The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) (17 page)

Tirza met Maliah’s narrow-eyed glare with a smug
smile that just begged to be slapped off. Silence descended over the hall as
the drama unfolded.

The difficulty for me lay in trying to figure out
who to hate more, but there wasn’t much time to choose. With a flair for
grandiosity, Maliah transformed herself from bitch-in-black to wounded widow.
Placing a hand over her supposedly grieving heart, she covered her face with
the other. Probably hiding the fact that she wasn’t crying. Then she turned and
stumbled out the door. The pathos generated by her departure was the cue for
her knight in shining armor to run to her rescue.

Eli must not have read the script because,
although he did follow, his exit had more in common with Al Capone on his way
to an IRS audit than a white knight.

Tirza’s reaction was fun, though. While the room
looked on with the bloodlust of Romans in the Colosseum, Tirza fought with her
face. Cracks in her plastered-on expression of indifference revealed equal
parts humiliation and fury.

She settled on fury when Beth and Cozbi gave the
scene a standing O, clapping and shouting “Brava! Brava!” She stomped out the
door with more flounce than a bridesmaid’s dress.

“That’s enough.” Distracted by the performance, we
hadn’t noticed Moses entering through the kitchen. “A godly woman carries
herself with dignity. ‘A foolish woman is clamorous; she is simple, and knows
nothing.’”

Women scattered in the face of Moses’s anger,
abandoning Cozbi to her husband. I hesitated, not wanting to stay, but also concerned
at the level of anger in Moses’s eyes. Cozbi peered at me through lowered eyes,
giving an infinitesimal nod of assurance. As I left, I overheard them talking,
and felt even more reassured. His anger seemed more directed at the situation
than at his wife.

“I’ll have to talk to that boy,” Moses said. “‘The
lips of an immoral woman drip with honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil;
But in the end she is bitter as wormwood, her steps lay hold of hell.’”

I would just love to hear Moses lecture the “boy.”

The day was too nice to return to the office. Not
wanting to run into Eli or any of his immoral honey-drippers, I set off in the
opposite direction, heading past Father’s house and the barn to Philadelphia
House. In the light of the day, I was better able to examine the few small
cabins flanking the farmhouse, but wasn’t sure which was Eli’s. As I neared the
temple, I briefly debated going inside. It probably wasn’t locked and I might
find a quiet space. The problem was, there was no guarantee someone else
wouldn’t have the same idea or even that Baara wouldn’t use the time for
cleaning.

I was discovering one of the hardest parts of this
venture wasn’t the possibility of danger, but the complete lack of privacy in
communal living. The cabins assigned to the higher-ranked males and their wives
took on a deeper significance in that respect. Eli had more than his fair share
of sexual allure, but when his status and the accompanying privileges were
tossed into the mix, he was irresistible. More irresistible.

Unfortunately, insight doesn’t necessarily bring
peaceful acceptance, and I was sick of watching him consort with painted
hussies.

I kept walking, following a path around the
temple. Two small sheds had been erected behind Philly House. Padlocks dangled
from the doors. I figured they were for storage and passed them by.

A
tangled mass
of vegetation and trees rose behind the last of the cabins and ran down to
where the ground grew boggy next to the lake. This close to November, there
weren’t any mosquitoes to worry about, but this area was sure to be a breeding
ground for the little bloodsuckers come summer.

As I was turning back, Thunder ran past, ears all
aflop. She dove into a crease in the wall of foliage.

“Thunder!”

I ran after her. The crease turned out to be the
faint outlines of a path. About a hundred yards in, the path widened and looked
better tended. Not wide enough for a truck, it would allow an ATV or snowmobile
to run along smoothly. Maybe the trail’s end marked the dividing line for the property
since it broke off so abruptly. 

The silence and isolation soothed my jagged nerves
like nothing else could. Walking along the path, my ever-present anxiety
slipped away, and a sense of comfort, of God even, rose in the vacuum created
by my fear’s retreat. For me, a connection to the Creator as I walked among the
greenery, hearing birds chirp and the breeze high in the trees, came easier.
More natural.
Why didn’t I take more time for this?
Immersion in
untouched nature freed my soul, opened my relationship with the Higher Power to
greater heights.

