Dark Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Sorry, did you say true believers?”

  Jenny chortled. “Philomena and Charlene work the overnight shift a couple times a week. They’re devout followers of Pastor Scott.”

  “How devout?”

  Jenny pulled a face. “Devout enough that they think they’re going to strike it rich scrubbing the toilets, swabbing the floors, and bringing people juice because of his Midas touch.” She didn’t bother to conceal her disdain.

  “Are they good workers?” Felicia asked, trying to make sense of the sneer in Jenny’s voice. Jenny wasn’t the type to look down on someone earning an honest living.

  “Well, they’re diligent. This place is gleaming when they’re done. I’ll give them that. But that’s only part of their job. They’re also supposed to assist the nurses and keep the guests comfortable, which usually means keeping them company if they want to talk or play cards or something. But …” she trailed off with an uncomfortable look.

  “But what?”

  “Well, it’s… It’s just that they make folks uncomfortable.”

  “Folks? You mean the residents or the nurses?”

  “Both. Those two are always proselytizing. It’s almost like they get a finder’s fee if they convert people to that religion of theirs. They’re always going on about financial blessings and honoring God by doing well …. Look, Felicia, it’s just weird. Philomena drives a fancy convertible. Charlene’s always dripping in jewelry. I don’t know where they get their money, but they’re tacky about it.”

  Felicia scribbled a note to herself. “Interesting. Thanks.”

  The nurse pinkened and hurriedly added, “But I’m not saying they’re bad people or bad workers.”

  “It’s okay, Jenny. This wasn’t an official interview. I’m not putting any of that into my notes.”

  Jenny exhaled and rolled her shoulders. “That’s a relief.”

  “But I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Depends. What is it?”

  “Point me in their direction when they show up for work tonight if I’m still here.”

  “I suppose I could do that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bodhi gazed around the enormous kitchen, deliberately keeping his mouth closed to stop from gaping. He recognized that his culinary tastes tended toward the simple, possibly even the ascetic. So he knew he didn’t appropriately appreciate the room. But even he could see the kitchen would have been more fitting for a Michelin-starred restaurant—or perhaps, more accurately, the set of a cooking show—than a medium-sized assisted living facility.

  Two large islands anchored the room—one made of highly polished, pure white marble, the other of highly burnished copper. The six-burner cooktop, also copper, was the largest he’d ever seen. The wide vent hood was copper; and all the pots and pans hanging from ceiling were copper, as were the enormous refrigerator, the two dishwashers, and the deep double sink. The light bounced off the metal and the snowy white cabinetry, creating a blinding, prismatic effect.

  Chef Pedro Tonga watched him. “It’s a lot to take in,” the chef said.

  “I’ll say. Have you ever worked in a kitchen like this before?” Bodhi waved his hands in the air.

  “No. And I did stints at the White House and a Four Seasons property. This is… well, excessive.”

  “What’s with all the copper? Is it good for cooking?”

  The chef followed his gaze to the pots and pans dangling above them. “Eh, it’s okay. Personally, I prefer cast-iron. But the church, they wanted gold everything. Gold is useless in the kitchen. So, we compromised. They get their pretty copper. I get something that I can work with.”

  “All the copper’s an effort to communicate prosperity, then?”

  The chef shrugged. “Beats me. I don’t involve myself in their religion. And they don’t involve themselves in my menu.”

  “So you set the menu independently, then?” Bodhi confirmed.

  A shadow crossed Chef Tonga’s face. “Yes, mainly. With some caveats.”

  “For example?” Bodhi prompted in a neutral voice.

  The chef made an irritated gesture. “For example, the people I’m feeding are old. They need to be eating a plant-based diet. Actually, we all do.”

  “I agree.”

  “Yes, meat should be a garnish or a side. But Pastor Scott wants everyone to feel rich by eating rich food. So, yes, I set the menu, but I do have to find a way to serve filet mignon, lump crabmeat, and lobster. And he likes me to add rich sauces and thick glazes. He wants everyone to indulge in chocolate this and caramel that.”

  “So you don’t have final say over your menu?”

  “I submit my proposed weekly menu. He marks it up with suggestions. I reject the most extravagant and send it back. And we go back and forth like that. We always end up with a menu that’s about eighty percent nutritious and twenty percent indulgent.”

  “Moderation in all things, including moderation, eh?”

  “That’s the saying.” Chef Tonga laughed.

  “I assume some of the residents have dietary restrictions. How do you deal with those?”

  The chef motioned with his left hand. “Come with me.”

  Bodhi followed him to a marble workspace that held an iPad and several glossy white binders.

  The chef woke up the device then touched an icon on the screen. A list of names appeared.

  “These are my guests who have requirements that need to be met for medical reasons. I have menus for each of the restricted diets—low sodium, low fat, what have you—in these binders. All of our guests choose from among three options at each meal. If the choices don’t comport with a guest’s diet, we give that guest three other options to choose from. I believe people deserve to have choices.”

  “Could I get a list of people with dietary restrictions?

