Muffin But Trouble

by Victoria Hamilton

  Chapter Fifteen

  They both got up and left, after one checked her watch. I tossed the rest of my crap tea—it wasn’t even worth drinking—and followed, finding my way out of the dungeon and back out to the sunshine, thinking deeply. Something was not right in that conversation. I’d have to find a quiet space and think it through.

  Pish picked me up at the hospital. While I sat in the car he ran in to see Lynn, but she was still sleeping. He spoke to a nurse and was told we could come back during visiting hours, and could check in by phone any time. He was warned, though, that they were running more diagnostics on her, an EKG and a CT scan, so she would be out of her room on occasion.

  As we drove home by a circuitous route to avoid going through town, Pish told me about his adventures at the encampment, which did indeed include a run-in with Mother Esther, who tried to dissuade Cecily from leaving. Her “persuasion”—a lengthy diatribe against our “kind of people”—almost worked; Cecily had seemed cowed by the woman. The argument was that we (Pish and myself in particular) had strayed so far from the path that we were dangerous to know.

  Lizzie was the hero of the day, Pish said. As Cecily wavered, Lizzie told her that we were all good people, and that she should be free to choose who to befriend. She told Cecily that there was a place for her wherever she was.

  If I had ever had a kid, I’d want her to be just like Lizzie.

  Pish drove me all the way to my house and let me off. I collapsed, exhausted, on our roomy and soft sofa, with Becket sitting on my chest, not allowing me to move. I got texts, at least: Cecily, after talking to the police for hours, was staying with Lizzie at her grandmother’s.

  Virgil came home late. We made love, nice and slow, to some new soul music. Music has always provided the rhythm of my lovemaking. With Miguel it was Satie and Debussy. With Virgil it is funk or R&B or soul, from Marvin Gaye to Ella Mai. I’m happy that my two loves have/had such different tastes. Not everything has gone right in my life, but I do choose most excellent lovers.

  I lay tucked under his arm after, and we talked softly in the velvety darkness. He filled in what Dewayne had hinted at. There was indeed a shelter quite a distance from the others in the encampment, as we had seen in Lizzie’s photos. It was powered by generators and filled with gadgetry and junk food. Someone—probably Voorhees—had a fondness for frozen burritos, Confetti Pop-Tarts and Funyuns. That explained his garlicky oniony breath. There, Virgil and Dewayne suspected, in the lair, out of sight of the congregants, the prophet hung out in warmth and comfort. The two men had broken in to look around and discovered Isadore there snooping.

  She warmed up to Dewayne more than him, my husband said with a laugh, and told our friend what she had figured out so far. After a good long look at the financial ledgers, which were mostly stored there, at the prophet’s lair—she was supposed to work on them there and only there—she knew more than the prophet likely thought she would. She showed them the books and Dewayne took photos with his cell phone of some of the pages. The woman is smart and numbers speak to her in ways words speak to others. There was something illegal going on with the Light and the Way Ministry, she said.

  But what?

  The group’s only income was supposed to be from the congregants’ jobs—payment for which they were supposed to turn over—and any donations they received from folks in town. There were, apparently, a few (very few!) who gave money to Barney to shut him up. But Isadore had figured out from the ledgers that there was money coming in that could not be accounted for, with only a code for the entries. And there was money going out, too, that was likewise given code names.

  Some of the outflow could likely be explained by how the prophet was living when not at the encampment. Besides the Pop-Tarts and Funyuns, there were booze bottles, fast-food wrappers and condoms, a satellite TV, video gaming systems, and lots and lots more. But the extra money coming in . . . there was no source listed.

  “What would be your best guess?”

  “Offhand? Maybe there’s some connection between the prophet and an illegal drug supply Baxter has been having trouble tracking a source for,” Virgil murmured. “I need to have another look around that whole compound. Might be touchier now that Voorhees and Barney have been released.”

  Isadore was puzzled, she said, by gaps in the ledgers. Some were missing. She’d try to find out where they were, and she’d try to find out what the codes in the books meant.

