OtherWorld

by Sarah Dreher

“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “But if I were there doing it, I’d know.”

  They were passing through the Magic Kingdom Auto Plaza. Coming up on Vista Boulevard, which would lead to the Village, River Country, and Fort Wilderness. Maybe they should...

  No, wherever Marylou was, it was bound to be out of sight. She wouldn’t be wandering around in the open unless they’d let her go. Even then, she wouldn’t wander. She’d make a bee-line for the nearest phone.

  “Know what I think we should do?” Gwen said.

  “No, what?”

  “Go after Tunes.”

  Yeah, that made sense. Maybe Edith Kesselbaum had seen her at one of her meetings, if she was hanging out with the psychiatric crowd. Maybe could even find out where she was staying. Maybe someone could follow her.

  But who?

  Edith Kesselbaum? No, she was much too shaky. And they needed her to behave normally. Because Marylou’s life right now depended on keeping Millicent Tunes from finding out who she’d had kidnapped—come to think of it, if Millicent Tunes was hanging around the psychiatric convention, why hadn’t Edith seen her? Edith knew what the woman looked like. Edith had helped arrest her.

  Maybe Tunes had changed her appearance.

  No, Ione/Patzi had recognized her.

  But that was at the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue. Not exactly the kind of place you’d find Edith Kesselbaum. And she hadn’t found out exactly when she’d been seen there. It could have been before any of them got to WDW.

  Quite possibly, Tunes had planned this from the moment she saw Edith Kesselbaum’s name on the convention attendance list. She could have asked a couple of questions, and found out they were all coming to Orlando, and gone out and hired...

  “Oh, shit,” she said as something even more ominous occurred to her.

  “What?”

  “I think we’ve been set up.”

  Gwen glanced over at her. “Set up how?”

  “Well, how did we all decide to take this vacation? Edith was coming down to the convention. About a week after she preregistered, Marylou and I got a call from Walt Disney World Travel Outreach, offering us these really inexpensive rooms at the Contemporary. The only stipulation being that we had to come this week, which, of course, is the week of the convention, only I didn’t put that together...”

  “It’s not your fault,” Gwen said.

  Stoner kneaded her face with the heels of her hands. “Know what I’ll bet? I’ll bet there’s no such animal as Walt Disney World Travel Outreach. I’ll bet Millicent Tunes arranged this whole thing, to get back at us.”

  “If you want my opinion,” Gwen said as she steered the car into the Contemporary parking lot, “the elegant Dr. Tunes has a serious revenge problem.”

  “Highly motivated,” Stoner said.

  “And therefore highly dangerous. Do you think it’s time to bring in the police?”

  “George called them, but they gave her the usual ‘Has to be missing for forty-eight hours drill.’ Anyway, I have the feeling we’ll get further working quietly. What do you think?”

  “Oh, I agree,” Gwen said. She cut the motor and sat for a moment, jangling the keys. “Stoner, I think I should be the one to follow her.” She held up her hand before Stoner could object. “I know what you’re going to say. But you can’t do it, Edith can’t do it. We need Aunt Hermione to keep trying to make psychic contact—and, not to be ageist or anything, at her age she’s fine on stamina, but if we need speed she isn’t exactly Olympic material.”

  Stoner hunched down in her seat. “I know.”

  “I could disguise myself.”

  “No,” Stoner said, “I’ll do it.”

  “You’d just look like you, only in disguise.”

  “I’m afraid for you.” She glanced over. “Please?”

  “Stoner…”

  “Only if you have to, Okay?”

  Gwen drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Okay,” she said after a minute, “first we’ll talk to Edith and see if she’s seen Tunes or anyone who might resemble her. With luck, she can come up with whatever name she’s using now, and find out where she’s staying. Then I’ll get on it.” She turned to Stoner and took her hand. “I know what you’re thinking. I know you hate it. In your place, I’d hate it, too. But it’s really the only way.”

  “Yeah,” Stoner said, and slouched out of the car.

  * * *

  The last reaction she would have expected from Edith was a look of guilt.

  “Oh, dear,” Edith said.

  “What?”

  “This is very embarrassing.”

