The elevator opened on the fourth and we stepped out into a large, loft-style living area. There were couches arranged in a circle. A cluster of women meditated along the back wall. Another older woman, who looked just like my host, cooked in the kitchen on the other side of the loft.
“Welcome,” my host said, sweeping her arm across the space. “Living quarters are through the door at the other end of the room. Feel free to take any room that’s open. If you’d like to rest, do so. If you crave connection and you’d like to meet any of your fellows, return to this room and I’ll provide a proper introduction.”
“Thank you. I mean it. This is all very nice.”
The woman smiled and nodded. Once again, her smile comforted me. But I saw something vacant in her eyes. My hand shook as I worked up the nerve to cross the room. I took a deep breath, and headed back toward the living quarters.
I stepped out of the main loft area and into a long hallway lined with rooms. I glanced into each room as I walked by, trying to determine where Lillian might have been staying. Each room was small. Barely bigger than a closet. The rooms were all furnished with an identical twin bed, a small writing desk, and a flower in a thin vase. The warmth and comfort of the living area seemed a distant memory as I peered into the bare, claustrophobic rooms. I forced myself to keep walking even though the place was seeming more and more cultish.
About halfway down the hallway, I stopped. The room to my right had the same drab furnishings as the others. But there was a popcorn kernel on the floor and it looked sticky.
“Kettle corn,” I muttered to myself. I looked behind me to make sure I was alone in the hall, then I stepped inside the room and closed the door.
The first thing I noticed once I was in Lillian’s room was that there were no windows. The tiny bedroom was almost pitch black. I found a lamp on a bedside table and fumbled to turn it on. I picked up the lamp and wielded it like a candle, pointing it around the room to get a better look at my surroundings.
The place was extremely neat and tidy, other than that popcorn kernel. Tidiness must be a rule of living in the cult, I thought. I wondered if all residents were eventually forced to give up their personal goods. Because other than the furniture, Lillian’s bedroom appeared empty. I looked under the bed, it was clean. I looked in the closet, where a row of plain clothes were neatly arranged. Then I turned my attention to the desk. Probably where I should have been looking all along.
The top drawer of the desk was stuffed with files, folders, and newspaper clippings.
All the newspaper clippings were twenty or thirty years old, but I couldn’t find the unifying theme. Then I found a marble notebook with Lillian’s name on the cover. It reminded me so much of the notebook that had been mailed to the farmhouse earlier in our investigation. I thought that the notebook might be proof that Lillian had been the sender of Beth’s journal.
I opened the marble cover and saw that every single page was covered in hastily scrawled, manic notes.
All of the notes were about Beth’s death. And a few questions appeared over and over…
“Who did this? Did Beth have enemies? Who wanted Beth dead?”
My breath caught in my throat as I turned another page. The name “Big Jim” was written at the top. Below Big Jim’s name was another set of questions… “What’s his real last name? Where was he really born? Need birthday. Need connection to Beth. Need motive.”
My heart started doing cartwheels in my chest. “Oh my god,” I muttered. “Lillian thinks Big Jim killed Beth. Lillian’s not the killer. She’s another sleuth!”
“What are you doing in here?” A stern female voice spoke up from the doorway. I turned back. It was the friendly old woman who’d greeted me. “This is someone else’s room.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t know this room belonged to anyone.”
“This room belongs to Lillian Edwards,” the woman said, her voice cracking. “At least it did. The police are here. Lillian was murdered in the center of town.”
42
Hudson and Potomac
Detective Gary Potomac looked like a former high school quarterback. He was 6 1/2 feet tall, he had blonde hair and a barrel chest and hazel eyes. His was a striking presence. And I liked it.
I didn’t like Detective Gary Potomac much as a person because he wouldn’t let me leave the communal living facility until he questioned me. And since I was the “newest resident,” Gary refused to question me until he got through everyone else in the house first.
