“Anderson is a brain-slash-jock,” Doctor Anne interrupted.
“—and they’re, like, go back to the mall girls, Alyson.”
“Do you need that translated?” Doctor Anne smiled wryly.
“I think I got the gist of it,” Clare said.
“Wesley is Wesley Fowler, he-who-walks-on-water.”
“Ma!”
“Okay, okay, Wes is a perfectly nice boy who helped you a lot last year in the plays you were in together, and the musical, in which he was, of course, the lead.” She leaned over in an exaggerated aside to Clare. “I suppose it’s not his fault his father made a golden statue of him and put it on his front lawn.”
“Ma!”
Doctor Anne laughed. “Me, I practice the traditional Chinese method of child rearing, I never say anything nice about my kids. That way, they avoid the notice of evil spirits.” She wrapped an arm around Anderson’s waist and hugged him hard.
“Ma, you are so weird,” he said. The boy picked up his pitcher and scuffled off toward the kitchen.
“That means, ‘I love you,’ in seventeen-ese,” his mother said.
Clare laughed. “He’s a nice kid. You must be very proud of him.”
“Very,” Doctor Anne said. She leaned toward Clare. “So tell me, Reverend, do you have the inside scoop on this murder? Since you’ve been helping the police?”
Clare shook her head. “I don’t know much more than you do,” she said. “I’m sure Ethan will be brought in for questioning, but I don’t think Chief Van Alstyne is anywhere near to arresting a suspect yet.” She took a bite of her roll. “Hard to believe that something like this happened here, isn’t it?”
Doctor Anne shook her head. “After thirteen years working the emergency rooms in Washington County and Glens Falls hospitals, I’ve seen way too much to think we’re invulnerable just because we’re small. Small towns have the same evils that big cities do, just in smaller numbers. And instead of some anonymous stranger, the evil is always someone’s neighbor or husband or friend. That’s the hard part, that you can’t blame some ‘other’ when awful things happen. The ‘other’ is one of us.”
CHAPTER 11
When her pager beeped in the middle of one of Mrs. DeWitt’s rambling stories about the Depression, Clare expected it to be the hospital. She was chaplain-on-call this Tuesday, responsible for the spiritual needs that might arise in the intersections between health and sickness and birth and death. Clare lowered her teacup gingerly onto the hand-tatted lace of the table runner.
“Mrs. DeWitt? May I use your phone for a moment? I have to see what this is.”
“Of course, Reverend,” the elderly woman said. “I left it . . . where did I leave it? Try the kitchen table.”
Clare would have sworn that not a thing in Mrs. DeWitt’s house, other than herself, had been made after 1935, so she almost laughed when she found the latest Toshiba micro-cell phone lying on the metal cherry-painted table. She punched in the number.
“Burns and Burns,” a pleasant voice replied.
“Uh . . . this is the Reverend Fergusson. I got a pager message to call here?”
“Oh, let me connect you with Ms. Burns, Reverend.” The voice was replaced by a symphonic rendering of “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” The Burnses. Now what? Oh heck, she had tried reaching Russ that morning before setting out on her home visits, but he had already left for the courthouse. Had he found something linking the Burnses to Katie’s death?
“Reverend? Karen Burns. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”
“What’s up, Karen?”
“It’s complicated.” Karen laughed humorlessly. “It’s about Cody, so of course it’s complicated. Could we meet? As soon as possible?”
“Sure. I’m at Mrs. DeWitt’s right now. I have one more home visit to make, and I can keep it brief . . . how about an hour, an hour and a half from now? I can come to your office, that’ll be closer than the church.”
“Oh, wonderful. Thank you, Reverend. We’ll see you in an hour or so.”
Clare brought the cell phone back into the living room, her mind caught up in possible scenarios involving Cody.
“Everything all right, Reverend?” Mrs. DeWitt’s heavily wrinkled face creased with concern.
“I hope so, ma’am. But I’ll have to be going soon.”
“Well then,” her hostess said, levering herself out of her faded Morris chair with the help of her cane, “before you go, let me show you an idea I had for the church.” Mrs. DeWitt braced herself against a Philco radio set as she hobbled toward the hall. “The computer room is right down here.”
