The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense (7 page)

“I used to live around here.”
Damn.
Iris regretted the truth the minute it was out of her mouth. Now he’d want to know when she’d lived here, if she’d known Jolene’s family, the Ashers, Pastor Matt.

The phone on the counter rang and Aaron answered it, lifting a “just one moment” forefinger. He listened for a few seconds, covered the receiver, and called, “Hey, Rach, did you find a brown, fake alligator wallet? One of the ladies—”

Iris seized the opportunity to escape. Opening the door, she let in a chilly breath. “Thanks. I might be back,” she said, slipping through the door without waiting for an acknowledgement.

Walking away from the co-op without a conscious destination, she realized she was headed toward the house where she’d spent her first fifteen years. Toward her mother. She drew a few sidelong looks, possibly because she was a stranger, or maybe because she was the only woman wearing jeans rather than a skirt. Clearly, a lot of the Community’s restrictive rules were still in place: modest dress and long hair for women, no TV (if the lack of satellite dishes was anything to go by), simple living. Probably four elders and the pastor still ruled with iron rods, requiring the men to tithe and the women to be homemakers, meting out punishment to members who strayed from the path the elders had narrowed even more than Jesus intended.
She brought her knuckles to her lips, feeling the ruler’s sting from when she’d stumbled over the words of Galatians 2:20 during a Sunday school recitation. Alcohol, tobacco, gambling, and sex outside marriage had been strictly forbidden while community service, Bible study, and church attendance had been required. She’d bet the elders were still all men.

Nodding at one girl who gave her a shy smile, Iris left Center Street for the road her former home stood on. She continued the length of a football field to the house that used to be almost at the edge of Lone Pine, but which now had a buffer of newer houses between it and the line of trees which had been cut back to accommodate the Community’s growth. Her footsteps slowed as she drew level with the house, smaller than she remembered, painted blue instead of gray, the maple sapling grown up to tower over the roofline. Blurring her peripheral vision so she didn’t see the additional homes and streets, she experienced a chill of déjà vu. It felt like time travel must, like she’d walked out of her Portland life and into the 1990s. She could almost hear Noah bouncing his basketball on the driveway, and her mother sweeping the front stoop, her broom
whisk-whisking
. Iris’s mouth went dry; she’d forgotten to purchase water at the store. Suddenly reluctant to approach any closer, to knock on the door she used to bang in and out of at will, to speak to her mother, she stopped halfway up the drive.

I don’t need to do this
. The thought blossomed. She had returned to confront Pastor Matt and to see her father. Her mother … she didn’t need to see her mother. She turned away on the thought, the tightness in her chest easing slightly. She had taken one step when the door behind her creaked open and a pleasant voice asked, “Can I help you?”

Reluctantly, Iris turned and found herself facing a stranger, a young woman with long reddish hair, a toddler balanced on her hip, and an enquiring expression. Having expected to see her mother, Iris was momentarily at a loss. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I, um … I was looking for Marian Asher.”

“Oh, she hasn’t lived here for years, not since the tragedy,” the woman said.

Iris didn’t know if she was referring to the tragedy of her own disappearance, Pastor Matt’s incapacitation, or her father’s imprisonment. “I didn’t know.”

“Marian is the church’s caretaker now … has been since before we came to the Community,” the woman said. “She lives in the cottage behind the church. We call it Outback Cottage because, well, it’s out back of the church. You can find her there. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.” She smiled goodbye and closed the door as the toddler began to make unhappy noises.

Controlling an urge to jog back to her car, Iris kept her pace to a brisk walk and her eyes straight ahead. If she’d needed another reason for not seeking out her mother, the news that she lived in Outback Cottage provided it. It would take a team of draft horses to drag her through that door again.

eleven

mercy

Twenty-Four Years Ago

Outback Cottage originally belonged
to the house, the
out-of-place Victorian built by a fanciful settler in the late 1800s who prized both isolation and ostentation. His only surviving son, an early Community member, had willed the house and cottage to the Brozeks. Pastor Matt’s mother-in-law, Zach and Esther’s grandma, had lived in the cottage until she died the summer before Iris started eighth grade. Pastor Matt declared that he was donating the cottage for the use of a caretaker who would be responsible for janitorial and maintenance work at the church, but when no candidate stepped forward, the cottage stayed empty. The first time fourteen-year-old Mercy Asher stepped over the threshold, she thought it smelled like an unemptied cat litter box mixed with the kind of floral perfume that made her think of Nana Asher. She sneezed. She couldn’t imagine why Pastor Matt wanted to meet her here, instead of in his office or one of the worship center’s meeting rooms, but he’d said something about an important project.

