Chapter 3

 

 

Sandy passed the grocery cart woman who was muttering something under her breath.

“Sorry the breakfast service is finished,” she said, handing her a cereal bar she’d stuck in her pocket for a mid-morning snack. “Maybe this will tide you over.”

The woman snatched the packet without meeting Sandy’s eyes, then wheeled the squeaking cart back toward the open doorway to the hall.

In the new room, Mary now had four bedframes assembled and two other volunteers were setting box springs and mattresses on them.

“Did you find Micah?” she asked.

“I did. Didn’t come up with anything substantial in the way of clues. He seems different than a lot of the residents, although it’s a story I’ve seen and heard before. Played the real estate market on borrowed money, overextended himself, and lost it all. We saw it happen a lot at the bank, and unfortunately the banking laws allowed it to happen. We made loans we shouldn’t have, let people borrow more than they should have. I regret that—a lot.”

Trini walked up just then. “Regret what?”

Sandy waved it off. “Irrelevant to what I wanted to learn today. The only clue Micah could provide was the possibility that his pocket had been picked. Did you and he discuss that at all?”

Trini waited until the other volunteers had walked outside, and she kept her voice low. “He ranted a bit about how we need to do more to track who’s in and out of here. He’s ready to pin the theft on any of the other residents.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I’m not so sure. There seems to be a sort of code of honor among the homeless we see. All of them are down and out, and they know what the others are going through. There’s more empathy than competition among them. Micah comes from a world where everything was about the stuff, about how much you accumulated. It’s probably natural that his first reaction is to believe someone with less than he has would want to take his prized possession. It’s sad, yes, but I’m reserving judgment. Since Micah got here we’ve had a constant parade of construction workers, delivery people, volunteers such as the cooks and cleaners. I’m not pointing a finger at anyone, but you can see there are a lot of possibilities.” She patted Sandy’s shoulder and walked toward the dining room.

“True,” said Mary. “It’s a transient population all the way around. It’ll be hard to trace this one small item.”

Sandy slumped. “I know. But it’s more than just one, according to Trini. I don’t want to give up already.” She looked around the large room. “Looks like your assistants have abandoned you. Shall we go out to the storage building and bring in some more mattresses. We can have this job knocked out in another couple hours and I’ll spring for lunch, your choice of restaurant.”

“Deal.” Mary stuck her wrenches in the back pocket of her jeans and they headed toward the south-side exit door. “The storage building is around back.”

Sandy followed and they came to a tan-stuccoed building with two double-sized garage doors and a walk-through door facing the drive that circled the main building. With ample space, it served as the receiving area for deliveries. The women could easily see how Trini had her hands full, trying to be everywhere and keep an eye on everything at once.

“Obviously, theft is a concern out here, too,” said Mary when she tried the door and found it locked. “I guess we’ll need to track down Trini to get in.”

Backtracking to where they’d last seen the director, they found the dining hall empty but they caught the sound of voices from the front. Trini stood at the reception desk, facing a couple who must have just come in.

The man wore deep blue, loose-fitting pants and tunic with two strands of white crystal beads and some type of amulet hanging from them. His dark brown hair hung to his shoulders in soft waves. At more than six feet tall, he cut an imposing figure.

The woman stood about a foot shorter, dressed in emerald green and, despite the hippie image, Mary had a feeling the blonde highlights in her waves had been carefully applied, as had her makeup. She placed both of the pair in their early forties.

“Sorry—we didn’t mean to interrupt,” Sandy said.

“It’s okay.” Trini looked somewhat relieved at the break in conversation. “Meet the neighbors.”

The man stepped forward. “Hello, gracious souls. I’m Orion. This is Sunshine.”

Of course she is, thought Mary.

The pair stepped forward with a prayer-hands bow.

“Neighbors. You live out here?” Mary asked.

“We founded the Rising Moon, located on the adjacent property,” he said.

“Oh, we don’t live in the Temple,” Sunshine piped up. “Our home is out back. We love to be close to our followers.”

Mary detected a distinct hint of the South in Sunshine’s voice, perhaps the overdrawn syllables of west Texas.

“Do you have a spiritual home?” Sunshine asked. “Our doors are open to all.”

“I’m fine on that count,” Mary said.

Sandy turned to Trini. “We were going to bring in some more mattresses, but the storage building is locked. I assume you’re the keeper of the keys?”

“I am.” Trini practically leapt from behind the desk. “Let me give you a hand. Sorry, Orion, Sunshine. We’ve kind of got a lot going on here right now. If you’ll excuse me.”

She gestured toward the front door until they had no choice but to take the hint and leave.

“Talk about excellent timing,” Trini said as the three women made their way through the kitchen and out the back door. “You rescued me from those two. The minute they walk in they start bending my ear. It’s happened constantly ever since they rented the empty building over there and parked that ratty old bus.”

For the first time Mary noticed the view from Heaven Sent looked into the neighboring property and a huge paved parking lot. Taking up four slots, an old school bus, painted sky blue and decorated with images of planets and stars and the moon, sat near the building. An extension cord and water hose apparently provided utility hookups for the makeshift housing. A chain link fence separated the properties but did nothing to hide the view.

“Tacky, huh.” Trini reached into her pocket for keys to the storage building. “I mean, we jumped through all kinds of hoops to get city zoning to allow a homeless shelter here, gave tons of assurances that our place wouldn’t degrade the neighborhood—and look at that thing!”

Sandy spoke up. “Your building is beautiful, Trini.”

“Because we make the effort. We keep the shrubbery trimmed, the building clean, and we don’t allow anyone to sleep outside or park their carts where they can be seen from the street.”

“Have you talked to the zoning department about the bus?”

“I have. I was told they’ll send someone around, but if the vehicle can’t be seen from the street there’s most likely nothing they can do about it. This isn’t a high-class neighborhood anyway, so I doubt anyone else has complained.”

She flipped on a light switch and pointed to the area where plastic-wrapped new mattresses had been stacked. Sandy and Mary grabbed each end of one and started the trek back to the new addition.

“So, what is this Temple of the Rising Moon, anyway?” Sandy asked as they set the first mattress on its frame.

Trini rolled her eyes. “I went over and attended one of their services when they first moved in. Too hippy-dippy for my taste. The one useful thing they are claiming is that they’re raising money to build housing. I suppose sort of a copycat of Habitat for Humanity, maybe? They put on quite a spiel, but I don’t know—something about it feels off.”