The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) (7 page)

“You said yourself that I should have been with
Beth to begin with. And you were right. What else can we do?”  

“I don’t know. I’ve been considering going to the
police.”

My heart jumped with hope. Nothing would give me
more pleasure than to back out and let the professionals handle this mess. But
it wouldn’t work.

“What are you going to tell them, Jimmy? The part
about your wife leaving, because she was afraid of you or the part about her
joining the group voluntarily?”

Jimmy’s sigh rattled through the phone. “I see
your point,” he said. “But I still think you should reconsider your involvement
in this. Despite what I said before, I don’t think you should put yourself in
this.”

What had changed Jimmy’s mind in just three days?
Beth was still missing, and Jimmy still hadn’t heard from her. Of course, that
didn’t mean he hadn’t heard from
someone
.

“Jimmy, have you talked to Eli recently?”

Jimmy’s turn to pause. “He’s just worried about
you. There were some things I didn’t understand about your situation.”

I sat there fuming. My situation? As in—she’s too
weak? vulnerable? crazy? to deal with this problem?—and if Eli was talking to
Jimmy, why wouldn’t he talk to me? Damn these men, anyhow.

“I don’t need to be protected, Jimmy. I can do
that myself. If my best friend is in trouble, I’m not going to sit around with
my thumb up my butt just to make you and Eli feel better.”

“Letty—”

“I have to get ready for tonight, Jim. I’ll call
you later.” I hung up. Pretty forceful for a recovering people pleaser.

Chapter Seven

I
was still
pissed when I pulled up to Corinth House, but since I was about five minutes
early, I sat with the car running. The house was a big old rambling structure
on a double lot. The detached single car garage had enough boards missing that
in spots you could see the other side. It leaned at the same tilt my Uncle
Stanley used to have after a couple of drinks and looked  just as shaky.

Thankfully, the house was in much better shape. The
stray shingles littering the otherwise-well-kept lawn told me it had recently
been reshingled, and a vegetable garden on the side of the house sprouted
festive-looking pumpkins and gourds.

Electrical repairs must have still been on the
“to-do” list because when I tried the doorbell it gave a tired buzz. Not sure
if it would be heard, I lifted my hand to knock and almost took the nose off
the woman who opened the door. She gave a little squeak and jumped back.

“Oh, geez. Are you okay?” Nice. I had nearly
assaulted a cult member. Not an auspicious beginning.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Won’t you come in?”

She didn’t look fine. She looked pissed.

I entered, apologizing profusely. She kept
repeating that apologies weren’t necessary while wearing the same pissed
expression. It didn’t look like we would ever be besties. The clattering of
dishes and silverware from deep within the house signaled supper preparations,
but I waited for my greeter to escort me. She still hadn’t told me her name.

She led the way down a dim hallway at the end of
which was a door. Light seeped through the gaps in the aged doorjamb. The
kitchen sounds grew louder, identifying the room before the door even opened.

Stepping into the kitchen was like stepping back
into one of the few happy childhood memories I had. Before my father’s drinking
got too bad for even the worst of our hard-drinking family, my folks used to
host Thanksgiving at our house. At the time, we lived in an old farmhouse with
plenty of space for kids to chase each other around without getting underfoot.
Gender-divided holidays had the women bustling around the kitchen, talking
about the men while the men sprawled across the living room or the front porch,
smoking and talking about the crops. When my dad was forced out of farming, we
moved into town, thereby forfeiting the Thanksgiving host position to my Aunt
Carol.

I pulled out of my reverie in time to notice the
crying woman from the Peace meeting, who had gotten there ahead of me. I
struggled mentally for her name before remembering. Cheryl. I nodded to her,
but she averted her head. If Rachel hadn’t smiled at me from where she stood
cooking at the stove, I might have given up my friendship badge for life. She
lifted the lid to stir a pot, releasing a steamy fog of beefy good smells.

The spell broken, a woman stepped forward and
warmly shook my hand. Unlike the others, she wore pants and an eye-burning,
kelly-green smock emblazoned with cartoon teeth dancing cheek-to-cheek with
bright red toothbrushes. I hoped she changed clothes before supper. A white
name tag pinned over her left breast announced “Hi! I’m your dental hygienist
Myrtle.” 

