stopped doing it.
“But when you were handing them out …?”
“I gave away dozens. I ordered them from a catalog … a jewelry company in Pennsylvania….”
“New Bethlehem Creations?”
“Yes, I believe that's correct.”
I take it Ceepak put the sterling silver charm under his microscope last night, identified the company mark stamped into its bottom.
“The tiny church had an open roof,” says Trumble. “A beautifully symbolic representation of our Lord's open and loving spirit. Jesus longs to take His wayward children back into His loving embrace.”
“Tell me, Reverend,” says Ceepak, “do you remember a young girl named Mary Guarneri?”
Trumble shakes his head. “I'm sorry. I do not ever reveal the names of those in my flock.”
“You might have known her as Ruth.”
“Again, Officer, I must insist on protecting the privacy of those who seek shelter here.”
“What about a Miriam?”
Trumble is silent. Then, we get another, “I am sorry.”
But Ceepak doesn't give up. “How about Lisa? Lisa DeFranco?”
“I cannot help you.”
“Did you
Reverend Billy sighs. “If this Lisa DeFranco was here,” he says, “she was obviously a short-term resident.”
“Do you remember her?”
“No. But I can tell you: this girl did not elect to repent her sins.”
“How so?”
“Any young woman who chose to follow our path for any significant length of time would have taken a new name to celebrate her rebirth in Jesus Christ. A biblical name. Anyone named ‘Lisa’ would not be counted among the saved.”
“Why do their names have to be changed?”
“In the sacrament of Baptism, they are asked to choose a new name. One from Holy Scripture to help them remember the day they became a new person, the day they were born again.”
“And so a Mary could become Ruth?”
“I have talked with you enough.” He looks at us steadily.
Ceepak makes some notes in his spiral notebook.
“What happens to these girls once they leave your ministry?”
Trumble shakes his head sadly. “Hard to say. I suppose most return home to their parents or find gainful employment here in town. Others simply drift away. I only hope I am able to make some lasting impression on their young souls.”
I, of course, am thinking about the impressions someone made with a sharp blade on their young faces.
Ceepak closes his notebook, giving up. For now. I can tell he has a grudging admiration for Trumble's desire to put young people on the right path. But I know he'd admire the guy more if the Reverend answered his questions.
“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I still have hungry souls in need of their daily bread.”
Ceepak nods. Trumble heads for the door.
I think about these young girls who, years ago, came through the doors of the Sonny Days Inn. How they picked up church charms and biblical names. How maybe some of them suffered fates that hardly resembled “salvation.”
You have to wonder. Was the French toast worth it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We follow after Trumble into a room set up with six cafeteria tables and three dozen folding chairs-all currently occupied by hungry young folk scarfing down breakfast off thin paper plates.
The Reverend moves behind a chafing dish to scoop up portions of what looks like scrambled eggs but could be yellow cottage cheese. He has given us all the information he plans on serving up today. Ceepak doesn't push it. Not this morning. But I have a hunch we'll be back.
“What about redheads,” Ceepak asks, his eyes scanning the chow line. “I don't see any girls….”
“Me neither.”
Suddenly, I spot Stacey. She's standing by the door.
I know I should point her out to Ceepak. But I don't. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe I don't want him knowing that, on my days off, I spend my time picking up jailbait I find hitchhiking by the side of the road. I know she's a thief, stole my twenty and Dr. Teddy's hundred, but there's really no evidence to suggest that she's the beach bandit, too. Except, of course, the eyewitness description. And the fact that she's here with a rubber- stamped hand.
Okay, I'm embarrassed.
If I finger her, she'll just ID me right back. Tell Ceepak and Reverend Billy's assembled multitudes what kind of skeeve I truly am.
I decide not to say anything.
I'll just have to take full responsibility for any twenties she swipes down the line from upstanding Sea Haven residents and unsuspecting tourists.
It's not what Ceepak would do.
But I am not Ceepak.
I take a second look. She still hasn't seen me. Luckily for me, Stacey has a new hair color. She's spray-dyed it green.
“No redheads,” I mutter in Ceepak's general direction.
Technically, I'm off the hook.
“Roger that.” He checks his watch. “We better hit the beach. We'll check up on your Dr. Winston lead later.”
On his belt, one of the cell phones beeps. He answers it.
“This is Ceepak. Slow down. Take it easy, Pete. Okay. Breathe in. Try to calm down. Tell me what you found.”
Now we have another reason to hurry back to Oak Beach, besides our official bulldozer-watching duties.
Apparently, Cap'n Pete returned there first thing this morning, hoping to find more buried treasure. He brought along a friend's metal detector.
“She started humming right away,” Pete says. “Lights blinking. Noise in the headphones. Knew I found something. Yes, indeedy. Didn't know it'd be this. No, sir. Not this….”
We're west of the roped-off area where the sand castle sculptors will soon start erecting their colossal creations. I can see their backhoes covered with tarps.
The beach, itself, is practically deserted. Some surfers are happily catching the waves before the lifeguards show up to tell them to knock it off. A few joggers are doing the
All is as it should be.
Except, of course, for what Cap'n Pete and his borrowed metal detector found buried three feet deep in the sand.
Ceepak crouches next to the hole.
“Did you touch it?”
