The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (A Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mystery Book 4)

by Donna White Glaser

  Maliah’s lip curled in a sneer as she swept the rest of us with a mocking glare. Grabbing Eli again, she descended the steps and strode off across the driveway. Briefly—very briefly—I considered jumping on her back like a puma and biting her ear off. Eli must have been practicing ESP. He looked over his shoulder and shook his head.

  Without meeting our eyes, Priella took off down the stairs.

  Martha called out to her, but Priella ignored it, walking in quick, ungainly strides to the lodge.

  “Hic!”

  We all looked down. Baara, forgotten in the drama, remained hunkered on the steps, mouth agape, eyes wide with residual emotion. Tears and snot made her face glisten in the waning light.

  “I got chiccups,” she said.

  The four of us burst into giggles, pent-up tension flying into the breeze that wrapped our skirts around our legs.

  “It’s cold, girls.” Beth said. “Let’s get going.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I hung around, waiting to talk to Maggie as she exited the temple. I don’t know how, but either I missed their departure in the midst of the drama or they went out a side door. After twenty minutes of teeth-chattering cold, I ditched Plan A and went to our room to console my roommate.

  Priella was already tucked into bed when I got in. Although breathing deeply, her body nonetheless contradicted her closed eyes. Her muscles lacked the soft luxury and trusting openness that occurs when we let ourselves sink into sleep. Short of prying her eyes open with my fingers, I had to play along.

  The next morning, my hunger woke me earlier than usual. I had eaten a decent supper and I often skipped breakfast, so there was no rational reason why I woke up so ravenous. Priella’s bed was neatly made, and she had slipped out.

  When I went to feed the dogs, I found myself hoping Eli would show up. The skunk was probably avoiding me too. Muttering vile observations about the male gender I went about my assigned chore. My bad attitude didn’t affect the dogs’ appetites any. They leaped and twisted around my feet in a roiling mass as I set the bowls out. The noise was unbearable, and they nearly tripped me twice. Only thing that kept me on my feet was the fear that if I fell I would be their breakfast. The chaos worsened when I didn’t feed them all simultaneously. Minor skirmishes broke out as I went back and forth with the bowls. Hysteria erupted as the haves fought with the have-nots.

  The quiet that descended after each had their portion was like being released from a torture chamber. Panting like I had just run a marathon, I leaned against the side of the barn and studied my charges. I realized, except for Domino, I didn’t know their names. They had to have names, right?

  With a guilty start, it dawned on me that I hadn’t fed Domino yet. He stood quietly near the fence, black eyes regarding me in silence. As I approached with his food, he showed no discernible emotion. Certainly, none of the demented joy of his kennel mates. He made no move even as I slid the bowl through the opening. Not until I took two steps back did he move forward and eat. In contrast to the others, Domino ate quietly and efficiently.

  As I lingered, two of the dogs wandered off. Bellies full, the other two plopped in the grass by the barn. Over their panting, I heard the sound of someone coming up the side path. My heart thumped briefly in a hope-spasm, but even before the person rounded the corner, I knew it wasn’t Eli.

  Humming the theme song of a children’s show I couldn’t quite lay name to, Baara trotted around the corner.

  “Hi!” She broke out into a big smile when she caught sight of me.

  “Maranatha,” I said.

  “Did you feed the dogs? ‘Cause that used to be my job, but now you do it. I do the laundry and clean things.”

  “They were pretty hungry.”

  “That’s ‘cause they’re pigs. But not really. Really they’re just dogs.”

  “Very true,” I said. “You must know a lot about them if they were your responsibility. Maybe you could teach me how to take care of them?”

  “I could help you. I know all about them.”

  “How about we start with their names?”

  “Oh, sure, that’s easy. This guy here is Domino. He’s my favorite. I take him for walks now that Enoch is gone.” Her face clouded over when she mentioned his name. I wondered how much she comprehended about the situation.

  “Is Domino safe?” The question distracted her.

  “Oh, sure. He’s a good guy. Father says we gotta keep him in the kennel ‘cause people are a-scared of him on account of he’s a pit bull. But he’s really a good guy. Moses lets him run around at night.”

  “How about the other dogs, Baara?”

  “There’s Thunder. She’s my favorite.”

  I assumed she meant the black lab or the boxer, but Baara dispelled that thought immediately.

  “When I get sad, she comes and lays by me and I rub her belly and pet her nice long ears. They’re so soft and velvety.”

  “Thunder is the basset hound?” I laughed.

  “Yup, and that’s Jack,” she said, pointing to the beagle. “And there’s Buster and Frito— He’s a little guy. And Gunner is black like the night. They’re all my favorite.”

  We moved up the path to the center of the compound. “Well, if I could figure out how to get them all fed without them going crazy and snapping at each other, I’d be all set.”

  “That’s easy. Keep them in the cage till you get the food all ready.”

  Well, duh.

  As I thanked Baara for her expertise, she surprised me by heading to the dining hall.

  “Isn’t there a fast?” Maybe it was all an evil dream.

  “Yeah, but we can have juice and water. If I drink so much my tummy gets full, I don’t feel hungry. I pee all the time, though.”

