Willis looked like a cheerleader; her hair pulled to the top of her head as if any other style would take too long; her skinny frame jittery with energy.
“Oh,” Clare said. “Um…”
“It’s just, my boyfriend came down from Lake Placid, and I was supposed to go up and meet him at the lake, because it was sort of a halfway point, but my mom’s taken my car and disappeared with it, and Elijah—that’s my boyfriend—he left a message for me that his truck died in Canterville and he got a ride from the tow guy out to the lake, but now I can’t reach him because, you know how it is out there, you can never get a signal, which is why this was supposed to be the perfect getaway weekend for us—he’s been saving up lots of money from his winter job and I think he might have popped for a ring.”
Amber ran out of air at that point. Or perhaps the ring was the culmination of her saga.
“Ah … your father? Can’t he give you a ride?”
“No, he’s downstate this weekend. That’s why I invited Elijah to the cabin.” She looked at Clare like a puppy in its last hours at a kill shelter. “I’ve been calling around to see if one of my friends could take me, but I’m not having any luck. Oh, please? I’ll pay for gas. I’ll be quiet. Or I’ll talk, if you want the company.”
“No, it’s—my husband is coming with me.” Clare seized on that fact. “We’re going in his pickup truck. I’m afraid there won’t be room for you.”
“I’ll ride outside in the back.”
In January. For an hour. “What? No, that’s not what I meant. We have a little backseat space.”
“Perfect! I don’t take up much room at all.”
“I don’t think—”
“I love Jesus!”
Clare blinked. Good Lord. The kid thought she needed to make a profession of belief before she’d get help. Had someone taught her she couldn’t rely on Christians unless she parroted bumper-sticker theology and prayed the Sinner’s Prayer? That made up Clare’s mind for her. “I love Jesus, too, but you don’t need to pass a religious test in order to get help at St. Alban’s.” She shoved her hands in her skirt pockets and crossed her fingers, knowing she was telling at least half a lie. “My husband and I will be happy to take you with us to Lake Inverary.”
10.
Russ’s glasses steamed opaque as soon as he entered the overheated foyer of the town hall. He snatched them off and shucked his parka as he headed down the hall to the session room, Lyle close behind him.
Russ shoved the door open with way more force that he’d intended. It creaked and slammed against the wall, silencing all conversation, jerking everyone’s attention to his dramatic entrance. Russ couldn’t make out individual faces from this far away, but he could tell everyone was looking at him. Crap. Probably waiting for him to go postal on them.
“Hi, all.” Lyle’s voice, warm and genial, promised shelter from Russ’s storm. “The chief and I heard you were discussing the department, and we wanted to be on hand to help out with any questions you might have.”
“Everyone? You know Deputy Chief Lyle MacAuley.” Jim Cameron’s voice was dry. “And, of course, our chief of police.” Russ put his glasses back on. The room snapped into focus. Five of the six aldermen sat at the long, Formica-covered session table, with the mayor in the moderator’s seat at the center. The town secretary’s shorthand machine had just fallen still, echoing the awkward silence in the room. Merva had been right—there weren’t any members of the public taking up space in the folding chairs. However, the town’s attorney was on hand. And there, at the speaker’s podium, stood a tall drink of water in a state trooper’s uniform. His ol’ pal Bob Mongue. Oh, wonderful.
“This is a budget meeting,” the mayor went on. “We have your annual report. We didn’t feel we needed any extra information at this time.”
“Then what’s Sergeant Mongue doing