A gilt-framed mirror hung over a narrow table in the tiny entry hall and a two-foot tall iron cross, thin but heavy looking, hung across from it. Fusty old people furniture and knick-knacks—lacy doilies over faded brocade upholstery and porcelain figurines and glassware—made the cottage feel like old Mrs. Wellington had just stepped out. Mercy felt uncomfortable, like an intruder, even though the woman had been dead for a year. She almost expected one of Mrs. Wellington’s six or seven cats to come wind about her ankles, but they were gone, too.

“Pastor Matt?” When there was no answer, Mercy poked her head into the kitchen, dim with the shutters closed. A gleam caught her eye and she traced a forefinger over the spout of a delicate china teapot painted with forget-me-nots. It sat on a ledge that ran at eye level around the attached dining area.

“No one saw you come in, did they?”

Pastor Matt’s voice sounded behind her, and Mercy whirled, long braid whipping. “No, sir. You told me to keep it a secret.”

He smiled, big white teeth out-gleaming the fine china. “Good.”

Mercy relaxed a tick, happy to have earned his approval, and wished she could open a window to let in some light and air. The stuffy rooms felt smaller somehow, now that Pastor Matt was here, even though he wasn’t that tall. He gave the impression of being bigger than he was. Partly, it was his squared shoulders and thickening torso, but mostly it was his personality. He had a kind of presence that enveloped you, that draped itself over you, Mercy had thought more than once, that made people feel good about themselves and him. Not like her mom who too often made people feel smaller with the way her eyes cut away from them, or that little sniff she gave to signal contempt or disappointment, or the way she was all the time cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, like her family tracked in more dirt and left more grubby fingerprints on the walls than any other family in the Community. Mercy remembered she had yet to dust the baseboards and blinds; she wouldn’t get dinner until she’d done her chores.

Pastor Matt interrupted her thoughts. “You know the church’s twentieth anniversary is coming up and I want to do something special. With your artistic talents, I think you’re just the girl to help me. What do you say?”

Half flattered and half confused, not understanding what sort of project he meant—a mural of some kind, maybe?—Mercy said, “Thank you. I’d be happy to help.”

“Let me show you what I have in mind.” Gesturing toward the table, Pastor Matt unrolled the tube of paper he carried and spread it out, anchoring the curling corners with cat-shaped salt and pepper shakers and a yellow sugar bowl that still held dusty cubes. He explained his plan for a triptych of banners featuring Biblical scenes. “It’ll go behind the altar, floor to ceiling. There are plenty of women in the church who can do the needlework, Mercy, but we need a sketch, a drawing they can use as a blueprint or pattern. And what with you winning first place in the state fair art contest—. I thought maybe Samson in the temple for one panel, Saul on the road to Damascus for the middle one, and a scene from Revelation for the third. What do you think?”

Flattered at having her opinion asked, Mercy shifted slightly away from the heat of Pastor Matt; he stood so close their hips touched. “I could do that,” she said, her mind fizzing with possibilities. “Maybe for the Old Testament scene you could have Ruth and Naomi in the field, or Esther pleading with the king to save her people? Having a woman in one of the scenes would be good, someone besides Mary, that is.” To look at most of the paintings and sculptures Mercy’s art teacher was so fond of, you’d think there hadn’t been any women in the Bible besides Jesus’s mother. Mercy wanted to break new ground and draw a Biblical woman with more
personality
than Mary seemed to have had.

“My daughter would like it if we used Esther,” Pastor Matt said, tugging on his underlip with his thumb and forefinger. “Or the dogs tearing Jezebel apart would make a powerful scene.”

Mercy couldn’t imagine looking at something like that every Sunday and said, “I don’t know if I can draw dogs so good. How ’bout I do a few different scenes and you decide what you like?” Lot’s wife turning to salt with Sodom and Gomorrah exploding into a fireball in the background would be dramatic, or David slingshotting Goliath, although that was almost as overdone as Mary …
.

“Great idea.” His hand absently kneaded her shoulder as they studied his rough sketch laid out on the table. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with, Mercy—you’re such a talented girl. Creative. Remember, though, that this is our secret. Don’t want the whole Community knowing about it before the anniversary!” He squeezed her shoulder one last time and let his hand drop. It brushed her rear as it fell to his side. An accident, surely.

“Absolutely,” Mercy said, her mind working on the composition and content of possible scenes. “Our secret.”

twelve

iris

Weary from her sleepless
night, early departure, travel, and the emotions whipping through her like debris sucked up by a tornado, Iris returned to her car and drove slowly out of Lone Pine, wishing she’d pre-booked a hotel room. The Sleepytime Motor Inn came into view and, on impulse, Iris pulled into its small parking lot. Frost heaves in the asphalt made walking difficult as she crossed to a small A-frame building whose roof sloped almost to the ground. A sign on the door said “OFFICE.” She pushed it open and a bell tinkled.

