Muffin But Trouble

by Victoria Hamilton

  I walked to her, set my bag and sunglasses aside and took her in my arms, hugged her gently, then tried to let her go. But she clung to me and laid her head on my shoulder—not easy, since she is fairly tall—taking a long, deep breath. “You smell so good,” she said after inhaling my Houbigant Quelques Fleurs l’Original. “It felt wonderful this morning, having a shower. I forgot how good a shower feels, the hot water, the soap. That camp . . . it was so dirty, and I was cold all the time.” She shuddered, then finally stood on her own.

  I watched her a moment. Reed-thin as always, painfully bony, still . . . she seemed calm and steady. That was a good start. “Lynn . . . Leatrice . . .” I frowned. “Which do you prefer?”

  “Just Lynn,” she said. “Leatrice Pugeot died in a puddle of her own vomit at that horrible place.” She shuddered but stuck her chin up. “I’m never going to be Leatrice again.”

  I nodded, not trusting her transformation. She had vowed to change before. She had sobered, gone into recovery, gone to rehab, escaped from rehab, ended up in a shooting gallery in the Bronx, back to rehab, OD’d on prescription pain meds, been committed to the psych ward . . . she had been through it all. It would be a long time before she could be considered sober or before I would trust her reformation. We sat down next to each other at the table, sipping some of Pish’s wonderful coffee and talking. I examined her bony face, the high cheekbones, the pale green eyes and full lips; all those features had come together to make her something special as a model, catlike, mysterious. Photographers had loved her. Light loved her, etching shadows and mystery over her. I could still make out the Leatrice she was for the camera.

  As cautious as I intended to be, still, as we chatted I realized all I had been harboring for so long. When I first arrived in Autumn Vale that anger had kept me moving forward. It had kept me going, fueled me, but now it served no purpose. I let the weight of years of resentment slip from me. “How long were you there, at the camp?”

  She shook her head and frowned, stroking the smooth wood surface of the kitchen table. “At least two months, maybe more.” And yet nobody had tried to find her, not one of her so-called friends.

  “So, were you taking drugs while there?” I asked, watching her.

  There was a pulse in one temple, a heartbeat rhythm. “I was.”

  “What kind?”

  “All kinds. Anything I could get. You know me,” she said with a grimace. “I’m not fussy. Oxy is my choice, but beans, bath salts, blow, crank, molly, smack . . . I’ll try anything, with a side of Jack or Patron. Doctors here said they’d never seen such a soup of chemicals as they found in my blood!”

  I bit back a response. It had almost sounded like she was proud of it for a moment, but there was no pride on her face, just tired acknowledgment. “What was it mostly?”

  “Cocaine. It got me through every day, I guess. It’s a miracle I lived there for as long as I did. Still, I’ve woken up in worse places.” She cracked a weary half smile.

  I knew from experience how true that was. “How did you get it?”

  “There was a guy who would sneak it to me . . . some fellow in a newsboy cap and golf shirt.”

  Barney. Hmm.

  “Do you think they knew who you were?”

  Lynn has a narrow, cunning little face. When she was modeling, she was ethereal and fairy-like, but that had transformed into a feral foxiness now. “I’m pretty sure they did,” she said, eyes narrowed. “I knew they might recognize me. That’s why I hid my purse. I didn’t want them getting a hold of my credit cards.”

  Which Felice had known how to find, fortunately, for her ID and insurance card.

  “You think someone recognized you?”

  She nodded. “Some of those poor girls had old fashion magazines from, like, ten years ago, hidden away to read when no one was looking. I was in a few of the fashion spreads. I’d bet they knew who I was and someone told that prophet guy.”

  “Did he try to get money out of you?”

  “Omigawd, all the time! That fellow, Voorhees . . . huh!” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “At first I was his private pet. That old fraud said he could help me cure my addiction even though he knew they were feeding me drugs. Catch was, I had to be willing to give up my worldly goods. Hah! I told him I’d give up my worldly goods when he did. I knew that putz had a crib somewhere with booze, drugs, video games and girls. How else did he make sure I got all the pretty poison I wanted? He’s not the first horny guru I’ve met.”

