A Fountain Filled With Blood

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “I want to ask you something.” She shaded her eyes from the sun’s glare when she looked up at him. “You seem to think highly of Bill Ingraham. Does the rest of the crew feel the same way?”

  Ray shifted the stacked hard hats from one arm to the other. “Pretty much, I guess. There’s always a few who see management as the bad guy. But the new guys on the crew are making fourteen bucks an hour, and the senior guys are making up to twenty, so most of ’em don’t have a problem with the boss taking his profit. I figure, you want everybody to earn the same, go to Cuba.”

  “Actually, I was thinking more about his…personal life.” She wiped a trickle of sweat off her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Does anyone have a problem with Mr. Ingraham, um, being, you know…gay?”

  Ray frowned. “Why?”

  “Well, because sometimes straight men don’t relate well to—”

  “No, I mean why do you want to know? You’re not one of those preachers who go around telling folks God hates queers, are you?”

  She recoiled. “Good Lord, no!” She wiped her hands against her jeans reflexively. “That’s a…sick perversion of God’s work. No. Just the opposite. I’m trying to get a handle on who might be propagandizing that kind of hate around here. I don’t know if you’ve kept up with the news, but there have been two assaults in Millers Kill recently. Two decent men beaten half to death because they’re gay.” She caught herself. “At least that’s the most likely explanation for the attacks. I want to understand where that rabid homophobia comes from, do what I can, as a priest, to stop it.” The image of Bill Ingraham’s savaged body came to her, causing her words to get stuck momentarily in her throat. Too little too late, she thought, and took a deep breath. “I can’t exactly waltz into the nearest pool hall and say, ‘Hey, guys, what do you really think of homosexuals? And be honest now!’ ”

  Ray snorted.

  She tilted her head toward the picnic tables at the edge of the construction area. The guy in the Desiderata T-shirt had opened one of the coolers and was passing out cans. It looked like it was Miller time. “Here you are, a bunch of manly men doing manly construction work, and your boss is a homosexual. An out-of-the-closet gay man. How do your coworkers feel about that? Have there been any problems?”

  “You think maybe some of the crew could have been involved in those beatings?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who knows them.”

  Ray looked over at the men sprawling in the shade and then glanced at Clare. “You’re not running back to Ms. Landry with any of this, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Or some kind of reporter?”

  “I’ve told you the truth, Ray. I’m the rector of St. Alban’s Episcopal Church.”

  He crossed his arms, obscuring the plumbing company ad on his chest. “I guess the reaction’s been mixed. I don’t think it really makes any difference to most of the guys, although you hear a whole lot more pansy jokes than at the last job I worked. Most guys figure what you do in your private life is your own business, and so long as nobody prances through playing the Sugar Plum Fairy, they don’t say much.”

  “I hear you saying ‘most’ of the guys. What about the rest of them?”

  Surprisingly, Ray grinned. “We got one Gen Xer, I guess you’d call him, thinks it’s totally cool to be working for someone like Bill. Of course, Carter’s got both ears pierced and these weird tattoos around his biceps.”

  “So not only is he out of the mainstream but he’s got enough self-confidence to wear earrings on the job. Is there anyone else on the opposite end? Maybe some older guys? Or somebody who has to spend all his time proving what a jock he is?”

  Ray’s smile faded away. “There are a few who just can’t seem to let it alone. Like Charlie back there. They always gotta have some snotty remark about Bill and his ‘lifestyle.’ ” Ray made quotation marks with his forefingers. “You work on a construction site, you expect to hear some pretty raw stuff. And the guys like to rib you. If I had a dime for every ‘dumb Dutchman’ joke I’ve heard, I could retire to Florida right now. But there’s a difference between making queer jokes to be funny and garbage-mouthing someone personally.”

