SIXTEEN
It is a cliché that there are no secrets in a small town. It is also false. In Millers Kill, it is unlikely anyone will ever know that Geraldine Bain, who has worked in the post office for thirty years and who is famous in the First Baptist Church for her deep-dish crumble-crust pie, nearly died from an illegal abortion in New York City in 1950.
The fact that Wayne Stoner, a hardworking dairy farmer and father of two, stays up after everyone has gone to bed to read his wife’s romance novels has never come out, even after he spilled coffee on Suzanne Brockmann’s The Defiant Hero and had to blame his thirteen-year-old, Hannah.
Laura Rayfield, the nurse-practitioner heading up the local free clinic, certainly hopes that no one ever discovers that during her youth in Tennessee (she followed a boyfriend to New York and discovered she loved the Adirondacks much more than the man) she was the statewide fire-baton twirling queen.
Tim Garrettson, who has been in marriage counseling with Reverend Fergusson for over a year, doubts that his wife, Liz, will ever find out that he has been unfaithful to her three separate times while attending insurance industry conferences. Unless he’s foolish enough to spill the beans himself.
But something like the violent death of the police chief’s wife will not stay secret, or low-key, or undiscussed. Especially when rumors had already been circulating that his recent relocation to his mother’s house was because his wife caught him out in an affair. The first story of the murder would appear Wednesday morning, in the Glens Falls Post-Star. It had almost no details from the Millers Kill Police Department, and only a single quote from the victim’s friend Meg Tracey. The reporter, Ben Beagle, was unable to obtain a statement from the widower. That did not stop the residents of Millers Kill from filling in the blanks themselves.
Dr. Emil Dvorak, in addition to his duties as the county medical examiner, also served as the Washington County Hospital’s pathologist, and he had been sitting a consult with Drs. Phillip Stillman and Molly Cline Monday evening when his pager went off. He had excused himself, grabbed Dr. Stillman’s phone, and called in. Stillman and Cline, who still found it vaguely amusing that someone who worked exclusively with dead people could have emergency calls, ignored what was going on across Dvorak’s desk, until he gasped out, “Oh, my God, no,” and buried his face in one hand.
When he hung up, Dr. Cline tentatively said, “Bad news?”
And Emil Dvorak, the soul of professional discretion, lifted his head and blurted out, “Russ Van Alstyne’s wife has been murdered.”
He terminated the consult and was on his way to the crime scene before the two other physicians could cobble together something appropriate to say.
Dr. Stillman, who had met both the Van Alstynes when he treated the police chief’s fractured tibia less than a year ago, used the extra time from the now-canceled consult to check in on one of his orthopedic surgical cases. On his way out, he bumped into the emergency department charge nurse.
“You know the police chief, right, Alta?”
“I ought to, the number of times he’s been in the ER picking up drunk drivers or talking with kids who got in trouble.”
“I just heard his wife’s been killed.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
By the start of the swing shift, the entire on-duty staff had heard the news.
Tuesday morning, an internist named Dr. Palil Ghupta drove from the hospital to the Millers Kill Free Clinic for his monthly supervisory meeting with Laura Rayfield, NP. He regaled her with the story and, because he was a fan of police shows, buffed it up a bit with the phrase “She was blown away.”
Laura was suitably shocked and impressed, and when at lunchtime she bumped into Roxanne Lunt, the director of the historical society next door, she passed the news on.
“A shotgun blast took her out,” Laura said, maneuvering past a slick spot of ice and packed snow. The sidewalks were in bad shape, but it was still easier to walk to Silvio’s Italian Bakery than to try to find parking spaces on the snow-lined street.
“Good heavens.” Roxanne pulled her fur collar closer, as if the icy winds of mortality were blowing around her neck. “I wonder if Clare Fergusson knows yet.”
“Reverend Fergusson? The minister?”
“Mm-hmm. She’s evidently a particular friend of Chief Van Alstyne’s.” She tugged open the door to Silvio’s. A swirl of yeasty steam swallowed them. “What’s really scary is the thought that whoever did it is still out there. I mean, if the police chief’s wife can be murdered in her own home, what chance do the rest of us have?”