  “I hope she doesn’t get herself in trouble,” I fretted. “I have this feeling that I know something but can’t remember it, or figure it out,” I said. I told him everything I had heard or seen that day. “Maybe it will come together in my sleep and I’ll wake up with a revelation.”

  “Hallelujah,” Virgil said, and kissed me.

  I was exhausted and fell asleep wrapped in his arms long before we had covered everything from our tumultuous day.

  Morning inevitably arrived, and as I made us both breakfast, I told Virgil about Lynn, and also more coherently about the conversation I overheard in the hospital cafeteria. He nodded but was silent. There was a lot he had to cover that day, but I could tell he was disappointed that they hadn’t discovered anything to do with Glynnis’s murder. So far at least.

  It was best to leave him to brood when he was thinking things over like that.

  I poured him another cup of coffee in a tall travel mug, reminded him we had dinner guests coming, then ran back upstairs to our lofty bedroom as he departed. I had a shower and planned my day. Dewayne, Patricia, Sheriff Urquhart and his girlfriend, ADA Trujillo, were coming to dinner. I needed the makings of a good meal, and wine, and dessert, which I was not going to prepare; that was going to be all Binny’s European Bakery.

  But first I had phone calls to make. I called Zee and some others who I thought might like to know that Lynn was okay. Sadly, most were interested—it was a good piece of gossip—but not enthusiastic enough to make the long trek from New York City to western New York State to sit by her bedside. I had counted on the sadness of her story to make up for all the harm she had done and bridges she had burned, but it didn’t.

  Lynn had hurt me badly, and given her accusation against me of grand theft, it could have easily ruined my life if she had been more believable. And all because she had pawned that necklace—it wasn’t hers, it was on loan—and was so stoned she either forgot or was ashamed and blamed its disappearance on me. Would I, hearing about her plight from a distance, come so far for a woman who had damaged me so deeply? I’d like to think I’m a good enough soul, but I’m not sure.

  Seeing her in person made it more real; I felt how lost she must have been to first, try to find me, and second, end up in the hands of that cult. I was deeply ambivalent about the whole thing. I’d have to see how I felt when Lynn was well enough to talk. If it was the same old Lynn, making excuses and blaming everyone else for her behavior, then I’d help her, of course, but I’d probably keep my distance.

  Fortunately, I could rely on my darling Pish, the very embodiment of kindness. He has a soft spot for lost souls. He was going to the hospital armed with notes on the book he had just finished writing—he is actually a fairly well-known author now, after two well-received nonfiction books on financial scams and cons—to think over his editing. He would make sure she had a phone and television, and whatever personal supplies she needed. There was no better person to sit at a hospital bedside, and it freed me to do what I needed to do.

  And what I needed to do was a lot of food shopping. I dressed carefully in a fallish outfit. Though I often go shopping for plus-size clothes, most recently with Patricia, Dewayne’s wife and my surprising new friend, to an outlet mall, I also do more shopping online than I should. A gal has to look her best, after all. I had found an awesome new-to-me clothing company called VENUS; their plus-size selection is cool, casual, and budget-friendly. I threw on a mock-neck keyhole olive green top over floral-detail embroidered jeans, and slipped my feet into leather clogs. I grabbed a dark
gold pashmina, my Birkin bag and keys, and away I went.

  I headed to Ridley Ridge first for beer, none being available in Autumn Vale. I already had wine, but Dewayne and Virgil are beer guys, and I supposed that Sheriff Urquhart is too. As I grabbed a case of Pabst, Virgil’s favorite, and Miller, for variety, I saw one of the truckers I had met in the Ridley Ridge café a few days before.

  He was yakking at the cashier, a typically vacant-eyed RiRi gal, lacking any ambition but a joint and a pizza on Friday night. “Those cops got it all wrong,” he said, his loud voice full of village braggadocio. “Those gals out there at that religious compound . . . they know what they’re doing. Women like a strong hand at the plow, y’know what I mean?” He did that wink and click-click of the mouth to indicate the sexual prowess of a commanding alpha male.

