A Fountain Filled With Blood

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Yes, of course. I’ve met Diana and Cary. Although I haven’t seen either of them for quite some time.” In fact, the pair needed to get back in touch with her about the rest of their counseling if they wanted to tie the knot in her church.

  “Diana lives in the city”—by this, Clare presumed she meant New York—“and her mother, my sister, lives over in Syracuse, so I’m helping out with organizing on this end. I’ve been running myself ragged lately with business, and I’m really falling behind on this wedding thing. But! Things have happened this weekend, and that’s why I’m calling you.”

  Clare thought for a moment that Peggy was referring to Bill Ingraham’s death. She blinked. No. The jaunty tone, the brisk speech—Peggy Landry had no idea that the man who was developing her property had been bloodily murdered the night before. Good Lord. She clapped her hand over her mouth. Should she say something, or just let the woman rattle on?

  “We always have a family get-together over the Fourth of July, and this year a bunch of people decided to stay on for a few days. I thought, What a perfect time to get all the last wedding details pinned down! So I was wondering if Diana and the florist and I could drop by the church sometime today to work on the floral design.”

  “The floral design,” Clare echoed.

  “Yes, well, evidently you can’t just order up flowers in vases and have someone set them here and there anymore. Nowadays, the florist wants to design the site, so we need to get her in to take a look.”

  Clare weighed her options. Monday was her day off. Also Mr. Hadley’s day off, since the sexton worked all weekend, cleaning up before and after the services. She wouldn’t be able to pass the buck by having him open the church for Landry and company. She would have to be there herself. Talk with Peggy Landry. Find out more about Bill Ingraham.

  “Of course, Ms. Landry. I’d be happy to meet you at the church and let you all in. When’s a good time for you?”

  They agreed on ten o’clock. Clare decided not to use her two hours lead time to go running—she still felt yesterday’s race in the slight stiffness in her thighs—but instead dressed quickly and put in a call to Robert Corlew’s office. Corlew was a member of St. Alban’s vestry. He was also a prosperous local builder, whose work ran to small developments with names like Olde Mill Town Homes and the occasional strip mall. Clare figured he might have some information on Ingraham and the Landry property, seeing as how he was in the same business. He hadn’t arrived at his office yet, but she left him a message.

  She let herself consider her sudden interest in Ingraham’s background while she was scrambling eggs and brewing coffee. After all, if she had been right last night when she cut Russ down, his murder was more or less random, the result of being the wrong man in the wrong place. Her time would be better spent organizing that march Russ had suggested. But as soon as Peggy Landry had identified herself, Clare had felt a powerful impulse to take a closer look at Ingraham. What had Russ said to her last night? “Your version of the truth”? There’s ‘I’m right’ and there’s ‘you’re right’ and there’s ‘what’s right’, her grandmother Fergusson had always said. You can’t have but one of them. Which one will it be? The only way she was ever going to be able to face Russ again was if she let go of “I’m right” and went looking for “what’s right.”

  The great Gothic doors of St. Alban’s, polished by the sun and framed by masses of summer flowers, seemed preferable as a spot for getting married, rather than the cool and shadowed interior of the church. Of course, Clare thought as she unlocked the doors, the florist couldn’t charge for the design if that were the case. She had just emerged from the sacristy, where the light switches were, when she heard the clatter of sandals on the tiled floor of the nave.

  “Hello? Anybody home?”

  “Over here,” Clare called.

  Diana Berry resembled her aunt—angular, tanned, no-nonsense. Her fair hair was long and loose, where Peggy Landry’s was cropped close to her head, not a strand out of place. But Clare could envision her at her aunt’s age, a tough businesswoman or one of those relentlessly efficient wife-mother-volunteer types who ran their communities. Or both. She and Peggy were dressed much as Clare was—sleeveless blouses and chinos or jeans. The woman accompanying them was obviously the florist, an Asian woman of perhaps forty, whose thick, bobbed hair swung along her jawline as she glanced around and then approached the altar.

  “Fabulous space,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Clare replied.

