A Fountain Filled With Blood

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Okay. I believe you thought you heard what you did. I’ll even accept that you may be right that he is holding. I’m still not going to get anywhere based on your say-so.”

  “Russ—”

  He held up a hand. “Let me finish. I’ll put Mark on him, do some background checking, see if we can connect him to any known dealers or buyers.”

  “But it’s more than that. I think he’s connected to the murder.”

  “Which one?”

  “What do you mean, which one? Bill Ingraham’s, of course. Why? There hasn’t been—has there been another murder?”

  “Maybe. We found Chris Dessaint’s body. He’s the guy I told you about—the one McKinley fingered as the ring-leader of those punks. Looks like he OD’d. Scheeler’s doing an autopsy to see what he can find out.”

  “Wasn’t he the one who was supposedly giving the others drugs and money?”

  “That’s him.”

  “It makes perfect sense!” She smacked her hands together. “Malcolm gave him drugs and money, and he did the dirty work. Mal said something to the other guy in his bedroom—‘I know what you were told.’ Doesn’t that sound as if there was someone else involved?”

  “Huh.” He glanced away from the mountain road to look at her for a moment. “Did you hear the other guy’s name?”

  “No.” She bit her lip and dropped her eyelids, as if she were concentrating intently on remembering. “He said, ‘I didn’t sign up for anything like this.’ He told Mal he wasn’t in it for the money, and Mal laughed at him. Then Mal gave him the…well, whatever it was and told him it was worth ten thousand dollars, and he—Malcolm, that is—would arrange a sale for the other guy. So he could take the money and leave the state. ‘Until this business about Bill blows over’—that’s what he said.” She opened her eyes and looked at Russ. “What do you think? Do you have an idea of who it might be?”

  He returned his attention to the road. “Dunno if it’s an idea. A possibility, maybe.” He tapped the steering wheel with two fingers. “According to Elliott McKinley, there was a third man involved in the beatings. Jason Colvin. No priors on him, although we know he used to hang in the fringes of our little local hate-mongering group. We’ve tracked him to his girlfriend’s house, but the last time she saw him was Monday morning.”

  “The morning after Bill Ingraham was killed.”

  “Yep. Noble’s checked his work, hangouts, family—no one’s seen him since then. He’s disappeared off the face of the earth. Since we found Dessaint, I’ve been wondering if he took a camping trip, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dessaint. He was camped out in a remote location in the woods. If he hadn’t died and attracted a flock of carrion birds, we wouldn’t have found him on a bet.”

  Clare wrinkled her nose. “That’s awful. And he died of an overdose? Accidentally?”

  “Don’t know. It’s mighty convenient that the only person who knew who was passing out drugs and money in exchange for the assaults happened to OD a couple days after Ingraham’s death.”

  “But if you think it might have been this Jason Colvin guy who was talking to Malcolm, then Chris Dessaint couldn’t have been the only one to know.” She brought one leg up and tucked her foot under her other leg. “If Malcolm Wintour’s been pulling the strings, maybe he’s trying to tie off all the loose ends. Maybe he adulterated whatever it was that he gave to Dessaint. And now Jason Colvin’s come to him. Maybe the package he gave to him wasn’t a payoff. Maybe it was meant for personal use.”

  “If Colvin is a regular user, it wouldn’t stretch the imagination to think he’d dip into the goods. Even if he did plan on selling most of it.” He slowed the truck down as they approached a T-junction, then turned left and headed back into town. “The problem I have is seeing Malcolm Wintour as the bad guy. Why? What’s in it for him? Even granted the spurned-lover scenario, this is way too complicated. People who are enraged that their lover left grab the nearest gun and blow the person away. They don’t hire a bunch of guys and arrange incidents to cover their tracks. Besides, McKinley said the guy who was bankrolling them felt like they did about queers. Wanted to teach ’em a lesson. Wintour’s gay. He’s not going to beat up on his own kind.”