  I sighed and plunked down my cases of beer on the counter.

  “Buyin’ a little something for your man?” Trucker Guy said.

  I wanted so badly to say it was supplies for my weekly sewing circle. Or for the orgy I had planned for later. I did want to shock and correct him, but I only lie in emergencies. I remained silent, and Trucker Guy ignored me, gabbing on to the bored cashier as she rang through my purchases. I added a stack of fashion magazines to drop off for Lynn at the hospital.

  “Those gals are just following nature. Lookin’ for a man to tell them what to do and take care of them.”

  I suddenly remembered the guy’s name . . . Bob. Swiveling from my goodies on the counter, I stared at him. “I thought you said those are religious nuts out there, communists and the like? You said that just a few days ago in the coffee shop.”

  He glared at me. “Hmph.”

  “No, come on, that’s what you said. Which is it? Are they nuts, or do they have the goods?”

  “Figures,” he grunted in disgust. He tossed back his greasy hair and jammed his trucking company ball cap down on his head. “A woman finally listens to me and it’s just to throw crap back in my face.”

  “You seem to know a whole lot about the religious group.”

  “Not me!” he said. “Don’t know a thing about ’em.”

  “Oh, come on, Bob, you sold them a piece of your land!” the cashier said with a sly glance.

  “Is that true?” I asked, astonished. “Why would you do that?”

  “Who’d you hear that from?” Bob asked the girl with a squinty gaze.

  “It’s not like it’s a secret,” she said, back to being bored again. “Everyone knows. That’s old gossip from two, three years ago.” She thumbed through one of the fashion magazines, stopped to ogle a TV star, then scanned it, the beep blending with her voice as she said, “Everyone and his mama knows you sold them twenty acres for a song, that patch along Marker Road.” She looked up at him and squinted her eyes. “You and Walt own the land, right? I heard he wasn’t too happy with you over that.”

  I cocked my head to one side and stared at the shaggy guy, who was scritch-scratching his three-day growth of stubble. “Why would you sell your land to those religious nuts, as you call them?”

  “None of your beeswax,” he said, then stomped out of the store.

  The dull-eyed cashier snickered as she watched him go, then looked back at me. “That’ll be twenty-four ninety-five.”

  “On debit,” I said. “Do you know him well? He was really jawing at you.”

  She slid the card reader across the counter to me. “He’s bored.”

  I tapped and said, “Doesn’t he work?”

  “Yeah, but he’s a trucker, so it’s sporadic, you know? He’s always got a wad of cash, so I guess he’s doing okay. My cousin dances at the Randy Goat and says he’s always in there and tips good.”

  “My friend Emerald works there sometimes as a cocktail waitress.” The Randy Goat—the name was new, the bar was not—was a dive bar, and not one of the fun ones. It had intended to be a cocktail lounge but sank in status until it was now a greasy dive with bad lighting, all the ambiance—and odor—of a back alley.

  “I know Emerald! She’s nice.”

  “So, who is Walt? And why does he co-own farmland with Bob?”

  “Walt’s his brother. It’s the family farm, you know?”

  Walt . . . the name rang a bell. Aha! The current Millicent had spoken of a Walt who was a mechanic and had his own shop. I asked the cashier and she said yes, that was the same Walt, a mechanic and a welder. My purchase completed, the cashier bagged it all.

  There was a television over the checkout desk tuned to local news channel. I glanced up and saw a tearful couple on-screen. “Can you turn that up?” I said, pointing at the TV.

  She did, and we both listened.

  “We want to know what happened to Glynnis,” the man said, his voice trembling with anger as the woman sobbed into a tissue. “She was our daughter. Someone killed her, beat her to a pulp. The sheriff isn’t telling us a goddamn thing!”

  I recognized where the man and woman were standing; it was outside of the Ridley Ridge sheriff’s department. This was Glynnis Johnson’s parents. I felt a deep welling of pity for them and their pain. As the reporter droned on for a minute, giving a capsule explanation of the girl’s body found by the side of the highway, a photo flashed on-screen of Anokhi Auretius.

