01: In the Bleak Midwinter by Julia Spencer-Fleming

Author:Julia Spencer-Fleming [Spencer-Fleming, Julia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Police Procedural, Detective and Mystery Stories, Women Clergy, Episcopalians, Mystery & Detective, Van Alstyne; Russ (Fictitious Character), Adirondack Mountains (N.Y.), Women Priests, New York (State), Mystery Fiction, Women Sleuths, General, Fergusson; Clare (Fictitious Character), Fiction, Police Chiefs
ISBN: 9780312986766
Google: 65f1fTuxfzQC
Amazon: 0312986769
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2002-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

Clare paused in front of the parish bulletin board, a packing box of Christmas banners propped against one hip. Still woolly-headed from the late night and high emotion, she had tackled the messy, mindless task of digging the church’s Christmas decorations out of the undercroft this morning. The Sunday-best of her parishioners’ photographs contrasted with her rumpled, sweaty, dusty state and reminded her that she would have to wash and change in order to be presentable. The picture of Karen and Geoffrey Burns caught her eye. They looked so happy and relaxed in the photo, with the kind of sleek contentment that more than enough money brings.

For all of Geoff’s raging and Karen’s desperation, Clare still couldn’t believe that their desire for a child could lead them into murder. She had seen them with that baby in the hospital, seen the instant love and tenderness that was ordinarily lost in the brassy blare of their personalities. Within their small universe of two, they were gentle, caring people. It struck her that perhaps they needed a child most of all so they could show that vulnerable side to another human being.

“Reverend Clare?” Lois’s voice broke her concentration. She hoisted the box higher and walked into the secretary’s office.

“A few messages for you,” Lois said. “Karen Burns called, and Mr. Felton’s daughter, to reschedule your visit. He’s going in for some tests and he won’t be back to the Infirmary until tomorrow.”

“Anything serious?”

“She didn’t sound too concerned. The last one was Kristen McWhorter. Is she related to the—”

“Her sister. What did she say?”

“She’s going to see her mother, and wondered if you’d come along.” Lois pushed the pink message memos across her desk. “Her number’s there.”

“Thanks.” Clare dropped the box against the wall and took the paper slips. “Say, Lois, you don’t know anyone who could get the mold spots out of these felt banners, do you?”

The church secretary sniffed a few times. “That’s what that smell is.” She tilted her head so that her perfectly cut bob swung sideways. “You’ve come to the right person. Not that I ever have to deal with mold, you understand, but I do know the best dry cleaner in the three-county area.”

“Somehow, I knew you would.”

In her office, Clare flung herself into her chair with a creak and a snap. She picked up two of the pink papers and held them up, one in each hand, as if weighing Karen Burns against Kristen McWhorter. She looked out the window at the diamond-pieced sky, longing for a four-hour nap. Steam off the smell of moldy old boxes, burrow under her grandmother’s quilt, turn her Thelonious Monk CD on low and forget about the world for awhile.

Too bad the inward voice that gently and relentlessly urged her on could find her, even under a Baltimore quilt. And make itself heard even over jazz from the ’68 Monmartre session. Heck, God was probably playing at that session. She picked up the phone and dialed.

“Kristen? It’s Clare Fergusson. You left a message for me?”

“Yeah.

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