I slumped against the wall near the kitchen at the back of the room and twiddled my thumbs as I waited. Death had a way of following me from month to month, from town to town. And honestly, I was feeling pretty beat down. And kind of longing for the familiarity of Detective Wayne Hudson’s gruff demeanor and skeptical smile. I wasn’t sure why Wayne had shown up previously in Blue Mountain, but now Potomac was presiding over the case of Lillian’s slaying. Where did Hudson’s domain end and Potomac’s begin?
I felt more shaken up than usual by Lillian’s death. For one thing, I was pretty sure she was innocent, and she didn’t deserve her fate. For another, it seemed a lot like Lillian was a fellow amateur sleuth… which reminded me that the stakes of investigating a murder were life or death.
I could have cried, and I mean really cried, as I sat there and thought about the state of my life. Germany was in Africa, I hadn’t been sleeping in my own bed, I was stuck by myself in the living room of a cult, and I was about to be questioned by a strange detective about a murder. Plus, Beth and Lillian had both been murdered. These were two women who’d struggled with mental health issues and who’d likely been marginalized and overlooked their whole lives. Yes, they’d been difficult and confrontational people in my experience, but that was probably a reaction to years of strife and pain. Beth and Lillian had both needed help, and instead, they’d ended up dead. I hoped that their troubles were over now, and that they’d find each other again, in some better place, in some other life.
So yes, I definitely could have ugly-cried some big fat tears, but I didn’t want to make a scene or draw attention to myself. And I knew I needed to stay calm for my conversation with Gary.
Gary’s boots thudded on the ground as he approached me. I looked up, way up, and met his hazel eyes. “Ready for me?” I asked.
Gary reached down and offered me his hand. “I sure am. Let me help you up. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee and talk?”
I took Gary’s big, warm hand and got to my feet. Once I was standing, he adjusted his grip and shook my hand, then gave me a bright, white smile. “I’m Detective Gary Potomac. Good to meet you.”
I let go of Gary’s hand and wiped my palm on my jeans. Yes, very sweaty. “Good to meet you too, I guess.”
“Right. Never pleasant to meet under these circumstances,” he said. “I promise this won’t take long.”
Gary poured us both a cup of coffee and I took a seat on one of the couches at the front of the room. As we spoke, I did my best to answer his questions. Gary, unlike the woman who ran the commune, did require a back story. Remembering what Miss May had suggested back in the van, I told him my sob story about Mike leaving me at the altar. The truth was always easier than a lie, even when the truth was also kind of a lie. Gary believed every word I said. He shook his head when I told him about how Mike had stolen my interior business, and Gary let a big sigh when I finished speaking.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Gary sipped his coffee. “Please know that not all men are terrible.”
I nodded. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” I said.
Gary chuckled and we made eye contact. Oh no. Had I begun flirting? Listen, I may be sweaty and awkward, but I’m not immune to the charms of a handsome detective.
I had a boyfriend, of course. But he was in Africa with the lions. And Gary was very much in America, present and in the moment. Nonetheless, I felt guilty. I put my coffee cup down on the table. “Am I free to go?”
/> Gary barely registered my question. He was looking off into the distance, forlorn. “You know, Lillian Edwards was incredible. Do you know her?”
I shook my head.
“I didn’t know her very well, either. But this other woman got murdered over in Pine Grove. Her name was Beth. Lillian and Beth were great friends. When Beth died, Lillian took it upon herself to solve the mystery and catch the killer.” Gary chuckled to himself. “I tried to stop Lillian from investigating the case. But she was determined and smart. She talked to everyone in town who might have had information. She was something else. You know, her murder is barely in my jurisdiction. I don’t cover much of Blue Mountain. But we’re right on the border here, so her death happens to fall to my department. I don’t know if I should be happy or sad about that. Poor girl.”
“Wow, I… I had no idea about any of that stuff,” I said. I felt wobbly and surreal…that notebook in Lillian’s room had in fact been evidence that she was an amateur sleuth, just like me. Gary Potomac was Lillian’s version of Wayne Hudson.
