In the Bleak Midwinter (29 page)

When she concluded her story, Karen folded her hands, as if waiting for comment. Russ chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. He tapped the tape machine a few times. “Your husband was driving a Honda Civic that night?”

“That’s correct. He uses it instead of his Saab when the roads are salty.”

“Has he driven it anywhere since that night?”

“Yes… he’s got it today. He likes me to keep the Land Rover, in case I need the four-wheel-drive. Why?”

“Was he drinking at the Dew Drop Inn before he went to Mrs. McDonald’s?”

“No, that’s in the opposite direction from our office and her house. Um… he didn’t actually say, but I assumed he’d gone to the Sign of the Musket after work. That’s where we usually go for Happy Hour.”

“Mrs. Burns, when you spoke to Officer Entwhistle Wednesday night, you said you own a nine millimeter Smith and Wesson, registered to yourself, and that you keep it in your Land Rover for times when you’re on the road by yourself.”

“That’s… correct. I have clients spread out between Albany and Plattsburgh, and a woman traveling alone can be vulnerable. What relevance does this have, Chief?”

“Is that gun still in your Land Rover?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

Russ nodded. He popped the tape from the machine and rose from the table. “Will you wait here for a moment? I’ll be right back.” He closed the door on his way out.

Karen jerked around in her seat. “Clare, I don’t like this. I do not like this at all.”

Clare rested her hand on the other woman’s forearm. “Karen, we knew he’d be suspicious. After all, you did lie before. I’m sure Chief Van Alstyne wants to check with someone at the, what was it? Sign of the Musket? And at the Dew Drop Inn.”

“You’re right.” Karen sighed. “He’s going to want to talk to Geoff, too. Oh, God, I should have just waited for him to get back from that damn deposition. We could have done this tomorrow.”

By which time, Geoff could have argued her out of talking to the police. Clare patted Karen’s arm and tried not to doubt Geoff Burns when she hadn’t even had the chance to talk with him.

The women sat in silence as the minutes crawled by. Clare got up and checked the coffeemaker, but it was cold and dry. The plate beside it was empty. No homemade strudel today.

“What on earth is taking him so long?” Karen demanded. She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to find a phone. I want to call the office and see if Geoff ’s there yet.”

“Maybe you should wait until you hear what Chief Van Alstyne has to—”

The door opened. Russ and Officer Durkee walked in. The young man smiled discreetly at Clare, who waggled her fingers at him. He’d been good company at the hospital the night she’d found Cody.

Russ cleared his throat. Officer Durkee fell in, his face serious. Russ held up a curling sheet of fax paper. “Karen Burns,” he began formally. “I have here a copy of a warrant executed by Judge Ryswick granting us permission to search your cars and to confiscate any firearms in your or your husband’s possession for testing. We are also warranted to search your house for any materials possibly related to the deaths of Katie McWhorter and Darrell McWhorter.” He folded the piece of paper carefully, creasing it with finger and thumb pressed tightly together. “Judge Ryswick thought our new information was sufficient to issue a separate warrant for your husband’s arrest.”

Karen’s posture went rigid, and her arm, still holding the back of the chair, trembled slightly. She made no other sign or sound.

“However, I won’t execute the arrest if Geoff presents himself to the station for questioning within the next two hours. I’ve sent someone to your office to let him know. If he comes home first, of course, we’ll have someone there,” Russ said. “Officer Durkee will accompany you to your vehicle. If you’ll hand over your keys?”

“I want to call my lawyer. Now.”

“There’s a phone at the main desk. Mark, will you escort Mrs. Burns to the phone?”

Karen shot Clare a venomous glance. “Confession and repentance?” Her voice hissed like caustic lye. She turned and swept out of the interview room, Officer Durkee close on her heels.

Clare faced Russ. “This is absolutely outrageous!”

“Stay out of it, Clare.”

“Stay out of it? I’m the one who persuaded her to come in her and tell you the truth! How you can twist that around in order to search her car and her house.… Are you going to arrest Geoff Burns?”

“Depends on whether he shows up or not. What he says in the interview. I may very well hold him overnight while we test the gun.”

