In the Bleak Midwinter (28 page)

“Ayuh, she did, she’s kept me up to date on everything about Cody. She’s wonderful that way.”

“Is it true Mr. Burns was here this past Wednesday? In the evening?”

“Ayuh, though that’s not the only time it’s happened. Mrs. Burns showed up at the pediatrician’s office when I took Cody in for his checkup. And they came ’round unsupervised a day or two after I got him, although to be fair, there hadn’t been much time to arrange a proper visitation and they did call first.”

“Did Mr. Burns call before he stopped by that night?”

Deborah crossed her legs, a slither of polyester. “No, he didn’t, and to tell you the truth, the whole visit made me nervous. I won’t say he was drunk, because he wasn’t, but he smelled like he had definitely dropped off at the Dew Drop Inn for a few after work.”

Clare shook her head. “After work?”

“I figured he must have left his office, gone out for a beer or two and then hit on the bright idea to visit Cody. He was still in his coat and tie. Really, I don’t like to complain. I understand how hard it is for the adoptive parents to wait, and I’m not against a few visits. I like the company, and it’s good for the kids and the parents. But, Lord!” She threw her hands in the air. “I can’t have folks showing up here at eight o’clock at night, sulking all over my living room and disturbing the baby’s routine.”

“Geoff Burns seemed sulky?”

“I guess angry would be a better word. He showed up without so much as a by-your-leave, invited himself in just as I was getting ready for Cody’s eight o’clock feeding, and acted mad at the whole world. Insisted on holding the baby, but he was so mad or tense or something that he got Cody all riled up and the poor thing wouldn’t settle down to his bottle for over half an hour.” She leaned forward. “Babies can sense people’s moods very well in their body language, you know.”

Clare took a drink of coffee. The newspaper headline she envisioned,
PRIEST SUPPORTS MURDERER
’
S ATTEMPT TO ADOPT VICTIM’S CHILD
had been joined by a subsidiary lead:
DIOCESE SUED BY DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN SERVICES
.

“Deborah,” she said, “how long does it take to get to the Old Schuylerville Road from here?”

“Hmmm? Are you heading that way next? Let’s see, if you take the turn at Power’s Corners and then use old Route eleven, you can reach it in about ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.” Long enough to get to the spot where Darrell McWhorter’s body had been dumped, take off for Albany, and still be home in time to meet the Millers Kill police at his front door. Clare had a sudden urge to drive to the Burnses’ office right that minute. She wanted the truth from them, no matter how wrong it might prove her instincts.

She put her coffee on a needlepoint coaster. “Deborah, thank you so much for having me over to take a look at Cody and chat.” She stood. “I’d like to stop by and see him again sometime, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Deborah McDonald stood, gathering the mugs in one hand. “Not at all. I’m glad of the company, like I said.”

The two women walked to the kitchen. “I promise you I’ll talk to the Burnses and mention your concerns.”

The foster mother unhooked Clare’s coat from the rack. “I appreciate the chance to let ’em know without having to go through DHS and making it all official. I’m sure they’re perfectly nice people. Just terrible eager for their baby by this point, I imagine. I’ve seen it before. Waiting on a baby when you can’t have one of your own makes folks a little crazy at times.”

Clare had to drive around the block three times before a parking space opened up. It looked as if the boutique owners at this end of Main Street would have a merry Christmas. She could have found a space more readily a few blocks away, but she still hadn’t gotten around to shopping for new boots and her low suede ones had already seen more than enough snow and salt.

The Burnses’ receptionist looked up, startled, when Clare came through the stairwell door.

“Ummm… can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m Clare Fergusson. I need to see Mr. Burns right away. Or Mrs. Burns, if he’s unavailable.” Clare unzipped her coat and let it drop onto the asymmetrically striped sofa.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Burns is in court all afternoon and Mrs. Burns is working out of her home today. I could make you an appointment for tomorrow… ?”

“Oh—” Clare bit down hard on what she had been about to say, “—gosh darn.” She snatched up her coat again. “No, thanks. I’ll try to get Mrs. Burns at home.”

On the drive to the Burnses’ house, Clare tried out what she might say. Karen, did your husband shoot Darrell McWhorter? Or how about, Karen, did your husband father a child and try to cover it up with this abandoned-at-the-church-doorstep scheme and when that fell through, did he start killing everyone else involved? “Oh, shoot me now,” Clare groaned.