I kept walking until the path opened to a
clearing. A small hillock rose up at its edge, an inverted dimple of grass.
Along its base ran a dried creek bed with bare rocks studded along its course
like teeth. Random puddles of stagnant water were all that remained until the
wet spring months cycled back around.

Other than where I had come in, I didn’t see any
opening where the path led away from the clearing. I briefly debated climbing
the hillock to explore the far side but changed my mind at the sight of burrs
and prickers I would have to slog through. The bottom of my skirt and socks
were already dotted with little stabby-pointed U-shaped prickers. My legs and
ankles stung where they had gotten scratched pushing through the thicket.

The sound of something crashing its way through
the underbrush sent my heart thudding. Suddenly, taking a walk through virgin
forest in bear country didn’t seem like such a grand idea.

The only trees growing in the clearing were ratty
scrubs. If I tried to climb one, it would bow under my weight, offering the
bear some tasty girl-ka-bob.

The crashing got closer, and a black furry mass
shot through thicket. My heart leapt from dull thumping to a wild percussive
rhythm before my brain registered “not bear.”

Gunner, the lab mix, would’ve made a small bear,
anyway. He was carrying something in his jaws and was overjoyed to have company
to show it off to. He bounced nearer, dropping the object about five feet away.
Crouching over his treasure, head low, butt high, and tail wagging in wild
abandon, he barked a playful doggie challenge.

“Whatcha got there, boy?”

He barked in steady, loud yips, bouncing from side
to side, always returning to hover over the object and bark some more. When I
crept to within three feet, I saw his prize was a gruesome Halloween prop. One
of those bloody hands that you leave sticking out of the bowl of candy to freak
out the neighborhood kids. I never liked those things. In fact, I have never
really outgrown my fear of clowns. Body parts ran a close second.

Besides, the thing was covered in dog drool, so my
attempts to play the game were only halfhearted. Until I caught the smell.

Bad smell. Rotten. Meat. Smell.

As my stomach threatened to mutiny, I looked
closer at Gunner’s treat. It had a silver and gold braided wedding band on it,
which upon reflection, seemed an odd adornment for a Halloween toy. Warts,
maybe, or cracked, broken fingernails.

Forgetting the nature of our game I forced myself
closer, only to realize my mistake after Gunner swooped down, grabbed the hand,
and bounced off.

“Gunner! Stop!”

Gunner didn’t stop. Gunner was happy that his new
friend was finally getting in the spirit of the game. Much doggie joy. Much
human hysterics.

He gamboled and frolicked all around the clearing
with the grisly trophy dangling from his mouth. He dropped it once and I almost
had it. Right at the crucial moment of capture, my brain said “grab it,” my
hand said “eww,” and my tummy said “barf.” Gunner took advantage of my body’s
mixed signals, darted in, and snatched it out from under me.

Either my near success in capturing his treasure
was too close for comfort, or for some other canine-related reason Gunner took
off through the woods.

Gone.

I stood in the clearing for a long time, calling
for him to come, half hoping he wouldn’t. I made the mistake of yelling
“Treat!” before realizing as far as Gunner was concerned, he already had one. I
threw up my apple juice. Found myself thinking it was a good thing I hadn’t
drunk tomato juice. Threw up some more.

Stop thinking.

Chapter Sixteen

B
y the time I
made it back to the lodge, I had almost succeeded in convincing myself I had
imagined the whole thing. I tried really hard. Novelty toys could be very
realistic. That fake puke fooled me every time, as did the dog turd. Every
time.

Except for the smell. Ever since I quit smoking, my
sense of smell had improved. Sense of taste too, which explained my advancement
from size six to size ten. But up until now, the olfactory improvement had been
a good thing. Right up to the gross dead-hand moment.

Dead
. Now there was a clue. I knew one
possibly dead married guy, but that meant the hand should be in Las Vegas.
Unless there were two dead guys. Or the hand was a traveling hand. The image of
the dead hand thumbing a ride north made me laugh until I threw up some more. 