“The—you have a computer, ma’am?”
“Oh, my, yes. It’s the latest Gateway, customized for me. I ordered it over the Internet. Special-ordered cable access for my modem, too. At my age, I can’t afford to wait around all day for files to download, can I?” She paused, flicked a bit of dust off a Boston fern sitting on a plant stand. “I’ve been fooling around with a Web site for Saint Alban’s, and I want you to tell me what you think.”
Russ picked up his receiver. Put it down. Picked it up. Put it down. “What the heck are you doing in there?” Harlene yelled from the dispatch room.
“What are you doing, spying on me?” he yelled back.
“I can see the active light on the phone, you cranky old buzzard,” she said, appearing in his doorway.
He tapped the folded legal papers lying next to the crumpled remains of his lunch bag. “Judge Ryswick gave me the warrants.”
“For the blood tests on McWhorter and the Stoner boy? Good. Why don’t you go on out and serve ’em, then, and leave the phone system to those of us who understand it.”
He sighed. “I want to talk to Cody’s caseworker at DSS first. If this test clears McWhorter as the baby’s father, he and his wife will get Cody faster than you can say ‘closest living relative.’ I want to try to persuade DSS to keep the baby in his current foster home.”
“They’ll have to do a home visit,” Harlene pointed out. “Maybe they’ll find some reason not to place the baby there.”
“Aw, Harlene, you have to have shit smeared on the walls to get the state to take a kid out of his home. This place looked . . . respectable. Clean. Probably a fridge full of food and the rent all paid on time.”
“So tell them about Kristen.”
“I don’t know if I can! She won’t make a complaint against her father. I can’t tell them something she told me in an interview if she won’t back it up.”
“You know, they encourage citizens to call in and report suspected child abuse.”
“Not when the child is twenty and hasn’t lived with the parents for two years. Then it becomes our business, not DSS’s. Besides, I’m not a citizen. I’m a law enforcement official. An agent of the state.”
“Look, Mr. State Representative. Call up. Let them know Grandpa McWhorter is under criminal investigation and that you have a warrant—which means Judge Ryswick thought you had probable cause—to test his blood and see if he’s the baby’s father. That alone should tell them to put the brakes on changing the baby’s custody. You don’t need to mention Kristen.”
“Damn, Harlene, you’re right!”
“Uh huh. Like usual.”
“Why don’t you leave that switchboard and become an officer, huh?”
“Because you need a mastermind sitting here in this office more than you need another uniform out there, driving around with nothing to do.”
“Something to do now,” he said, waggling the papers in the air.
“Delivering orders to get a blood test. There’s a thrilling day’s work. No thanks, I’ll stick with the phones.” She grimaced. “Besides, I look terrible-bad in brown.”
From the address, Clare had expected the Burnses’ office to be in one of the late-nineteenth century brick commercial buildings that gave upper Main Street the genteel air of another century. Instead, she found herself in a brand new post-and-beam construction that
looked as if it had been lifted straight from the pages of Architectural Digest. Climbing to the second floor law office, she caught disorienting glimpses of the Christmas decorations on the street below through odd, geometric windows.
The reception area was an uneven pentagon, with narrow I-beams crisscrossing the ceiling and large, dramatically colored abstracts on the walls. No wonder Karen and Geoff had goggled at her office. It looked like a curiosity shop next to this place.
“Hello,” she said to the receptionist. “I’m the Reverend Clare Fergusson. The Burnses are expecting me.”
“Please take a seat, Reverend,” the young woman said. “Ms. Burns will be with you in a moment.” Clare sat in one of the plump chairs covered in what looked like hand-loomed upholstery and wondered when she’d stop getting the urge to whirl around looking for the real priest whenever she was called “Reverend.” When she was a kid, of course, it had always been “Father” Such-and-so, and that title still sounded more . . . authentic to her ear. Reverend is an adjective after “the,” not a title after “hello,” Grandmother Fergusson sniffed. A proper word for female priests corresponding with “Father” had been on her wish list for years. She supposed they’d think up one right about the time the Roman Catholics began ordaining women.
