Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  The man leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. “Helen tells me you’re interested in phone calls.”

  The sheriff introduced himself. “And you are Dom . . . ?”

  “Just Dom. We don’t use surnames.”

  “We do,” said Baker, his voice devoid of humor.

  There was a long pause. Then,

  “Owens. But he’s long dead. I haven’t been Dominick Owens in years.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Owens.” Baker made a note in a tiny spiral notebook. “Detective Ryan is investigating a homicide in Quebec and has reason to believe the victim knew someone at this address.”

  “Quebec?” Dom’s eyes widened, revealing tiny white creases in his tan skin. “Canada?”

  “Calls were made to this number from a home in St-Jovite,” said Ryan. “That’s a village in the Laurentian Mountains north of Montreal.”

  Dom listened, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Does the name Patrice Simonnet mean anything to you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Heidi Schneider?”

  More head shaking. “I’m sorry.” Dom smiled and gave a light shrug. “I told you. We don’t use last names. And members often change their given names. In the group one is free to choose whatever name one likes.”

  “What is the name of your group?”

  “Names. Labels. Titles. The Church of Christ. The People’s Temple. The Righteous Path. Such egomania. We choose not to use one.”

  “How long has your group lived here, Mr. Owens?” Ryan.

  “Please call me Dom.”

  Ryan waited.

  “Almost eight years.”

  “Were you here last summer and fall?”

  “On and off. I was traveling quite a bit.”

  Ryan took a snapshot from his pocket and placed it on the table.

  “We’re trying to track the whereabouts of this young woman.”

  Dom leaned forward and examined the photo, his fingers smoothing the edges. They were long and slender, with tufts of golden hair between the knuckles.

  “Is she the one that was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  “Brian Gilbert.”

  Dom studied the faces a long time. When he looked up his eyes had an expression I couldn’t read.

  “I wish I could help you. Really, I do. Perhaps I could ask at this evening’s experiential session. That’s when we encourage self-exploration and movement toward inner awareness. It would be an appropriate setting.”

  Ryan’s face was rigid as his eyes held Dom’s.

  “I’m not in a ministerial mood, Mr. Owens, and I’m not particularly concerned with what you consider appropriate times. Here’s chapter and verse. I know calls were made to this number from the house where Heidi Schneider was murdered. I know the victim was in Beaufort last summer. I’m going to find the connection.”

  “Yes, of course. How terrible. It is this kind of violence that causes us to live as we do.”

  He closed his eyes, as though seeking holy guidance, then opened them and gazed intently at each of us.

  “Let me explain. We grow our own vegetables, raise chickens for eggs, we fish, and gather mollusks. Some members work in town and contribute wages. We have a set of beliefs that forces us to reject society, but we wish no harm to others. We live simply and quietly.”

  He took a long breath.

  “While we have a core of longtime members, there are many that come and go. Our lifestyle is not for everyone. It’s possible your young woman visited with us, perhaps during one of my absences. You have my word. I will speak to the others,” said Dom.

  “Yes,” said Ryan. “So will I.”

  “Of course. And please let me know if there is anything else that I can do.”

  At that moment a young woman burst through the screen door, a toddler on her hip. She was laughing and tickling the child. He giggled and batted at her with pudgy fingers.

  Malachy’s pale little hands skittered across my mind.

  When she saw us, the woman hunched and gave a grimace.

  “Oops. Sorry.” She laughed. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” The toddler thumped her head, and she scratched a finger on his stomach. He squealed and kicked his legs.

  “Come in, Kathryn,” said Dom. “I think we’re finished here.”

  He looked a question at Baker and Ryan. The sheriff retrieved his hat and we all rose.

  The child turned toward Dom’s voice, spotted him, and began to wriggle. When Kathryn set him down, he teetered forward with outstretched arms, and Dom bent to scoop him up. His arms looked milky white around Dom’s sun-darkened neck.

  Kathryn joined us.

  “How old is your baby?” I asked.