  Clare, who had endured way too many sexist jokes during her years in the army, thought the difference might not be all that apparent to the person who was the butt of the joke. But she knew what Ray was trying to convey. The former was the casual cruelty of ignorance, like the major who had been truly baffled when she took offense at his endless string of dirty jokes. The latter was viciousness, designed to fence someone off from the group with a line as subtle as barbed wire. She thought of the Hustler babes she used to find taped up in her cockpit. “Yeah,” she said, “I know what you mean.” She swiped away another trickle of sweat. “So who is it doing the trash-talking? And does it stop at talk?”

  Ray squinted up at the sky, frowning in thought. “Well, there’s Charlie; you met him. Matt Beale and Toby, they have a pair of potty mouths on ’em, but they’re both so lazy, I can’t imagine either of ’em working up the sweat to beat on somebody. Elliott McKinley, him I can see doing it, but not on his own. He’s like a dog that slinks around on the edges of a pack, whining. He wouldn’t dare come out to bite until another, bigger dog had done it first. Gus Rathmann is the sort who could definitely do it. You should hear the way he talks about his wife. I’ve never met her, but I’ll bet good money he’s beating up on her.”

  “Could he be the big dog that this McKinley would follow?”

  “Nah. Gus can’t stand Elliott. The thing I’m wondering is, Would he risk it?”

  “Gus or Elliott?”

  “Gus. He’s on probation. I don’t know what for. But I’ve heard him turn down offers to go out for a beer after work. I got the impression he was trying to keep straight for his probation officer.”

  “Either of these guys here today?”

  Ray looked at her, alarmed. “These are not people you ought to be hanging around with, Reverend.”

  “I know. But are they here?”

  Ray sighed. “Gus Rathmann was here this morning. He took off when we were told to stand down until further notice. Which wasn’t unusual—half the guys left after Opperman called.”

  “Did Elliott leave, too?”

  “He had to. Whitey Dukuys was leaving, and he’s Elliott’s ride.”

  “Are they roommates or something?”

  “Nah. Elliott’s truck broke last week and he’s been bumming rides with Whitey ever since.”

  Clare blinked. “His truck?”

  “Yeah. Whitey lives out in Glens Falls, and he drives right past where Elliott—”

  “What kind of truck? What color?”

  Ray looked at her as if the heat and the bouncing Jeep ride had scrambled her brains. “I don’t know. Let me think. It’s a Chevy two-ton. Red. Why?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first thing Russ saw when he turned into the construction site was Clare’s car. He was following Opperman and Peggy Landry, who were undoubtedly a hell of a lot more comfortable in Landry’s well-sprung Volvo sedan than he was in a five-year-old cruiser that needed new shocks bad. He hadn’t been real gung ho on the idea of the two of them alone in their car, able to coordinate their stories, but since they had both shown up promptly at the station when asked and were about to open their office for a voluntary search, he was willing to extend himself a little.

  Then he saw her car.

  What is it with her and tiny red cars? More important, why was he stumbling over her every time he made a move on these cases? Next thing he knew, he was going to start seeing her in the urinal when he went to take a leak.

  He rolled in beside Landry’s sedan and threw his cruiser into park. He sucked in a lungful of air-conditioned air. The hell with it. He was here for background on Ingraham. Clare had nothing to do with it, or with him, or with this case.

  Except, of course, that she had found Ingraham’s body. For a moment, he allowed himself to think
of her sitting on the damp ground, barricaded behind those two dogs. Then he snorted. She was about as weak and vulnerable as a Sherman tank. And about as subtle. He turned off the engine and stepped into the midafternoon heat.

  Bill Ingraham’s business partners were waiting for him. John Opperman, who looked like the kind of guy who took his suit and tie off only to shower, seemed awkward and out of place standing in dust and scrub grass, framed by construction machinery. Landry could have stepped off the cover of one of his wife’s Martha Stewart books. Although, as Linda liked to point out, Martha ran her own billion-dollar empire. He suspected he ought to keep that in mind when dealing with Peggy Landry.

  “The site office is this way, Chief Van Alstyne,” Opperman said. “Though as I told you at the station, I doubt there will be much of use to you there. It’s used strictly for work—I don’t know of Bill ever mingling his private and professional life.”