Clare clenched her teeth to keep her voice from rising. “
I
brought Karen Burns in here.
I
persuaded her to come clean with you.
I
assured her you would listen to her. I thought—”

“No, you didn’t think. You just jumped in feet first without looking where you were going or considering the consequences. I’m a cop, Clare! What the hell did you expect me to do when a woman I suspect is an accessory to two murders walks in and tells me her husband was drunk and unaccounted for during the time Darrell McWhorter was killed? Shake her hand and give her a good citizenship badge?Get real!”

Clare pressed her hands flat against the table to keep them from shaking. “I was trying to help—”

“You were trying to help the Burnses, yeah, I know. And you’re trying to help Kristen McWhorter, and the baby, and the unwed mothers of the world, and every damn soul you come across. That’s why you’re a priest, Clare. I, on the other hand, am a cop. The only thing I’m trying to do is catch the sonofabitch who killed Katie McWhorter and her father and send him to the chair. And I will do anything—anything within the law—if it means getting closer to that arrest.” He spread his legs slightly and hooked his thumbs into his belt, an archetype of law enforcement authority. “If that interferes with your agenda, I’m sorry. But don’t act the outraged innocent with me when I’m doing my job.”

Clare flushed hotly. “You! Can kiss my ass!”

“Oh, very nice. They teach you that in seminary?”

She spun on her heel and stalked out of the room, past an embarrassed-looking Harlene, past the abandoned main desk. Behind her, she could hear Russ’s voice, exasperated, angry. “Clare. Clare!”

She took the stairs two at a time and burst out into the icy night air. She interlaced her fingers tightly and took a deep breath. The cold, dry air made her cough. She clattered down the front steps, almost losing her footing, and swung around the corner into the station parking lot.

Karen was standing next to her Range Rover, arms folded. Officer Durkee was inside, his flashlight bouncing off the windows and mirrors. Karen’s lips pinched together when she saw Clare. “I’m not going be able to give you a lift back to my place. My vehicle’s going to be out of commission for awhile. And I have to wait for our lawyer to get here.” She glanced at Durkee’s shadowy form. “I’ve asked him to try to get a stay on the warrant.”

“Karen,” Clare began. “I’m so sorry…”

The other woman pulled a knit hat from her coat pocket and twisted her hair underneath it. Automatically, she pulled a few loose curls down here and there, framing her face. “I’m sure you are. And I’m sure that when this is all over, I’ll be able to listen to your apology. But right now, I’d rather you just leave me and my husband alone.”

Clare dropped her arms to her sides. She could feel a hot pricking behind her eyes. “Of course. I’m… I’m so sorry. I didn’t think…” Karen’s scornful look told her it was obvious she hadn’t thought. Clare bobbed her head and left the parking lot as fast as she could, wanting nothing so much as to put the fiasco behind her. What had she been thinking? Her mind drew a blank. She had been dismayed that the Burnses had lied to the police. She had been hopeful that Karen’s confession would finally clear them in the investigation. She had been… pleased with herself, bringing a new piece of information to Russ, like some attention-starved dog showing off a trick. She jammed her hands deep into her pockets in disgust. She hadn’t been thinking, just feeling. And reacting.

She stopped at an intersection and waited for cars to pass. Damn, it was cold. Her ears already ached and it was another mile at least to the Burnses house, where her car was parked. Why hadn’t she worn a hat?
A stitch in time saves nine
, her grandmother said.
Proper prior planning prevents piss-poor performance
. That voice belonged to the warrant officer who had taught her survival course. They were evidently in agreement with Russ.

The light turned green and she crossed. But, dammit, he was so focused on the Burnses he couldn’t consider any other possibility. Why would Karen have told her about Geoff ’s absence the night Darrell was murdered if it wasn’t to exculpate him? It was so obvious! But Russ couldn’t entertain the notion that he might be wrong. Him and his ‘Me cop, you priest’ routine. Patronizing jerk.

The flash of red lights and brief blurp of a siren jerked her attention to the road. A cruiser was pacing her, its passenger-side window unrolled.

“Get in, I’ll drive you.”

“No,” she told the car.

“For God’s sake, Clare, just because you were wrong about the Burnses doesn’t mean you have to sulk like a little kid. It’s a long walk to their house.”

“I can use the exercise.”

“Clare, get in the goddamn car!”

“No.”

“I won’t ask again!”

She remained silent, facing in the direction she was walking, her eyes fixed on the building across the next intersection.

