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    All Mortal Flesh: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery
    All Mortal Flesh: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery
    All Mortal Flesh: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery
    Ebook459 pages6 hours

    All Mortal Flesh: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery

    By Julia Spencer-Fleming

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    One horrible murder. Two people destined for love or tragedy. Emotions explode in the novel Julia Spencer-Fleming's readers have been clamoring for.

    Police Chief Russ Van Alstyne's first encounter with Clare Fergusson was in the hospital emergency room on a freezing December night. A newborn infant had been abandoned on the town's Episcopal church steps. If Russ had known that the church had a new priest, he certainly would never have guessed that it would be a woman. Not a woman like Clare. That night in the hospital was the beginning of an attraction so fierce, so forbidden, that the only thing that could keep them safe from compromising their every belief was distance---but in a small town like Millers Kill, distance is hard to find.

    Russ Van Alstyne figures his wife kicking him out of their house is nobody's business but his own. Until a neighbor pays a friendly visit to Linda Van Alstyne and finds the woman's body, gruesomely butchered, on the kitchen floor. To the state police, it's an open-and-shut case of a disaffected husband, silencing first his wife, then the murder investigation he controls. To the townspeople, it's proof that the whispered gossip about the police chief and the priest was true. To the powers-that-be in the church hierarchy, it's a chance to control their wayward cleric once and for all.

    Obsession. Lies. Nothing is as it seems in Millers Kill, where betrayal twists old friendships and evil waits inside quaint white clapboard farmhouses.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMacmillan Publishers
    Release dateOct 3, 2006
    ISBN9781429925853
    All Mortal Flesh: A Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mystery
    Author

    Julia Spencer-Fleming

    JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING is the New York Times bestselling author of One Was a Soldier, and an Agatha, Anthony, Dilys, Barry, Macavity, and Gumshoe Award winner. She studied acting and history at Ithaca College and received her J.D. at the University of Maine School of Law. Her books have been shortlisted for the Edgar, Nero Wolfe, and Romantic Times RC awards. Julia lives in a 190-year-old farmhouse in southern Maine.

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    Reviews for All Mortal Flesh

    4.5/5

    38 ratings30 reviews

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    • 5/5
      The fifth book in the Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne series is also the best. When Russ’s wife is found murdered, the people of the town point suspiciously at Russ and Clare’s close friendship. They are both soon considered primary suspects in the slaying. A series of stunning surprises turn the book (and the series) on its head. I so love this author, and this series.
    • 4/5
      An excellent installment in the Clare Ferguson series! The plot has two main storylines. Think gasp inducing character being murdered and other important characters as suspects. I was fully engaged and had a literary hangover after staying up until 2am one night. Who really died and whodunit? Read it to find out!
    • 4/5
      All Mortal Flesh is the fifth novel in Julia Spencer-Fleming’s mystery series featuring Clare Fergusson, an Episcopalian priest and former Army helicopter pilot in the Adirondack town of Miller’s Kill, New York. This is the best of the series so far, as Fergusson and her love interest – the married Chief of Police, Russ van Alstyne — find themselves solving a murder mystery one step ahead of those who think they are the most likely suspects. Both the mystery and the personal side of the story are spritely and satisfying, right up to the exciting finale.Spencer-Fleming is doing a terrific job with this series. So far, she has come up with plausible enough circumstances in each book to get Fergusson involved in solving the mystery – a difficult task with any “amateur sleuth,” but particularly tricky when the sleuth is a priest. Also, she is building up a solid cast of supporting characters that bring depth to the series. Finally, she is remarkably adept at stretching out the relationship between Fergusson and van Alstyne, maintaining the sexual crackle between them, always moving the relationship forward, but never – so far – bringing them together.There are two more books in the series. Hopefully Spencer-Fleming has more in the works.Also posted on Rose City Reader.
    • 5/5
      This story begins with Clare on retreat at a mountain cabin in January trying to come to terms with her relationship with Russ Van Alstyne. Russ confessed to his wife that he had fallen in love with Clare in November. December found them in counseling and January found him kicked out of his home. Meanwhile back in Millers Kill, a police call to Russ's house find the murdered and mutilated body of his wife in their kitchen. The deputy chief wants to keep the investigation in house but another deputy decides it is necessary to tip off the State police. He had no idea that the investigator would come in with an agenda to prove that Russ was the murderer. Russ has been staying at his mother's house but he doesn't have an alibi for the time of his wife's murder.Russ is heartbroken and trying to investigate his wife's death. Meanwhile, Clare is dealing with a new deacon assigned by the Bishop who goal is to keep her on the straight and narrow. Things get even more tense and more confused when it is determined that the woman dead in Russ's kitchen is not his wife. Now the investigator has switched her focus to Clare as the murderer. And Russ is trying to clear her and locate his missing wife.This story was exciting and filled with tension. The writing was strong. I felt so bad for Clare and Russ who were in the middle of a real no-win situation. They were victims of their own morals and ethics.
    • 5/5
      Married Chief of Police, Russ Van Alstyne and Episcopal priest, Clare Fergusson, have become the subject of local gossip in their small town of Miller's Kill, New York. Even though their physical relationship is innocent, they've become even more emotionally attached to one another. Russ has been kicked out of the house by his wife, Linda, and is staying with his mother.

      Clare is returning from a week long retreat recommended by the church where she has been advised to give up her friendship with Russ or face possible disciplinary charges. They've both agreed not to see each other again but on Clare's way home she hears Russ' wife has been horribly murdered, he's the logical suspect, and she's running a close second.

      I admire the way the author presents the pain of Clare and Russ; two people who seem born to be soulmates but are separated by Russ's marriage and Clare's role as a member of the clergy. This is a true mystery, not a romance novel. While the characters relationship is key to the plot, the mystery stands above all else and is supported by a strong foundation of secondary plots and characters.