“Reverend Clare!” Karen strode across the reception floor, her hands outstretched. Clare rose. “I’m so glad you could come on such short notice. Come on into my office, please. Geoff is still stuck in court, I’m afraid.”
Karen Burns’s office was clean and spare, with more abstract artwork that blended perfectly with the Shaker-style furnishings. Clare sat in a severely cut chair across from the desk, surprised at how comfortable it was. The lawyer went to the window, then toward the door, then back to her desk.
“Can I get you some coffee? Tea? Water?” Karen was too elegant a woman to actually bustle, but she was close to it now.
“Karen,” Clare said. “Sit down. Tell me what’s happened.”
“Oh, God,” Karen exhaled, collapsing in her chair. “We got a call this morning from a man named Darrell McWhorter. He claims to be Cody’s grandfather, and said that he had already talked to DHS and was pressing for custody of the baby.”
Clare shook her head. “I’m sorry, I should have called you yesterday. Yes, he is Cody’s biological grandfather.” Should she say anything about Kristen’s accusations?
“Presuming that the murdered girl was Cody’s mother. That won’t be conclusive until the DNA results come in.” Karen’s shoulders sagged. “That’s the law, anyway. Cold comfort. We all know Katie McWhorter gave birth to Cody.”
“Why was Mr. McWhorter calling you, Karen?”
The lawyer sat bolt upright. “He wanted us to buy Cody, that’s why.”
“What!”
“Oh, he didn’t come right out and say it. He’s smart enough to know that baby selling is against the law. He could land himself in jail for the offense, and lose his chance at custody.”
“You didn’t . . . you didn’t agree, did you?”
“God, no. If it ever got out, it would render any adoption null and void. We’d face jail, the loss of our licenses . . . no.” She paused, took a deep breath. “But we did ask him to meet with us on neutral territory, as it were, and see if we could try to work out some sort of . . . accommodation.”
Clare frowned. “What sort of accommodation, Karen?”
Karen leaned forward, forearms against her desk. “We need your help. He’s agreed to accept you as a mediator if we can get you.”
“Get me? Mediating what?”
“We can’t pay the man off, not directly. But we can reimburse him for expenses, offer to pay for, say, improvements to his house in order to make it a better place for Cody to visit, things of that nature. And I thought, what if Geoff and I make a large donation to the church, dedicated to helping lower-income residents of Millers Kill? And what if one of the recipients of this aid is McWhorter?”
“What? You’re asking me to make the church your money launderer?” Clare stood up, pushing the chair away. “In a scheme that boils down to you paying for another human being. No. I won’t do it. It’s immoral, even if it is legal.” Karen looked up at her, stricken. Clare sat back down. “Karen,” she said, more gently, “you can’t buy motherhood. I know how much you want that baby. But this . . . this wouldn’t work. What’s badly begun has a way of turning out badly. Imagine Cody as an older child, finding out that his grandfather had essentially sold him to his parents. Imagine how he would feel about himself.”
Karen folded her arms tightly around herself. “Do you think he’d be better off being raised by the man who’s willing to sell him?”
Clare shook her head, laid her hands palm up on the desk. “No. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Let’s go ahead and set up a meeting with McWhorter, see what we can accomplish.”
“With what? Earnest entreaties and prayer? Somehow, I don’t think he’ll respond very well to that.”
“Nope. We offer him what assistance you can legally and ethically,” Clare emphasized the word, “provide. That’s the carrot. Then, we show him the stick.”
When Russ turned his cruiser onto Main Street at the end of a long day, his lights picked out Clare’s MG half in and half out of the police station’s driveway. Grinning, he pulled up behind the little car and gave it a hit of his flashers. The door opened, and the Reverend Clare Fergusson got out, reluctantly turned around, and spread-eagled against the side of her car. Russ was laughing so hard it took him two tries to find his seatbelt latch.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, once he had managed to get out of his cruiser.
“I was dropping by to speak to you between home visits, and my . . . dang . . . car got stuck.”
