Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

“Mine was one of the last classes to graduate from the old school.” Russ opened one of the wide central doors for her, and Clare walked beneath the initials M.K.H.S. chiseled in Gothic lettering on the lintel.

“Nice,” she said, and she could see it must have been, despite the file cabinets and spare chairs now lining the halls.

“Classrooms were great,” he said. “The gym was in the basement, though. No windows, and when you went up for a dunk shot you nearly brained yourself on the ceiling. Here’s the principal’s office.”

It wasn’t, exactly-it was the secretary’s office and waiting area, a former classroom that still had a blackboard running along one wall. Mottoes, quotes, and aphorisms had been scribbled all over it in different colored chalks. Clare wondered if the sayings were the work of students or teachers.

Russ zeroed in on the round-cheeked woman behind the desk. “I’m-” he began, but she jumped up and said, “Russ Van Alstyne!” before he got any further. “I’m Barb Berube,” she added, bright-eyed and breathless. “Or I am now. I was Barbara McDonald back when we were in high school.”

“Barbara-Barbie McDonald?”

She nodded, sending kinky red curls flying everywhere.

“I wouldn’t have recognized you. You look great.”

“Well, I stopped ironing my hair. That helped.” The smile that started across her wide face stalled. “I am so, so sorry to hear about your wife,” she said in an entirely different tone. “If I can do anything at all, or if you need someone to talk with, please give me a call. I know what it’s like to lose a spouse.”

Russ had stiffened as the secretary spoke; now he stood taut as a wire, his face a blend of pain and alarm. It hadn’t occurred to him, Clare saw, that his private grief was going to be the subject of public comment.

“Are you a widow?” Clare asked, stepping into the lengthening silence.

“No, I’m divorced,” Barb Berube said. She seemed not to have noticed Clare up to that point. “And you are…?”

Clare unzipped her parka, revealing her clerical blouse and collar. “Clare Fergusson, from St. Alban’s.”

Barb eyed Russ once more. He was still imitating a pillar of salt. She rallied, smiled at Clare, and said, “I’ll just let the principal know you’re here, shall I?”

As soon as she had disappeared through the door into the adjoining office, Russ rounded on Clare. “What was that?”

“What?”

“That… call me to talk thing? If I’ve seen her more’n a half dozen times at the IGA since we graduated, I’d be surprised.”

Clare sighed. “You’re a widower now, Russ.”

He winced.

“You don’t know it, and you’re not ready for it, but you’ve just become a hot commodity to unmarried women of a certain age.”

His look of horror would have made her laugh if it hadn’t been so heartbreaking.

“Russ? And, um, Pastor? Mrs. Rayburn will see you now.” Barb Berube smiled sympathetically at them. Russ gave her a wide berth on his way through the door.

Jean Ann Rayburn, the Millers Kill principal, was rising from her desk to greet them. She was an angular woman, whose flyaway gray hair and fuzzy cardigan fought against a stock-necked silk blouse and straight skirt.

“Russ Van Alstyne,” she said.

“Mrs. Rayburn.”

She shook his hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I met your wife a few times over the years since you came home. She was a lovely woman.”

Russ nodded. He cleared his throat.

“I’m Clare Fergusson.” Clare offered her hand, and the principal took it. “I’m the priest at St. Alban’s.”

Jean Ann Rayburn’s eyes glinted with recognition, and Clare wondered what she had heard from the Millers Kill grapevine. But all the older woman said was, “I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Fergusson.”

The principal released Clare and clasped her hands in front of her, the sort of habitual gesture that she once must have used to draw the attention of a roomful of high schoolers. “I’m grateful you could come here instead of making the boy go to the police station. He was quite distraught when he spoke to me. He’s very concerned that his parents not find out.”

“I can’t guarantee that,” Russ said. “Who is the boy?”

“Quinn Tracey.”

“Meg Tracey’s son?” Russ was genuinely surprised. “Huh. I guess that makes sense. We’ve hired him to plow out our drive a couple times this winter. I can’t think of why he’d be worried about his parents knowing he saw anything. His mother was the one who found-who called in the crime.”

“Let me take you to him, and you can ask him yourself.” Mrs. Rayburn escorted them out of her office. “We’ll be in Mrs. Ovitt’s room,” she said to her secretary, who-Clare looked twice to make sure-had put on a fresh coat of lipstick while they were meeting the principal.

“Suzanne Ovitt is one of our guidance counselors. Wonderful woman. She has a great rapport with teens.” Mrs. Rayburn knocked and opened a door almost hidden between two aging file cabinets. “Mrs. Ovitt? Russ”-she smiled apologetically at him-“I mean, Chief Van Alstyne is here. And Reverend Fergusson, from the Traceys’ church.”

Ugh. Clare decided not to correct her. The guidance counselor’s office was bright and cheerful, decorated with the sort of inspirational posters often found in corporate cafeterias. A row of all-in-one desks lined one end of the room, and the other had been converted into a conversational grouping, with an oversized sofa and several squishy chairs. Like her furniture, the fifty-something Mrs. Ovitt had a look of sturdy service about her, as if she could wipe noses, serve snacks, correct misdeeds, and drill multiplication tables simultaneously, without raising her voice or losing her cool.

She shook their hands and murmured hellos and condolences. Clare stepped to one side to get a better look at the boy huddled on the sofa.

He looked like any other sixteen-or seventeen-year-old she might have seen hanging out at All TechTronik or the Aviation Mall. Jeans that were easily two sizes too large, a long-sleeved tee emblazoned with a picture of rapper Fifty Cent, and a middling case of acne that couldn’t hide the fact that he’d be a handsome man once he grew into his nose and ears. But the expression on his face was singular-and disturbing. He was staring at Russ, and he was scared.

“Quinn, this is Chief Van Alstyne,” Mrs. Ovitt said, indicating they should take the chairs. “And you know Reverend Fergusson.” Clare tensed, but the kid barely gave her a twitch as they sat down.

“I know Quinn,” Russ said. He didn’t sound great, exactly, but he did sound warm and nonthreatening. “He’s been doing a good job plowing our drive this winter.” Russ perched on the edge of the chair so he could lean forward. “Quinn, why don’t you tell me what you saw?”

The boy looked down to where he was linking and knotting his knuckles together. “It was a car,” he said.

“In my driveway?”

The boy nodded, still not looking at Russ.

“When was this?”

“Sunday afternoon.”

Clare glanced at Russ. Was that when…? He shrugged. “What kind of car was it, Quinn?”

“A 1992 Honda Civic. New York State plates. 6779LF.”

“I’m impressed. Most people don’t remember vehicles with that much precision.”

For the first time, the boy looked up at Russ. “It’s kinda a habit. When I started the plowing job, Dad told me I’d better keep track of any cars in any of the driveways I did, in case somebody made a claim for damage later on. He pays half of my insurance, so he’s, like, always thinking about my liability.”

Russ nodded. “What made you notice this car? Were you out there plowing?”