The Burnses’ house was a brick Italianate revival with five-foot-high windows and a cupola that must have given them a view of the entire town. Wreaths decorated with wooden fruits hung from the deeply-paneled front doors, which had the look of an unused entrance. Down the long drive, by the separate garage at the corner of the house, Clare found the back door.

Karen Burns opened at the second ring. “Reverend Fergusson? What brings you out here?”

“Well, I—” Clare stamped her boots on the welcome mat.

“Please, come on in. No need to stand in the cold to talk.”

Clare pushed into the narrow hall lined with hanging coats, boots, shelves of hats and gloves. She left her coat, following Karen into the kitchen.

“Is this about the letter-writing campaign? I’ve gotten some wonderfully supportive notes and phone calls from people, you know. Mrs. Strathclyde told me she actually called our congressman’s office to complain. Can you believe it?” Karen led Clare through a high-ceilinged, granite-countered kitchen into a small den done up in burgundy and hunter green. Karen waved at the glass-fronted barrister’s bookcases and the computer centered on a wide mahogany desk. “My home office. I work here about seventy-five percent of the time, now. When we adopt Cody, I’ll be able to switch to a twenty-hour-a-week schedule without making any drastic changes.” She gestured toward a tapestry-covered love seat.

Clare sat. She took a steadying breath. “Karen, I didn’t come to discuss the letters.”

Karen sank gracefully into a green leather chair. “You didn’t.”

“I know that the police have been asking you about the night Darrell McWhorter was killed. I know you both claim to have come straight home from work.”

“Claim?”

Clare leaned forward, trying to meet the other woman’s eyes. Karen tilted her head, examining her hands. Her fingernail polish matched the study’s rug. “I know Geoff wasn’t at home at eight o’clock that night. He was at Cody’s foster mother’s house. Wearing a suit and tie, as if he’d come straight from work, and smelling as if he’d had a drink or two.”

The lawyer looked straight at Clare, her beautiful face calm. “What are you suggesting?”

“It looks bad, that’s what I’m suggesting! Karen, you two have got to tell the police the truth. What happened that night?”

Karen looked toward the bookcase. “Nothing.” She compressed her lips into a tight line. “I don’t know.”

Clare slid to the end of the love seat until their knees almost touched. “Tell me what you do know.”

The other woman continued staring at the bookcase. Clare touched her arm. “Please, Karen. I want to help you. And Geoff. But you have to be honest with me.”

There was a pause. Slowly, Karen turned her head to face the priest. “We had a horrible fight that afternoon in the office. We had been arguing about what approach to take with McWhorter all day long and we got… it just… anyway, I told him what he could do, and took off. I was so angry with him I wanted to…” She blew out a breath. “I did a little shopping, I called my mother, I fixed some stir fry for dinner—you know, working the mad off.” She laced her fingers together. “Dinnertime came and went, with no Geoff, and no phone call. I started to get worried. I mean, really worried; the weather was bad and he was driving the little Honda Civic. Finally, finally he showed up around ten or so.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know whether to kill him or kiss him. Turns out he’d been out at the Dew Drop Inn most of the night. I don’t know how he managed to get himself home, he was in no condition to drive. I was horrified! He could have killed himself. Not to mention the damage to his reputation if he had been picked up. The last thing we need is a morals censure from the Bar Association or a D.U.I. conviction on his record.”

Clare pressed her forefingers against her mouth to refrain from mentioning that Geoff could just as well have killed other people out on the roads that night. “Does this sort of thing happen often?” she asked, her voice neutral.

“God, no. Geoff ’s idea of a blowout indulgence is a bottle of Nouveaux Beaujolais the week it hits the stores. So you can imagine how I felt when those two officers showed up at the door asking where we had been that evening! All I could think of was Geoff being hauled in for questioning. So I told them we’d been home all night, having a few drinks and watching TV.” She sagged back into her chair. “Geoff just went along with my story.” Her gaze went to the ceiling, as if looking for the Fates lurking there. “Yesterday, when we learned that McWhorter had been killed, it was too damn late to recant. There wasn’t anyone except a few anonymous bar patrons to say he’d been at the Dew Drop instead of…”

“Instead of taking Darrell McWhorter on his last drive to Albany?”

“Yes. We had already lied to the police. As you said, it looks bad.”

