Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

She knew all this, not from the sign-had she ever been anywhere that marked as many historic spots as New York?-but from a book that Russ had given her. He loved this place, loved its history and its geography, loved its weather and its seasons; even, although he wouldn’t describe it as such, loved the people he tried to guard from every bad thing.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? A phrase from third-year Latin. She saw the MacEntyres’ mailbox through the scrim of snow and flicked on her turn signal. Who guards the guardians?

I guess that would be me and You, Lord.

The house she turned into was similar to many along this stretch of Old Route 100, a comfortably sized prebuilt installed, in all likelihood, over the bones of the last house after the owners tallied the costs of modernizing the heating, plumbing, and electrical systems and discovered it was cheaper to knock down the old and truck in the new. Farmers could not afford sentiment. Across the road, a well-kept barn at least three times the size of the house stood like a garrison, its fields running away into snowmists behind.

She parked behind a Ford Taurus with MY CHILD IS AN HONORS STUDENT AT CLINTON MIDDLE SCHOOL plastered on the bumper and an overmuscled, football-clutching Minuteman stickered to the rear window. It occurred to her, as she stepped out into the falling snow, that she had no idea what she was going to say to the MacEntyres. They weren’t members of her parish; they weren’t involved with counseling; she wasn’t marrying or burying any of them. She wouldn’t have to be here if the Millers Kill Police Department hadn’t been hijacked by that state police investigator. It would be a miracle if the MacEntyres didn’t send her packing within the first sixty seconds.

She rang the bell. Okay, God. I hope You have something, because I don’t.

The door opened. A brown-haired woman in jeans and a sweater stood there, smiling with the reserved politeness country people greeted strangers with. “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” Clare said. “I’m Clare Fergusson, I’m from St. Alban’s Church-”

The woman’s smile thinned. “Thanks very much, but we belong to High Street Baptist.” She started to close the door.

“Please!” Clare threw her hand against the edge of the door. “I’m not trying to raise money or convert you or get you to sign a petition. I’m here because of Linda Van Alstyne’s murder.”

“What?” The woman frowned, but she opened the door wider.

“Are you Aaron MacEntyre’s mother?”

“I’m Vicki MacEntyre, yeah.” She studied Clare for a fraction of a second, then said, “Better come on in before we let all the heat out.”

Clare brushed the snow off her jacket and stepped inside onto a large square of tiling that kept incoming boots and shoes from immediately soiling the wall-to-wall carpeting rolling out through the rest of the living room.

“What did you say your name was?” Vicki MacEntyre crossed the room and snapped off the widescreen TV, cutting Oprah off midsentence.

“Clare. Clare Fergusson. I’m a friend of Russ Van Alstyne’s.”

“The chief of police?”

“Yeah,” Clare said. She shucked off her parka and held it beneath her arm. “A friend of your son’s told Russ that they saw a car parked in the Van Alstynes’ driveway the day Linda Van Alstyne was killed. I was hoping your son might have noticed something.”

“And you want to talk to Aaron.”

“That’s right.”

“No offense, but if this is part of a murder investigation, how come the cops aren’t here?”

“The state police have taken over the investigation. They’re holding Russ as a suspect right now, so no one’s pursuing any alternate theories.” That wasn’t precisely true-she had no doubt that every cop in the department would be looking for alternatives as soon as their hands were untied-but it was a good bet no one would get around to the MacEntyres for some time yet.

“So you’re doing it?” Vicki looked her up and down, taking in Clare’s loose-fitting black velour dress and white collar. “Are you a private eye or something?”

Clare reflexively ran a finger along her dog collar. “No, I’m an Episcopal priest.”

“You’ve been watching too many episodes of Murder, She Wrote, haven’t you? Tell you what, whyn’t you take off your boots and come into the kitchen? The school bus’ll be here any minute.”

Clare did as she said. The big eat-in kitchen was clearly the nerve center of the MacEntyre house. Every surface, vertical or horizontal, was covered with photos, lists, magazines, school handouts, and calendars, heaped and stacked and tacked and taped one on top of the other.

“Pardon the mess,” Vicki said. “I cleaned up after Christmas, and I haven’t had the time to tackle anything since then. Want some cocoa? I was just going to get some ready for the kids.”

“That would be lovely, thanks.” Clare took up a post beside the refrigerator, out of the way but close enough to talk with her hostess. “Looks like you have a busy family.”

“You got that right.” Vicki slid a quart measuring cup full of water into the microwave. “My youngest’s got Boy Scouts, Pee Wee football, karate, and band. My girl’s junior varsity cheerleader, gymnastics, and a different band.” She ripped the end off a package of instant hot cocoa and dumped the contents into a mug. “Aaron’s slowed down, thank God. He’s just doing karate and his guitar lessons. Which is fine by me, ’cause I want him to concentrate on getting his grades up his last year in school.”

“The guidance counselor said he wants to join the military?”

The microwave dinged. Vicki paused, her hand on its door. “You talked with his guidance counselor?”

“Not about Aaron specifically, no. She was there when we spoke with Quinn Tracey.”

“Ah. That explains a lot.” Vicki carefully removed the hot water and poured some into the mug, stirring. “Yeah, Aaron wants to join up pretty bad. Army or marines. We nearly had to hogtie him when he turned eighteen last month. We made him promise to graduate high school.” She handed the mug to Clare. “Careful, it’s hot. Aaron, of course, thinks all he needs is muscles and gung ho. I keep telling him the army wants smart guys, guys they can train, nowadays.”

“True,” Clare said, blowing across her cocoa to cool it. She didn’t add that there were still plenty of places for young men with nothing more than muscle and gung ho. There would always be a need for boys with more brawn than brain. “When I mentioned Quinn Tracey, you said that explained a lot.”

Vicki poured herself a mug. “Quinn’s a sweetheart, but I don’t think he says boo without Aaron’s help. Wanna sit down?”

Clare followed her to the table. “What do you mean?”

“The Traceys moved here in his sophomore year, which can be tough, since most of these kids have known each other since they were finger-painting in kindergarten together. Aaron kind of took him under his wing. Introduced him around to his friends, made sure he wasn’t left hanging on the sidelines.” She sipped her cocoa. “They’ve been good buds for three years now. But see, Aaron has always been one of those kids other kids like to be around. He has a lot of friends. Quinn, on the other hand, has Aaron.”

“He hasn’t made any other friends?”

“Not that exactly. It’s more-here’s an example. A bunch of the boys will all get together and hang out at Quinn’s house. But once Aaron leaves, everybody leaves.”

“Aaron goes over to the Traceys’ house?”

“Sure. I mean, we’ll have them over here in the summer, but when the weather’s bad, the Traceys have way more room than we do. And Quinn’s mother always has snacks and sodas and pizza for them. How she does it without breaking her budget, I don’t know. I have enough trouble feeding one teenaged boy, let alone five or six of ’em.”