"Or migrant workers." Beagle clicked his pen as if emphasizing the possibility. "It wouldn't be the first time. In the teens and twenties of the last century, this area was a KKK hotbed. Lots of anti-Irish, anti-Catholic, anti-immigrant violence."

"You're kidding!" She looked appalled. "Russ?"

"No. Comment."

She drew in a breath, ready to rip into him, but stopped herself. She glanced at Ben Beagle, then at Russ. Her eyes narrowed: Later for you. He wasn't sure if it was a promise or a threat. "I need to be going," she said. "It was nice to see you again, Mr. Beagle."

"Please." The reporter took her hand. "Call me Ben. We should get together for lunch sometime, talk about maybe doing a day-in-the-life story on your church."

Clare smiled warily. "I don't think we have much at St. Alban's to interest an investigative reporter."

Beagle was still holding her hand. "It'd be a human-interest piece. Heartwarming. Heartwarming sells papers." He grinned at her. "Not as much as crime and car crashes, but-this being Washington County-sometimes we run short on those."

Clare looked amused. It struck Russ that the reporter was a lot closer to her age than he himself was, and that Beagle might even have some appeal-to some women. Like a scruffy teddy bear won at a carnival, maybe.

"Weren't you going?" he asked. It came out harsher than he intended.

She stiffened. Then smiled brilliantly at Beagle. "I'd like that, Ben. Give me a call." She withdrew her hand and, never once glancing at Russ, stalked away to her car.

"Good-bye," he yelled. She sketched a wave without turning.

"Quite a woman," Beagle said.

Russ grunted.

Ben clicked his pen again and turned to Russ. "So, Chief. Are you going to be able to give me any information on this serial killer haunting the Millers Kill area?"

VII

POLICE DENY SERIAL KILLER, the headline read. Hadley picked the paper up from the kitchen table, where Hudson had dropped it-his morning chore was bringing the Post-Star in for Granddad-before dashing back upstairs to get his backpack.

Millers Kill chief of police Russell Van Alstyne refused to comment on the possibility that a serial killer is responsible for three murder victims found in Cossayuharie over the past week, despite strong similarities in each slaying.

Hadley shook her head. The chief would have a heart attack when he saw this.

Speaking of which… she took Granddad's medicines from the cupboard, untwisted the complicated seals, and shook his daily dose into a cup next to the coffeemaker. He hadn't been taking them regularly, despite her nagging, so she was trying to make them unavoidable.

"Hudson! Geneva! Hurry up or you'll miss breakfast!" She grabbed three boxes of cereal from the shelf and hefted the gallon jug of milk out of the fridge. Half gone. She jotted MILK on the back of the National Grid envelope she was using for her grocery list and stuffed it into her tote bag.

A clatter on the stairs, and Genny trotted into the kitchen, holding a pair of dress boots Hadley had picked up on sale at Wal-Mart a week after they arrived in the North Country. "Mom, will you help me zip up my boots?"

Hadley pulled out a kitchen chair and deposited her daughter in it. "Lovey, it's June. We don't wear boots in June."

"But these are Hello Kitty boots. And I have a Hello Kitty shirt on."

She couldn't argue with that. "What about the sandals Grampy got you?"

Geneva gave her a look like Joan Rivers dissecting a badly dressed actress on Oscar night. "Those are Strawberry Shortcake sandals. Strawberry Shortcake is for preschool. I'm in first grade." She wriggled the boots on and stuck her legs out.

Hadley weighed the teacher's reaction to the unseasonable footwear versus the time lost convincing Geneva to change her mind, and decided she could live with Mrs. Flaherty thinking she was a neglectful mother. She zipped the boots. "You get your cereal and I'll help you with the milk," she said. She strode through the family room to the foot of the stairs and yelled, "Hudson!"

He emerged from his room, an overfull backpack swinging from one shoulder, clutching a fistful of papers. "I need signatures," he said, handing them to her. "And two checks." Behind him, she could hear Granddad thumping down the hall.

Hadley examined the papers as she followed her son into the kitchen. Permission slip for a field trip to Saratoga Performing Arts Center. Cost, ten bucks. Permission slip for a field trip to the Mohawk Canal museum. Cost, five bucks. So much for getting her hair cut this week. A notice of upcoming field days-please make sure your child is adequately sun-screened. She dropped the forms on the table and poured milk into Genny's bowl, holding it away from herself to avoid splashing her uniform. "I don't know why they bother to have school into June," she said to Hudson. "You're not spending any time there."

She grabbed her checkbook from the tote and started filling out the forms. "You should have given these to me last night," she told her son, who was steam-shoveling spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth. He nodded.

"Hey, Honey," Granddad called from the family room. "Come on in here and check this out."

"I can't," she said.

"Your police department's on the channel six news."

Hudson and Genny both looked up, eyes wide. "Finish your breakfast," Hadley ordered, even as they slipped from their chairs and ran into the next room. "I am not driving you to school," Hadley warned, following them. "You're out the door at five to eight whether you've finished breakfast or-"

She broke off. A streaked blonde in a pink jacket was breathlessly talking into a microphone in front of the MKPD. Before Hadley had a chance to hear what she said, the picture changed to dawn breaking over the Muster Field. "This was the site where the second and third bodies were found." The blonde, wearing a trench coat in this shot, turned to an "area resident who witnessed the recovery of the victims." She thrust the mic toward a heavyset man who seemed excited about his moment of fame, despite the early hour. He launched into a description of the events of Sunday afternoon.

"Mom, we didn't see any bodies," Hudson complained.

"That's 'cause we went home like sensible people once they found the Burns boy," Granddad said.

The screen switched back to the MKPD. "Mom, look!" Hudson said. "Maybe you'll be on TV, too!"

God forbid.

"Could this be the work of a serial killer?" the reporter asked the camera. "So far, the Millers Kill police refuse to confirm or deny the possibility. But meanwhile, the residents of this far-flung rural township watch. And wait. And wonder. This is Sheena Bevins, WREB News." The screen switched to the anchor.

"Mom, what's a serial killer?" Genny asked.

"Someone who puts poison in cereal." Hudson leered menacingly. "You may have already eaten it. Do you feel sick?"

Genny shrieked.

"Stop it," Hadley said. "Both of you, into the kitchen and finish your breakfast."

Granddad shook his head. "What's this world comin' to?" He heaved himself up out of his recliner. "You any closer to solving this?"

"We've got nothing." Hadley flopped her checkbook open against the top of the television and began to write out the field trip payments. "We don't even have an identity for the first guy." She ripped the checks out and folded them in the permission slips as she crossed the kitchen. "Upstairs and brush your teeth, you two," she said, zipping the papers into Hudson's backpack. She scooped up the bowls-still half full of milk and cereal, in Genny's case-and dumped them in the sink.

"I'll take care of those," Granddad said. "You better get going. They're going to need you at the station."