Love Kills

by Dianne Emley

  “A motel does sound a little…” She searched for the right word. Only one came to mind. “Nasty.”

  “It can be as nasty as you want.”

  “Why, Detective…” She fanned her face with her hand. “I do believe you’re making me blush.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  It was hard to miss the entrance to the Berryhill compound. The drive was lined with graduated walls of sand-colored stone blocks that led to an arch over the front gates, where “Berryhill” was written in mosaic tiles. The sign was in the same raspberry hues and script used on all Berryhill products, from nutritional supplements, baby food, and pet food to popcorn and salad dressing. The iron scrollwork gates were open. A tall fence surrounding the compound was cloaked with dense oleander shrubs that almost covered the barbed wire strung along the top.

  Vining turned into a road bordered with a white picket fence covered with raspberry vines.

  The property looked open and welcoming, but as Vining drove, Kissick spotted CCTV cameras tucked by the front gates and in trees.

  “I remember this property.” He looked at a lake surrounded by a hodgepodge forest of pines, junipers, sycamores, and eucalyptus. “It’s one of the few privately owned parcels in the state forest. It used to be a Buddhist monastery. Look over there.”

  He pointed at a golden Buddha nestled in a clearing beneath a canopy of trees. A semicircle of backless wooden benches faced it. An individual of indeterminate sex and age wearing loose white clothing sat cross-legged on a bench, hands palms up on top of his or her knees.

  Vining slowed at an intersection marked with a signpost on which white placards, the ends cut into arrows, bore hand-painted directions in the trademark Berryhill script and reddish-purple color. The arrows pointed to Reception, Home Base, Gift Shop and Cafe, Quiet Space, Georgia’s Girls, Nirvana, and Rest Rooms. Smaller lanes off the main road disappeared into the rolling hills.

  On a deck beside the lake, a class was under way. A small group of people in white garments sat on folding chairs facing a woman who was scribbling on a whiteboard.

  The main road led to a mid-century ranch-style split-level house. It was plain but solid-looking, comforting in its homeliness. It was painted bright white, trimmed with raspberry-colored shutters and front door. Its two overlapping pitched roofs had probably had wood shake shingles when the house was new but were now covered with fire-resistant composite.

  A turnabout in the driveway was planted with berry-colored petunias. Flags flew from each of three poles: the stars and stripes, the grizzly bear California state flag, and a white flag with the Berryhill logo.

  “This looks like a country inn,” Vining commented. “I can see why Tink liked to come here to get away.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. I wonder how much they charge.”

  “Hard to believe that anything sinister like witchcraft could be going on here, but we’ve been surprised before.”

  “Georgia Berryhill is such a brand name with all her books and products. You’d think she’d work to keep her image as squeaky-clean as possible.” Kissick turned to watch several young women walking along the road carrying wicker baskets on their arms. They wore simple blouses with short sleeves and loose ankle-length skirts. Their hair was braided and pinned up in back. “Squeaky-clean like the young women around here.”

  “Looks a little cultish to me, like sister wives in a polygamist compound.”

  “Not everyone’s on board. Two gals with tight jeans, right there.”

  “You couldn’t help but notice.”

  She parked in a visitor lot with about a dozen other cars. On the other side of the lot was the gift shop and café in the same ranch-house style. A few people were dining outdoors at white wire mesh chairs and tables shaded by berry-colored umbrellas.

  Vining and Kissick climbed the wooden steps of the main building and crossed a wood plank porch that was painted white. Cushions on the white wicker settees and rockers had a pattern of berry vines.

  He opened the front door and they entered a two-story foyer. Area rugs on the hardwood floor had a berry-and-vine pattern. Chamber music was playing. The reception desk was straight ahead. To the left of a staircase was a reading and game room. An elderly man and woman, both in white T-shirts printed with the Berryhill logo, were at a round pedestal table playing Scrabble. At their elbows were stoneware mugs printed with the Berryhill berry-and-vine pattern.

