Silver Anniversary Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “You’d die of thirst first,” said Bill.

  “Are you saying I’m fat?” demanded Lucy.

  “No, no. It’s a fact. People die of thirst before they die of hunger. You can go longer without food than you can without water.”

  “Well, I sure could use a drink, but maybe something stronger than water.”

  “C’mon.” He led the way, retracing his steps through the confusing passages until they emerged into the dining hall, where the tables and chairs had been tossed every which way, and where a couple of white-suited technicians were combing every surface, searching for evidence. Then Bill and Lucy stepped into the carpeted hallway, walked right past the chapel doors, and out into the street.

  Lucy closed her eyes against the bright daylight and collapsed against Bill, overcome with an onslaught of emotions. She was free . . . she was with her husband . . . she was thankful . . . she was saved.

  Next thing she knew, a uniformed police officer was wrapping her in one of those aluminum foil blankets and an EMT was giving her a bottle of water and telling her to sip slowly. Then a gurney was rolled up and she was seated on it, covered with a blanket, and told that she would be taken to the hospital for a checkup but Detective McGuire wanted to speak to her first.

  “I don’t think I need—” she protested.

  Bill pressed a finger to her mouth, silencing her, and shook his head. “No heroics.”

  “Listen to your husband,” advised Detective McGuire, joining them. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience and you’ll probably need treatment. PTSD is real. Don’t try to minimize what you’re going through.”

  “Okay.” Lucy took a sip of water.

  “Do you feel up to answering some questions?”

  “Yes. I want to talk about it.” But first, she thought, there was something she needed to know. “What day is it?”

  “Saturday. It’s now two p.m., Saturday afternoon.”

  “I was there since Thursday morning. I had a meeting with Father Gabe on Thursday morning.”

  “More than forty-eight hours,” said Bill.

  Lucy fingered the water bottle, a puzzled expression on her face. “Was this raid all because of me?”

  “I couldn’t find you when I got to the city on Friday, so I went to the police,” said Bill.

  Lucy was confused. “But you weren’t going to come, because of Sylvia.”

  “I told Sylvia to get lost. I wasn’t going to miss our weekend together, not for that”—he paused, carefully choosing his words before continuing—“uh, well, rhymes with witch. But when I couldn’t find you I called your friend Sam and she told me about your plan to question Gabe about Beth’s death. Brad called Detective McGuire to make an official missing person report.”

  “Your disappearance was all we needed for probable cause,” said McGuire. “We’ve had lots of complaints from neighbors in recent months, quite a few missing persons, stuff like that, but we never had a solid lead. Believe me, we’ve wanted to get into that cult for a long time. We’ve suspected they were into human trafficking, drugs, money laundering, you name it.”

  Lucy shivered and pulled the blanket up to her chin. “What about Beth? Did Gabe kill her?”

  “We’ll be looking into that, too. He’s in custody and he’s going to have to answer a lot of questions.”

  “What about the others?” asked Lucy. “Some were accomplices, but others were just victims, like me.”

  “We’ve got a team of psychiatrists and social workers and criminologists. They’ll sort it all out. It’s going to be a big case. We’ll need a statement from you, but there’s plenty of time for that.” He gave her blanket-covered leg a cursory pat and nodded to the EMTs, and she was lifted up and into the ambulance. Bill clambered in and perched next to her and off they went.

  “You actually told Sylvia to get lost?” asked Lucy, seeing her husband with fresh eyes.

  “Yeah, but this isn’t turning out to be the romantic weekend I thought it would be.”

  “It seems pretty darn romantic to me,” said Lucy, taking his hand. “You’re my knight on a white charger.”

  At the ER Lucy was examined and found to be slightly dehydrated but otherwise healthy. A psychiatrist also examined her and determined she was mentally sound despite her ordeal, prescribed a mild antianxiety medication, and urged her to seek further help if she began to experience symptoms such as panic attacks or suicidal thoughts.

  Lucy’s thoughts, when she was finally released sometime later that evening, were focused on getting a square meal and enjoying a cuddle with her husband. But when they stopped at a little French restaurant near the apartment, Lucy found she couldn’t decide what to order. Bill chose for her, requesting the steak and frites he thought she’d enjoy, but when the plate was set in front of her Lucy found she couldn’t eat it. And when they got back to the apartment, all she wanted to do was sleep.

