Julia Spencer-Fleming - I Shall Not Want

He lassoed Mr. Madsen. "Clare's leaving," he explained, "and I don't want her walking up to the rectory by herself. Could you and Mrs. Marshall go with her?"

Mr. Madsen squinted toward where Clare and Parteger were talking. The Englishman didn't look too happy. "I thought that young man was her escort."

Mrs. Marshall had to crane her neck to see. Parteger was gesturing toward Clare, toward the dance floor, toward heaven. Clare folded her arms and shook her head. Mrs. Marshall tsked. "Not anymore, I think. Come on, Norm, let's rescue her."

Russ made a point of staying as far away from Clare as possible while still keeping himself in the public eye. He chatted with this person and that, listening to news about grandkids and vacations as if he were running for town office. In the background, he could hear a chorus of "Good night, Clare!" and "Thanks, Reverend!" Minutes later, he watched Parteger stride off toward the parking lot, head down, hands jammed in pockets. His BMW peeled out of the lot much faster than necessary. Russ hoped he would cool down before he hit Paul Urquhart's speed trap on the Old Schuylerville Road.

When the band leader announced the last song of the night, Russ slipped away. He walked straight to his truck and kept on going, to the back of the lot, where a tornado fence and straggly sumacs marked off the first house on the south end of Elm Street. The only streetlight was on the corner, at the front of the lot, so he disappeared into velvet dark, untraceable except for his footsteps, slapping on the pavement.

He focused on that noise, and the thudding of his heart, and the warm dry air on his skin, and the smell of grass clippings and night jasmine. He didn't want to think, because he was afraid he'd shoot himself in the foot if he did. He hadn't done so well with thinking, these past months.

Then he saw Clare's house, just as it had been a month ago, one dim light in the living room and a glow coming from the kitchen door, and thinking became academic as all the blood rushed from his head into other places.

He crossed the street, mounted the kitchen steps, smiled as she pulled the door open for him. Then he saw her face, pale and strained. "What is it?" he said. He looked past her. The place was a mess. The cabinet doors hung open and all the drawers were yanked out.

"Amado's gone," she said, "and somebody's torn apart my house."

Nobody ever told you how messy fingerprint powder was. After the state police technician had photographed Clare's closets gaping open and her clothing strewn across the floor, after she had unlocked the church for Lyle MacAuley and Kevin Flynn to search, after she had listened to Russ's phone calls rousting Eric McCrea and Hadley Knox out of their beds and over to the McGeochs' workers' bunkhouse, after she had said good-bye to Russ-a stiff, grim farewell at the foot of her driveway, surrounded by officers strapping on their tac vests and checking weapons, already planning for the reception they would find when they knocked on the Christie brothers' door-after all that, she shut her door against the world and tackled the fingerprint powder.

A sudsy bucket and a couple of old T-shirt rags. The dust was everywhere because the mess was everywhere: kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath. First she had to stop to sweep up the various bits of broken glass, and then she had to keep trekking back to the sink to rinse the rags-no use streaking wet powder and grime over the picture frames, the banister, her jewelry box. Once she had the powder up, she could tackle the clothes and the books and the papers. Replace the recyclables in the bin. Restock the pantry shelves.

She was wiping down her dresser top when she realized she had to strip her bed and wash her sheets; she had to do it right away, right now. She tugged and pulled and wrestled the linens off, and the blankets, too, and the quilt and the mattress pad as well, then lugged them downstairs to the alcove off the kitchen, stuffing them into the machine, stuffing and stuffing, unable to find the water temperature control because she couldn't see the dials, stabbing at the button until she broke one of her already-short fingernails off at the quick, and then she couldn't see anything because her eyes were full of tears.

She crumpled to the floor, leaning against the cool white metal of the washing machine, crying and crying for Amado, who had trusted her to keep him safe. Crying for Russ, wearing his hard face and body armor. Crying for herself, foolish and pitiful because a few things were missing or broken. Like her heart. Like her life. And she didn't know how to begin to clean up the mess.

Someone was knocking at the door, a steady rat-tat-tat that sounded as if it must have been going on for a while. She lurched to her feet, grabbed a washcloth from the clean laundry teetering atop the dryer, and scrubbed her face with it.

She went to the kitchen door and looked out. Elizabeth de Groot. Oh, God. Just what she needed. She unlocked the door.

"I came over as soon as I heard," Elizabeth said, barging through the door. She looked around the kitchen, wide-eyed. "Good heavens. This is awful. You poor thing." She turned toward Clare. "You're all right, aren't you?" She swept Clare with an appraising glance, taking in her crumpled dress, which now seemed indecently bare, given the hour and the events. "I mean, he wasn't still here when you got in, was he? He didn't…" Elizabeth let her voice trail off, suggesting A Fate Worse Than Death.

"I'm fine," Clare said. "Whoever did this was gone before I arrived."

Elizabeth stripped off her windbreaker and hung it over a chair back. "What do you mean, 'Whoever did this'? There were two police cars over at the old Peterson place looking for Amado Esfuentes. That's how I found out what happened." She shook her head, then began picking cans up off the floor. "Where do these go?"

"Elizabeth." She had to take control of the situation right now or God knows what rumors would be whipping around town. "The police are looking for Amado because he could be a victim. They think he may have been taken by the-by whoever killed those other men."

Elizabeth stacked the cans on the counter and bent to retrieve two more. "That's what that nice officer I spoke with said. But he also said Amado might be the murderer." She straightened and glanced around the kitchen. "Seeing this mess, I can believe it. Was anything stolen?"

"Fifty bucks. The MP-Three player I use when I run. A few pieces of jewelry. Nothing of much value."

"Ah." Elizabeth put the cans on the counter. "Easy to drop in his pocket and walk away with. I wouldn't be surprised if he wrecked this place because he was angry you didn't have any more. Thank God he didn't go for the communion silver." She looked at Clare. "He didn't, did he?"

Clare shook her head. "I was over there earlier with Deputy Chief MacAuley. Nothing's missing. And I reprogrammed the alarm system," she said, cutting off the question forming in the deacon's eyes. "I left a sticky note on the front and back doors, so, hopefully, no one will try to get in tomorrow before me." She resisted the urge to sit at the kitchen table and bury her face in her hands. "I'll have to think of some way to let everyone know."

"Don't you worry about that. I made a few phone calls while I was driving over. To the vestry and the wardens. I asked them to let others know. Sort of an informal phone tree."

"You did what?" This time, she didn't resist. She needed a chair to support her. "Good God, Elizabeth. Next thing you'll tell me you've already informed the bishop." There was no answer from the deacon. Clare raised her head and glared at the other woman. "Elizabeth? Tell me you haven't spoken to the bishop."

"Don't be silly. It's ten thirty at night. I wouldn't pester the bishop at this hour."