“Peaches? Is that her real name?”
“Why?”
Hannah chewed her lip. “What did she look like?”
“Uh . . . well, I’d say she’s fifteen, but she could be older. She was about five six, thin, with long, long light brown hair.”
Hannah had been scanning her computer and tapping things in. She nodded and said, “Is one of these her?” She turned the monitor toward me. She was on a website of missing and exploited children.
Given Virgil and Urquhart’s conversation of the other night, how could I have missed that possibility? I had been looking for some of the missing girls, and yet didn’t even consider Peaches. Maybe it was because of my trust in Gordy; I know he would never intentionally exploit a young runaway, but still . . . I looked them over and lingered on one photo. It was of Madison Pinker, fourteen at the time of her disappearance from her home in a nearby small town, Pavilion, New York, over a year ago. Madison was one of the girls on Urquhart’s list. I checked her date of birth; she’d be barely sixteen now.
“That could be her,” I said, my voice tight as I pointed to the picture on the screen. “I only saw Peaches for a minute, and she’s thinner than this girl. But the cheekbones and the eyes . . . kind of hollow.” My heart was pounding. “What should we do?”
“How sure are you it’s her?” Hannah said.
“Not sure at all,” I murmured, staring at it. “I wish I was. This could be real bad for Gordy if it is her. She’s underage and it’s questionable how she got to the encampment.” I met my friend’s worried gaze. “Hannah, if it is Madison Pinker, Gordy could wind up in prison. I mean, he’s twelve or more years older than this girl.”
Hannah’s eyes welled with tears, and one rolled down her cheek. “We have to do something,” she whispered. “I’ve known Gordy my whole life. He’d never do anything wrong like this.”
“Unless he didn’t understand what he was doing was wrong. Hannah, he’s always been super gullible. You know that. If someone talked to him long and hard, he could be convinced. One of the guys there said something about it being their duty to procreate; I know he has kind of a doomsday idea among the conspiracies he believes. If he thought this was the right thing, his duty to the earth . . .” I sighed, unsure of what to think, or what to do. “Gordy has never seemed to have that . . . that core of common sense to battle the far reaches of insane conspiracy theories.” Hannah had stated aloud what I believed: Gordy would never do anything to hurt anyone else. That I knew, to the bottom of my heart. But as the unwitting tool of a user like the prophet . . . ? “We do have to do something.”
“But what?” Hannah said, deep worry threading her tone. “What can we do without getting Gordy into trouble?”
That was the problem; I didn’t know. “Normally I would just call in the police, but I am not sure it’s that girl. Not sure at all, not even fifty percent. And if it’s not . . . I could be wrong about Peaches’s age. She could be twenty, for all I know. I can’t let it go, though. I’ll talk to Virgil about it.” Given his and Urquhart’s strong friendship, and their work on the missing girls project, he’d know what to do.
“That’s a good idea,” Hannah said with a sigh of relief. “I’ll tell Zeke what you’re doing.”
I was mulling an idea, and finally said, “That encampment would be a dandy place for fugitives to hide out. I wonder, is there a way to check on that possibility?”
Hannah chewed her lip. “I don’t know, Merry. Given how big the country is, and that someone could come from anywhere and end up here, it’s unlikely we could be exhaustive, but we could start with the FBI list, I guess.”
She found an online list of the FBI’s most wanted, but I could see right away that it was going to be useless. There were hundreds of fugitives on the list, and I didn’t know what I was looking for. It was an exercise in futility. “Gosh, so many wanted. Who knew there were this many fugitives on the streets? And some of these names! Bart Sampson, Aron Danger . . . look, there is literally a John Doe. Their real names sound like fake names.”
Mug shots have to be the most misleading photography in the world, I thought, looking through the photo gallery of the wanted. My former employer, Leatrice Pugeot, had been arrested a couple of times for disorderly conduct—she was often drunk, stoned, or both—and it was hard to recognize the high fashion model in the blotchy, disheveled, cross-eyed mug shot. These guys, the most wanted—mostly guys, anyway, with the occasionally disgruntled-looking female—were a rogue’s gallery of men sporting tattoos, a few with skinhead affiliations, and various piercings, even one eyebrow pierced. But mostly underneath the dirty hair they would have been pretty normal-looking dudes, despite the occasional facial scar from a fight with the cops, like one guy, the real John Doe, who had a gash in his forehead right up into his hair.
