In the Bleak Midwinter

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  Clare pressed her forefingers against her mouth to refrain from mentioning that Geoff could just as well have killed other people out on the roads that night. “Does this sort of thing happen often?” she asked, her voice neutral.

  “God, no. Geoff’s idea of a blowout indulgence is a bottle of Nouveaux Beaujolais the week it hits the stores. So you can imagine how I felt when those two officers showed up at the door asking where we had been that evening! All I could think of was Geoff being hauled in for questioning. So I told them we’d been home all night, having a few drinks and watching TV.” She sagged back into her chair. “Geoff just went along with my story.” Her gaze went to the ceiling, as if looking for the Fates lurking there. “Yesterday, when we learned that McWhorter had been killed, it was too damn late to recant. There wasn’t anyone except a few anonymous bar patrons to say he’d been at the Dew Drop instead of . . .”

  “Instead of taking Darrell McWhorter on his last drive to Albany?”

  “Yes. We had already lied to the police. As you said, it looks bad.”

  Clare tilted her head back, closing her eyes. Did she believe Karen Burns? Yes? The question was, did she believe Geoff Burns told the truth to his wife? “You’ve got to tell this to the police. You and Geoff.”

  “No!”

  “Do you believe your husband’s story about what happened Wednesday night?”

  “Yes, of course. He would never lie to me.”

  “Then tell Chief Van Alstyne. Geoff’s absence that night is going to come out sooner or later. If you wait until the police find out on their own, the two of you are going to look guilty as sin. Go to Van Alstyne’s office, tell him what you’ve just told me, admit that you were both royal idiots to lie about it, and offer to enroll Geoff in one of those driver education courses. Voluntarily.”

  “What? There’s no way they can prove drunk driving after the fact—”

  “We’re not talking about legalities, Karen, we’re talking about admitting you did something wrong and setting it right. Confession and repentance.” She braced her elbows on her knees. “Because on a moral and emotional level, you aren’t going to be able to continue on with this lie weighing you down. And because on a practical level, if you don’t cop to the drinking and driving and lying, your husband’s going to look like a murderer when the police do find out.”

  Karen pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead, half-shielding her face from Clare’s direct stare. “There’s a good chance they won’t find out,” she said, trying the idea on for size.

  Clare exploded out of the love seat. “There’s no chance Chief Van Alstyne won’t find out, Karen, because if you don’t tell him, I will!”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I can’t tell him anything of this conversation we’re having right now, no. I can certainly tell him Ms. Dunkling of the Department of Human Services called me to complain that your husband was at Cody’s foster mother’s house Wednesday night. And I can tell him Deborah McDonald confirmed Geoff was upset and smelled like he’d been drinking.”

  Clare collapsed back into the love seat. “I’ll do everything I can to help you talk to the police. I’ll do everything I can to help you become Cody’s parents. But I won’t compromise the truth for you. I won’t help you stand in the way of finding Katie McWhorter’s killer. We owe her that. We all owe her that.”

  “You’re lucky he’s in. Five minutes more and you would have missed him.” Harlene punched the intercom button on her heavy, licorice-colored telephone. “Chief? Reverend Clare’s here to see you. And Karen Burns.”

  The door to his office banged open and the chief of police strode out. His gaze flicked between Clare and Karen, back to Clare, finally settling on Mrs. Burns. “What can I do for you ladies?”

  Clare tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of the effortless chic of the woman standing beside her. She looked like a badly tailored crow next to Karen’s drapey wool separates and hundred-dollar haircut. Which was ridiculous. Appearance was not what was important here. She tugged her bulky, faded sweater down, revealing more of her clerical collar.

  “Mrs. Burns?” Russ said. “Reverend Fergusson?”

  Karen looked uneasily at Clare. “I . . . uh . . . was going to wait for my husband, but he’s being held over in a deposition . . .”

  Russ tilted his head a little to the side. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Why don’t you come into the interview room with me. We can be more private there.”

  Karen nodded. “Clare, will you stay with me?”

  “Of course.”