  “Life is embarrassing,” Gwen said sympathetically.

  Edith cleared her throat and twisted the bracelet on her wrist. “There is one person—woman who feels, well, familiar, though I haven’t been able to place her. I’m afraid I wrote it off as...” She gave a self-conscious little laugh. “...someone I met somewhere and ought to know but can’t remember, but I was afraid to approach her because she might be a former client who would be devastated to find that I’d forgotten who she was. You know how it is. No, I don’t suppose you do. Anyway, I settled for smiling and waving in a friendly sort of way.” She shot a quick, apologetic glance at Stoner. “And, in my vanity—ego, ego, ego—I wasn’t wearing my glasses, just the contacts, and I do need to get the prescription changed. Well, I’ve certainly learned my lesson. Besides, I didn’t get that close a look at Millicent Tunes when Marylou and I arrested her. We merely shoved her into a closet and made ourselves a drink. Millicent Tunes had very extravagant taste in liquor.”

  “Do you think it could be the same person?” Gwen asked.

  “It’s possible. If so, she’s changed her hair color—but then we all do that, don’t we? Constantly.”

  “How about her eyes?” Stoner asked. “She had really distinctive eyes— brown with gold flecks, and kind of dead looking.”

  Edith shuddered. “Well, really, that is totally disgusting. No, I didn’t get a chance to see her eyes.”

  “That’s okay,” Gwen said. “I can get in her face.”

  Stoner went to the window and looked out, over the lagoon. The sun was gone, the last of the twilight fading from the sky. It would be pitch dark in a few minutes. Another night, and Marylou still missing. She hoped she wasn’t frightened. She hated the thought of Marylou frightened.

  We should have been more sympathetic about the plane ride, she thought. Marylou couldn’t help being afraid. And she couldn’t help expressing it the way she did. She was just being Marylou. She’s always Marylou, just Marylou. And even though she might be a pain in the ass once in a while—like on long plane rides—most of the time it’s really comforting, to have a friend who’s just who she is.

  “I have to get a look at this woman,” Gwen said. “Without letting her connect me to you. How do you think I can do that?”

  Edith contemplated the problem. “We had name-time, during that wretched touchy-feely workshop I keep trying unsuccessfully to repress. Give me a moment. I might be able to come up with a name.”

  In about an hour, the Electrical Water Pageant would come tootling and doodling by. Marylou hadn’t seen it last night. She wouldn’t see it tonight. Marylou would like the Electrical Water Pageant. Either that, or she’d be terrified by it. It didn’t matter, she’d be moved one way or another. That was one of the things she loved about Marylou: there was nothing that didn’t move her—one way or another.

  “It was one of those old names,” Edith Kesselbaum said. “An old family name, like you find in novels. Southern or New England. No, wait a minute… there’s a dormitory at Harvard, don’t ask me how I know, it was a long time ago and I didn’t enjoy it, but the name… the name. Elliot, Dunster...”

  “Winthrop,” Stoner said under her breath.

  “That’s it!” Edith cried. “Winthrop.”

  Stoner turned to face her. “Lillian Winthrop.”

  “Exactly. Hermione must be right, you are psychic.”

  Sh
e shook her head. “Lillian Winthrop is Millicent Tunes’ aunt, the one she tried to get rid of.”

  Edith Kesselbaum tsk-tsked. “And she took her name. How arrogant.”

  “This is all a game to her. She’s leaving us clues.”

  “Meaning,” Gwen said, “she probably wants us to be doing exactly what we’re doing.”

  “Except that she wanted you to be the bait,” Stoner said. “I really think that’s one part of this she’s not in control of.”

  “Marylou seems like perfectly adequate bait to me,” Edith said.

  “True.” But she was even more convinced, now that she knew who the kidnapper was, that Marylou was in tremendous danger. Because Millicent Tunes wanted to hurt Stoner, and hurt her badly. And in Millicent Tunes’ mind, it was only Gwen who could cause her pain. Tunes had known back at Shady Acres that Stoner and Gwen were lovers. She had even been a bit jealous. Marylou was only a friend. In Millicent’s conventional, twisted mind a friend was expendable, not someone you risked your life for. Therefore, to ensure Stoner’s ultimate unhappiness, she had to get Gwen. And that made Marylou just something in the way, to be discarded without a thought. If she hesitated at all, it was to make Marylou suffer as much as possible.

