Page 30 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
“You’d be surprised. Hudson follows the news more closely than I do.” Her son was certainly different than she had been at twelve, thank God. “Let me.” She weaved her way through the tables, conscious thatthe rest of the diners were watching her now. A shelf beneath the counter held condiments, and she grabbed the Sriracha hot sauce. She looked out the door, where a light snow foretold a less-pleasant walk back to their lodging, and then pivoted toward the kids’ table. “Hi.”
One of the girls giggled nervously.
“You might have heard my, uh, friend asking about the local militia. I’ve got a high schooler at home, so I know nobody knows what’s going on around town like you guys do.” One of the boys lifted his chin. “We’re at the inn if you or anybody else knows anything. Thanks.”
The other diners jerked their attention back to their meals as she crossed to her table. “How’sthat?”
“Well, you didn’t look like law enforcement.”
She sprinkled a little hot sauce on her mac and cheese. “That’s not surprising. It’s hard for me to look like a police officer when I’minuniform.”
“It’s the glamorous actress thing you have going on. That’s what Clare says.”
“Clare’s a priest. She has to be nice.” A stir of movement caught her eye. One of the old couples was leaving their table. “Do you think anyone is going to talk to us in here?” He shook his head. “Then let’s get a couple of takeout boxes and head back to the inn before the snow gets up to our knees. The sooner we find out something, the sooner we get to Flynn.”
4.
Clare waited an hour after Russ had driven off to pick up Hadley, figuring in the unlikely event he’d forgotten anything, he’d be back within that time. She patted herself on the back for being so productive—she had gone through all the budget reports pending the next committee meetinganddealt with Ethan’s super-awake-and-ready-to-interact mood as well.
The stove alarm beeped. She set down the last report, from the flower committee—it never ceased to amaze her howexpensiveflowers were—and wove her way between an obstacle course of baby toys to the kitchen to turn it off.
A quick call to the church secretary confirmed nothing had come up needing her attention, and then she looked up Meghan Smith’s number and dialed it on their old-fashioned wall phone, a landline being a must-have for both their jobs. Scratch that, her job, now.
“Hi, Meghan here.”
“Meghan, hi! It’s Clare Fergusson. Thanks again for that delicious lunch on Saturday. Look, I wanted to get in touch with Tiny, you remember, Calvin’s wife? I wondered if you had a phone number or an address for her.”
“Tiny March? I mean, yeah, but why?”
“She certainly looked to me like she needed a friend, didn’t she?”
She could hear Meghan’s sigh. “Yeah, I guess so.” There was a pause. “I’m honestly not sure how her husband’s going to react to anyone, you know…”
“I know. That’s one of the reasons I think she needs a friend.”
“Okay, hang on.” There was a long, silent pause and then Meghan came back on the line. “I’m going to tell you this instead of text it to you, ’cause, if things do blow up, I don’t want to have my fingerprints on it.”
“Understood. I won’t mention your name.” Clare jotted down the number and address Meghan gave her and thanked her.
The other woman laughed. “Don’t thank me untilafteryou’ve dealt with Calvin.”
Clare debated calling versus showing up for about three seconds before deciding on her preferred method—jumping in with both feet. It was easy to hang up a phone, and a lot harder to get rid of someone standing on your doorstep. She thought about whether to bring Ethan or drop him off at her mother-in-law’s for a longer period. Eventually, bringing him along won out. He was a natural entry point to another mother of an eight-month-old, and even if Calvin March blew his top and ordered her off his property, she was certain he wouldn’t get physical with her. She smiled tightly. At least not the first time she showed up.
The Marches’ home was in the country, well outside the pretty little town of Corinth. It was a long enough trip to put Ethan to sleep. Clare missed the drive the first time, despite the GPS directions; it was so overgrown and leaf-clogged it was more like a break in the woods than a driveway. She turned around and went back, this time spotting the listing, unpainted post that once would have held a mailbox. She nosed her car up the lane, such as it was, following the ruts in the frozen leaves and humus.
The house was tired brown, with a larger second story stacked atop a cement brick ground floor. There was a flattened area that might pass as a parking spot, currently empty of any vehicles. Clare did a three-point turn and left her own car facing out, ready to take off as quickly as necessary. She unfastened Ethan’s car seat, popped up the carrier handle, and shouldered the diaper bag.
Decaying railroad timber steps led up the small hill next to the house, where a ramp connected the earth to the open deck girdling two sides of the structure. Clare was reminded of medieval castles, with a drawbridge and pit, although the cheap aluminum windows in the ground floor probably wouldn’t withhold a siege for more than a minute.
She was halfway up the steps, the baby carrier balanced against her thigh, when the door to the deck banged open and Tiny March stepped out. “What are you doing here?” She sounded panicked.
“Hey, Tiny.” Clare reached the top and turned toward the ramp. “Do you remember me? Clare Fergusson? We met the other day when you stopped by the Smiths’ house.”
“Of course I remember you.” Tiny looked down the driveway. “Cal doesn’t like it when people come here.”
Clare crossed the—she couldn’t help it, “drawbridge” kept popping up in her mind—and set the baby carrier down. She smiled. “What, nobody ever comes here?”
“Nobody to seeme.” Tiny glanced back down the drive. From here, you wouldn’t know there was a county highway at the end at all.