      Their are plenty of twists and turns in this fifth book of the Russ Van Alstyne/Clare Fergusson series. I highly recommend reading the books in order for maximum enjoyment.
    • 5/5
      As impressed as I am with the ability of writers of series mysteries to repeatedly come up with clever and unique plots for their characters, I am particularly impressed with the likes of Faye Kellerman and Julia Spencer-Fleming, authors who time and again must invent ways to involve a second main character, someone not a professional crime solver, in the mystery. And I am not talking about just a Dr. Watson-like sidekickKellerman's books feature Los Angeles Police Lt. Peter Decker, yet deeply involved in solving each mystery is his wife, Rina Lazarus. How likely is this to happen even once in real life? Yet each time Kellerman makes it seem at least plausible.Spencer-Fleming may have an even more challenging task, for she writes about Police Chief Russ Van Alstyne and Clare Ferguson, the local Episcopal priest. The two are more than friends, not yet not quite lovers. Yet somehow whenever the Millers Kill, N.Y., police chief investigates a murder case, she is right there in the middle of it.Her 2006 book “All Mortal Flesh” (the title is taken from a line in a hymn) has Van Alystyne's estranged wife as the murder victim. She had kicked her husband out of the house because of his relationship with Clare, and now her mutilated body is found in their kitchen.As if this isn't bad enough, both of our heroes has a young woman making a pest of herself. In Clare's case, because of the scandal caused by her relationship with the chief, she has been assigned a deacon, supposedly to assist her, but really to keep an eye on her.Meanwhile, because the chief's wife is the murder victim, he becomes the prime suspect, and an ambitious young investigator from the state comes to town to take over the case, relieving Russ of his gun and badge. Clare herself becomes a secondary suspect.Despite these restraints, the pair, mostly acting independently, manage to solve the crime. This makes exciting reading, and the pages fly by so quickly one has little time to wonder how likely all this might be in the real world. I call that impressive plotting.
    • 5/5
      This whole series is amazing!
    • 4/5
      This fifth book in Spencer-Fleming's excellent series satisfies on so many levels. It raises some very thoughtful questions about relationships and morality in today's world while telling a story that's full of emotion and misdirection. The gossipmongers of small town Millers Kill are perfectly portrayed, and their interference raises the tension of this fast-paced tale.As always, the two main characters continue to evolve. In All Mortal Flesh, Russ and Clare aren't quite as strong and capable as they've been in previous books. Clare seems almost frozen in despair, especially when the church hierarchy sends a deacon to oversee the behavior of their problem priest. Russ is almost brought to his knees by the death of his wife, numb with grief and regret, and reacting like a little boy when his mother arrives at the crime scene-- "short and squat and beautiful." Even Clare needs some of Margy Van Alstyne's quiet, no-nonsense strength, and when she soaks in the atmosphere of the older woman's kitchen, she realizes that it feels like her own grandmother's: "Like you had rounded all the bases and come home safe." Being able to see these two strong people when they're not at their best brings added depth to the story and to the series as a whole. At times the plot seems a bit over-the-top and almost soap opera-ish, but I've grown so attached to these characters that I had no trouble suspending my disbelief. Spencer-Fleming employs some of the best misdirection to be found, and although one of the red herrings didn't throw me off the scent, I was annoyed that I did indeed inhale one of the oldest fish in the trade. Shame on me. Ah well, I'm going to chalk my mistake up to the fact that I was immersed in the story, and practically blind and deaf to the world around me. All Mortal Flesh ends in a heart-breaking cliffhanger that makes me want to pick up the next book and dive right in. In this series, the characters' lives mirror the real world. Everything is not wrapped up and tied with shiny bows. This fictional world is every bit as messy as our own lives, and Julia Spencer-Fleming has made me care deeply about what happens to Russ and Clare.
    • 5/5
      Why oh why did I start in the middle of a series. Now on to book 1.
    • 5/5
      Episcopal priest Clare and Police Chief Russ investigate a horrific murder in the midst of an Adirondack winter and the storm of their own forbidden (and unconsummated) love for each other. This book deals with moral questions in a serious way as well as providing entertainment.
    • 4/5
      Oh, authors are cruel to their characters. I couldn't believe how she ended this one. But still, SO GOOD. I kept trying to read it any time I had a few seconds to wait somewhere.
    • 5/5
      Listened to the CD recording narrated by Suzanne Toren. Man, these books are intense. Another solid outing for Clare and Russ with heartbreaking consequences. I actually found myself talking out loud to the characters occasionally while I was driving, warning them about bad ideas and such. While I can't wait to find out what happens to all the Miller's Kill regulars, I need to listen to something a little lighter before I take the plunge into the next Spencer-Fleming.
    • 5/5
      For me, this series just keeps getting better and better! The complicated relationship that Russ and Clare are trying to keep or destroy is moved forward by the circumstances of the crimes that they both end up investigating. The conflict that Russ feels between Clare and his wife, the conflict the Clare feels between Russ and her vocation keep the tension building and building. I don't know where Spencer-Fleming is going with this series, but I'm sure enjoying the ride!
    • 4/5
      In the fifth book in the series, Clare and Russ are definitely at a crossroads--both having to come to terms with the emotional side of their friendly relationship and the cooling off period they both feel they need. Millers Kill is once again the site of a murder, animal mutilations and computer crime--proving that this small town is not immune to big city crime. A deacon, Elizabeth de Groot, has been assigned to St. Alban's to help Clare manage more of her time with her flock, rather than every crime that hits town. This was a good addition to the series and will keep me reading.
    • 4/5
      Linda van Alstyne is dead. She is founded dead in her kitchen, stabbed and mutilated. Who is the prime suspect - none other than Chief of Police Russ van Alstyne and so the state police are "called in" to head the investigation. Russ continues to try to find the murderer and runs into trouble.Throughout this book I was torn as to who I really wanted to be the murderer. We know in our hearts that it can't be Clare or Russ, but then who? Russ seemed so terribly broken-hearted even though he professes that he loves Clare. So where is it going, how can there be a satisfactory solution?As the story begins to head to resolution - the clues start mounting up and it is easy to foresee the outcome. But the ending - oh, no I didn't see that one coming!
