I was weary of it all, and sick at heart at the awfulness of humanity, at times. But for every awful part of the story—and it was drenched in horror, for me—there was redemption in how the towns, both Autumn Vale and Ridley Ridge, had come together, for once, sharing information, helping the families of the victims . . . it was inspiring. And I hoped not the last time everyone would come together that way.
I think Sheriff Baxter was relieved to have the state and the feds take over. He was tired and, in news footage, appeared bewildered by all that had happened. And I believe he was more than a little ashamed that he had let the ball drop on the Light and the Way Ministry, which he should have been more watchful of. But I did get how the so-called cult—more of a criminal enterprise, really—had managed to fly under the radar so long. Who wanted to confront a band of oddballs unless you had to? They had kept a low profile, with Barney making just enough ruckus in public to discourage anyone wanting to check out their “religion.”
It was all so horrible that I did not sleep that first night; Virgil stayed awake with me, just holding me tight in our big comfy bed. I had Lizzie stay in our guest room, but eventually she came in and crashed on the floor of our bedroom in front of the warm glow of the fireplace, fluffy comforter pulled over her, Becket, seeming to know what she needed, curled up at her side, ready to hug and snuggle. I was relieved the next morning to find that Barney—the real John Doe—on the run, had been caught and extradited to Ohio. He was not being considered for bail as he was clearly a flight risk, having fled the system before and evaded capture for years.
It was odd how many criminals that cult had sheltered. Besides Barney and Nathan and Maria, there was Bardo Voorhees (masquerading as his brother, Arden) and Trucker Bob, who had helped in the drug smuggling enterprise, and his brother Walt, the welder, who had altered the trucks to create cunning compartments to conceal massive amounts of cocaine that then found their way from Mexico through the States and into Canada. That border drug bust I had read about in the Ridley Ridge Record was of trucks altered by Walt the welder. Forensics was likely having a good time connecting all the dots. Isadore basked in her share of the limelight because it was her shrewd assessment of the ledgers being cooked that had made us think of the Light and the Way being a cover for criminal enterprises.
Virgil discovered and was able to tell me that the woman who had ended up in the women’s shelter decided, finally, to press charges. She had entered into a relationship with the prophet, but had run from the encampment when she was beaten so badly she ended up with a concussion. Voorhees was not the one who did the beating, it was Mother Esther, she said, after she mouthed off to the prophet’s “wife” and tried to run away. It made me wonder . . . which of the two, Bardo or Esther, actually killed Esther’s husband, Arden? That would certainly be a case for the courts. Charges had been filed against both in the Arden Voorhees murder, but each was blaming the other.
A couple of evenings later we gathered in the castle with Hannah and Zeke, Pish, Lynn, Lizzie and Urquhart. From an initial phase of buoyed good spirits, Lynn had become subdued and introspective, which worried Pish. I thought maybe her quietude was a good thing, a period of readjustment she needed, and I trusted it more than her glib chirpiness. Her body had gone through so much from the toxic soup of chemicals she had been flooded with. With Pish watching over her like an anxious robin on a nest of fragile eggs, she would be fine.
Or not. At a certain point an addict has to take responsibility. I hoped she would.
We were sitting in the parlor, one of the few human-sized rooms in the castle. Sometimes I forget how much I love my castle, with all its grandeur and space, but I never forget how much I love the parlor. It is an intimate space, with a fireplace at one end, and antique sofas and chairs set around a low coffee table on which the Wynter family antique tea service usually sits. But Pish had a retro bar cart that held scotch, soda, bourbon, Crown Royal whiskey and many other alcohols. He made everyone—except Lynn, who was drinking tea—a signature drink, a new one he was working on he called an Autumn Mist, with the whiskey and cinnamon schnapps. It was delicious and warming.
