The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) (9 page)

This was probably not a helpful frame of mind.

I knew we were somewhere east of Hayward, but I
was too unfamiliar with the area to know for sure. Justus finally turned off
onto a winding gravel drive. Birch trees and firs lined the track, forming an
umbrella, casting us even deeper into shadow. A few S-turns later and we were
in the midst of a clearing with a grouping of buildings. To the right, a rustic
two-story building hugged the shoreline of a small lake. Thick log beams
supported the long porch roof, and a set of double doors divided the structure
neatly into halves. 

Justus turned into the pitted, gravel lot in front
of the building and the van rumbled to a stop. He and Rachel were quick to grab
my things from the back, anxious to get inside, out of the damp air. I
hesitated, scanning the compound.

Opposite the lot stood a low cinder-block
structure. Behind it and farther up the drive, an ancient post-and-beam barn
squatted against a backdrop of thick woods. A rusty tractor, cannibalized for
parts, stood mute and defenseless in the weeds surrounding the barn. A light
shown from the lower level of the barn, and a breeze carried the clean scent of
hay fighting for dominance over eau de la horse poop. Horse poop won. Whoever
lived in the farmhouse set across from the barn had better like the scent.

The house, two stories also, sat on the same side
of the drive as the hotel-like building. The setting sun filtered through
branches and tree trunks and painted the house with rosy-pink streaks. Behind
the home, glimpses of silvery lake sliced through the gaps between trunks and
scrub brush.

“Hey, Letty. Get a move on. It’s cold.”

I grabbed the remaining bags and scrambled up the
stone sidewalk after Justus and Rachel, passing a wooden sign which announced
“Megiddo.” The name tickled a memory from the readings Tracy had given me.

A bigger-than-life carved statue of what I
originally thought was St. Francis stood next to the sign. Closer inspection
revealed an artist’s rendition in oak of a slenderized version of Father
Abraham, arms spread in hospitality. Wearing robes yet.

The entrance let us into a wide, wood-paneled
hallway with a set of doors halfway down on each side. The room on the left was
open, light spilling into the dim passage. Glancing in, I spied three
serviceable metal desks and mismatched file cabinets.

The end of the hallway opened into an enormous
great room, the area dominated by a massive stone fireplace. Wide banks of
windows ran the length of the wall on either side, unveiling a breathtaking
view of the lakeshore. Impossible for me to ignore, but Rachel and Justus were
immune to the grandeur. Aside from a casual, “This is the gathering room,” they
continued on through the lodge. A stairway angling from the far-right-hand side
of the room rose to the second floor. Another stairway flanked the left.

Justus piled suitcases at the foot of the former,
smirking.

“This is the women’s section,” he said. “Valet
service ends here. I’m not allowed up. Unless I’m invited, of course.” A dimple
danced in his cheek.

Rachel rolled her eyes and shoved past him. “Nice
try, Justus.” Looking at me, she said, “No males are allowed up.
Ever
.”

Ignoring her as easily as he had when she’d been
battling the van door, he disappeared down a hall beyond the stair.

“You’ll have to come back and get the second
load,” Rachel said.

She led the way up, turned right, and walked along
the railing overlooking the first floor. Hanging my head over the side, I
caught a bird’s-eye view of the Gathering Room. Two hallways branched off this
main corridor. Rachel turned at the first and walked into one of four rooms.

“You’ll be sharing, of course.” Rachel dropped my
bags at the foot of a twin bed. “Although why they put you in this room…”

“Is there a problem?”

She deleted the expression of worry from her face.
“No, of course not. I’m sure everything is fine.”

I wouldn’t call it
fine
. The room held two
twin beds, a couple of pint-sized dressers, two nightstands, and a scarred
study table. No windows. Shitty lighting. I had regressed to dorm life.

“Supper starts at five o’clock in the cafeteria
across the parking lot. Why don’t you relax, get settled in? Tomorrow someone
will go over things with you.” 