    • 4/5
      Really, how many murders can there be in a tiny out-of-the-way town in the Adirondacks? The setting is makes it a bit more difficult to buy into each book's criminal happenings than if, say, it were set in NYC. That's my biggest issue with the series so far. On the other hand, I love that we can be given two adult characters who are able to recognize their mutual attraction and each make the decision that it does not have to go farther. After so many books, movies and TV shows that assume sexual attraction leads immediately to the bedroom, it's nice to see something different. The story was fairly predictable, but presented in such an enjoyable and fast-moving way that I didn't care. I just let myself go in it and had a great time with it.
    • 3/5
      I really had a difficult time coming to terms with this book. The characters and their flaws really irked me. A married police chief and a priest involved in an emotional affair that everyone assumes is not so bad because it has not turned physical. The fact that the main character is a rector at a church really stunk up everything. If you are counseling couples that are soon to be wed and married couples in crisis, how can you chase a married man? The ethics or the lack thereof, makes me want to throw up. No police chief in his right mind would have tolerated anyone tagging along and not only contributing to the investigating, but also directing it many cases. He comes off as weak, dumb and whipped by a woman he is not even ‘involved’ with. She comes off as a bimbo in a clerical collar pretending to be virtuous because she cannot control her emotions enough to stay away from a ‘happily’ married man. Clare for me is and has remained the bad person in this story, no matter how self deprecated she is painted to be. The author attempts to use the ridiculous ploy of showing Clare’s and Russ’s humanity to excuse their behavior to get the reader to understand and feel sorry for their pain and suffering (completely ignoring the pain and suffering they cause); will not make up for the lack of professionalism (Clare and Russ), lack of integrity (Clare and Russ) or even the unremitting drive to bulldoze the feeling of someone they ‘care’ (Russ) about in characters. I ended up cheering for the wife and hating the people who hurt her by their selfish actions. Russ is a dedicated husband of 25 years of marriage to what is described a smart, beautiful woman but he is falls in love with Clare who is the exact opposite of his wife. I would have believed him to be a hero if he had maintained his marriage. This series makes Christians and law enforcement look dumb and weak. Is that the author’s intent?
    • 5/5
      This is the fifth book in the Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne mystery series, and I can't write this review without first mentioning something that may or may not be a spoiler. So if that matters to you, you'd better stop reading right now.Russ is chief of police in Miller's Kill, New York. Clare is an Episcopal priest in a local church. At the beginning of this book, Russ' wife Linda is found dead in their home. At first Russ attempts to take control of the investigation, which is admittedly ridiculous. One of his officers escalates the matter to the state police and another investigator is assigned. Russ and Linda recently separated after Russ revealed his romantic relationship with Clare, so naturally both Russ and Clare are suspects. But as the investigation moves ahead a tangled web emerges, involving identity theft, animal cruelty, mistaken identity, and troubled teenagers.Pretty soon the reader doesn't know which end is up, and that's exactly where Julia Spencer-Fleming wants us to be. And then she begins to connect the dots, slowly revealing elements of the mystery. This series is known for placing the protagonists in impossibly hazardous situations, and I was a little disappointed when I accurately predicted the scene. But there was so much more I could never have predicted, including the murderer's identity, and the shocking ending. This was my favorite book in the series so far!
    • 5/5
      Russ Van Astyne figures his wife kicking him out of their house is nobody's business but his own. Until a neighbor pays a friendly visit to Linda Van Alstyne and finds the woman's body, gruesomely butchered, on the kitchen floor. To the state police, it's an open-and-shut case of a disaffected husband, silencing first his wife, the the murder investigation he controls.
    • 4/5
      Miller's Kill, a small Adirondacks town, remains a hotbed of crime, which is usually resolved by Episcopal minister Claire Fergusson and police chief Russ Van Alstyne, Ferguesson and Van Alstyne, of course, have been fighting off their mutual attraction since the first book in the series, and in this one the mystery and the romance meld. when Russ is accused of his wife's murder. The evocation of small town scandal is powerful, and the story very compelling.
    • 4/5
      Characters are nicely developed, though the plot was telegraphed and really over-the-top in the last couple chapters.
    • 4/5
      This is the 5th entry in the Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne mystery series and the most intense one yet. Although I have never been able to watch TV soap operas I have now discovered that I can get hooked on reading one! The plots are fairly transparent—although this one did have one surprise for me. However, once that was revealed I had no trouble figuring out the rest of the “mystery.” In spite of that, I’m glad that I have two more waiting for me before I “catch” up to the author. I’m concerned how she is going to resolve the difficult situation in which she has enmeshed our favorite characters.
    • 4/5
      I don't often read mysteries and I usually don't start in the middle of a series but this worked out well. Our librarian chose this for our meeting and for some reason it grabbed me and sucked me in immediately. After our discussion, we were invited to read the following book but it wasn't giving me the same "thrill" as All Mortal Flesh did. Will I read the new book coming out in the fall????? Hmm......maybe
    • 5/5
      This was one of the better mysteries I read in a long time. It was my first from this author, and I wasn’t disappointed. There was a twist at the end that left me in tears. I hated the ending at first, but when I had time to think of it, I loved it! First, it surprised me, which rarely happens any more, and second, it drew emotion, different from the rest of the book, and unexpected. And isn’t that what a GOOD book is supposed to do? I had equal like and dislike for the main characters throughout (I really wasn’t sure WHO I was cheering for at the end), and that made them somewhat real. Even the reverend wasn’t perfect, and I found the character very interesting with a mix of ex-military helicopter pilot and minister. And I like that I wasn’t 2 cute 20 something’s running around with no true motivation solving a mystery. There were real motives behind their action, well thought out adult decisions, and you could follow along without doubt. Read this one! I’m giving it to everyone for Christmas…
    • 5/5