  “Reverend Clare!” Diana said. “It’s great to see you again. Thanks for letting us in on such short notice. This is Lin-bai Tang, our floral designer, and my aunt, Peggy Landry.”

  Clare shook hands all around.

  “What is it,” Tang asked, her eyes taking in the ornate woodwork, “mid-nineteenth century?”

  “Started in 1857, completed just after the end of the Civil War.”

  “Wonderful. I adore Gothic churches. Come here, Diana, let’s start at the altar rail. I see faux-medieval swags with flowers that look as if they’ve been gathered on the riverbank by the Lady of Shallot….” She whipped out a notebook and a measuring tape.

  “Wow,” Clare said. “She’s good. I don’t know what her flowers look like, but she’s good.”

  “She’s the hottest floral designer in Saratoga. We were lucky to get her at the height of the season. My brother-in-law’s dropping a fortune on this thing. For the amount he’s spending, the bride and groom ought to give him a money-back guarantee.”

  “Where’s the reception?”

  “At the Stuyvesant Inn. Do you know it?”

  Clare blinked. “I do, yes.”

  “Of course, we think of it as Grandfather’s house. It used to be ours before my grandmother sold it. Enormous old place, impossible to keep up.”

  Clare got the distinct feeling Ms. Landry wouldn’t mind trying, though. “The inn’s lovely,” she said. “How nice for you that it’s available for a family celebration.”

  “Well, it’s been a pain to try and handle the latest owners, I can tell you.” Landry sat down in a pew, tipped the kneeler into position with one sandal-shod foot, and propped her feet up on the red velvet surface. “Fussy little pair. All these rules we have to work around. ‘No drinks in the parlor. No high heels in the music room.’ They’re trying to make it a historically correct tomb. They’ve been running it as an inn for a year, and I can’t imagine how they’re managing to stay in business.”

  Clare sat down sideways in the pew in front of Landry’s, crossing her arms over the smooth, age-darkened wood. Ron Handler’s unflattering description of Peggy Landry suddenly made sense. Why hadn’t he and Stephen mentioned that Landry’s niece was one of their clients?

  “It’s a shame you couldn’t have seen it in its heyday, when my grandfather was alive. It had real elegance then, and comfort, and dash. I still have quite a few family pieces at my own house.” She stretched a well-toned arm along the back of the pew. “If I ever manage to get the place back in the family, I’ll have a head start on furnishing it properly.”

  Clare, who had been trying to fit Emil Dvorak, the Stuyvesant Inn, Peggy Landry, and Bill Ingraham into some sort of logical picture, snapped back to attentiveness. “You’re hoping to own the inn someday? But the new innkeepers just bought it a year or so ago, from what I understand.”

  Landry snorted. “That pair are the third owners in the last decade. So far, the Landry house has proved too expensive for a summer home and too distant to be a retreat from New York City. I’m not particularly confident that it’ll be any more manageable as an inn.” She snorted. “I suppose the fact that I still refer to it as ‘the Landry house’ gives my feelings away. Up till now, I’ve never had the wherewithal to make it more than a pipe dream.”

  “You must be delighted about the new spa being built,” Clare said, keeping her voice as casual as possible.

  “Delighted? Yes, I suppose you could say that. It makes it sound as if it’s a p
iece of good fortune that happened by chance, though.” She crossed her arms over her chest, crinkling the smooth white cotton of her blouse. “I’ve worked like a dog for three years putting this thing together. Not to mention all the time before, keeping my ear to the ground, building up my capital, forgoing the income I could have made if I had done what everyone said and put a campground or a couple of rustic cabins at the site.” She smiled in a satisfied way. “I knew the potential that was there. I knew that land could be used for something much, much bigger. I played my hand out, and now I’ve got the pot, metaphorically speaking.”

  “You must be worried about the protests and all. I mean, if the resort doesn’t go forward…”

  “Won’t happen. I guarantee it. The protesters are just a bunch of tree-huggers blowing smoke. They have no real political clout.”