  Marylou’s life depended on them acting fast.

  Without warning, Edith leapt up, flew across the room to her briefcase, and scattered the contents over the bed. “I think,” she said as she tore through papers and folders and brochures and business cards, “I can put us ahead of the game. Hah!” She held up a stapled booklet, shook out her glasses and crammed them on her head. “I’ll bet she’s listed right...” She leafed wildly to the back of the booklet. “Here!” Edith pointed to a listing of conference participants and their local addresses. “Winthrop, Lillian. The Dolphin.”

  “That figures,” Gwen said. “The most expensive hotel in the World.”

  Stoner nodded. “Millicent always did travel in style.”

  “If the rest of her taste is like her liquor, she does,” Edith said.

  Gwen gathered up her things. “Well, I’d better go femme myself up a little and get over there.”

  “What are you going to do?” Stoner asked.

  “Camp out in the lobby. See if I can catch her coming or going.”

  “There’s an awards banquet tonight,” Edith said. “She’ll probably be there.”

  “Anticipating an award?” Gwen asked.

  “No doubt.” Edith consulted her book. “At the Swan.”

  “Piece of cake,” Gwen said. “Borrow your make-up?”

  Edith handed her a train case. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  Stoner hated this. It made sense to do it this way. In fact, it was the only way. But she hated it. “How will you know her?”

  “Willowy blonde dyed—what color, Edith?”

  “Innocuous brown.”

  “Brown. Skinny woman wearing prison weight. Dead eyes. And probably a name tag.”

  “Try not to look her in the eyes,” Stoner said, trying to be light about it. “She’ll turn you to stone.”

  “Right.” Gwen looked around the room. “I need something frillier than what I have. I need to look super-straight. Edith, do you have anything diaphanous?”

  “My dear,” Edith said as she threw open her closet door, “I always have something diaphanous.”

  * * *

  Stoner paced back and forth, the width of the hotel room, to the bathroom and back to the window. Up and down the narrow runway between the beds. She picked up the phone, but couldn’t think of anyone to call, and besides they had to keep the line clear. She turned the television set on, ran through the channels without noticing what was on, flicked it off, then flicked it back on ten minutes later. She glanced out at the lagoon, but couldn’t see anything but her own reflection in the darkened window. She wished she could go hang out with Edith, but they had agreed to stay near the phone in their separate rooms, just in case. She wished Aunt Hermione would get back from Cassadaga, but her aunt had gone there to meditate among the other psychics, where the vibrations were high and uncluttered.

  At least she could make a quick call to George, fill her in, and ask her to look for any old plans the WDW builders might have around. Not to WDW as it was today, though they would probably be helpful. What she really wanted to see was a map of the workers’ tunnels.

  Trouble was, when she reached George, she was reminded that tomorrow was Sunday, and the county court house wasn’t going to be open for business. But George promised to check around anyway—maybe she knew someone who knew someone who had access to the building and wouldn’t object to a little Revolutionary activity.

  Well, Sunday or not, Marylou was down there somewhere, and Stoner was going to find her if she died trying.

  * * *

  David strolled along the edge of the crowd, holding the large paper bag firmly but delicately. He’d really surpassed himself tonight. Chilled leek soup, salmon soufflé with tarragon in a white butter sauce, veal with mushroom sauce from Chefs de France. A nice white wine. And for dessert, a trifle from Le Cellier. All of which he had chosen and paid for himself. That should convince her he was no low-life common criminal, but a professional, with professional taste and gentlemanly manners.

  The crowd was moving right along, which meant it must be before nine, when they’d be shuffling and jostling for spots along the lagoon from which to watch the Illuminations show. He wished he could bring her to see that. He was willing to bet she’d like it—the fireworks, the laser show, the music, the tiny bright lights outlining the pavilions. It must be awful for her, stuck there underground with all this going on just over your head. Last night, he could have sworn he’d felt the vibrations from the fireworks. He wondered if she had, and what she had thought it was.

