A Fountain Filled With Blood

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  Handler and Obrowski glanced at each other. “Well…” Obrowski said.

  “He used to,” Handler said.

  Obrowski sighed. “They had a big blowup here at the end of May. The kind where Ron and I try to disappear into the woodwork for the duration. We haven’t seen him since then.”

  Clare put her mug down. “But he was at the meeting last night. Mr. Ingraham introduced him.”

  “He did what?” Handler goggled at her.

  “Wait. Wait.” Obrowski laughed. “Slightly chunky guy with lots of slicked-back dark hair?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. John something.”

  “Opperman. John Opperman.” Obrowski grinned at Handler. “She meant his business partner.”

  “We thought you were referring to the Queen of Tarts,” Handler said.

  “His girlfriend?”

  “His boyfriend.”

  Russ started. “Ingraham’s gay?”

  Handler grinned, showing his pointed eyeteeth. “We’re everywhere. Scary, isn’t it?”

  “Cut it out, Ron,” Obrowski said.

  Russ’s cheeks grew pink beneath his tan. “Did Ingraham know Emil?”

  “No, not to my knowledge. He hasn’t been one for socializing,” Obrowski said. “When he stays here, he spends most of his time meeting with subcontractors and tramping around the woods, plotting out the resort and directing what construction they’ve already started—cutting down trees, plowing roads, that sort of thing. Opperman, his business partner”—he tilted his head toward Clare—“handles the paperwork. He’s been up frequently, too, but he stays at one of those concrete-cube chain hotels along the Northway.”

  “I keep telling you, Steve, if we put up some bad art and wall-to-wall carpeting, we could get that trade, too.”

  “Ron…”

  “Maybe if you put in an ice machine down the hall?” Clare offered. Handler looked delighted.

  Russ cleared his throat. “Okay, it’s unlikely anyone knew Emil was going to be here last night. Which leaves the possibility we were discussing earlier.”

  Obrowski looked down into his coffee cup. Handler’s dazzling smile disappeared, replaced by a wary look in his eyes.

  “What?” Clare said. “What?”

  “When we were walking Emil out, there was a drive-by.” Stephen Obrowski’s amiable voice turned hard. “A truck with a bunch of rednecks shouting a lot of homophobic crap. They’ve been by before a few times, but the worst that’s happened so far is a few beer cans chucked on the lawn.”

  “And they continued east toward Route One Twenty-one?” Russ asked.

  “We asked him if he wanted to wait. I was worried about him heading in the same direction as the pickup.” Obrowski shook his head. “I wish to God I had insisted. If he had waited until the police arrived, we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation.”

  Clare looked at Russ.

  “They called in a report right after,” he said. “We had an officer up to Cossayuharie who came down to check things out. It was when he was headed back into town that he found Emil’s car.”

  “You think it was a hate crime?” Clare put down her coffee mug. “Somebody beat him half to death because he’s gay?”

  “It’s not like it hasn’t happened before,” Handler said.

  “They might not have even known Emil was gay.” Obrowski turned toward his partner. “He might have been attacked because he was leaving our inn. Have you thought about that?”

  Russ held up his hands. “Let’s not speculate too wildly here. We—and by ‘we,’ I mean law enforcement and the business community—want to be real careful not to start unsubstantiated rumors about a bunch of punks targeting gay-owned businesses. I also don’t want to be telling one and all that that this was a gay-bashing episode.”

  Ron Handler looked outraged. “We’re supposed to ignore the fact that we might be killed because of who we are? That our friends and customers might be in danger? That’s—”

  “That’s not what I said.” Russ took off his glasses and rubbed them against the front of his shirt, the steel edge clinking faintly when it tapped the badge over his breast pocket. “If you call something a hate crime, you glamorize it. You make assault or vandalism sound like a political statement, and political statements have a way of attracting imitators. I’ve seen it happen. There’s big play in the newspaper about somebody painting a swastika on a bridge, and next thing you know, every asshole in the county with a can of spray paint and pretensions of grandeur is doing the same thing. ’Scuse my French.”