“Most murders in the North Country result from domestic violence,” Laura said, unwinding her scarf. “If you aren’t married to or involved with the man who kills you, chances are, you’re safe. Just how good a friend is Reverend Fergusson?”
“Omigod! You can’t think the chief—”
“I’m just saying.”
Roxanne poked distractedly at her perfectly blown-out coif. “I’d better call her as soon as I get back to the historical society.”
Waiting for his hot meatball sub to go, Dan Hunter, vice president for finance at AllBanc, listened to their conversation. Back at the bank, he stuck his head in Terrance McKellan’s office. “Hey, Terry,” he said. “Isn’t Clare Fergusson the minister at your church?”
“Priest,” Terry mumbled around a tuna pita pocket. His wife had lately put him on a diet, and he wasn’t happy with it.
“Whatever. Is she involved in some way with the chief of police?”
Terry McKellan brushed a stray whole-wheat crumb from his luxurious brown mustache and looked at his colleague suspiciously. “Why?”
“Evidently somebody gunned his wife down in their home, and he’s a suspect.”
Terry dropped the pita on his desk. “You’re kidding me.”
“I swear. They were talking about it at Silvio’s.”
“Good God.” He stared at his desk calendar. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ve got some people I’d better call.” He was dialing Robert Fowler, the senior warden of St. Alban’s, before Dan had vacated his doorway. Fowler, the owner of a small construction and development firm, was out to lunch, according to his secretary. Terry left him a brief message in his voicemail. Geoff Burns, junior warden, was in a meeting with a client at his law offices. Voicemail message.
McKellan flipped through his Rolodex and started in on his fellow vestry members. Sterling Sumner, ostensibly retired, was teaching an architecture class at Skidmore. He was also the last man in America to employ a live, human answering service. Terry left as long a message as he dared with the terse woman who, unfortunately, sounded nothing like Judy Holliday.
Mrs. Henry Marshall was at home, getting ready for her Tuesday afternoon bridge group. “Terry McKellan, I can’t believe you of all people would be spreading gossip,” she scolded, after he had told her the news. “You can’t seriously think that nice Russ Van Alstyne had anything to do with his wife’s death. Poor thing!”
“It’s not that,” he said. “Sooner or later, something like this is going to have the press all over it. And when that happens, they’re going to be digging into Reverend Clare’s relationship with the man.”
“What relationship?” Mrs. Marshall was nothing if not stouthearted in defense of people she liked.
“Lacey . . .” He had known Mrs. Marshall for over a quarter century and had recently begun calling her by her first name.
“The best way to handle gossip is to ignore it,” Mrs. Marshall said. “If there’s no wind, the fire will die away.”
She soothed him a little more, assured him that no, there was no reason they should have a special meeting to discuss the problem, and got him off the line just as her doorbell rang with the first three members of the bridge group. She probably wouldn’t have thought much more of it if, during a lull after bidding out her hand, she hadn’t overheard Yvonne Story telling the rest of the north table that Reverend Clare Fergusson had demanded a resolu
tion to her affair with Chief Russ Van Alstyne, which is why he had shot his wife after she refused to divorce him.
“Yvonne Story! Where on earth did you hear such nonsense?”
The retired librarian had a homemade-dumpling face, imperfectly round and pastry-pale, and a lifelong, passionate love affair with the sound of her own voice. “Oh! Lacey! It slipped my mind, but she’s your pastor, isn’t she? I’m so sorry. Isn’t it awful the things that men and women of God get up to these days? That’s why I stopped going to church years ago. I follow this wonderful minister on the television, Dr. Peter Panagore. He’s a lovely, lovely man. And it’s so convenient, not having to get my stockings on of a Sunday morning.”
“Yvonne,” Mrs. Marshall cut in, “there’s not an ounce of truth to that story you were telling about Reverend Fergusson and Chief Van Alstyne.”