  Russ looked at her hard while pulling out a chair for Karen, asking what was going on as clearly as if he’d said it. Clare raised her eyebrows, radiating encouragement. He rolled his eyes at her before crossing the room and taking a seat opposite Karen. Clare seated herself.

  “Mind if I tape this? I hate to have misunderstandings later on because we’re remembering different things.” He rested his hand easily on a cheap portable tape recorder.

  Karen frowned. “As long as you make it clear I’m speaking without an attorney.”

  “Oh? Do you need one?”

  Karen flushed. “As you say, I’d just hate to have misunderstandings later on.”

  He nodded, turning on the tape machine. “This is Chief Van Alstyne, interviewing Karen Burns.” He glanced at Clare. “Accompanied by her priest, Reverend Clare Fergusson. Ms. Burns is unrepresented by legal counsel.” He looked at Karen. She nodded. “The date is Friday, December tenth, and the time is . . .” he glanced at his watch, “six P.M.”

  Karen took a deep breath and began. Clare listened to her voice, calm and orderly. Her recounting of the events of Wednesday night was organized, yet compelling. Clare propped her chin in her hand, struck by Karen’s poise. She must make a dynamic advocate in court. Russ, on the other hand, looked less than impressed. He sat with one hand resting on the tape recorder and the other splayed across a pad of paper. Clare supposed his expression could qualify as neutral, but she could see something underneath. Disapproval? Skepticism? She bit her lower lip. It was important that he treat Karen right. How else could he encourage this kind of honesty?

  When she concluded her story, Karen folded her hands, as if waiting for comment. Russ chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. He tapped the tape machine a few times. “Your husband was driving a Honda Civic that night?”

  “That’s correct. He uses it instead of his Saab when the roads are salty.”

  “Has he driven it anywhere since that night?”

  “Yes . . . he’s got it today. He likes me to keep the Land Rover, in case I need the four-wheel-drive. Why?”

  “Was he drinking at the Dew Drop Inn before he went to Mrs. McDonald’s?”

  “No, that’s in the opposite direction from our office and her house. Um . . . he didn’t actually say, but I assumed he’d gone to the Sign of the Musket after work. That’s where we usually go for Happy Hour.”

  “Mrs. Burns, when you spoke to Officer Entwhistle Wednesday night, you said you own a nine millimeter Smith and Wesson, registered to yourself, and that you keep it in your Land Rover for times when you’re on the road by yourself.”

  “That’s . . . correct. I have clients spread out between Albany and Plattsburgh, and a woman traveling alone can be vulnerable. What relevance does this have, Chief?”

  “Is that gun still in your Land Rover?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes!”

  Russ nodded. He popped the tape from the machine and rose from the table. “Will you wait here for a moment? I’ll be right back.” He closed the door on his way out.

  Karen jerked around in her seat. “Clare, I don’t like this. I do not like this at all.”

  Clare rested her hand on the other woman’s forearm. “Karen, we knew he’d be suspicious. After all, you did lie before. I’m sure Chief Van Alstyne wants to check with someone at the, what was it? Sign of the Musket? And at
the Dew Drop Inn.”

  “You’re right.” Karen sighed. “He’s going to want to talk to Geoff, too. Oh, God, I should have just waited for him to get back from that damn deposition. We could have done this tomorrow.”

  By which time, Geoff could have argued her out of talking to the police. Clare patted Karen’s arm and tried not to doubt Geoff Burns when she hadn’t even had the chance to talk with him.

  The women sat in silence as the minutes crawled by. Clare got up and checked the coffeemaker, but it was cold and dry. The plate beside it was empty. No homemade strudel today.

  “What on earth is taking him so long?” Karen demanded. She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to find a phone. I want to call the office and see if Geoff’s there yet.”

  “Maybe you should wait until you hear what Chief Van Alstyne has to—”

  The door opened. Russ and Officer Durkee walked in. The young man smiled discreetly at Clare, who waggled her fingers at him. He’d been good company at the hospital the night she’d found Cody.

