I Shall Not Want (29 page)

“I don’t know who did it.” Montgomery sighed. “But it happened when Feliz was on the Cossayuharie Road, passing though the Christies’ woods. I figgured—well, they’re hard up enough to do it. Huntin‘ out of season, I mean.”

Hadley caught his sleeve and tugged him away from the farmer. “The twenty-two?” she said quietly.

“That’d be hard to punch through a moving vehicle. But maybe.” Kevin turned back to Montgomery. “May we see the van, please?”

“Right out here next to the feed room.” They followed Montgomery, keeping a few paces behind so they could talk.

“The Christies,” Hadley whispered.

“That’d put a different spin on them going after that Mexican guy working at St. Alban’s.”

They stepped over a chewed-up wooden lintel and out into the late-afternoon sun. “There ‘tis,” Montgomery said. “You can see why I took it for a hunter.”

Kevin could. The ragged-edged hole was the work of a large-caliber weapon. But it wasn’t the size of the shot that interested him. It was the van itself. The big, white, paneled Chevy Astro was identical to the one Sister Lucia Pirone had been driving.

He hadn’t called before hauling over to his sister’s farm, so it was his own damn fault his mother was there to see the blowup. He heeled his squad car into her driveway—the old one, not the new one—and was pounding up the steps before the engine stilled. He hammered on the front door. “Janet! Goddammit, open up!”

The door opened. He saw empty air where he expected Janet’s face and looked down. His mother frowned up at him. “What on earth are you fussing about now, Russell? Swearing at the top of your lungs right out in front of God and everybody. What if the girls had been home?”

One-handed, he swung the door all the way open and pushed past her rotund form. “This is official business, Mom.” He strode into the McGeochs’ living room, nearly knocking over his niece Kathleen’s music stand. Empty plastic laundry baskets and piles of folded clothing covered the sofa. Sneakers in assorted sizes and shades of pink were piled like a canvas landslide against the TV console. “Janet!”

Janet appeared from the kitchen, a full laundry basket in her arms. Her lips thinned. “Clare told you.”

“Clare told me,” he said. “And I don’t know who I’m madder at, her for keeping it a secret or you for laying it on her. This is a goddam murder investigation, Janet. Don’t you get it? We got three dead men to account for. That’s a little more important than you saving a few bucks on your taxes.”

“I told you everything you needed to know about the body! It doesn’t matter who found it!”

“That’s not your call to make!”

“Would somebody tell me what in Sam Hill’s goin‘ on?” their mother asked.

“Janet and Mike have a whole crew of illegal workers at the new farm. It was one of them found the body on their property, not Janet. She lied about it, and she got Clare to back up the lie, and she’s kept on lying despite the fact that we’re up to three bodies now and there may very well be some connection between the migrant workers and the murders.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to breathe deep. The drive over hadn’t cooled him off any.

Their mother pinned Janet in place with narrowed eyes. “This true?”

“We hired those workers in good faith. It wasn’t our fault we got screwed over by the employment agency!”

“Is it true?” Margy’s voice was relentless.

Janet glared at the wall. “Yes.”

Their mother closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she had an expression both Russ and Janet knew well. Knew and dreaded. “Janet Agnes,” she said, “I am ashamed of you.”

Russ could see Janet fighting not to drop her head. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mom.” Her voice was unsteady. “But when it comes to the farm’s future, to my family’s future, I have to do what I think best.”

“I’m tryin‘ to think of a way hidin’ the facts in a murder investigation could be
best
,” Margy said.

“We need those workers to survive. I was afraid that if he knew about them, Russ would have to turn them in to Immigration and Customs, and Mike and I’d be left trying to run two hundred head between the two of us. Native-born hands would cost us twice as much,
if
we could find anyone to take on the job.”

Russ shook his head. “You should have just asked me. I checked with the town attorney back in April, when your men first went missing. Unless someone’s been arrested for a crime, I don’t have any obligation to ask about their status, legal, illegal, whatever.” He felt his anger leaching away. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

His sister looked at him, disbelieving. “Because if the answer had been different, you would’ve called ICE. You might’ve been sorry, but that wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“Then you should have told me.” Margy’s voice was sharp. “It’s my farm too, you know. I don’t expect to be treated like some old fool with an open purse and a closed mind.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. Really.” Janet turned to Russ. “And… I apologize to you, too. For the… for not asking. And for coming between you and Clare.”