      5th in the Reverend Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne series.In a way, Spencer-Fleming’s series is much more like an ongoing, high-class soap opera than a mystery genre series, since in the latest books, the plots depend heavily on what has happened previously. Russ has told his wife that he is in love with Clare; it’s been an emotionally tough few months for both Russ and Clare, particularly as Clare has made the decision not to see Russ again voluntarily. Miller’s Kill being the small town that it is, there are plenty of people who are willing to believe that “something” is going on between the priest and the police chief, but both choose to ignore gossip and get on with their lives as best as they can. Clare’s bishop, in the grand tradition of clerical hierarchy everywhere, has decided that Clare needs a “helping hand” (read spy) and she is suddenly presented with a full-time, prepaid deacon, courtesy of the diocese--a very attractive older woman who is clearly there to give the bishop a first-hand account of Clare’s actions.Naturally, events do not allow this state of affairs to exist unchanged. The defining event occurs within a few pages. The 4th book, Out of the Deep I Cry, was so spectacular that I wondered if Spencer-Fleming would be able to maintain such excellence over the series. With this latest, I thought perhaps not; until about half-way through, the story was very good but not gripping. It wasn’t a total let-down; I reflected that the only author I knew who not only was able to keep to a high standard of tension but actually improved over the series was Magdalen Nabb; her last book was her best, astonishingly good. So, it wasn’t a surprise or a particular worry that All Mortal Flesh didn’t seem to be as exciting.Until it was. It takes about 2/3 of the book, but the plot twists and the book becomes a page-turner. The denouement is extremely well done, one you feel was inevitable after it occurs.Spencer-Fleming continues to handle her characters very well, especially the awkward situation between Clare and Russ. The supporting cast—the members of the Miller’s Kill Police Department—are all very well done, supplying what humor there is in this book. The congregation and vestry of St. Albans continues to play a role, beefing up the plot and the setting. The situation between Clare and her unsolicited deacon reminded me of the Hunthausen/Murphy situation decades ago in the Roman Catholic archdiocese of Seattle where Ray Hunthausen’s social activism, like Clare’s, got him a Vatican watchdog in the form of Murphy, who eventually took over the archdiocese. I’m sure that such interventions happen far, far more frequently and less publicly than the Seattle one, probably more like the situation described in this book. Makes for an interesting subplot. Winter weather adds its drama as well.Spencer-Fleming’s prose style continues to be more than adequate to the plot, far better than many best-selling authors in the genre. It seems to suit extremely well the Upper New York state setting. There’s much less of the wry, self-deprecating humor that characterized the earlier books, which is too bad, but the plot in reality doesn’t allow it. She remains true to her characters and the way she is developing their lives within the series.Though somewhat slow to get started, despite the immediate occurrence of the central event, the book hold the reader’s interest well enough to get to where it’s impossible to put it down, and it does get there. An excellent addition to the series—highly recommended.
    • 5/5
      Reverend Clare Fergusson, Episcopal priest in tiny Miller's Kill, NY, has been getting into all sorts of trouble in the two years (and four books) since she arrived. In addition to playing a non-pastoral role in solving several mysteries, she has developed a deepening and troublesome (though not sexual) intimacy with Russ Van Alstyne, the local chief of police. When his wife is viciously murdered, their relationship colors every aspect of the investigation. Both Clare and Russ are prime suspects, on the theory that they might have wanted to get his wife out of the way in order to pursue their relationship.Clare's life is further complicated by the assignment of a new deacon to assist her, and obviously to report on her activities to the bishop. She must balance her desire to help Russ against her decision to stop seeing him at all. When he is suspended from the investigation, he needs her help to pursue it on his own. Clare eventually comes up with some key facts that point to a solution, and as usual goes dashing off to follow up.Spencer-Fleming exerts a very fine control over her material. There is a danger here of having the romantic side of things control the story. Spencer-Fleming allows it to drive the plot but not take it over; the characters still act on their own and pursue the murderer. Russ in particular ends up having to make difficult choices about his life and his job. This is the finest volume yet in a series of fine mysteries.
    • 4/5
      The police chief is separated from his wife who is found defaced in her kitchen. His men ask for help from the state police because they believe his lover, and Episcopalian Reverend with army training could have been the murderer. I really enjoyed this book and found the relationship of the two main characters more interesting than the crime story.
    • 5/5
      So amazing and tragic - by far, the best in this series, which I already really liked. I can't wait to see what she does next with these characters.
    • 5/5
      oh my, i must say i enjoyed every book of julia spencer-fleming's. but this one was the best. it brings together everything you learn about the characters in all the books and brings it to such turmoil in this book. i even wrote to ms spencer-fleming and told her how much i enjoyed them. she wrote back telling me the next one would be out late this fall.can't wait!!
    • 4/5
      Here's a mystery series for those who want something a little on the lighter side without being too frothy... but also not too dour or dense.Our protaganist is Clare Fergusson, a relatively young Episcopal priest in a small New England town. In a former life Clare was in the military, where she was a helicopter pilot and learned all manner of survival, defensive and offensive techniques. She settles in to her new home and the old church she oversees, and discovers one of the only kindred souls in town is the police chief, Russ Van Alstyne. Van Alstyne is also former military, and the two find they are good match when it comes to working together to solve crimes. In fact, the two are SUCH a good match there's no denying a mutual attraction. But Van Alstyne is married. The first several volumns in this series bring us along as this relationship deepens. The situation takes on crisis propotions in the latest edition, "All Motral Flesh." These books are relatively quick reads where the mysteries are used as a foil for the building tension between Clare and Russ. Both are very likable characters, and Clare in particular is what I would call a "woman of substance." The writing is quite good and violence and gore are kept to a minimum. If you're shopping around for a new series, you might want to give this one a try!Here's a list of the books in this series, in order:"In the Bleak Midwinter" (2002)"A Fountain Filled with Blood" (2003)"Out of the Deep I Cry" (2004)"To Darkness and to Death" (2005)"All Mortal Flesh" (2006)