  Russ cleared his throat. Officer Durkee fell in, his face serious. Russ held up a curling sheet of fax paper. “Karen Burns,” he began formally. “I have here a copy of a warrant executed by Judge Ryswick granting us permission to search your cars and to confiscate any firearms in your or your husband’s possession for testing. We are also warranted to search your house for any materials possibly related to the deaths of Katie McWhorter and Darrell McWhorter.” He folded the piece of paper carefully, creasing it with finger and thumb pressed tightly together. “Judge Ryswick thought our new information was sufficient to issue a separate warrant for your husband’s arrest.”

  Karen’s posture went rigid, and her arm, still holding the back of the chair, trembled slightly. She made no other sign or sound.

  “However, I won’t execute the arrest if Geoff presents himself to the station for questioning within the next two hours. I’ve sent someone to your office to let him know. If he comes home first, of course, we’ll have someone there,” Russ said. “Officer Durkee will accompany you to your vehicle. If you’ll hand over your keys?”

  “I want to call my lawyer. Now.”

  “There’s a phone at the main desk. Mark, will you escort Mrs. Burns to the phone?”

  Karen shot Clare a venomous glance. “Confession and repentance?” Her voice hissed like caustic lye. She turned and swept out of the interview room, Officer Durkee close on her heels.

  Clare faced Russ. “This is absolutely outrageous!”

  “Stay out of it, Clare.”

  “Stay out of it? I’m the one who persuaded her to come in her and tell you the truth! How you can twist that around in order to search her car and her house. . . . Are you going to arrest Geoff Burns?”

  “Depends on whether he shows up or not. What he says in the interview. I may very well hold him overnight while we test the gun.”

  Clare clenched her teeth to keep her voice from rising. “I brought Karen Burns in here. I persuaded her to come clean with you. I assured her you would listen to her. I thought—”

  “No, you didn’t think. You just jumped in feet first without looking where you were going or considering the consequences. I’m a cop, Clare! What the hell did you expect me to do when a woman I suspect is an accessory to two murders walks in and tells me her husband was drunk and unaccounted for during the time Darrell McWhorter was killed? Shake her hand and give her a good citizenship badge? Get real!”

  Clare pressed her hands flat against the table to keep them from shaking. “I was trying to help—”

  “You were trying to help the Burnses, yeah, I know. And you’re trying to help Kristen McWhorter, and the baby, and the unwed mothers of the world, and every damn soul you come across. That’s why you’re a priest, Clare. I, on the other hand, am a cop. The only thing I’m trying to do is catch the sonofabitch who killed Katie McWhorter and her father and send him to the chair. And I will do anything—anything within the law—if it means getting closer to that arrest.” He spread his legs slightly and hooked his thumbs into his belt, an archetype of law enforcement authority. “If that interferes with your agenda, I’m sorry. But don’t act the outraged innocent with me when I’m doing my job.”

  Clare flushed hotly. “You! Can kiss my ass!”

  “Oh, very nice. They teach you that in seminary?”

  She spun on her heel and stalked out of the room, past an embarrassed-looking Harlene, past the abandoned main desk. Behind her, she could hear Russ’s voice, exasperated, angry. “Clare. Clare!”

  She took the stairs two at a time and burst out into the icy night air. She interlaced her fingers tightly and took a deep breath. The cold, dry air made her cough. She clattered down the front steps, almost losing her footing, and swung around the corner into the station parking lot.

  Karen was standing next to her Range Rover, arms folded. Officer Durkee was inside, his flashlight bouncing off the windows and mirrors. Karen’s lips pinched together when she saw Clare. “I’m not going to be able to give you a lift back to my place. My vehicle’s going to be out of commission for awhile. And I have to wait for our lawyer to get here.” She glanced at Durkee’s shadowy form. “I’ve asked him to try to get a stay on the warrant.”

  “Karen,” Clare began. “I’m so sorry . . .”

  The other woman pulled a knit hat from her coat pocket and twisted her hair underneath it. Automatically, she pulled a few loose curls down here and there, framing her face. “I’m sure you are. And I’m sure that when this is all over, I’ll be able to listen to your apology. But right now, I’d rather you just leave me and my husband alone.”

