Out Of The Deep I Cry (22 page)

Clare could see three women in the living room, grouped together on the sofa, and another pair at the gleaming dining-room table, visible from the doorway separating the two rooms. Someone had evidently brought a Bundt cake, and the tables were littered with porcelain dessert plates and straight-edged coffee cups in saucers, as if the gathering were a morning bridge game that had taken on an unexpectedly somber cast.

“I had been working for the Glens Falls Insurance Company, but I wasn’t terribly happy there, so when my mother told me about the handsome, young, single doctor who was looking for a secretary, I jumped ship.”

“And it was obviously a good career move.”

Renee Rouse laughed. The three women around the sofa glanced at her, as if checking to make sure it wasn’t the opening salvo of a hysteric fit, and then returned to their conversation. Mrs. Rouse led Clare to a love seat tucked between two bookcases and sat down. “It was the best thing I ever did. Allan had been in New York for several years, in medical school and afterward, and he was the most cosmopolitan and sophisticated man I had ever met. He had been dating a woman in New York but wasn’t seeing anyone here, and he was always complaining at the clinic about how his life was all work and he never had any fun. One day I screwed up my nerve and said to him, ‘Why don’t you come to Lake George Saturday night with me and some friends?’ I was sure he’d think the carny rides and boardwalk would be stupid, compared to what he was used to in New York. But we had a wonderful time, and we went the next weekend, and the next, and one thing led to another, and we were married the next summer.”

“That’s so romantic.” And it was true. Every story of “how we met” was romantic because every one had the magical element of blissful chance-if he had kept on the old secretary, if her mother hadn’t told her about the job-and the sense of divine providence. They were meant to meet. They were destined to fall in love.

Russ Van Alstyne walked through the living-room door.

He was jacketless, in jeans and a uniform shirt, which meant he was probably not officially on duty. He was carrying a cardboard box big enough to hold the contents of a file cabinet drawer, and as he turned, scanning the room for Mrs. Rouse, Clare had just enough time to register that he was overdue for a haircut, before his eyes settled on hers.

He covered the space between the door and the love seat in three steps and was lowering the box to the floor before he shifted his gaze from Clare to the woman sitting next to her. “Mrs. Rouse,” he said, “I want to take a minute to go over what I’m bringing with me, but first”-he smiled a little-“can you point me toward a bathroom?”

“Through the dining room, into the kitchen, on your right,” she said.

“Thanks.” His eyes returned to Clare. “Reverend.”

“Chief.” She twisted toward Mrs. Rouse, quite deliberately not watching him walk away, and picked up the first thread she could find leading back to their conversation. “So you’ve been married since…?”

“Nineteen sixty-four.”

“And have you lived in this house since then?” Clare glanced around the room, safe now that Russ had disappeared through the dining-room doorway. “It has a wonderful feel to it. Very welcoming, as if it’s been sheltering a family for a long time.”

Mrs. Rouse smiled. “Thank you! But no, we didn’t move here until we’d been married about ten years. When we started out, we were the proverbial church mice. We had Kerry right away, which was what everyone did in those days, start your family before the ink had dried on the wedding certificate.” She leaned forward and patted Clare’s knee. “Your generation is much more sensible. Wait until you’ve established yourselves before having children.” Clare had a flash of self-consciousness-
is
that
what I’m doing?
-before returning her attention to Mrs. Rouse. “Of course, Allan was working for the clinic, so it wasn’t as if he was earning what he could have in private practice.”

“Did he ever consider leaving the clinic?”

“All the time. At least during those early years. He had a plan all worked up for after he had fulfilled his obligation to Mrs. Ketchem. She had paid his way though medical school and his residency, you know, so that he could come back and serve in her clinic.”

“Like the military.”

“Yes. He was going to go back to New York once his seven years were up and join in a partnership with some of his friends from medical school. Then life would be grand, we wouldn’t have to eat beans, etcetera. I used to tease him about it, call him Jacob. Laboring seven years to win his bride.”

“But you didn’t leave.”