  I laughed, remembering that when she was sober, Lynn could be a hoot. Though she was apparently taking drugs pretty much the whole time she was there, she still noticed and remembered a lot. As we chatted, and she gave her thoughts on all the members of the Light and the Way, I realized something: I had dismissed one person from being in the circle of suspects in Glynnis’s murder. I was disturbed that in many scenarios he was there, in the background, leering with evil intent and warped view, close enough, and yet not bringing attention to one aspect of his behavior, his vile view of women and their place in society, and their utility if they refused his advances.

  Could he be the answer? Surely it wasn’t that simple.

  My phone buzzed. It was Hannah. As Lynn and Pish chatted, I walked out into the great hall to talk to my librarian friend.

  “Merry, Gordy is in trouble!” she said after the briefest of salutations.

  “What’s going on?” My voice echoed in the huge marble-floored hall.

  “Sheriff Baxter arrested him out at the camp. Gordy phoned his uncle—not Mr. Dread, the other uncle, Richard Shute, the one he worked for—and his uncle phoned Zeke. A woman at the encampment said that Gordy knew everything that was going on and helped the prophet lure women into the cult! She said Gordy stole money, and drugs, and . . . she told the sheriff that Gordy was involved in Glynnis’s murder!”

  A woman? Mariah, I would bet on it! That lying witch. Why would the police believe her, after what she had said the day before? But . . . I took a deep breath. That tip, of the supposed sex maniac trucker Mack, had come from me, not her. Maybe the connection, in Baxter’s sheriff’s department—that Mariah was the source—was not made.

  “And Merry, we found something else out.”

  “What is that?”

  “We know who Nathan is now.”

  “Really? I hope it’s someone unsavory. I’d love someone to nail that creep to the wall. Who is he?”

  “He’s Mariah’s son.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Mariah’s son?” I screeched. “But her sister said her son’s name is Johnny . . . oh, wait. Nathan could be short for Jonathan, and maybe some in the family called him Johnny. I never would have thought of that.” At first I didn’t think it mattered, even given the direction my suspicions had begun to lurch in. But then my busy mind got busier. I thought back to what Binny had said about Nathan, what Zeke had said about how Gordy met the guy. I remembered that Urquhart had banished him from Autumn Vale, and that Nathan had lured Gordy out to the camp soon after.

  Damn. My suspicions were already there, but with this new knowledge, I felt them sharpen. Mariah, with her lies, had now effectively gotten rid of Gordy. And getting Gordy arrested for Glynnis’s murder would take the heat and any shadow of suspicion off . . . her son. How could I have dismissed Nathan as a suspect? “I’ll call you back in a minute,” I said. “I have to check in with Lizzie.” I looked at my messages, knowing my phone had buzzed a few times as I talked to Hannah.

  There were a string of messages from Lizzie that became increasingly frenzied.

  Merry, need 2 talk.

  Mer, where R U????

  Going 2 camp 2 get stuff 4 Al and Fe.

  Where the (expletive deleted) R U???

  No. No! Lizzie was on her way to the camp to retrieve Alcina and Felice’s stuff, and Nathan and Mariah were there. I hit the speed dial for Lizzie’s phone, but it rang and rang. I left a frantic Stop what you’re doing! voice mail, then texted her the
same. No answer.

  I looked up at Pish, who had followed me. “Lizzie is on her way to the camp,” I said. “I think I know now who killed the dead teens, including Glynnis. And he’s been right in front of us the whole time. I have to go. If Lizzie gets there and meets up with them—”

  “Them?”

  “Lying witch Mariah and her scary son, Nathan.”

  “Son?”

  “Yes, son. I don’t know how I missed him as a suspect, but his mother, Mariah, has been covering up for him the whole time. If I’m right that is one sick, twisted pair, and they will kill Lizzie in a heartbeat if we don’t stop them.”

  Lynn was sitting on the kitchen floor talking to Becket when I retrieved my bag. She looked up at me with shining eyes. “I never knew cats were so smart!” she said, then went back to crooning to him. I smiled, and I’ll admit my eyes were teary.

  “I’m not letting you go alone,” my dear friend said.

  “What about Lynn?” I muttered, gesturing to her. She was too fragile to leave alone.

