Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Read online

  Nick pauses again to wipe his eyes. I try to keep my tone neutral when I say, “Was it Sara’s choice to abort the baby?”

  Nick bristles. “Yeah, but it wasn’t her fault. She was only thirteen.”

  “When did she tell you about the gang thing, the abortion?”

  “Ages ago. Before Christmas.”

  “But she didn’t seem upset until recently?”

  “The Hewitts started taking her to church. At first it was okay, but then she started private counseling with the pastor. That’s when she changed.”

  “You’re sure this personality change happened after she started going to the Church of the Holy Light?”

  He shoots me a disgusted look. “Of course I’m sure. The minister screwed her up.”

  “So you think the minister has something to do with her running away?”

  “She kept saying she had to get right with God,” Nick mumbles, staring at his feet.

  “Praying? Meditating? How was she going to get right with God?”

  “I—don’t—know,” Nick gasps, his thin body overtaken by a spasm of coughing. Breaking his promise to Sara had cost him.

  I grab his hand and hold on as if, by osmosis, I can infuse Nick with my healthy cells. “You’re making yourself sick over this. Look, she loves her dad. She’s probably …”

  He raises his head, and I see his eyes flash with anger. “Oh yeah? Then what about Patsy and Dwight? They couldn’t wait to bring her stuff back to school. Now, suddenly, they have a new car and TV?”

  He wipes his mouth with a tissue and stares out the window.

  Sara’s phone call is heavy on my mind. She’d sounded so … What? Panicky? Desperate? Or was I putting my own spin on it?

  “Wednesday’s youth night at the church,” Nick says. “Thought I’d check out Pastor Hunt.”

  In spite of his light tone, he looks at me as if he expects an argument. I keep my mouth shut. Nick’s painful quest for the truth about Sara’s disappearance is his journey. Unless he puts himself in danger, I have no right to interfere.

  “Your mom okay with this?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yeah. She thinks, you know …” His voice trails off. “The CF and all.”

  Susan knows kids with cystic fibrosis often die before the age of thirty. Perhaps she thinks he’s looking for answers she can’t give him. Maybe he is.

  “You know where it is?” Nick asks.

  “Sure. Who could miss it?” I start the engine, make a U-turn, and head for the Church of the Holy Light.

  Minutes later we turn in to a curved drive, pass a reader board proclaiming “Sinners are welcome at the Church of the Holy Light,” and pull to a stop in front of the soaring stone edifice. Glass double doors stand open, presumably to welcome the aforementioned sinners.

  Nick opens the door then pauses. “Call tomorrow, and make an appointment with Sara’s caseworker. Okay?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he slams the door and merges with a group of sullen-looking teens recently disgorged from an enormous black SUV.

  Then I remember. Every spring, the spacious grounds of the church are filled with tiny pink and blue crosses and a sign proclaiming, “ABORTION IS MURDER.”

  Chapter 7

  I head toward home deep in thought. This whole Sara thing is making me crazy. It’s as if there’s a giant, electric Scrabble board with SARA flashing in the middle and all we can come up with are lame words like is, am, or, and as, leading to a dead end.

  I pull into my driveway. No unidentified cars parked nearby. So far, so good. I find Grandma Sybil snoozing in her recliner, Vlad curled up in her lap next to the open volume of Best Loved Poems. When I asked her about the book, Grandma told me Sara borrowed it six months ago. “You weren’t home, Allegra,” Grandma said. “Nick and Sara dropped by for a visit. I never thought to mention it to you.”

  Both Grandma and Vlad snore, emitting dainty purring sounds, similar in tone and volume. Today is Grandma’s day for personal enhancement. Her red hair is tightly curled, her fingernails freshly painted bubblegum pink and jewel embedded. I glance down at her toenails, visible through the tiny sandals she special orders from petitefeet.com. The butterflies have been replaced by tiny ladybugs.

  I peek in her daybook lying open on the end table. Stanley is penciled in for 8 p.m. No wonder she needs a nap. After an exhausting session at the day spa, she’s resting up for her night job. Don’t go there, Allegra, I tell myself as I tiptoe away. Everyone needs a hobby. The snap, snap of Grandma’s recliner, followed by a surprised hiss-meow-growl from Vlad as he’s dumped onto the floor, stop me in my tracks.

