In the Bleak Midwinter

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “But they didn’t have a picture, and I did. And I had his yearbook.” She twisted on the sofa to face him more fully. “Ow! You were right about the hot prickles. Anyway, at first I thought it was a bust, because none of the girls recognized Wes. But then, just by chance, they spotted a picture of Alyson Shattham. And guess what? She had been to see Katie. It was not a cheerful social visit. They had a fight.”

  “When was this?” He swept the newspaper off one overstuffed armchair and perched on the edge.

  “Beginning of the school year. September.”

  “Huh. Little Alyson Shattam. Who said she hadn’t seen Katie since graduation.”

  “Guess who Alyson’s boyfriend was all through last year.”

  He smiled slowly. “Wesley Fowler.”

  “Ten points.”

  “Where is this kid? Still in town?”

  “No, he’s a plebe at West Point. His father’s gone down to bring him back, though. They should be here tomorrow.”

  He began twisting the sheets of newspaper into kindling. “Want a fire?”

  “Please.”

  He raked the old ashes to one side and laid splitwood from a big basket over the paper. He crossed two small logs over the kindling and struck one of her silly six-inch-long matches. “Alyson and Wes,” he said, tossing the match on the fire with five inches left unburnt. “A boy and a girl. Go to the same church. Are their families friends?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. He sprawled back onto the armchair. “Oh, I feel warmer already. I may become addicted to fires.”

  “Yeah, the Shattams were with the Fowlers this morning when I went over. I knew about Alyson and Wes before, though. Dr. Anne’s son gave me the inside scoop on all the high school gossip this past Monday. Sounded like they were the classic king and queen of the prom pair.”

  “You sound a tad disenchanted, there.”

  “Oh . . . that’s just an old high school outsider looking in, I suppose.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve met Alyson. She clearly believes that the world owes it to her to treat her like the princess she is. And from what I’ve heard of Wes Fowler, he’s the same type, a golden boy who’s never had anything bad happen to him.”

  “So what do you think? Did Alyson know Wes was seeing Katie on the side? Maybe she wouldn’t put out and Katie would? So she let Katie keep Wesley-boy happy?”

  “There’s no doubt that Katie did, as you oh-so-tastefully phrased it, ‘put out.’ But honestly, I can’t see Alyson Shattham standing by while her boyfriend gets . . . serviced. She strikes me more as the kind of girl to keep him on as tight a leash as possible.”

  “Yeah, I know that type. Gets her kicks from making some poor slob jump through hoops for the promise of some—” Clare was looking at him with undisguised interest. He felt the tips of his ears redden. “Never mind. I agree, it’s more likely Alyson didn’t know that Katie was sleeping with Wes.”

  “But then, at some point, it’s more than just sleeping with her. He gets her pregnant. Could he have come running to Alyson then?”

  “What for?”

  “Help. Advice. Forgiveness. Knowing a little bit about the psychology of teenage boys, I’m willing to bet a non-pregnant girlfriend suddenly looked a lot more appealing to him.”

  “She looked genuinely surprised to me that morning at your church. Of course, I’ve been fooled before.” He watched Clare twist a strand of hair around her finger and chew her lip. “Okay. Let’s say he did tell her. What do the king and queen of the prom do when he’s gotten another girl knocked up?”

  “They make the problem disappear?”

  “Let’s say Wesley persuades Katie to give away the baby.”

  “That could explain Alyson’s visit to Albany. Maybe she was the go-between, trying to talk Katie into it.”

  “But a few days after leaving the baby at your back door, Katie gets back in touch with Wesley. She says she can’t stand it, she wants the baby back.”

  “I don’t think Wes Fowler would have been too keen to have it come out that he got a girl from Depot Street pregnant and then abandoned the baby outside St. Alban’s on a freezing winter’s night. The West Point commandant and the ethics commission take a dim view of that sort of thing.”

  Russ snorted.

  “And there had already been a story in the paper, remember? The day after we found the baby? There wouldn’t have been much chance of him keeping it quiet if Katie tried to reclaim Cody.”