  Russ followed the pair up a slight incline to a trailer set up on a concrete foundation at the edge of the work site. Several men sprang up from picnic tables set in the shade behind the trailer. Opperman stopped and pointed at them.

  “Go home,” he said. “You’re off for the rest of the day. You’ll get a call about tomorrow.”

  “Do we get full pay today?” one man shouted.

  “Yes, yes, you’ll get your full eight hours today.” Opperman turned to Landry and gave her a look as if to say, See what I have to put up with? “Right in here, Chief,” he said over his shoulder, mounting the trailer steps and opening the door. He disappeared inside, and Russ could hear him speaking to someone in the office. With a sense of inevitability, Russ shouldered through the narrow aluminum door and saw exactly whom he expected, Clare Fergusson. She was seated beside a metal desk with a fake wood top, and her eyebrows tried to climb off her forehead and hide in her hair when she caught sight of him. Opperman was talking with a heavily muscled man in his fifties. The man, who had the easy stance of a crew chief who knew what he was worth, folded his arms and nodded toward Peggy Landry.

  “Yes, sir, I understand. But Reverend Fergusson was invited here by Ms. Landry,” he said.

  Landry stepped forward. “He’s right. I’m so sorry, Clare, but this afternoon has turned out to be”—she shot a glance at her surviving business partner—“the worst-possible time to show you around. Let me walk you out and we’ll reschedule.”

  Russ intended to ignore Her Holiness, but he couldn’t help it. “You know her?”

  Landry frowned, probably at the irritated tone in his voice. “Reverend Fergusson is marrying my niece Diana in August. Well…not marrying. Officiating. You know what I mean.” She braced her hand on the Con-Tact-paper wood and gestured to Clare. “This really isn’t a good time, Clare.”

  Clare opened her mouth and closed it again. She rose from the folding chair she had been sitting in and obediently followed Landry toward the door, giving Russ as wide a berth as possible in a single-width trailer crowded with tables and chairs.

  She paused at the exit, framed by a stack of soda cans in cartons and a flimsy-looking water cooler. “I’d like a chance to talk with you at some point, Chief Van Alstyne,” she said in a fakely chirpy voice. Russ grunted noncommittally, and Landry practically dragged the priest onto the steps. Opperman swung the door shut behind the two women. “Ray, we’re shut down for the rest of the day. Peggy or I will give you a call to let you know when we’re starting up again.” Ray nodded and headed for the door. “And Ray?” Opperman kept his hand over the doorknob, denying access for a fraction of a second. “Don’t let an unauthorized person onto the site unless one of us is here. Ever.” He smiled. “Insurance, you know.”

  “It’s your site, Mr. Opperman,” Ray said, shrugging. He let himself out.

  “Okay,” Opperman said, clasping his hands in front of him. “What is it you’d like to see?”

  Russ looked around at the suddenly empty office. A large drafting table with an elaborate CAD setup occupied one end of the trailer. A messy desk flanked by filing drawers and a fax machine filled the other end. In between were folding tables layered with rolled blueprints, manila envelopes, and torn-open FedEx packages. “Like the Supreme Court justice said, ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’ ” He pointed to the desk. “Was that Ingraham’s?”

  “Yes.” Opperman dragged aside two folding chairs and pulled out a sturdy metal chair upholstered in vinyl. “Bill wasn’t one for show. Function—that’s what he wanted.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, then let out a cross between a snort and a smile. “He had this old chair for as long as I knew him. I was ribbing him about it once, telling him he should get something more ergonomic. He said it performed perfectly—it kept his ass off the floor. Anything else was just bells and whistles.” He looked out the small window set horizontally beside the desk.

  “Was he like that about his construction projects? Did he build just enough to function?”

  “God no. When it came to BWI Developments, he was a true perfectionist.” He waved at the cramped interior of the trailer. “He always spent as much time as possible at or near a site. Got to know the contractors, the subcontractors, the workers. I swear, he probably knew the name of the quarryman who chiseled the marble for the bathroom floors. And God help him if those tiles were anything less than top-quality.”

