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"I thought so, too."
She laid the chickens on an old wooden table. "Really, we don't need to kill anyone who wants to leave. The brainwashing works just fine. If that fails, there are always drugs. And, of course, chaining the girls to their beds drastically cuts back on the runaway rate."
She started plucking the first chicken. "Yes, Claire was one of ours. She joined two weeks before she was killed. We didn't know her well, but we'd like her killer caught, particularly since he seems to have a fondness for young women, and we don't like foxes in our hen house."
"Understandable. Now, there were two other--"
"Ginny and Brandi. I saw them in town a few times." She registered her opinion in a single lip curl. "I wouldn't let them stay here if they asked, and they didn't ask. This is a place for women who want to straighten out their lives, and those girls liked theirs just fine."
"So they never had any contact with Alastair?"
"Outside of participating in a few bouts of wild group sex?" Megan set down the chicken. "Let's get this out of the way now. Yes, we have one man and a houseful of young women, but it's not what everyone thinks."
"No orgies? Damn. There goes my application."
She smiled. "Sorry to disappoint, but Alastair has realized there's another advantage to having a house filled with young women. A far more profitable one."
My brows shot up.
She laughed. "You have a dirty mind, you know that? What we sell here, as you may have heard, is cookies."
She motioned me away from the stink of the coop and I smelled something far sweeter wafting from an open side door up at the house.
"Ever heard of Taste of Heaven cookies?" Megan asked.
"Sorry. I bake my own." Close enough.
"I guarantee they aren't as good as ours. We aren't talking Mr. Christie or even Mrs. Fields. These are top-end gourmet cookies, twelve dollars a dozen, made from farm fresh eggs and butter." She pointed to the chickens, then to a barn. "Fair-trade dark and milk chocolate. Microfarm macadamia nuts from Hawaii and pecans from Georgia. Organic, kosher, nut-free, you want it, we offer it. Even in today's economy, we can't keep up with the orders."
"Comfort food is recession-proof."
"So we're hoping." She walked back and picked the last few feathers from the chicken carcass. "If you're looking for lost and vulnerable souls brainwashed into slavery, you've come to the wrong place. Yes, we have a few recovering addicts and abuse victims. Alastair was a group home counselor, and he's a licensed therapist. What you'll mostly find here, though, is young women overdosed on dreams. Like me. Fast-tracked through an MBA from Columbia, got a Wall Street job, nearly killed myself with uppers so I could make money that I didn't have time to spend."
"So you traded in your BlackBerry for ..." I waved at the dead chickens.
"A life of eviscerating poultry?" A sardonic smile. "Not what you'd choose, I suspect. And not what any of the girls here would choose, which is why you don't see them helping me. I spent summers on my grandparents' farm. Mucking out cow barns might not be every MBA's dream job, but after a year on Wall Street, it started looking damned attractive."
"The simpler life," I said, trying to sound as if I understood the appeal. "Between the MBA and the farm experience, you must be a valuable part of the, uh, group here."
"I am. And I'm well compensated for it, too." She started plucking the other chicken. "But if I wanted to leave tomorrow, I could. No one would stop me. No one would stop any of the girls. Unhappy workers aren't productive, and we always have an applicant pool lined up to get in. Even if you wanted to join, you'd only get on the waiting list. We've filled Claire's spot already. Alastair is in a therapy session with the new girl right now."
"Can I speak to him when he's done?"
"Sorry. He's tied up until dinner."
Convenient. "Can I make an appointment?"
"You can try, but he's very busy."
"And the girls? Can I speak to any of them?"
"If you come back after dinner. We're running a business here."
I didn't push; didn't say I'd be back later either. As reassuring as her earlier spiel had been, it sounded like just that--public relations lines. By dinner, she'd have had time to tell the girls exactly what to say. That wouldn't do.
nine
Megan watched until I walked out the gate. Then I rolled my bike behind some trees, cast a blur spell, and slipped around the side of the house, following my nose to an open door around the rear. As I approached, I rubbed the back of my neck. A headache was settling in. I don't get them often, but my motorcycle helmet was new and sat different from my last one.