  Next morning, Lucy and Bill got a late start because Lucy insisted on cleaning the apartment, leaving it as she found it. When they finally did get going they found a parking ticket on the car, and Lucy began to cry.

  “It’s okay, Lucy,” Bill said. “It’s just a ticket. No problem.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, blubbering.

  Bill plucked the ticket out from beneath the windshield wiper and carefully folded it and placed it in his wallet before climbing in behind the wheel. Lucy was already seated, worrying that the car wouldn’t start. It did, and then she began worrying about getting in an accident, or hitting a pedestrian, or driving off the RFK Bridge.

  “I gotta tell you, Lucy, I was pretty scared when I got to the Airbnb and you weren’t there, and you weren’t answering your phone. I couldn’t imagine what had happened.”

  “When did you get there?” asked Lucy, who was trying to get days and times straight.

  “Around five, like we planned. I didn’t work Friday, so I could drive down.” He paused. “Believe me, that was one long night.”

  “How’d you think to call Sam?”

  “Well, I called the police first, but they told me they couldn’t do anything for twenty-four hours. That’s when I called Sam; she was the only person I could think of. She said she’d gone with you to a service at the Guardians’ chapel and she got her husband to call Detective McGuire. When Brad got on the line McGuire seemed to take it all a lot more seriously. And then it turned out somebody had called saying they saw those street kids being lured into the chapel, and it all kinda fell into place.”

  Bill was whizzing along the West Side Highway, beneath the George Washington Bridge, where he pointed out the little red lighthouse. Lucy had always looked for the lighthouse, ever since her mother had read the book to her as a young girl, but today she didn’t even try to catch a glimpse.

  “The worst part,” said Bill, continuing on to the Cross Bronx Expressway, “was when you weren’t found among the cult members. One woman, a tough cookie if ever there was one, insisted that you were never there. She insisted she’d never seen you, but one of the others said she might’ve seen you. That was enough for me and I began tearing the place apart. I honestly don’t know if I would have found you, though, if you hadn’t broken out of that closet.” He was quiet, concentrating on getting through the tolls on the RFK Bridge. Once through, and safely onto I-95, he picked up his conversation.

  “You were really brave, Lucy. I don’t know how you managed to do it.” His voice grew thick. “Was it terrible? Did they, did he . . . ?”

  “What? Rape me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. Nothing like that. It was mostly mind games. At first they were all nice and full of compliments. They didn’t want me to leave—I was so wonderful and they liked me so much. I knew it was phony but it sort of had an effect. I guess I rationalized the whole thing to myself by thinking that if I was in the cult I’d have a better chance of figuring out if Gabe killed Beth. Then, they must’ve drugged me. I woke up in this room like a nun’s cell or somethi
ng. I was afraid I was locked in, but the door opened. Then there were these exhausting church services and they made me work, really hard work, and I passed out again. Then when I woke up the door was locked, but I started to figure things out and decided to pretend I was converted. I thought that was the only way I’d get any chance of escaping. It seemed to work. One woman invited me to go out to a bookstore and evangelize with her, but I’m not sure that really would have happened. I was afraid she was testing me and going to turn me in.” She sighed. “It was really weird. It got so I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”

  “Well, you’re safe now,” said Bill. “It’s all over and done.”

  “Right,” said Lucy, but she knew it wasn’t.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lucy slept for most of the drive back to Tinker’s Cove, waking intermittently to check on the progress of their journey. They stopped a couple of times at highway rest areas, and Lucy found she was afraid to go into the ladies’ rooms. She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, sidling into the tiled rooms where the women’s voices, the flushing toilets, and the whoosh of the hand dryers echoed off the walls. She rushed through her business, barely rinsing her fingers at the sink before hurrying out, fearful she would be seized by kidnappers.

  Then there was the long walk through the food court, past all those strangers. She didn’t know them. What if some of the cult members had escaped the raid and were lying in wait for her? Terrified, she ran outside and dashed through the parking lot, nearly getting hit by a kid driving a pickup truck. “Watch where you’re going, lady,” he yelled, after he’d slammed on the brakes.

