One Was a Soldier

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  She started laughing.

  “I’m not a complicated guy, Clare. I keep trying to dress it up with flowers and stuff, but that’s what it all comes down to with me.”

  She touched his cheek, smooth from his morning shave. She was afraid her heart would break open from feeling too much. “I told you. You don’t ever have to dress anything up for me. Just be yourself.”

  * * *

  The phone hanging on the wall between the door and the window rang before he had the chance to ask her the same question. What did she want out of marriage? Specifically, marriage to a guy fourteen years older, who thought God was a myth and whose job could get him killed.

  Clare sighed and crossed the floor. “Hello?”

  Maybe he was pushing it. She didn’t talk about Iraq, but he had held her while she thrashed around with bad dreams. He had seen the fatigue on her face as she tried to be everything for everybody in her church. Of course, that might argue for the two of them getting married as soon as possible. He knew he’d do a damn sight better job of drawing boundaries than she did.

  Maybe he should just ask her right now. Get the damn thing settled. But Christ, the ring was back at his mother’s house, and she deserved something special. Memorable. Not him blurting it out before breakfast. Maybe he could make an excuse to swing by his mom’s place. He could take her on a picnic. Picnics were romantic, weren’t they?

  Clare looked at him oddly. “Um. Certainly.” She handed the phone out. “It’s Harlene, for you.”

  “What?” He took the receiver as if it might be booby-trapped. “Van Alstyne here.”

  Clare went to the stove to check the breakfast. “Sorry to bother you and the reverend,” Harlene said.

  “That’s all right,” Russ lied. “What’s up?” Clare drew a long meat fork out of the utensil canister and started pricking sausages. He tried to remember if the IGA sold picnic lunches.

  “Eric’s called in sick, and Noble’s gone up to Tupper Lake for the weekend. We’re short and we need coverage.”

  “Have you tried Paul?” Russ watched Clare take down a glass bowl and open the carton of eggs. They’d need sunscreen—and bug dope. Bug dope definitely wasn’t romantic.

  “Well, I’m sure I could get ahold of him, but he’ll be on overtime. You want me to try him anyways?”

  The magic word, “overtime,” brought his full attention back to Harlene. “No. No. I don’t want to give the alderman anything else to complain about.” He pointed at the egg Clare had picked up. He shook his head. Don’t bother. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And call Duane to see if he’ll be available just in case. Last weekend before the holiday, we might need him for traffic and parking.”

  “Let’s hope he remembers to turn his darned phone on so I can at least leave him a message. Unlike you.”

  He slapped the front pocket of his jeans and drew out his blank, inactive cell phone. “Sorry.” He thought for a second. Did he want to know? “Harlene? Why did you call Clare’s number to reach me?”

  She laughed in his ear. “I may be old, but I haven’t forgotten what it’s like. I figured you two would be making up for lost time.”

  “Oh.”

  “And Erla Davis mentioned to me that she saw you walking down her street and getting into your truck real early last week when she was headed out to open up the diner.”

  Oh, shit. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll see you soon.” He hung up. Clare raised her eyebrows.

  “Eric’s called in sick, and Harlene can’t raise Noble. I’ve got to go in.”

  “How did she know you were here? Did you leave word at the station?”

  “Are you kidding? No. She called my cell, and when that didn’t go through, she called here next. Seems the waitress from the Kreemy Kakes diner spotted me picking up my truck a few mornings ago.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess I’m not as good at sneaking around as I thought.”

  Clare laughed. “Don’t look so grim about it.” She crossed the floor and wrapped her arms around his midsection. “I’m not complaining.”

  “God. I’m sorry.” He pressed his lips against her hair. Over the aroma of the sausages, he could smell her, vodka and tomato juice and Clare. “I’ve got to go. If it’s anything like last weekend, it’ll be crazy today. I don’t want you to feel like I’m running away from this conversation, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back.”