  “Fourteen months. Aren’t you, Carlie?” She extended a finger and Carlie grabbed for it, then held his arms out toward her. Dom returned the baby to its mother.

  “Excuse us,” Kathryn said. “He needs a nappy change.”

  “Before you go, may I ask you one question?” Ryan produced the photo. “Do you know either of these people?”

  Kathryn studied the snapshot, holding it beyond Carlie’s reach. I watched Dom’s face. His expression never changed.

  Kathryn shook her head, then handed back the photo. “No. Sorry.” She fanned the air and wrinkled her nose. “Gotta go.”

  “The woman was pregnant,” Ryan offered.

  “Sorry,” said Kathryn.

  “He’s a beautiful baby,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She smiled and disappeared into the back of the house.

  Dom looked at his watch.

  “We’ll be in touch,” said Baker.

  “Yes. Good. And good luck.”

  * * *

  Back in the car, we sat and studied the property. I’d cracked the passenger-side window, and mist blew in and settled on my face. The flash of Malachy had depressed me, and the damp, gray weather mirrored my mood perfectly.

  I scanned the road in both directions, then looked again at the houses. I could see people working in a garden behind the bungalow. Seed packets stuck on sticks identified the contents of each patch. Otherwise, there were no signs of life.

  “What do you think?” I asked no one in particular.

  “If they’ve been here eight years they’ve kept a very low profile,” said Baker. “I haven’t heard a thing about them.”

  We watched Helen leave the green house and walk to one of the trailers.

  “But they’re about to be discovered,” he added, reaching for the ignition.

  For several miles, no one spoke. We were crossing the bridge into Beaufort when Ryan broke the silence.

  “There’s got to be a link. It can’t be coincidence.”

  “Coincidences do happen,” said Baker.

  “Yes.”

  “One thing bothers me,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Heidi quit going to the clinic here in her sixth month. Her parents said she showed up in Texas in late August. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “But the phone calls continued to the number here until December.”

  “Yes,” said Ryan. “That’s a problem.”

  THE MIST CHANGED TO RAIN AS WE DROVE TO THE Beaufort-Jasper Comprehensive Health Clinic. It turned the tree trunks dark and shiny and painted a sheen on the blacktop. When I cracked the window I could smell wet grass and earth.

  We located the doctor with whom Ryan had spoken, and he showed her the photo. She thought she recognized Heidi as the patient she’d treated the previous summer, but couldn’t be sure. The pregnancy was normal. She’d written the standard prenatal prescriptions. Beyond that, she could tell us nothing. She had no recollection of Brian.

  At noon Sheriff Baker left us to handle a domestic situation on Lady’s Island. We agreed to meet at his office at six, by which time he hoped to have information on the Adler Lyons property.

  Ryan and I stopped for barbecue at Sgt. W
hite’s Diner, then spent the afternoon showing Heidi’s snapshot around town, and asking about the commune on Adler Lyons Road.

  By four o’clock we knew two things: No one had heard of Dom Owens or his followers. No one remembered Heidi Schneider or Brian Gilbert.

  We sat in Ryan’s rental car and stared up Bay Street. On my right customers entered and left the Palmetto Federal Banking Center. I looked across to the stores we’d just canvassed. The Cat’s Meow. Stones and Bones. In High Cotton. Yes. Beaufort had embraced the world of tourism.

  The rain had stopped but the sky was still dark and heavy. I felt tired and discouraged, and no longer sure about the Beaufort–St-Jovite connection.

  Outside Lipsitz Department Store a man with greased hair and a face like bread dough waved a Bible and screamed about Jesus. March was the off season for sidewalk salvation, so he had the stage to himself.

  Sam had told me about his war with the street preachers. For twenty years they’d been coming to Beaufort, descending on the city like pilgrims on hajj. In 1993 His Honor had the Reverend Isaac Abernathy arrested for harassing women in shorts, calling them whores and bellowing about eternal damnation. Suits were filed against the mayor and the city, and the ACLU jumped to the defense of the evangelists, the issue being one of First Amendment rights. The case was pending review by the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals in Richmond, and the preachers still came.