  “So one of them—Wesley or Alyson—decides to stop Katie before she can tell anyone she’s the baby’s mom. One of them gets her out by the kill and cracks her head open and leaves her there to die.”

  She swished her feet through the water.

  “But then another problem rears its ugly head,” he said. “Darrell, who evidently once saw Katie and Wes together.”

  “He must have seen the Fowlers’ family picture on our parish bulletin board Wednesday morning when he met with me and the Burnses. That would explain why he broke off the discussion so quickly, if he had a name to put with a face, finally.” She shook her head, silent for a moment.

  “If he did, it’s not your fault, Clare.” She glanced up at him. “You’ve got your responsible look on,” he explained. She gave him a half smile. “We know he called somebody. Maybe he was putting the squeeze on Wesley, and the kid high-tailed it back to town and put a bullet through Darrell’s slimy little brain.”

  “Or Alyson did.”

  He looked at her, nonplused. She spread her hands. “You think she couldn’t? Maybe she’s the shooter while Wes went to the house in Albany to collect any incriminating evidence.”

  “The guy who said he was Katie’s father? The roommate described him as older, with a mustache.”

  “According to Dr. Anne’s boy, Wes Fowler was in the Millers Kill High School Drama Society. He appeared in several plays and in the yearly musical. A little left-over gray tint in his hair, a fake moustache . . . it might been enough to fool a couple of freshmen who had had a few too many beers.”

  Russ slid out of his chair and squatted on the floor in front of her. “Let’s have a foot.” She lifted one, dripping, out of the water and let him squeeze it. “Need to heat it up a bit,” he said. He held a hand against the copper teakettle, checking to make sure it was still warm before pouring a stream of warm water into the tub.

  She made a noise in the back of her throat, flexing her toes. “If he did kill Darrell and clean out Katie’s room, he must have thought at that point he had covered all the bases. There wasn’t anything to link him to Katie except Cody himself, and who would think to ask for Wes Fowler’s DNA to test for paternity of poor Katie McWhorter’s abandoned child?”

  “Nobody, until the Reverend Fergusson got her hands on a photo of the two of them together and immediately rushed over to confront his proud parents with evidence that one plus one makes three.” He turned to the fireplace and tossed another log in. “Holy Christ, Clare. You really could have died up on that mountain. You were supposed to have died.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Would he have had time to get from West Point to here and set up that ambush for me?”

  He stood slowly, turning around, scanning the dark corners of the room without meaning to. “I don’t see why not. It’s a three-hour drive at most, another hour to get himself parked somewhere safe on a camp road on Tenant Mountain. It’s not as if he needed to come up with an elaborate way to trap you. All he needed was a good way to get you up to that mountain and someone pretending to be Kristen McWhorter.”

  “Which brings us back to Alyson.”

  “She knew you were helping Kristen, didn’t she?”

  Clare nodded.

  “And she must have known you’re the sort to charge off to help first, without asking questions until later.”

  She cocked her head at him. “You make me sound like the Lone Ranger.”

  “Doesn’t make it untrue. The fact that you’re impulsive is not a deeply hidde
n character trait.”

  “I prefer to think of it as making decisions quickly.”

  “I’m sure you do. Prefer to think of it that way.”

  The doorbell chimed. He headed for the kitchen to admit a snow-dusted Dr. Anne.

  “My car’s blocking you in, so we’ll have to switch,” she said, unwinding an immense scarf from her neck. “How is she?”

  “I’ve got her soaking in a tub of lukewarm water that I’ve been heating up gradually.” The doctor stared at him. The tips of his ears reddened. “I mean, her feet. She’s soaking her feet. In there.” He led Dr. Anne into the living room in time to see Clare standing wobbly-legged, clutching at the back of the sofa. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said, more loudly than he intended.

  She grinned at him tensely. “I believe it’s called ‘walking.’ It’s all the rage of the over-one-year-old set. Hi, Dr. Anne.”

  “Sit down, you damn fool woman.”