    Book preview

    All Mortal Flesh - Julia Spencer-Fleming

    ONE

    Monday, January 14

    Midway this way of life we’re bound upon, I woke to find myself in a dark wood, where the right road was wholly lost and gone.

    Clare smelled the smoke first. She came to a standstill, breathing in the chill and windless air. Pine tar and wet wool and the frozen freshwater smell of snow. And smoke. She had crammed as many logs as she could into the cabin’s woodstove before she left that morning, but they would have burnt down into glowing cinders by now, their smoke long vanished into the air.

    So. Someone had stoked the woodstove. She wasn’t alone. She clutched her poles and almost—almost—turned back into the woods. She had food and matches and a blanket and a knife in her day pack. She could escape.

    A cold touch on her bare hand startled her. A single fat snowflake melted onto her skin. As she watched, another fell. Then another. She sighed. There was no escape. She trudged forward, breaking through the last of the hemlock and white pine, clambering over a hard-packed wall of snow thrown up in the wake of the private road’s plowing.

    Gathering her poles in one hand, she sprung her bindings, stepped free of her snowshoes, and scooped them up with her free hand. Her legs felt shaky and insubstantial as she tottered toward the cabin.

    Thank God, thank God, she didn’t recognize the SUV parked next to her car. It was a clean, late-model Scout, anonymous in this area where everyone spent the winter in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. She supposed it could belong to a relative of the cabin’s owner. Mr. Fitzgerald had offered the place when she told the congregation she was looking for a post-Christmas retreat, but he was into his early eighties and perhaps had forgotten promising the space to a grandkid.

    She mounted the steps to the uncovered front deck and hung her snowshoes and poles on two of a row of pegs jutting from the log wall. Please, Lord, let it not be someone from my congregation. Anyone making the hour-and-a-half drive from Millers Kill would have to be hurting bad. I don’t have it in me to minister right now. She opened the door.

    The man rooting beneath the kitchen counter stood up and up and up before turning toward her. Ms. Fergusson. Finally. I confess, I was beginning to feel a bit concerned.

    Clare blinked. Father Aberforth? She looked around, as if there might be someone else who could explain why Albany’s diocesan deacon-at-large was standing in the kitchen on a Monday afternoon holding a battered teakettle. The open floor plan didn’t leave much scope for hiding, however, unless the presiding bishop was lurking in the bathroom. What are you doing here?

    Father Aberforth plunked the kettle into the sink and twisted the tap on. Making tea. He gestured behind her. You might want to shut the door before you let all the heat out.

    She kicked the door closed without turning around. I’ve been on retreat. Her voice sounded shaky, as if she were excusing her absence from her parish. Willard Aberforth was known as the bishop of Albany’s hit man, a scarecrow in black who dealt discreetly and firmly with problem priests. And she, they both knew, was a problem priest. Or at least a priest with a problem.

    I hadn’t forgotten that, he said dryly, shutting off the water and swinging the kettle onto the stove. I spoke to Father Lawrence before driving up here. To see how everything went. He said you had called him and told him you were coming back early?

    Tomorrow morning.

    You had Wednesday to Wednesday, you know.

    I know. I just . . . I did what I came up here to do. Now I think getting back to work will be good for me.

    Aberforth raised his eyebrows, unfurling an expanse of sagging skin. Do you have concerns about Father Lawrence’s abilities? I’m the one who approved him as your supply priest for the week, you know.

    Ah. No. No worries. He seemed quite—geriatric—nice. When I briefed him. Experienced. Very experienced.

    He was a good friend of your predecessor.

    The late, lamented Father Hames, who had become St. Alban’s priest around the time Betty Grable was a pin-up girl.

    I believed he and your parishioners would feel quite comfortable together.

    She had thought, after the events of the past night, that her reserves of grief and dread were plumbed out, but she felt a fresh upwelling of fear at his words. Are you . . . is the bishop suspending me?

    Father Aberforth looked at her. He had once been a younger and heavier man, and his face fell in deceptively drooping folds, but his black eyes showed that inside he was still all hard lines and angles. Does that thought distress you?

    Yes! She was surprised how much. Over the past four months, she had been praying for some sign that she was in the right place, that God intended her to be a parish priest rather than a social worker or a chaplain or a helicopter pilot—her old, easy calling. God had remained resolutely silent on the matter. Maybe now He was talking to her, in the sick clench of her gut.

    Father Aberforth nodded. I thought it might. The answer is no, the bishop is not suspending you from your duties.

    The last of her energy left her body with her breath. Clare let her day pack thud to the floor and collapsed into a nearby sofa without bothering to remove her parka. She heard the click-click-clicking of the burner as Aberforth turned on the gas and a whoosh as his match lit the ring into flame. I know you’re a coffee fiend, but there must be tea here somewhere, he said.

    In the pantry. In one of the Tupperware boxes. She listened to Aberforth rummage around, the clink and clunk of mugs and spoons and the sugar tin, and she could hear her grandmother Fergusson chiding her to get up and act the hostess, but for once she couldn’t bring herself to care about Doing the Right Thing. She sat there dully, rubbing her hands over the smooth twill of the sofa cushions.

    The kettle whistled shrilly and cut off. Do you take your tea the same way you do your coffee? Ridiculously sweet?

    Gosh, she said. You remember. She waited without expectation as he crossed the floor and set a mug on the table in front of her. He folded himself into one of the leather Eames-style chairs opposite the sofa. It wasn’t meant for Aberforth’s storklike six and a half feet, and he struggled to get comfortable for a moment before snatching a kilim pillow off the companion chair and stuffing it beneath his knees.

    Idiotic furniture, he said. Where did you find this place?

    Belongs to one of my parishioners, she said. He doesn’t use it very much since his wife died a few years ago.

    Father Aberforth grunted. Drink your tea. You look half dead.

    She reached for the hot mug with as little effort as possible and managed a few sips. What are you doing here, Father? I didn’t think we were due for another chat until after I had sorted myself out up here.

    My visit has two purposes.

    Clare smiled to herself. Who but Willard Aberforth talked like that?

    First, to tell you that the bishop has assigned you a new deacon.

    She cradled the warm mug between her hands. I don’t need an assistant.

    This will be a full-time position, salary paid for by the diocese.

    Clare looked closely at the old man. St. Alban’s isn’t large enough or prosperous enough to warrant a full-time deacon.

    Nevertheless.

    The penny dropped. I’m getting a babysitter.

    Consider her more of a guide. To keep you on the straight and narrow.