  I listened to the man rant about Satan and heathens and Jews, and felt tiny hairs rise on the back of my neck. I resent those who see themselves as God’s spokesmen and next of kin, and am disturbed by people interpreting the Gospel to push a political agenda.

  “What do you think of Southern civilization?” I asked Ryan, my eyes never leaving the preacher.

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “Well, well. Stealing material from Gandhi,” I said, turning to him in surprise. It was one of my favorite Gandhi quotes.

  “Some homicide detectives can read.” There was an edge to his voice.

  Guilty, Brennan. Apparently the reverend isn’t the only one harboring cultural stereotypes.

  I watched an old woman circle wide to avoid the preacher, and wondered what sort of salvation Dom Owens promised his followers. I checked my watch.

  “We’re moving toward the dinner hour,” I said.

  “Could be a good time to catch folks mixing up tofu burgers.”

  “We can’t meet Baker for another ninety minutes.”

  “You up for a surprise visit, skipper?”

  “Beats sitting here.”

  Ryan was reaching for the ignition when his hand stopped. I followed his gaze and saw Kathryn coming up the sidewalk, Carlie on her back. An older woman with long, dark braids walked beside her. The damp breeze blew their skirts backward, molding fabric to hips and legs. They paused and Kathryn’s companion spoke to the preacher, then the pair continued in our direction.

  Ryan and I exchanged glances, then got out and crossed to the women. They stopped speaking when we approached, and Kathryn smiled at me.

  “How’s it going?” she asked, brushing back a tangle of curls.

  “Not so good,” I said.

  “No luck finding your missing girl?”

  “No one remembers her. I find that odd, since she spent at least three months here.”

  I watched for a reaction, but her expression didn’t change.

  “Where did you ask?” Carlie stirred and Kathryn reached over her shoulder to adjust his carrier.

  “Shops, food stores, pharmacies, gas stations, restaurants, the library. We even tried Boombears.”

  “Yeah. That’s a cool idea. If she was expecting she might have gone to a toy store.”

  The baby whimpered, then raised his arms and arched backward, pressing his feet against his mother’s back.

  “Guess who’s up?” said Kathryn, reaching back to calm her son. “And no one knew her from that picture?”

  “No one.”

  Carlie’s whimpers grew more strident, and the older woman moved behind Kathryn and slid the baby from the carrier.

  “Oh, sorry. This is El.” Kathryn indicated her companion.

  Ryan and I introduced ourselves. El nodded, but said nothing as she tried to calm Carlie.

  “Could we buy you ladies a Coke or a cup of coffee?” Ryan asked.

  “Nah. That stuff will mess up your genetic potential.” Kathryn crinkled her nose, then broke into a smile. “But I could go for juice. So could Carlie.” She rolled her eyes and reached for her baby’s hand. “He can be a handful when he’s not happy. Dom’s not picking us up for another forty minutes, right, El?”

  “We should wait for Dom.” The woman spoke so softly I could hardly make out her words.

  “Oh, El, you know he’ll be late. Let’s get some juice and sit outside. I don’t want to ride back with Carlie fussing all the way.”

  El opened her mouth, but before she could speak Carlie twisted and let out a wail.

  “Juice,” said Kathryn, taking the baby and bouncing him on her hip. “Blackstone’s has lots of choices. I’ve seen their menu in the window.”

  We entered the deli and I ordered a Diet Coke. The others asked for juice, then we took our drinks to an outside bench. Kathryn pulled a small blanket from her shoulder bag, spread it at her feet, and set Carlie on it. Then she dug out bottled water and a small yellow mug. The cup had a round bottom and a removable cover with a drinking spout. She filled it halfway with her Very Berry, added water, and handed it to Carlie. He made a two-handed grab and started sucking on the spout. I watched, remembering, and the sensation I’d had on the island washed over me again.

