Page 67 of Echoes at Driftwood Cottage

“Technically, Nichols never claimed to be anyone’s guru. Their leader would be more apt. It all started when the TV station fired me for not being blonde enough, and I went to work for the county newspaper. A reporter is always a reporter, right? Whether you’re reading lines from a TV prompter or searching for the hottest local stories, it’s in your blood. One of my first leads came from a source who told me Dodge Nichols had a nice little empire running drugs out of his family’s compound. I checked, but the guy seemed clean as a whistle at first. Then, a second source came forward, then a third. One rumor might stem from someone with an axe to grind, but three? I started digging deeper. It all began to click after that.”

“Let me guess,” Daniel began, “by that time, Nichols had sold his land and fled the country.”

“You get first prize,” Phoebe said with a wink. “I tracked that guy to the final day when he flew as a tourist in business class to Athens, Greece, then crossed over into Bulgaria and disappeared.”

“Did he have any family that you know about?”

“Besides, a common law wife twenty years his junior that he left behind? No. At least none that I ever found. His parents died under mysterious circumstances, though back in 1971 when he inherited their sizable bank account and the land. I always wondered if he had something to do with getting rid of them.”

“How did they die?” Rowan asked.

“They had a very unfortunate accident with carbon monoxide when a heater in the farmhouse stopped working. The coroner ruled both were accidental deaths and Nichols collected about two million dollars in life insurance money. A convenient way to make a fortune for a twenty-year-old guy who always referred to himself as a capitalist instead of a hippie.”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning sounds suspicious,” Daniel remarked. “I’m assuming there were autopsies done.”

“There were questions from the medical examiner at the time, but Nichols claimed he was nowhere near the farm the night it happened. I guess the coroner must’ve believed him.”

Rowan settled deeper into the sofa. “Did you ever meet any of the former members personally to get a better picture of what it was like out there?”

“Sure. I interviewed maybe twenty-five people who left. A lot of those members really believed in the lifestyle. They took names like Saffron or Sage or Marjoram, incredibly corny stuff. But those diehards never lasted for long. Once they discovered what Nichols was really up to, they hightailed it out of there faster than a greased pig at a luau.”

Rowan took out her notes. “What about the people who disappeared? I’ve counted seven in all—five women, two men—between 1999 and 2000.”

“Those are the ones we know about. Most of those families didn’t even report their kids going missing. When I contacted them, they were more like good riddance for running away in the first place.”

“You have their real names?”

“Of course. Somewhere in my notes. I investigated all the disappearances. But the police didn’t have a single body to indicate foul play, so they refused to do anything about it. Adults go missing. They have a right to take off, blah, blah, blah. It was infuriating. I couldn’t convince the sheriff’s office that these poor souls had probably gotten mixed up with a very bad man.”

Daniel rolled the kinks out of his shoulders as he paced in front of a bay window. “Nichols wouldn’t be the first cult leader to send his naïve flock out to kill off anyone who threatened to go to the police and tell them what he was doing.”

“Like the guru in Oregon in the 1980s,” Phoebe replied with a smile. “I did my share of research on cults. From Jonestown to Manson, I’m sure Nichols employed whatever means at his disposal to save his drug empire.”

“When did anyone start investigating Nichols?”

“It wasn’t the local police I can tell you that much. Nothing much happened until Nichols got sloppy. He started making mistakes even before the DEA tracked a sizable cocaine shipment from Toronto to Kings Mountain. After the feds became interested, that was the beginning of the end. But someone must’ve tipped off Nichols long before the DEA got involved because he cleared out, sold the land to a developer and here we are almost twenty years later.”

“When you were deep in your investigation, did the name Dewhurst ever come up?”

“Again, I’d need to check my notes. And when I say notes, I’m talking about bookbinders full of typed pages. You know, it’s worth mentioning the rumors. They say that Nichols kept the local officials—city councilmen and the like, the zoning commission, and various state politicians—in his back pocket.”

“But you couldn’t prove anything,” Rowan prompted.

“Not a thing. Nobody was talking. And then there were the occasional anonymous sources that said Nichols used extortion to keep these politicians in line by taking videos of them doing drugs or using escorts. One of the rumors even mentioned a dustup after a woman died at one of Nichols’ parties. A drowning, I think.”

“Tamsin Southwick,” Daniel provided.

Phoebe snapped her fingers. “That’s the one. I am a bit rusty. Tamsin tried to save a little girl from drowning inside one of Nichols’ houses. At least, that was the story put out to the public.”

Rowan narrowed her eyes. “So, this drowning happened outside the commune? I thought Nichols lived at the farm.”

“Goodness no,” Phoebe said with a laugh. “Celestial Moon was just a front for his weed-growing operation and the hokey vegetable stand his followers ran. The farm was far too unsophisticated for Dodge Nichols. He preferred living at his posh house overlooking the lagoon, which I believe he bought for cash back in the 1970s after his parents passed away. His former house is actually around the corner, still standing. It’s probably three times the size of ours. After all, in his heyday, Nichols ran a very proficient drug smuggling operation.”

Rowan’s pulse quickened. “Did his house have an indoor swimming pool by any chance?”

“Yes. And an outdoor one with a cabana. I’ll write down the address for you,” Phoebe offered, grabbing a notepad from the coffee table. She tore off a page and handed Rowan the piece of paper. “Here you go. Why don’t we keep in touch? That way if you find out anything about Nichols’ whereabouts you can call me.”

“Absolutely. And if you find the name Dewhurst in your notes, you’ll do the same.”

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