The Hive, page 24
Marnie let out a protracted sigh.
“It’s always been about the bees, Ricky,” she said, energy returning to her pallid face. “They are nature’s engineers, nature’s lovemakers, as they pollinate all of the crops we need. Within their DNA, they have the knowingness that the center of the universe is female, not male. That’s right, Ricky. Don’t be offended: God is a female.”
“My wife tells me that all the time,” he said.
A week after the swarm lifted me, I woke up in a hospital in Bellingham. My parents nearly lunged at me as I lay supine, dry mouthed. My eyes were slits, but I could see them. I saw my mother’s tears and that she was caressing me, yet I didn’t feel her touch. My father was crying, too. So was my brother. I knew they were tears of joy.
Something was wrong.
Worse than being in the hospital.
I watched a man come to my mother. He was in a white coat. A doctor? A nurse? He was patting her on the shoulder in that gentle but firm manner that was meant to comfort. I saw her recoil slightly and reach for my father. Her fingers reminded me of a red rock crab’s spring-loaded pincers. She scooped my father up, then pinned his shoulders tightly to hers and wailed at the ceiling. Her screams reverberated, and my father held her.
Neither of my parents came to me.
Neither reached for my exposed, swollen hand.
Then my brother came to me and said everything would be all right.
We were always close like that. Even when he had his problems. And even at the end.
The Insatiable Heart
Marnie Spellman
CHAPTER 48
Marnie’s brother was sixteen when his parents first sent him to rehab on the other side of the Cascades, just north of Spokane. Marnie, then nineteen, went with the family to drive him to the facility. Her mother and father sat in the front and brother and sister were in back.
Casey’s rapid trajectory from smoker to pot smoker to heroin user wasn’t surprising. In the late 1970s, Lummi Island was very much a rock with very little to do. Casey scored his first cocaine from a customer at the Wildwood Inn, where he was working as a busboy—at his parents’ insistence.
Marnie was older and, frankly, more useful on the farm than Casey, who was prone to get lost in the music of his tape player when he was supposed to be working. At the restaurant, their parents reasoned, he’d build some character out of much-needed discipline.
Instead, Casey learned to size up restaurant patrons and their teenagers as potential sources of drugs. He was as resourceful as his sister.
Just not in the ways his parents had hoped.
Casey had curly black hair that he wore like a used-up shipyard mop. His eyes were always lazy and hooded, even before the drugs. He knew his place in the family. It was always Marnie first, then Casey. Even when he was an infant, there’d been few pictures of only him in the family album. It was always his older sister who was the focus of every shot. Kate Spellman once told him that there were times when she’d forgotten he’d been her baby, not Marnie’s.
“Marnie treated you like you belonged to her. She was the little mother. You were the precious baby doll that needed her attention.”
Over that long stretch of empty highway from Ellensburg to the bridge over the Columbia, Casey kept his head against his sister’s shoulder. She was asleep. He looked up and could see, beneath her slightly raised eyelids, that her eyes were moving furiously. A dream. A nightmare. He looked past her at the car door and could see that the lock knob hadn’t been pressed down. If he’d wanted to push her out, he would only have to reach across her, undo her shoulder harness, open the door, and shove.
Marnie opened her eyes just then, and the fantasy that had passed through his mind stopped. He stopped it. It was like he needed to back up right then and think of something else. Fast.
Marnie could read him whether he was high or sober. She had a canny and unnerving ability to be inside his own head.
“What are you thinking now, Casey?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just about what this place will be like.”
“You’re lying,” she said.
How did she know?
“Don’t start with him, Marnie,” their mother said.
“I’m not starting anything. He’s a liar. We all know that.”
Casey pulled away, retreating as far as he could to the other side of the seat. Maybe he should just open the door and jump out. Maybe that would be better for everyone.
“How much longer, Dad?” he asked.
“Couple hours, buddy.”
“Okay.” He looked over at his sister. The best thing about rehab would be the month away from her.
Drug addicts like Casey Spellman don’t dream of ending up as they do. It isn’t a destiny they chart out of a sense of purpose. After rehab in Spokane and another stint in outpatient at a clinic in Edmonds, Washington, he knew that he’d never make it out of the quicksand in which he’d found himself.
Everywhere he went, his sister’s rise to fame and fortune was thrust at him. He’d seen her on TV. Her products in the window of a store. One time when he was wandering around the Western Washington University campus, waiting for his score, he even saw her picture in a magazine lying in the gutter. He picked it up and started to read.
When his dealer, a student from Kirkland, arrived, she remarked on Marnie’s photograph.
“My mom thinks she’s God’s gift to womankind,” she said.
“Oh,” Casey replied as he let the magazine fall back into the gutter.
Where he felt she belonged.
Where he knew he’d end up.
“Yeah. Has her tapes and stuff. Always telling me how life changing her message is. Got the money?”
He handed over the cash he’d stolen from tips on tables where he tried to hold down a job.
“I said twenty.”
“I only have seventeen.”
“That’s really sad. You’re too old to be doing this, anyway.”
She started to walk away.
He grabbed her by the shoulder. “I need this,” he said.
