Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

“I’m beginning to understand how you get sucked into these things,” the new deacon said. “You let yourself get swept away in the rush of events, and you don’t stop to think about whether or not this is something you ought to be sticking your nose into.”

Clare was about to admit that was a pretty fair assessment of her character, but the sound of a voice on the line brought her back to the pediatrician’s office.

“Hi, this is Dr. Underkirk’s nurse, Violet.” She had the kind of voice that made Clare think of overstuffed sofas and starchy, nourishing meals. “Marcy tells me you know something about Tom, Tom the piper’s son?” Nurse Violet let out a peal of laughter. Clare began to get the idea that his office staff had been less than sympathetic to Dr. Underkirk’s plight.

“I’m looking for information, actually. My name’s Clare Fergusson, and I’m trying to see if there are any common elements between Dr. Underkirk’s case and two others.”

“What do you want to know?” Nurse Violet said. “He’ll be that happy hearing someone’s looking into it. He’s had his tail in a twist since it happened. Get it? Tail in a twist?” The nurse giggled.

“Uh-huh.” Clare closed her eyes for a moment. “Does the doctor have a snowplowing service, and if so, who does the work for him?”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Clare said.

“Hang on.” She heard a clunking sound on the other end. Elizabeth looked at her, frustration and unhappiness thinning her lips, throwing previously invisible lines into relief. Great, thought Clare. I’m causing the bishop’s deacon to age before my eyes. Maybe that says something about the way I’m running my life.

“You still there?” Nurse Violet came on. “Dr. Underkirk says he gets plowed out by one of his patients. A young man named Tracey.”

Clare forgot all about Elizabeth’s premature decay.

“Thanks,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” Nurse Violet said. “And by all means, let us know if you catch the little porker!” She was still laughing when Clare hung up.

Lois emerged from the deacon’s cubbyhole. “Bingo,” she said, turning her notepad around so Clare could see her writing on the other side. “Three reports of animals being killed in the past month, according to the dispatcher. One of them was the doctor, one is an old fellow named Herb Perkins who lost a dog, and the last is a couple of professors at Skidmore who lost one of their goats.” She pointed to the paper. “Names and addresses right there.”

Clare took the notepad. “You’re wonderful, Lois.”

“I know. And I’m not the only one. Guess who had just gotten off the phone with the dispatcher right before I called?”

Clare blanked. “Who?”

“Ben Beagle of the Post-Star. ”

“Damn. He’s a tad too quick off the mark for comfort.” She tried the professors’ number first and got their answering machine. She left as abbreviated a message as she could: She was looking into a series of animal cruelty cases, and was their driveway plowed by Quinn Tracey? Herb Perkins, who was home, didn’t seem happy to hear from a stranger nosing about his business.

“Yeah, I get my dooryard plowed out,” he said in a voice like a crumbling cigar. “Don’t see what that’s got to do with somebody killin’ one of my dogs.”

“I’m looking for a common thread between several incidents, Mr. Perkins.”

“We like as not all shop at the IGA. You think mebbe one o’ them cashiers got it in for us?”

“Probably not, no. Could you tell me who does your plowing?”

She wasn’t the least surprised by his answer.

Clare laid the notebook face up on Lois’s desk. “Look at this. Perkins, Under-kirk, the Campbells, and Liz Garrettson’s mother. All of them hired Quinn Tracey to plow for them, and all of them have an animal or animals killed within the last month. Outdoor animals, living in barns. Not house pets.”

Lois studied the names and addresses she had written down. “All the roads I recognize here are pretty much out in the country. Nobody living in town.”

“Like Peekskill Road,” Clare said. “Where the Van Alstynes live.”

“What are you saying?” Elizabeth pressed her hand against her chest as if to quell the shock. Lois rolled her eyes.

“I’m saying Quinn Tracey has a direct connection to the locations of four animal deaths and a murder. Russ-Chief Van Alstyne likes to say there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

“You want me to get the police station back on the phone?” Lois asked.

“Please.” Clare opened the Millers Kill phone book to see if Dr. Underkirk’s address was listed.

“I should certainly hope so!” Elizabeth said. “Most of the people involved aren’t even congregants!”

“On second thought, Lois, I’ll call from my office.” Clare straightened, tucking the phone book and notepad beneath her arm. “Think of it as a sort of outreach, Elizabeth. Maybe the pediatrician and Mr. Perkins will be so grateful we’ve solved the mystery of who killed their animals, they’ll come to church to thank us. Then we’ll snag ’em and make them sit through a nice Evensong. A good choir converts more would-be Episcopalians than any amount of preaching does.”

In her office, Clare poured more coffee and then picked up the phone before her nerve failed her.

“Millers Kill Police Department.”

“Harlene? Hi, it’s Clare Fergusson.”

“Clare!” Harlene’s voice dropped. “How are you, honey? I just want you to know, no matter what they say, I’ll never believe you did it.”

“Uh, thanks.” She swallowed some coffee and pressed on. “Look, Harlene, I’ve come across some information that I think might be very important to the investigation. Who should I talk to?”

“Hmmm.” Clare could picture Harlene’s face furrowing with thought beneath her tightly permed curls. “Well, most all of ’em who investigate are out beating the bushes for this Shambaugh fellow. So you got your choice. Investigator Jensen or Mark Durkee, who hasn’t been given nothing to do yet.”

“I’m guessing Investigator Jensen is still hot for me as suspect number two?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How about Officer Durkee?”

“I don’t think he’s so convinced you did it anymore, but nobody’s talking to him on account of his bringing Jensen here, and since the reason he got the staties involved was because he thought you were a suspect, he might not be feeling too kindly toward you.”

“I didn’t ask him to run to the state police in order to investigate me.”

“No, but he’s not the first person to blame someone else for troubles he brought on his own head.”

Clare sighed. “Give me to Investigator Jensen. At least she doesn’t have anything personal against me.”

The line buzzed quietly for a moment and then Clare heard, “Emiley Jensen.”

“Hi, Investigator Jensen. This is the Reverend Clare Fergusson.” Her grandmother Fergusson would be rolling over in her grave at Clare using her own full title to introduce herself, but Clare figured at this point, every advantage counted.

“Reverend Fergusson. Do you mind if I put you on speakerphone?”

Clare interpreted that to mean Do you mind if I tape this conversation? “Not at all,” she said.

The sound in her ear changed. “Can you hear me?” Jensen asked, her voice now distant and tinny.

“Yes.”

“So, you wanted to speak to me?”

“I have some information I think is relevant to the investigation.” Clare started with what she had observed when she met Quinn Tracey at the high school, touched on her talk with Aaron MacEntyre, and finished with what she had learned this morning. When she was done speaking, there was a long, tinny pause.