“Fine, dammit. Be that way!” The cruiser picked up speed and drove off.

In the fading rumble of its engine and the accelerating swish swish swish of its tires, she could hear her grandmother Fergusson’s voice.
Self-righteousness won’t mend any shoe leather, missy, and pride won’t put a meal on the table
. Wrapping her arms and her self-righteousness around her, Clare trudged on into the night.

Weekends were peak time for the Millers Kill Infirmary. Children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, busy from Monday through Friday, would come for visits Saturday and Sunday, bringing magazines, photographs, and potted plants that the staff would labor to keep alive. So far, Clare had kept her visits to weekdays, when the corridors were largely quiet and the oldest members of her congregation were happy to see someone from the outside.

But Mr. Howard’s niece had asked her to stop by to encourage the old gentleman, who had just gotten back to the Infirmary after a rough bout of pneumonia, so here she was, hoping that by showing up first thing in the morning she could avoid the sullen teenagers and guilty-looking adults who populated the corridors on Saturdays.

Mr. Howard looked weak and washed-out but seemed to be in high spirits. Clare had visited with him once before, and found what he most wanted was an audience for his stories of the Great Depression and his never-ending string of dreadful puns. He didn’t acknowledge she was a priest: whether that was from faulty memory or a politely unvoiced disagreement with the ordination of women, she didn’t know. They did pray together at the end of her half-hour visit, though. She wondered, leaving him with a promise to say hello to his niece, if the prayers of a man of ninety were somehow more easily heard by God. After that many years, God must seem like just one more old friend living on the other side of the divide.

At the unmanned nurses’ station, Clare tucked her brown police parka under her arm and flipped through the roster of residents, finding names she knew, reading the brief notes to see if anyone was doing poorly or heading for the hospital. The sound of muffled crying caught her attention. She dropped the notebook and stepped around the counter into the corridor. An old woman dressed in a heavy floor-length robe leaned against the wall, her fist jammed into her mouth, her eyes wide and frightened.

“Hello,” Clare said quietly. “Can I help you?”

“I—I don’t know,” the woman said. She looked about her. “I don’t know where…”

Clare held her hand out. “Are you lost? Let me help you find out where your room is.” She tucked the woman’s arm under her own and craned her neck, looking for a nurse or aide.

“Do you know my husband? I’m looking for my husband.” She held tightly to Clare’s arm.

“I don’t work here, I’m just visiting. Let’s find someone who can help us.”

“I’m all runny,” the woman said, touching her eyes. “I need a… a…”

Clare tugged a tissue out of its box at the nurses’ station. Behind a partial wall, she spotted a door marked
DIRECTOR OF NURSING
. “Let’s try over here. Can you walk this way with me? That’s great.” She knocked at the door.

Nothing. Clare was about to try the nurses’ station on the next floor when the door opened. “Yes?” a deep voice rumbled. The doorway was filled with an enormous bear of a man, tall, broad, well-padded, luxuriously bearded. His gaze immediately fell onto the woman clinging to Clare. “Oh, Mrs. Ausberger. Did you get lost again, dear?” He draped a massive arm around the frail lady’s shoulders and guided her back to the nurses’ station. He picked up a handset and punched in a number. “Staci? Can you come to three, please? Mrs. Ausberger is here.” There was a pause. “Yes, probably.”

Mrs. Ausberger patted the man’s tweed jacket, visibly calmed by his presence. “Oh, you smell just like my husband. Just like my husband.”

The man grinned sheepishly at Clare. “You two caught me smoking a pipe in my office. I know I’m not supposed to, but I hate going outside to puff away on these cold days. Takes all the pleasure out of it, reminds me that it’s really just a filthy addiction.” He reached out with his right hand. “I’m Paul Foubert. Director of Nursing.”

“Clare Fergusson. I’m the new priest at St. Alban’s.”

“Yep, the collar kind of gives you away. Thanks for rescuing Mrs. Ausberger. She’s been known to wander pretty far afield. Hey, Staci, great.”

A cute young woman barely out of her teens clattered down the corridor. “Sorry, Paul. I was fixing Mrs. Meerkill’s hair in the bathroom and didn’t realize she had slipped out.” She took Mrs. Augsberger’s hand. “C’mon, Mrs. A. How ’bout we get you washed up and I’ll make your hair pretty.”