  “But that’s different from what happened to Emil,” Clare protested. “It may be vile, but painting a swastika isn’t kicking someone into a bloody pulp.”

  “No, it’s not. But right now, our only pieces of evidence are a scrape of red paint on Emil’s car and the fact that a pickup truck drove by here a half an hour or so before he was attacked. We can’t take those facts and label them a hate crime.”

  “You don’t have to confirm that what happened to Emil Dvorak was definitely a hate crime,” Clare said. “But you’ve got to warn the community that it might be repeated. That another gay man might be attacked. If people know that their friends and neighbors might be at risk, you have a better chance of preventing copycat crimes before they happen.”

  “Clare, you’ve got a real uplifting view of humanity, but let’s not kid ourselves. If word gets around that someone in Millers Kill might be going after homosexuals, it’s more likely to scare everyone away from associating with the potential victims. Let law enforcement take care of this quietly by finding these jerks and slinging their butts in jail. I promise you, that’ll get the message across.”

  “The chief is right,” Obrowski said. “Bad publicity, even for a good cause, can kill a business, especially one like ours, which relies on word of mouth.”

  “So we cower quietly in the closet and wait for the big bad police to save us? Until the next time it happens?” Handler flung his hands over his head and looked at Clare.

  “Ron is right,” Clare said. “I come from the South, and I can tell you that sitting quietly and not making a fuss didn’t do diddly to stop black folks from being vandalized, assaulted, or even killed. It wasn’t until those crimes were held up to the light of day that things changed.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Russ said. “We’re not talking about lynch mobs and Jim Crow laws. It’s assault and battery, not a civil rights issue.”

  “Isn’t it?” Handler said.

  “What’s a more basic right than the right not to be attacked because of who you are?” Clare said.

  “Thank you, Reverend King,” Russ said. He looked at Stephen. “Look, I’ve gotten all I need—” A torrent of barking, both deep and high-pitched, erupted from behind the kitchen door, cutting him off. “What the hell?” he said.

  Chapter Five

  “The rat pack is back,” Ron said. He held out a hand for Russ’s empty mug and thrust it into the sink, twisting the tap on full force.

  “We have five Pekingese,” Stephen explained over the noise of dogs and running water. “They like to make their rounds in the morning. They were out back in the barn, herding hens. Now it’s time for a mid-morning snack; then they all retire to the music room for a nap. They all share one big basket.” He walked to the outside door.

  Stephen’s deliberate high-pitched cheerfulness was the adult version of a kid clapping his hands over his ears, humming, and saying, “I can’t hear you!” Clare crossed her arms tightly and exhaled. Ron rolled his eyes and collected the three remaining mugs with a great deal of clattering. Russ opened his mouth, glanced at Clare, and snapped it shut.

  “I ought to get going,” he said. “Thank you both for your cooperation. I’ll, uh, keep you updated.”

  Clare took a deep, calming breath. “I didn’t even get a chance to tell you why I came,” she said to Stephen, who was body-blocking the two enormous Berns at the doorway while what looked like a walking carpet swarmed in
to the kitchen. “I was hoping you two could keep Gal and Bob here at the inn while Paul is in Albany.” It was awkward, talking about him as if he were away on a business trip, but she had a strong feeling Stephen didn’t want to be reminded of why the dogs were temporary orphans. “The kennel is full up, and the owner said it wasn’t likely I’d find—”

  “I wish we could,” Stephen said. “The Berns are lovely dogs. But having them and our five would be way too much.”

  “Too much hair, too much barking, and too much missing food,” Ron added, taking a box of kibble off a shelf and shaking it into five tiny stainless-steel dog bowls squared against the wall.

  “They’re very well-behaved dogs,” Stephen said, frowning at his partner. He took a firm hold on each Bern’s collar and marched them toward the hall door, ignoring their whining and longing looks at the kibble. “I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty finding someone to take them in. Or leave them at Paul and Emil’s. Someone can drop by once a day with fresh food and water.” Clare raised a finger and started to speak. “Not us, unfortunately,” Stephen said quickly. “It is our high season, after all. But surely someone can.”

