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 chores, 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. Titles.
“How long has your group lived here, Mr. Owens?” Ryan.
“Please call me Dom.”
Ryan waited.
“Almost eight years.”
“Were you here last summer and fall?”
“On and off. I was traveling quite a bit.”
Ryan took a snapshot from his pocket and placed it on the table.
“We’re trying to track the whereabouts of this young woman.”
Dom leaned forward and examined the photo, his fingers smoothing the edges. They were long and slender, with tufts of golden hair between the knuckles.
“Is she the one that was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s the boy?”
“Brian Gilbert.”
Dom studied the faces a long time. When he looked up his eyes had an expression I couldn’t read.
“I wish I could help you. Really, I do. Perhaps I could ask at this evening’s experiential session. That’s when we encourage self-exploration and movement toward inner awareness. It would be an appropriate setting.”
Ryan’s face was rigid as his eyes held Dom’s.
“I’m not in a ministerial mood, Mr. Owens, and I’m not particularly concerned with what you consider appropriate times. Here’s chapter and verse. I know calls were made to this number from the house where Heidi Schneider was murdered. I know the victim was in Beaufort last summer. I’m going to find the connection.”
“Yes, of course. How terrible. It is this kind of violence that causes us to live as we do.”
He closed his eyes, as though seeking holy guidance, then opened them and gazed intently at each of us.