“Do you want to know a secret?” Gary looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“Sure.”
“I asked Lillian on a date. Just recently. There’s a new pizza place in the village, I wanted her to go with me. She was playing hard to get. So we never had our date. But I think, eventually, she would have given me a chance. Everyone in this town saw her as some crazy, pathetic woman. But I knew the truth. Lillian was special. She didn’t belong at Five Pines, and she didn’t belong here.”
I had a sudden pang of remorse about my coldness toward Wayne. I’d rejected him so many times, and I thought about how sad I would be if I never saw him again.
Remorse quickly gave way to fear, as I was again reminded of the similarities between myself and Lillian. Lillian had clearly been murdered because she was trying to find a killer. I’d had a few brushes with death myself, and any of those encounters could easily have turned fatal. Still, I didn’t want Lillian’s murder to deter me from the pursuit of justice. If anything, I wanted it to strengthen my resolve.
So when I emerged from the commune and headed back toward Miss May’s van a few minutes later, I walked with strong, powerful steps.
A fellow sleuth had been murdered and I would not rest until her killer was found.
43
The Key to the Case
I was so happy to be out of the cult, I practically dove back into the van — where Miss May and Teeny were both waiting with worried and expectant stares.
As the van door creaked closed behind me, Miss May and Teeny let out huge, simultaneous sighs. Teeny fanned her face with her hands. “Chelsea. I’m red in the face from nerves. What are the police doing here? Are you OK?”
I was OK, technically, but I didn’t feel OK. I felt flustered and shocked and unsettled. I needed a moment to gather myself. Funny thing about having two caring, nosy best friends? You don’t get a lot of moments.
“Chelsea. Snap out of it.” Miss May craned her neck back from the front seat. “Are you OK or not? Tell us what happened.”
I took a deep breath and tried to summon the energy to explain myself. Going “undercover” in the cult had demanded a lot of solo-sleuthing mojo. All that lying and sneaking around had given me a wild adrenaline rush, but now the adrenaline was rapidly bidding adieu to my body and I felt exhausted. “I’m OK. Alright. Nothing bad happened to me.”
Miss May slumped over with relief. “Oh thank heavens. When those police cars pulled up, we almost barreled inside and blew your cover.”
“I was halfway across the street when Miss May caught up to me and made me come back to the van,” said Teeny. “She said you could handle yourself. I agree. But even karate queens need backup sometimes. Did you have to use your karate in there?”
“No karate chops or roundhouse kicks required. But Lillian’s dead.”
“She’s dead?! Murdered?” Teeny asked.
“I think so. That’s what I heard. That’s why the cops are here.”
“Well what are the details?” Miss May asked. “Tell us everything you know.”
“Can we go home?” I asked. “I’ll tell you on the drive.”
“What do you mean home?” Miss May asked. “You want to go to Teeny’s house for bed or do you need something back on the farm?”
I looked back at the cult. I thought of Lillian’s small room. Her eulogy at the funeral. Her impatience at the bar. Her flight from Five Pines. Her struggle to solve the mystery of the murder, in spite of her own mental health issues.
Lillian had been a fighter. She’d fought against an unseen killer, against a system that marginalized the mentally ill, against her own demons… and in that moment, thinking about Lillian’s courage and doggedness, I had a surge of strength.
I sat up a little taller in the backseat, and I cracked my knuckles for emphasis. “I don’t want to sleep at Teeny’s anymore,” I said. “I don’t want to be afraid of this killer. Let’s go back to the farm and spend the night in our own beds.”
Teeny bit her lip. “That’s not a good idea. The killer might have your keys, remember? That means they can break into your house and kidnap you or pour milk on you or do whatever they want at any moment.”
“The milk thing seems weird,” I said, “but the point is, I’m done living scared.”
Miss May turned the keys in the ignition. “Let’s talk about this later. But I’ll head back to the farm for now. I need to set out the pies for tomorrow, anyway.”
