THURSDAY, AUGUST 24, PRESENT DAY
Clare collected Kevin from the police station at 7 A.M. Since yesterday, he had picked up a baseball cap and a hoodie; combined with his tats and his none-too-clean clothes, he gave even Clare a start until he stuck his head in the window and smiled his sweet everyday smile. He slid into the passenger side, then twisted around to look at Ethan, strapped into his baby seat. “Oh, wow,” Kevin said. “So this is the little guy.”
“That’s him.” She signaled and pulled onto Main Street.
Kevin adjusted his hood around his face. “He doesn’t look much like the chief.” There was a pause as they both digested that, and then he blurted, “I don’t mean I think—you know. He doesn’t look like you, either!”
Clare laughed. “As near as I can tell, most babies just look like other babies.” She turned onto Route 117 by the Stewart’s and immediately slowed down for Millers Kill’s version of rush-hour traffic. “He does sort of bellow like Russ does.”
Kevin laughed.
“That coffee is for you.” She pointed toward the go-cup in the console. “I didn’t know if you had time to get any at Hadley’s. How did it go over there?”
Kevin’s mouth flattened for a moment. “It was fine. We talked a bit. I got to hang out with the kids. I turned in pretty early.”
“Hmm.” She had a few theories in that direction, but if he didn’t want to bring it up, she certainly wasn’t going to. “I also have a backpack of necessaries for you next to Ethan. We give them out to homeless people or folks down on their luck who come to the church for help. It’s got some clothing basics, a prepaid phone card, lightweight food you can fix with hot water—stuff like that.”
His expression loosened up as she spoke. “I don’t need any of that, you know.”
“You can send us a donation to cover the cost later, if you want.” They passed the exit for Glens Falls and traffic opened up again. “But if you really were who you’re pretending to be, I’d give it to you.” She flashed him a grin. “I thought it would bolster your cover.”
Kevin shook his head. “I’m not sure if it was a loss or a gain when you decided to go into the ministry instead of law enforcement, Reverend Clare.”
She laughed. “Be sure to tell that to Russ.”
A billboard up ahead advertised the Washington County Fair in old-fashioned circus lettering. Cars and trucks were already turning onto the road that led to the vendor parking area. “Where should I let you out?” she asked.
“Main gate, if you can. I’m going to have to report in to Mr. Hill and let him rake me up one side and down another anyway.”
She frowned. “Are you going to be in trouble?”
He grinned. “For evil Kevin Flynn, trouble is good. Bolsters my cover.”
She rolled her eyes. The front gate was still closed, but she could see a few people beyond the entryway, moving with a speed and purpose that marked them as staff instead of visitors. She put the car into park and turned to Kevin. “Be careful. I know you have a whole organization behind you, but please know if you need to, you can call me anytime, night or day.”
He smiled a little. “You know, that’s exactly what the chief said, too.”
He got out and opened the back door to retrieve the backpack. Ethan stared at him with the utter solemnity possessed by infants and funeral-goers. Kevin leaned in and booped the baby’s tiny nose. “Hang in there, little dude. Your parents are some of the good guys.”
She was about halfway to Margy’s house when her phone started ringing to the tune of “I fought the law and the law won.”
“Hey, sweetheart,” she said.
“Hi, darlin’. Kevin get off okay?”
“He did. I can’t say I’m not worried about him. He seems so…”
“Young? Yeah, to me, too. But he’s got six years of experience under his belt. And he’s a smart kid. Mostly. Are you headed to Mom’s?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good. Two things: one, Ben Beagle was here sniffing around for information.”
“It’s not ‘sniffing around,’ love, it’s his job.”
“Whatever. You know how Beagle gets up my nose. I had Lyle talk to him. The point is, if he approaches you, don’t tell him anything.”
“Why on earth would he ask me anything? I’m not a member of the department and I don’t know anything more about the case in ’72 than the general public does.” Because you won’t talk to me about it.
“Oh, he already covered the cases in today’s Post-Star. Now he’s doing a story on the chief of police having been a suspect. What a load of bull hockey.”
Clare pressed her lips together to avoid screaming. Russ had been a suspect, and as far as she knew he hadn’t been cleared, and how was she supposed to help or defend him if he wouldn’t open his big fat stubborn mouth about it? She took a deep breath. “Okay.” She took another. “Say nothing. Got it. What was thing two?”
“I invited Jack Liddle to dinner Friday night.”
“What? Please tell me you’re joking. We’re already committed to the fundraiser at the Langevoorts’ house on Friday. To raise money to get the word out about the referendum and maybe save your police department and everyone’s jobs!”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I forgot.” There was a pause. “Can’t we just bring him along?”
“Russ, you don’t just add people to an invitation—” Her intern’s words popped into her head. “Wait. Maybe he can come as Margy’s date. Joni said she was welcome to bring an escort.”
Russ laughed. “That will be a new one! Mom’s last date was during the Truman administration.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. You need to call Mr. Liddle right away though, and see if he’s up for a dressy sit-down dinner.”
“Good point. I’ll handle it. Have a good day, darlin’, and kiss Ethan for me. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” And she did, even though there were times she would cheerfully run him over with her car. She dropped the phone into her tote as she pulled into Margy’s drive. “Here we are, baby boy. Grammy’s house.”
Margy was descending the granite steps before Clare had even crossed the dooryard. She reached out toward the diaper bag. “Let me help you with that.”