  “I’ll be at the Ellises’ tonight anyway.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Sunday.”

  He groaned. “I’m in the seat all day Monday, but I’ll be free by dinnertime.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got a premarital session at six and a building and grounds committee meeting at seven.” She slanted her eyes up at him. “You could sneak over later that night.”

  “No.” His voice was stonier than he intended. Probably because the idea was so damn appealing.

  Clare growled with frustration and pushed him away. “Go. Finish getting dressed. While you’re at it, consider that I’ve been taking it easy on summer schedule. The Sunday after Labor Day is Homecoming Sunday, and everything starts up again: adult ed and weekly community suppers and all the committees. I’ll be twice as busy as I am now.”

  He stumped upstairs, worrying about how much of herself she was going to pour into those meetings and suppers and lessons. Wondering how long after he asked her they could get married. Assuming she said yes. He was pretty sure doing it at lunchtime in Judge Ryswick’s chambers was out of the question.

  When he returned, feet in boots and his less than pristine uniform blouse tucked into his jeans, she handed him a paper sack. “I’ve put a sausage in a bun for you.”

  He grinned.

  “Don’t say it,” she warned.

  He took it with a quick kiss instead of a joke. “I’ll call you.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s what they all say.”

  He thought about it all the way to the station. He hadn’t set the scene very well. Hell, he hadn’t set the scene at all. She hadn’t gotten any courtship, just awkward years of being the semi-sorta Other Woman, followed by hush-hush sex. Maybe he ought to put on the brakes and do the dating thing for a while.

  But dammit, he didn’t want a girlfriend. It was ridiculous, for a man his age to have a girlfriend. He wanted a wife. He wanted a house with both their things in it, and joint bank accounts, and someone saying, “Hi, honey,” when he got home at the end of the day.

  He just had to come up with a decent time and place to ask her.

  * * *

  The first thing he saw when he arrived at the station was Lyle MacAuley, coming through dispatch from the squad room. “What are you doing here?” Russ asked.

  “Paperwork for a shoplifting bust.” Lyle shook his head. “Used to be, you’d show up at the Super Kmart, and it’d be some kid with a CD jammed down his pants. Now it’s professionals. You should have seen this pair. Slits sewn in their jackets and everything.” He followed Russ into his office. “Don’t need a fence anymore. Sell the stuff on eBay.”

  Russ picked up the BOLO sheets Harlene had left on his desk and leafed through them. “Hmn. Anything going on I should know about?”

  “Not particularly. Anything going on that I should know about?”

  Russ’s head came up. “What’s that mean?”

  “Oh, I dunno.” Lyle crossed his arms over his chest.

  “You overheard Harlene, didn’t you?”

  Lyle dropped his arms and his pretense at casualness. “Reverend Fergusson’s had to deal with a lot of gossip around this town over the past few years. Now, when she went away to Iraq, it all sort of died down. So I can’t figure why you seem hell-bent on making her the subject of conversation again.”

  “What are you, her father?”

  Lyle splayed his hands on Russ’s desk and leaned forward. “Whyn’t you just ask the lady to marry you? God knows why, but she seems pretty fond of you. Just make an honest woman out of her before talk spreads
. If it was anybody else, it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, but she’s a minister, Russ. What are the people in her church going to think when it comes out you’ve been spending your nights over to her place?”

  Russ threw the sheets on his desk. “I know that. You think I don’t know that?”

  Lyle opened his hands and raised his bushy gray eyebrows.

  “I was ready to ask her the day she got back. There just didn’t seem to be a good time to do it.”

  “It’s been two months already. I think you’d be able to find five minutes somewheres.”

  Russ glared at his deputy chief. “Clare’s had too much to deal with, readjusting to civilian life.” He pushed away from his desk and walked to one of the high windows overlooking Main Street. “She’s not sleeping well. She’s drinking too much.” He rapped against the glass pane, and a startled mourning dove flew off the granite windowsill. “She’s trying to be there for her congregation, and it’s sucking the life out of her. I didn’t want to put one more thing on her plate.”