He did not want to go there. “Forget it. Lemme interview your men. See if anyone saw anything. Then we’ll call it quits.”

The Feast of St. Alban was traditionally celebrated, in Millers Kill, with a bake and white-elephant sale, the sort of fund-raiser designed to maximize the work required of parish volunteers and minimize the return. In the three years Clare had been rector, she’d been inching the senior festival committee members—a blue-rinse bunch who had controlled the event for close to two decades—toward a more active and profitable fund-raiser.

The arrival of Elizabeth de Groot in January, followed by the unfortunate slip-and-fall of the committee chair later that month, opened the door for a change. With half the committee in Florida for the winter months, the new deacon and the equally ruthless-in-a-good-cause Karen Burns engineered a bloodless coup, inserting themselves as “temporary chairs.” They shot down the white elephant, source of so much of Clare’s office furniture, and took the bake sale off the table.

In its place, on Sunday night they were having an all-you-can-eat dinner (one ticket), a silent and live auction (another), and, as an inducement to hang around till the end of the bidding, a public dance in the park across the street from the church with Curtis Maurand and his Little Big Band (free, but contributions accepted).

Thanks to Elizabeth’s ability to wheedle donations—she got such extraordinary results Clare wondered if threats of force were involved—they were having a blowout that, with luck, would fund half their yearly outreach program.

Elizabeth and Karen agreed that well-lubricated bidders were free-spending bidders, so the auctions were accompanied with cheese, hors d’oeuvres, and a never-ending stream of donated bottles—one of which was clutched in the hands of Clare’s date.

“Vicar! Mrs. Burns!” Hugh Parteger waved plastic glasses toward an auction table, where Clare and Karen were counting their chickens before they hatched. “Merlot? Or Cabernet?” Several female committee members behind the silent auction tables stared at Hugh. With his British accent, double-pleated trousers, and two-hundred-dollar haircut, the New York resident was an exotic specimen for Millers Kill.

“Merlot,” Karen said.

“For me, too.” Clare glanced at the bid sheet for a weekend of sailing and catered meals at Robert Corlew’s summer home on Lake George. Her eyes bugged out. “I knew we had some reasonably affluent folks here, but I didn’t expect this.” She kept her voice low.

“They’re not all ours. Elizabeth has a ton of contacts in Saratoga, and she got the word out.” Karen also spoke under her breath. An older gentleman Clare had seen at the dinner approached the table, and Clare and Karen drifted out of his way. “I was afraid with this serial killer scare on, people would be reluctant to come out at night,” Karen went on. “Thank heavens it’s not holding anyone back.”

“Maybe folks feel there’s safety in numbers,” Clare said.

Hugh appeared again, brimming plastic cups in hand. “Maybe they feel there’s safety in being white. I read the murders may be race-related.” He handed one cup to Clare

“Read?” Karen accepted a glass. “Where?”

“Oh, there were several news sources with stories. I get Google alerts for anything containing the phrase ‘Millers Kill,’ did I tell you? That, and ‘hot-n-sexy Episcopal priests.’ ”

Karen coughed out half a mouthful of wine.

“Ignore him,” Clare said. “He’s only a few Internet sites away from complete deviancy.”

“You can leave your collar on,” Hugh sang.

“Remind me to take you to the church’s next General Convention. There are a number of my sister priests I’d love to introduce you to.”

He sighed. “You see what I have to fight against?” he asked Karen. “I travel up here from New York, I wine her and dine her, and she’s still trying to foist other women on me. I may as well wander out into the night and let myself fall victim to the Cossayuharie Killer.”

“You travel to Saratoga from New York,” Clare pointed out. “I’m just conveniently located. And you might have trouble locating the alleged serial killer, since the town’s promised us a police presence at the dance.”

“Oh, goody.” She could have dehumidified the undercroft with that tone.