  No good deed ever goes unpunished. Her grandmother loved that saying. Clare mustered a smile and followed Stephen and the Berns through the front hall to the porch. “It was very nice to meet you, Reverend Fergusson,” Ron called after her, emphasizing the you. Stephen released the dogs, who galloped to her car and scrabbled over the sides into their former places, leaving visible scratches on the paint.

  “See?” Stephen said. “Good dogs.”

  The porch creaked under the weight of Russ’s step. He paused beside her to shake Stephen’s hand. “We’ll keep an eye on your place,” he said. “If you see anything that makes you itchy, anything at all, call nine-one-one.”

  Stephen nodded. “You can count on that.” He took Clare’s hand in both of his. “Come back and see us again, Reverend Fergusson. Bring the dogs for a visit.”

  Clare and Russ trudged down the porch steps in silence. When she reached her car door, she paused. Stephen Obrowski had disappeared into the inn. Russ had gone to the cruiser and was leaning against the driver’s side, his hand resting on the open window. He fished into his pocket and pulled out sunglasses, which he clipped over his glasses. It gave him an aura of faceless authority, like every lawman in every movie since Cool Hand Luke, and even though they were only clip-ons and should have made him look like a middle-aged tourist, she started to get mad again. She opened her mouth to speak, but Russ beat her to it.

  “Before you start in again on how wrong and insensitive I am, let me tell you that I know a place where you can board those two monsters.” He flipped the shades up, as if they were little plastic-topped visors, and her incipient tirade turned into a laugh. He removed his glasses and looked at them. “Pretty sharp, huh?” He wiggled the shades. “Prescription bifocal sunglasses are not covered by my health plan. Got these at the Rexall. Six bucks.”

  “They look it.” She glanced at the dogs, who were panting enthusiastically, tongues lolling. “All right, I’ll bite. Where can I board these puppies? The county jail? Your house?”

  “Sorry, no. Linda is not a pet person. We’ll take ’em to my mother’s place.”

  She looked at the dogs again. She hadn’t seen much of Russ’s mother at the town meeting, but she was willing to bet Gal and Bob outweighed her by at least seventy-five pounds. “Are you sure?” Bob shook his head and saliva sprayed over the windshield of the Shelby. “Wouldn’t they do better in the care of some tall, hefty guy named Spud?”

  “Trust me. Inside, my mom is a tall, hefty guy named Spud.” He put his glasses on and flipped the shades down. “Follow me.”

  “This means I’m going to have to drive the speed limit, doesn’t it?”

  He grinned.

  They drove back across the river and onto Old Route 100, turning away from Millers Kill and heading north into the mountains. The trees crowded in against the edges of the road, which swooped, twisted, and climbed steeply enough to make Clare’s ears pop. It would be a great place for a long, hard run, cool in the shade of the trees and undisturbed by much traffic. Of course, if she were to twist her ankle, she’d have a long way to go for help. There wasn’t even the occasional dirt drive or mailbox signaling human habitation. She was beginning to think Russ’s mother must be either a hermit or a squirrel, but then the forest cover broke apart, and they were at an intersection that might have passed for a tiny town. Strung along the two-lane highway were several sagging Victorian cottages that escaped dilapidation through creative paintwork and an abundance of flower baskets. There was one road leading off to the left, squared by a two-pump gas station, a general store, an antique shop, and an art gallery.

  Russ turned. The battered green sign read OLD SACANDAGA ROAD, and Clare wondered if any of the roads in northeastern New York State were new. Less than a hundred feet down the road, Russ turned right into what was either a very small dirt parking lot or a very wide grassy driveway. She pulled in beside his cruiser and got out.

  “Good heavens,” she said. “Someone shrank Tara!” They were parked next to a perfect Greek Revival mansion in miniature, deeply shaded by towering pines. Tiny second-story windows peeped from underneath a pediment upheld by square columns. More windows ran along the white clapboarded side of the house, each one framed with forest green shutters. “This looks like an oversized playhouse. Is this where you grew up?”

  “Nah, my old house is a museum now.” She rolled her eyes at him. “No, really!” He laughed. “The people who bought it from my mom sold it to an enterprising couple who turned it into a museum of Indian art. With a gift shop. Actually, the gift shop is bigger than the museum part.”