They had simply been caught and photographed on the worst day of their life. I sighed and shook my head, pushing away from the desk. “I don’t know what I thought we’d stumble on to. Wishful thinking, I guess, that I’d find this so-called prophet on the list and be able to clear the whole camp and free Gordy, Felice, and Alcina.”
“Free them from their own decisions? You know that wouldn’t work, Merry,” Hannah said gently. “We’ll have to find another way to get Gordy back.”
We left it at that. I exited the library, but as I walked down the street I felt a tap on my shoulder and whirled around. It was Isadore. She stood before me, her gaze sliding away from me to the street sign.
Finally I said, “Do you need anything?”
She nodded. “I want to help,” she said, still looking off down the street, her prominent gooseberry green eyes shifting nervously.
“Help?”
“Help. With . . . with those people.”
“At the compound?”
She nodded again. “I was driving an old lady to a doctor’s appointment in Ridley Ridge,” she said, her voice scratchy, like she was out of practice talking.
I know that for a modest sum she drives folks without cars; it’s a side hustle for extra money to keep gas in and insurance on her car. Strictly speaking it isn’t legal, but no one so far had complained or turned her in.
“This jackhole on the street there, in Ridley Ridge, a guy with a big sign, said I shouldn’t be driving. Women shouldn’t drive, he said.”
I stifled a smile. Barney strikes again, I thought, pleasant chappie that he is. I waited, the best way to get more from Isadore. If you urge her on, sometimes she clams up and retreats.
“I told him to drop dead. I said, this isn’t Saudi Arabia, you know. A van picked him up . . . Light and the Way, it said. Then I saw this sign on a post. That place . . . the compound place . . . they’re looking for a bookkeeper.” A ghost of a smile fluttered over her thin lips. “I could go and work for them. Find things out.”
I was startled. Of all the things I had thought she might say, that was not among the possibilities. A bookkeeper? “I appreciate the offer or . . .” I shook my head, unsure if her taking the bookkeeping job was an offer to help me or what. Or how. “But Isadore, unless you’re a member of the group it seems that they frown on outsiders.”
She glowered. “They wouldn’t advertise for a bookkeeper unless they were looking for an outsider. I can look after myself.”
She had a point there. I hesitated, then said, “But given their feelings about women, how do you know the prophet would hire you?”
“They don’t have much money, right?”
“I don’t know but I’m assuming not. I can’t even figure out why they need a bookkeeper.”
She twisted her lips, screwing them up into a tight bud. Her glance flitted to meet mine, then slewed away, down the street. “Maybe they want to file for a church tax exemption with the IRS. To do that, they’d need their books in order.”
She might be right; maybe the prophet had bigger plans than his ramshackle cultish compound. He wouldn’t be the first leader to begin humbly and build an empire by promisi
ng a reward in heaven in exchange for all your money here on earth. And I had been wondering what his stake in it all was. Maybe there was some way to profit by being a prophet. “But what does any of this have to do with hiring a woman?”
“He’d assume a woman bookkeeper would work for less than a man.”
She was right; bigots are usually hypocrites, too. “He’ll assume a woman should work for less than a man.” I paused, considering what Isadore was offering to do, though I still wasn’t clear on her intent. She’s an older woman of some indefinite age between fifty and seventy. It wouldn’t be right to encourage her to go into a situation like that alone. “It seems dangerous to me.”
She snorted, still looking off down the street. “They won’t think I’m a threat.”
“But what could you find out?”
“Won’t know until I’m there.”
I shook my head and crossed my arms. It was late in the afternoon. The weather had turned. In the northern states in October, we can go from midsummer heat to a wintry blast in hours, and the temperature was on a downward trend. A thread of niggling worry wormed through my stomach. “I can’t stop you, Isadore, but I won’t encourage you.”
