I pictured Brother Eldon’s thick menace and Nehemiah’s querulous insistence that something needed to happen, and soon. “Has anything changed recently? Anything that would cause Barbara to want to escape?”
A branch snapped and Sister Rose startled, her eyes darting back and forth. I scanned the field. The air settled into stillness again.
“Nothing out there,” I said. “I promise.”
Sister Rose stepped close, her voice low. “Brother Eldon asked us all to get insurance. Barbara refused to sign up for it.”
My heart beat against my rib cage, a rapid, tapping staccato.
“What kind of insurance?” I said, though I already knew the answer.
“Life insurance.” Her words tumbled faster. “Barbara told Brother Eldon that Master Paul had always spoken against insurance, that if our faith was strong enough we wouldn’t get sick. And once we died we’d be with God anyway, so there was no need for any of mankind’s worldly inventions like insurance. Master Paul believed insurance was the path to greed, and the work of the devil.”
“How did Brother Eldon react when she challenged him?”
“He berated her in front of the community. I wanted to speak up for her, but I was too afraid. Later that night, Sister Barbara defied our curfew. I think she must have been spying on Brother Eldon, because when she returned to our yurt, just before dawn, she was very angry-and Sister Barbara never indulged in the sin of anger. I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me. Told me to go back to sleep. The next morning I woke up, and she was gone. Now she’s dead and I’ll never …” She trailed off into quiet sobs.
John D wrapped both arms tight around her. She leaned into him like a child, her shoulders shaking. I added my own form of comfort, surrounding her with a blanket of compassion. I hoped she could feel it.
Her sobs lessened after a time. She pulled away, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
“Do you want to leave, to get out?” I asked.
She looked over at me. “I don’t think I can do that,” she said. “My life was an awful mess before Master Paul. He helped me get straight. And I’ve been here so long. I don’t know any other way to be.”
“I could help you find another place, someplace where you wouldn’t be scared all the time.”
“And do what? I’d rather be scared in here than scared out there. At least I’ve got a place to sleep, people who know me, accept me.”
“Did you sign up for the insurance policy?”
She nodded.
“Have you thought about what that means?”
She bit her trembling, lower lip. “It means I’m worth something if I die.”
“But to whom?”
“To the others, to my family of sisters and brothers.” Her voice rose. “Don’t you see? Even if I didn’t do anything with my life, I can do something good by dying. When it’s time for me to go, I can help build the new Paradise. A better one.”
“The new, improved Paradise, you say?” John D’s voice was skeptical.
She bobbed her head. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. “We’re working toward the day when we can rebuild and restore our earthly home. Brother Eldon has a plan for a new city of God, right here on these hills.”
A pig farm and a field of dead almond trees didn’t seem like an ideal spot to erect this new Eden, but what do I know? Having grown up in a Buddhist monastery, I’m hardly qualified to judge someone else’s attempt at terrestrial nirvana.
I said, “But what if Brother Eldon decides you should die before you want to?”
Sister Rose jutted her chin, showing a little more spunk. “We’ve talked about that in our community meeting,” she said. “Don’t think we haven’t. If Brother Eldon does sound the Call to Paradise, he’s insisting the community make the ultimate decision by a majority vote.”
I said nothing.
John D cleared his throat. “Sister Rose, a majority vote inside a brainwashed cult ain’t exactly democracy in action.”
She wheeled on him. “Judge not, John D. Judge not, lest ye be judged!”
She started down the hill. Then she turned back, as if regretting her outburst.
“I’m really sorry about Barbara,” she said. “I hope you find whoever did it.”
We watched her pick her way across the field, until we lost sight of her among the yurts.
John D sighed. “Nobody can say you didn’t try.”
It wasn’t much consolation. I think we both felt we were watching her descend into the Valley of Death.
“Life insurance policies for a cult. I never heard of anything like that in my life. Have you, Ten?”
Unfortunately, I had. A year or so ago, bored out of our gourds on an all-night stakeout, Bill and I had listened to a long Public Radio expose on exactly this subject.
“‘Dead Peasant’ policies, at least I think that’s what they’re called.” I dredged the memory to the surface.
“Dead Peasants?”
“Yes. From back in the feudal times, when greedy landowners used the names of dead serfs-still conveniently registered as alive, mind you-to guarantee loans. As I recall, in the modern-day version, big companies secretly insure thousands of their low-level employees, naming themselves as beneficiaries. When their workers eventually die-even if they’ve long since left the company-the bosses rake in tax-free payouts.”
“Sounds crooked as hell.”
“Nope. Completely legal. Like reverse Robin Hoods, they steal from the poor to make themselves richer. No one seemed to even know or care about this massive tax loophole until recently, when companies like Walmart and Winn-Dixie got caught with their hands in their janitors’ piggy banks. So, yes, I’ve heard of such a thing,” I said grimly.
John D shook his head.
“Poor Sister Rose,” he said.
I had to agree. Sister Rose’s intentions were pure, but in reality she was just a dead peasant waiting to happen.
Meanwhile, I had a pretty good idea who the lords might be in this feudal system.
CHAPTER 19
I woke up at dawn with something pressing against my brain, like a splinter just beneath the skin. It continued to irritate me through two cups of tea, my morning stretches, and a 45-minute run. Suddenly, near the end of my meditation, the thought surfaced: if Norman hadn’t been to see his father in two months, why did he decide to visit yesterday?
Detectives face situations all the time that strike them as odd, raising the question: Is this a coincidence or a conspiracy? After a while, most of us stop believing in coincidence. Most chance connections turn out to be anything but.
So while it was possible Norman’s visit was coincidental with mine, I had trouble believing it, especially since he’d come and gone in such a hurry. If he was there to check on his father, why did he do nothing but harass him? And why all the hostile interest in me? It was much more likely that somebody tipped Norman off, and that I was the person he wanted to check on.
If that was the case, who was the “somebody” doing the tipping off?
Maybe John D would have an idea. I made myself a tofu scramble over a toasted English muffin and washed it down with a mug of fresh coffee. Then I gave John D a quick call from my landline, a number he’d recognize. I let it ring a long time, but he didn’t pick up. I pictured him rocking outside on the porch, and I smiled as I made a note to try him later. I washed my dish and my pan, and put them both away. Fed an impatient Tank. Poured myself another coffee, and sat down at the kitchen table, facing the window.
My “office” was now open for business. I picked up my multitasking cell phone and got to work.
First things first. Sister Rose’s mention of the saintly Master Paul, aka Paul Alan Scruggs, reminded me I’d never really looked into his death. I did a search, using his full name, to see what I could find out. Within moments I had everything I needed to know.