She paled, throwing her high cheekbones and sharp nose into stark relief. “I stayed at a cabin up by Abenaki Lake. It’s owned by one of my parishioners, Leland Fitzgerald. It’s remote-three roads off of Route 77. I certainly didn’t see anything unusual while I was there.”

“No visitors?”

She looked at him, her eyes clear and steady. “Deacon Willard Aberforth came up to see me the day before I left. To let me know the diocese was assigning St. Alban’s a new deacon to help out.”

He wasn’t going to get anything else out of her. Her back was up. “Thanks, Reverend,” he said. “Every piece of information, even if it’s in the negative, helps us get a little bit closer.”

She twitched in acknowledgment. “Harlene,” she said, “do you think I could leave a note for… for the chief?”

Harlene nodded. “Of course. You come right into his office.” Mark could hear the dispatcher as she led Reverend Fergusson across the way. “And you know who could probably use a visit? The chief’s mother…” Her voice faded to a muffled sound behind the office door.

In a moment she was back, hands on her formidable hips, springy gray curls quivering with indignation. “What was the meaning of that?” she hissed at him.

“What?”

“Sssh. Keep your voice down. You know what. Cross-examining Reverend Clare like that.”

He shrugged. “Just keeping track of the players, that’s all.”

“In a pig’s eye. I’ve been working dispatch since your mama had you in Pampers. Don’t think I don’t know when someone’s being considered a suspect.”

“Harlene.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Think about it. She’s the reason the chief and his wife separated.”

“What are you, their marriage counselor? You don’t know that.”

“They’ve got something going on. Half the town knows it. She’s an army vet, she’s got training in survival skills, hell, she probably knows how to kill somebody with a rock and a pointed stick.”

Harlene frowned furiously at him but let him continue.

“Now she’s out of town, all alone, no alibi for a week. During which time Mrs. Van Alstyne, her rival”-he held up one hand to forestall Harlene’s explosion-“is knifed to death. And right afterward, she conveniently returns home to find out what’s happened.”

Harlene’s eyes bulged. “She’s a priest, for God’s sake!”

“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “I forgot. Priests never do anything wrong. Hello? Catholic choirboys?”

“You can’t seriously think she did it.”

He shrugged. “She’s always seemed nice enough, sure. But hell, Harlene, even nice people can do some pretty bad things when push comes to shove. I’ll tell you this”-he nodded toward where the squad room door stood ajar-“I don’t think she’s telling us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

You shouldn’t be doing this.” Lyle glanced away from the road for a second. “You’re not in any condition to ask coherent questions.”

Sunk in the passenger seat, Russ didn’t respond.

“I mean it, man. You need to be at home, working this through. Getting support from your family.”

The Dixie Chicks were in the CD player, clean bright music from a whole different planet than the one he was living on.

“Let me run you on over to your mom’s house. Isn’t your sister-in-law getting here soon?”

“Goddammit, I don’t need to run back to my mother! I need to find out who the hell Linda was making a date with. I’ll tell you how I’m going to ‘work this through.’ By finding her killer and putting him in the fucking ground.”

Lyle looked at him sidelong again. “Make sure you mention that to Meg Tracey. I’m sure that will put her at ease and help us get a whole load of information out of her.”

“I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to scare her.”

“Chief, you’re scaring me.”

Russ closed his eyes and leaned against the headrest. He wasn’t going to get into it with his second-in-command. This wasn’t some Star Trek episode where Lyle got to throw him in the brig because he was acting crazy. The Chicks were singing If I fall, you’re going down with me, a song that irresistibly reminded him of Clare, and his throat closed up again with self-loathing; his wife was dead and he still thought of, grieved for, wanted another woman. His weakness hardened his resolve. If he couldn’t give Linda the undivided mourning she deserved, he could do the next best thing. He could lay her murderer out at her feet.

“This it?”

Russ opened his eyes. Lyle had pulled the pickup over to the side of the road. He gestured toward the house across the way.

“Yeah,” Russ said. “This is it.”

The Traceys’ house was maybe a hundred years old, originally built for a grown son or daughter from the larger farmhouse next door. The farmlands had been sold off in sections years ago, and the road was strung with suburban-style tract homes, double-wides, and do-it-yourself log cabins-whatever the individual lot buyers had been able to afford.

Russ and Lyle mounted the porch steps and rang the bell. A terrific barking ensued. After a moment, the curtain at the window twitched. The door cracked open. Meg Tracey, eyes red-rimmed, thin body wrapped in an oversized sweater-jacket, blocked the narrow entrance. She stared at Russ. “What are you doing here?”

Lyle reached into his coat pocket and produced his badge. “We’re here on official business, Mrs. Tracey. Can we come in?” He had to pitch his voice over the dogs barking.

She noticed the badge, but her gaze went immediately back to Russ. She looked, he realized, afraid. Of him. Suddenly, Lyle’s offer to take him home took on a whole different cast. MacAuley hadn’t just been trying to protect Russ’s feelings. He had realized, where Russ had not, that there were going to be people they spoke to in the course of the investigation who believed Russ was responsible.

For Linda’s murder.

“I already gave a statement last night. To Officer McCrea.”

“I know.” Lyle’s voice was warm and grateful. “Thank you. But you didn’t just find Mrs. Van Alstyne’s body. You were her best friend. We’re hoping that, as her friend, you’ll be able to fill in some of the missing pieces. To give us a clearer picture of her last few days.”

Her eyes flickered warily, but she stood back from the door. Immediately, two knee-high white Eskies exploded onto the porch, their thick fur giving them the appearance of hairy, short-legged marshmallows. They danced around Russ and Lyle, barking furiously. “Don’t mind them,” Meg said over the racket. “Snowball! Fluff! Down!” The dogs ignored her, bumping and winding through Russ’s and Lyle’s legs as they crossed the threshold into a well-used family room.

“Treat! Treat!” Meg said, patting her thigh, and the dogs bounded after her, around the corner into the kitchen. There was the rattle of something hard hitting the dog bowl, and then Meg returned, closing the door behind her. “Okay, that’ll keep them happy.” She gestured toward the sectional sofa. “Please.”

Russ sat down. It was more comfortable than it looked. The sofa and the matching armchairs were upholstered in denim, which went well with the rest of the room’s décor-early American teenager.

Meg must have been reading his mind, because she said, “This is the kids’ room.” She rapped on the blocky coffee table. “Everything’s meant to be indestructible.”

“Except that.” Lyle nodded toward the wall, where a plasma-screen TV hung in all its pricy glory.

“I want my house to be the place where all the kids hang out,” she said. “If they’re in here, scarfing down pizza and watching satellite TV, I know they’re safe.” She paused, and Russ could see the exact moment she remembered why they were there. How safe could she claim her kids were when Linda had been murdered in her own kitchen? “Do you… do you have any idea who might have…”