  “Becket can take care of her. The nurse is due in ten minutes; she texted me she’s on her way, and she has instructions to just come in if I don’t hear her. It’ll be all right. We can’t take a chance that Lizzie will get in trouble.”

  I called Virgil on my way out of the castle, Pish trailing behind me. My husband told me under no circumstances was I to go out there to that camp without him. I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder as I opened the car door. “I will not leave Lizzie to deal on her own, and I can’t get her to answer the phone, which may mean she’s already there and left her phone in the car. If you want to meet me there, fine, but I’m not waiting.”

  I ended the call and drove at record speed, Pish clutching the dashboard in fear or worry, I didn’t care which. Lizzie’s grandmother’s car was, indeed, parked along the road. I parked behind her, then climbed the rise and squeezed through the fence—for once not ruining my clothes in the process—a silent and worried Pish hustling along behind me as I trotted across the open expanse. If I’d known I’d be hiking, I would not have worn the Louboutin booties, which were likely going to be ruined by the damp dead grass and dirt.

  The camp was deserted, a chill wind blowing the dead weeds and grass to almost flattened stems, and no fire in the pit. I got a sick sense of unease in my belly. I stopped and let my gaze travel over the encampment. “Where is everyone?” I whispered. I knew some had left, but in the wake of the arrests and desertions had everyone vacated the Light and the Way Ministry compound?

  Pish, beside me, said, “I don’t like this . . . it feels too still.”

  The wind shifted, and I heard voices. “That way!” I said, pointing toward the Quonset huts.

  There was a loud report, and an outcry. In a flash I pictured all kinds of things . . . worst of all, my dear Lizzie on the ground spilling her teenaged blood into the yellow weeds and dirt. I ran, scooting between the red and blue Quonset huts, and came out into an open area to find a scenario I had not expected. I skidded to a halt like a cartoon character, digging a trench in the dirt under my heels.

  Lizzie, gun pointed to the sky, was facing off against Nathan and Mariah, the deadly son and mother duo. Nathan had dropped to his knees by a hole in the ground, a shovel still upright in its depths, but Mariah, the more deadly of the two, I now thought, faced Lizzie, hands outspread. She was talking quickly, but Lizzie was shaking her head.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, and Lizzie whirled.

  Big mistake. Nathan lunged from his knees, knocked Lizzie down and grabbed the gun, rolling over on his side and coming up to his feet in a flash. He stood and held the gun out at us, his dirty hands clutching the weapon and shaking as he backed up a few steps. His mother still had her hands raised and spread, but she was now facing her son.

  “What the hell is going on?” I muttered.

  “Why’d ya hafta distract me?” Lizzie howled, shaking her fists in anger as she climbed back to her feet.

  “How was I supposed to know what was going on?”

  “I had the gun, that’s what was going on!”

  “I’m sorry!” I hollered. I took a deep breath as I watched Nathan. Tears streamed down his dirty face, leaving mucky trails as he moved slowly, holding the gun on each of us in turn, but stopping as he pointed it at his mother.

  “Nathan, honey, give me the gun,” Mariah coaxed.

  “No, Nathan, you dolt!” Lizzie shouted as Nathan wavered, the gun drooping in his hand. “A minute ago she was making you dig a grave and was going to put you in it!”

  “What?” I screeched.

  Lizzie batted at me with her free hand. “Shut up!” she hissed.

  “I was not going to put him in it,” Mariah said, her tone scary calm. “It was . . . it was a trick to fool you. Why would I do that to my own son?”

  My mind cleared . . . the two of them had been working in concert before now, or one was covering for the other. Which was it? Was Nathan a killer with a worried mother who covered his tracks, or was she the killer with a desperate son trying to save her? Or . . . was it a weird mother/son team? I took deep breaths, letting them out slowly, glancing at Lizzie, who was clenching and unclenching her fists in anxiety.

  Pish had retreated. He is a wise man; it would have been pointless for him to be trapped here too, at the point of a gun. He could guide Virgil or whoever else he managed to get to help us. With a gun in the equation we needed a professional.

  “She’s off her rocker,” Lizzie muttered, gesturing to Mariah.

  “He doesn’t look a whole lot saner,” I said, watching Nathan, his whole body quivering.