  The chef thought for a moment. Then he shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  He tapped the printer icon, and a machine whirred to life somewhere nearby. Chef Tonga retrieved the printout and handed it to Bodhi just as Cleo Clarkson peered through the doorway.

  “Pardon the interruption, chef. Dr. King, are you almost finished talking to Chef Tonga?”

  Bodhi nodded. “I may have more questions later, but for now I think I have what I need.”

  He thanked the chef for his time then followed Cleo out into the hallway.

  “Are you okay?” Bodhi asked.

  Cleo eyed the forensic pathologist nervously. “Why do you ask?”

  He held her gaze levelly. “I don’t know you very well. Or at all, really. But you seem to be upset about something.”

  Cleo’s pulse fluttered in her throat. He was right, of course. She was upset. But she didn’t quite know how to put her worry into words with a stranger, so she pushed it to the side. “I’m just fine, thank you. I wanted to let you know I’ve gathered all of the medical files you needed,” she said smoothly.

  He looked at her for another moment then said, “Oh, okay.”

  For an instant, she felt stupid for interrupting him on such a thin pretense, but she reminded herself that she was the director. She was just being efficient by tracking him down in the kitchen—even though they both knew the files could have waited.

  She made a small noise in her throat. “Why don’t I show you to the library?”

  “Lead the way.”

  He grinned at her, and she felt her own mouth curve into a smile in response.

  As he followed her up the two flights of stairs, she explained, “I reserved a library carrel for you. I’m sorry we don’t have a spare office you can use, but if you need anything at all, just let the librarian know. He’ll call me.”

  “I’m sure the library will be perfectly adequate.”

  She led him along the hallway and into the Golden Reading Room. She heard his intake of breath and knew that he found the library to be far more than adequate.

  She could relate. Of all the opulent spaces in the building, the library was quite
possibly the most impressive. She could still remember the first time she walked into it. The Tiffany lights over the deeply polished mahogany and cherry tables. The floor-to-ceiling windows. The rich brocade wallpaper peeking out here and there between the soaring bookshelves. The twin spiral staircases that seemed to reach to the heavens and the catwalks that led to the upper shelves.

  Anyone who’d ever held a book and inhaled its heady leather and paper scent would fall in love with the space. She smiled and watched his face.

  “Wow,” he breathed.

  “It’s breathtaking, isn’t it? I feel that way every time I walk in here. Let me show you where I’ve set you up.”

  She led him across the thick claret carpet that silenced their steps to the barest hush of a whisper. His files were in the carrel across from Lynette Johnson’s favorite spot. She figured the retired attorney would get a kick out of questioning the forensic consultant when she wandered down to the library for her nightly visit.

  Bodhi King surveyed the neat stacks of folders, the collection of pens, and the pile of fresh legal pads she’d set out for him. A copper reading lamp cast a warm glow over the materials. A chilled bottle of water sat on a tile coaster.

  She flipped a panel on the right carrel wall to reveal a charging station. “Just in case you need to charge your phone or any devices while you’re here.”

  “Thanks so much, Cleo. I think I’ve got everything I need.”

  “Good. I’m still working on arranging the guest interviews. As you asked, I’m starting with their closest friends. But I will need to run all the interviews by Pastor Scott and his board. I’m sure you understand,” she added apologetically.

  He made a noncommittal sound.

  “Well, then, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll check back on you in a bit.”

  She began to walk away. Then, almost against her own volition, she turned back.

  “Bodhi?” she called softly from several feet away.

  He looked up at her, his palm on the unopened folder on the top of the stack.

  “Yes?”

  Somehow, she felt as though he was the first person who had ever truly seen her. The real her, not just her physicality.

  Shaking off the disorientating feeling, she took a breath and plowed forward, “I was wondering if I could buy you a drink later tonight—when we’re finished here?” she asked in a forced casual voice.

  He smiled gently. “I don’t drink.”

  “Oh. I just thought we could talk.” Hot blood rushed to her face.

  He continued as though she hadn’t said anything, “Detective Williams and I are meeting Dr. Ashland at a place called Mangrove Mama’s later. That sounds like the sort of place where you could have a drink and we could have a chat. Is that convenient for you?”

  A rush of relief replaced her embarrassment. “Sure. I know Mangrove Mama’s. It’s on Sugarloaf Key. I can meet you there.”

  “Great. I may need a lift to wherever I’m staying after.”

  “Where are you staying?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

  “Good question. I’ll have to ask Detective Williams.” He smiled again and waited for her to turn away before returning his attention to the folder.

  She trotted out of the library on shaky legs and ran straight into Mr. Santiago on his way in.

  “Cleo,” Hector greeted her heartily. “You’re flushed.”

  “Am I?” She asked breathlessly.

  He eyed her wordlessly.

  She gave a self-conscious laugh. “I’m a little flustered. What are you doing here? Returning your book already?”

  He nodded. “I finished it sooner than I thought I would. Interesting guy. He was a good general. Kind of an unpleasant man, though.” He tapped the cover. “I’m thinking magical realism for my bedtime reading.”

  “You can’t go wrong with Isabel Allende.”

  Mr. Santiago nodded approvingly. “As always, you’re a woman of impeccable tastes.”