He looked down at the scant two inches of snow and ice the plow had thrown up on the lip of the driveway. “In that? Heck, my niece’s trike could drive through that.” The old snow had been churned to dirty slush by her spinning tires. “You gotta get yourself a real car for this climate. Not an itty-bitty wind-up toy like that one.”
“This car,” she told him, “is a marvel of precision engineering. Zero to sixty in ten point seven seconds. It handles like a dream, and it can drive a mountain road at sixty miles an hour without a shimmy across the yellow line.”
“Yeah? Well if I ever catch it doing that, it can also get impounded. C’mon, I’ll help you push it out.” He braced himself against the back fender. Clare leaned into the edge of the door, one hand on the wheel. “Okay, push,” Russ said. They heaved together. The MG slid over the low snowbank and rolled forward a foot.
“Thanks.” Clare looked at the tire marks in the snow, thrown into high relief by the streetlights. “That is an embarrassingly small amount of snow to get stuck in, isn’t it?”
“You need something heavy, with front-wheel-drive,” Russ said, opening the door to his cruiser. “Four-wheel-drive is better. Until you get that, load up the trunk with bags of kitty litter. It’ll give some weight to your rear and if you get stuck, you can always sprinkle some around for traction.”
“Great. I can see it now. I’ll get my car free just in time to run over some old lady’s cat who’s come to investigate.”
He grinned. “Why don’t you park that thing. Let me get the cruiser in, and I’ll stand you a cup of coffee.”
“Any of Harlene’s strudel left?”
“I might be able to rustle something up.” She nodded approvingly, slid into her car, and pulled it forward. A strudel person, he thought, shifting the cruiser into first. Should have guessed that.
In the briefing room, two of the sheep-and-geese mugs at hand and nothing left of the last slice of strudel except crumbs, he told her about delivering the warrant to Darrell McWhorter. “You should have seen him. So cool. The nicest guy about it you could imagine. He drove himself over to the hospital, with me following, thank God, because I sure didn’t want to have to make conversation with him in my car. Got his blood dr
awn and went home.”
“That doesn’t sound like a man who’s afraid the test will show something incriminating.”
“AB negative. Same as Katie’s.”
“And Cody’s father has to be Rh positive, doesn’t he?”
“You’ve got it. I’d love to be able to put the sonofabitch away for molesting his daughters, ’scuse my French, but there’s no evidence he abused Katie and Kristen still refuses to cooperate. I spoke to a caseworker at DSS and told her about the warrant and everything, but she said after the home study was completed, they could only delay giving Cody to his grandparents as long as the question of whether McWhorter had been abusing Katie remained open.”
“But if he’s not Cody’s father, there isn’t any other evidence of that.”
“Right. It’ll be a happy family reunion.” He licked his finger and picked up a few strudel crumbs.
“I found out why McWhorter is so eager to get his hands on Cody.” Russ’s eyebrows went up. Clare told him about the offer to the Burnses and the meeting scheduled for tomorrow.
“You really think you can convince this guy to allow the Burnses to adopt the baby?”
“I don’t know. I can get him to think twice about taking Cody. It’s worth a try.”
“Be careful, okay? I don’t like the idea of you drawing McWhorter’s attention. We don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“He sounds like a bully to me, plain and simple.” Clare propped her chin on her fist. “I’m not an easy person to bully. Besides, if the blood tests show nothing, he’ll be out of the running as a suspect in the murder, right?”
“Well . . . I’ll have to drop him back to third place. I haven’t forgotten the Burnses.”
Clare waved her hand dismissively. “You don’t seriously think they did it. You’re thinking it was Ethan.”
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“Are you going to serve him the warrant to test his blood type tonight?” she asked, glancing out into the darkness.
“No. I have to pick up Linda and get her on the six-fifteen train. There’s a big fabric convention or something in New York, and she’s buying stock for her curtains.” He took a sip of coffee. “I’ll drive over to the Stoner’s farm tomorrow after school, bring him in then. That’ll give me enough time to question him and then decide whether to arrest him or not.”
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