She pulled away. “Maybe you should listen to those stupid recordings and you wouldn’t be such a loser.”
It took everything he had—which wasn’t much—to stop himself from punching her in the face. She was like his sister. Full of advice.
Full of contempt.
And rich.
The pilot on the Whatcom Chief recognized Casey right away.
It was early March 1992—Casey was twenty-four—and the winds blew needles of cold air into his bearded face.
“Hey,” he said, “aren’t you the Spellman kid?”
Casey gave the man a nod. “Yeah. The one that got away.”
“Haven’t seen you in a long time around here.”
“I moved out of state,” Casey said, a lie that he’d preplanned in case anyone recognized him. It was better than saying he’d been off doing drugs for the past few years.
The pilot kept his eyes fixed on Casey’s, perhaps wondering if he was like his sister, able to read people. Casey hoped not. Even though he’d truly hated his parents for their constant praise for his sister and their ceaseless nagging on his shortcomings, he didn’t want anyone to know his true feelings. Being full of hate only made him feel more like a bitter loser, which was how his sister had already managed to make him feel with the note that summoned him home.
“Give your sister a hug for me. She’s beloved here, as you know. The community center she built—just amazing.”
The pilot went back inside the tollbooth-sized wheelhouse to maneuver the vessel alongside the island’s dock.
“Yeah. Will do.”
Casey, who no longer carried a valid driver’s license, managed to hitch a ride with a woman and her two kids coming for the weekend.
She was about the same age as his sister, maybe a year or two younger. She drove an old VW Rabbit with a screwdriver stuck into the ignition where the key would normally go. He sat in front, while the kids sat in their car seats in the back.
“I’m here for a job interview,” she said.
“At the Wildwood Inn?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“It was either that or Spellman Farms. Not a lot of other options. You’ll like the inn. I used to work there.”
She was a brunette with short fingernails that she’d gamely painted a light pink. She wore a pink sweater and black jeans.
“Nina,” she said.
“Casey.”
As she pulled off the dock and took the road around the island to the inn, she talked about the job—as a maid, full time.
“They have a fifth-wheel trailer in back that I can live in, or I can commute. The commute seems rough.”
“I’d commute, though,” he said. “I’m from here. Being stuck on this rock at ten o’clock at night and nowhere to go can drive you crazy.”
“Their father is on a fishing boat in Alaska. I could leave the kids with his mom.”
“I’d do the commute. Trust me.”
She gave him a smile. It was a kind and friendly one. It made him wish that his life weren’t stuck like that screwdriver hanging out of her dash—that he’d be able to make a life for himself.
Maybe he could do it.
It was the reason why he came back to Lummi.
“The inn’s right here,” he said, pointing out an old farmhouse that had been converted into a restaurant and hotel with ten rooms and a stunning view of the water. Trumpet vines lived up to their name as they amplified the split-rail fence and signage with bright-orange blossoms and crisp, green foliage.
“My interview isn’t for an hour,” she said. “Can I drive you the rest of the way?”
Casey liked her. He liked her because there had been no glint of recognition in her eyes when he mentioned Spellman Farms. In another time and place, she might have liked him for him and not as a means to get close to his sister, as others had.
“No, thanks, Nina,” he said. “The walk will do me good.”
Nina parked and twisted the screwdriver to shut off the Rabbit’s engine. Casey got out and waved goodbye.
Marnie watched from the window as her brother ambled up the sweeping driveway. She’d taken off her expensive casualwear and jewelry—the trappings of her success—and put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Later, she’d tell people that she did it because she didn’t want him to feel that he’d been relegated to a level—or two—below her. She’d become a fixture on the home shopping channel when her father died. And in an unusual move, Johnny Spellman left full control of the multi-million-dollar one-hundred-acre estate to his daughter, not his wife. His son seemed to be a bit of an add-on, too. If Casey maintained sobriety for a period of two years, he’d be able to claim a share of the estate. In an arrangement she easily could have fought in court, Kate was given some cash and a promise that she’d be able to stay there until the end of her days. She didn’t fight it, because her daughter was special, a gift for the world.
Marnie flung open the door and embraced Casey.
“I had faith in you,” she said.
“I’m here for my share,” he said, brushing her aside as he walked in. “I know you better than Mom and Dad ever did.” He looked around. “Lots of upgrades, Sis. Hope you didn’t spend it all.”
She shut the door. “I have plenty of my own.”
“I’ve watched you.”
“I made Mom’s lasagna,” she said.
“Pass,” he said. “I’m going to catch the next boat back. I just want what’s mine.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter from his doctor documenting twenty-four monthly tests confirming he’d been clean for the stated requirement.
“It’s notarized. Witnessed. Whatever.”
Marnie took the paper and read it through. “So I see.”
“How much do I get?”
Casey was always the impatient kind, she thought. Always in a hurry. Always leeching on to whoever had drugs, until they didn’t anymore.
“I have all the paperwork,” she told him. She indicated a pitcher on the table. “I made honey lemonade.”
He gave her an indifferent smile. “Like old times, right, Sis?”
