All Mortal Flesh (34 page)

“Oh.” Liz’s face cleared. “I guess I thought of her that way because we know Quinn. He’s the one who does Mom’s plowing for us.”

Clare normally walked the Garrettsons to the church door to bid them goodbye. This morning, she shook their hands, abandoned them where they sat, and was in Lois’s office before they had gotten their coats on.

“Lois, what was the name of the family that wanted me to pray for their lamb?”

Lois was never flustered by Clare’s more unusual outbursts. “The Campbells. Abigail Campbell is the mom.”

“Can you get me their number? Is she likely to be at home?”

Lois was already flipping through her personal copy of the parish directory, hand-annotated with all sorts of facts not readily available to the general public. “She works at Sheehan Realty in Glens Falls.”

Clare grabbed the Glens Falls phone book off the shelf.

Elizabeth de Groot was by now standing in the doorway of her minuscule office. “What’s going on? Did I hear you say someone wanted prayers for a lamb?”

“A memorial service, really,” Lois said.

The new deacon’s winged eyebrows knitted together in a delicate frown. “Is this metaphorical?”

“I assure you, it’s quite flesh-and-blood.” Clare trapped the number beneath a finger and gestured to Lois for the phone.

“I have to point out it’s probably chops and stew meat by now,” the secretary said. “Maybe a couple of little legs for roasting.”

A bland voice answered the phone. “Sheehan Realty.”

“Could I speak to Abigail Campbell, please?”

“May I say who’s calling?”

“Her priest.”

There was a pause. Then: “Oh! Of course. Please hold.”

Clare looked up to see de Groot nervously glancing back and forth between her and Lois. Then the Muzak cut off and she was live.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Abigail? Clare Fergusson here.”

“Oh, Reverend Fergusson.” The woman on the other end of the line sounded embarrassed. “I’m sorry I left you that message last week. It’s just that the kids were so upset, and I was, too, of course, and we were trying to come up with something to make us all feel better, you know, and not so
violated
—”

“I have a question that’s going to sound a little odd,” Clare said.

“—but we had a sweet do-it-yourself service and we donated his body, as it were, to the food kitchen, so he didn’t die in vain—”

“Abigail?”

“—and frankly right now I think that having you do anything, you know, official will just open up the wounds again.”

This time Clare waited a moment to make sure she had run down. When she was sure there was nothing else, she said, “No service, then?”

“No service. Maybe we could do something else to remember him.”

“Abigail, do you have someone plow your driveway?”

This time, there was a definite pause. “Ye-e-es,” Abigail said. “I’m divorced. It’s one of those jobs I’m willing to pay someone to do.”

“Who does your plowing?”

A longer pause. “A young man named Quinn Tracey. I sold his family their house a few years back. Why?”

As soon as she got off the phone with Abigail Campbell—Clare agreed to insert the lamb’s name in the weekly prayers for the dead—she whipped through the pages of the phone book, looking for the number of the Glens Falls newspaper.

“Who are you calling now?” Elizabeth asked.

“A reporter from the
Post-Star
. The one who’s writing about the Linda Van Alstyne–Audrey Keane screwup.”

The deacon looked at Lois, who shrugged. Clare found the number, stabbed it in, and, getting an automated directory, punched in the first three letters of her party’s last name.

“Hi! Ben Beagle here!” The reporter sounded much too bright and cheery, as if he’d already been up five hours, run four miles, and filed the first story of the day.

“Hi. This is Clare Fergusson.”

“Ah! What can I do for you, Reverend?” He didn’t sound anything less than happy to hear from her. She really ought to read today’s paper. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she imagined. Then he went on, “I have to warn you, the
Post-Star
only prints retractions when a subject has clear and convincing proof that we used false information in a story.”

Maybe it was worse than she imagined.

“Actually, I’m not calling about the, um, Van Alstyne business. I had a question about the story you mentioned to me yesterday morning.” Was it really only yesterday morning? It felt like a year had passed.

“Shoot.”

“The guy whose hog had been killed—what actually happened to the hog?”

“It’d been sliced up. Throat slit, cut open from stem to stern, hacked up a bit around the hams.”

“Did you see it? Did he report it to the police?”