  Rattled, she ran off, searching wildly for Bill, whom she had agreed to meet at the car. There were so many SUVs just like theirs in the parking lot. She ran from one to another, looking frantically for one with a Maine plate, unsure where they’d left theirs. It was hot, and the sun was bouncing off the cars. Tears began building in her eyes, and her breath became ragged and uneven. What if Bill didn’t wait? What if he figured she was taking too long and drove off? What if he’d been faking it all these years and didn’t really love her?

  Then he was right there, standing in front of her, a concerned expression on his face. “Are you all right?”

  “I—I just got confused,” she said, as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and led her to the car.

  Evening was falling by the time they reached Tinker’s Cove. It was still light, but people had turned on the lights in their houses, which gave a welcoming glow. Their house was dark, however, when they pulled into the driveway, and Lucy was hesitant about getting out of the car and going inside.

  “Are you sure everything’s all right? Why aren’t the lights on?”

  “The girls must be out. It’s Sunday night. They’re probably enjoying the last bit of the weekend.”

  “Don’t they want to see me?”

  “They don’t know what happened, Lucy. I didn’t have time to tell them. They think everything went according to plan and we had a weekend escape.”

  Hearing that, Lucy began to laugh. “Escape. That’s what it was. A close escape.”

  “Yeah.” Bill took her hand and helped her out of the car, then held her tight as they went up the porch steps and into the kitchen. He flipped on the light switch, and Libby, the Lab, rose slowly from her doggie bed, stretched, and greeted Lucy with a wagging tail.

  That welcome would usually have gotten Libby a cursory pat on the head, but this evening Lucy sank to her knees and embraced the dog, burying her face in the dog’s coat and breathing in her doggie smell.

  * * *

  On Monday morning Lucy took Bill’s advice and called in sick, saying she’d caught some sort of bug in the city.

  “A little too much fun?” asked Ted, in a teasing voice.

  Lucy was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. “No, I’ll come in if you want.”

  “It’s okay, Lucy. We’ll manage without you. Take it easy.”

  She managed to blurt out a quick “thanks” and ended the call before bursting into tears.

  “Everything okay, Mom?” asked Zoe, who was making her way very carefully down the steep back stairway with a plastic basket full of dirty laundry. She was wearing her lavender and white striped Queen Vic waitress uniform.

  Lucy was quick with an excuse. “Sorry, I’m just a little emotional, that’s all. Hormones, I guess.”

  “I’m late for work. Do you think you could throw this stuff in the washer for me?” She set the basket down on the kitchen table. “I’ve got the early shift, breakfasts and lunches. Lucky Sara—she got dinners when the tips are much bigger.”

  “I can do your wash. I’m staying home today anyway.”

  Zoe’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Are you sick?”

  “Um, just kind of tired after my trip. I thought I’d take it easy. I’ve got laundry, too.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Zoe flew out the door and Lucy picked up the basket, intending to carry it down to the cellar where the washer and dryer were located. She looked at the door, a two-panel door similar to the one from the closet she’d been trapped in, and dropped the basket. She sat down at the table.

  “Mom! Mom! Are you okay?”

  It was Sara, shaking her shoulders. “Wha . . . ? Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “You were just sitting there, kind of staring blankly at the cellar door.”

  “Just tired I guess.”

  Sara wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure? Maybe you’re having some kind of stroke or something. Should I call nine-one-one?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” Lucy shook her head and stood up. “See. I’m fine. Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

  “Uh, Mom, it’s almost lunchtime.”

  Lucy checked the kitchen clock, which read a quarter past eleven. “I wonder where the time went.”

  A horn honked, signaling that Sara’s ride had arrived. “See you tonight.”

  “Right,” said Lucy, watching as Sara grabbed her bag and hurried out, letting the screen door slam behind her.

  The sudden noise made Lucy jump. Determined to get on with her day, Lucy picked up the laundry basket and carried it across the kitchen to the cellar door. Propping the basket on her hip, in a motion she’d made thousands of times, she pulled the door open and flipped the light switch. But instead of descending the stairs, she paused, looking down at the dusty flight of wooden steps. Even with the light on, it was dark and shadowy down there and she knew there were spiders in the corners. What if the door closed behind her and she couldn’t get back out?

