Bad Company

by Sarah Dreher

  Stoner thought about King's Grant, Rhode Island, where she had been raised. All the houses were set back from the streets, all the lawns mowed, no dogs wandering around. Lots of white paint, white lies, and white people. "He was in my home town, too."

  "You know," Gwen said. She was stirring her salad with the tip of her fork and peering at it suspiciously. "You're always promising to take me to King's Grant, and you never do."

  "I'd like to, but I'm afraid I'll see one of my old school mates or revert to the age of twelve or something."

  "Well, that would be pretty horrible, wouldn't it?" She turned over a green leaf and peered closer. "This is organic lettuce."

  Stoner leaned forward to look. "How can you tell?"

  Gwen pointed her fork at a small black something that looked as if it might once have been alive. "Bug."

  “Want to send it back?"

  "No," Gwen said as she pushed the corpse aside. "It can't eat much."

  "Not unless it has friends."

  "Is there a problem?"

  They looked up to see Sherry standing by their table. Gwen's smile turned stiff. "No problem," she said sweetly. "Just a little fauna in the flora."

  "Oh, yuck!" Sherry snatched the plate and called across the dining room. "Michelle!"

  Their waitress came forward.

  "Take this back to the kitchen and bring us another. And, for God's sake, have them check the lettuce." She shoved the plate at Michelle. "I'll inspect it myself." She turned back to the table. "I hate bugs in the food."

  "Listen," Stoner said as the waitress left, "it's no big deal. It happens all the time."

  "Not here," Sherry insisted.

  "My aunt's an organic gardener, and she says lettuce without holes or bugs is a really bad sign. Full of pesticides."

  "Your aunt doesn't have to answer to the truly strange and particular in this world,” Sherry said. "Or does she?"

  "Only the Virgo's. But she doesn't get many of them."

  "Well, there you are," Sherry said with finality.

  "Would you like to join us?" Gwen asked with cloying politeness.

  "Yes, I would." Sherry pulled out a chair and dropped into it and turned to Gwen. "I feel as if you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I'd like to try to fix it."

  Gwen turned a little red and looked down at her lap, too honest to deny it but embarrassed at getting caught.

  “Look,” Sherry said, "I know I came on strong at first. Sometimes I'm kind of... well, kind of pushy, you know what I mean?"

  "Pushy," Gwen said thoughtfully. "Maybe not exactly..."

  "Too excitable, bouncy, eager to please."

  "Eager to please is close." She looked up, ready to forgive and get back to her usual state of expecting the best from everyone. "But, really, it's not..."

  Sherry rubbed the heel of her hand on the center of her forehead. "Goddess, I hate it when I get like that. It always happens when I'm exhausted, like I have to pump up the energy and keep it pumped up."

  "I understand that," Gwen said. "Running an inn must be kind of like teaching. You're on all the time."

  "It's not one tenth as hard," Sherry said with a dismissive flap of her hand. “I wouldn't last five minutes in a class room. But it takes its toll." She fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. "And your friend Marylou... you know how, when you're strung out and off-center, anyone with a really strong personality can kind of set the energy level?"

  "I can see that," Stoner said. Even though her own reaction when Marylou went high-energy was to become practically comatose, she'd seen her affect other people that way. And this afternoon Marylou had definitely been in overdrive.

  "Not that I'm trying to say it's her fault," Sherry insisted as she moved the bud vase a millimeter closer to the center of the table. "Please don't think that. I'm just trying to... well, I hope you won't judge me by this afternoon."

  "It's fine,” Gwen said. "I appreciate you explaining."

  There was noise from the distance. Banging, shouting, laughing. The theater women coming up from the barn.

  Stoner leaned forward. 'We really need to talk about... you know. Soon."

  "True." Sherry frowned thoughtfully. "Tonight, after dinner. There's a small tavern off the living room. It's dark. We can talk there."

  "Do the theater women hang out there?"

  "Most of them. They like to let off steam after rehearsals." She gave a little laugh. "I already told you that, didn't I? To tell you the truth, sometimes they get... well, overly raucous. I find myself making excuses."

  "I don't think the tavern would be the best place," Stoner said. "Someone might overhear us. At best, it would look suspicious, huddling there with our heads together." She turned to Gwen. "Don't you think so? Or would it be a good cover?"