“No. He became very close to Mrs. Ketchem in her final illness. He was with her when she died, you know. I think he became caught up in her vision of what the clinic could mean for the town. He knew darn well the board of aldermen would never find anyone as dedicated to the job as he was.” Her smile tipped up on one side. “And it didn’t hurt that they revisited his salary after Mrs. Ketchem died. It’s funny,” she said, her eyes easing into nostalgia. “During the years when you’re living on macaroni and cheese and falling into bed exhausted each day from taking care of little kids, you long so for the future. And it isn’t until the future arrives that you realize how wonderful it all was.”

Clare reached for Mrs. Rouse’s hand at the same moment Russ reentered the dining room. Without turning to look, she knew he was there, circling around the shining walnut table, coming through the archway, crossing the floor. “Mind if I interrupt you two?” he said. Mrs. Rouse’s relaxed expression tightened into taut lines of reined-in panic.

He squatted next to the love seat, resting one hand on the cover of the cardboard box. “The first thing I want you to know is that we’ll be calling the friends that you said you were calling the night your husband disappeared. We’re not checking up on you-”

Oh yeah? Clare thought.

“-but maybe talking with the police will jar some memories loose.” He smiled, an I’m-on-the-job-so-everything-will-be-all-right smile that seemed to ease Mrs. Rouse’s tension.

“I’ve got a lot of your husband’s financial information here,” he said. “Bank account statements, credit card bills, things related to your expenses. There were also a lot of miscellaneous papers in the middle drawer of his desk; I’ve packed them up, too.”

“I can’t imagine what use all that will be, except for you to see I spend too much on clothes.” Renee Rouse laughed, a brittle sound that died away almost before it had begun. “What do you think you’re going to find?”

“I don’t know yet. But if we go on the assumption your husband is alive, then either he’s taken himself off deliberately, or he is, for some reason, unable to come home to you. I’m going to look for something that might give us a push in one direction or another.” Clare watched Mrs. Rouse’s face as she came to the realization that there could be explanations behind her husband’s disappearance almost as painful as his death.

“One thing we know is that he had his wallet and his checkbook with him. You two keep your accounts at Key Bank, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d like to contact the manager and have them place an alert notice on your accounts. They’ll notify us if a check is written on the account or if he uses his ATM. Obviously, this’ll be a lot easier if you aren’t writing checks and using your card-”

Mrs. Rouse held up one hand. “I have a separate account that I use most of the time. Allan’s checkbook and ATM card are to our big joint account, and I hardly ever draw on that. He was-” She caught herself, her eyes terrified by the way she had put him into the past tense. “He is,” she began again, “the bill payer in our house.”

At that moment, a single voice in a one-woman conversation flowed out of the kitchen, cascaded through the dining room, and began to swirl around the living room. “Here comes the coffee! And Lacey has the tea. Nancy, you go back and bring out the tray with the sugar and cream on it, will you? I hope everyone is okay with leaded. I couldn’t find the decaf. But nowadays they say it’s not the caffeine that’s bad for you, but the stuff they use to take it out. So we’re probably all better off.”

Renee Rouse stood. “Yvonne’s finished in the kitchen.”

“Now, Renee, you sit right down and rest! That’s what we’re here for, to make things easier for you. Who wants a cup? And there’s another crumb cake in the kitchen I’m going to bring out.”

Russ, who had evidently already met Yvonne, squared the box of documents under his arm and thrust his hand toward Mrs. Rouse. “I’ll let you know the minute we have any news,” he said, his voice pitched low. “You have my card. Call me at any time, day or night, if you need to.”

“Thank you, Chief.”

“It looks like a homemade crumb cake. You can always tell because the store doesn’t use enough butter to hold things together. Of course, enough butter, you might as well just call ahead and book your bypass surgery. So who made the crumb cake? Fess up!”

Russ glanced at Clare, as if he might say something, then settled for nodding and disappearing through the living-room door as fast as he could.

“Reverend? How about you? Coffee? Crumb cake? You don’t look like you have to watch what you eat, like some of us. Of course, all black is very slimming, isn’t it? Maybe I should join the clergy, too. Ha!” Yvonne tipped her head back and hooted.