Karen, no slouch when it came to managing awkward social moments, smiled brightly and handed Hugh her plastic cup.

He stared at it for a half second before his usual good manners reasserted themselves. “May I freshen you up?” he asked.

“And get some for yourself,” she encouraged.

“Alas, I’m not indulging. I have to drive to the Stuyvesant Inn, and”—his mouth twisted—“I have no wish to attract the attention of local law enforcement.”

There was a moment of silence as Clare examined the nearby air molecules and Karen did not look at Clare.

“Of course,” Hugh said, “if I could stay at the vicarage…” It was almost, but not quite, a joke. Karen, thank God, looked more amused than scandalized.

“Hugh.”

He raised his hands. “Sorry, sorry.” He assumed a pained expression. “She is an unassailable tower of virtue,” he told Karen.

“I’ve been assailed once or twice in the past,” Clare said.

“Yet you never sail with me.”

“You’re a venture capitalist. Go venture,” Clare said. “Talk up the auction. Run up the bids. Loosen some purse strings.”

“Sadly, the only strings I’ll be loosening tonight.” He took Karen’s hand and squeezed it before pointing a finger at Clare. “Don’t forget, I have the first dance, Vicar.”

They watched him cross the floor, working the crowd.

“He’s awfully nice,” Karen said.

“Yes, he is,” Clare said. They had met at a party three summers ago and had managed a weekend together every couple of months since then.

“He seems pretty fond of you.”

“Yes, he is.” He’d been pushing to move their relationship up a notch since the past fall. Nothing obnoxious, nothing that backed her into a corner. Reasonable, considering the dinners in Saratoga, the phone calls, the trips she had made to New York.

“It’s so pleasant being around someone happy and uncomplicated, isn’t it?”

Clare’s mouth quirked. “You mean like Geoff?”

Karen sighed. “I know. I could never fall for the easy guys either.” She looked at Clare. “It’s always the difficult ones that get under your skin, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” The two women looked at each other in perfect understanding.

Clare didn’t know if it was Hugh’s influence or not, but they topped out the silent auction almost 20 percent above projections, according to financial officer Terry McKellan’s calculations. The live auction following went faster than Clare had expected, much faster, and an hour after it had started, St. Alban’s was close to four thousand dollars richer and Terry and his volunteers were shooing her out of the sanctuary. “Go,” Terry said. “Dance.”

“I should help with the checks,” Clare said, almost convincingly.

The finance officer grinned, his luxurious mustache spreading like two glossy brown wings. “Think of it as an act of mercy, then. Logging in these checks is going to be the highlight of my week. Dancing? Not so much.”

She decided not to push her luck by arguing further. She slipped into her office, locked the door, and shucked off her clericals in favor of a poppy-red dress whose skinny-strapped top was balanced by yards and yards of skirt that made her look like Ginger Rogers whenever she twirled.

There was already a modest crowd across the street, diners who had skipped the auctions and dancers drawn by the free music. The sky over the mountains glowed with sunset’s red and orange and pink, but the fairy lights twining the gazebo and hanging over the park were lit, twinkling like a thousand lightning bugs against the green leaves and the violet shadows. Clare stopped on the church steps, listening to the laughter and the chatter and the squeals and squonks of Curtis Maurand and his Little Big Band tuning up.

Impossible, for a moment, to believe anything bad could ever happen here.

Then a flash of tan beneath one of the cast-iron street lamps caught her eye. Their police presence. Officer Flynn, pressed and shined and looking ready to help little old ladies across the street. And the chief himself, solid, steady, every line of his body a reassurance that they were safe. Protected. Because bad things could happen here. She smiled a little. But not if Russ Van Alstyne had anything to say about it.

He turned. Saw her watching him. Her thread of wistful amusement tightened into a prickly awareness. She hadn’t seen him since she’d kicked her way out of his office more than three weeks ago, swallowing bile and several bad words. For which, yes, she needed to apologize. She moved down the steps and across the walkway, conscious in every step of her skirt sliding around her legs, the warm, humid air stroking her bare shoulders, the smell of St. Alban’s roses, and the heat from the street’s asphalt beneath her flat-soled shoes.