“And you want to talk to Aaron.”

“That’s right.”

“No offense, but if this is part of a murder investigation, how come the cops aren’t here?”

“The state police have taken over the investigation. They’re holding Russ as a suspect right now, so no one’s pursuing any alternate theories.” That wasn’t precisely true-she had no doubt that every cop in the department would be looking for alternatives as soon as their hands were untied-but it was a good bet no one would get around to the MacEntyres for some time yet.

“So you’re doing it?” Vicki looked her up and down, taking in Clare’s loose-fitting black velour dress and white collar. “Are you a private eye or something?”

Clare reflexively ran a finger along her dog collar. “No, I’m an Episcopal priest.”

“You’ve been watching too many episodes of Murder, She Wrote, haven’t you? Tell you what, whyn’t you take off your boots and come into the kitchen? The school bus’ll be here any minute.”

Clare did as she said. The big eat-in kitchen was clearly the nerve center of the MacEntyre house. Every surface, vertical or horizontal, was covered with photos, lists, magazines, school handouts, and calendars, heaped and stacked and tacked and taped one on top of the other.

“Pardon the mess,” Vicki said. “I cleaned up after Christmas, and I haven’t had the time to tackle anything since then. Want some cocoa? I was just going to get some ready for the kids.”

“That would be lovely, thanks.” Clare took up a post beside the refrigerator, out of the way but close enough to talk with her hostess. “Looks like you have a busy family.”

“You got that right.” Vicki slid a quart measuring cup full of water into the microwave. “My youngest’s got Boy Scouts, Pee Wee football, karate, and band. My girl’s junior varsity cheerleader, gymnastics, and a different band.” She ripped the end off a package of instant hot cocoa and dumped the contents into a mug. “Aaron’s slowed down, thank God. He’s just doing karate and his guitar lessons. Which is fine by me, ’cause I want him to concentrate on getting his grades up his last year in school.”

“The guidance counselor said he wants to join the military?”

The microwave dinged. Vicki paused, her hand on its door. “You talked with his guidance counselor?”

“Not about Aaron specifically, no. She was there when we spoke with Quinn Tracey.”

“Ah. That explains a lot.” Vicki carefully removed the hot water and poured some into the mug, stirring. “Yeah, Aaron wants to join up pretty bad. Army or marines. We nearly had to hogtie him when he turned eighteen last month. We made him promise to graduate high school.” She handed the mug to Clare. “Careful, it’s hot. Aaron, of course, thinks all he needs is muscles and gung ho. I keep telling him the army wants smart guys, guys they can train, nowadays.”

“True,” Clare said, blowing across her cocoa to cool it. She didn’t add that there were still plenty of places for young men with nothing more than muscle and gung ho. There would always be a need for boys with more brawn than brain. “When I mentioned Quinn Tracey, you said that explained a lot.”

Vicki poured herself a mug. “Quinn’s a sweetheart, but I don’t think he says boo without Aaron’s help. Wanna sit down?”

Clare followed her to the table. “What do you mean?”

“The Traceys moved here in his sophomore year, which can be tough, since most of these kids have known each other since they were finger-painting in kindergarten together. Aaron kind of took him under his wing. Introduced him around to his friends, made sure he wasn’t left hanging on the sidelines.” She sipped her cocoa. “They’ve been good buds for three years now. But see, Aaron has always been one of those kids other kids like to be around. He has a lot of friends. Quinn, on the other hand, has Aaron.”

“He hasn’t made any other friends?”

“Not that exactly. It’s more-here’s an example. A bunch of the boys will all get together and hang out at Quinn’s house. But once Aaron leaves, everybody leaves.”

“Aaron goes over to the Traceys’ house?”

“Sure. I mean, we’ll have them over here in the summer, but when the weather’s bad, the Traceys have way more room than we do. And Quinn’s mother always has snacks and sodas and pizza for them. How she does it without breaking her budget, I don’t know. I have enough trouble feeding one teenaged boy, let alone five or six of ’em.”

Clare shook her head. “Quinn told us his parents didn’t want him seeing Aaron.”

Vicki laughed. “Well, if that’s how they feel, they hid it pretty well from us.”

Outside, there was a hissing and a clank, and then the sound of an engine revving up and pulling away. The garage doors rattled in their tracks, vibrating the kitchen.

“There are the kids now.”

The kitchen door banged open, and Clare had a glimpse of the mudroom beyond before a young man came in, already divested of his coat and boots. Aaron MacEntyre, Clare presumed. He had the look of a natural karate student: not too tall but powerfully built. Dark hair and dark eyes, his cheeks ruddy from the cold.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, glancing at Clare.

“Hey, babe. Did you have a good day?”

“Got an eighty-seven on that math test.”

“Good on you!” A girl of ten or eleven sidled in through the door. She had the same Snow White-style mix of dark and fair as her brother. “Alanna, honey, how was your day?” her mother asked.

“Okay,” the girl said. “Can I get on my computer?”

“Chores first,” her mother said. The girl made a face, slung her backpack onto one of the kitchen chairs, and retreated back to the mudroom outside.

“Aaron, this is Clare Fergusson,” Vicki said. “She’s a friend of the police chief’s. He’s in a bit of trouble, and she’s helping him out.”

The boy held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” His smile was easy and infectious, making him seem less like a polite child and more like a man who genuinely was pleased to meet her.

“Hi, Aaron.” Clare couldn’t help but smile back. “Like your mom said, I’m trying to follow up on a few loose ends concerning the Van Alstyne case. You’ve heard Mrs. Van Alstyne was murdered, right?”

He plopped into the chair next to hers. “Yes, ma’am. Quinn and I were there the day she was killed. I’m surprised the police haven’t questioned us yet. Or-well, maybe not.”

“That’s what I’m here to ask you about,” Clare said. “I understand from Quinn the two of you saw a car in the Van Alstynes’ driveway that Sunday.”

“Yes, ma’am, but don’t ask me to tell you what it was. It was little and Japanese, that’s about all I can remember.”

“Quinn was able to give us the make and the license number-” Clare began, but Vicki interrupted her.

“Babe, what’s this about Quinn’s parents not wanting you to hang out with him?”

Aaron’s display of confusion was almost theatrical. “What?”

“That’s what Quinn said, when Chief Van Alstyne questioned him. He didn’t want the chief talking to his parents, he said, because he was with you, and his parents didn’t approve of that.”

“Ahhh.” The boy ducked his head. A thick lock of dark hair fell across one eye, and he looked up at his mother sheepishly from beneath it. “That may be because he’s not exactly allowed to have anyone in his truck with him when he’s plowing.”

“Aaron.” Vicki frowned. “You’ve been going out with him all the time when he plows.”

The look on Aaron’s face was one of perfect teenaged exasperation. “It’s just ’cause his dad’s got his nuts in a wad about the insurance. He’s afraid if anyone’s in the truck and there’s an accident, he’ll be on the hook. It’s a dumb rule, Mom. Really, it’s safer with two. One to drive and one to keep an eye out for cars on the road.”

“I don’t care. If that’s Mr. Tracey’s rule, you need to talk with him and get permission before you go plowing with Quinn again.”