by Joanne Pence
He wanted the facts that she held so closely. “I need to know about it, Moira. All of it. Before anyone else is killed.”
She shook her head, her hands covering her eyes.
He pressed on. “Tell me about Jeffers. His wife is missing and might be dead. What brought them here? Do you know?”
“I’m not sure.” He could tell she was lying, hesitant. Was she afraid to tell him? Or was the story she would tell too painful? He waited and finally the hesitancy passed.
“Finley met Greg several years ago at an ADOBE convention. That’s Atlantis, Dolphins, and Out of Body Experiences. Greg had, even then, some idea of becoming a guru, or whatever it is he calls it. Anyway, it all boils down to the same thing—a charlatan. He planned to get rich by feasting off the disaffected, the unhappy. Finley cultivated a friendship with him. A blood brother, so to speak.”
Her chuckle was directed inward, and he could see that there was much more to this story than her words revealed. “I understand you and Jeffers knew each other long ago. Was it before this ADOBE meeting?”
“Yes. Years earlier. Finley didn’t meet Greg back then, though.”
“I see. Go on,” he urged.
With a sigh, she came back to the present and her story. “Finley met a wealthy heiress named Patricia Mannington. She was plain, lonely, and had been taught all her life that men wanted only one thing from her—her money. She was a nervous woman, fragile, and very wary of Finley. He saw that if he tried to date her himself, he’d simply scare her off. He had a better idea.”
“Involving Greg Jeffers, I take it?”
She nodded. “Finley looked up his old ADOBE friend, told him about the inn he hoped to buy someday, and went on to tell Greg that Finley believed he would be perfect as a homegrown Maharishi Yogi—all he needed was the financing to get his face, body, and ideas before the public, and someplace to call his ashram.”
She began to play with her braid, twisting it, her hands shaking and her manner agitated as she continued talking. “Next, Finley began to tell Greg all about the very straight-laced, innocent woman he knew, and how no man had ever been able to penetrate her self-control and wariness of being married for her money. At the same time, Finley worked on Patricia, telling her of the aesthetic young man who had no interest in anything material in this life. A man who thought only of spiritual things. He talked about them to each other for over three months, telling Greg that Patricia refused to meet him because he was a man and she was afraid of his ‘baser instincts,’ and telling Patricia that Greg refused to meet her because she was a woman who might divert his mind from pure, lofty, and spiritual thoughts.”
“Very clever,” Paavo said, watching Moira’s closed, guarded expression as she told this story.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” She took a moment before she continued. “When they met, I learned from Finley that Greg held himself back, scarcely looking at her, so all Patricia saw was a wonderfully handsome, virile man, afraid of her as a woman. No one had ever paid her such a compliment before. She fell head over heels in love. Greg played his role so well that in the end Patricia, or “Patsy” as he lovingly called her—the height of irony—proposed to him. She convinced him that through the sanctity of marriage their relationship would continue to be pure and spiritual, even though their flesh would be as one. He fell on his knees and thanked her.”
“I wouldn’t think he could be that good an actor.”
“There you’re wrong. He’s an excellent actor.” Her words were bitter.
“So Patsy bought Greg his ashram,” Paavo said. He could see the pale, desperate woman giving Running Spirit Jeffers whatever he wanted.
“What actually happened was that Greg tried to leave her out of it. He cut a deal with Finley, giving Finley money to put into this inn in exchange for Finley’s written promise that the inn could be used and advertised as Greg’s ashram. Greg believed he was being terribly clever, duping Finley into giving away control of the whole inn for only a small portion of what it would cost if he owned it.”
“Sounds good,” Paavo admitted.
“Too good. Apparently Greg was madder than hell when Patsy pointed out that all he had for his money was a piece of paper that was worth about two cents. It was a contract a first-year law student could break, and Finley was a lot cleverer than many bar exam graduates. Patsy called Finley on it, only to learn that Greg wasn’t the only investor, and that the Baymans planned to use Bethel as the inn’s main attraction.”
Paavo had to laugh.
“Don’t laugh yet,” Moira said. “You don’t know the half of it. After talking to Finley, Patsy got on the phone and called the Baymans, demanding that they pull out of the inn. That was the first they’d heard of the Jefferses. When the two couples approached Finley, he let two more bombshells drop—namely, Reginald Vane and Chelsea Worthington.”
“But Martin Bayman’s no Greg Jeffers,” Paavo said. “He wouldn’t just hand over thousands of dollars to Finley for promises on a piece of paper.”
“Apparently Martin had been in charge of Bethel’s finances all these years, but when the economy began to turn sour, along with her career, he took bigger and bigger chances, until he lost everything. The only way to get money was to begin again, to try to make Bethel the star she never quite became the first time around. For whatever reason, he turned to the inn. No bank would lend him money, so he couldn’t be a mortgagee. Instead, he got money somewhere to buy a share of the inn directly from Finley, believing he could maneuver Finley into running it the way he said. But he couldn’t.”
“And Vane?”
“Apparently, as a single man with a job as an electrical engineer, he was able to save a lot of money. Investing in the inn was the way he wanted to finally enjoy some of the money he’d worked for all these years.”