  Someone shoved a microphone in Glynnis Johnson’s mother’s face. Haltingly, she said that the composer had called her just that morning to offer her condolences. “She told me what my daughter said,” the woman sobbed. “Glynnis said, ‘Am I safe?’” Her voice choked with tears, and she wailed, her mouth stretched into a rictus of pain, such deep pain that it overwhelmed everything else. It took her a moment to get herself under control. “I guess she’s safe now, in heaven,” she finally sobbed, snot running from her nose.

  The news channel went on to different news. The cashier sniffed. “Be nice if they cared as much about Glyn when she was alive as they do now that she’s dead.”

  I examined her face, spotty and plain, but with the unthinking fresh healthfulness of youth. “Did you know her?”

  “She was friends with my little sister. Glynnis was a nice kid, but her parents preferred their son always. He got everything he wanted and she got nothing.” She leaned across the counter. “And her dad is a creepola . . . the kinda dad no one from soccer wants to drive them home, you know? My sister said he’s a perv. Always staring at the girls in shorts.”

  I tried to get her to expand on that, but she just shook her head. If there was more, she would have been happy to divulge it. “What about the other missing girls lately?” I asked. “There have been a few, right?”

  “I guess. But they’re just dropouts. You know the kind, girls who take drugs, or run away from home, or hang out with the wrong people.” She shrugged. “Those kinds of girls get in trouble.” She had nothing more to say as a couple of friends came in. After that, she only had eyes for them as they chatted and giggled and whispered about what drugs they were going to try on the weekend.

  Seemed to me she was exactly the kind of girl she was dismissing so easily. I picked up my bags.

  “Have a nice day,” she said as I headed to the door. I turned to look at her, but no smile lightened that most trite of sales phrases.

  Some folks might write off the missing and dead girls as runaway troublemakers, but there was a pervasive feeling of dread in the larger community, I had heard. On social media locals were sharing sightings of “weirdoes and prowlers.” People were watching each other closely, and doors were locked tightly; security cameras had been installed around homes, the local locksmith had more business than he could handle, and teenage girls were being given stricter curfews by diligent parents.

  The newspaper had devoted many news stories and had even detailed all the young girls and women who had either gone missing in the last few years or whose bodies had been found. It was a stark reality, seeing it in black and white, and the chorus of questions was growing in the wake of Glynnis’s death: What was Sheriff Ben Baxter doing? Was he
even fit to do his job? Where were the missing daughters of Ridley Ridge? The national news cycle had so far ignored us; there was a political crisis in the capital going on. Isn’t there usually, these days? I wasn’t sure if several dead and missing girls not even making the national news was good—who wanted to be on CNN constantly?—or sad, that it was too everyday an occurrence for it to be front and center.

  I dropped the magazines off with Pish, but Lynn was sleeping. She was zonked out as they adjusted her meds to work with the gallons of IV fluids they were pumping into her. I worried . . . did they know how to treat a bulimic oxy-dependent aging-out supermodel? But Pish was there and he could be imperious when necessary.

  I told him what I had seen on the TV news, and how Anokhi had apparently called Glynnis’s parents. One part of my brain wanted to accept what she had done as a lovely gesture, one mother to another. But the cynic in me recognized it as a savvy public relations move to stave off suspicion and criticism. I didn’t know Anokhi well enough to know which was the real answer to why she had reached out, but then, it wasn’t my call, or my business. I was sad that my cynicism had surfaced. Maybe I should accept a kind gesture at face value and leave it at that.

  I returned to my car and sat for a long moment outside the hospital, haunted by Glynnis’s mom’s face, her eyes, her pained wail, mouth stretched wide and downturned, the inhuman howl that erupted from her. I remembered well how that kind of extreme pain felt, how it twisted your body, made muscles ache you didn’t even know you had, caused every biological function in your body to act up. After Miguel died I spent hours howling in such pain, wishing with every atom of my being that I could join him. It took months before I could even function, before I could get up in the morning and make coffee and wash my face and comb my hair.