“It’s my day off. I’ll go out there now. I’ll tell Hannah if I find anything out.” She whirled and headed back into the library.
It was about four by the time I got to the castle. I pulled into the new paved parking area by the castle and picked a spot between Pish’s shiny black Buick and a rental car. I had muffin orders for the next day and needed to get them started, as well as packaging up the muffins I had already baked. I entered the castle to find that Pish was giving a tour to a group of folks. These must be important people, I thought, because the huge vases were full of fresh flowers, gentle classical music tinkled through the sound system, and the place was spotless, gleaming and lovely. They had finished, it appeared, in the great hall, with light streaming through the elegant rose window.
“Ah, and as we finish up here is Merry Wynter herself!” He surged forward, giving me a kiss on both cheeks. “Smile, sweetheart; you look forlorn,” he muttered in my ear. He looped his arm through mine and turned me, as I pasted on a big smile. “Merry, this is the legendary composer Anokhi Auretius. She was on her way home to the city from the west coast and made some time to visit us here, to talk about our plans.”
“Ms. Wynter, pleasure to meet you.” She was tall, with very dark skin that glowed in the multicolored light shed by our rose window. She wore an amazing couture dress with a capelet that emphasized wide shoulders. Her voice was melodic, like an oboe.
“Just Merry, please, Ms. Auretius.” I held out my hand and she took it in both of hers. “Of course I know who this is, Pish.” I met her gaze. “You were guest composer for the LSO back in the early two thousands. Pish took me to one of your concerts.” Her work was experimental, and my untutored ear found some of it discordant, and yet . . . and yet I had ended the evening in tears, overcome with emotion. It was like the concert had taken me on a poignant journey, though I didn’t understand it. Pish said her work is groundbreaking, and I trust his judgment.
“Call me Anokhi, please.”
“Anokhi, it’s an honor to have you here. I enjoy your work so much!”
“Thank you.” She swiveled and gestured with one graceful sweep of her long-fingered hand. “This is my daughter, Sebastienne, and her husband, Grant.”
The couple, she a fashion plate and he a pale cipher in tweed, looked solemn and nodded, then turned toward each other and whispered, the sound echoing in my great hall like wind through dried grass.
“Pish has graciously given us a tour of your lovely castle, and now we must be on our way. It was the briefest of stopovers, and now we head to the airport in Buffalo,” Anokhi said, tucking a capacious Birkin bag (a design I had lusted over but couldn’t afford) under her arm and looking toward the door.
“It was nice to meet you. Are you thinking of using our facility once it is built?”
She turned back to me. “I’ll consider it. The Lexington has offered me another guest position in two years. I haven’t agreed yet. Pish, if you’d be so kind as to send me the performance hall specs when you have them, it will help immeasurably.”
“Of course, my dearest Anokhi. We’re finalizing design specs now, working with a company that has constructed many performance halls.” They embraced and did the triple cheek kiss.
We shook hands all around, and Pish walked them out as I headed to the kitchen. I put the muffins I had baked earlier into tubs. I then got out baking supplies. Again. Tomorrow was muffin delivery day, and I was behind, so I thought I’d make some extras and get ahead of myself. I got out my phone and looked at my muffin orders. The small business I run, making muffins for various Autumn Vale and Ridley Ridge cafés and other places, is not especially lucrative, but it is a way of connecting with the community and keeping in good with folks. What Pish and I were trying to do was causing waves among locals, so it behooved me to be a friendly public face.
I looked up as Pish entered the kitchen and filled the kettle. “She didn’t seem overly impressed,” I said, getting out mixing bowls and my new stand mixer. Five dozen bran, two dozen each of carrot and banana nut, and four dozen cheddar and herb muffins, coming up. I already had the cheddar muffins made, but needed to get busy with the rest. I would make the batter, put it into baking cups and freeze it. That way I could make as many or as few as I wanted at a time. All I’d have to do was come back to the castle and bake off what I needed to fill all the orders. I had new double ovens installed in the kitchen for that very reason, as well as the large commercial oven in the range my great-uncle Melvyn had installed. “Is everything okay with the performance hall? Are other artists wary?”