  She smiled. “Good night, Mr. Santiago.”

  His expression grew serious. “I hope so, dear. I hope it’s a good night for all of us.”

  “So do I, Mr. Santiago. So do I.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Arthur stuck his head into his grandmother’s room and knocked gently on the frame of the open door.

  She looked up from her crossword puzzle and blinked at him.

  “Arturo, I didn’t expect to see you until this weekend. Is something wrong? Are you preaching again?” Her hand fluttered to her throat.

  He hurried across the room and kissed her forehead. “No, lita. Everything’s fine. I just thought I’d come and see you again before our Sunday dinner.”

  She patted his hand. “What a nice surprise.”

  He dragged a chair from the other side of the room so he could sit across from her. Then he opened his messenger bag and removed the plastic shopping bag from the botanica. He unwrapped the Ajo Macho candle and handed it to her. “Also, I wanted to give you this.”

  Tears of relief shone in her eyes and she took the candle with trembling hands. She muttered something in rapid Spanish. It sounded like a prayer of thanksgiving.

  “You got the dressing and oils, too?”

  He nodded and placed them on the table between them.

  She examined the items in silence then exhaled loudly. “This is good.” She pointed toward the jewelry box that sat on top of her dresser against the far wall. “Will you please get my lighter? Your grandfather’s Zippo. It’s under my necklaces.”

  He crossed the room and rooted through her collection of seldom-worn jewelry until he found the lighter with her second husband’s initials engraved in the silver case.

  “Do you want me to light it for you?”

  She followed his gaze to her still trembling hands and laughed. “Ah, I’m just excited. It’s not time to light it yet. I need to prepare it.”

  “Oh. Do you want me to help?”

  Her shrewd eyes met his. She shook her head slowly. “No. You’re not a true believer. I need to set my intentions and anoint the candle while I’m focused. You and your church doctrine will be a distraction.”

  He suppressed a frown—not because she was disparaging the Golden Island Church, but because he needed to know how to prepare his own candle. He’d hoped to learn what steps to take by watching her. But he had to respect her wishes, especially knowing that he was going to be preaching to her and her friends about the presence of Satan again in the days to come.

  “Okay. Should I leave you?”

  “Please. I want to get this ready before darkness falls and the evil spirits start to prowl the halls.” Her eyes dared him to challenge her superstition.

  “I understand, lita.” He kissed her cheek and stood to leave. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

  “Arturo?” she called as he stepped out of the room.

  He turned back. “Yes?”

  “Thank you. I know I might seem like a silly old lady to you—”

  “Please don’t. Whatever brings you peace. I just wish you could commit yourself to the abundant blessings that come from Pastor Scott’s gospel and not this … magic ritual.”

  She sighed. “Good night, Arthur.”

  “Good night. Will I see you at the Spread the Word lay ministry meeting on Sunday?”

  “Oh, honey, no. I’ll be at Father Rafael’s Mass. Stop by after you’re all done ministering, though. We can play cards until dinner.”

  He felt his shoulders slumping toward the ground. He nodded and left the room, pulling the door most of the way shut behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bodhi laced his fingers together behind his head and tipped the heavy chair back on two legs so he could stare up through the skylight at the cloudless sapphire sky. He allowed his gaze to fall on the prisms of light reflecting on the glass as he reviewed what he’d learned from the stack of medical records at his elbow.

  As was to be expected, the recently deceased res
idents of Golden Shores had suffered from an array of chronic ailments ranging from arthritis to diabetes to asthma. Mr. Garcia had been allergic to penicillin and had had both knees replaced. Ms. Morales had had two fairly recent broken wrists and a fairly old breast lumpectomy. Mr. Gonzales had had high cholesterol and high blood pressure. The list of conditions went on, but there was no common thread among the dead. He’d read every file cover to cover twice. The answer wasn’t on paper.

  “Well, if you’re not the picture of a man lost in thought, I don’t know what is.”

  He looked around for the amused voice and eventually surmised that it belonged to the woman peering over the carrel’s shared wall.

  “Hi there. I must not have heard you come in,” he said.

  The carrel was in a quiet corner, set away from both the circulation desk and the popular fiction room. As a result, he’d been immersed in his reading, undistracted by traffic or chatter.

  She gave him a mischievous grin. “I’ll say. Been here for about half an hour. You haven’t looked up so much as once. I was wishing I’d brought my whoopie cushion with me. I could’ve sat on that and got your attention.”

  He laughed then stood and reached across the divider. “I’m Bodhi King.”

  She took his hand. Her skin was cool and soft. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Lynette Johnson, retired defense attorney and general ne’er-do-well.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Please. They only call me Mrs. Johnson around here when I’m in trouble. Lynette will do just fine.” She released his hand. “So you’re the forensics expert.”

  It sounded more like a statement than a question. He gave her a close look.

  “Did my reputation precede me?”

  “No, just the fact of your existence. But now that I’ve got a name, I’ll be sure to look you up and find out all about you,” she promised.

  “Let me save you some time. I’m a retired forensic pathologist, formerly with the Allegheny County Coroner’s Office—”