    Emphasis on the straight. It had been her celebration of a gay union the year before that originally brought her to the bishop’s—and Aberforth’s—attention. She had broken her vows of obedience and flouted the bishop’s policy toward homosexuals, both faults she had admitted but failed to repent of. She had been waiting for the bishop’s reaction since last November, but the flaming car crash that was her personal life had kept her distracted. Now she tweaked to something else Aberforth had said. Her?

    The Reverend Elizabeth de Groot. She was raised up from St. James in Schuylerville. Since you’ll be back tomorrow, I’ll let her know she can report for duty as of Tuesday.

    Is she transitional? That is, on the road to priesthood, which would give Clare some chance that the woman would be shuffled off to another parish within a year.

    Oh no. She’s a career deacon. She was ordained over a decade ago after helping build St. Stephen’s into the church it is today as a volunteer and a vestry member and a warden.

    Clare translated that to mean old enough to be your mother and has already seen it all twice. What’s she like?

    An elegant lady. Dignified. She has a lovely sense of tradition.

    Clare translated that to mean so high church she makes the archbishop of Canterbury look like a guitar-strumming folksinger. She sighed. It wasn’t as if there were anything she could do. As a response to her transgressions, it was fairly mild. So that’s the one thing, she said. What’s the other?

    Father Aberforth fussed a bit with his tea. I came to check on you. To see if you needed to talk. Having found myself in the position of your confessor.

    Clare smiled faintly. You can’t take confession. Despite his honorary title of Father, the deacon was not eligible to act as God’s intermediary when people spilled their most painful secrets. Still, he probably believed more wholeheartedly in the rite than did Clare, who forgave sins on a weekly basis.

    It wouldn’t do you any good if you weren’t prepared to repent and mend your ways, he said. She could feel her cheeks coloring. Yes, I thought this retreat had more to do with your situation than with some post-Christmas and Epiphany exhaustion. Have you figured out what you’re going to do with this married man of yours? He craned his neck, trying to peer over the edge of the upstairs loft. He’s not staying here with you, is he?

    She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. No. No, he isn’t.

    He pierced her with his black eyes. I’m not here to judge you, girl. You think you’re the first sheep to wander out of the fold because greener pastures beckon? He reached for his tea. At least you show some originality. Most priests who dabble in adultery go for the music director or one of the warden’s wives. The town’s chief of police—that’s novel. Not too bright, but novel.

    Don’t hold back. Please, tell me what you think.

    Straight talking is exactly what you need at this point, Ms. Fergusson.

    He was right, and she knew it. The deacon made for a strange confidante—he didn’t approve of women priests, he was formal to the point of eccentricity, and, most damning of all, he reported directly to her boss. But there was something about his dry, unsentimental demeanor that had made it easy, over the past two months, to tell him everything. About how lonely she had been, a stranger in a strange place, looking out onto a sea of faces waiting expectantly for her to either fail miserably or to walk on water. About making friends with the only person in town who looked at her and saw plain old Clare Fergusson instead of a bundle of assumptions in a dog collar. About walking farther and farther away from the narrow, well-lit path with Russ Van Alstyne, talking and laughing and ignoring the signs screaming DANGER: OFF TRAIL and ENTERING UNPATROLLED LAND and GO NO FARTHER THIS MEANS YOU and then being surprised—surprised!—when she looked around and found she was utterly lost.

    Something of the wilderness must have shown in her face, because Aberforth leaned forward awkwardly against his Eames-spindled knees and said, I haven’t said anything to the bishop yet, but you’re going to need to come to a decision soon, Ms. Fergusson. Not for him or for me or for the people in your parish. For the sake of your own soul.

    She nodded mechanically. I know, Father. And I’ve . . . Her voice faded off. How could she describe the past few weeks? Days? These last terrible hours? I’ve taken steps.

    She picked up her mug of tea, watching with a clinical interest as her hand shook. Unless something extraordinary happens, I do not expect to see Russ Van Alstyne again.

    TWO

    Meg Tracey wasn’t the sort of woman who had to keep tabs on her friends. She enjoyed her own privacy too much to intrude on others, and she frequently quoted the phrase An it harm no one, do what you will, which she had picked up in a book on Wicca she bought at the Crandall Library’s annual sale for a buck.

    She liked to think of herself as a neo-pagan and threw an annual winter solstice party with lots of torches and greenery and drinking of grog, but she wasn’t interested enough to dig much deeper into the philosophical underpinnings. It was enough for her that it annoyed the hell out of her intensely Catholic family (she had been born Mary Margaret Cathwright) and that it distinguished her from the vast majority of her neighbors in Millers Kill, a town she frequently described as three stop signs east of Nowhere.

    It was a mutual loathing of the poky little burg their husbands had brought them to that first threw Meg and Linda Van Alstyne together. On the surface, they had nothing in common. Meg was the full-time mother of three, while Linda, childless, was busy starting up her own business. Meg’s husband was a former peace activist who taught at Skidmore College; Linda’s husband retired to run the Millers Kill Police Department after a twenty-five-year career in the army. Linda was a meticulous homemaker whose two-hundred-year-old farmhouse was a showplace for her decorating skills; Meg’s house, like her, was careless and eclectic, filled with child-battered furniture and dog hair. Linda guarded her space, inviting few people into her sanctuary; Meg’s family room was always filled with sprawls of teenage boys, her kitchen overrun with giggles of girls.

    At an estate auction in Glens Falls, Meg (scouting out the Adirondack cedar chairs) overheard Linda (examining the hand-forged iron trivets) cracking a joke about Millers Kill (the punch line had something to do with dairy farmers and cow insemination). She introduced herself. Their discussion led to lunch, which led to an invitation to Meg’s for a blender of strawberry daiquiris, which led to an impromptu dinner invitation since Linda’s husband was working late. As Linda’s husband frequently worked late, dinners together became a more-or-less regular thing until Linda’s custom curtain business began to take off in a serious way. Still, Linda touched base with Meg by phone if not in person almost every day. Especially since her husband dropped the bomb on her. Which was why, a full forty-eight hours after their last conversation, Meg was worried.