  To the right of the reception desk, a river rock fireplace served as a room divider between the lobby and a small white-tablecloth dining room. The fireplace was open all the way through, with stone hearths on both sides. A wood fire that was mostly embers threw off gentle heat. Berryhill books and products, including jars of berry jam made from the property’s vines, were displayed on a table with a sign: Don’t Forget to Visit Our Gift Shop.

  Vining approached the reception desk. A woman stood with her back to the counter, working at a photocopy machine. She was slender and wore loose garments similar to the ones they’d seen on the women outside. Up close, Vining saw that the fabric had a nubby, natural texture and looked like unbleached cotton. Over her loose pants, the woman wore a long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up, printed with the berry-and-vine pattern. Vining wondered if Georgia Berryhill had trademarked the design.

  Vining tapped a silver bell on the counter. The woman flashed a broad smile as she turned. Her blue eyes were clear and bright. Her long brown hair was braided and streaked with gray. She appeared to be in her forties. A plastic tag with the Berryhill logo pinned to her blouse identified her as “Lucretia.” Beneath the open mandarin collar of her blouse was a rectangular hunk of unpolished crystal attached to a black cord.

  “Welcome to Berryhill. How can I help you?”

  Vining glanced around for Kissick to find that he had wandered away, as was his habit. She handed Lucretia one of her cards. “I’m Detective Nan Vining of the Pasadena police. My partner, Jim Kissick, is around somewhere.” She stepped back to look into the game room and didn’t see him. “We’d like to see Georgia Berryhill.”

  Lucretia looked at the card with interest and again at Vining’s face, as if trying to reconcile the two. “I’ll see if she’s in. What can I say this concerns?”

  “We’d like to discuss that with Ms. Berryhill in person.”

  “Let me make a call.” Lucretia’s voice was calm, as were her movements, neither slow nor rushed.

  While she picked up a phone, Vining walked into the game room. The couple playing Scrabble nodded and smiled at her. She said “Hello” and saw Kissick at the far end of the large room, standing in front of a fireplace, holding a mug. Carafes of coffee and hot water and baskets of Berryhill-brand teas and hot chocolate were on a library table behind a sofa.

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  He nodded, a satisfied smile on his lips. He held out the mug, from which a tea bag string and small label dangled. “Berryhill Blast tea. It’s good.”

  “Not right now, thanks. Care to join me?” She hooked her thumb to indicate the lobby.

  He took a gulp of the tea and set the mug on a butler’s tray.

  When they returned to the desk, Lucretia said, “Asia will be down shortly to take you to Georgia.”

  “Thank you.” Vining thought that had gone easily. “How long have you worked here, Lucretia?”

  “Nearly two years. When my husband passed on a few years ago, I was ready for a new life. I was terribly depressed. A friend brought me here and I never left. It’s changed my life.”

  Vining took out the photo of Tink at a recent Ramona Girls dinner. “Do you know this woman?”

  “Of course. That’s Tink. She lost her husband also. She and I had long talks together.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you that she passed away on Sunday.”

  Lucretia inhaled sharply. “Oh, dear.” She pressed Tink’s photo against her chest and with her other hand grabbed the crystal around her neck. She closed her eyes and moved her lips as if in praye
r. When she opened her eyes, they were damp in the corners. She said to the photo, “Rest well, sweet lady,” and returned it to Vining. “Is that why you’re here? Can I ask what happened to Tink?”

  “She drowned in her backyard pool.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “When was the last time Mrs. Engleford was here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Vining pointed to a computer monitor on the counter. “Wouldn’t you have the records?”

  Vining saw Lucretia’s blue eyes withdrawing. “You’ll have to ask Georgia about that.”

  “All right,” Vining said amiably.

  Kissick left Vining in charge, as having two detectives descend on the reception clerk would have been overkill. He was flipping through The Berryhill Method of Training Your Pets that he’d picked up from the table of Berryhill products.

  Vining put Tink’s photo away and took out the one of Cheyenne, Trendi, and Fallon. “Do you know these girls?”

  Lucretia tentatively took the photo. Her high-on-life attitude had dimmed. “Poor Trendi. Look how young she looks here.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “A little.”

  “What about the other two girls?”