“Chelsea?”
“Her parents apparently believe getting her out of their lives is worth any amount of money.”
“It sounds like Finley did his homework well. What brought everyone here?”
“Patsy did. She got on the phone and called them all and asked that they meet here. Greg and Bethel were the two most obviously in conflict, as far as which would be the inn’s main attraction. But Reginald, it turns out, doesn’t want anyone here disturbing the spirits. Only Chelsea seemed to want the place to be an inn, just as Finley proposed.”
Paavo frowned. “That’s suspicious in itself.”
For the first time, Moira smiled. “I agree.”
“And you,” Paavo said. “Knowing all this was going on, how did you cope? Why did you stay here?”
Her face drained of what little color it had. “Sometimes we don’t have choices, Inspector.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head.
“Did he do something to you? Hurt you?”
“No one cares about that.”
“I suspect more care than you imagine.”
She reached out as if to touch his hand, but one glance at him and her hand stilled, then rested on the table near his. “Thank you. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard anyone say anything like that to me.”
“Oh!” Angie stood in the doorway, her gaze jumping from one to the other. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt…I was just…lunch…”
Paavo stood. “We were talking about Finley.”
Angie’s eyes were wide. “Yes. Of course.” She turned and ran down the hall.
“Pardon me,” Paavo said to Moira, hurrying after Angie.
She was already at the stairs when he reached the hallway. “Wait a minute!”
She didn’t.
He took the stairs two at a time, grabbing her elbow as she reached their room; but she pulled herself free.
Just before she could shut the door, he put his foot in the doorway. “Angelina, will you listen?” He pushed the door open and entered.
“I’d like to be alone,” she announced. He could feel how hurt she was.
“Is that so?
” He pushed the door shut and circled around her.
“Please, Paavo, just go.” She held her ground. “You don’t seem to have much to say to me, anyway. Not nearly as much as you have to say to Miss Tay.”
“And just what have I said to Miss Tay that has caused this outburst?”
She turned her back to him; her voice was low. “I’m sure that’s between the two of you.”
He stepped in front of her. “We were talking about her and her brother.”
One eyebrow rose and she folded her arms. “Oh? And that caused you two to hold hands?”
“No need for sarcasm, Angie. Besides, we weren’t holding hands. Hers was next to mine.”
Angie’s look was long, low, and seething. “Same difference.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You weren’t exactly pulling away.”
He took hold of her arms. “You walked in on the middle of something, made assumptions about it, and now you’re getting upset for no reason.”
“Who’s upset?” She pushed him away.
“You are.” He stepped closer.
She put her hands against his chest, stopping him. “I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at her ever since we arrived. What is it with you? I know you have some kind of special feelings for her, but I don’t know what and I don’t know why. Do you deny it?”
“Special what?” He just stared at her. How could she suggest such a thing?
“Don’t tell me you knew her in a past life. I don’t believe in reincarnation, either, despite what everyone else here says!”
“You don’t get it, do you, Angie?” Here he’d been acting like a lovesick schoolboy around her, leaving his job, home, everything familiar, to be with her. Now he just wanted to get to the bottom of what was going on around here, but all she saw was him talking to another woman.
“This isn’t about me, Paavo. There’s more here than you’re telling me. I know you. I can feel it.”
“Intuition, Angie? Next time—if there is one—trust me.” With that, he left.
23
Angie lined up mushrooms, celery, cucumber, spinach, leeks, and onions on the kitchen counter. This inn menu was supposed to be vegetarian. Fine. That’s what she’d cook. Nothing else she cooked was appreciated. She wasn’t appreciated. Not by anyone.
But she wasn’t about to cook another Finley concoction. That was too much a case of cutting off your nose to spite your face—or in this case, eating soybeans to spite your stomach. Instead, she’d cook the vegetables à la Grecque, simmering them in a court bouillon of water, olive oil, lemon juice, parsley, thyme, fennel, and peppercorns, letting the bouillon boil down, then pouring it over the vegetables. She’d then serve them cold as part of a buffet with some risotto and onion soup.
She started slicing the onions. As she sliced and diced the vegetables, her thoughts strayed to the people here. Paavo the onion head. Moira the mushroom. Bethel was like a celery stalk; Chelsea most definitely a cucumber; Reginald, spinach; and Martin, leeks. But Running Spirit? What was he? A fat yellow squash came to mind for some reason.
Darn, she didn’t have any.
She didn’t have much of anything, in fact. Her supply of food was dwindling fast. If they didn’t get off this damned hill soon, she’d be reduced to cooking the way the peasants did in The Good Earth, where they counted how many grains of rice each person was given to eat.
She continued to slice the onions, her eyes watering more with each stroke of the knife. She let the tears flow. No one here even considered the fact that it was hard work to cook for all these people. Granted, the dishes she came up with were fairly easy, but the quantity was enormous, and that alone made cooking time-consuming. Did anyone care? No. She’d tried to make light of this mess, but she couldn’t any longer. Everything she’d tried, or planned, had gone inside out and backwards.