Urquhart brought Ellie with him. He had, of course, given her a tour of the castle—everyone has to see the whole thing before they sit down or they seem distracted wondering about the edifice and its history and layout—and then they joined us. She was quiet too, mostly because she couldn’t talk about the cases as they were before the court, and yet, of course, all of what had happened was all anyone wanted to talk about. The state police investigation had widened to the property the Light and the Way Ministry had rented before buying the land from Bob Taggart. Using GPR—ground penetrating radar—they had found what they thought were graves. These were troubling indications that there might be other victims of the deadly mother and son duo, perhaps girls from out of state. It was a sobering and sad thought, but we tried to set aside the sorrow as we came together.
After an hour or two of drinks, hors d’oeuvres and nonsense chat, all designed to lift people’s spirits, Pish served coffee and tea to the drivers. Some (and by “some” I mean me) drank more wine. Lizzie, with the resilience of teenage-dom, her eyes sparkling, had recounted our adventure at length, standing in the middle of the room, dramatizing it for effect. She is an amazing kid, with a buoyant personality and the strength to bounce back even after seeing Nathan kill himself. I intended to keep an eye on her, though. These things can come back to haunt us when we least expect it, as I know from experience.
One little mystery was solved for me when she threw off her jean jacket, revealing the racer-back tee she was wearing. On her left shoulder, over her scapula, was a tattoo—that first of which we had spoken—of a camera with wings. It was perfect!
I had my part to play, of course, in telling how I had figured out about Nathan and Mariah, and especially the discovery in the shed. I told them some of what I told the police, downplaying it a bit and simply saying everything just clicked, and I figured it out. I don’t know if I ever would have if Lizzie hadn’t gone to get Alcina and Felice’s belongings and stumbled upon Nathan and Mariah. I shudder to think of what would have happened if she hadn’t. She was the real hero of the event, I said, and I meant it.
“What puzzled me from the beginning was how disjointed the group felt . . . not like a group at all, but like warring factions,” I reflected. I stared into my wine. “No one seemed to be working together for the same ends. Mother Esther was the only one who appeared to have any ideological beliefs that she steadfastly followed, as horrible as her misogyny and racism is. Voorhees’s main preoccupation was finding a way to disappear in plain view, creating a drug empire while protecting it with the gleaming halo of a religious commune.”
“And everyone who was attracted to it had their own ideas, and their own motives,” Hannah said.
Ellie, eyes glowing with interest, nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“But it all fell apart for me,” I said. “Runaways were attracted to the Light and the Way as a convenient place to get away from parents or authority figures. Felice was troubled by her marriage breaking up, and the struggle to keep her farm going on her own. Mariah convinced her that her destiny was to be with Barney, who promised to take care of her and Alcina.” I shuddered, grateful afresh that they had escaped from harm.
“What a collection of crazies,” Virgil said, stroking my back. “I swear, only you could look at that mess and sort it out.”
I knew too well how lucky I had gotten in some guessing, some information that connected with other information, and the help of strong and smart people around me. I shook my head. “Normally I can figure it out from who was where when, but I didn’t have any of that information this time. I got lucky, and I heard and saw more than some were able to.”
“Access is everything,” Ellie agreed, holding up her glass for more wine. “It would have taken some time to get all the warrants and talk to all the people out there.”
Pish poure
d and said, “It all could have been prevented if Sheriff Baxter had been operating at his proper level.”
We were all silent for a minute. It was supposed to be a secret for now, but we all knew that beyond not running in the next election, Sheriff Ben Baxter was retiring for “medical reasons,” and his second in command would be taking over until the next election.
“So many crazies!” I said, shaking my head. “Mother Esther was a racist wanting to start a neo-Nazi baby factory. Mariah and Nathan . . . they were hiding a brand of family madness that defies belief. Bob and Walt Taggart weren’t crazy, just crafty. They were in with Voorhees from the beginning to hide their drug smuggling.” I paused, but then said, “And Gordy . . . our poor friend was just looking for someplace to fit in. Hannah, Zeke . . . didn’t Gordy want to come out here tonight?” I had invited him personally when I saw him after giving my statement to the police.
The two exchanged glances.