  I felt out of sync with the world. The bodies on Murtry. Thoughts of infant Katy. Ryan in Beaufort, with his gun and badge and Nova Scotia speech. The world seemed strange around me, the space in which I moved transported from another place or time, yet somehow present and jarringly real.

  “Tell me about your group,” I said, forcing my thoughts back to the moment.

  El looked at me but didn’t speak.

  “What do you want to know?” Kathryn asked.

  “What is it you believe in?”

  “Knowing our own minds and bodies. Keeping our cosmic and molecular energy clear.”

  “What is it you do?”

  “Do?” The question seemed to puzzle her. “We grow our own food, and we don’t eat anything polluting.” She gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. As I listened to her, I thought of Harry. Purification through diet. “. . . we study. We work. We sing and play games. Sometimes we have lectures. Dom is incredibly smart. He’s completely clear—”

  El tapped her on the arm and pointed to Carlie’s cup. Kathryn retrieved it, wiped the spout on her skirt, and held it out to her son. The baby grabbed the mug and pounded it on his mother’s foot.

  “How long have you lived with the group?”

  “Nine years.”

  “How old are you?” I couldn’t keep the amazement out of my voice.

  “Seventeen. My parents joined when I was eight.”

  “And before that?”

  She bent and redirected the cup to Carlie’s mouth. “I remember I cried a lot. I was alone a lot. I was always sick. My parents fought all the time.”

  “And?”

  “When they joined the group we underwent a transformation. Through purification.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “The point of life is not happiness.” El spoke for the first time. Her voice was deep and whispery, with just the trace of an accent I couldn’t place.

  “What is?”

  “Peace and health and harmony.”

  “Can’t that be attained without withdrawing from society?”

  “We think not.” Her face was bronzed and deeply lined, her eyes the color of mahogany. “In society, too many things divert us. Drugs. Television. Possessions. Interpersonal greed. Our own beliefs stand in the way.”

  “El says things a lot better than I do,” said Ka
thryn.

  “But why the commune?” asked Ryan. “Why not blow it all off and join an order?”

  Kathryn gave El a “take it away” gesture.

  “The universe is one organic whole composed of many interdependent elements. Every part is inseparable from and interacts with every other part. While we live apart, our group is a microcosm of that reality.”

  “Would you care to explain that?” Ryan.

  “By living apart from the world we reject the slaughterhouses and chemical plants and oil refineries, the beer cans, and the tire heaps, and the raw sewage. By living together as a group we support each other, we feed each other both spiritually and physically.”

  “All for one.”

  El gave him a brief smile. “All the old myths have to be eliminated before true consciousness is possible.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even his?” Ryan tipped his head in the direction of the preacher.

  “All of them.”

  I circled the conversation back.

  “Kathryn, if you wanted information on someone, where would you ask?”

  “Look,” she said, smiling, “you’re not going to find her.” She retrieved Carlie’s cup again. “She’s probably on the Riviera right now, smearing sunblock on her babies.”

  I looked at her a long time. She didn’t know. Dom hadn’t told her. She’d missed the introductions and had no idea why we were asking about Heidi and Brian. I took a deep breath.

  “Heidi Schneider is dead, Kathryn. So is Brian Gilbert.”

  She looked at me as if I were crazy.

  “Dead? She can’t be dead.”

  “Kathryn!” El’s voice was sharp.

  Kathryn ignored her.

  “I mean, she’s so young. And she’s pregnant. Or was.” Her voice was plaintive, like a child’s.

  “They were murdered less than three weeks ago.”

  “You’re not here to take her home?” Her eyes shifted from Ryan to me. I could see tiny yellow flecks in the green irises. “You’re not her parents?”

  “No.”

  “They’re dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her babies?”

  I nodded.

  Her hand went to her mouth, then fluttered to her lap, like a butterfly unsure where to light. Carlie tugged her skirt, and the hand dropped to stroke his head.