“Yeah, he filed a report. I didn’t see the pig in situ, but he had taken pictures to show to the cops. A full-grown pig’s worth three, four hundred bucks, according to him.”

“Can you tell me who it was? The farmer?”

“He isn’t a real farmer. He’s a pediatrician down in Clifton Park. He has a big old place, raises chickens and a couple pigs every year.” In the background, she could hear paper rustling. “His name’s Irving Underkirk. Why so interested?”

“A parishioner of mine had a lamb killed last week. It sounded similar to what you described.”

“You think someone’s out there running a do-it-yourself butcher shop?”

Clare made a noncommittal noise. “Do you have a number where I could reach him?”

“I’ve got his home and work.” Beagle rattled off the numbers. Clare jotted them down in the margin of the phone book.

“ThanksMr.BeagleIappreciatethis,” Clare said. “ ’Bye.”

“Wait—” she heard, but the receiver was already in the cradle.

She immediately dialed the pediatrician’s office number.

“Clare,” Elizabeth said. “Help me out here. I’m not quite seeing how tracking down dead animals fits in with your pastoral duties.”

“She’s tackling animal welfare and snow removal at the same time,” Lois said. “I think that’s very efficient, don’t you?”

Elizabeth sidled away from the secretary.

“Clifton Park Pediatric Services,” the phone said in Clare’s ear.

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Underkirk, please.”

“Do you have an emergency?”

“No, it’s, um—” Clare had forgotten that it was impossible to actually pick up a phone and speak with a physician. “It’s not an emergency.”

“Well, then, I’m afraid—”

“Could you put me through to his nurse?”

“We have a triage nurse you can speak to.”

“It’s not a medical issue at all.” Clare breathed in. It didn’t do any good to tear the head off the hapless receptionist. “I’m looking into a series of animal killings. I understand the doctor lost a pig—”

“Oh, Lord, yes. We all heard about the pig.”

“I need to ask him a question related to the”—animal cruelty? Vandalism?—“incident,” Clare decided. “If you can put me through to his nurse, she could relay the question for me.”

“Well, that’s a pig of a different color, isn’t it. He’ll definitely want to hear about this. Hang on, you may be on hold for a while.”

Muzak again. Clare clapped her hand over the receiver and said, “Lois, would you get on the other line and call Harlene Lendrum at the police station? Ask her if there’ve been any other reports of animals being killed. Try to get the names and numbers if there have been any.”

“This just doesn’t strike me as being the church’s business,” Elizabeth said.

“Business? Mankind is our business,” Lois quoted, picking up her notepad and swiveling off her chair. “Mind if I use your phone, Deacon?”

Elizabeth made a wilting gesture toward her tiny office. Lois disappeared inside.

“I’m beginning to understand how you get sucked into these things,” the new deacon said. “You let yourself get swept away in the rush of events, and you don’t stop to think about whether or not this is something you ought to be sticking your nose into.”

Clare was about to admit that was a pretty fair assessment of her character, but the sound of a voice on the line brought her back to the pediatrician’s office.

“Hi, this is Dr. Underkirk’s nurse, Violet.” She had the kind of voice that made Clare think of overstuffed sofas and starchy, nourishing meals. “Marcy tells me you know something about Tom, Tom the piper’s son?” Nurse Violet let out a peal of laughter. Clare began to get the idea that his office staff had been less than sympathetic to Dr. Underkirk’s plight.

“I’m looking for information, actually. My name’s Clare Fergusson, and I’m trying to see if there are any common elements between Dr. Underkirk’s case and two others.”

“What do you want to know?” Nurse Violet said. “He’ll be that happy hearing someone’s looking into it. He’s had his tail in a twist since it happened. Get it? Tail in a twist?” The nurse giggled.

“Uh-huh.” Clare closed her eyes for a moment. “Does the doctor have a snowplowing service, and if so, who does the work for him?”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Clare said.

“Hang on.” She heard a clunking sound on the other end. Elizabeth looked at her, frustration and unhappiness thinning her lips, throwing previously invisible lines into relief.
Great
, thought Clare.
I’m causing the bishop’s deacon to age before my eyes. Maybe that says something about the way I’m running my life
.

“You still there?” Nurse Violet came on. “Dr. Underkirk says he gets plowed out by one of his patients. A young man named Tracey.”