  She closed the door, set the laundry basket on the floor in front of it, and sat back down at the kitchen table. That’s where Bill found her when he came home at one for a late lunch.

  “Lucy, you’re not dressed,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “You’re home already?”

  “It’s after one and I’m starving. What’ve you got for me?”

  “Past one?”

  “Never mind, I’ll fix it,” said Bill. He opened the refrigerator door and began pulling out bread and sandwich fixings. “What would you like? Ham and cheese? Turkey? There’s rye and whole wheat. Lettuce and tomato.”

  “Anything’s fine,” said Lucy.

  Bill got busy spreading mayo and piling up the sandwiches, adding a handful of potato chips on the side. He set the plates on the table and added a couple of cans of iced tea, then sat down opposite Lucy. He took a big bite of his sandwich and chewed, observing her.

  “It’s good, Lucy, if I say so myself. Black Forest ham, swiss cheese, tomato. Give it a try.”

  “Okay.” Lucy picked up a chip and nibbled it.

  “What’s the laundry doing there?” asked Bill.

  “I must’ve forgot it,” said Lucy, eyeing the basket guiltily.

  Bill chewed thoughtfully. “I’ll help you. We’ll do it together,” he finally said.

  “That’d be great,” said Lucy, picking up her sandwich and taking
a small bite.

  After they’d finished eating, Bill cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. Then he took the laundry downstairs and got the washer started. That chore done, he coaxed Lucy upstairs and helped her get dressed. After installing her on the family room sofa with a magazine, he told her not to worry about dinner; he’d bring home a pizza.

  Lucy was still there, the opened but unread magazine on her lap, when Rachel and Miss Tilley unexpectedly arrived, yoo-hooing as they let themselves in. Miss Tilley, now retired from her job as town librarian, was one of the first people Lucy had gotten to know when she and Bill arrived in Tinker’s Cove. Even so, she wouldn’t presume to address her by her given name, Julia. Only her oldest and dearest friends dared do that, and they were a sadly diminished group as age took its toll. Rachel was Miss Tilley’s part-time caregiver and companion.

  “Bill called,” said Rachel, “and asked us to drop by.” She helped Miss Tilley seat herself in the rocker, then perched on the sofa by Lucy’s feet. “He told us about your trip to New York and the cult.”

  “We picked up the New York Times and the Daily News for you,” said Miss Tilley, producing the papers from her Broadbrooks Free Library tote bag.

  “It’s quite a story,” said Rachel. “Do you want to read about it?”

  Lucy nodded mutely, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’ll recap it for you,” said Miss Tilley. Rachel took Lucy’s hands in hers, and Lucy held on, preparing to face her demons.

  “It’s a front page story in both papers,” began Miss Tilley. She held up the tabloid Daily News, which featured a blown-up photo of Father Gabe that filled the entire front page. The headline, superimposed over his scowling face, announced in giant type: FAKE PROPHET PREYED ON YOUNG GIRLS. The Times was rather more restrained. The story ran in a single column on the top left of the front page, and the headline announced: AFTER WATCHING CULT FOR YEARS, POLICE FINALLY STAGE RAID. Somewhat smaller type provided an amplification: LEADER ALLEGED TO ENGAGE IN HUMAN TRAFFICKING.

  Miss Tilley read the first few paragraphs of the Times story, which named Gabriel Thomas as the “ ‘longtime leader of the Guardians of the Faith, which began decades earlier as the Angel Brigade in a Bronx storefront. Through the years the cult grew in numbers and began to engage in questionable activities, which police suspected but never had enough evidence to enable them to act. A report of a missing Maine woman filed by her husband and supporting evidence provided by prominent New York attorney Bradford Blackwell gave police the opportunity they had long sought. A Saturday raid on the cult’s headquarters, now located on West Sixty-Ninth Street, has yielded evidence of a wide-ranging criminal enterprise that includes activities such as kidnapping, human trafficking, money laundering, illegal drugs, slavery, and prostitution. ’ ”