“Oh, but there is! I volunteer at the Infirmary, you know, reading to the old folks and keeping them company, and the director, Paul Foubert—you know Paul, don’t you? He’s a lovely, lovely man, and so well spoken, although, you know, most of that sort of men are—”
“Yvonne. Are you telling me the director of the Infirmary told you Chief Van Alstyne shot his wife? I don’t believe it.”
“Well, I did happen to overhear him saying that Mrs. Van Alstyne—the younger Mrs. Van Alstyne, not the older—had been killed, and that his, you know, special friend, the medical examiner, was on the case because it was foul play.” She let the last words echo dramatically, a refinement Mrs. Marshall had thought her incapable of. Most of Yvonne Story’s conversational efforts went into quantity, not quality. The women at her table, who had been looking either annoyed or shell-shocked at the flow of words, were perking up at the interesting revelations.
“I understand the chief’s wife was found dead. That doesn’t mean that he had anything to do with it.”
“Geraldine Bain at the post office told me right before I came over here. She said the chief’s wife kicked him out of their house because he was having an affair.”
“That doesn’t mean—” Mrs. Marshall stopped herself from defending Russ Van Alstyne. Wind to fan the fire. “Geraldine Bain is one of the worst gossips in Millers Kill.”
“But she’s cousin to the Dandridge Bains, who live in Cossayuharie. Their daughter is married to a police officer.”
“It’s always the husband in cases like this,” Yvonne’s West hand said authoritatively.
South hand nodded. “I only met Linda Van Alstyne once or twice, but she seemed like a delightful woman. She hired a lot of local women for her business, you know. Women who needed the work.”
“It’ll be a shame if nothing ever comes of it.” Mrs. Marshall’s own North hand spoke up, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I figure the police department will take care of their own. Mark my words, there’ll be a cover-up.”
“There’s nothing to cover up,” Mrs. Marshall protested, but she was drowned out in a sea of voices, as everyone began speculating how and why the chief of police had killed his wife.
She had been wrong. Someone had to speak to Reverend Fergusson about this. The sooner, the better.
SEVENTEEN
The rector of St. Alban’s had spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding her new deacon and her personal miseries. Wrung out from the morning’s revelations and jittery after spotting Russ’s deputy chief and one of his officers eyeing her as she left the station parking lot, she had—sneaked was such an ugly word; she preferred entered with stealth—at any rate, she made it into the church without being seen. A quick reconnoiter outside the hall confirmed that neither Lois nor Elizabeth de Groot was around. Clare dashed into her office and grabbed her appointment book and while-you-were-out memos. From the sacristy, she took her traveling kit: a plain leather box containing wafers, wine, clean linen, and the silver pieces used in celebrating the Eucharist. God-in-a-box, as she sometimes thought of it.
Suitably prepped, she set out to lose herself in the halls of the Washington County Hospital and the Infirmary. Father Lawrence had covered her duties as celebrant during the time she was off, but the hospital and old-age-home visits were a week overdue. In her car, she put in a quick call to the secretary, which she knew would be answered by the parish office’s machine. “Lois, it’s Clare. I’m going to be out for the afternoon”—she kept it vague, in case de Groot got the idea to tag along after her—“but you can reach me on my cell if it’s an emergency. Please apologize to Deacon de Groot, and you can ask her to . . . to . . . help collate this month’s newsletter.” Then she felt guilty and added, “Show her the January and February schedules and see if she can sit in on some of the committee meetings. We want everyone to get the chance to know her.”
Over the next few hours, visiting the sick and elderly in her care, she managed to forget, from time to time, the bishop’s judgment hanging over her, her new watchdog-deacon, and her unease about being seen in Russ’s company today of all days. It was impossible to think of herself when confronted with others’ overwhelming needs. Gillian Gordounston, who had just moved from Albany to Millers Kill with her husband because she thought it would be a good place to raise children, only to wind up on bed rest with triplets, not knowing a soul except her doctor and the rector of the church they had attended exactly two times. Twelve-year-old Joseph van Eyk, whose kidneys had failed last year, hospitalized the third time for a post-transplant infection. Liz Garrettson’s elderly mother, who went in and out of the emergency room while her daughter and son-in-law remained locked in battle over whether she should be moved to their house or institutionalized. Today she was weepy and confused, convinced that men were breaking into her home to kill her cats. Mrs. Oliver, her wit still Dorothy Parker–sharp at ninety, trapped in a body that could no longer stand or walk or even lift a cup to her lips without aid. Oh, yes. Always, in serving, Clare could forget herself.
