The diner looked like your stereotypical small-town eatery, right down to the vinyl seats and beehived waitress in a frilly dress better suited to someone half her age—and size. The patrons were all on the far side of fifty, most courting heart disease and diabetes, most wearing clothing bought in the last millennium.

I sat at the counter, ordered coffee and a slice of pie, then chatted with a couple of customers. Both were balding. Both wore button-down plaid shirts and jeans. Both seemed to have made the diner their new home after the sawmill shut down. The only way I could tell them apart was the accent—Bill’s was local and Jacob’s sounded like he’d come from the Southwest.

After some chitchat, I said, “I hear a young woman was murdered here about a week ago. I don’t need to be worried, do I?”

“Not unless you plan to join that cult of wackos up on the hill,” Jacob said.

The server rolled her eyes. “It’s a commune.”

“Same difference.”

“There’s a commune around here?” I asked.

“Cult.”

“Commune,” the server insisted.

I pushed my mug toward her for a refill. “Let me rephrase. There are people engaged in a group living arrangement that doesn’t conform to social norms?”

The server—Lorraine by her name tag—laughed. “That’s a good way of putting it. They aren’t brainwashed cultists waiting for the aliens to come and take them away. Just nice young girls with a different way of living.”

Jacob snorted. “Nice young girls living with one old guy doing who-knows-what.”

“Oh, we know what they’re doing,” Bill said with a snicker.

“So what is that, if not a cult?” Jacob said.

“Heaven,” Bill replied.

Laughter from the few patrons listening in.

“Was the girl who was killed last week from there?”

“Yeah,” Jacob said. “And she seemed like such a nice kid.”

Lorraine glowered. “She was a nice kid. They all are. It’s not Charles Manson up there. Just kids experimenting with a different way of life. I did some of that at their age.”

“I heard there were two other girls killed last fall,” I said. “Were they part of the, uh, group?”

“Ginny and Brandi?” Bill shook his head. “Those girls were into a whole other kind of trouble.”

“Ginny and Brandi were lost souls,” Lorraine said. “Those girls up at Alastair’s place are lost, too, but they’re getting back on track.”

“Alastair? So he’s the—?”

The door banged open. In strode a man of about sixty, rail-thin but walking like a man twice his weight. He wore a uniform and his gaze was fixed on me.

I slid off my stool, hand extended. “Chief Bruyn. I’m—”

“Savannah Levine,” he said with a scowl. “Private investigator.”