Joni Langevoort had already proved her worth to Clare by agreeing to take Elizabeth de Groot’s Wednesday sick visits, allowing Elizabeth to hold down the office, enabling Clare to help out at the county fair fish fry. She had already had childcare arranged for Ethan in the form of Russ’s niece, Emma. The cascading responsibilities gave Clare a headache, but not nearly as bad as the pain she’d have if she had to scare up a babysitter later in the week. For a moment she let herself remember the kick of the go-pills she had brought back from her deployment—amphetamines—and how they would sweep through her brain like a broom taking down cobwebs in a cellar. God, she craved a little help sometimes.
Elizabeth had pointed out there was volunteer coverage for all the hours the booth was in operation, but Clare tried to make a personal appearance at every outreach program, musical event, or fundraiser the church had. She doubted any customers would be suddenly struck with the urge to convert, but a welcoming smile and some friendly small talk could go a long way in leaving a good impression of the local Episcopal community. Clare genuinely enjoyed serving food and meeting people face-to-face.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t face-to-face with anything except a cooler full of ice and halibut. “I can’t feel my fingers,” she said, scooping fish out and dropping them into a galvanized tub of cold water barely warmer than the ice cubes. “I think I’m getting frostbite.”
Anne Vining-Ellis, who had emptied her cooler twice as fast as Clare, dumped her remaining ice on the dusty grass beside their tent. “Let me see.” She examined Clare’s hands. “You’re fine. Get back to work, you whiner.”
“You’re a hard woman, Dr. Anne.”
“Rhode Island breeds ’em hard.”
It was, in fact, Dr. Anne’s hometown connections that enabled the St. Alban’s annual fish-fry lunch at the county fair. Two of her cousins were commercial fishermen out of North Kingston, and they sold the church haddock and redfish at cost. Their little refrigerator truck made the trip from Rhode Island to Washington County early every morning; thus the hand-lacquered wooden sign above their tent: NEW ENGLAND FISH FRY—FRESH CAUGHT TODAY.
They would begin serving lunch in forty-five minutes, so preparations were in full swing. Clare and Anne were decanting the second wave of fish; the tubful that had defrosted earlier was beneath a long Formica table. Anne’s son Will and her husband, Chris, passionate fishermen both, were beheading, skinning, and boning the haddock. At another table, Delia Hall was grating cabbage and carrots for the coleslaw while Celia Wakefield whipped pickle and lemon juice into mayonnaise.
Doug Young was carefully pouring thirty pounds of frozen French fries into individual wire baskets next to the still-lidded fryer. The two other fry cooks, both of whom had been doing the annual job long before Clare had become their rector, were outside setting up tables and folding chairs beneath the large pop-up tent that was their dining area.
Clare dumped her ice and tried to rub some feeling back into her hands with a soggy towel. “Now what? More fish?”
“Not until these have a chance to defrost.” Anne headed to the commercial-size boxes of picnic goods: five thousand paper plates, ten thousand plastic utensils. “Let’s set the tables and put the rest of the dinnerware where the guys can reach what they need.”
Clipping checkerboard tablecloths in place and squaring napkins into baskets, Clare couldn’t see when the guys turned the old fry-o-lator on, but she sure could smell it. First the slick of hot grease, then the mouthwatering odor of meal-covered fillets, just the way Mother used to make them. Grandmother, in her case.
She got the knives and forks into their canisters on the prep table and switched out her plastic apron for a clean cotton one just in time for the first wave of customers. The next hour passed in a blur of serving food, busing tables, restocking the fry cooks, and another turn at defrosting fish. After that last, Dr. Anne tossed her a tube of hand lotion and said, “Why don’t you take a break? You haven’t seen any of the fair yet.”
“I’m not going to argue with you on that one.” Clare rubbed the cream into her reddened knuckles and put the container on the table. “I’ll be back in twenty.” She ducked out of the tent, rounded the refrigerator truck, and was free.
The day was brilliantly sunny and blessedly dry, with a breeze off the western mountains, which made the heat bearable. Clare gave Emma a quick call to check in, and was informed Ethan had played most of the morning, taken his bottle, and was now sleeping like a marathoner after a training run. He always seemed to sleep better with Emma or Margy. Clare tried not to think of Dr. Underkirk saying her own anxiety was probably manifesting itself in her child’s behavior. She needed to work on keeping a calm, clear head. Well, wasn’t that what she was doing right now? Twenty minutes of no responsibilities, just enjoying the beautiful day and the faces of happy people all around her.
She wasn’t interested in the midway, so she skirted the edge of the exhibitors’ lot—cars and horse trailers and trucks parked in haphazard rows atop flattened grass—and struck out for the craft displays. Unlike the food tents and the midway, the exhibit halls were year-round structures, high-roofed enough so that with the help of strategically placed fans, they remained comfortable in the August heat. Strolling past pies and breads and pastries on display and lingering over the jams and preserves was almost as relaxing as a glass of wine. Cooking was the only domestic art she could claim, although you wouldn’t know it by her recent efforts. Since Ethan had been born, her repertoire consisted of whichever grain or pasta she could boil in under ten minutes, some chopped veggies, and canned tuna. Deep breath. Calm mind. Quiet mind.
She picked up an informational brochure on home canning in the almost-certainly vain hope she might do something creative with the tomatoes coming out of her mother-in-law’s garden. In the same vein, she took recipe cards she probably wouldn’t use and entered her name for a set of cookware she didn’t need.