  Lucretia clasped the photo to her chest, as she had done with Tink’s, and was reaching for the crystal on its black cord when she turned toward the stairs at the sound of footsteps.

  Also turning toward the stairs, Vining saw bare feet in Birkenstock sandals with clipped unpolished toenails. A chunky ankle beneath a flowing hem was adorned with a strand of beads on a leather cord. Soon, the rest of the woman appeared. She was tall and sturdy. Her straight blond hair fell past her shoulders and was pulled away from her face and fastened on each side with small butterfly clips. Her long dress had a simple scoop neck and cap sleeves.

  “Here’s Asia,” Lucretia said.

  “I’m Detective Nan Vining and this is my partner, Detective Jim Kissick.”

  “Welcome to Berryhill.” Asia’s smile was enigmatic.

  She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her cheeks and chin looked chapped. Her face was as plain as her dress. Her brown eyes were sharp, the whites bright and healthy, which also seemed to be part of the Berryhill brand. Vining pegged her to be in her mid-thirties.

  “Detective, your snapshot.” Lucretia handed the photo of the three girls back to Vining.

  When Asia caught sight of the photo, she cast a look at Lucretia that made the other woman take a step back and reach for the crystal around her neck.

  Vining held up the photo for Asia. “Do you recognize these women?”

  She gave it a perfunctory glance. “I couldn’t say.” She turned and headed toward the stairs. “Follow me. I’ll take you to meet Georgia and Stefan.”

  THIRTY

  Vining and Kissick followed Asia up the stairs, down one corridor and then another, entering an addition to the original building. The floors here were not warmly aged hardwood, but linoleum that looked like hardwood. The berry-and-vine pattern was stenciled along the walls.

  The cozy reception area and public rooms were a faux front, disguising the industrial wheels that powered the Berryhill empire. The offices housed hives of cubicles emitting a steady tapping of computer keyboards and the hum of people talking into telephone headsets. From what Vining could see, people in the back office were dressed in typical business casual garb.

  The hallway was decorated with an odd combination of artifacts from an eclectic mix of spiritual traditions: a golden Buddha on a pedestal; a silk-screened mandala; yin and yang symbols in black watercolor; a painting on wood of Jesus Christ placing his hands upon the afflicted. Interspersed were framed magazine covers featuring Georgia Berryhill. She was with Oprah on the cover of O: The Oprah Magazine. She was with Stefan Pavel on the cover of BusinessWeek under the caption “America’s Top Entrepreneurs.” She was on the cover of Cooking Light.

  Asia silently walked ahead of them, keeping a steady brisk pace.

  Kissick asked the back of her head. “Asia, are these the Berryhill corporate offices?”

  She cocked her head over her shoulder and didn’t slow when she answered. “These are the business offices for the compound only—the guest facilities, gift shop, restaurant, wellness center, and spa. The Berryhill-brand books and products are run out of a building adjacent to the gift shop.”

  “Do Georgia and her husband live in the compound?”

  Asia didn’t bother looking back, but said only, “Yes.”

  Near the end of the corridor, Asia put up her hand, signaling Vining and Kissick to stop. She leaned into an open doorway, gently rapped on the frame, and spoke in a soft voice that was much different from the all-business tone she’d used with the detectives.

  “Hi, Georgia. The detectives from Pasadena are here.”

  “Please show them in, Asia dear.”

  Vining recognized Georgia Berryhill’s honeyed voice from her television appearances and commercials.

  Asia held her hand toward the door. Without a parting word, she left.

  Vining entered the office first, and Georgia rose to greet them. She looked just like she did on TV: plump and apple-cheeked. Her facial features were small but well proportioned, and reminded Vining of chubby baby dolls she’d had as a child.

  Georgia’s straight black hair was in a blunt cut that brushed her shoulders. Her loose dress of burgundy raw silk had raglan sleeves and a hem that nearly touched her black patent-leather flats. Her voluminous dress didn’t disguise the fact that she was very pregnant.

  “Welcome, Detective Vining.” She took Vining’s hand between both of hers. Her hands were warm and slightly moist. “And Detective Kissick.” She gave him the same two-handed clasp. “Please sit.”

