I Shall Not Want (34 page)

“What happened?”

“She wanted to know what I thought of you taking up with Chief Van Alstyne again.”

“Taking up with—?”

“I told her I don’t gossip and I don’t care to listen to those who do. Then, of course, she was sweet as cream, saying she was just worried about people thinking it a scandal. I told her the only scandal would be if you let the best man in Millers Kill get away.” She leaned on one elbow and pointed the letter opener at Clare. “Which is not to say I don’t give a thumbs-up to Hugh Parteger. He has lovely manners, and he makes five or six times what the chief of police does.”

“Maybe you should ask him out, then. I don’t think he’s going to be calling me anymore. Not after this past weekend.”

Lois pulled a stack of pink phone messages free from a spiked note keeper. She selected one and held it up. “I don’t know about that. He phoned three times. Wants to talk with you soonest.”

Clare groaned. “Please tell me there are a lot of work-related messages I have to return first.”

“The bishop wants you to call. Her Holiness was complaining to him about your having a dangerous criminal in the rectory, that sort of thing. And he wants to know why you’re in the paper. Again.”

“I’m in the paper?”

“There was a story about the break-in and poor Señor Esfuentes’s disappearance in the
Post-Star
. It doesn’t mention
him
by name—I suppose they have to find his next of kin and all, poor souls—but
you’re
featured front and center. That reporter called for a statement.”

“Ben Beagle?”

“Mmm-hmm. I told him you were away, preparing to defend the freedom of the press with your life.”

“You didn’t.”

“Well, no, not in those words. I did tell him it was National Guard duty.” She plucked a pink message slip off the spike and rattled it between her long fingers. “I swear, that rag’s getting no better than one of the tabloids. Made it sound as if none of us are safe in our beds. Well, none of us who might be Hispanic.”

Clare held out her hand for the rest of the pink message slips. “I suppose I should count my blessings. At least Elizabeth isn’t holding a press conference about my scandalous carryings-on. Yet.”

“I heard poor Mr. Parteger was left kicking his heels on the sideline while you and Chief Van Alstyne danced all night.”

“I thought you never listened to gossip?”

“I never repeat it. I can’t help it if people like to confide in me. It’s the job. Sooner or later, the church secretary hears everything.”

Clare squared her shoulders. “The chief and I danced for two songs. If we were on the floor for more than eight minutes I’d be surprised.”

Lois smiled widely. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.” Clare resisted covering her cheeks. “Would you please call the IGA with the usual order of lunch things for the vestry meeting?”

“Yes, I will.”

Clare fled the office with Lois still smiling like the owner of a dumb dog who has just learned a new trick.

At her own desk, Clare poured a mug of her home-brewed coffee and dug right in to answering the messages that had accumulated in her absence. After she had returned most of the calls, she applied herself to the proposals for fall projects the vestry would be discussing at today’s lunchtime meeting. The pink message notes from the bishop and Ben Beagle and Hugh glowered at her whenever she glanced away from her paperwork. For once, it was a relief to have Lois buzz her about the vestry meeting.

“It’s time,” the secretary said. “The deacon is already in there with copies of the agenda and the proposals.”

The babble of voices from the meeting room died away when she came through the door. With linen-fold paneling and diamond-paned windows, high-backed chairs and a threadbare Aubusson rug, it had been the best Tudor copy that 1860s technology could buy. Perhaps the builders of St. Alban’s had wanted to salute Henry VIII, the founder of the church.

“Hello, everyone.” They had left a place for her at the head of the black oak table. Without any formal plan or discussion, the vestry always seemed to arrange themselves in the same way. Robert Corlew, the senior warden, sat at Clare’s left, with Terrance McKellan supporting him, in much the same way that Terry’s bank supported Corlew’s developments. On her right, junior warden Geoffrey Burns held his position opposite Corlew; lawyer versus contractor, forty versus sixty, thinning hair versus toupee.

At least she
thought
that pelt on Corlew’s head was a rug.

Mrs. Henry Marshall, bright-eyed and brilliantly lipsticked, sat between Burns and Norm Madsen. Mrs. Marshall was Clare’s most faithful ally on the vestry, tart-voiced and decisive, while Mr. Madsen was the one who always saw every side to an issue.
Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both scales against either
.