  “It’s not a club with a secret handshake and vows of fraternal loyalty, Russ. Besides, from everything I’ve heard about Malcolm, the only person he feels loyalty to is himself. And maybe his aunt.” She twisted in her seat again. “And that’s another reason he may have done it. He’s living with Peggy Landry, relying on her for his housing and his support.”

  “If he’s been selling…”

  She waved a hand impatiently. “Details. I’m going for the big picture.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s living with his aunt, the only other person to whom he’s attached, by both self-interest and affection. He thinks she’s likely to go under if the Algonquin Spa doesn’t go through, which is what Bill Ingraham is considering. So he does away with Bill. Or arranges to have him—” She closed her mouth abruptly.

  He knew without asking that she was remembering what Ingraham’s body looked like the night she found him.

  “The problem with that scenario,” he said, hoping to distract her, “is that Emil Dvorak was attacked the same night that Ingraham was making his threat at the town meeting to close down the project.”

  She looked at him, her expression alert, indicating she’d returned to the present. “Sure, but chances are good that Ingraham had at least discussed the possibility with his other business partners. And if Peggy knew, Malcolm could have known. Or he might have talked about it with Malcolm himself before they broke up. Of course”—she flipped her hand over to indicate another possibility—“no one I’ve spoken with claims Malcolm is a genius of any kind, let alone a criminal one. His aunt described him as a sort of family project, and a man I was speaking with tonight said he couldn’t find—he wasn’t very smart.”

  “Well, see, that’s something you would think of, because you’re used to dealing with smart people. Believe me, most crimes are committed by idiots. That’s why we usually catch them. It wouldn’t take intellect for Wintour to set up a series of hits on his ex and the others, just meanness and a few bucks. From what McKinley told me, they had control over the people they targeted and how they did it. The only instruction they had from the lead guy was that there be no thieving. Which, I have to admit, was smart, because once stolen goods start reappearing on the market, we usually have a much better chance of tracking down the thieves.”

  “So you do think it could have been Malcolm.” She looked pleased with herself. “Hah.” She twisted toward him. “What are you going to do?”

  He felt an unaccustomed warmth, centered in his chest and seeping outward, making his skin flush. It wasn’t sexual arousal, or embarrassment—he couldn’t identify the feeling.

  “About what?”

  “What are you going to do to be able to get a warrant to search Malcolm’s room? Besides sending Officer Entwhistle out. I can’t imagine he’ll find much, since Malcolm hasn’t been back in Millers Kill very long. He used to live with Bill in Baltimore. Hey, do you think the guys over at the Stuyvesant Inn might know more? Since he and Bill used to stay there together?”

  It was pleasure, he realized. Simple pleasure at her genuine interest in him, in what he did, in what was important to him. A cold wave of guilt instantly washed over him. He was comparing Clare to his wife, which was completely unfair. Linda’s lack of interest in his work was her way of protecting herself from fear and anxiety. Her interests and her way of thinking were very different from his, and he had known that when he married her. He had welcomed it, as a respite from all the crap he’d had to deal with day in and day out as an MP. She hadn’t changed; he had. And the fact that Clare somehow seemed to…fit with who he was now should never, never reflect poorly on his wife, who was beautiful and funny and faithful. Not like him, who was driving around in his truck close to mid
night, committing adultery in his heart.

  “Russ? Yoo-hoo. Let me in. What are you thinking about?”

  “Jimmy Carter,” he said. He quirked his mouth in a half smile and glanced at her, but instead of the amusement or puzzlement he expected, she met his eyes with a look of such utter understanding that he had to shift in his seat from discomfort and chagrin.

  She ducked her head and straightened in her seat as well, facing forward. She looked straight ahead as he slowed and turned onto Meersham Street, with its small, neat houses and evenly spaced trees. “What are you going to do?”

  “About Malcolm?”

  “Yes, about Malcolm.”