After hauling the rest of my stuff up the stairs,
I flung myself face down on the bed and had a belated nervous breakdown. Much
shaking. My belly hurt, and a dull, ominous pressure prophesied a raging headache.
The more I tried to ignore it, the worse it got. Fear of my brain squishing
like a grape and leaking out my ears finally forced me up. Probably not a good
idea to be discovered by my new roommate shivering in the fetal position amidst
a puddle of brains. I dug through my purse and, utilizing the typical alcoholic
mentality—if two are good, three are better—dry swallowed three Extra-Strength
Tylenol.

The foraging also uncovered my cell phone, which
needed charging. It had zero service bars, which might explain Beth’s inability
to get through to Jimmy. Sawyer County was notorious for lousy reception. Too
many hills, too few towers. Hopefully, I could find a good spot somewhere that
would pick up a signal. I also hoped I wouldn’t have to climb a tree. Those
days were long past.

The process of elimination identified my side of
the room, so I plugged the charger into the outlet above my nightstand.
Stashing my purse and Bible in the stand and cramming as many clothes as
possible into the dresser took all of ten minutes. There. All settled.

With forty-five minutes left to kill before
supper, a near-to-bursting bladder drew attention to a major drawback of this
living arrangement. Besides poor lighting, rummage sale furniture, and bunking
with an absolute stranger, that is. We appeared to be short one bathroom.

An exploration of the upper level eventually led
to a community bathroom. In addition to four toilets and a long row of chipped
enamel sinks, it boasted three “individual” shower stalls. Flimsy plastic
curtains offered scant privacy, but at least it was a step up from the communal
showers we had all suffered in high school locker rooms.

Nerves strung as tight as a banjo, I tippy-toed up
and down the branching hallways. Found lots of bedrooms. Twelve in all. Most of
them double-occupancy, like mine. None had locks, which, while worrisome from a
personal point of view, made a recon mission possible. Because I wouldn’t know
what was behind the doors if I didn’t look, right? Knowledge is power and all
that. Maybe I would walk in on Maggie packing her bags, and we could just grab
Beth and head out.

Chapter Nine

C
hili smells
greeted me as I crossed the last few yards to the cafeteria. Inside, warmth and
bustling workers created a homey feeling in the otherwise bare environment.

Rows of high-school-cafeteria-style tables with
attached round seats lined the room. A serving hatch, with two women bustling
around the far side, divided the kitchen from the eating area. A scattering of
diners waited for the food. At one table, several women clustered together.
Behind them, a man wearing a dirty Carhartt work coat, sat alone.

At my entrance, everyone froze. Eyes zeroed in on
me, and for a brief moment, it felt like a cheap western. I struggled with the
urge to say “howdy partners” in my best Eastwood drawl. A second later, one of
the women broke into a smile.

“Maranatha, Letty.”

It took a moment for recognition to kick in. The
dental hygienist from Corinth House.

“Maranatha, Myrtle.”

Now the other women smiled. Looking at their
welcoming faces, I almost doubted that moment of flickering wariness that had
flashed across their features. Almost.

I joined them, forced by the construction of the
banquet table to either slide sideways between the seats or straddle them like
a truck driver.

“This is Seth,” Myrtle said, pointing over her
shoulder. He gave a token nod, then looked away. “And that’s his wife, Jala.”
Myrtle indicated one of the cooks. Jala noticed our attention—not difficult
since she had been watching the whole time—and waved cheerily. A sharp contrast
to her husband, both in manner and appearance.

Jala, plump and one of those eternally
cheerful-looking people, appeared several years older than her husband.  Seth,
despite his sullenness, was an attractive man in his midthirties. They made an
odd couple.

Myrtle had introduced the two people who were
farthest away from us. Had she started with Seth because he was male?

“This is Baara,” Myrtle continued.

“We’ve met. At Corinth House, remember?”

The woman smiled at me, making her otherwise plain
face pretty for a moment.

“I remember,” Baara said shyly. She pointed out a
set of doors on the north side of the dining hall. “That’s the laundry. I do
everyone’s clothes. You can bring me yours.”

The woman seated next to Baara introduced herself.
“I’m Martha. You have an interesting name, Letty. It’ll be a shame to change
it.”

“Why would I change it?” I asked.

From behind, Seth cut in. “Time to eat.”