  “Give the reverend some credit. Near as I can tell, she’s never shown any reluctance to tell you to go soak your head.” Russ let out an involuntary laugh. “If you’re crowdin’ her,” Lyle went on, “she’ll let you know.”

  The intercom buzzed. “You two done in there?” Harlene’s tinny voice asked.

  “Yeah,” Lyle said. “You can stop pretending not to listen now.”

  “I got the manager from the new resort on the line.” Harlene sounded tart. “Says she’d like to speak with Chief Van Alstyne, if he happens to be available.”

  Russ looked at Lyle. “She asked for me?”

  “Maybe she knows you’re gonna be in the market for a reception hall.”

  “Not if an asteroid hit and it was the last building left in New York.” The resort might be the fanciest spot in three counties, but as far as Russ was concerned, it was the open vortex to hell. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find the place had been built atop an Indian burial ground, like in the horror movies. “Put her through, Harlene.” He punched the speaker button. Lyle moved a stack of old circ sheets off the wooden chair on the other side of the desk and sat down. “Van Alstyne here.”

  “Chief? This is Barbara LeBlanc, at the Algonquin Waters. Look, I have a problem here that I think is one for the police, but I need it to be handled sensitively.”

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  “A man came in about an hour ago, looking for one of our bookkeepers. The front desk associates told him she didn’t come in during the weekend, and he parked himself in the lobby and said he’d wait. They were a little nervous, because it seemed, well, very stalkerlike behavior, so they called me, and I went to talk to the man and told him the lobby was for the use of guests only and if he’d like to leave a message for Ms. McNabb he could—”

  “Wait a minute. Did you say McNabb?”

  “That’s her name. The bookkeeper.”

  “Tally McNabb?”

  “That’s right.”

  Russ glanced at Lyle, who pursed his lips thoughtfully. “What does this man look like?”

  Barbara LeBlanc paused. “He’s, um, maybe five ten, very muscular, um, in his late twenties or early thirties…”

  Russ sighed. He knew when someone was tiptoeing around. “Is he black?”

  “Yes!” she whispered. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve met him before. Go on, what happened?”

  “When I told him the lobby was for guests only, he insisted on renting a room! He said he’d stay here until Ms. McNabb showed up, even though I gave him my word we didn’t expect her until Monday.” She dropped her voice again. “We’re a public accommodation, Chief Van Alstyne. We have to have an iron-clad reason to refuse someone’s trade. This whole waiting-around-for-a-woman-to-show thing makes me very nervous, but I was afraid turning him away would just open us up to a potential lawsuit.”

  “So you rented him a room.”

  “Yes.”

  Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Where is he now?” Rousting Quentan Nichols out of a room at the hush-and-plush Algonquin Waters was going to be problematical.

  “He’s still sitting in the lobby.”

  Okay. One thing going right today. “You did the right thing by calling me, Ms. LeBlanc. I’m heading over now. I’ll talk with him.”

  “He is a stalker?”

  “He was here looking for Tally McNabb two months ago. There was some trouble. I don’t have any reason to think she wants to see him now any more than she did then.”

  “You’ll be discreet?”

  “I’ll keep things as low-key as possible.”

  She sighed. “Thank you so much, Chief. I’ll see you in about half an hour.” A dial tone replaced her voice.

  Lyle looked at him. “This that guy who got up that fight at the Dew Drop?”

  “One of ’em.” Russ shook his head. “God knows what he’s doing here now. I can’t believe he got leave again so soon.”

  “That’s right. He’s military police, isn’t he? Like you and Eric.” Lyle pushed at the arms of his chair and stood. “Well. Let’s get going.”

  “Who said you’re going along?”

  “It took Hadley and Kevin both to stop him last time, didn’t it?”

  “I’m just going to talk with the guy.”