“He’s, uh . . . he’s not ready yet,” Zeke said.
“He’s . . . embarrassed,” Hannah said softly.
“And resentful?” I said. “Angry, maybe?”
Biting her lip, Hannah nodded. “I hope you understand. He feels like he had a good thing going, and he was looking forward to marrying Peaches . . . uh, Madison. And now it’s gone.”
“It was all an illusion anyway,” I said, irritated. “He needs to come out of his dream world and face reality. It was never real, none of it. It was a con man’s game to hide his drug dealing and smuggling. Voorhees never lived like they did. He had his own lair with heat, video games, pot, pizza and satellite TV. And Madison was a runaway who clung to Gordy to avoid being mauled by Nathan.”
“You have to see it from his viewpoint, Merry,” Hannah said. “Maybe Voorhees was a fraud and others were crazy, but what that community was building felt real to Gordy.”
“Including repopulating the earth with white babies?” I snapped.
Zeke looked hurt, and I felt bad immediately. I sighed. “Look, I know Gordy’s not a racist or a bigot,” I said. “I’m sorry. But I do wish he’d wake up.” I couldn’t help being exasperated.
Virgil patted my back, then took the whiskey Pish handed him. “Relax, Merry. I think Hannah and Zeke have a better chance to deprogram Gordy than anyone else.”
Hannah smiled. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading and research. Virgil helped; he knows people and is getting us books.”
I looked at my husband in surprise. The firelight played over his handsome face, his eyes looking hooded and mysterious under his thick dark brows. He took a sip of the whiskey and winked at me. I felt a warm flush and smiled.
“Hey, I know a few people,” he said. “Actually, it’s a contact of Dewayne’s, someone in a cult recovery network.”
“We’re taking it on, Zeke and I,” Hannah said, looking at her boyfriend with warmth and love. “He’s going to make sure Gordy and him do the things they used to, you know . . . play video games, watch movies, take road trips. Binny promised him a permanent job with Turner Construction, to start when he’s up to it, hopefully soon. And together with his uncles we’re going to do what the anti-conspiracy sites say works. But we’re going to take our time and show Gordy the compassion he needs while he reevaluates everything he has come to believe.”
I reflected on that; how many people can reevaluate their whole worldview and come through it? I needed more of that compassion in my heart. “I think like Virgil says, if anyone can do it, you two can.”
They had a plan, and they were committed to helping their childhood friend.
I sighed, peace stealing into my heart. I had held on to anger toward Gordy, anger that he had let himself be so heavily influenced by theories and notions I considered idiotic. But simply saying that to him would not accomplish anything. It wasn’t up to me, after all. I looked at Zeke and Hannah and smiled. “I promise, when I see Gordy I am going to use the same methods; just kindness. You’re good people, you two.” I hesitated, but then added, “And tell him, from me, that I truly believe that with his care and concern for her he kept Madison safe from Nathan and Mariah. I really do. He may have saved her life.”
Chapter Twenty-five
It was early November, getting chilly, but still beautiful. Wynter Woods was clearer, most of the leaves having fluttered to the ground, except for the occasional old oaks, the leaves of which hang on longer than most of the others. Everything was brown and crunchy underfoot.
It was a Saturday morning. Pish, Lizzie and I were at the entrance of the woods where the performance center was going to be built, and I was nervously pacing. This was stage one of our campaign to win over the hearts and minds of the various factions in Autumn Vale. First up: the Autumn Vale Methodist Church Choir.
“They’re here,” Pish said.
I turned. There, across the landscape, following the lane that had been created by the heavy construction vehicles as the work crew dug the foundation and installed the services to the site, bumped a school bus full of Methodists driven by Reverend Maitland himself. The bus stopped and the group of about thirty, most of them choir members but a few others, too, who were church group leaders, disembarked. Shepherded by Graciela and John Maitland, they approached, looking about with unfeigned interest. Graciela had shown me a path to local acceptance and I hoped I was smart enough to take it.