  "Suspicious," Gwen said. "Huddling. Heads. Dark place. Definitely suspicious."

  Sherry looked at Stoner with large eyes. "You really think it's one of the women, don't you?"

  "I don't have an opinion," Stoner said. "All I know is what you told me in your letter. But we should be on the safe side."

  "You're absolutely right." She aligned the salt and pepper shakers to be parallel to the edge of the table. "There's the living room. That's hardly used at night. But you have to go through it to get to the bar."

  "Maybe our room," Gwen suggested.

  Sherry shook her head. "Someone might see me coming and going."

  The voices were drawing closer.

  "Is there any place away from the inn itself?" Stoner asked.

  "The boat house! Perfect! I usually hang out with the guests after dinner, but I'll say there's something I have to do in town." Sherry checked her watch. "It's seven-thirty now. I'll meet you there at nine. Just follow the path through the woods to the lake. You can't miss it. There's a security light that's always on. Do you need a flashlight?"

  "I brought one," Stoner said.

  "Okay, it's about a ten minute walk." The woman heaved a momentous sigh. "I can't tell you what a relief it is to have you here. The theater's been booked, the publicity comes out next week. Not that we'd need to do much publicity. We have a small but steady audience in the women's community, and our production is... " She cleared her throat modestly. "...well, frankly, one of the social events of the year on the North Shore. Our audience is counting on us." She got up. "Time for my evening table-hopping." She glanced over at Gwen and smiled. "As soon as I check your salad."

  "Was it awful of me?" Gwen asked.

  Black water under a moonless sky lapped at the pilings of the old pier. From somewhere in the darkness came the deep bass boom of a bull frog. Stoner leaned against the rough wood of the boat house and felt the stored heat warm on her back. "Was what awful?"

  "How I was about her this afternoon?"

  Stoner shrugged and noticed an itch right between her shoulder blades. "Of course it wasn't. Anyway, I thought she was a little heavy-handed, too."

  Gwen laughed. "You'd probably feel that way about Ghandi."

  "I probably would." She slipped an arm around Gwen's shoulders. ''You worry too much."

  "I know." Gwen nuzzled against her neck. The stars trembled beyond the humid night air. "So do you."

  "Worrying is what I do. It accounts for my great success in the travel industry. People who travel need someone to worry for them."

  “Lucky you," Gwen said. “Teachers aren’t suppose to let on we worry.”

  "Why not?"

  "We don't want to do anything that might discourage teenagers from growing up." She was silent for a moment, thinking. "It's odd. I've never heard of Demeter Ascending."

  "Neither have I,” Stoner said. "But then I hardly go to plays." She grimaced. "The travel business is kind of like selling real estate. You work the darnedest hours."

  "I noticed,” Gwen said, and nuzzled closer to her.

  Out on the lake, a sudden splash signaled a leaping fish. The bull frog fell silent. From far in the distance piano music drifted through the
night. Stoner felt taken out of time. Bull frogs and leaping fish, and piano music in the distance had happened here twenty years ago, and forty years ago, maybe even at the beginning of the Twentieth Century, during the Civil War, even before. If they got up and walked back to the inn, they might find themselves in a different time altogether. Electric bulbs might have reverted to gas lights, and lamps to kerosene. They might find people talking about the Stock Market Crash, or Abolition, or planning a trip to settle the west, or the upcoming election between Nixon and Kennedy. Maybe the Boston Braves would be making a run at the National League pennant. They might be talked into going along on the first coast-to-coast railroad trip, or going to the World's Fair in St. Louis...

  Two beams of light swept across the lake, illuminating swarms of insects that hovered in the cool air currents at the top of the water. The lights went out. A car door slammed. Someone was coming toward them, hidden behind the yellowish beam of a flashlight. The beam picked up their faces.

  "Stoner? Gwen?" Sherry's whisper snaked through the silence.

  Gwen sat up. "Over here."

  Sherry pattered across the dock and dropped down beside them. "For a minute there I couldn't find you. I thought you'd changed your minds."

  "You need new batteries," Stoner said helpfully.