She poured him a glass.
“Just like old times,” she said, watching him take the glass, put it to his lips, and take a long, thirsty drink. “Mmm.” He gulped down another. “Hits the spot. Surprised you haven’t found a way to market this. Aren’t you going to have—”
Suddenly, his eyes rounded and the glass shattered on the floor, sending a spray of liquid over the polished wood floors.
“You,” he said. “Marnie. You . . . bitch.”
CHAPTER 49
As she became more and more immersed in Marnie’s story, Lindsay found herself picking up the phone to hear firsthand why others had thrown themselves in with her, had so passionately subscribed to beliefs and products—and why they had turned on her. Somewhere in their stories, she hoped, might be the answer to what had happened to both Calista and Sarah.
They were connected by Spellman Farms.
By Marnie’s undeniable power.
Among the materials she’d collected was an article about a woman from Wyoming named Gina Krause. The source was her sister, Alexandra.
Lindsay found Alexandra’s number and called her, explaining that she was a homicide investigator working a case with potential ties to Spellman Farms.
“Just one case?” Alexandra asked.
“Sounds like you have something to say.”
“I do. And I have. And I will as long as people ask me.”
Alexandra didn’t know anything about Calista Sullivan beyond what she’d read in the news and on various message boards. She’d never heard of Sarah Baker.
While Alexandra talked, Lindsay took notes.
“Let me tell you about my sister.”
Gina Krause could scarcely contain herself when she learned that she’d been selected to attend Marnie Spellman’s weekend retreats on Lummi Island. Until then, most attendees of the Art of Beeing were members of the celebrity class: political, high society, Hollywood. According to the invitation, this particular weekend was a bit of an experiment, and as such, the six attendees were handpicked by Marnie to represent “women who have achieved their true potential quietly, unassumingly. These are the women who are already changing the world.”
The cost for the retreat was only ten thousand dollars.
Gina withdrew all her savings and pawned her grandmother’s art deco diamond brooch to pay the fee. She had no money for plane fare, so she drove her Ford Bronco to Washington State. She left her sister a voice message from a pay phone in Baker City, Oregon.
“I haven’t even seen her yet, but I feel Marnie’s love already. It’s hard to explain the difference she’s made in my life. I’m a broken record about that. Sorry. I can’t wait to get there and learn more. Love you.”
Alexandra said once her sister came home from that retreat, she was never the same.
“Gina was like a drug addict or something,” she said, her story tumbling into Lindsay’s ear and onto the pages of her notebook. “She didn’t care about anything. She didn’t go out. She didn’t even get dressed. She just sat in front of her computer all day long, looking at that stupid message board. She was consumed by finding ways to add to what she called ‘Marnie’s army’ by recruiting new members. I couldn’t even budge her. I told her I was worried and thought that maybe she was being used.”
“How did she react when you confronted her?” Lindsay asked.
“She didn’t like that at all. Boy, did she tell me in no uncertain terms that I was wrong. Stupid to boot. I didn’t know if it was a pyramid scheme or what at the time. I assumed she was getting paid. I didn’t have the slightest idea she’d found a way to take out two mortgages on our parents’ house and give the money to Marnie. So I guess Gina was right: I guess I was stupid after all.”
“You weren’t stupid, Alexandra,” Lindsay said.
“You’re just being nice. I was. And I’m still angry. Nothing good was happening on Spellman Farms. I hope you find out just what it was. There’s a long line of us cheering you on.”
CHAPTER 50
Thursday, August 22, 2019
Fairhaven, Washington
A couple weeks before Sarah Baker’s body was discovered at Maple Falls, Greta Swensen buried herself in the stacks at Village Books and Paper Dreams in Fairhaven Village, an enclave of bars and boutiques just south of Bellingham. An avid reader, she eschewed online book browsing for the smell and feel of the real thing. It was a routine she’d started twenty-some years prior, a way to spend a Saturday, looking for a volume that would teach her something new or just help pass the time living alone. Greta had never married—not that she didn’t have opportunities or suitors; she just preferred managing her life on her own. She was in the gardening section, looking over an old Ann Lovejoy book on the perennials of the Pacific Northwest, when she turned toward a familiar voice.
“How long has it been, Greta?”
It was Marnie, looking no different than the last time they’d seen each other—again by chance—downtown by the old Hotel Leopold, long after it had been converted into a residence for the aging. Today she wore a loose yellow sweater, cream slacks, and sling-back heels. Her signature bumblebee brooch—a Cartier—was pinned to her sweater near the neckline.
Greta must have looked surprised, because Marnie said, “Didn’t mean to startle you, dear.”
“Oh no. Just so happy to run into you. I didn’t know you came here.”
Marnie smiled. “I knew you do.”
So this wasn’t by chance.
“Do you have time for a little chat?”
To be fair, it was a question, but Marnie’s intonation was so persuasive that Greta could see no way out of it.
“Of course,” she said. “Love to.”
“How’s the house?”
“Oh, a work in progress. Like all things in life.”
Marnie crooked her neck and looked deep into Greta’s eyes. “I love making others’ dreams come true.”