Tuning in on the conversation finally helped me
pick up the door opener’s name. In sharp contrast to her dress and manner, she
had the unlikely name Jazzy. Unlike Rachel, the long-skirt-and-no-makeup uniform
didn’t sit well on her. Rather than offering an old-fashioned charm, she looked
drab and resentful. Continuing to ignore me, she scooped up a stack of bowls
and disappeared through a side door that presumably led to the dining room. I
caught an exchange of glances between Rachel and Myrtle after the door swung
shut behind her, but didn’t know them well enough to decipher it. It seemed as
if Jazzy’s attitude might be congenital, not just a result of my taking a swipe
at her nose.

Rachel sighed and turned to Cheryl. Like me,
Cheryl had worn a skirt. However, where I had merely toned down my makeup, she
had eliminated it entirely. Of course, if she planned to bawl her eyes out like
the other night, perhaps it was a strategic decision. 

Just as Rachel pulled two loaf pans full of bread
from the oven, an outside door banged open, letting in a swirl of cold air and
a fuzzy, pink yeti. The creature was swaddled in enough faux fur to keep her
warm in a Siberian blizzard. Even her boots, which she was enthusiastically
stomping despite the utter lack of snow, had fuchsia tassels. 

It soon became obvious that the young woman had
gotten her coat zipper stuck in the multiple scarves that swathed her neck, and
she switched from happy humming to frustrated grunts.

“Wait, Baara, I’m coming.” Rachel crossed the
kitchen to help. As layers peeled off, they revealed a young woman in her
twenties with a head covered in soft, blond curls.

“Oh!” Baara exclaimed when she noticed Cheryl and
me. “I forgot. We have visitors tonight.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

“Nice to meet you too.” Her speech was thick but
spoken with careful precision. The social niceties over, she padded over to a
large cookie jar shaped like a beehive and rattled the top off.

“No cookies,” Rachel called out from the stove.
“Five minutes until supper.”

“Aw.” Baara replaced the ceramic top and ambled
into the front hall. Then she hung a left at a side door, and the sound of
splashing water and more humming drifted out. 

Rachel turned away from the stove and flashed me
the first real smile I had seen from her. She loaded up a large serving tray
while I grabbed the bread baskets. Cheryl, stranded in the center of the
kitchen, looked lost. I handed her the bread and took the serving tray from
Rachel.

Rachel hoisted up a handmade-ceramic soup tureen
nearly the size of a five-gallon bucket and led us into the dining room. The
rectangular room had a bay window overlooking the yard and held a long table
with an eclectic assortment of chairs arranged around it. An ancient serving
buffet rested against the wall with a spray of autumn flowers in a chipped,
blue ewer. A large wooden serving bowl of salad, pitchers of water, and
mismatched china had already been laid out.

Rachel heaved the tureen to the center of the
table and motioned us all to sit. I noticed the others had waited for
permission before taking their places. Baara bumbled in, taking a seat between
Rachel and myself, which put her across the table from Cheryl.

“I like stew.” Baara beamed at us.

“I certainly hope so. We have enough to feed an
army,” Rachel said. She reached out to the people on either side. Clasping
hands, we said grace. As the dishes passed, I wondered who would initiate the
conversation or if we were expected to remain mute like monks. I tossed up a
fervent prayer for conversation, because the sounds of people chewing and
swallowing made my skin crawl. Literally. I once had gotten off a school bus
six miles from home because the cheerleader two seats behind me was slobbering
on a hunk of Bubble Yum.

Luckily for me, talking was allowed. Rachel set
the tone by focusing the attention on Cheryl and me.

“What did you think of the Living Peace class?”

“I thought Dr. Abe was wonderful,” Cheryl said,
smiling for the first time that evening. “He really made me think, you know?
I’ve been so focused on my own problems that I haven’t been paying attention to
what’s really important.”

“Satan delights in selfish behavior. He’s very
good about keeping our focus on ourselves rather than on the spiritual warfare
that is going on all around us. Of course, it helps to have friends who are
aware of these dangers.”

