Julia Spencer-Fleming - To Darkness And To Death

Maybe Millie van der Hoeven, who had so mysteriously vanished without a trace or clue left behind, might never show up again.

Lisa looked into Randy’s hopeful, innocent eyes. “I think it’s a great idea, babe. I think we can really do something with it.”

Millers Kill, like most towns within reach of Lake George, Saratoga, and the mountains, had numerous campsites, cabins, and motels devoted to summer vacationers. Visitors arriving after leaf-peeping season was over had a far narrower range of accommodations. If the travelers didn’t want to stay in one of six bedrooms divided among three bed-and-breakfasts, they had the choice of the Sleepy Hollow Motor Lodge, the Stuyvesant Inn, or the brand-new and very luxurious Algonquin Waters Spa and Resort.

After nearly two years living in the area, Clare knew this. So she shouldn’t have been surprised when she entered the lounge at the Algonquin waters and found her date chatting with Deacon Willard Aberforth.

They were sitting at the long green-granite bar, identical glasses of peat-brown whiskey in front of them. From the high color on Aberforth’s face, his was the latest in a line of drinks.

Hugh spotted her first, jumping off his stool and clutching his heart, staggering like a man blinded by beauty. He recovered in time to take her hand and help her onto his abandoned seat, assistance she was grateful for, given the volume of material in her skirt. “Vicar! You’re absolutely stunning! You’re going to be the most beautiful woman here tonight. Doesn’t she look absolutely amazing?”

His last remark was directed to Deacon Aberforth, who examined Clare with a great deal more attention than he might have had he been strictly sober. “Elegant,” he pronounced with a disappointed air. “Although perhaps a bit too revealing?” He waved in the direction of Clare’s shoulders and chest. “I myself prefer to maintain the dignity of the church with good, classic clothing.” Aberforth still wore his black wool jacket and dog collar; he had spiffed up for the evening by replacing his black blouse with a deep purple one.

Clare resisted the urge to tug her neckline higher. “I’m trying to envision the intersection between clerical clothing and ladies’ evening wear. Maybe an off-the-shoulder cassock?”

Hugh laughed. “If you write up the business plan, I promise you, I’ll have my firm invest.” He waved the bartender over. “Do you want a Macallan?”

She nodded. After the day she’d had, she wanted several Macallans.

“You didn’t tell me, Ms. Fergusson, that your friend here is the nephew of the bishop of Warwick.” Aberforth leaned his elbow on the bar and toasted Hugh.

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s because I didn’t know.”

Hugh smiled smugly. “Told you we’d make a good match. Stick with me, Vicar, and we’ll have a pectoral cross on you before you can say, ‘the Very Reverend Mrs. Parteger-Fergusson.’ ”

She stared at him.

“Fergusson-Parteger?” he suggested, handing her her glass of whiskey.

How much had he had to drink? “That’s the silliest name I’ve ever heard,” she said. “And I don’t believe in this married-hyphenating business. Either keep the old name or take the new one.”

“Hear, hear.” Aberforth toasted both of them. From the lobby, a bell rang out, so perfect in pitch and modulation, it had to be a recording of some sort.

“I think that’s the sign to head in to dinner,” Hugh said. “Father Aberforth, it was great meeting you. P’raps I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m sure of it. I will be attending the ten o’clock Eucharist at St. Alban’s, with the bishop.”

“Ah. Yes.” Hugh’s face had a trapped expression. Anglican and episcopal-nephew though he was, Clare had yet to see him inside a church. She took pity on him. “Do you need to stop off anywhere before we go in to dinner?”

Hugh’s face cleared. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’ll meet you outside the ballroom door.” He dashed off before Aberforth could pin him down about tomorrow.

Clare collected her whiskey and carefully slipped off the bar stool. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Father Aberforth.”

He surprised her by taking her bare upper arm. “Ms. Fergusson.” She frowned at his hand, but he didn’t release her. “Let me give you some advice. The only female clergy who are successful at celibacy are the ones who are too old and dried up to care or the ones who are too mannish to attract members of the opposite sex.”

Her fingers tightened around her glass. If she had had anything, anything, heavy to hand, she would have brained him.

“Any other woman, alone, attracts attention of the wrong kind. As, I hear, you may have done.”

She froze.

“Find a nice young man and settle down. Your congregation and your bishop will thank you. With the help of the right sort of spouse, you may find you have a career in the church, not just a vocation.”

Clare didn’t trust herself to say anything. She nodded stiffly to the deacon, gripped her skirts in one hand, and stalked out of the bar. Hugh was loitering near the ballroom entrance. “What’s the matter?” he said. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“That… disgusting old man.” She lifted her drink and saw her hand was shaking. She knocked back half the whiskey in one swallow.

“Go easy,” Hugh said. “That’s too good to take as medicine. What did that disgusting old man do?”

“He told me I had three options open to me if I wanted to be a successful parish priest. Go through menopause, become a dyke, or get married.”

Hugh was silent for a moment. “So,” he said finally. “I guess this means you’ll be wanting an introduction to Brunhilda over at the Womyn’s Moon Circle Collective, then.”

She laughed.

“C’mon,” he said. “You can’t let a relic from the nineteenth century get your goat. You’ll outlive him, anyway. Someday he and all the old gents running the show will die off, and who will be left? That’s right, a bunch of postmenopausal lesbian and married women.”

She smiled at him gratefully. “You really are very good for me, you know?”

“Of course I do. Let’s get inside and find our seats.”

The Algonquin Waters ballroom elevated Adirondack haut rustic to new heights. The rosewood floor glowed in the light from a dozen antler chandeliers. Three walls of polished pine were punctuated with twenty-foot riverstone pillars, while the fourth, which faced them as they walked through the entryway, was glass, sheets and slabs of glass, providing indigo and silver views of the mountains and the nearly full moon.

“Not bad,” Hugh said.

“This place is going to be wedding reception central,” Clare said. “Believe me. I officiated at twenty weddings this year, and at least half the brides and their mothers would have given their right arms for a place like this.”

Round tables encircled the dance floor, long white linen and low dark flowers with votives that reflected in the silver and silver that reflected in the crystal. Clare felt self-conscious suddenly, out of place amid the finery. Her grandmother Fergusson would have been thoroughly at home here, admiring the men in their dinner jackets, critiquing the women’s long dresses. But every step Clare had taken in her life had brought her farther and farther away from places like this, and she found herself nervously plucking at her skirts, wondering if that off-the-shoulder cassock might not have been a better idea after all.

Then Hugh spotted someone from Saratoga that he knew, and she was swept up in introductions and chitchat. The bell rang again, and waiters began to emerge from doors on the far side of the room, carrying trays of salads and carafes of water. Clare tugged Hugh away to search among the tables for their name cards. She had just bent over to eximine a piece of pasteboard more closely-it turned out to read CHERYL ERNGARTEN-when she heard a voice behind her. “Reverend Fergusson! Over here!”