Clare tilted her head back, closing her eyes. Did she believe Karen Burns? Yes? The question was, did she believe Geoff Burns told the truth to his wife? “You’ve got to tell this to the police. You and Geoff.”

“No!”

“Do you believe your husband’s story about what happened Wednesday night?”

“Yes, of course. He would never lie to me.”

“Then tell Chief Van Alstyne. Geoff ’s absence that night is going to come out sooner or later. If you wait until the police find out on their own, the two of you are going to look guilty as sin. Go to Van Alstyne’s office, tell him what you’ve just told me, admit that you were both royal idiots to lie about it, and offer to enroll Geoff in one of those driver education courses. Voluntarily.”

“What? There’s no way they can prove drunk driving after the fact—”

“We’re not talking about legalities, Karen, we’re talking about admitting you did something wrong and setting it right. Confession and repentance.” She braced her elbows on her knees. “Because on a moral and emotional level, you aren’t going to be able to continue on with this lie weighing you down. And because on a practical level, if you don’t cop to the drinking and driving and lying, your husband’s going to look like a murderer when the police do find out.”

Karen pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead, half-shielding her face from Clare’s direct stare. “There’s a good chance they won’t find out,” she said, trying the idea on for size.

Clare exploded out of the love seat. “There’s no chance Chief Van Alstyne won’t find out, Karen, because if you don’t tell him, I will!”

“You can’t do that!”

“I can’t tell him anything of this conversation we’re having right now, no. I can certainly tell him Ms. Dunkling of the Department of Human Services called me to complain that your husband was at Cody’s foster mother’s house Wednesday night. And I can tell him Deborah McDonald confirmed Geoff was upset and smelled like he’d been drinking.”

Clare collapsed back into the love seat. “I’ll do everything I can to help you talk to the police. I’ll do everything I can to help you become Cody’s parents. But I won’t compromise the truth for you. I won’t help you stand in the way of finding Katie McWhorter’s killer. We owe her that. We all owe her that.”

“You’re lucky he’s in. Five minutes more and you would have missed him.” Harlene punched the intercom button on her heavy, licorice-colored telephone. “Chief? Reverend Clare’s here to see you. And Karen Burns.”

The door to his office banged open and the chief of police strode out. His gaze flicked between Clare and Karen, back to Clare, finally settling on Mrs. Burns. “What can I do for you ladies?”

Clare tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of the effortless chic of the woman standing beside her. She looked like a badly-tailored crow next to Karen’s drapey wool separates and hundred-dollar haircut. Which was ridiculous. Appearance was not what was important here. She tugged her bulky, faded sweater down, revealing more of her clerical collar.

“Mrs. Burns?” Russ said. “Reverend Fergusson?”

Karen looked uneasily at Clare. “I… uh… was going to wait for my husband, but he’s being held over in a deposition…”

Russ tilted his head a little to the side. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Why don’t you come into the interview room with me. We can be more private there.”

Karen nodded. “Clare, will you stay with me?”

“Of course.”

Russ looked at her hard while pulling out a chair for Karen, asking what was going on as clearly as if he’d said it. Clare raised her eyebrows, radiating encouragement. He rolled his eyes at her before crossing the room and taking a seat opposite Karen. Clare seated herself.

“Mind if I tape this? I hate to have misunderstandings later on because we’re remembering different things.” He rested his hand easily on a cheap portable tape recorder.

Karen frowned. “As long as you make it clear I’m speaking without an attorney.”

“Oh? Do you need one?”

Karen flushed. “As you say, I’d just hate to have misunderstandings later on.”

He nodded, turning on the tape machine. “This is Chief Van Alstyne, interviewing Karen Burns.” He glanced at Clare. “Accompanied by her priest, Reverend Clare Fergusson. Ms. Burns is unrepresented by legal counsel.” He looked at Karen. She nodded. “The date is Friday, December tenth, and the time is…” he glanced at his watch, “six
P.M.
”

Karen took a deep breath and began. Clare listened to her voice, calm and orderly. Her recounting of the events of Wednesday night was organized, yet compelling. Clare propped her chin in her hand, struck by Karen’s poise. She must make a dynamic advocate in court. Russ, on the other hand, looked less than impressed. He sat with one hand resting on the tape recorder and the other splayed across a pad of paper. Clare supposed his expression could qualify as neutral, but she could see something underneath. Disapproval? Skepticism? She bit her lower lip. It was important that he treat Karen right. How else could he encourage this kind of honesty?