Part 29 (2/2)
”Not allowed?”
”We're a community. We live clean and don't cause no trouble. No drugs, none of that. We keep to ourselves and follow our beliefs. There's no law against that, is there?”
”No, ma'am, there isn't. How large is your group?”
She thought a minute. ”We're twenty-six here.”
”Where are the others?”
”Some's gone off to jobs. Those that integrate. The rest are at morning meeting next door. Jerry and I are watching the babies.”
”Are you a religious group?” Ryan asked.
She looked at him, back to Baker.
”Who are they?” She raised her chin toward Ryan and me.
”They're homicide detectives.” The sheriff stared at her, his face hard and unsmiling. ”What is your group, ma'am?”
She fingered the baby's blanket. Somewhere in the distance I heard a dog bark.
”We want no problems with the law,” she said. ”You can take my word on that.”
”Are you expecting trouble?” Ryan.
She gave him an odd look, then glanced at her watch. ”We are people wanting peace and health. We can't take no more of the drugs and crime, so we live out here by ourselves. We don't hurt no one. I don't have no more to say. You talk to Dom. He'll be here soon.”
”Dom?”
”He'll know what to tell you.”
”That would be good.” Baker's dark eyes impaled her again. ”I wouldn't want everyone to have to make that long trip into town.”
Just then I heard voices and watched her gaze slide off Baker's face and out the window. We all turned to look.
Through the screen I saw activity at the house next door. Five women stood on the porch, two holding toddlers, a third bending to set a child onto the ground. The tot took off on wobbly legs, and the woman followed across the yard. One by one a dozen adults emerged and disappeared behind the house. Seconds later a man came out and headed in our direction.
Our hostess excused herself and went to the foyer. Before long we heard the screen door, then muted voices.
I saw the woman climb the stairs, then the man from next door appeared in the archway. I guessed he was in his mid-forties. His blond hair was going gray, his face and arms deeply tanned. He wore khakis, a pale yellow golf s.h.i.+rt, and Topsiders without socks. He looked like an aging Kappa Sigma.
”I'm so sorry,” he said. ”I didn't realize we had visitors.”
Ryan and Baker started to rise.
”Please, please. Don't get up.” He crossed to us and held out a hand. ”I'm Dom.”
We all shook, and Dom joined us on one of the sofas.
”Would you like some juice or lemonade?”
We all declined.
”So, you've been talking to Helen. She says you have some questions about our group?”
Baker nodded once.
”I suppose we're what you'd call a commune.” He laughed. ”But not what the term usually conjures up. We're a far cry from the counterculture hippies of the sixties. We are opposed to drugs and polluting chemicals, and committed to purity, creativity, and self-awareness. We live and work together in harmony. For instance, we've just finished our morning meeting. That's where we discuss each day's agenda and collectively decide what has to be done and who will do it. Food preparation, cleaning ch.o.r.es, housekeeping mostly.” He smiled. ”Mondays can be long since that's the day we air grievances.” Again the smile. ”Although we rarely have grievances.”
The man leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. ”Helen tells me you're interested in phone calls.”
The sheriff introduced himself. ”And you are Dom . . . ?”
”Just Dom. We don't use surnames.”
”We do,” said Baker, his voice devoid of humor.
There was a long pause. Then, ”Owens. But he's long dead. I haven't been Dominick Owens in years.”
”Thank you, Mr. Owens.” Baker made a note in a tiny spiral notebook. ”Detective Ryan is investigating a homicide in Quebec and has reason to believe the victim knew someone at this address.”
”Quebec?” Dom's eyes widened, revealing tiny white creases in his tan skin. ”Canada?”
”Calls were made to this number from a home in St-Jovite,” said Ryan. ”That's a village in the Laurentian Mountains north of Montreal.”
Dom listened, a puzzled look on his face.
”Does the name Patrice Simonnet mean anything to you?”
He shook his head.
”Heidi Schneider?”
More head shaking. ”I'm sorry.” Dom smiled and gave a light shrug. ”I told you. We don't use last names. And members often change their given names. In the group one is free to choose whatever name one likes.”
”What is the name of your group?”
”Names. Labels. t.i.tles. The The Church of Christ. Church of Christ. The The People's Temple. People's Temple. The The Righteous Path. Such egomania. We choose not to use one.” Righteous Path. Such egomania. We choose not to use one.”
”How long has your group lived here, Mr. Owens?” Ryan.
”Please call me Dom.”
Ryan waited.
”Almost eight years.”
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