  She straightened, releasing the sofa. The lines and planes of her face tightened. “I have things to do,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have to call Kristen, and Mrs. Fowler. And the deacons, to let them know I may not be able to celebrate seven A.M. Eucharist tomorrow morning.”

  He reached over the sofa and wrapped his hand around her arm. “You don’t need to prove how tough you are. I already know. Clare, please. Sit down.”

  She looked at him, then sat.

  Dr. Anne dropped her medical bag on the sofa next to Clare. “As soon as I’ve checked you out, I’ll help you make those phone calls.” She glanced at Russ. “Anything in particular I need to watch out for?”

  “You see anything, or hear anything that makes you feel uneasy, call the station. No, give me a call.” He scrawled his home number on the scratch pad next to the cordless phone base.

  “I will, Chief. Let’s move those cars so you can get out.”

  He looked down at Clare. She smiled crookedly. “Thank you. It seems inadequate, but thank you.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to get into any trouble until then, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Dr. Anne waited while he pulled on his boots and coat. Outside, snow still fell furiously. His truck was already blanketed again. “I can’t thank you enough for coming to stay with her,” he said. “She’s so damn busy taking care of other people’s needs she completely ignores her own.”

  Dr. Anne smiled knowingly. “Mmmm. Yes, I know the type.” She paused, one hip bumped against her car door. “Chief? I don’t mean to pry, but I heard Clare’s car was parked at the foot of your drive all night Wednesday.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous! I mean, yeah, it was there, but that’s because it was snowing and I drove her home.”

  Dr. Anne raised her hands placatingly. “I’m not trying to imply anything. I just wanted you to know that if I’ve heard talk, other people have too. It’s a small town.”

  Russ hauled open his truck door. “Christ, isn’t that the truth. If folks are so interested in the whereabouts of Clare’s car, let’s hope somebody saw something that’ll tell us who wanted to dump it into a gorge. With her along for the ride.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Clare looked out at her congregation as the last notes from the communion hymn faded and wondered if one of the people looking back at her wanted her dead. Alyson Shattham and her mother were in their usual spots, but the Fowlers, who usually sat nearby, were missing. As were the Burnses. Sterling Sumner was glaring at her again while Doctor Anne, who last night had argued strenuously against her celebrating the nine o’clock Eucharist, was frowning in concern.

  Ronnie Allbright, her acolyte, turned a page in the huge presentation prayer book that lay propped open on the altar. Clare glanced at the text of the post-communion prayer and took a deep, slow breath, focusing on the clear channel of the words. “Almighty God,” she began, and the voice of the congregation joined her in a rumble, “We thank you for giving us the most precious body and blood of your son, Jesus Christ . . .” She knew the prayer like she knew the names of her family. It settled and centered her, so that when she raised her hands to bless the congregation, she could feel an honest surge of affection and support for them all.

  Martin Burr attacked the organ, pumping out the opening strains of “On Jordan’s Bank the Baptist’s Cry.” The torch-bearers and the crucifer assembled in front of the altar to begin the recessional. Clare glanced up from her hymnal just in time to see the inner vestibule door opening at the end of the church. Russ Van Alstyne slipped inside. Across the length of the nave, his eyes met hers.

  The calm and centered feeling she had been nursing vaporized. She joined the recessional, last in line, inadvertently wincing at the ache that intensified every time she put a foot down. She kept her gaze fixed on the hymnal in order to remember a song she had known by heart since childhood. At the conclusion of the hymn, she stood for a beat too long, unable to dredge up the simple words to dismiss the congregation. She could see the back of Alyson Shattham’s hair, immaculate and shining. Finally she blurted out, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord, Alleluia, Alleluia,” and bolted toward the door while everyone else was still responding with their own Alleluias.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed at Russ.

  “I’m going to talk to Alyson,” he said, bending down to keep his voice close to her ear. “What are you doing up and walking around? How do your feet feel?”

  “They hurt. But not bad enough to miss the Eucharist. Why here?”