  What if the head of the development company is dead? Clare thought. She absolutely did not want to be the one to break that piece of news to Peggy Landry. She cast about for an innocuous response. “Um…I confess I don’t know how it works, but what if the state looks at the site again because of this new pollution problem?”

  “We’ve gotten an absolutely clean bill of health in all the site surveys up to now. I don’t expect that will change.”

  Landry sounded utterly sure of her statement. Clare raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you worried that an inquiry, or recertification or whatever, would bring the development to a halt for however long the DEP was poking around? I thought Mr. Ingraham”—the name recalled the image of what she had seen in the scrub at Riverside Park, and her breath caught for a moment before she could go on—“said he would withdraw from the project if they even got involved.”

  “John Opperman and I agree that’s unnecessary. We have a perfectly legal right to proceed full speed with the development, which means the bulk of the work would be done before the DEP finished with its initial evaluations here in Millers Kill. The workers are supposed to be on site today. We need to pick up the pace in order to get all the outside work done before winter.” She looked distracted for a moment and reached for her purse. “In fact, I need to speak with John.” She retrieved a cell phone. “If you don’t mind, Reverend Fergusson?”

  Amusement won out over amazement at the sheer brass of being asked to remove herself from a pew in her own church so that Landry could use it as an office. Clare slid out of the pew and wandered to the back of the church, where the great double doors were open to a warm breeze, the smell of roses, and the faint sound of children playing in the gazebo across the street. It seemed strange to be planning for winter at the delicious peak of summer. It also seemed strange to think of death in the middle of such a cornucopia of life. She thought of the old words from the graveside committal service, which she had always disliked for their fatalistic view: “In the midst of life we are in death.”

  Behind her, Diana Berry and Lin-bai Tang had descended to the center aisle, exclaiming over the possibilities of sprays and ribbons and candelabra. Tang’s measuring tape snapped briskly as they made their plans. If the rest of the celebration was anything on the scale of the flowers, this would be the wedding of the century. Peggy Landry’s brother-in-law was either rolling in it or about to go broke. She wondered how much Landry had sunk into the development. Would she be ruined if the deal didn’t come off? What about the construction workers and everyone else employed by the project? She shook her head. Anything she might think was sheer speculation at this point. Maybe Ingraham’s partner would simply carry on without him. Of course, that begged the question of whether the construction at the location of the old quarry was indeed responsible for the rise in PCB levels.

  She was suddenly struck by a thought. What if someone who wanted to stop the project knew that Peggy Landry and Ingraham’s partner were planning to proceed full steam ahead? Would the death of the president of BWI slow things down? Long enough for the DEP to address the environmental concerns and halt the development for a re-testing of the site? She reached up to her hair and twirled her ponytail into a bun, thinking furiously. She wished she had paid closer attention to the business end of her parents’ small aviation company. She might know more about what happens when a company’s principal owner dies.

  “Reverend Clare? Is everything all right?” Diana Berry’s voice broke her concentration. Clare let her impromptu bun fall back into a ponytail and dropped her hands. “You look a little upset,” Diana continued.

  “No, I’m fine. Just thinking.” The florist was standing next to the young woman, tucking the measuring tape back into her purse. Clare glanced toward Peggy Landry, who nodded and raised her hand, then said something into her cell phone. “All set?” Clare said. “Did you get everything you need?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Lin-bai Tang said. “It’ll be a real pleasure working in your space.”

  Peggy Landry finished up with her call and replaced the phone in her purse. She rose and joined them. “Sorry, everyone. Business before pleasure.”

  Diana grinned. “Business is your pleasure, Aunt Peggy. I’m amazed I could tear you away today.”

  “I have to run,” the florist announced, looking at her watch. “Diana, I’ll write up the plan and fax a copy to you and to your mother, along with the estimates.” She held out her hand to Clare. “Thank you again for letting us in on such short notice, Reverend Fergusson. Bye, all!” With a final swing of her heavy hair, she was gone.

  Clare unclipped her key ring from a belt loop. “Are you two all set?” she asked.