  No cooking smells greeted us as we pushed through the door, and I got depressed all over again. Each table held three pitchers and stacks of plastic picnic glasses.

  Beth was there, looking particularly wan. Her mood matched a few others who were tanking up. Unlike yesterday, no one lingered over the meal, no groups gravitated together to share the minutiae of community life. I noticed another difference.

  “Why is everyone taking their glass?” My voice came out high and whiny, as petulant as a three-year-old with no nap.

  “Maranatha to you too, princess,” Beth said dryly.

  The thing with those of us in long-term recovery is we’ve given up so many illicit pleasures, we cling desperately to the measly licit ones we have left. I didn’t care if it was only going to be a few hours or a few days, I didn’t think I could live without food. I certainly didn’t want to.

  I asked the only thing that mattered any more. “How long will this stupid fast last?”

  “Father waits on the Lord’s will,” Beth answered. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Which translates to ‘who the hell knows?’ Cozbi told me the last fast was right after Enoch took off. To cleanse the community of all sins, knowing or unknowing. Lasted seven days, because seven symbolizes perfection and the Church.”

  I think my legs gave out. I sank down on a stool. “Seven days?”

  Martha joined us. “I’m glad I caught you, Letty. Maliah told me she assigned you to the restaurant as a server. I don’t usually start someone out without training, but Priella asked off and Father granted it.”

  “Is she sick?” Beth asked.

  Martha rolled her eyes in the female-code that means “yeah, right.” “Heartsick, maybe. I think she’s in worse shape than Maliah,” Martha said.

  There was a pause you could drive a truck through as we mulled over the subtext.

  “So, it’s true then?” Beth went on. “Priella and Enoch were—”

  “The bus leaves at three,” Martha said to me. “I’ll get a uniform to you before then. Make sure your hair is tied back.”

  I nodded. “I’ve waitressed before. I should pick it up quickly.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing, because we’ll need you for tomorrow night too. People come
for miles for our fish fry, and Fridays get crazy.” She downed her juice and, still holding her glass, began to walk away.

  “Hey, Martha? Why the glass?”

  “Water,” she said. “Lots and lots of water.”

  I needed something to take my mind off this fasting crap, so I headed for the office to see if I could make myself useful. Maliah wasn’t there, thank goodness, but it made me wonder where she was. And where Eli was too.

  Rachel and Abigail were parked behind gun-metal gray desks placed kitty-corner to each other. They looked up, surprised, when I walked in and uncertain at my offer to help out, so I upped the ante and went for endearing frankness.

  “I’m really looking for something to keep me busy,” I said. “I’ve never fasted before.”

  Instant bonding.

  “We can find something, I’m sure,” Abigail said. Surprisingly, she seemed more open to the idea than Rachel.

  Abigail hauled out a cardboard box stuffed to the brim with thick files.

  “Here.” After dropping the box in my arms, she pointed to the row of cabinets behind Rachel’s desk. “None of us likes to file, so it tends to get so out of hand that we avoid it even more.

  “Okeydokey.” I hated filing, but it might give me an overview of the business side of the Elect. Especially since it appeared there were more files outside the cabinets than in them.

  I sat on a metal folding chair and pulled the box on my lap, trying to see if they had at least been alphabetized. Of course not.

  Briefly, I considered striking up a conversation, but decided I would learn more if I let myself blend into the background. Maybe if they got used to me, they would resume their normal conversation and activities sooner. It was worth a shot, anyway.

  After forty minutes, they appeared to have forgotten my existence. I puttered quietly back and forth along the row of file cabinets. The tranquility of the morning was shot when we heard the crunch of several cars in the gravel lot.

  Abigail went to the window. Turning, she nodded tensely to Rachel in some prearranged signal. While Abigail hurried back to her desk, Rachel picked up the phone and dialed an inside extension.

  “They’re back,” she said into the phone. As she hung up, the two detectives from the day before entered the office. Before either said a word, Rachel rose to her feet.

  “Abraham extends his welcome to you and your officers,” she said with quiet dignity. “If you have a warrant, we are to cooperate fully. Abraham would like to meet with you when you are finished.”

  Tall Guy smiled wryly.

  “Is there a reason we should need a warrant?” He waited for Rachel to say something, but she merely stood, lips pressed together. “We would, however, like to speak to several people, if they are available. Perhaps Abraham could meet with us in the room where we met with Mrs. Nichols?”

  “Abraham is elderly, and this situation has been very traumatic. He would prefer to meet with you in his private office,” Rachel countered.

  Tall Guy’s smile stretched a little thinner and failed to reach his eyes. His partner snorted loudly, shaking his head as he left the room. Tall Guy produced a short list of names and conferred with Rachel regarding who might be available to speak with them.

  “It would have been better if you had called,” she said, looking over the list. “We could have had them ready for you. I’ll have to call around and see who is available.”

  He ignored her comment. He wouldn’t have wanted people prepared for the interview, anyway.

  “This will be fine; we can always come back.” His smile was a mite predatory. “And what are your names?” Tall Guy pulled out a notebook to record our information.