Clare snagged a Coke off the sideboard and dropped into her chair.

Sterling Sumner, retired architect and sometime lecturer at Skidmore College, sat across the long expanse of the table from Clare, about as far from Corlew as possible. He was sliding the usual platter of sandwiches and chips to Elizabeth de Groot, who was at his right hand. They had discovered they shared similar tastes in buildings (historic), liturgy (formal), and literature (nothing written after 1890). Clare wasn’t sure if Elizabeth knew she and Sumner also shared similar tastes in men.

The platter reached Terry McKellan, who glanced up and down the seats before taking two sandwiches and chips each. His wife had him on a diet, which had turned the finance officer into a stealth eater. Clare thought he looked like a guilty English sheepdog stealing food off the counter.

Robert Corlew took a sandwich and slid the platter toward Clare. She dropped what she hoped was chicken salad on whole wheat on a napkin. “Since this is the last meeting before we pick up again in September, let’s get right to it.” She spread her hands, inviting them to prayer. “Lord God,” she said, “help us to discern your will, and discerning, to serve your people, to the glory and honor of your name. Amen.” Short but serviceable. “Okay, Looking at the first item, a proposal to turn volunteer education director Gail Jones’s job into a part-time paid position—”

“I’d like to find out more about what happened at the rectory Sunday night,” Corlew said.

“Hear, hear,” Sterling said.

Clare sighed. Laid her pen atop her stack of papers. Reminded herself to relax her shoulders.

“Amado Esfuentes, our temporary sexton, robbed Clare and then took off,” Elizabeth said.

Clare felt her shoulders bunch right up again. “We have no proof of that, Elizabeth.”

“I already heard that.” Corlew waved the deacon’s words away with an irritated expression. “I mean, was there any damage to the rectory? Do we have any insurance exposure?” He turned to Clare. “After all, you did invite the little weasel to come in and make himself at home.”

“Now, Robert.” Mrs. Marshall gave Clare a small smile. “I think Clare realizes that was not, perhaps, the best idea. No need to belabor the point.”

“The point is that it’s far too dangerous for any member of St. Alban’s to be driving these wetbacks around to the welfare office or Roman Masses or what have you.” Sterling Sumner jerked his silk aviator’s scarf for emphasis. “We never should have gotten involved with that nun’s ministry. Let the papists take care of their own, I say.”

Clare was caught between open-mouthed outrage at the range of Sterling’s bigotry and amazement that someone could use the word ‘papist’ in a sentence in this century.

“I don’t agree with Sterling’s sentiments,” Geoff Burns said, “but I have to concur that we need to suspend the migrant worker outreach immediately.” He turned toward Clare. “I’m the last person to say guilty until proven innocent, but I already have two Hispanic clients awaiting trial for drug charges. There are some bad people out there, Clare.”

“And you can tell they’re bad by the color of their skin?” Clare’s voice rose. She swallowed and tried again. “St. Alban’s volunteers are reaching dozens of men each week, providing them with cell phone service, transportation, and access to the free clinic.” She nodded toward Mrs. Marshall, whose mother had founded the health center. “It’s one of our most successful outreach programs, and it doesn’t cost the church a dime.”

“We have reimbursed for gas,” Terry said. Clare gave him an exasperated look. “Just being accurate,” he said.

“Oh, sure.” Corlew glowered at Clare. “It’s all wine and roses until one of our congregation gets mugged, just like you would have been if you’d been home Sunday night instead of playing kissy-face with Russ Van Alstyne.”

“I was
not
—”

Mrs. Marshall giggled. It was such an unexpected sound—like hearing the Queen of England snicker—they all stared.

Clare recovered first. “Señor Esfuentes may well have been a victim of crime, instead of a perpetrator. There’s no conclusive evidence either way.”

“In which case,” Sterling said, “he may have fallen prey to this serial killer who seems to be haunting our area. Which brings me straight back to the central thesis: We cannot condone our people hanging about with men who may be targeted for violence at any moment.”

“So you’re saying we should dictate to our volunteers? Tell them we’ve decided it’s too risky for them to be driving around the mean streets of Cossayuharie? Shouldn’t they be able to make that call on their own?” She turned to Corlew. “Robert, you’re a Republican, for heaven’s sake. Don’t you believe in individual responsibility?”

