Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

Russ wanted to plow his fist into Opperman’s smooth, rich face. Having no reason or excuse only made the urge stronger. Instead he strode across the floor to where Linda had dropped her suitcase and picked it up. “Let’s go.”

Linda looked at her sister. Debbie paused from blotting her face. “Do you want me to drive you? I have a rental.”

“If it’s all right with you, I think Russ and I need some time alone right now.” Linda shot him a look, half warning, half disappointment.

“Okay. I’ll follow right behind you.”

Linda stepped toward Opperman and held out her hands. He took both of them and smiled at her.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “For everything. And I apologize for-” She cut her eyes toward Russ.

“No apologies needed, dear lady. Shall I see you on Monday?”

“Fabric swatches in hand.” Linda smiled brilliantly at him, then hooked her arm through her sister’s and walked to the door. Russ followed, like an ungainly bellboy.

“Thanks for your help, Ms. LeBlanc,” he said over his shoulder.

“My pleasure,” she said. “I’m glad it all ended, um, happily.”

Russ paused. The gust of wind from the door closing behind Linda and Debbie ruffled his hair and sent snowflakes shivering down his neck. “Would you do me a favor and call the Millers Kill Police Department? Let them know my wife’s been…” Restored? Returned? “Found.”

“I’m right on it,” LeBlanc assured him, heading for her office.

Russ cast one more malevolent glance at Opperman, who smiled and waved good-bye.

Outside, the wind and snow buffeted him. He tucked his chin into the collar of his coat and trudged toward his truck. Linda, he saw, already sat inside, waiting for him. Debbie, parked next to the pickup, was trying to clear her windshield with her wipers. He rapped on her window.

“They’re frozen in place,” he yelled over the wind. “Hold on and I’ll knock the snow off for you.”

He jumped into the cab, fired up the truck, and got his brush out. He scraped and brushed his sister-in-law’s rental car first, then got the snow off his own windows and head-and taillights.

He rapped on Debbie’s window again. She cracked it open. “Stay a good three, four lengths behind me,” he said. “Go light on your brakes. These kinds of conditions, you’ll skid if you brake too hard.” He looked up and down her car. “Are you sure you don’t want to ride with us?”

“On that little Band-Aid of a backseat? No, thanks. Where are we headed?”

Good question. His house was still an unheated crime scene. “My mother’s,” he decided. Debbie made a face. “She’s got two guest rooms, and she’s a lot closer than the motel you’re staying at. We’re going to go down the mountain onto Sacandaga Road, then left onto Old Route 100. Follow it along the river, over the bridge, up a few miles into the mountains again, and there you are.”

“Over the river and through the woods?”

“Something like that. If you get stuck or anything, flash your lights. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

She nodded. He climbed into the truck’s cabin, now toasty warm, and stripped off his coat.

“What was that all about?” Linda said.

He put the truck in gear and backed it up. “I told Debbie to follow us to Mom’s.” He watched out his side window, making sure his sister-in-law didn’t get stuck. Getting out of where you were parked was often the most difficult part of driving in the snow.

“Why your mother’s? Why not go home?”

“I could ask you the same question. How come Mr. Sandman there was checking you into the hotel instead of taking you to our house?”

“Because he wasn’t sure if his sports car would make it all the way to our place and back here. At the hotel”-she glared at him-“we could each have separate rooms without crowding together like we would’ve if he had to stay at our house.”

Russ grunted. The Algonquin’s unplowed driveway was indistinguishable from the gardens on either side, and he edged forward, waiting for the thump that would tell him he’d misjudged and driven over one of their low stone walls.

“And what do you mean, Mr. Sandman? Were you reading my e-mails?”

“We were investigating a homicide. The whole department’s seen your e-mails by now. Not to mention all of our bills, financial records, and phone calls.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Debbie was right behind him.

“You really thought I had been murdered?” Linda’s voice was so low, he could barely hear her over the hot air blasting from the defroster.

“I really did. We all did.”

She rested her hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry.”

The pines lining the private road swallowed them. There was less snow on the pavement, and he could see farther despite the gloom of the forest.

“Did you have any suspects? In my, um, murder?”

“Me, for one.” He risked a glance at her. “There’s a state investigator come in to run the case. I’ve been relieved of duty. The staties and the aldermen thought either I had done it or I was fouling the investigation to protect whoever did do it.”

“That’s ridiculous. Who would want to murder me that you’d protect? Your mother?” She laughed, then fell silent. “No. Not your mother.” Linda turned to him. “Clare Fergusson. They thought your lover did it.”

Where are you going?”

Clare jumped. “Good Lord.” She turned to see Elizabeth de Groot next to Lois’s desk, arms akimbo, her ash blond hair and dark clericals limned by the lamplight falling from her own door. At two o’clock, the feeble, storm-grayed daylight barely penetrated into the interior of the office. “You startled me,” Clare said. “I thought you left when Lois did.”

“I considered it. Frankly, given everything that’s been going on here, I felt you needed me to stay. Are you headed home?” It was a reasonable question, given that Clare was booted and suited up in parka, hat, and gloves.

“Uh.” Clare had a pretty good idea that lying to her deacon wasn’t conducive to a good working relationship.

“So where are you going? Is there a pastoral emergency?”

Clare sighed. “Not exactly.” She pulled her hat off. “Are you going to try to make it all the way back down to Johnston?”

Elizabeth wasn’t thrown off the scent. Arms crossed, face expectant, she looked uncannily like Clare’s mother, waiting for a confession. The only thing missing was her mother’s syrup-sweet voice saying, “You might as well tell me now, because I will find out.”

“I spoke with Quinn Tracey’s best friend a little while ago. He sounded very strange. So I’m going there to check things out.”

“Why? Is he one of ours?”

A question designed to make Clare snatch out her hair. She fell back on St. Luke. “The lawyer, seeking to justify himself, asked Jesus, ‘Who is my neighbor?’ ”

The deacon had the grace to look abashed. “All right,” she said, “that wasn’t well put. But even the Good Samaritan might have let the trained professionals handle things nowadays.”

“I’ve called the police and let them know. They’re sending someone over as soon as they can.”

“Then why do you have to go?”

“Because I’m afraid that Quinn Tracey is a very disturbed young man. And his best friend-his only friend-is home alone. How is he going to handle it if Quinn shows up and says, ‘Hide me’ or ‘Give me money’ or ‘Let’s run away together?’ ”

“But the weather…”

Clare dug her keys out of her pocket. “I have all-wheel drive. I can get over there and back without too much difficulty.”

Elizabeth made a noise that would have been a snort in someone less ladylike. “All right. But I’m coming, too.”