  Screw Malcolm, he wanted to say, but instead he forced his mind into the familiar and safe channels of investigation and deduction. “I’d like to have a talk with Peggy Landry about him. Nothing formal—just feel her out. What his relationship was to BWI Development, instead of just what it was to Ingraham. If he has any income she knows about, and where it’s coming from. If she’s noticed any behavior that might indicate drug use.” He glanced at her for a second and then returned his attention to driving. “Do you think she’d talk to me about him? Willingly?”

  “She seemed more exasperated with him than protective,” Clare said. “She strikes me as the sort who would throw him out of the house if she knew he had illegal drugs there, for his own good. You know. Tough love. He seemed protective of her, though, in his conversation with the other guy.”

  He nodded. “I’ll think of a good reason to drop in on her, then. I don’t want to ask her to the station or make it seem like another round of questioning on what she knows about Ingraham.”

  “Help me get my car.”

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow. It’s still parked at her house. I’ll need someone to drive me up there so I can retrieve it. If you take me, it will seem completely unrelated to the investigation. I can come up with something to ask her—a question about the wedding. Then you can get into a conversation with her.”

  “You’re very sneaky, for a priest.” He felt her shrug, rather than saw it.

  “What can I say? I was a sneaky kid. Probably a sneaky officer. I was trained to fly under the radar.”

  He turned onto Elm Street, approaching the rectory the back way. Her house was the last one on the street, just before you reached the church on the corner. He turned into her drive and twisted the key in the ignition. “Okay,” he said into the silence once the engine had died. “I’ll take you there. Do you need to have your car back at any particular time?”

  She opened the passenger door and climbed out. “I have a wedding in the morning. I was going to do some grocery shopping in the afternoon, but I can always walk over to the IGA.”

  He popped his own door open and swung himself out. “I’ll walk you up,” he said.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “When are you going to get an automatic floodlight so you can see if someone’s in your yard after dark? They’re butt-easy to install. ’Scuse my French. You could probably do it yourself.”

  Instead of heading up the drive toward her kitchen door, she walked across the lawn to the wide front porch. “I hate those things. They go off every time a squirrel walks across the lawn. I don’t like lights coming on and waking me up.”

  She walked up the three steps, and he followed her. “Get some curtains,” he said. Unlike his own heavily accessorized windows, Clare’s didn’t have a single valance, balloon shade, or drapery.

  “There’s an idea. You think maybe I could hire your wife to do them up for me?” The twist in her voice when she said “your wife” startled him. He stopped where he stood, one foot on the top step. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  He could smell roses heavy in the warm, humid air. He wondered if the church’s flower committee worked on her garden, as well. He looked at Clare, who was standing between the steps and the double door, almost invisible in the dark because of her black clothing.

  “Thanks for bringing me home,” she said.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow about retrieving your car.”

  “Thanks.” She didn’t move. Neither did he. “You’ve walked me to the door. I’m safe. You can go now.”

  “You go in first. And lock the door behind you, for once.”

  There was a rustle as she crossed her arms. “Why can’t you leave first?”

  He took the last step up onto the porch. “You know why.”

  Her chin jerked up. Her face a pattern of pale and dark. She stood absolutely still, watching him. Measuring him. He didn’t think he could move even if a car jumped the curb and came straight toward them. Then she was gone, a whirl, the swish of cloth, and the door clunked shut behind her. He heard the clack of the bolt turning.

  He backed down the steps, watching the house, but no lights came on. He climbed into his seat, fired up the truck, and pulled away. He unrolled the window, hung his arm outside, and, half-seeing the stars, drove all the way home.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Clare woke up Saturday morning, she lay in bed for a long time, not moving. She hadn’t turned the fan on last night, and the air was thick and still, like another blanket weighing her down. From her open window came the drone of a lawn mower as someone got to their yard work early, before the heat and humidity became unbearable. She knew she should get up and get her run in early for the same reason. She lay on her back and studied the ceiling. There was a smear in the semigloss paint that looked like a bank of cumulus clouds. If she didn’t get up now and run, she would be cutting it too close to the time of the Veerhoos-James nuptials. The bride-to-be had described it as a “brunch wedding,” although no one would be eating before noon, since the service didn’t begin until eleven o’clock. Clare had turned down the invitation to the reception, so she would be free after the photos in the church. She wouldn’t want to run then, because it would be too hot. Or raining, from the feel of it. And she had to get her grocery shopping done and pick up her car.