  Clare dropped her arms to her sides. She could feel a hot pricking behind her eyes. “Of course. I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t think . . .” Karen’s scornful look told her it was obvious she hadn’t thought. Clare bobbed her head and left the parking lot as fast as she could, wanting nothing so much as to put the fiasco behind her. What had she been thinking? Her mind drew a blank. She had been dismayed that the Burnses had lied to the police. She had been hopeful that Karen’s confession would finally clear them in the investigation. She had been . . . pleased with herself, bringing a new piece of information to Russ, like some attention-starved dog showing off a trick. She jammed her hands deep into her pockets in disgust. She hadn’t been thinking, just feeling. And reacting.

  She stopped at an intersection and waited for cars to pass. Damn, it was cold. Her ears already ached and it was another mile at least to the Burnses house, where her car was parked. Why hadn’t she worn a hat? A stitch in time saves nine, her grandmother said. Proper prior planning prevents piss-poor performance. That voice belonged to the warrant officer who had taught her survival course. They were evidently in agreement with Russ.

  The light turned green and she crossed. But, dammit, he was so focused on the Burnses he couldn’t consider any other possibility. Why would Karen have told her about Geoff’s absence the night Darrell was murdered if it wasn’t to exculpate him? It was so obvious! But Russ couldn’t entertain the notion that he might be wrong. Him and his ‘Me cop, you priest’ routine. Patronizing jerk.

  The flash of red lights and brief blurp of a siren jerked her attention to the road. A cruiser was pacing her, its passenger-side window unrolled.

  “Get in, I’ll drive you.”

  “No,” she told the car.

  “For God’s sake, Clare, just because you were wrong about the Burnses doesn’t mean you have to sulk like a little kid. It’s a long walk to their house.”

  “I can use the exercise.”

  “Clare, get in the goddamn car!”

  “No.”

  “I won’t ask again!”

  She remained silent, facing in the direction she was walking, her eyes fixed on the building across the next intersection.

  “Fine, dammit. Be that way!” The cruiser picked up speed and drove off.

  In the fading rumble of its engine and the accelerating swish
swish swish of its tires, she could hear her grandmother Fergusson’s voice. Self-righteousness won’t mend any shoe leather, missy, and pride won’t put a meal on the table. Wrapping her arms and her self-righteousness around her, Clare trudged on into the night.

  CHAPTER 21

  Weekends were peak time for the Millers Kill Infirmary. Children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, busy from Monday through Friday, would come for visits Saturday and Sunday, bringing magazines, photographs, and potted plants that the staff would labor to keep alive. So far, Clare had kept her visits to weekdays, when the corridors were largely quiet and the oldest members of her congregation were happy to see someone from the outside.

  But Mr. Howard’s niece had asked her to stop by to encourage the old gentleman, who had just gotten back to the Infirmary after a rough bout of pneumonia, so here she was, hoping that by showing up first thing in the morning she could avoid the sullen teenagers and guilty-looking adults who populated the corridors on Saturdays.

  Mr. Howard looked weak and washed-out but seemed to be in high spirits. Clare had visited with him once before, and found what he most wanted was an audience for his stories of the Great Depression and his never-ending string of dreadful puns. He didn’t acknowledge she was a priest: whether that was from faulty memory or a politely unvoiced disagreement with the ordination of women, she didn’t know. They did pray together at the end of her half-hour visit, though. She wondered, leaving him with a promise to say hello to his niece, if the prayers of a man of ninety were somehow more easily heard by God. After that many years, God must seem like just one more old friend living on the other side of the divide.

  At the unmanned nurses’ station, Clare tucked her brown police parka under her arm and flipped through the roster of residents, finding names she knew, reading the brief notes to see if anyone was doing poorly or heading for the hospital. The sound of muffled crying caught her attention. She dropped the notebook and stepped around the counter into the corridor. An old woman dressed in a heavy floor-length robe leaned against the wall, her fist jammed into her mouth, her eyes wide and frightened.