  “And what’s your role in BWI? Did you work for Ingraham?”

  “Not for him. I’m his partner. Bill handled the physical plant, and he did so beautifully. I handle everything else: land acquisition, limited partnerships, permits, financing, insurance.” Opperman smiled faintly. “Which is why, unlike Bill’s, my office fits inside a laptop.” His smile faded. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now that he’s gone.”

  “Will this project have to fold? Or will you be able to replace Ingraham?”

  Opperman gave him a sharp look. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to replace Bill. If I can find a sufficiently skilled construction manager, we can proceed. I hope we can. It would be a damned shame if his final project were left unfinished.”

  “What happens to BWI if you do have to abandon the project?”

  Opperman rubbed his knuckles against the bottom of his chin. “It’s going to be tough. We’re insured for any catastrophe that might cancel the project. But our reputation will take a hit. Then again, our reputation will take a hit just because Bill’s gone. He was the driving force behind BWI. He was the reason people invested in our projects.”

  “What about Peggy Landry? How would she fare if you had to cancel?”

  “Peggy? She’s one smart businesswoman. Part of our deal was primary partners’ insurance and a pay-or-play clause.” Russ’s blank look must have given him away. Opperman laughed. “I won’t bore you with the legal details. The end result is, she’s a beneficiary of our partners’ insurance policy. And if the Algonquin Spa doesn’t get built, she still receives rental on her land for five years. Or until she finds another developer.”

  “She gets a payout from insurance? Insurance on Ingraham?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How about you?”

  “The death benefit for either Bill or myself goes directly into the business. That’s the purpose of having partners’ or principals’ insurance—to cover the business losses when one of the key players dies.” He sat down in his late partner’s chair and spread his hands. “To be blunt, if you’re looking for a financial motive for either Peggy or myself to have…have”—he looked away, then back at Russ—“butchered a man we respected, you’re going to come up blank. We both relied on Bill.”

  Russ leaned back, catching the edge of a long folding table under his thigh. It felt too insubstantial to sit on. He folded his arms across his chest instead. “Seems to me you’ll do okay. She gets a big insurance payoff and money for her property, and you get sole control over the business. It’s not public, right? So all the profits go back to whoever owns it.”

  “In the first place, I can show yo
u projected net and gross earnings of the future Algonquin Spa for the next ten years. Peggy Landry stands to make considerably more money if the project goes through. To address your second point, yes, I am the sole surviving partner of our privately held company. But not for long.” Opperman pushed himself out of Ingraham’s chair. “Despite the fact that we do very upper-end, high-margin projects, this is still fundamentally a construction company. And I don’t do construction. I can quote you the cost of bricks and the provisions of our contract with the bricklayers’ union and the amortization rates of the equipment needed to haul them here, but I couldn’t lay one brick on top of another to save my life. I’m a lawyer. And if I’m not going to become a retired lawyer, I need to find another partner who can step into Bill’s shoes.” He leaned over and turned on the desk computer. “I understand why you need to pursue this line of inquiry.” He tapped in a name and password. “I just hope you aren’t letting whatever scum took Bill’s life slip away while you’re digging through our old files.” He stepped back from the desk. “It’s all yours. Hard copies and correspondence are in the filing cabinet. There’s no diary. As far as I know, Bill kept his schedule on his computer and in his Palm Pilot.”

  Russ made a mental note to ask Lyle MacAuley if he had found a Palm Pilot after searching Ingraham’s room at the inn. He looked at Opperman. “Thank you. And I can assure you that Bill Ingraham’s killer isn’t going anywhere. We’ll find him.”

  Which was bold talk, since the initial autopsy and the early-morning search of the crime scene hadn’t given them anything new. Ingraham had had a meal and some booze a couple of hours before his death. He hadn’t engaged in any sexual activity—or at least none that left any traces on him. MacAuley’s and Durkee’s search of the grounds down to the river had turned up several cotton threads that might be helpful to the state prosecutor, if they ever found a viable suspect and if they could find a matching article of clothing belonging to him.