  The night before reassembled in her memory, the pieces clicking into place—the kir royales, Hugh Parteger, her raid on Malcolm’s bedroom, the porch roof. What in God’s name had she been thinking of? Then riding home with Russ—no, with Chief Van Alstyne. Her attempt at distancing him was so transparent, she sneered at herself as soon as she thought it.

  She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. She tried lying in that position until her mind went blank, but she couldn’t breathe very well. If she didn’t get up and strap on her running shoes right now, it wasn’t going to happen. With a groan, she surrendered to the demands of life and climbed out of bed.

  She had known several priests and seminarians who liked to use the early-morning hours for private prayer and contemplation. She got the same results from running. Rain or shine, hot or cold, at some point during her five-mile run, the worries and questions that swarmed around her head like blackflies always blew away and she could feel that simple, bell-clear connection to the world around her, the weather, the working of her body. Being in the moment, that was being with God. One of her seminarian friends told her she should have been a Buddhist. One of her army buddies had pointed out that her spiritual experience was more likely the result of endorphins kicking in than opening a channel to the divine. Clare didn’t care. She would take whatever peace and certainty she could get. And run with it.

  She was in a much more balanced state of mind a few hours later when she stood before the lower altar, facing Michael Veerhoos and Delia James. The bride and groom kept looking away from her and at each other, their expressions mirroring a kind of awed disbelief that they were doing this monumental thing. Clare looked at their family and friends during the prayers, at the wistful smiles and silent tears, at the way couples glanced at each other or took hands when she prayed, “Give them wisdom and devotion in the ordering of their common life, that each may be to the other a strength in need, a counselor in perplexity, a comfo
rt in sorrow, and a companion in joy.” The parents of the bride and the groom—each post-divorce, each with a new spouse—were all pride and teary tenderness. It never ceased to amaze her, the power of this act, that people who had been through the worst of marriage, its ruin and desolation, still beamed with happiness as another couple bound themselves together in hope and ignorance and courage.

  The new Mr. and Mrs. Veerhoos still looked shell-shocked by delight during the photo session afterward. Clare had to be in a couple of obligatory shots, re-creating parts of the ceremony the photographer had missed during the actual event, and then she escaped to the sidelines. The photographer herded family members in and out of formation in front of the altar while his assistant darted back and forth, adjusting lights and reflective umbrellas. Clare accepted three damp, crumpled envelopes from the best man, addressed to “Priest,” “Organist,” and “Custodian.” Mr. Hadley wouldn’t like that last. He was proud of his title of sexton of St. Alban’s. She heard him banging around in the supply closet as the picture taking wound down, and by the time she had ushered out the last guest, he had fired up the floor polisher and was already attacking the tiles in the center aisle. It was 12:15. Excellent time for a wedding without Communion.

  Clare retreated to the sacristy to remove her vestments, then walked to her office, wishing she had had the foresight to bring shorts and a T-shirt from the rectory. The offices and meeting rooms didn’t have the advantage of the church’s stone walls, which were thick enough to repel cannon fire, so Clare was damp and sticky by the time she reached her desk. She flicked on the standing fan, which cheerfully began blowing hot air at her. She sank into her chair, intent on finishing the paperwork she would have to mail to the state’s Department of Records.

  Over the rush of her fan, she heard the floor polisher shut off. There was a pause, and then it started up again. She bent her head over the officiant’s record. There was a rap on her doorjamb, and Russ stuck his head inside. “Hey,” he said.