It felt weird to be talking about Satan at the
supper table. Or anywhere, for that matter. I couldn’t even watch
The
Exorcist
without getting a serious case of the spooks. Dropping the Prince
of Darkness into casual conversation was a new thing for me.

However, I wasn’t so spooked that I didn’t notice
Rachel’s implication that Cheryl’s concerns were both selfish and naive and was
also coupled with an appeal to align with the group for Cheryl’s own good. Very
smooth.

“What kind of problems are you having, Cheryl?” I
said.

A natural response to Cheryl’s concerns. Right?
Was it my fault it pulled attention away from Rachel’s agenda?

“How much time do you have?” Cheryl fake laughed.
“I guess the worst thing right now has been losing my job. Now I’m being
evicted too. I’m probably going to end up moving back to Ohio to live with my
mom.”

A speculative look passed from Rachel to Myrtle.
Rachel nodded.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Myrtle said
to Cheryl. “If you would have come to us even a week from now, we wouldn’t be
able to help you.”

“Help me?” Cheryl asked.

I was more interested in “a week from now.”

“Our church is economizing a bit,” Rachel said.
“Father Abraham is temporarily closing Corinth House. It will save a great deal
on heating costs. Those who are currently living here are moving with us to the
Elect’s main campus.”

“How can that help me?” Cheryl pursued.

This time Myrtle, at the other end of the table,
answered. Cheryl’s head was swiveling back and forth like we were at a tennis
match.

“We have a great deal of room there. The best part
is Dr. Abe would personally instruct you, as he does all of us. We really
benefit from being a part of a loving community of believers. And the other
thing is our church is involved in several commercial ventures, so there would
be a way for you to earn your own way. If you’re interested, we would welcome
you to join us.”

“After all,” Rachel added. “We wouldn’t want to
abandon you so early in your search.”

I noticed the women had slipped into calling the
church leader Father or Father Abraham, instead of Dr. Abe.

Cheryl sat in stunned silence as the invitation
sank in. The group beamed at her, their new best friend. So why hadn’t they
asked me, too? It was too late for me to pull out a no-job-and-I’m-evicted
story, so I went the whiny, nobody-loves-me route.

Lurching up from my chair, I covered my face with
my napkin, let out a sob, and stumbled from the room. I didn’t run fast though.
No use playing too hard to get.

Rachel caught up with me on the front porch. We
sat on the stoop, and I let myself sink into a panic attack. Not difficult. I
was always one short gasp away from an episode anyway, and the tension of the
night was a perfect catalyst. Rachel waited quietly, responding in much the
same way as she had at the meeting—calm, gentle, caring.

I sat through the heart-thumping, sweating,
shaking, suffocating-dizziness cycle, but instead of feeling embarrassed, I was
kind of tickled with myself. I didn’t suppose it could be called improvisation
since technically I was equipped with a built-in freak-out mechanism, but it
was definitely Academy Award stuff. Tracy was right; I could use this to my
advantage.

After a few minutes, I pulled myself together and
smiled gratefully at Rachel. She returned the smile and rubbed my back.

“What just happened?” she asked.

“I feel so stupid. I’m not sure what happened. I
guess… when I heard everyone asking Cheryl to join the church…” I let my voice
trail off.

Rachel went where I had led. “You felt left out?”

“I guess,” I admitted, ducking my head as if
ashamed. Okay, not as much Academy Award potential here, but I lost my panic
prop. Luckily, Rachel was so focused on closing the deal that she didn’t pick
up on it. The church was getting two for the price of one tonight.

“Letty, you don’t have to be embarrassed. That’s
the beauty of the Elect. Father recognizes that everyone has weaknesses. If
you’re looking for a place to belong, we would be honored to help you.”

“But if you’re closing up Corinth House, how will
we stay in touch? Where exactly is the main campus, anyway?”

“You have a couple of choices. For one, you can
continue coming to our lecture series. I would be able to meet with you there.
Or, if you’re ready to make a
real
difference in your life, there are
other steps you can take.”