  He had to admit it, he was getting a little emotionally involved with this case. She seemed to like him today, and that made him feel good. She’d even flirted with him a little—not in an “I’ll let you screw me if you’ll let me go” way, but just a little, and nicely. Maybe it was that menstrual business making her soft and fluffy like a puppy. Maybe it had nothing to do with him. Or maybe her hoity-toity attitude before had been the menstruals coming on. He’d heard plenty about PMS, back in prison when they didn’t have anything to do all day long but sit and watch Oprah. Some of the other guys, the rougher ones, would scare each other after lights out, telling stories about bitches with guns and PMS. It was generally agreed among the cons that you didn’t want to cross a bitch with that PMS thing.

  But they’d had a good time today, playing gin rummy and shooting the breeze. She’d told him about some of her mother’s cases—neat, scary stuff involving people with lots of personalities; funny stuff about people with no personality. He secretly suspected she was making it up—therapists just didn’t go around telling stories about their clients, not even to their kids, any more than he’d tell stories about his. But she was a gifted story teller. He’d have to remember to tell her that, that she had a gift for story telling. She might want to think about being a writer, if she ever got tired of teaching.

  One thing bothered him, though. His client had said she was the red-haired one’s “lover,” and sure implied she wasn’t on the straight and narrow, so to speak. So how come she was flirting with him? Maybe she was one of those women who swing both ways. Or maybe—the thought brought him to a dead halt right in the middle of traffic in World Showcase Plaza—maybe they wanted to have a kid, and she wanted him to be the father.

  The idea took his breath away. Him, a father. It made him feel all squooshy and silly, like that guy in “Carousel” singing about his kid Bill.

  He put himself in gear. Didn’t want her whole dinner to get cold. Casually, he walked to the Mexico pavilion, waited until the crowd was looking the other way, then slipped around back and into the darkness and bushes. Behind the building, where the boats could be taken out and repaired without being seen
and ruining the illusion, he found his secret entrance to the abandoned tunnel that led under the Odyssey Restaurant. Glancing around to make sure he hadn’t been spotted, he lifted the trap door and slipped inside.

  He’d done this so many times now, he didn’t even need the flashlight.

  Humming under his breath, he crept along the hallway.

  A father. He might be a father.

  He sure hoped the client wouldn’t ask him to kill her.

  * * *

  One of the bad things about sitting around waiting for the phone to ring is that you get to think. Not just to think, but to think about crazy stuff. Like dreaming you’re in Wales and having the characters in your dream speak Welsh. Like being told the name of a tourist attraction in this dream, and having it confirmed in your waking life, in spite of the fact that you’ve never been to Wales, never read a book about Wales, never even booked a travel itinerary to Wales—and don’t have any stray Welsh genes hanging around wherever your genes hang around.

  And if you don’t like thinking about that, you can think about descending a non-existent staircase and opening a non-existent door leading nowhere through which is seeping non-existent fog.

  You can think about Audio-Animatronic dogs that chase after your boat, except no one else on the boat sees it.

  And, if that doesn’t meet your needs for thinking about crazy stuff, you can think about phone calls from Spaceship Earth, complete with sound effects that aren’t really on, and that only you can hear.

  You can think about all that fun stuff, and it can lead you exactly nowhere.

  The Hand of Havoc was feeling pretty close at hand.

  * * *

  Gwen called in around eleven to say she had eyeballed Millicent Tunes, a.k.a. Lillian Winthrop, who had gone to her room. Gwen had decided to hang around the lobby of the Dolphin— “Though, personally, I prefer the Swan, more intimate, but qué sera sera” —in case Herself decided to take a little stroll later. She assured Stoner she was perfectly safe, “though I may have gone too far with the diaphanous. Three drunken psychiatrists have tried to pick me up, and I’m sure one of them was a Behaviorist. I should have chosen something with one of those wide, flat Puritan Christian collars they make for women with up-chucking babies. And, no, our quarry hasn’t the slightest idea who I am. Didn’t even look my way. I’m just part of the scenery to her. Should I be insulted?”