    I haven’t heard from her since Saturday afternoon, she said into the cordless phone tucked beneath her chin.

    Maybe she’s at the Algonquin Hotel. Didn’t you say she’s spending a lot of time there on the renovation?

    Not all weekend.

    Honey, the woman does have a life. Give her a break. In the background, she could hear the sound of rattling file-cabinet drawers and footsteps. Instructors in anthropology didn’t get large, soundproofed offices. Maybe she went out Saturday night, picked up some young stud, and has been holding him hostage ever since.

    I wish. That’s what I’d be doing. And don’t you forget it.

    He snorted. I believe you.

    So if you think you can get away with any private counseling with one of those nubile young hotties you have floating around campus . . .

    Please. I value my equipment too much to risk losing it. She could hear Deidre slamming through the front door. Mo-om! I’m home!

    Meg lowered her voice. "Get home early tonight and I’ll show you how much I value your equipment."

    Jack laughed. I’m going to start paying all your friends’ husbands to misbehave. I’m going to find Russ Van Alstyne and plant a big wet sloppy one on him.

    What? What?

    Ever since he told Linda he was having an affair, you’ve been a total tiger kitten. Rrowr.

    Meg giggled. Just reminding you how good you’ve got it.

    Mo-om! I need a ride to piano!

    I gotta go, Meg said. Deidre’s bellowing. Hold that thought.

    Faster, pussycat! Faster, faster!

    She could hear Jack laughing as she hung up. He was right, she thought, gathering up her coat and car keys. She had been keeping very close tabs on him since the morning Linda, ping-ponging between fear and rage, had told Meg about her husband’s infidelity. It wasn’t that Meg thought she had anything to worry about. On the other hand, Linda hadn’t thought she had anything to worry about, either.

    Despite the steadily falling snow, Meg drove to the piano teacher’s with only half a mind on the road. Deidre, plugged into her MP3 player in the backseat, didn’t say a word until a quick See ya later, Mom, punctuated by a slamming door.

    Now she had an hour to kill. Meg tried Linda one more time on her cell phone. The number rang and rang, until a recorded male voice clicked on.

    You’ve reached the home of Russ and Linda Van Alstyne. Leave a message. Meg hung up. Without consciously deciding, she switched on her headlights and turned left out of the piano teacher’s driveway, headed toward the Van Alstynes’.

    Linda lived on an old country road halfway between Millers Kill and Cossayuharie, dotted with houses that had been farms in the nineteenth century, widely spaced, with quarter-mile-long driveways. Good business for Meg’s son Quinn, who had kitted out his 200,000-mile pickup with a plow to earn extra money, but way too remote for Meg’s taste.

    The Van Alstynes’ house was set back, high on a treeless rise that gave them sweeping views in the summer but looked desolate and wind-scoured in the winter. The long, long drive hadn’t been plowed anytime recently. Meg drove up as far as her Saab would take her, riding in the ruts left by the last vehicle to brave the hill, but around the halfway point she slowed, skidded, and slipped back several feet. Admitting defeat, she yanked on the parking brake and got out to walk the rest of the way.

    Despite the gathering twilight, there weren’t any lights on that Meg could see. On the other hand, she would have to circle around to the west side of the house in order to spot the windows in Linda’s upstairs workshop. She banged on the mudroom door. No answer. Maybe Linda was out? Meg crossed the end of the drive and peered through the barn windows. No, there was her station wagon.

    It was turning back toward the house that she noticed the odd blot in the snow near the doorway. She recrossed the drive to look at it. The falling snow was beginning to cover it, but she could see it was pink and slushy, as if someone had plunged a spoonful of spaghetti sauce into the snow and stirred vigorously. At the sight of it, something cooled in the back of her brain, and she suddenly noticed the rhythm of her heartbeat making its way to the very edge of her skin.

    She couldn’t think what it might be. But she really, really didn’t want to consider it.

    She almost went back to her car. She would have to leave soon, to pick Deidre up on time. She examined the door, the granite step beneath it, the spotless bronze handle. Nothing out of place. Nothing odd. She took hold of the handle and turned it.

    The mudroom was dark and cramped. Linda? she called. There was a thump and a rumble, like a subterranean beast waking up hungry, and Meg jumped in her skin until she realized it was just the furnace kicking in. Oh, for God’s sake, she said, impatient with her imagination. She wiped her boots off on the bristly mat and opened the door to the kitchen.

    She saw what was on the floor there.

    For a moment, none of it made sense; then the reality of what she was seeing slammed into her and her lungs and throat filled with a scream that would have torn her voice clean out of her—

    —and she heard a creak. Beyond the kitchen.

    Ohmygod he’s still here he’s still here whoever did this is still here.

    Meg tumbled backward out of the mudroom door and ran, slipping, rolling, slopping through the snow, catching herself on her car’s hood, flinging herself behind the wheel. She twisted the key so hard in the ignition the starter motor ground its teeth, then threw the stick into reverse and gunned down the drive, one arm twisted across the seat back, the other barely keeping the wagon from sliding into the snowbanks lining the narrow way. She backed straight into the road without looking in either direction and slammed on the brakes, blocking both lanes of traffic.

    She stared up the driveway. There was nothing stirring. No hand or face appeared at the open mudroom door. Then, with a suddenness that made her flinch, an orange-striped cat darted through the open door and bounded over the snow toward the barn.

    Meg’s head fell forward onto her steering wheel. The cat. She had forgotten the cat. Linda had visited the shelter the same day she gave her husband his walking papers. She had told Meg his allergies kept her from owning a cat for years, but they weren’t going to hold her back one minute longer.

    Her whole arm trembling, Meg reached for the phone on the passenger’s seat. It was almost too heavy for her to lift. She dialed 911.

    Nine-one-one Emergency Services. Please state your name and the nature of your emergency.

    I’m . . . Meg took a breath. I’m Meg Tracey. There’s been a—someone’s been killed.

    Where are you, ma’am? Are you safe?

    Was she safe? Oh, God. Meg smashed the door lock button.

    Ma’am? Are you okay?

