“I’m just saying.”

Roxanne poked distractedly at her perfectly blown-out coif. “I’d better call her as soon as I get back to the historical society.”

Waiting for his hot meatball sub to go, Dan Hunter, vice president for finance at AllBanc, listened to their conversation. Back at the bank, he stuck his head in Terrance McKellan’s office. “Hey, Terry,” he said. “Isn’t Clare Fergusson the minister at your church?”

“Priest,” Terry mumbled around a tuna pita pocket. His wife had lately put him on a diet, and he wasn’t happy with it.

“Whatever. Is she involved in some way with the chief of police?”

Terry McKellan brushed a stray whole-wheat crumb from his luxurious brown mustache and looked at his colleague suspiciously. “Why?”

“Evidently somebody gunned his wife down in their home, and he’s a suspect.”

Terry dropped the pita on his desk. “You’re kidding me.”

“I swear. They were talking about it at Silvio’s.”

“Good God.” He stared at his desk calendar. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ve got some people I’d better call.” He was dialing Robert Fowler, the senior warden of St. Alban’s, before Dan had vacated his doorway. Fowler, the owner of a small construction and development firm, was out to lunch, according to his secretary. Terry left him a brief message in his voicemail. Geoff Burns, junior warden, was in a meeting with a client at his law offices. Voicemail message.

McKellan flipped through his Rolodex and started in on his fellow vestry members. Sterling Sumner, ostensibly retired, was teaching an architecture class at Skidmore. He was also the last man in America to employ a live, human answering service. Terry left as long a message as he dared with the terse woman who, unfortunately, sounded nothing like Judy Holliday.

Mrs. Henry Marshall was at home, getting ready for her Tuesday afternoon bridge group. “Terry McKellan, I can’t believe you of all people would be spreading gossip,” she scolded, after he had told her the news. “You can’t seriously think that nice Russ Van Alstyne had anything to do with his wife’s death. Poor thing!”

“It’s not that,” he said. “Sooner or later, something like this is going to have the press all over it. And when that happens, they’re going to be digging into Reverend Clare’s relationship with the man.”

“What relationship?” Mrs. Marshall was nothing if not stouthearted in defense of people she liked.

“Lacey…” He had known Mrs. Marshall for over a quarter century and had recently begun calling her by her first name.

“The best way to handle gossip is to ignore it,” Mrs. Marshall said. “If there’s no wind, the fire will die away.”

She soothed him a little more, assured him that no, there was no reason they should have a special meeting to discuss the problem, and got him off the line just as her doorbell rang with the first three members of the bridge group. She probably wouldn’t have thought much more of it if, during a lull after bidding out her hand, she hadn’t overheard Yvonne Story telling the rest of the north table that Reverend Clare Fergusson had demanded a resolution to her affair with Chief Russ Van Alstyne, which is why he had shot his wife after she refused to divorce him.

“Yvonne Story! Where on earth did you hear such nonsense?”

The retired librarian had a homemade-dumpling face, imperfectly round and pastry-pale, and a lifelong, passionate love affair with the sound of her own voice. “Oh! Lacey! It slipped my mind, but she’s your pastor, isn’t she? I’m so sorry. Isn’t it awful the things that men and women of God get up to these days? That’s why I stopped going to church years ago. I follow this wonderful minister on the television, Dr. Peter Panagore. He’s a lovely, lovely man. And it’s so convenient, not having to get my stockings on of a Sunday morning.”

“Yvonne,” Mrs. Marshall cut in, “there’s not an ounce of truth to that story you were telling about Reverend Fergusson and Chief Van Alstyne.”

“Oh, but there is! I volunteer at the Infirmary, you know, reading to the old folks and keeping them company, and the director, Paul Foubert-you know Paul, don’t you? He’s a lovely, lovely man, and so well spoken, although, you know, most of that sort of men are-”

“Yvonne. Are you telling me the director of the Infirmary told you Chief Van Alstyne shot his wife? I don’t believe it.”

“Well, I did happen to overhear him saying that Mrs. Van Alstyne-the younger Mrs. Van Alstyne, not the older-had been killed, and that his, you know, special friend, the medical examiner, was on the case because it was foul play.” She let the last words echo dramatically, a refinement Mrs. Marshall had thought her incapable of. Most of Yvonne Story’s conversational efforts went into quantity, not quality. The women at her table, who had been looking either annoyed or shell-shocked at the flow of words, were perking up at the interesting revelations.

“I understand the chief’s wife was found dead. That doesn’t mean that he had anything to do with it.”

“Geraldine Bain at the post office told me right before I came over here. She said the chief’s wife kicked him out of their house because he was having an affair.”

“That doesn’t mean-” Mrs. Marshall stopped herself from defending Russ Van Alstyne. Wind to fan the fire. “Geraldine Bain is one of the worst gossips in Millers Kill.”

“But she’s cousin to the Dandridge Bains, who live in Cossayuharie. Their daughter is married to a police officer.”

“It’s always the husband in cases like this,” Yvonne’s West hand said authoritatively.

South hand nodded. “I only met Linda Van Alstyne once or twice, but she seemed like a delightful woman. She hired a lot of local women for her business, you know. Women who needed the work.”

“It’ll be a shame if nothing ever comes of it.” Mrs. Marshall’s own North hand spoke up, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I figure the police department will take care of their own. Mark my words, there’ll be a cover-up.”

“There’s nothing to cover up,” Mrs. Marshall protested, but she was drowned out in a sea of voices, as everyone began speculating how and why the chief of police had killed his wife.

She had been wrong. Someone had to speak to Reverend Fergusson about this. The sooner, the better.

The rector of St. Alban’s had spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding her new deacon and her personal miseries. Wrung out from the morning’s revelations and jittery after spotting Russ’s deputy chief and one of his officers eyeing her as she left the station parking lot, she had-sneaked was such an ugly word; she preferred entered with stealth-at any rate, she made it into the church without being seen. A quick reconnoiter outside the hall confirmed that neither Lois nor Elizabeth de Groot was around. Clare dashed into her office and grabbed her appointment book and while-you-were-out memos. From the sacristy, she took her traveling kit: a plain leather box containing wafers, wine, clean linen, and the silver pieces used in celebrating the Eucharist. God-in-a-box, as she sometimes thought of it.

Suitably prepped, she set out to lose herself in the halls of the Washington County Hospital and the Infirmary. Father Lawrence had covered her duties as celebrant during the time she was off, but the hospital and old-age-home visits were a week overdue. In her car, she put in a quick call to the secretary, which she knew would be answered by the parish office’s machine. “Lois, it’s Clare. I’m going to be out for the afternoon”-she kept it vague, in case de Groot got the idea to tag along after her-“but you can reach me on my cell if it’s an emergency. Please apologize to Deacon de Groot, and you can ask her to… to… help collate this month’s newsletter.” Then she felt guilty and added, “Show her the January and February schedules and see if she can sit in on some of the committee meetings. We want everyone to get the chance to know her.”