  “Oh, Allegra!” Grandma lifts her glasses to rub the sleep from her eyes. “How are you, sweetie?”

  “I’m fine, Grandma. I was about to change clothes and go for a run.”

  “Take Vlad with you. He needs the exercise.”

  Vlad glares at me sullenly, no doubt blaming me for slumber interruptus. It’s useless to point out cats don’t jog, so I nod and head for the stairs.

  “I almost forgot,” Grandma calls. “That nice Mr. Sloan stopped by.”

  I stop in mid-stride. “Was it about Sara?”

  Grandma giggles. “I think it was more of a personal nature. Check your phone messages.”

  I scamper upstairs and, sure enough, the message light is blinking. I punch play and hear a familiar growl. “Al. Friday night. Dinner. Pick you up at six.”

  “Oh yeah?” I yell at the phone. “I’m busy Friday night!”

  I slip out of my work clothes and into shorts and a tee shirt. Who the hell does he think he is with his verbal shorthand and assumption I have no social life?

  I reach for the phone. When voice mail kicks in with its long list of options, I jab 0 so viciously I break the nail on my pointer finger. A generic male voice tells me I’ve reached the central Washington office of the Drug Enforcement Agency.

  “I want to talk to Sloan.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s in the field.”

  “Yeah, right,” I snarl. “Is this Ernie?”

  “No ma’am. It’s Chuck.”

  “Chuck. I’ve got a message for Sloan.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “He’ll know who it is. Tell him …”

  “Could you hold, miss?”

  Before I can respond, I hear a series of beeps and clicks. Chuck returns, sounding like he’s at the bottom of a well. “Go ahead with your message, please.”

  Speakerphone. So this is what you’ve come to, Allegra. Entertainment for the friendly folks at the local DEA office. Might as well make the most of it.

  “In your dreams, Sloan!” I shout into the phone.

  I hope people are wincing and covering their ears. “I am not available Friday night. I have a previous engagement. Unless, of course, you’d like to share information about my missing student. By the way, you may have charmed my aunt and grandmother, but you didn’t fool me. You’re just in it for the pie. And forget what they said about me needing therapy. What a crock!”

  I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the pie and therapy bit. But after listening to Dodie and Grandma, Sloan probably thinks I’m so desperate for a man I’ll be waiting at the curb, sans panties with mucho gusto panting. I pause and take a deep breath. Do I hear muffled laughter?

  “Anything else, ma’am?”

  “No, Chuck. That will do it.”

  I’m still fuming moments later when I cut across the lawn and begin jogging down the sidewalk with Vlad at my heels.

  I wave at Noe Maldonado, who is heading to our backyard, hoe in hand. Noe and his extended family are our neighbors to the north. Their big old house takes up most of the city lot. What’s left provides parking for Noe’s extended family, which can vary on a daily basis from eight to twelve, leaving Noe without space for a garden. Years ago, Grandma offered him a garden plot in our backyard. He insists on sharing the vegetables. And each week, he sends over a different son, grandson, daughter, niece, or
nephew to cut our grass.

  “Lettuce be ready soon,” Noe calls with a gap-toothed grin.

  “Looking forward to it.” I holler, watching Vlad bound ahead of me. I know what’s coming. After Grandma had him neutered, Vlad refocused his sex drive into three main objectives: (1) attacking my ankles, (2) lying in wait for the mailman, and (3) lurking under the bird feeder hoping for a slow, fat one.

  At this moment, he’s bounding ahead of me, searching for the perfect shrub in which to hide. As I jog by, he’ll leap out, wrap both front paws around my ankle, and—depending on his mood—inflict damage, or not. Outsmarting Vlad lends an air of excitement to my exercise routine. Probably why I fail to notice the presence of Donny Thorndyke and one of his pals.

  When the rumble of a V8 engine finally penetrates my brain, I glance over my shoulder and see Donny’s red Firebird cruising slowly behind me. I slow to a walk as the car pulls up beside me. I keep walking. It keeps pace. Finally I stop, hands on my hips, and turn to face the car.

