Read Online In the Bleak Midwinter by Julia Spencer-Fleming - Free Book Online Page B

of a J. Crew catalogue. Younger, and more vulnerable than they seemed in their weekday suits or Sunday clothes. Clare succeeded in unlocking the medieval-looking door and bumped it open with her hip.
    “Good morning,” she said, juggling her thermos to shake hands.
    The Burnses returned her greeting, looking at her attire curiously. “Reverend Clare,” Karen asked, “are you moonlighting with the police department?”
    Clare plucked at the large brown parka she was wearing. “Oh. This. Chief Van Alstyne loaned this to me last night. I forgot to return it. I have to confess, it’s so much warmer than any of the coats I brought with me, I’m tempted to permanently forget to return it.”
    Karen nodded. “You used to have to go into Saratoga to get anything to wear,” she said, “but in the past few years some wonderful stores have moved into Millers Kill. I’d be happy to take you shopping some time if you like.”
    Clare looked at the lawyer’s beautifully-made felt coat, which appeared to have been hand-appliqued by Austrian nuns. Probably the same nuns who did the detailed knitting on her designer sweater. Clare had the feeling she couldn’t afford Karen’s wonderful little stores.
    “Shall we go inside?” Geoff asked. “Ladies?” he tacked on a moment later. They scuffed their boots on the protective mats that reached six feet into the parish hall.
    “I brought some breakfast pastries,” Karen said, holding up a neatly folded white bag. “There’s a place on Main Street called ‘In the Dough’ that does the most wonderful croissants. Not to mention real bagels.”
    Clare thought of the donut shop Russ had insisted on taking her to last night. “You can’t be a cop if you don’t eat donuts,” he had said, ushering her into the Kreemie Kakes Diner. He had spun out an elaborate theory that people’s personalities could be revealed by the type of donuts they ate. That the choice of jelly donut versus French cruller could unveil the secrets of a person’s soul. She had laughed at the time, but watching Karen pull an exquisitely puffed mini-muffin out of the bag, she wondered if he might not be on to something after all. She opened her door and let the Burnses precede her into her office.
    “Oh, my,” Karen said. They both stopped inside the doorway and looked around slowly. “It certainly is different from when Father Hames was here.”
    “Yes,” Clare agreed, thinking of the unrelieved English-country style that had been her predecessor’s office. “It’s a nice space to display some of my collections.” Over the fireplace that dominated the wall opposite the door, she had hung an intricately carved fragment from a Spanish rood screen, brightly colored Southwestern santos, olivewood bas-reliefs from the Middle East, and Pacific Island fabric-printing blocks. A pair of leather chairs that had originally furnished the admiral’s wardroom of a World War Two destroyer—her most spectacular military surplus find ever—were pulled up cozily in front of the fireplace. The large Victorian desk against the far wall was a hand-me-down from Father Hames, but Clare had replaced his oil paintings of stags and spaniels with aeronautical sectional charts and aircraft design blueprints. They shared space on the wall opposite the fireplace with several gilt-framed flea-market mirrors. Clare was very pleased with that touch, since they reflected the light from the west-facing windows flanking the chimneypiece and made the whole room glow at sunset.
    “Huh,” Geoff Burns said.
    “How unique,” Karen added quickly.
    To the left of the door, a slightly saggy love seat faced the leather chairs. It was a donation Clare suspected hadn’t moved at the church’s last rummage sale. “Please, sit down,” she said, hanging her borrowed parka on the coatrack behind the door. The Burnses followed suit.
    Clare dropped her bag on her desk and unscrewed the top from her thermos. In front of the built-in