone wanted to see the roof before it fell in.”
“Huh.” There was a clunking sound over the line. “What are you doing now?”
She laughed. “Putting another log on the fire. I’ve got a good one going to take the edge off the chill. This old house is drafty, and if I have to buy another tankful of oil, I’ll be eating mac and cheese for the next month.”
“You should have your church get it weatherproofed.”
“I don’t want to draw the vestry’s attention to the fact that they own a desirable property that’s wasted with one single woman rattling around in it. I’m afraid they’d sell it out from under me and I’d have to move to one of Corlew’s awful town houses.”
“One of those places with the fake names where they spell town with two ns and an e? God, that would be a fate worse than death.” He shook his head. “What are you wearing?”
She laughed. “Is this that kind of phone call?”
“Oh, Christ, you know what I mean. Sometimes people who aren’t used to the climate take a while to remember to put on another layer instead of turning up the thermostat.”
She was still laughing. Then she coughed, and in a heavy southern accent dripping with honey, she said, “I’m wearing nothing except some very high heels and a teeny-weeny—”
“No, no, no, no.”
She laughed some more. “I’ll bet the women who do those phone calls are dressed pretty much like I am now. Turtleneck, my brother Brian’s old Virginia sweatshirt, and these really warm leggings my folks sent me for Christmas. Woolly socks and ratty old Passamaquoddy slippers.”
“Oh, baby,” he said.
She giggled. “It’s the slippers, isn’t it? They drive men wild.”
“Up here in the North Country, you have to learn to appreciate warmth.”
“And my thermostat is set to sixty-two.”
“Jeez, that is cold. Maybe this spring I’ll check out your windows and walls, see if there are some simple things we can do to tighten the house up.”
“As long as I don’t have to go to the vestry for maintenance money, that would be—” She fell silent.
“What?” he said.
“Someone’s pulling into my driveway.”
He glanced at the anniversary clock on the mantel. It was almost 8:30.
“Hang on a sec,” Clare said, and he heard the clunk of the phone being put down.
He rolled out of his chair and paced into the kitchen, the phone still pressed to his ear. Who the hell would be dropping by unannounced at this hour? He envisioned a gang of rowdy teens who liked to make noise and scare single women. Then he thought of a sexual predator, who knew she lived all alone. Some serial rapist, just out of Clinton, looking for easy pickings—
She came back on the line. “It’s Debba Clow.”
“Debba Clow? Does she have her kids with her? She’s not trying to skip out on her ex, is she?”
“No, she’s alone. She seems really upset. I have to go. Sorry . . .”
She hung up on him, leaving only a wistful echo behind. He held the phone for a moment, listening to the dial tone. Debba Clow. At Clare’s. At 8:30 on a Sunday night.
He dialed the station house. Weeknights, all calls to the station were routed through to the Glens Falls dispatch, since Millers Kill didn’t have the need or the resources to keep a dispatcher on 24/7. But weekends, the busiest time of their week, they had live coverage with Harlene. Harlene had been working for the police department back when Russ was still spitting out sand during the first Gulf War, and he had no doubt she would still be there when he was retired to Arizona.
“Millers Kill Police Department.”
“Hey, Harlene.”
“What are you on the horn for? You’re supposed to be at home, getting some R and R.”
“Look, there hasn’t been any trouble at the free clinic, has there?”
She whistled in his ear. “You’re scary sometimes, you know that? I think this is a clear sign that you’re spending way too much time at work. No, there hasn’t been anything at the clinic, but just after you left this evening, Allan Rouse’s wife called in. He’s the clinic doctor.”
“I know who he is.”
“Bet you don’t know why she called, though.”
“I’m waiting with bated breath for you to tell me.”
“He’s gone missing.”
“What’s that mean, exactly? He’s a grown man, and it’s eight-thirty on a Sunday night. He’s probably hoisting a few at a sports bar, where they have something on worth watching.”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But it turns out they were due to leave for Albany late this afternoon. They’re flying out to a medical conference in Phoenix, Arizona. Or at least they were. She had already missed the flight when she called.”
“Maybe he had some sort of medical emergency? Had to make a house call, or go to the hospital?”
“Mrs. Rouse said he’s always checked in with her before. She was calling their friends all this afternoon looking for him. She checked Washington County and Glens Falls Hospitals, thought he might be with a patient someplace. But no luck. She also called Laura Rayfield—that’s the clinic nurse practitioner.”