He rose abruptly and walked to where the plates
and silver were stacked next to the serving hatch. The women followed suit,
lining up behind him. Further conversation was lost in the clattering and
milling of hungry people. Taking my chili back to the table, I noticed that
more people, Justus and Rachel among them, had entered the hall. As a man
passed by our table, Martha whispered to me. “That’s Moses… and Cozbi.”

“His wife?” The woman trailing behind her husband
had her head bowed.

Martha nodded. “He’s Abraham’s second-in-command
now that Enoch left.”

Relieved to hear that people could leave, I was
torn between exploring that or learning about Moses. Martha’s eagerness to talk
about the latter tipped the scale.

“What’s he like?”

She was more frank than I expected. “Well, you’ve
seen Cozbi,” she said. “I can’t imagine he’s easy to live with.”

“Does he insist on, um, submissiveness?” I wasn’t
sure if she would answer, but she did.

“He calls it respect. But, listen, I’ve known
Cozbi for years. She’s not as meek as you might think. She’s an out-worker at
the sheriff’s department. I was surprised when Moses sought her out, but it was
a good choice.”

Sought her out? Before I could ask more, the
couple passed our table a second time, and Moses joined the men behind us.
Cozbi sat next to him, quietly arranging her plate and bowing her head for
grace. The men ignored her. 

Throughout the meal, I kept my eyes open for
Maggie and Beth. Martha told me that the dining hall stayed open until
seven-thirty to accommodate members who worked in town. She explained that an
“out-worker” was anyone with a job off church property. Like Baara and Jala,
several people had full-time duties that kept them busy at the community, and
were called “in-workers.”

“Which are you?” I asked.

“Technically, I’m an out-worker. But I work at the
Elect’s restaurant, so it’s not really out in the world.”

“She’s the head waitress,” Baara chimed in. “Maybe
you could work there too. I tried, but I made too many mistakes.”

“A church-owned restaurant?” 

“The Elect owns a nice supper club near the
casino. Several of us work there. We also have a gift shop and a small custom
furniture store, but it slows down this time of year. We get a lot of summer
people in this area and they like that stuff.”

“And our farmers market,” Baara added. “That slows
down too.”

“Do you have a job, Letty?” Martha asked.

“I did, but I had to quit to move here.”

“That happens, but it’s a also sign of dedication.
That will be important to Father. I’m sure you’ll be blessed.”

I had been so focused on the conversation that I
had lost track of the new diners who had entered the hall. The loud crash of a
chili bowl meeting the floor shocked everyone. Chili splattered several feet in
every direction, but the force of the impact had fountained the glop all over
the woman who had dropped it.

Beth.

She stood with arms raised, frozen in midair in
the universal don’t-shoot-me position.  Brown soup dripped off her nose while
beans and meat chunks decorated her hair like parade confetti. The only thing
moving was her mouth, which writhed and grimaced, making little squeaks and
snorts. Knowing my friend as well as I did, I knew her inability had more to do
with trying not cuss like a factory worker than a lack of intelligence. Women
flocked to her side, shrieking like sympathetic geese, swiping at her
ineffectually with paper napkins. Jala and Talitha rushed out of the kitchen
with damp towels. Through it all, the men sat staring blankly at the spectacle.

As Beth was led off to the laundry room, she slid
a baleful glare in my direction.

“Maranatha,” I said, wiggling my fingers in a
little wave.

I
was digging
into my second bowl of chili when Beth and her clean-up crew joined us. The
mishap, along with the departure of the men, created a relaxed atmosphere that
no one was in a hurry to end. I watched Beth closely, ready to follow her lead
if she decided to recognize me. When she introduced herself, I knew. We weren’t
going to admit we knew each other.

Turning my attention back to the group, I took care
to include Beth equally in my curiosity. Coming after her chili catastrophe,
ignoring her might be as suspicious as being too familiar.

I soon discovered that the two kitchen helpers,
Jala and Talitha, were the resident gossips. Along with Martha, they talked
more freely than Rachel, who had joined us, or Baara. Rachel’s appearance lent
a slightly repressive quality to the discussion, at least initially. Baara
simply tried to keep up with the free-flowing conversation. Myrtle, by virtue
of her recent move, didn’t seem as caught up on the inner working of the
church, but was familiar with its members.