Julia Spencer-Fleming - To Darkness And To Death

“You got your dog handler back?”

“She’s on her way down from Plattsburgh right now.”

Russ thought for a moment. “We’re in the middle of an investigation, so I can’t have your people up here until we’ve cleared the scene. But put everyone on hold. Especially the dog handler.”

“Okay.” Huggins was clearly consumed with curiosity, and only his image of himself as a hard-bitten professional was keeping him from breaking down and begging Russ to tell him what was going on.

Russ said his good-bye and got off the phone. Outside, Lyle MacAuley was squatting in front of the third bay of the garage, squinting at the garden cart stowed there.

“What do you think?” Russ asked.

“It’s been used. Today. Look.” He pointed to where a torn blade of grass, still green, clung to a dab of dark soil. “That’s fresh.” He stood, stretching. “I don’t need some fancy-pants statie technician to tell me that. And take a look at the handle.” He pointed. “Smear of blood.”

“Yeah, I noticed that as well.” Russ pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t see any open injuries on Ed when I took him into custody.”

“What about van der Hoeven’s body?”

Russ shook his head. “I asked Emil Dvorak to get the preliminary results to us as quickly as possible. There’s something about this whole situation”-he waved, indicating the cart, the house, and the wide woods beyond-“that sticks in my craw.”

“I dunno. I like Ed Castle as a suspect. He gets here, smashes into van der Hoeven with his SUV, and then dumps the body in the back of beyond.” Lyle spread his hands as if presenting a fait accompli. “We’re back home in time for the evening news.”

“Somebody else was here.”

Both of Lyle’s overgrown eyebrows rose.

“John Huggins saw a black Mercedes driving up the road to Haudenosaunee when the entire search team was making their way down.”

“Tight fit.”

“Huggins couldn’t identify the year or model, just that it was a sedan with New York plates.”

“Great. I’m sure there aren’t more than two, three hundred thousand Mercedeses in New York. Saratoga alone probably has more’n a hundred. I’ll get right on it.”

“We have a blank spot in van der Hoeven’s timeline as well,” Russ said. “An hour, an hour and a half between the time the search team left and you found him here with Ed.”

“Any possible witnesses?”

“He had a part-time housekeeper. I can’t remember her first name, but the last name’s Schoof. She’s Mark Durkee’s sister-in-law.”

“Lisa.”

“Good memory.”

Lyle leered. “You may be getting too old to notice, but the day I forget a good-looking woman’s name is the day you can haul me away in the garden cart.”

“I’m going to radio Kevin Flynn. Have him question her. Her husband came by to pick her up, so he may have seen something as well.”

“Kevin?” Lyle looked skeptical. “You sure about that?”

“He needs to start somewhere.”

“What about me?”

Russ grinned. “You’ve not only started, I think you’ve damn near finished as well.”

“Smart-ass. What do you want me to do?”

The whoop-whoop-whoop of a siren stopped Russ before he could answer. He watched as a paneled van emblazoned with NYSP CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION UNIT pulled up between Lyle’s and Noble Entwhistle’s squad cars. Russ let himself feel relieved when Sergeant Jordan Hayes stepped down from the driver’s side. Hayes had worked scenes for the Millers Kill PD before, and he was close to local law enforcement’s ideal of a trooper-smart, willing to take direction, and not likely to push for jurisdiction.

“You were going to tell me where you wanted me,” Lyle reminded Russ.

“Yeah. Get over to the hospital and take Becky Castle’s statement. She’s out of surgery.”

Lyle looked surprised. “The hospital called you?”

“Uh.” Russ forced himself not to look away from his deputy chief. “No. I was talking to Reverend Fergusson. She told me.”

“Ah.” Lyle paused. “You know, at fifty you’re supposed to be too old and too smart to be messing up your life.”

Don’t go there. Just don’t go there. Russ strode across the gravel toward the van, where another technician had joined Hayes in unloading the gear.

“Sergeant Hayes,” he said, his hand outstretched.

The trooper shook his hand briefly. “Chief Van Alstyne.”

“Ready to help us make a quick close on this one?”

“You bet. Show us the way.”

Russ pivoted toward one of the squad cars. “Noble,” he shouted.

Noble Entwhistle popped up from his slouched position against the side of his car.

“You’re with me.” Russ pointed a finger toward Lyle, who had drifted up beside him. “You. To the hospital.” He lowered his voice. “Be good.”

“Funny,” Lyle said. “I was going to tell you the same thing.”

Clare had always considered the narrow brick stairs leading from St. Alban’s semibasement kitchen to street level her own private escape hatch. The great double door of the church was for Sundays and weddings and inconveniently faced Church Street’s public square, in the opposite direction from the rectory. The doorway out of the upper parish hall, opening onto Elm Street and the large parking space the church rented, was much more frequently used, like the driveway-side entrance in a house where the front door is too grand and inaccessible. As a result, the chances of Clare slipping in and out unobserved were slim to none. But few people used the kitchen stairs, which scuttled steeply up to St. Alban’s own minuscule parking lot and from there to a tall boxwood hedge dividing the rectory from the church grounds.

Her plan had been to sneak down the stairs, find Geoff Burns, and then hightail it out of there to her own house. She needed food and a shower. Or a shower and food. Maybe a sandwich in the tub.

The presence of an unheard-of three cars squeezed onto the postage-stamp-sized asphalt square was a tip-off that her plan was about to require some modifications. She nosed her Shelby against a plastic garbage bin and opened the door gingerly, so as not to smack into the neighboring Volvo.

She could see a sliver of the top of the door. Open. The sound of cascading silverware and voices conferring was almost drowned out by an enthusiastic rendition of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” That would be Judy Morrison, former Lutheran. Since her interpretation of gourmet cooking was crushing Pringles over her casseroles, Clare hoped she was on cleanup rather than the food prep crew.

Then she caught a whiff of something buttery and delicious. Her stomach lurched forward, and her feet followed. She pattered down the stairs, salivating.

Courtney Reid and Sabrina Campbell were talking, heads bent together, stirring pots on the eight-burner stove. Judy Morrison was elbows-deep in sudsy water, pans and canisters of silverware piled on the counters around her. All three women wore the HAVE YOU HUGGED AN EPISCOPALIAN TODAY? aprons that had been such a hit at the springtime fund-raiser.

“A bulwark never failing,” Judy sang. “Our helper he amidst the flood-” Courtney shot her a glance, rolling her eyes, and spotted Clare.

“Reverend!”

Clare smiled to keep from wincing. She never heard the word without hearing her grandmother Fergusson sniffing, Reverend. Why, you might as well start calling priests ‘Holy.’ It’s just as grammatically incorrect. Although Clare accepted “Reverend Clare” as a compromise-since she manifestly wasn’t a “Father,” and “Mother” made her think of aged Armenian nuns-she much preferred to be addressed by her first name than by a naked “Reverend.”