As soon as I had myself under control, I realized
I had to stop trying to fool myself and call the cops.

The first person I encountered in the office was
Maliah, so it was a shame I had stopped projectile vomiting. As I reached for
the phone, she grabbed my wrist. Our eyes locked.

“What are you doing? Phone calls aren’t allowed.”

“It’s an emergency,” I said. “I have to call the
police.”

Shock flashing across their faces, Rachel and
Abigail stopped what they were doing to listen. I wrenched my hand away, but
not before I got a look at Maliah’s wedding band: gold and silver braid, a
perfect match to the dead hand’s.

What the hell?
I looked at the ring again.
A perfect match. Enoch hadn’t run away.

“What emergency?” Maliah said, looking more
irritated than worried.

I wanted to smack her until I remembered she was
now a widow, even if she didn’t know it yet. The news that pieces of her
husband were being consumed in the woods would be devastating. Unless, of
course, she had killed him. In which case, she deserved a smack.

I took a deep, steadying breath.

“I was taking a walk in the woods behind the
temple and I found… uh…” I swallowed hard.

Maliah stood so fast that her chair banged over.

“Found what? That area is strictly off limits.”

“Well, no one told me. And that’s not the hot
issue here. I found a…”

“Just say it.”

“A hand. Okay? I found a hand out there.”

A shriek slipped passed the fingers Abigail had
clamped over her mouth. Rachel paled and dropped into a chair. Maliah, however,
was made of sterner—or more heartless—stuff; her eyes never left mine.

“Don’t be ridiculous. How could there be a hand
back there?”

“Well, there is.” Like this was something a person
would make up. I decided someone else could break the news about whose hand it
probably belonged to. “I’m calling the police.”

“No, you’re not. We’re calling our own security.
If the police are called, that’s Father’s decision.”

“But Maliah, what if someone is hurt out there?”
Abigail’s voice rose tremulously. “One of our men, or a hunter, or something?”

“I don’t think it was… fresh,” I said reluctantly.

I hated to give Maliah more reason for avoiding
the call to authorities, but whoever had been attached to that hand hadn’t been
separated from it recently. And calling security meant calling Eli.

Maliah, true to form, ignored us both and dialed
an inside line.

Minutes later, I was perched once again in the
Goldilocks chair struggling to appear humbled under the burden of manly
disapproval. Father stared down through bunched eyebrows from his raised dais,
Eli and Moses at parade rest beside him.

Maliah had the pleasure of escorting me over,
tickled to death to be the messenger bearing bad news. The sulky look on her
face when Father abruptly dismissed her was satisfying, forcing me to squash a
laugh. I caught a twinkle in Eli’s eyes too before he suddenly found something
of interest on the floor.

“What were you doing in the woods?”

Father’s voice was icy cold, completely lacking
the warmth of his usual address. And why was he berating me about my choice of
where to walk? I had heard Maliah report that I had discovered a hand. Wasn’t
that the hot issue here?

“What were you doing in the woods?” 

“I just went for a walk.”

“During bow season?” Eli interrupted, earning a
scowl from Father.

In northern Wisconsin, admitting I had forgotten
it was hunting season was nearly as treasonous as not knowing how the Packers
fared on Sunday afternoon.

I shrugged.

Father regained control of the interrogation.
“That area is off limits, even to hunters. It’s posted.” 

 “I’m sorry; I didn’t know. My orientation with
Maliah was cut short when the police came to talk to her. That was about Enoch,
right? Did she report him missing?”

Father’s face reddened.

“Of course not. We do not have any dealings with
infidels, and that includes the police. Ever. Which is why we will not—”

“But I found a hand. Of course we have to report
it to the police. Besides, I’m pretty sure it was—”

Father slammed his hand down on the desk. Scared
the crap out of me. Moses jumped, too. Father stood and turned to face the
window.

“I have said all I am going to say on the subject
of the deserter. As far as your discovery… If there even was such a thing out
there, it obviously would have come from an outsider. A trespasser. We are
under no obligation to subject ourselves to more police scrutiny simply because
some unbeliever got himself killed on our land. If that even happened, which I
doubt.”