  “Because I want her comfortable enough to talk, of course. You’d be amazed at how many people clam up and call for a lawyer when you haul ’em into the station for questioning.”

  “The whole ‘separation of church and state’ thing doesn’t carry much weight for you, does it?”

  “I think the church-as-sanctuary rule went out a few centuries ago.”

  One of the ushers bumped past them. “Excuse me, Reverend, but I have to get these doors open.”

  Clare and Russ stepped out of the way. Parishioners clad in bulky winter wools and chain-tread boots jostled each other on the way down the aisle. “I have to do the receiving line,” she said. “I want to be there when you talk to her.”

  “I figured you would.”

  She pasted on a pleasant expression, shaking hands, exclaiming over bits of news, thanking those who offered to volunteer for the Christmas preparations, all the while watching as Russ intercepted Alyson and her mother in their pew and spoke with them. Alyson shook her head. Russ jerked his thumb toward the door. Alyson said something to her mother, who fluttered her hands like a bird afraid to fly. Russ leaned forward. When he stepped back, both the Shatthams collected their things and followed him up the side aisle toward the parish hall.

  Clare had no idea there were so many people in her congregation. She felt as if she had shaken five hundred hands and listened to at least that many comments about yesterday’s storm before the last of them left the vestibule and she could painfully stump her way up the aisle, through the hall, and into the meeting room.

  This time, Russ was the one sitting with his back to the window. Brilliant sunshine from a sky swept clean by the storm glowed around him, partially obscuring his face. Alyson slouched in the chair opposite him, twisting a strand of hair around two fingers.

  Clare shut the door against the hum of conversation and the clink of coffee cups coming from the parish hall. “Good morning, Alyson, Mrs. Shattham.”

  “Reverend Clare,” Barbara Shattham said, “Chief Van Alstyne says he needs more information about the dead girl. And that we’ve been waiting for you?”

  Russ rose and ceremoniously pulled out a chair. Clare cocked an eyebrow at him. “I know your feet must be hurting you after your ordeal last night,” he said.

  “Ah.” She got it. “Yes, thank you.” She hobbled more obviously toward the table and sat down.

  “Where’s your husband,
Mrs. Shattham?”

  She frowned. “At home. He’s not feeling well. He went cross country skiing yesterday and overdid it.”

  Clare shot a glance at Russ, but his eyes never left Barbara Shattham’s face.

  “Did you go with him?”

  “It’s not a sport I enjoy.” She turned to Clare. “Reverend Fergusson—”

  “Did he get home early or late?”

  “What?”

  “From skiing. Did Mr. Shattham get home early or late?”

  “I don’t know! Early evening. Seven or eight o’clock. What’s this all about?”

  Now Russ looked at Clare. She bit her lip, thinking. Could Mitch Shattham have been the man who attacked her? He was about the right height and size, inasmuch as she could tell from a bulky snowsuit. Just how much would he do for his little girl?

  “Yesterday evening,” she turned toward the Shatthams, “there was a phone message waiting for me when I got back from Albany. I believe you knew I was going to Albany, Mrs. Shattham.”

  Barbara Shattham blinked, then nodded.

  “And you told Alyson about what had happened at the Fowlers. That I discovered Wes and Katie McWhorter had been dating.”

  “Yes, I did. It concerned her, after all.”

  Clare looked directly at Alyson. “But you weren’t surprised when your mother told you that Wes had had another girlfriend last year, were you? You already knew about him and Katie.”

  Alyson’s fingers twitched at her hair. “No, I didn’t.” Sweet. Simple. A child who had never been called on cookie-stealing or missing homework.

  “Katie has three roommates who have identified you from photographs as having visited her at the beginning of the school year.” Russ’s voice was calm. “Now, we can have them all come up for a live lineup—”

  “A lineup? You mean as in arresting my daughter?”

  Alyson’s mouth dropped open. Her hair fell from between her fingers.

  “She could do the lineup voluntarily. Or, she could do it after we’ve arrested her.” He stared at the girl. “Or, she could tell us what she knows right here.”