  The passenger window slides down. I recognize Donny’s companion. His name is Kelvin Koenig. A few years ago he’d been a linebacker on Donny’s state championship team. Thugs are Donny’s specialty. He seeks out and recruits the worst bullies in school then brags about how he’s turned their lives around. Unfortunately, most of them, Kelvin included, return to their thuggish ways shortly after graduation. Since his divorce, Donny frequently hangs out with his former students, guys like Kelvin, who will do anything for Coach Thorndyke.

  I lean over and peer in the window. “What’s up, Donny?

  He gives me his aw, shucks grin and says, “Me and Kelvin were in the neighborhood. Just being friendly, you know, after our little misunderstanding.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Funny, I’ve never seen you around here before.”

  Kelvin runs a hand over his shaved head and fingers the tattoo of a dagger dripping blood etched on his thick neck. He lowers his sunglasses and looks at me with cold, dead eyes. “You heard about my brother, right?”

  I gulp and nod. Kelvin’s brother, Dallas, just received a life sentence for a brutal murder he committed as part of a gang initiation.

  “So what if I have?”

  “We’re real tight, and we’ve got lots of friends.”

  My heart’s pounding in my throat, but I glare at him. “How nice for you.”

  Donny revs up the engine. Kelvin points an index finger at me, cocks his thumb on top and mouths the word bang before they peel out on squealing tires.

  A bit shaken, I resume my jog and ponder the surreal encounter. Who could I tell? What would I say? Coach Thorndyke stopped to say “hello”? Kelvin filled me in about his family before indulging in a gesture I’m sure he’d describe as a friendly wave? It all sounds perfectly innocent. Yet the menace behind the words and gestures was unmistakable. I’d keep it to myself for the time being and try to be more aware of my surroundings.

  As if testing my resolve, a flash of orange hurtles from a nearby bush and Vlad pounces, capturing one of my ankles in mid-stride.

  “Nice kitty,” I murmur, trying to ignore the needle-like claws digging into my flesh. I rub rhythmically behind his ears and feel his claws retract. He releases me and flops onto his back, giving me access to his big, furry belly. After giving him a few tickles on the tummy, I tiptoe away, leaving Vlad snoring in the late afternoon sun.

  Later that evening, I stand at the dormer window in my apartment and watch the cars zip up and down our busy street. When I’m sure no red Firebirds lurk in the shadows, I get on the phone to track down Sara’s caseworker.

  I strike gold with Evelyn, mother of Cody, a former student. A long-time secretary at the local Department of Social and Health Services, Evelyn is positive my Peggy with the blue Taurus is Peggy Mooney. After some polite chitchat about Cody now being gainfully employed at a video store, I thank her profusely and hang up.

  I dine on Top Ramen, closing the door to keep the aroma from Grandma Sybil, who doesn’t approve of processed food unless it’s KFC, which she eats religiously every Friday night. Ignoring the stack of papers waiting to be checked, I paw through the desk drawer until I find a pad of sticky notes. Using a separate sheet for each incident, I write down what I know of Sara’s disappearance: the bizarrely written note, her father’s sudden reappearance in her life, the hidden notebook and Bible, the Hewitts’ odd behavior and sudden influx of cash, and the fact that Sara was seen with her caseworker the night she allegedly ran away from home.

  I put the bits of information onto the table and move them around, looking for some sort of pattern. When the clarity I hope to gain eludes me, I shove back the chair and pace, pausing now and again to rearrange the notes. Finally, guilt settles like a velvet shroud, and I reach for my red pencil and a stack of papers.

  While my mind is busily engaged elsewhere, the answer pops up. It niggles at my mind until I set my pencil aside and pick up the paper that says “hidden notebook and Bible.” Why did Sara copy poems from Grandma Sybil’s book? Odd behavior for a girl for whom writing poetry is akin to gum surgery.

  I need to check out the things I found hidden by the furnace. Maybe I’ll notice something Nick missed. Right on cue, the phone rings. Nick. Filling me in on his session of religious enlightenment.

  “Did you meet Pastor Hunt?”

  “No, the youth pastor was in charge.” His voice brightens, and he says, “But I met a girl named Willow who knows Sara. She said Sara was spending a lot of time with Pastor Rob—it’s what the kids call him—Pastor Rob. He’d show up during youth group, and Sara would take off with him. Sara told Willow she was having problems and Pastor Rob was helping her with them.”