    Yes. Yeah. I think so. I think I’m safe. I’m not in the house. I mean, I was, but now I’m in my car. Across the road. Please, you’ve got to send someone.

    The dispatcher’s voice was both calm and authoritarian. I’m already alerting the police and ambulance service, ma’am. Tell me where you are.

    398 Peekskill Road.

    There was a crackle over the phone. Then the dispatcher again, this time alarmed. Did you say 398 Peekskill Road?

    Yes! For God’s sake, hurry.

    Stay right where you are, ma’am. The first car will be there within five minutes. Don’t go back into the house. The dispatcher sounded shaky now, like someone reciting a well-worn prayer during a moment of crisis.

    I won’t. I—

    The dispatcher hung up. Meg stared at the phone. Weren’t they supposed to keep her on the line until someone got there? Inside her warming car, she shivered. She wrapped her arms around herself and settled in to wait for someone to deliver her from this nightmare.

    THREE

    There are moments in life that are between: between the blow and the pain, between the phone ringing and the answer, between the misstep and the fall. One that comes to everyone is a moment, or three, or five, between sleeping and waking, when the past has not yet been re-created out of memory and the present has made no impression. It is a moment of great mercy; disorienting, like all brushes with grace, but a gift nonetheless.

    Russ Van Alstyne was floating in this moment.

    He rolled over and emerged from a dreamless sleep like a diver floating to the surface of the ocean. The room he was in was dark, tiny, not his. He had never made up stories about the cracks in the plaster ceiling, and he had never tried to replace the lopsided overhead glass light. The room was neither dark nor light but thick with shadows, and he lay in the comfortable bed with quilts rucked up beneath his chin and wondered if it was day or night. Was it summer or winter or spring or fall? His hand moved between thick, thousand-wash sheets. Was he alone or was . . . ?

    That thought tumbled him back into his life.

    He pressed his face toward the feather pillow, desperately reaching for the last handhold on the vanishing train of sleep, but that car was gone, and he was well and truly awake. In an upstairs bedroom at his mother’s house. He eyed the small windows in the kneehole wall, where gray light leaked in around the brittle green shades. Probably late afternoon. He should call the station and get a status report from Lyle MacAuley. Things had been dead quiet since New Year’s, thank God. The only open case they had was the death of Herb Perkins’s border collie. Somebody had lured the dog out of the barnyard and butchered it. Gruesome but not urgent. Lyle was checking out the extremely long list of people who might have disliked the foul-tempered Perkins enough to give him the Millers Kill equivalent of the horse’s head between the sheets.

    He dropped his hand over his eyes. He could identify with the poor dumb dog. Get tempted out of your home by a forbidden treat and next thing you know, your guts are steaming in the snow next to you.

    No. He wasn’t going to start feeling sorry for himself again. He had too many things to do. Empty the woodstove ashes and restock the bin. Get a head start on shoveling out the driveway. Offer to help his mom with dinner.

    He wondered how he was going to manage any of these when he couldn’t summon the will to get out of bed. He checked his watch, holding his arm out straight and squinting to bring the face into view. It was three o’clock on Monday. And he was still alive. Not doing much, but still here. That was something, wasn’t it?

    He heard the stairs creaking, quiet footfalls outside his door. He shut his eyes and let his hand fall relaxed over the quilt, putting off for a little more time the minute he would have to emerge in the land of the living again. The steps retreated downstairs, and he sighed. Christ, here he was, fifty years old and hiding from his mother. Could he possibly be any more pitiful?

    With that, he tossed off the covers and swung out of bed. He was completely clothed, except for his socks, and as he pulled them on he tried out his game face. Capable. Stable. A guy who can Deal with Things. He stood and checked himself out in the dresser mirror. Okay. No stains. No bad bed head—although if he didn’t get to the barber soon, he might as well start wearing a ponytail like one of those idiot downstaters in the throes of a midlife crisis.

    He did not meet his own eyes.

    He opened the door onto an upper landing masquerading as a miniature hallway. In the bedroom opposite, twin beds frothed with pink gingham and lace and heaps of stuffed animals, ready for his nieces to sleep over. He shuffled down the first flight and paused on the turning. He could hear voices from the kitchen. His mom and . . . he eased down a few more steps . . . his sister.

    . . . yet? Janet was saying.

    No. He got in a little before lunchtime, looking like death warmed over. He went straight to bed. I didn’t ask.

    What’s going on with Linda?

    I don’t know. I’m trying not to interfere.

    Has he talked to a lawyer yet?

    As near as I can tell, he doesn’t want to consider it.

    Oh, for chrissakes.

    Janet . . . His mother’s warning tone. God help the child who swore or blasphemed in front of her. Even if that child was a forty-six-year-old mother of three.

    Sorry. A chair scraped the floor. But really, Mom. She could be clearing out their accounts while he mopes over here.

    If she does, he’ll have to deal with it. I’m not pushing him into a divorce, and I’m not telling him to go back to his wife. I’m keeping my mouth shut.

    He was about to stomp down the rest of the stairs and announce himself when Janet said, I can’t believe you! When I was thinking about splitting up with Mike, you were falling all over yourself with advice!

    Russ stopped, one stockinged foot poised over a stair tread. Janet? Almost left her husband? Didn’t anyone tell him anything?

    Sweetie, you know I love Mike like he was a son. Any advice I gave you was meant to help the both of you. It’s not the same with Russ and Linda. It’s no secret I never really took to her.

    No shit, Russ thought.

    If I start bad-mouthing his wife, who is it fixing to get hurt when they get back together?

    You think they’re going to get back together?

    I’d like to think . . . Her voice trailed off. Even with the last turn of the stairs and the living room between them, Russ could hear his mother sigh. Your brother is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a real-life Horton the Elephant. He meant what he said and he said what he meant . . .

    An elephant’s faithful one hundred percent, Janet finished the quote.

    Great. His entire personality could be summed up by Dr. Seuss.

    So you think this is just the middle-aged crazies? Janet sounded relieved. "Well, he won’t be the first guy to get the urge to dip his wick into a much younger woman when the clock starts tolling

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