With one more longing glance at the homemade pies, she headed back to the St. Alban’s fish fry, this time by the direct route through the midway. She had never cared for the carnival side of fairs; the music was too loud, the rides couldn’t compare to actually flying, and if she wanted a cheap stuffed animal, she’d get it in a store. She could feel a headache coming on as she pressed through the milling crowds of people to the accompaniment of lights and bells and shouts from the game booths.
She bought a coffee from the First Lutheran Church stand—in her heart, she felt the Lutherans always had the best coffee—and was shamelessly spooning too much sugar in when she heard her husband’s voice from behind her.
“Hey, lady. Buy a poor guy a cup of joe?”
She spun around. “What are you doing here?”
He grinned at her. “Nice to see you, too, darlin’.”
She laid a couple dollars on the counter for Russ’s coffee. “You know what I mean. How come you’re not tracking down leads?”
“You mean doing legwork?” He held up his heavily shod foot and wiggled it back and forth.
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Nope.” He accepted his cup, adding as much sugar as Clare had. One of the many reasons she loved him. “And I am developing leads.”
“At the Washington County Fair.” She didn’t try to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “You think one of the 4-H’ers did her in?”
“The traveling show came up in the prior investigations in ’52 and ’72. I thought it would be a good idea to check it out.” He headed toward the midway’s main drag and Clare fell in step beside him.
“Did the previous investigations find anything to link the girls’ deaths to the carnival?”
“Well…”
“So essentially, you’re just repeating fifty-year-old prejudices against carnival workers, right? Because they have tattoos and travel around, they must be suspect?” They swung wide to avoid three summer camp counselors attempting to corral their charges.
“No,” he protested. “Hell, the kids at the high school have more tattoos than carnies nowadays. But this is the same show that’s been setting up here in Washington County for the past sixty years. And the killings, if that’s what they are, all happened while the fair was going on.”
As they passed between the Tilt-A-Whirl and a sno-cone truck, Clare had to raise her voice to be heard over the pop songs keeping the beat with the rattle of the ride machinery. “If they were killings?”
“Dr. Scheeler hasn’t ruled out some sort of overdose.”
Clare raised an eyebrow. “Three young women who happen to OD under identical circumstances, decades apart?”
“Yeah, that’s my thought, too.” Russ took a drink of his coffee. “Anyway, the manager wasn’t willing to let me take a look at the personnel files, so while I’m waiting for Lyle to show up with a warrant, I thought I’d stroll around and take in the sights.”
“And question people without permission?”
“I need a warrant to get into the files. I don’t need any permission to walk around a public place and talk with folks.” He gave a grin that showed his eyeteeth. “After all, it’s not like they can’t tell I’m a cop.” He tapped his badge.
Clare tried not to smile. “I appreciate you taking time from your interrogations to walk me back to the St. Alban’s booth.”
He ducked to avoid a faceful of helium balloons. “Actually, I’m walking this way because I want to talk to the guy running the shooting booth. There was a girl working the taffy apples who said he’d been sneaking away and acting shifty. She thought he might be dealing. Granted, she clearly didn’t like the guy, but she may be onto something.”
“Or she may be an ex-girlfriend.”
He grinned. “Watch out, darlin’. My cynicism is rubbing off on you.”
“Believe me, nobody knows more about the vagaries of the human condition than priests.”
He nodded toward a Wild West Shoot-Out! sign. “This is my stop.”
She kissed him. “If you can, come by the St. Alban’s booth. We’re down that way, close to the vendor parking. Fried fish lunch. For you, no cost.”
“That’s the best offer I’ll have all day. Do I need to check in with Emma?”
“No, I called her. Ethan went down for his nap with no trouble.”
Russ didn’t say anything, but she could read his expression. Still sure day care’s not the right choice? She waved as she walked away. No, she wasn’t sure day care wasn’t the right choice. Parents were supposed to go by their gut feelings, right? But how was she to know if her gut was acting in Ethan’s best interests, or only out of guilt? Maybe they could compromise, and get a caretaker to stay with Ethan at home. But what if they went to the trouble of vetting and hiring a woman and then, God forbid, the towns voted to close the police department? No way her salary and Russ’s army pension would stretch to cover a nanny, not to mention the possibility they’d have to move for a new job for Russ—she pressed her hands against her forehead. Quiet mind. Calm mind.
The noises behind her broke through her self-absorption. Over the shrieks of riders and the cries of barkers, she could hear shouts. She spun around to see a young carny racing down the midway road, headed straight for her. Or—she glanced to where she could see the St. Alban’s tent behind her—the parking area.
Fairgoers were leaping out of his way, leaving a mingled roar of “Hey!” and “Watch it!” and “What the hell?” in his wake. And behind that, Russ, pounding down the lane.
One glimpse told her he wouldn’t be able to overtake the sprinting man. She didn’t have time to think; she acted. She stepped back as if to get out of the carny’s path, then launched herself at him in a full-body tackle.
He barreled into her, toppling them both, thudding, rolling, and then he was squirming out of her grip, up on his hands, knee in the dust, boot on the road, and then he lurched sideways, breaking her hold.
But it was enough. Russ raced past her and slammed into the young man with eighty pounds more than she could muster. This time, the carny stayed down. Russ, straddling his back, pulled his arms behind him and hitched him with handcuffs. “Clare, are you okay?”
She got up, swiping at her blouse in a vain attempt to get the dust off. “I’m fine.”
He stood up, hauling the carny with him. “Kid, you’re under arrest for resisting—” He broke off as he turned the young man around. Skinhead shave, short beard, tattoos around his neck.
Clare sucked in her breath. “Kevin?”