On the ride back over to the farm, I told Teeny and Miss May everything that had happened in the cult. Of course, my aunt and her friend had tons of questions and I did my best to provide answers. Miss May pressed for more information about Lillian’s living quarters. But everything had blurred together. All the rooms had looked so similar. Normally, my interior design background gave me an eye for detail. But the homogeny of all of those rooms had almost created a blank composite in my brain. I remembered Lillian’s notebook and not much else.
Teeny asked if the beds in the little rooms had been comfortable. Miss May and I joked about Teeny going to live with the women in the cult. But Teeny insisted she could never live in a place where she’d have to share a kitchen with a bunch of cult members who “probably didn’t know the first thing about making hashbrown lasagna.” We laughed.
After a few minutes, the conversation turned to an analysis of Lillian’s theories on the murder, and if she could have been killed because she knew too much.
“What do you think, Miss May?” I poked my head up toward the front seat. “Does the notebook I found in Lillian’s room make you think Big Jim is our primary suspect? Lillian seemed so convinced.”
Miss May shrugged. “It doesn’t make him less of a suspect, that’s for sure.”
“I think he definitely did it,” said Teeny. “You can’t trust a magician. They make their whole living on the promise that they can disappear and get out of handcuffs.”
“We know, Teeny,” said Miss May. “You had bad relationships with magicians. You have an unfair bias.”
“It’s not about my relationships,” said Teeny. “Big Jim is a shady guy. I don’t like him. You saw how he was flirting with me! Ha! What a sleaze. He killed Beth, I know it. Probably killed poor Lillian too.”
“Lillian certainly seemed to think it was Big Jim,” I said. “I want to believe she was right. But I know better than to trust an easy solution. We’ve followed plenty of bad leads in the past. We’ve questioned innocent people more than I’d like to admit. Poor Sudeer Patel and his family have had to deal with us on almost every investigation, and I don’t think he would hurt a fly. His wife Kayla’s gonna get a restraining order against us if we show up there again.”
“Good point, Chelsea,” said Miss May. “Lillian’s suspicions don’t necessarily mean Big Jim is the killer. And I’m not sure I understand what Big Jim’s motive might have been.”
Teeny turned back to me. “Did Lillian write down any pot
ential motives in her notebook? Did she know why Big Jim might have killed Beth?”
I closed my eyes and thought back to the notebook. Images of Lillian’s chicken-scratch handwriting sprung to my mind, but I couldn’t recall any indications of motive. “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’ll think about it.”
A few minutes later, we entered the bakeshop to find KP sitting at one of the tables eating an entire peach pie by himself. Steve the dog sat beside KP with a hungry look in his little canine eyes. Every so often, KP tossed Steve a piece of buttery pie crust and Steve gobbled it up off the floor.
“Hey KP,” I said as we entered. “Peach pie for dinner?”
KP gave me a little grunt. “That’s right.” He returned back to the pie without making further conversation. KP was usually gregarious, but not when he was focused on his pie.
“There was another murder,” I said, almost without emotion.
“Anybody I know?” KP asked.
“The woman who gave Beth’s eulogy,” I said.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil,” KP said. “Amen.”
I smiled sadly. KP’s truncated recitation of Psalms 23 felt oddly poignant. We were all exhausted, and it showed in our muted response to this murder.
Miss May walked behind the counter to prepare for the next day. Teeny and I followed, and the three of us continued discussing the case.
“So we’re not sure if we can trust Lillian’s intel. We don’t know if it was Big Jim.” I helped Miss May arrange a few pies. “So who are our other suspects?”
“That’s what I’m thinking about,” said Miss May. “Are we sure Lillian couldn’t have been the killer?”
I shrugged. “We don’t have proof that she was innocent. But someone killed her — maybe for what she knew. Or, I guess it’s possible… If Lillian did kill Beth, it’s possible someone killed Lillian as revenge.”
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