“Minute!” a voice called.

Standing on decades-old indoor-outdoor carpeting that had faded from blue to brownish-gray, Iris faced a short counter that hinged to allow the innkeeper access to the small reception area. Old-fashioned keys with plastic tags hung from hooks numbered 1 to 8 behind the counter, and a rack of colorful brochures advertising local activities ranging from cog rail rides up Pikes Peak to tours of the U.S. Air Force Academy, stood by the door. She was already regretting the impulse that had made her stop at this dumpy motel, but a woman she recognized as Mrs. Welsh emerged from the room behind the counter before she could duck out.

Petite and graying, she wore a corduroy dress with clogs and the worn-down expression of many small business owners in the tough economy. Small pearls graced her neat ears, her only jewelry. When she said, “You’d like a room?” in a hopeful voice, Iris didn’t have the heart to head for the nearest Embassy Suites or Hyatt as had been her original plan.

“Yes, please.” Iris pulled out her credit card. “I don’t know how long I’ll need to stay.”
As short a time as possible.

“That’s okay. We’re not too busy yet. Our busy season is the summer. Tourists.” She passed Iris a registration card and a pen. “It’s $28.99 a night.”

Iris found it hard to imagine that flocks of tourists found their way to this out-of-the-way corner, but the cheap rooms probably attracted some families trying to stretch their vacation dollars. Mrs. Welsh drew the card across the counter and studied it. “You look familiar,” she said, a line between her brows, “but I don’t recognize the name. Iris. That’s pretty.” She turned and unhooked a key from the pegboard, sliding it across the counter.

Iris almost denied any connection. But, then, a spark of anger crept in. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. Why should she skulk around and lie about her ties to the Community? “I used to live here,” Iris said. “Penelope was a couple years ahead of me in school. We played together sometimes. Model horses.”

Before she could tell the woman her former name, Mrs. Welsh took a half step back. “Mercy Asher. We thought you were dead.”

“Iris, please. Alive and well and living in Portland, for the moment,” Iris said, determinedly cheerful, even though Mrs. Welsh was now looking like she regretted giving Iris a key. Was she remembering Iris’s accusations against Pastor Matt, or thinking about Neil Asher, in jail for beating the pastor and causing his wife’s death?

Apparently, the thought of income outweighed whatever scruples she was battling with because she said stiffly, “Number two’s around back. Nice and quiet.”

As if any of the rooms would be noisy, out here at the intersection of Nowhere and Back of Beyond.

“You can park right in front of the door. I’m afraid we don’t fill the pool until Memorial Day.” She gave Iris an apologetic smile, and then, as if curiosity had trumped her discomfort, she asked, “What brings you back? Marian didn’t mention that you were coming.”

“I’m really here to see my dad,” Iris said, “but maybe I’ll stop in and surprise her.”

“Oh, you’ll do that, I’m sure,” Mrs. Welsh said dryly. “There should be towels in the room, but if you need anything, we’re in the blue house just past room one.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Iris considered asking about a wi-fi connection, and decided it would be a waste of breath. The bell tinkled again as she left the office.

The motor inn was arranged with the office nearest the road and the rooms in two blocks of four with the pool in a small courtyard between the two rows. The house Mrs. Welsh had mentioned was kitty-corner from the office on the far side of the motel and Iris spotted an overalled man—Mr. Welsh?—hoeing in the garden. He paused and leveled a stare at her for a long moment, and then returned to hacking at the ground when she got in the rental car. Driving around the building, she found her room at the far end, butted up against a strip of scraggly trees.

The lock yielded reluctantly to the key after Iris jiggled it, and she discovered the room was not as dreary as she’d expected. A yellow comforter and ruffled shams on the double bed offset the effect
of clunky, mismatched furniture that looked like it had come from a variety of thrift shops and garage sales. It was sturdy, though, and gave off a pleasing odor of beeswax. She could work on the award design at the desk. She rattled open the drapes. Light poured in and she found herself facing the pool, a rectangle covered with a heavy tarp that sagged toward the middle. Not unlike the bed, Iris thought, eyeing it dubiously.

Leaving the door open, she returned to the car to retrieve her weekender and the case containing her jewelry-making tools and supplies. She’d probably only be here one night, maybe two, she told herself as she unzipped her bag, so it didn’t matter that the Sleepytime Motor Inn wasn’t exactly on par with the Ritz. She’d visit her father tomorrow, find a way to have it out with Pastor Matt in the afternoon or the next day, and return to Portland ready to create the best damned award the Green Gables company had ever seen. She picked up her drawing pad and flipped it open, thinking she might start on the design. Pencil poised, she hesitated, and then flipped the pad closed. She needed a shower. Marching nude into the bathroom, she hoped the water heated up quickly.