He shrugged wearily as he padded around the kitchen in his slippers and sweater. He put the kettle on the front burner and turned the knob; it lit with a whoof. He then got out the big teapot and some rooibos tea. He likes the earthy flavor of the African herbal brew, which he discovered while traveling. “I couldn’t convey our vision and she doesn’t trust the construction company specs. I think I need some renderings . . . expert drawings, a vision board. Something.”
The theater design was a dome, which was the least expensive and best we could find. There were examples out there, built by the same company. But perhaps now was not the time for bracing suggestions. Maybe he needed a friend. I went to him, put my arms around him and laid my head on his shoulder. He stroked my back. “My darling Pish, you’ll soldier through.”
“I’m tired, my dearest.”
“Maybe you need a vacation,” I said, straightening and examining the lines around his eyes and the softening of his jawline. “Go to the city. Visit your mum. Attend the theater. Find a few scandalous boys to entertain you.”
“I think I’m too old for scandalous boys now,” he replied.
“You’re never too old for scandalous boys.” I kissed his cheek loudly, then went back to my batter.
He chuckled.
“If it makes you feel any better, make it a business trip. See Roma,” I said, naming Roma Toscana, the operatic soprano, who would be headlining our grand opening, whenever that happened. I loathe her; I think she is an emotional vampire and mean girl. However . . . she is Pish’s friend and very talented so we make sickly sweet nicey-nice to each other. In his presence, anyway. “Maybe you can check in with the LSO’s stage coordinator. He can help convince Anokhi to give us a chance. Or maybe Liliana can talk to her. She’s on board. Do she and Anokhi know each other?”
“They do. It’s a thought.”
I knew he was worrying about how other artists would feel about our facility. Getting them to see our vision and commit time and resources to it was proving to be a tough sell in some cases. Pish was risking his own money, but also donors’ money and the LSO’s future. It was terrifying. “If you go to the city you can take a meeting with the construction company. There’s nothing like face-to-face.”
“Maybe,” he said, picking up his mug of reddish brew. “Or maybe I need to buck up, buttercup, and stop whining.” He kissed my forehead and headed out the door. “I’m going to make some calls to try to get the LSO creative director to speak with Anokhi.”
I did what I had to do, and by the time I was done I had little muffin pucks frozen and a pail of resilient bran muffin batter in the fridge. I cleaned the kitchen, put on the dishwasher, then carried the stacked tubs of muffins for the next morning out to the car. Becket trailed me out and hopped into the passenger’s seat, taking the lift, for once. We drove the short distance to the house.
I was finishing up some routine chores at home when my phone pinged. A text from Virgil. Something had come up, he said. He was coming home, but would probably be going out again almost immediately. I texted back that I would make him something to eat. I had something I needed to tell him, and hoped he was in a mood to listen.
A half hour later he came into the kitchen. I had made him a grilled Reuben, one of his favorites, and set it on the breakfast bar. “What’s up?” I asked as I made him a cup of coffee.
He looked worried. “A girl was just found along the road.”
I froze, a prickle along my spine, and everything I had intended to say flew out of my mind. “A girl? What do you mean?”
“Dead. A girl was found dead.” He swiped his big hand over his face. “The poor kid . . . not more than fifteen or so, a pretty teenager, long brown hair, long dress, big coat . . . dead. Some folks leaving here found her.”
Chapter Nine
“A teenage girl, dead?” My heart thudded and I felt sick. I collapsed on a stool opposite him. “And found by people from here? Virgil, what do you mean?”
“Pish had some visitors, right? From New York City?”
“Yes, Anokhi Auretius—she’s a composer—and her daughter and son-in-law were here to tour the castle and talk to Pish about a possible guest composer residency once we have the Wynter Woods Performing Arts Center up and running. They left about . . . oh, four fifteen or so. They were heading to Buffalo to catch a flight back to the city. What happened?”
Muffin But Trouble Page 9