  A former school bus, now painted purple and topped with several large rubber rafts, rattled past. HUDSON RAFTING EXPEDITIONS, its hand-painted sign read. The dogs flailed their way out of Clare’s car and went into high alert, racing around in circles and barking.

  “Bob! Gal! No! Bad dogs!” Clare lunged after them, but they stopped at the sidewalk of their own accord. Across the street was another antique store and a small Presbyterian church that appeared to have been made out of river boulders. The town ended there, sheared off by a leafy-treed gorge. The Old Sacandaga Road crossed a bridge and disappeared into dense forest.

  “That’s the Hudson down there,” Russ said, joining her. “Fast and shallow at this point. There’re a lot of rafting companies putting in around here.”

  “Is it going to be safe for the dogs?”

  “Sure.” He pointed to the edge of the drive. “Behind those lilac bushes, there’s a good strong chain-link fence. I helped Mom put it up myself. And if it turns out these two like chasing cars, she’s got a nice fenced yard out back. Mom’s used to taking in strays—of every sort. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

  He walked toward a white-and-green carriage house set well back from the drive, then vanished between two pines. “Mom?” He reappeared. “She’s not out back.” He gestured to Clare. “Come on in.” He stepped up to a green kitchen door set near the rear of the house and held it open. She climbed the steps, solid blocks of dense gray stone, and went in at his heels.

  “Mom?”

  Clare could hear a muffled voice from upstairs. “Is that you, sweetie? I’ll be right down.” The kitchen was cluttered with cooking utensils and shopping bags, and a basket of laundry sat atop a washing machine jammed in the corner. Signs demanding STOP THE DREDGING! jostled library books and stacks of papers on an oilcloth-covered table. An Amnesty International calendar was tacked to a door, and the ancient refrigerator was plastered with bumper stickers exhorting readers to work for peace, seek economic justice, and vote for Hillary Clinton.

  “Mom’s an old lefty peacenik,” Russ explained. “A real tax-and-spend Democrat, just like you.”

  “I heard that.” Russ’s mother appeared in the doorway, looking even more like a fireplug this time in baggy red shorts a
nd a red T-shirt. She reached up and tugged her son’s ears, bringing his face down close enough to kiss. “Remember, my taxes pay your salary, sonny boy.”

  “Then I want a raise. Mom, this is Clare Fergusson. Clare, this is my mom.”

  Russ’s mother had a firm, no-nonsense handshake. Clare wasn’t surprised. “How do you do, Mrs. Van Alstyne.”

  “Call me Margy.” She waved in the direction of Clare’s collar. “Now, what’s that? You a minister?”

  “A priest. I’m the rector of St. Alban’s Episcopal Church in Millers Kill.”

  “Well!” Margy Van Alstyne smiled, revealing teeth so uniform, they must have been dentures. “It’s about time! A woman priest. Are there many of you?”

  “Quite a few, actually. The Episcopal church started ordaining women in 1976. When I graduated from seminary last year, close to half my class were women.”

  “Don’t that beat all! You always want to be a priest? You look to be a few good years out of high school, if you know what I mean.”

  “Mom…”

  Clare suppressed a smile. “I just turned thirty-five. And no, my call came later, as it does for a lot of people. I was an army pilot before I went into the seminary.”

  “So you worked for the war industry but came to your senses!” She darted a glance at her son. “What rank were you?”

  “I was a captain when I resigned.”

  “Ha!” Margy Van Alstyne’s elbow caught Russ in the solar plexus. “She outranks you, son! Finally, a woman who can boss you around!”

  “Every woman in my life bosses me around,” he muttered, rubbing his stomach.

  Clare started to laugh.

  “You don’t do crafts, do you? Make little things with yarn and twigs? Sew a lot?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t know how to sew. I like to cook, though.”

  “Cooking’s okay. I hate crafts. You can’t walk into a person’s house today without tripping over handwoven baskets and rag dolls covering up toilet paper or some such nonsense. I like you.” She turned to her son. “I like her.”