Pish and I would gain the approval of Autumn Vale and Ridley Ridge folk alike, and bring them to realize that the Wynter Woods Performance Center was going to be good for everyone, locals and outsiders. The Maitlands smiled at me, and Graciela nodded, motioning with her hands, encouraging me to start.
“Hello, everyone,” I said, clasping my hands together in front of me and wringing them anxiously. I looked over the gathering; the congregation was a diverse group of local business leaders and regular folk. It included many people I knew, and many more I didn’t. I smiled and nodded to them all. “My name is Merry Grace Wynter, and this is Pish Lincoln, my business partner and longtime friend. Welcome to our project. We are going to walk this path, and what you will see is a big open space in the woods, but someday . . . someday soon, we hope . . . there will be a domed performance center, with professional sound engineering, sound studios, and practice space for talented musicians and singers. We have artistic renderings of the finished product, but it will require you to use your imagination. Come with me.”
Lizzie, snapping photos for our website-to-be, followed the crowd, their heads bent together in chat. They followed Pish and me down the woodland path, leaves crunching underfoot, coming out finally to the opening, where a wooden stage had hastily been built and huge billboards, ordered swiftly from the company who would build the dome, depicting the performance center had also been erected. On the stage, with a microphone and nothing else, stood Liliana Bartholomew, majestically zaftig in purple choir robes. She had graciously acquiesced to Pish’s plea to help us win over locals.
“This,” I said, sweeping my hand to point to her, above us, “is the magnificent Liliana Bartholomew, soprano for the Lexington Opera Company, who has agreed to be one of our first performers at the Wynter Woods Performance Center.”
With no musical accompaniment other than her magnificent voice, she belted out “Amazing Grace,” sounding like a cross between the sweet and powerful lilt of Jessye Norman and the flavorful runs of the recordings I had heard of Mahalia Jackson. The church group was spellbound and surged, as one, toward the stage, swaying in time with her powerful voice. As the song ended and the echoes of her performance melted into the woods, they broke out into applause. And when she sat down on the top step of the stage, they crowded around her, thanking her and begging for an encore and asking questions.
As I stood, tears in my eyes, I beckoned to Graciela. She came to stand with me. “Thank you so much,” I murmured, putting one arm over her shoulders. “I feel like we have a chance now.” I hugged her and released, then eyed the billboard, which showed a domed theater with a stone entrance and
depictions of people gathered waiting to enter. “I feel like we might be able to make it happen.”
The crowd had worked its magic and an encore was coming; Liliana remounted the stage and looked over to her sound engineer, also known as her famous son, Mojo, who stood at a mixing board and amplifier with headphones on. She murmured something to him, and he smiled, nodded, then twiddled with the sound system.
“What I will sing next is an old spiritual song, a classic sung by the incomparable Mahalia Jackson. What you may not realize is, the very first recording of this song was done by an African-American singer by the name of Dorothy Maynor, the daughter of a Methodist minister. She was also the founder of the Harlem School of the Arts.” She swept her hand over the gathered choir members and said, “I know you all will know it. Will you join me on this stage, those who can, and sing with me?”
They all eagerly climbed those wooden steps, the younger helping the older, the infirm making their way on faith-strengthened limbs. Even the church deacons, ladies’ auxiliary director and Reverend Maitland joined in. As they clustered behind Liliana, she started slow, low and soft . . . “Go, tell it on the mountain . . .” and the rest joined in joyfully, once they realized that they did indeed know all the words. It was amazing; they swayed and clapped and chorused with her. I had shivers all over my body and tears in my eyes in the great temple of my forest. I’m not a religious person, but this was a holy experience.
Lizzie was busy snapping photos and taking video footage. Pish was standing silent, tears running down his cheeks. I babbled out a weepy thanks to Graciela for her idea, blowing my running nose and weak with gratitude. I would never, for the rest of my life, forget that moment, and how it felt like our temple of the arts had been blessed not just by Liliana’s magnificent voice, but by these openhearted people who had taken me into their lives. I would do my best to give back to them.
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