  Helping her. A sick feeling creeps into my stomach, mingling unhappily with the ramen noodles. Don’t be such a cynic, Allegra. Men of the cloth are supposed to counsel troubled teenage girls.

  After quizzing Nick about Sara’s notebook—he has no clue—I click off and glance at my watch: 7:30. Grandma has a half hour before Whatsis arrives. Since she’s already curled, curried, and combed, she’ll have time to listen.

  I find her outside on the veranda. She sits in the porch swing, her feet not touching the floor. Vlad crouches hopefully under the bird feeder. Dodie sits in an adjacent wicker chair, glass of wine in hand.

  I plop down beside Grandma and give the swing a gentle push. “Do either of you know anything about the Church of the Holy Light?”

  Dodie gives an unladylike snort. “Well, I guess so!”

  Grandma becomes agitated, her hands flutter wildly. “Oh honey,” she says. “Surely you remember my friend Ruth Willard?”

  I have vague memories of a plump, sweet-faced woman with gold-framed eyeglasses peeking over the steering wheel of a black Lincoln Town car.

  Grandma continues, “She and Harvey had boatloads of money. Her family owned some big distillery in Canada. When Harvey died she was beside herself with loneliness—they had no children, no family to speak of. That’s when she got involved with him.”

  “Him, being?” I prompt.

  Grandma’s eyes narrow, and she snaps, “The fake preacher. The one who started in a raggedy-assed tent!”

  “Wow!” I say, impressed by Grandma’s fervor. “You mean like Brother Love’s traveling salvation show? Are you talking about Reverend Hunt?”

  “Reverend, my sweet patootie,” Dodie mumbles into her glass.

  “It was five or six years ago, Allegra. You weren’t here then,” Grandma says.

  She pauses and pats my hand. “You were overseas with Harley.”

  I grimace but hold back a bitter response. Maybe I’m moving on.

  “Anyway,” Grandma continues, “It was quite the talk of the town. Ruth started going to services every night in that awful tent thing. I told her he was nothing but a flimflam man and the place was a death trap. One spark, and it would go up like an inferno. But she wouldn’t listen, and look how it turned out.”

  “How?”

  “Well,
how do you think he got a big, fancy church? Ruth’s money!” Indignation burns brightly in her eyes.

  “Mon Dieu!” I exclaim. “Holy caramba!”

  “Holy, my rosy red rump,” Dodie says, refilling her glass.

  Grandma removes her glasses and dabs at her eyes with the tail of her Sexy Senior Citizen tee shirt. “He got his hooks in Ruth good. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen. It was ‘Rob this’ and ‘Rob that’ and what good works he’d do with his new church. I’m ashamed to say I gave up trying.”

  She looks so sad I give her a hug. “Not your fault, Grandma. Maybe she’ll come around someday.”

  “Fat chance!” Dodie says.

  Grandma frowns at Dodie then tells me, “She can’t come around, Allegra. She’s dead.”

  “Oops. Did he get all her money?”

  Dodie shakes her head. “Not all of it. Enough to finish the church and build the winery. The bulk of her fortune was in trust for some hospital charity.”

  “Hunt has a winery?”

  Dodie holds her glass up until it catches a sunbeam filtering through the maples. She swirls and smiles. “A marketing wonder. You’ve heard the expression ‘WWJD’?”

  “Sure. You see the bumper sticker everywhere. What would Jesus do?”

  “Hunt’s winery specializes in sacramental wines. He calls it WWJD Winery. What would Jesus drink?”

  A ladylike giggle bursts from Grandma accompanied by my snort of incredulous amusement. “Too weird. You’ve gotta be making this up.”

  “Nope. If you don’t believe me, look in the Yellow Pages. He puts ads in the Seattle papers, appealing to wacko, liberal, vegan Christians. Dr. Myers says they come in by chartered buses every weekend and drop a bundle of money.”

  “Hmm,” I muse, giving the swing another push.

  Grandma’s head snaps back, and she grabs the armrest.

  “Call Susan. She’ll know about it,” Dodie says as a meticulously restored ’56 Chevy pulls up to the curb. Out pops a jaunty-looking white-haired gentleman. The gleam of anticipation in his eyes is apparent even from a distance.