  Rachel paled, then rallied and introduced us. The detective copied our names down, checked the spelling, then turned to leave.

  “Detective?” Rachel called him back. “What is your name?”

  “Detective Zandowski,” he said, surprise apparent on his face.

  She picked up a pen and message pad. “Spell it, please?”

  This time, his smile traveled the road map of his entire face. After he complied, he stood looking at her a heartbeat longer then was socially acceptable. For the second time in their battle of wits, Rachel got flustered.

  Still smiling warmly, Detective Zandowski bent his head to her in a courtly, old-fashioned homage of respect. “I’ll be waiting in the room next door.”

  Blushing harder, she turned to the window. His nods to Abigail and me were of the polite dismissive nature. After he left, Rachel dropped heavily into her chair, making it squeak like she had sat on a gassy mouse. Abigail and I burst into semihysterical giggles at the sound. For a moment, it looked like Rachel might get pissed, but then she broke and joined in.

  We spent the rest of the morning pretending we weren’t enthralled with the events unfolding all around us. Rachel spent some time tracking down the few people on Detective Zandowki’s list. Despite her complaint about lack of notice, all three were available to speak with the detectives. These included Moses, Baara’s husband, Casper—whom I remembered was treasurer—and, finally, Maliah again. It wasn’t until the detectives crossed the yard to meet with Father that the office started to calm down.

  Before they left, I took advantage of the distraction to sneak several peeks at Rachel and Abigail’s desks. Because her desk was across the room, Abigail’s was more difficult to check out but ultimately turned out to be less interesting. She was using a no-name computer software program to edit a brochure. Looked like promotional material for the Living Peace class.

  Working in the area behind Rachel’s desk, I had a fairly good overview of her desk and computer. She was working on financial records, which meant she was completely safe from my snooping. Not only was I unable to decipher anything from the brief glances I snatched walking back and forth, but I was way too ignorant about finance in general to be a threat. I had gone for a career in the mental health field precisely because adding or subtracting with my socks on was a challenge.

  Deciding I couldn’t pick up any clues from my officemates, I focused on the files. I didn’t understand most of them, but when I came to one labeled “deeds,” I stuck it underneath the bottom of the pile. I needed to find out whether the Elect owned other properties where Maggie might be stashed.

  In my excitement, I almost missed the fact that I wasn’t the only person with something to hide.

  As Abigail brought me another stack of files, Rachel flushed and, surreptitiously reaching over, switched her computer screen to another field. If it hadn’t been for her furtive behavior, I would have missed it completely.

  Bookkeeping confuses me; body language I can read.

  After Abigail returned to her seat, I watched Rachel more closely. Bringing the original screen back up, she jotted notes on a piece of paper while casting cautious glances at Abigail. She flipped to another screen and copied more information down, then pulled her confession journal from beneath yet another stack of files and stuck her notes inside.

  Now I was interested.

  I waited for a chance to peek at the journal, now restashed, under the pile on Rachel’s desk. The dedication of these women was annoying. Despite the gallons of water each swigged down, neither went for a potty break.

  As lunchtime neared, my impatience grew in direct proportion with my hunger. When Rachel crossed the room to sharpen a pencil, I swept up the stack of files on her desk, journal and all, and stuffed them in my to-be-filed box. Not the best plan, since it was highly likely Rachel would notice their absence within five seconds of sitting back down.

  The phone had been ringing on and off all morning, so I wasn’t paying attention when Abigail answered it during my desk raid. I was all the more confused when she called my name and waggled the instrument at me in the “for you” signal.

  Me? I pointed to my chest which was now thumping madly in a delayed adrenaline rush from my raid. Who the heck would be calling me?

  You. Abigail nodded irritabl
y. Fasting was getting to people.

  Crossing the room, I picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Father will meet with you tomorrow at one-thirty.” I recognized Moses’s voice. Before I could answer, he hung up.

  Abigail was watching me. Rachel had returned to her desk and was also looking at me expectantly. She hadn’t noticed my pilfering yet.

  “I’m supposed to meet Father tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “Why would he want to see me?”

  “He meets with everyone when they first come in,” Abigail answered. “But usually it’s after they’ve been here longer and are preparing for the Naming Ceremony.” She cast a bewildered glance at Rachel.

  “With all that is happening, he may not want you to get the wrong idea about the community,” Rachel said. “There is so much that’s good about our life here…” Looking disturbed, her voice trailed off.

  She would be way more disturbed if she found out I’d snatched her confession journal.

  “Well, ladies,” I said. “How about I treat us all to a hearty helping of juice?”

  Groaning, the women rose and followed me out of the office. If I could just get them out the door, Rachel might assume someone had come in after us and taken the journal. Walking to the dining hall, I felt a stab of exhilaration at the success of my secret agent spy techniques.

  But it might have been hunger pangs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lunch brought pangs of a different sort.

  First thing that popped into my vision was the sight of Eli sitting thigh-to-thigh, smack-ass next to some blond trollop with a face full of mascara and spackled layers of eye goop.

  What the hell?

  Joining my usual group of women, I turned to Rachel.