“Thanks. I swear, I went on month-long deployments with less stuff than Ethan needs for one morning.”
“Be grateful you don’t have real diapers and rubber pants like we did when Russ was a baby. Now that was a pain to travel with.” She bumped the door open and they both went into the kitchen. Margy set the diaper bag on the table and took Ethan. “Hello, my smart and clever and accomplished boy.” Ethan made a noise that might have been gla! and smacked Margy’s mouth with his hand. She kissed his fingers. “Violence is never the answer, sweetie.”
“I have to dash,” Clare said. “About the fundraiser Friday—would you mind a tagalong? The former police chief is back in town and Russ accidentally invited him to dine with us tomorrow. I thought we could salvage the situation by having him be your escort.”
“Tom Sheffield? I guess that would be okay.”
“No, the one who was chief when Russ was back from Vietnam.”
“Jack Liddle?” Margy shifted the baby to her other hip. “Jack Liddle’s in Millers Kill?”
“He’s renovating an old family house in Cossayuharie? I think? If it’s a problem, I’ll tell Russ he has to reschedule.”
“No, no.” Margy patted her hair. “No, I’d be … happy to catch up with Jack. I just…” She looked down at her stubby frame. “Last time I saw him, I still had a waistline.”
Clare hugged her. “You look beautiful just the way you are. There are people twenty years your junior who can’t keep up with you.” She kissed Ethan’s cheek. “Bye-bye, my little sweet potato. Mama loves you.” Predictably, he started to cry. She dashed out Margy’s door, her child’s angry shrieks following her all the way to her car. Margy claimed he always cheered up within minutes, but it didn’t make parting from him any easier. She tried more deep breathing as she peeled out of the driveway. Quiet mind. Calm mind.
Back at St. Alban’s, Elizabeth had already taken Joni on what she liked to call her “rounds”—visiting shut-ins, the hospital, and the infirmary. Clare was desperately grateful to have her morning cleared, giving her the chance to catch up on overdue phone calls and paperwork. Lois had scheduled two late-afternoon marriage counseling sessions with couples who had left the required three meetings until the last minute, but other than that, she was free to work on Sunday’s sermon. Maybe—please God—she could finish the first draft without having to take it home to work on it.
She had just hung up from a call to one of the soup pantry’s food providers when she heard Lois talking to someone from the other room. A moment later, a sandy-haired man in glasses and a Snoopy tie stepped through her door. “Hi, there, Reverend Fergusson.”
Lois appeared over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Clare, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s okay, Lois. Hi, Ben. Why don’t you come in and have a seat.”
She didn’t think Ben Beagle had visited her office before, but he somehow knew to avoid the lumpy love seat. He took one of the admiral’s chairs. Clare rose from her desk and joined him. “If you’re here about the recent death, I don’t have anything to say. I’m strictly a civilian. I don’t know any more than anyone else in town.”
“Reverend”—Ben grinned at her—“that wasn’t true even before you married the chief of police.”
She tried to repress a smile. The trouble was, she liked Beagle, despite having had his investigative spotlight turn on her in the past. “All right then, let’s just say I’m under strict orders not to talk about it with the press.”
Ben leaned back in his chair as if he were at home in his family room. “You know, I’m pretty sure you’re not the sort to listen to strict orders from your husband.”
“I might mention my vestry is never happy when I get into the paper, unless it’s an—”
“Easter message of hope, yeah, I remember.” He gave her what she assumed was a sly look that didn’t quite work on his boyish face. “How about this: if you’ll talk to me about Chief Van Alstyne being involved in two identical murder cases, I’ll make sure the inaugural fundraiser of the Save the Police Department organization gets covered. Pictures and everything. The more publicity the better.”
“How do you know about that? Never mind. One”—Clare held up a finger—“it’s still not confirmed that any of those deaths were intentional. And two”—she added a finger—“I don’t think any amount of gauzy coverage of rich people writing checks would outweigh a headline implying my husband is a suspect. Heck, I’d vote to close up the department if I thought that was true.”
“I’m not implying your husband is a suspect.”
“Unless you’re titling your story ‘Ten Weird Coincidences You Won’t Believe!’ there’s no other way to parse it.”
Ben spread his hands. “Have you thought the killer might be targeting your husband?”
Clare snorted. “He’s missing by a mile, in that case. Besides, Russ wasn’t even born when the first woman was found.”
“His mother, maybe? The Van Alstyne family?”
“Do you actually believe any of that?”
“Nah.” Ben grinned. “But you have to admit, it’s a hell of a story. Three identical murders—”
“Not proven.”
“—in the same place, at the same time of year, but separated by decades.” He winked at her. “Do you know how many people are going to subscribe to the web-only edition of the Post-Star just to read about it?”
She made a noise of frustration. “Do you know how many people are going to start thinking we don’t need a police presence in the three towns if they can’t instantly solve this case?”
Ben’s face sobered. “Reverend, it’s not my job to advocate. The editorial page can root for the MKPD all they want, but I’m here to dig into the facts and report them clearly and honestly.”
“I know.” She sighed. “I was just blowing off steam. You want a quote from me? Here it is: I have every reason to believe the Millers Kill Police Department will quickly find the person or persons responsible for the young woman’s death and bring them to justice.”
Ben folded his notebook and rose from his chair. “Thanks very much, Reverend.” He paused in her doorway. “I’m just going to point out we have quotes almost identical to yours. From 1972.”