  There was natural, easy warmth about her that Vining found appealing. She hadn’t expected her office to be so cluttered. An inexpensive round table that might have come from Ikea was crowded with what looked like projects in progress: sketches of advertising campaigns on whiteboard; fabric swatches; a thick stack of white paper bound by rubber bands that might have been a new Berryhill book.

  In a shallow basket on the floor, a silver-gray terrier dog with a face like a gremlin and dark circles of fur around both eyes sleepily raised his head from a red plaid cushion.

  Georgia gestured toward a small couch while she lowered herself onto an armchair. She rested her feet on an ottoman. “Forgive my casual pose, but my doctor told me to keep my feet elevated. My husband Stefan will be here soon. I’d like him to join us, if that’s okay.”

  “Absolutely,” Kissick said.

  Georgia picked at her dress, gathering it so that it didn’t drag on the floor, and then laced her hands on top of the shelf formed by her belly. She let out a long sigh and smiled. “That’s better.”

  “When are you due?” Vining asked.

  “Three weeks.” Georgia beamed. “Stefan and I can hardly wait to finally be a family. I have to admit that I’m getting a little tired of being pregnant.” She crinkled her petite nose. “Other pregnant women told me this would happen, but I didn’t believe them. I was so thrilled to be pregnant after all the years of trying. But now…”

  A tall reedy man breezed into the room. “What’s this? You don’t want to be bloated and swollen forever? I’m Stefan Pavel, Georgia’s husband.” He clasped first Vining’s hand and then Kissick’s as they introduced themselves.

  Vining found his handshake unnecessarily bone-crunching. He was the most formally dressed of anyone they’d seen in the compound, wearing charcoal-gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and a hand-tied bow tie in navy blue and yellow paisley. He wore bookish round tortoiseshell glasses. As if to underscore his nerdy image, his thinning blond hair had a deep part along the side and was slicked down.

  From the article in People, Vining knew he was thirty-five—thirteen years younger than Georgia, and he was French. His continental accent fit with his Old World persona. She wondered if it had been as carefully crafted as the ot
her facets of the Berryhill brand.

  “Hello, my love.” He leaned down to give Georgia a kiss.

  Her lips touched the edges of his and she made a smacking sound.

  Stefan darted his eyes around the room, his movements jittery. He raised his index finger, said “Another chair,” and dashed out with a couple of long-legged steps in his cordovan dress shoes.

  Georgia stared at the doorway through which he’d gone, shaking her head with loving amusement. “He tires me out. He has so much energy. I used to. But lately…” She raised her eyebrows as if she barely recognized herself. “Being pregnant for the first time at forty-eight is a challenge.”

  “I imagine it is.” Vining found Georgia’s voice as soothing as a lullaby.

  “We tried for so long. Finally, we had to face reality and started looking into adopting and…we got pregnant. We were cautious because we’d been down that road before, but this little one here decided that he or she wanted to be born. We don’t know the baby’s sex. We want to be surprised.”

  Beaming, she rubbed her belly. “I’m nearly finished with my new book: The Berryhill Method of Being an Older Mother. Of course I had to share what I’ve learned with other older mothers and women who want to be older mothers.”

  Of course, Vining thought.

  The small terrier slowly stepped from his basket on stiff arthritic legs. He stretched, pressing his front paws forward and his tail end into the air. He hobbled to Kissick, who offered his fingers for the dog to sniff. Having passed muster, the dog allowed Kissick to scratch his head.

  “Poor old Mr. Peepers,” Georgia said.

  The dog presented his snout on his smashed-looking face to Vining, who stretched out her fingers. The black circles around his eyes did make him look as if he was wearing glasses. His left eye was clouded by a cataract. Both eyes were runny. Yellowed front teeth were visible beneath his fur mustache.

  Vining scratched his head. His fur was silky, but his bony skull was prominent beneath his thin skin.

  The dog moved to Georgia, making a halfhearted attempt to jump up, his front paws only reaching her thighs. She scratched his ears. “He’s almost sixteen years old, nearly blind in one eye, and partially deaf. But you’re my special little boy, aren’t you, Mr. Peeps?”