  “Nathan, honey, give me the gun,” Mariah said, her tone a crooning hum. She stretched out her hands and beckoned, curling her fingers in a come to me gesture.

  The guy looked confused. “But Mom, you said—”

  “Never mind,” she said, “Never mind, honey. Just a misunderstanding. Give me the gun and we can work this all out.”

  “Oh, man, this is not good,” Lizzie said, sidling to me and grabbing my hand. “Honest to gawd, two minutes ago she was holding the gun on him and had him digging a freakin’ grave for himself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think Mariah or Nathan killed Glynnis,” Lizzie muttered.

  “Yeah, I got that much. I think they were in on it together,” I said. The two tallish men Lynn had seen carrying a limp girl’s body were actually Nathan and his mother, who was almost as tall as him, and thin and bony. If she was wearing pants and had her hair up, in silhouette she could easily be mistaken as a man in the dark. That’s why Lynn heard a woman’s voice as well. I had been fooled into thinking it was a trio made up of Barney, Voorhees and Mother Esther. “Or one was covering for the other; I’m not sure which yet. What happened?”

  “I just came here to get Alcina and her mom’s stuff. There was no one around . . . I thought. I was collecting up their stuff when Nathan grabbed my arm and hauled me out.”

  “Did he have the gun?”

  “No! He was mad, said I was snooping, threatened me in a kind of vague way. He’s stronger than he looks. He bent my arm behind my back and I couldn’t get away from him.”

  My stomach twisted; he was strong from experience grabbing girls, I thought. “He’s a wiry kind of strong. Easy to underestimate,” I said as I watched the two. Mariah was still trying to talk him into giving her the gun.

  “Then his mother—who knew she was his mother?—came tromping in looking like she was off her meds and told me—us—to get out and march to the back. Nathan looked confused but did as he was told, hauling me with him. Then she drew a gun out of her pocket, threw a shovel at him and told him to dig, so he did. I was sweating! Thought I was a goner. Thought the grave was for me. I couldn’t even make a break for it, afraid I’d get shot in the back.”

  I nodded . . . we were in a clearing. It would have been an easy shot.

  “Then she told him to kneel in front
of the hole. I didn’t know what to think. I still don’t. He sniveled, and asked why, and then you blundered in.”

  “Wait . . . you had the gun when I blundered in.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot the part where I leaped at her, grabbed the gun, shot it in the air and told them both to stand by the hole.” She gave me side-eye. “Then you blundered in, startled me, he lunged and got the freakin’ gun. And now we’re in a fix.”

  “Okay, all right, I’m sorry.” I watched the mother and son duo, transfixed. It was like something I saw on the nature channel once, a cobra and a bunny, one holding the other with a fixed gaze and hypnotic movement. Until the cobra devoured the fluffy bunny. Not that I’m comparing Nathan to a bunny, given that he was the one who had the gun, but Mariah was definitely a cobra. I heard the distant sound of a heavy, throbbing motor; that was Virgil arriving. Pish would guide him to our aid. The small hairs on the back of my neck prickled; I felt like I heard stealthy footsteps, but I wasn’t sure if it was real or my wishful imagination.

  I had to distract them. “Hey, you two . . . so what really happened? Who killed Glynnis?”

  Nathan whirled, the gun drooping, and Mariah made a feint toward it, but he steadied and pointed it back at her.

  “Shut up, you,” Nathan snarled.

  Maybe there were two cobras and no fluffy bunnies.

  “And . . . and the others?”

  “It was him,” Mariah said, glaring at her son. “He’s a pathetic loser and couldn’t get a girl without strangling her.”

  “Shut up . . . just shut up, Mom!” Nathan said, waving the gun around.

  It was the weirdest thing, between them, so typically mother and son, and yet so very twisted. His face was contorted with anger, suffused with red. Mariah, on the other hand, was dead calm, no emotion on her plain face.

  “It was all him,” she said.

  “Glynnis was only the last,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I thought of the bodies found four years ago, and the one of poor Yolanda Perkins, found two and a half years ago. And if I recalled, there was still one missing girl from a couple of years ago, and one missing currently. I gulped. “There are more, going back several years.”