  “I am,” Diana said. “Next stop for me is the mall near Glens Falls. I’m checking out tablecloths and napkins for the reception.”

  “Doesn’t the Stuyvesant Inn supply the linens?” Clare asked.

  “Oh, of course. But you know how it is with a hotel or caterers. You can get any color you want, so long as it’s white. I’m going to have pale floral undercloths with a filmy overcloth caught up around the rim of the table with tiny clips of flowers. And solid napkins picking up one of the floral colors. Doesn’t it sound stunning?”

  Clare thought it sounded criminally extravagant, but she held her tongue. “Mmm,” she said.

  “Aunt Peggy, is Mal going to be able to pick you up?” Diana continued. “I don’t mind running you, but we’ll be all day trying to fit everything in.”

  Her aunt pointed to her purse. “I called him. He’s on his way. He just got out of bed. You know Mal.”

  Diana gave a look that said that she knew Mal very well. “All right. I’m off. But look, I’ve got my phone, so if he bails out on you for whatever reason, call me.” She shook hands with Clare. “Thanks again, Reverend Clare. I’m so glad I picked your church for the most important day of my life.”

  She was through the door and halfway down the walk when Clare remembered, calling after her, “I need to see you two for more counseling sessions!” Diana waved in acknowledgment but did not pause. Clare sighed.

  “Do engaged couples still have to do counseling?” Landry said. “I thought that went the way of ladies wearing hats in church. It’s not like they haven’t already done everything already.”

  Clare was reminded of her mother’s response when her brother Brian had said the same thing during his girlfriend’s first visit: You haven’t done it in my house.

  “If the Episcopal church is going to put its official stamp of approval on a couple, it wants to be satisfied the pair knows what they’re doing. Priests can refuse to marry a couple who seem unready for the responsibilities of marriage.”

  “Really? Does that ever happen?”

  Clare shook her head. “Not much. What’s more common is that the priest might schedule more premarital counseling, or direct the couple to other professionals who can deal with the problem areas—a sex therapist, a financial planner, what have you. It’s weird, really, when you think about it. An engaged couple will spend months picking out menus and flowers and clothes, but only three hours sitting down and talking about what happens after they make
a lifetime commitment.”

  Landry smiled cynically. “Well, it’s hardly a lifetime commitment anymore, is it?”

  “It should be,” Clare said. The words made her think about Russ, and she felt a sting. Enough about marriage. She wanted to know more about Bill Ingraham. She shoved her hands into her pockets and encountered her key ring. “Look, Peggy, if you have to wait awhile for your ride, why don’t you come over to the rectory? It’s just next door.”

  Landry slid her purse strap over her shoulder, her long, thin fingers caressing the leather. “My nephew is supposed to pick me up. Mal is nothing if not unreliable, but he did say he was getting into the car as soon as he hung up, so I ought to stay here. If he doesn’t find me where he expects, he’s likely to get distracted, and then I won’t see him again until Tuesday morning.”

  “Does he live in Millers Kill?”

  Landry let out a short laugh. “He doesn’t live anywhere right now. No, that’s not entirely true. He’s staying at my house until either he can get his act together or I lose all patience and throw him out.”

  “Did he lose his job? Or is it that he just doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life?”

  “I think he knows what he wants to do. He’s just having trouble living a life of wealth and leisure without any visible means of support.”

  Clare grinned. “Yes, I’ve heard that can be tricky. Are you sure I can’t get you to—”

  “My God, I can’t believe it. He’s broken his land speed record.” Landry gripped Clare’s arm and tugged her through St. Alban’s great double doors. Stepping into the sunshine from the thick stone interior was like being released from an ancient prison, going from dimness into light, from cool to warm, from stillness to life. Clare couldn’t help closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun for a moment before turning to secure the antiquated iron lock. She could hear Landry striding across the lawn toward the parking lot on the opposite side of Elm Street. Clare dropped the keys back into her pocket and trotted toward the lot, where Landry was standing beside a Volvo sedan.