All she wanted to do was show Paavo that they could be together day in and day out in harmony and happiness. So what happens? She brings him to a hill with a bunch of homicidal lunatics. He’s off investigating, and for all she knows, he could be next on someone’s hit list. Or she could be. And on top of that, they weren’t getting along well, either.
She had to be the most unlucky person who ever lived.
Having finished with the onions, she wiped her eyes and took a deep, cleansing sigh. Chopping onions always made her feel so much better.
She picked up the mushrooms and began slicing them into thin pieces. Moira the mushroom. What was this fascination Moira held for so many men at this inn? Moira seemed spooky, as far as Angie was concerned. She’d never understand men. Particularly homicide inspectors.
“It’s nice that you’re here, Angelina,” Bethel said, her hands flicking the sides of her caftan so they poofed out around her as she walked into the kitchen. She peered into the pot as Angie stirred the bouillon.
Nice for whom? she wanted to ask. “Thanks.”
“I mean it, dear girl. Whatever would we do if you weren’t here?” Bethel stole a stalk of celery from the counter. “Why, even I might have to cook.”
So it wasn’t her company Bethel enjoyed, it was having a live-in cook. Heck, if she were Julia Child, Bethel would probably be doing cartwheels.
“Is that soup?” Bethel asked, pointing with her celery. “It seemed a trifle thin, don’t you think?”
“It’s called Soupe du Jardin Mort.” Even dead garden soup sounded classy in French.
“Of course,” Bethel chuckled. “I should have recognized it. One of my favorites. C’est magnifique!”
“Right,” Angie replied.
“And if I might be so bold…” Bethel began.
Was there no getting rid of her?
“Bringing a homicide inspector here with you was a simply marvelous idea. I feel much safer knowing he’s here. He doesn’t have a gun, though, does he?”
“A gun?”
“I’m opposed to guns.”
“Don’t worry. He’d only use it to stop a criminal from killing an innocent person, such as yourself,” Angie said.
“Oh, well, in that situation, guns are all right.”
Angie wondered if Bethel’s turban had been worn too tight for too many years.
“Have you seen the inspector lately?” Bethel asked.
Angie tried to push aside the memory of Paavo and Moira holding hands, or nearly holding them, but it wasn’t easy. “I saw him a while ago.”
“I wonder if he’s got any idea who killed Finley and the others.”
Angie looked at her closely. “I don’t know.”
“It scares me to think it might be someone from the town.” Bethel finished her celery. “But it scares me even more to think it’s someone in this house. I think about it day and night.”
“We all do,” Angie said. “Do you think it might be someone here with us?”
“Impossible. Unless it’s that Running Spirit, of course.” Bethel watched as Angie placed the vegetables, tender after having been simmered, onto serving dishes. “I never trusted him from the minute he declared his new name. He’s just a charlatan, you know.”
Angie’s gaze drifted over Bethel’s lime-green caftan and matching turban. “Oh, really?”
“It’s terrible. Once people would come to see me, and they’d simply believe me. Those were good, honest times. But these days, there are so many who’ve been ripped off that they want me to prove what I’m doing and saying. Now, I ask you, how can anyone prove that a four-hundred-year-old Inuit is channeling?”
“I have no idea.” Angie stirred the bouillon.
“Me, neither. Then, for some reason I don’t understand at all, many of the people who know about spirituality are also into computers. Do you understand that?”
“No.”
“They seem to think I can relate spiritual space to cyber-space, spiritual reality to virtual reality. I don’t even understand the concept of virtual reality. It sounds like a contradiction in terms. But they say that spiritual reality sou
nds the same way. They seem to think that if Allakaket isn’t up on this cyber-punk stuff he isn’t real. I don’t know what to do. I don’t understand any of it anymore.”
“I guess you could try to learn what your audience is interested in.”
“I asked Reginald to teach me, since he knows so much about electronics. He said I’d hate it, and he won’t even try.”
“That’s terrible. Can Martin help any?”
“He’s worse than I am about such things.”
“Why don’t you just ask Allakaket? Since he knows about twentieth-century things, even though he’s from the sixteenth century, it seems he should understand virtual reality as well.” The bouillon had boiled down sufficiently to form a tasty sauce. Angie spooned it over the vegetables.
“Now you sound like my ever-dwindling audience. No one understands properly. That was why Martin and I were so happy when Finley approached us about being part owners of this inn.”
Finley approached the Baymans? Had he approached others as well? This was a surprise. “What do you mean?” Angie asked.
“He was going to let me run an institute here. I would explain to the public what I was doing and offer classes and a quiet place for contemplation and retreat. Martin liked to call it a Disneyland for New Age types, but he was wrong. It was going to be a college—like one of Oxford’s, for example. And I’d be dean. We thought we couldn’t afford to get in on this opportunity, but then Martin found a way to arrange it. He’s so clever and brilliant.”
Angie couldn’t imagine being so desperate as to have to rely on Finley Tay. “I had no idea. How terrible it must have been for you and Martin.”
“Ah, Angie, to be young again. To have dreams for the future. Now I have none, except to hope that somehow I can come away from this with the business I’d hoped for. If that fails, I have no idea what I’ll do.”
Angie carried the dishes of vegetables to the refrigerator. “I’m sure something will come up for you or Martin.”