Clare turned to Mrs. Rouse. “I have to catch Chief Van Alstyne. I have a question for him.”

Renee Rouse nodded. Clare ducked through the door, snatched her parka out of the coat closet, and was through the front door before Yvonne’s voice could pick up again. She spotted Russ next to his truck, the cardboard box wedged awkwardly between his hip and the driver’s-side door as he fished in his jeans pocket for his keys.

She tumbled down the steps. “Russ?”

He turned. “Hey.” He drew the keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. “You leaving so soon?”

“I can’t. I rode here in Mrs. Marshall’s car. I’d be willing to walk home to avoid that Story woman, but then I’d still have to get over to Mrs. Marshall’s house to pick up my car.”

He tilted his seat forward and shifted the box onto the narrow back bench. “Gee,” he said. “I’ve got a truck right here. Drives and everything.”

Her grandmother Fergusson said,
Only a tacky person would drop a cake and run on a condolence call. A lady stays as long as she can be helpful.
MSgt. Ashley “Hardball” Wright bawled,
Retreat is not dishonorable when you’re facing superior forces. He that fights and runs away, lives to fight another day!
Her grandmother Fergusson replied,
On the other hand, a lady never outwears her welcome.

“Let me see if Mrs. Rouse or Mrs. Marshall need me,” she said to Russ. “If not, you’ve got yourself a passenger.”

Russ was sitting in the cab, idling the engine and scanning the radio for music performed by someone free of piercings or tattoos. Nowadays everything on the air seemed to be by so-called artists who were younger than his favorite pair of jeans or by groups he had first listened to on 45s and AM radio. He could live happily without ever hearing “My Generation” again. He pressed the play button on the CD, taking his chance with whatever he had left in there last. The voice of Bonnie Raitt poured out of the speakers like a long, tall branch-and-bourbon.

Clare popped the passenger door open, and he turned the music down a notch while she swung up into the seat. She grinned at him. “It was okay. One of the other ladies had corralled Yvonne Story, and Mrs. Rouse’s sister is on her way over. They didn’t need me.” She buckled up, worrying her lower lip. “I’m bad. I shouldn’t feel this relieved to escape.”

He shifted the truck into gear and pulled away from the curb. “What, you mean Yvonne? Don’t be. My mom used to volunteer at the library when she was there. Had to quit. Said she was going to commit homicide if she didn’t.”

She laughed. “How is your mom?”

“Happy as a clam. She’s decided coal-fired electrical plants in the Midwest are responsible for our acid rain problem, so she and her cronies are busing to Illinois in April for a big protest rally.”

“Uh-oh. What if she gets into trouble again?”

“If she does, at least it won’t be me arresting her, thank God. Janet and I will stand by with bail money and Western Union.”

Clare twisted sideways in her seat and looked at him. “You look tired.”

“I am. I was up at the Stewart’s Pond site until one o’clock.” Talking about it made him feel the fatigue, and he pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It would have been nice to sleep in, but we’re short staffed as it is, with Lyle and Noble knocked out by this stomach thing going around.”

She glanced over the seat, to the evidence box in the back. “Can you leave this stuff at the station and go home for a quick nap?”

“Nah. I’m headed back to Stewart’s Pond after I drop you at your car.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Clare got that look in her eyes-the unholy light, he was coming to think of it.

“Take me with you,” she said.

“No.” He downshifted to slow for a red light up ahead.

“Take me with you.”

“No. Why do you want to go, anyway?” He knew starting to argue with her was a mistake, but he couldn’t resist it.

“Probably the same reason you do. To see it in daylight. To try to get a feel for the place. To imagine what happened there.”

“Before you get on your high horse about Debba Clow, I want to assure you that the Millers Kill Police Department does not officially consider her a suspect.”

“At this time.”

“At this time,” he agreed. “I’m still open to the idea that Rouse is alive somewhere, although since we’ve contacted every hospital within a fifty-mile radius, I’m not holding out much hope. But who knows? Maybe the Amish took him in, and he’s mending up in a beautiful widow’s bedroom, like in that movie.”