Clare forgot all about Elizabeth’s premature decay.

“Thanks,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” Nurse Violet said. “And by all means, let us know if you catch the little porker!” She was still laughing when Clare hung up.

Lois emerged from the deacon’s cubbyhole. “Bingo,” she said, turning her notepad around so Clare could see her writing on the other side. “Three reports of animals being killed in the past month, according to the dispatcher. One of them was the doctor, one is an old fellow named Herb Perkins who lost a dog, and the last is a couple of professors at Skidmore who lost one of their goats.” She pointed to the paper. “Names and addresses right there.”

Clare took the notepad. “You’re wonderful, Lois.”

“I know. And I’m not the only one. Guess who had just gotten off the phone with the dispatcher right before I called?”

Clare blanked. “Who?”

“Ben Beagle of the
Post-Star
.”

“Damn. He’s a tad too quick off the mark for comfort.” She tried the professors’ number first and got their answering machine. She left as abbreviated a message as she could: She was looking into a series of animal cruelty cases, and was their driveway plowed by Quinn Tracey? Herb Perkins, who was home, didn’t seem happy to hear from a stranger nosing about his business.

“Yeah, I get my dooryard plowed out,” he said in a voice like a crumbling cigar. “Don’t see what that’s got to do with somebody killin’ one of my dogs.”

“I’m looking for a common thread between several incidents, Mr. Perkins.”

“We like as not all shop at the IGA. You think mebbe one o’ them cashiers got it in for us?”

“Probably not, no. Could you tell me who does your plowing?”

She wasn’t the least surprised by his answer.

Clare laid the notebook face up on Lois’s desk. “Look at this. Perkins, Under-kirk, the Campbells, and Liz Garrettson’s mother. All of them hired Quinn Tracey to plow for them, and all of them have an animal or animals killed within the last month. Outdoor animals, living in barns. Not house pets.”

Lois studied the names and addresses she had written down. “All the roads I recognize here are pretty much out in the country. Nobody living in town.”

“Like Peekskill Road,” Clare said. “Where the Van Alstynes live.”

“What are you saying?” Elizabeth pressed her hand against her chest as if to quell the shock. Lois rolled her eyes.

“I’m saying Quinn Tracey has a direct connection to the locations of four animal deaths and a murder. Russ—Chief Van Alstyne likes to say there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

“You want me to get the police station back on the phone?” Lois asked.

“Please.” Clare opened the Millers Kill phone book to see if Dr. Underkirk’s address was listed.

“I should certainly hope so!” Elizabeth said. “Most of the people involved aren’t even congregants!”

“On second thought, Lois, I’ll call from my office.” Clare straightened, tucking the phone book and notepad beneath her arm. “Think of it as a sort of outreach, Elizabeth. Maybe the pediatrician and Mr. Perkins will be so grateful we’ve solved the mystery of who killed their animals, they’ll come to church to thank us. Then we’ll snag ’em and make them sit through a nice Evensong. A good choir converts more would-be Episcopalians than any amount of preaching does.”

In her office, Clare poured more coffee and then picked up the phone before her nerve failed her.

“Millers Kill Police Department.”

“Harlene? Hi, it’s Clare Fergusson.”

“Clare!” Harlene’s voice dropped. “How are you, honey? I just want you to know, no matter what they say, I’ll never believe you did it.”

“Uh, thanks.” She swallowed some coffee and pressed on. “Look, Harlene, I’ve come across some information that I think might be very important to the investigation. Who should I talk to?”

“Hmmm.” Clare could picture Harlene’s face furrowing with thought beneath her tightly permed curls. “Well, most all of ’em who investigate are out beating the bushes for this Shambaugh fellow. So you got your choice. Investigator Jensen or Mark Durkee, who hasn’t been given nothing to do yet.”

“I’m guessing Investigator Jensen is still hot for me as suspect number two?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How about Officer Durkee?”

“I don’t think he’s so convinced you did it anymore, but nobody’s talking to him on account of his bringing Jensen here, and since the reason he got the staties involved was because he thought you were a suspect, he might not be feeling too kindly toward you.”

“I didn’t ask him to run to the state police in order to investigate me.”