“Not,” he said, “when we’re in a position to get sued.”

The meeting devolved into a wrangling session. Clare got the board to agree that volunteers who signed a statement that any further migrant outreach on their part was entirely a personal decision could continue. After all, how could the vestry stop them? But there would be no more central communication and coordination by St. Alban’s. They never did get back to the question of the education director. By the time the Civil War–era grandfather clock chimed the hour, Clare was seething. From the way the vestry members tossed their goodbyes and hurried out the door, she knew she was doing a lousy job of hiding her feelings.

Elizabeth de Groot fluttered up to her after everyone else had left. “Clare,” she said, in her cultivated voice, “I know this is a disappointment to you, but I’m sure that in time you’ll see—”

“Elizabeth,” Clare said, “don’t you have something to do?”

The deacon looked at her hesitantly. “Uh, yes. Hospital visits.”

“Then I suggest you go forth, spreading the good news of Jesus Christ.”
And leave me the hell alone
.

Clare was sitting on the priceless antique table, wrapped in a blue devil, when Lois stuck her head in the door. “Want me to put away the leftovers?” she asked, waving toward the remaining sandwiches and chips.

“Thanks, Lois. Go ahead and take your lunch break. I’ll carry this downstairs and put it in the fridge. I can deliver the sandwiches to the shelter later.”

She found a plastic grocery bag in her office and tossed the chips in. Hanging it over her arm, she collected the sandwich platter and tottered downstairs to the church kitchen. The lights in the hall were already on. Good Lord, had she forgotten to turn them off after she and Lyle MacAuley went through the place Sunday night?

Wonderful. Another collection plate for the National Grid Power Company
.

Then she heard a step behind her.

She whirled, saw the shape of a man emerge from the sexton’s closet, and screamed. She was raising the tray in self-defense, hitting herself in the chest with the bag of chips, when the man said, “Father? It’s just me.”

She lowered the food. The sandwiches slid toward her, mashing into her stomach, mayonnaise and tuna smearing over the black cotton. “Mr. Hadley,” she said. She cleared her throat to steady her voice. “You startled a year’s growth out of me.”

“Grampa? What was that?” At the other end of the hall, Hadley Knox’s little girl popped out of the nursery. “Are you okay?”

Her big brother stepped into the hallway beside her. “Should I call Mom?”

“No! G’back inside, you two. I just startled the Father some.” He ran one hand over his bald scalp. “Din’t mean to scare you. We got here when you was meeting with the vestry. Din’t want to interrupt.”

“No, no.” She looked down at the mess on her clerical blouse. “I was going to put this in the fridge.” She looked at the sexton. He was in his usual work clothes: baggy, stained twill pants and a plaid shirt. He had a backpack in one hand, and even from several feet away she could smell cigarette smoke. “What are you doing here?”

“Honey told me ‘bout the Mexican boy disappearing. I figgured it was time for me to get back on the job.”

“With the kids in tow?” Another thought occurred to her. “Has your doctor—” the bag of chips was beginning to cut into her wrist. “Let me get rid of this, hmm?” He followed her down the hall into the semisubterranean kitchen. She laid the sandwich platter and the chips on the wide center island. “There are some sodas left in the meeting room. Would the kids like lunch?”

“Don’t want to be no bother.” He waved his hand in the vague direction of her upper body. “Better take care of that stuff on your shirt, there. ‘Fore it stains.”

She grabbed a dishcloth and turned on the cold water. “Has your doctor given you the okay to go back to work?”

He grunted. “Somebody’s got to. This place ain’t gonna clean itself, y’know.”

She looked up from scrubbing the mayo off her blouse. “Does your granddaughter know you’re here?”

Mr. Hadley shifted from foot to foot. “Long as I’m watching the kids and they ain’t parked in front of the TV like she axed, I don’t see as it makes no never mind where we are.”

“Mr. Hadley—”

He lifted the backpack and placed it next to the sink. “I found this in my closet. Figgured it belonged to the Mexican.”

She recognized it now. Amado had been carrying that bag when she had come to pick him up at the McGeochs’ farm. Before the choir concert. Before the Christies invaded her church. Before Russ—