“I know who she is.”
“Well, she hadn’t seen him. Anyway, according to Mrs. Rouse, the doc seemed kind of restless and distracted, but she put it down to his upcoming trip. She says he left home around eleven o’clock this morning to run a few errands. He told her he was going to the clinic to deal with the mail and dictate notes for files. They were planning to be gone for a week. She reminded him he had to be home by four for them to make their flight in good season. Then he drove off. When he didn’t show up on time, she went over to the clinic, but he was gone. She hasn’t seen him since.”
He thought for a moment. “Did she check to see if he’d been admitted to one of the hospitals as a John Doe?”
“I dunno. Though you’d think someone would recognize him even if he had no ID. The man’s been practicing medicine in this town for thirty years.”
“What about a girlfriend?”
“I certainly haven’t heard anybody gossiping about one at my hairdresser’s. It wasn’t a question I wanted to put to his wife.”
“No, I suppose not.” He trailed across the kitchen floor slowly, letting his feet follow his thinking. “What did you tell Mrs. Rouse?”
“I told her that unless there’s evidence of something funny going on, we don’t declare adults officially missing for forty-eight hours. But it’s a slow night, so I asked Duane and Tim to stop into any bars that they pass and see if anyone’s seen the doc.”
“Good.”
“And since the man is sixty-five years old, I circulated a description of his car and plates to the staties. I told ’em it was a possible medical. For all we know, he had a heart attack behind the wheel while he was running those errands.”
“Good call.” There were a lot of stretches of road in and around Millers Kill where a car could roll off into the brush and not be noticed. “I don’t know why I bother to come in, Harlene. You go ahead and do my job for me.”
She snorted. “Someday this department will finally get a female officer, and then you’ll see it’s not that I’m so great, it’s that women are naturally smarter than men.”
“I never doubted that for a second. I have a hunch about the doctor, and I’m going to look into it. I’ll be back in touch ASAP.”
“Gotcha. I’ll call if one of the guys turns him up in the meantime.”
He said good-bye and rang off. He stood for a moment, the phone’s stubby antenna just touching his forehead, like a meditative finger. There wasn’t any reason to suspect that Debba Clow’s unexpected appearance at Clare’s house was connected to Allan Rouse’s equally unexpected disappearance. But he had been a cop, military and civilian, for a quarter century now, and he had learned to trust the little nudges that occasionally bubbled up from the bottom of his brain. He dialed Clare’s number again.
This time, her machine answered. He listened to her mechanically flattened voice advise him of her office and cell numbers, and when invited to leave a message, he said, “Clare, it’s Russ. Please pick up. I need to—”
“Hi, it’s me. What’s up?”
“Is Debba Clow still there?”
“Yes, and we’re having a pretty intense discussion, so I really can’t—”
“I’m not calling to chitchat, I promise. I’d like to speak to Debba.”
Clare’s voice was more guarded. “Why?”
“Just tell her I’d like to speak to her. Please.”
“Okay . . .”
He walked upstairs to his bedroom while he waited for someone to come back on the line. He pulled his jeans out of a pile of clothing on a chair. After a second’s thought, he also retrieved the uniform shirt he had worn earlier that day. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to put them on.
“She would rather not speak to you right now.” Clare was trying to sound neutral, professional, but he could hear the undercurrent of distress in her voice. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Can you tell me why she needed to talk to you so bad she couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
There was an exasperated burst of air. “You know I can’t disclose what I’m told in priestly confidence.”
“She’s not one of your congregation.”
“Russ, I’m not a priest just for card-carrying, pledging Episcopalians. I’m a priest for anybody who needs one. My obligations remain the same.”
He almost smiled. “I know.” The thought of telling her about Allan Rouse went through his mind. Followed by the thought of her telling Debba, and Debba splitting before he or anyone else had a chance to ask her what she knew about the doctor’s whereabouts. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I interrupted your conversation.”
“Russ.” Her voice was pitched halfway between exasperation and concern. Concern won out. “What’s going on? Can I help you?”
He did smile. “Not at the moment. But I’ll let you know. Later.”
“Okay.” She trailed off. “Later.”
He dropped the phone on his bed and shucked off his sweatshirt. He had been right. He was going to have to get dressed again after all.