  “Yeah? That’s your intention. You don’t know his.” MacAuley let his half-smile drop. “Seriously. The only young MP I know is Eric McCrea, and I’ll tell you, if I had to go pick him up for something, I sure wouldn’t do it without backup.”

  Russ nodded. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”

  “I usually am. It’d save us a lot of time if you’d just start from that premise.”

  They took separate cruisers to the resort. If everything went according to plan, they’d split up afterward, Lyle heading back to Fort Henry, Russ taking the Cossayuharie loop. Of course, not much had gone according to plan today.

  They parked in the wide drive curving through the portico. As Russ stepped out into the shade and the mountain scent of balsam and juniper, his stomach turned. The world had been howling white with snow the last time he had been here. The polished oak-and-brass doors, open to the August air, had been draped in plastic sheeting. The oriental rugs and leather chairs of the gleaming pine lobby had been covered in paint-spattered tarps, and the people descending the stairs to the spa below had been electricians and carpenters, not tanned, toned matrons.

  Linda had been alive.

  Funny how he always thought of her by name these days, instead of as “my wife.”

  “You okay?” Lyle’s voice was low in his ear.

  Russ gestured toward the swags of lined and slashed fabric framing clerestory windows beneath the arching cathedral ceiling. “Linda made those.”

  Lyle slapped his upper arm. Gave his shoulder a squeeze.

  “I’m all right.” Russ coughed to get the thickness out of his throat. “I’m fine,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. He brought his attention back to the lobby. There was a pair of white-haired gents in candy-colored pants swapping newspaper sections with each other, and a mother and daughter reading the daily activity board, their identical golden blond heads close together, but no Quentan Nichols. “He’s not here.”

  Lyle nudged him. A slim brunette emerged from a door behind the granite reception counter. She had a flat walkie-talkie clipped to the waist of her short skirt, and a name badge pinned to her expensive-looking silk blouse. She crossed toward them, her heels clicking on the pine floorboards. “Chief Van Alstyne.” She held out her hand. “Good to see you again.”

  “Ms. LeBlanc.” He shook her hand. “This is Deputy Chief Lyle MacAuley.”

  Lyle straightened his spine and expanded his chest. He held LeBlanc’s hand a second longer than necessary.

  “The chief and deputy chief. I’m honored.” Her wide mouth stretched into a smile that didn’t quite make her eyes. “Or should I be worri
ed?”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing.” Lyle radiated confidence, with just a hint of amusement that anyone might think he couldn’t handle a heavily muscled thirty-year-old MP. Russ had to admit, he was good. “Where is Mr. Nichols right now?” Lyle asked.

  LeBlanc gestured toward the almost empty lobby. “He went up to his room about fifteen minutes ago.” She held up a plastic card attached to a card- and key-heavy ring. “I put him on the top floor, as far away from anyone else as I could. Just in case.”

  “Good thinking.” Russ glanced at Lyle. “See if we can get him back down here?”

  Lyle nodded. “Be a lot less messy, if he doesn’t want to come with us.”

  “Oh.” LeBlanc lowered the card. “I’m sorry. I should have tried to keep him in the lobby.”

  “No,” Russ said. “You did exactly the right thing.”

  “We’re the ones with the law enforcement experience,” Lyle reassured her. “Not you.”

  “Years of experience,” Russ said. “Years and years.”

  Lyle shot him a look.

  “Could you get him on the phone?” Russ said. “Tell him there’s been some difficulty with his credit card and that you’ve got to swipe it again.” He thumbed toward the far wall. “We’ll wait between the elevators and the stairs. Whichever way he comes down, we’ll have him surrounded before he has a chance to kick up a fuss.”

  LeBlanc nodded. She headed back to her office, giving them a chance to appreciate the view as she walked away. “Mm-mm,” Lyle said. “That woman could rent me a room anytime.”

  “She’s a little young for you, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, I dunno.” Lyle slanted him a look. “I figure her to be about Clare’s age.”