But she could not forget Russ’s pain, his poor murdered wife, or the guilt—equal parts sin and complicity—that clung to her like a wet dress. In the quiet moments, walking down institutional hallways where her own footsteps seemed to dog her, she prayed, comforting rote prayers she had always known by heart. Ave Maria and St. John Chrysostom’s. The Magnificat and the prayer of St. Jerome. Lord, thou hast sought me out and known me.
Returning to the rectory at the end of the day, she drove through a darkness punctuated by still-shining Christmas lights and glowing windows framing families gathering around the dinner table. The pretty displays made her heart ache. They were like visions of a lost paradise to all the souls for whom there was no home, no welcoming arms, no happy endings. She was in a thoroughly melancholy mood when she pulled into the miniature parking space behind the church and saw that all the lights were still on.
She checked her watch. Six thirty. The Tuesday night AA meeting that took place in the parish hall didn’t begin until seven thirty, and they never set up before seven. She got out of her Subaru, dread on one shoulder and curiosity on the other, and let herself in the kitchen door. She threaded her way through the shadowy undercroft and climbed the stairs. She heard a buzz of conversation from down the hall. She replaced her traveling kit in the sacristy and started toward the noise, which seemed to originate from the meeting room.
“There you are.”
She whirled around. Geoffrey Burns, the junior warden, stalked down the hall toward her, a tall cardboard coffee cup in one hand. “We’ve been waiting for you to get back.”
“We?”
He shrugged toward the chapter room, where committee meetings were held. “Terry McKellan called me. Told me about the situation. I suggested we get your input before we decide how to respond.”
“Respond?” She knew she sounded like a feeble-minded parrot, but she couldn’t get her head around which situation Geoff or Terry thought they needed to respond to.
“Linda Van Alstyne’s death. Look, come on inside and sit down. You look like crap warmed over.” Burns, a short, darkly intense man, wasn’t
exactly known for his charm, but Clare allowed him to usher her into the chapter room. Normally, the graceful space with its oak paneling and leaded windows soothed her. Normally, she didn’t walk in there to be ambushed by Terry McKellan sitting at the large mahogany table with Mrs. Henry Marshall and Elizabeth de Groot. The new deacon looked at her reproachfully, as if she were a dog Clare had left alone too long.
“Elizabeth.” Clare tried to keep her lack of enthusiasm from showing in her voice. “I didn’t expect to see you this late. You must have a long ride home.”
“I do,” Elizabeth said, a touch of gentle censure in her tone. “But I hoped we’d have the chance to finish our talk. I was waiting in the church when Mrs. Marshall let herself in.”
“Clare, you didn’t tell us the bishop was sending us a deacon.” Mrs. Marshall shook her head.
“I only just found out yesterday.” She glanced from the elderly lady in toucan-pink lipstick and matching sweater to Terry McKellan, whose glossy brown mustache and habitual brown tweed jacket made him look like an overweight seal. “I wish you had called me if you were planning a meeting.”
“I spoke with Lacey earlier today, but she decided to come over on her own,” Terry said, rising from his seat as Clare sat down. “Glad we got here in time to meet Ms. de Groot, though.” “Please. Elizabeth.”
Clare had the sensation of being a character in a bad Pirandello play. “What’s going on?”
There was a sudden silence. The three vestry members looked at their new deacon. She met their gazes, smiling, until the penny dropped. “Ah,” de Groot said. “Clare, I’ll wait for you in your office.” She rose smoothly from her chair and glided through the chapter room door.
“Nice woman,” Terry McKellan said. “Seems very sensible.” Although she was almost certain he didn’t mean it as a jab, Clare found herself flushing.
“I’ll ask again. What’s with the surprise inspection?”
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