  "This is just a pen light. We need new flashlights. All the ones we had were stolen."

  Stoner sat up. "Your flashlights were stolen? Why would anyone want to steal flashlights?"

  "Maybe it was the Cottage ghost," Gwen suggested.

  Sherry laughed. "There's no Cottage ghost."

  Gwen shrugged. "It just seemed to me, stealing flashlights doesn't make much sense, and ghosts are rather inscrutable in mortal terms..."

  "Yes, I see what you mean," Sherry said. "Unfortunately, this does make sense, if someone's trying to sabotage the theater group. We actually use the flashlights a lot. Coming and going from the inn to the barn after dark. Moving around back stage. And we often have power outages in the barn—the lights are on a generator, an old one."

  "What other things have happened?" Stoner asked.

  Sherry sighed deeply. “Where to begin? Well, we've had pages disappear from scripts. That's not all that unusual, actors can get sloppy, we have one woman who reads a page, then whips it out of her notebook and drops it on the floor. We spend the last ten minutes of every rehearsal reconstructing her script. But there have been losses and mix-ups more than one would expect normally. Other things missing, like tools. Pieces of costume. We finally had to make every woman responsible for her own props."

  "Did that stop it?"

  "Pretty much so. Of course, there are things that have to stay in the barn, things like equipment and set pieces. We can't very well lug couches and tables to our rooms every night."

  "Of course not," Gwen said. "Have there been any major thefts or bodily injuries? Threats against anyone?"

  Sherry seemed to think about it. "Not that I know of. We've had money stolen from petty cash... our coffee and treats fund. But it doesn't amount to much. I've pretty much assumed someone needs a quick loan."

  "And is the money returned?" Stoner asked.

  "Not yet. But I'm hopeful." Sherry smiled shyly. "I'm an optimist, especially where women are concerned." She turned gloomy. "That's what makes this so disturbing. If it is someone inside the company, trying to destroy the project for whatever reason... well, it rattles one's faith in sisterhood, doesn’t it?”

  "Yes," Stoner said, "it does. But after all, we're only human. There are good sisters and bad sisters. Is there anyone... " She tried to think of a way to present it delicately. "...anyone you suspect at this point?"

  "I'd hate to suspect anyone."

  "I know," Stoner said gently. "But we have to start somewhere."

  "Oh, I hate this," Sherry groaned.

  "How about from the outside. Are there people who, for example, make deliveries here on a regular basis?"

  "I pick up our groceries."

  "Laundry delivery?" Gwen suggested.

  Sherry shook her head. "We do our own right here."

  "Garbage collectors?"

  "Maybe. It's picked up Monday mornings."

  “Okay,” Stoner said, "we'll keep that in mind. Has there been any hostility toward you in the town, because this is lesbian space?"

  "We're been here for years," Sherry said. "Nothing's happened."

  Stoner was becoming increasingly bewildered and exasperated. There had to have been something, sometime that would shed some light. If The Cottage had coexisted for years near a small town in deep inland Maine with never an incident of nastiness or homophobia, they were witnessing a modern miracle.

  "So what do you think?" Sherry asked.

  Stoner shook her head. "It's much too soon to jump to conclusions." She reviewed what they knew. ''You've had a series of petty thefts, minor vandalism, and that recent incident of the paint. Other than that, nothing?"

  "Nothing but my feeling," Sherry said earnestly. "I have a clear, definite feeling something's going on."

  "Sherry," Stoner said, "a 'feeling' isn't much to go on."

  "I know, but it's such a clear feeling. That's why I asked for your help. Word around the Cambridge Women's Center was that you have some psychic skills. I thought it would give us an edge."

  Her psychic skills—if you could call them "skills," they'd felt more like random curses to her—had never made Stoner feel as if she had any kind of edge. In fact, they made her feel distinctly edgy. "That's very complimentary," she said. "But I really don't..."

  "You're not going to do this, are you?" Sherry said suddenly. "You're going to leave."

  “Well, it seems like a waste of..."

  Sherry clutched at Stoner's sleeve. “Please,” she said. "I know it doesn't sound like much, but I really am frightened. I'll pay you for your time."

  "That's not the point," Gwen said. "We don't want to..."

  "Three days," Sherry said. "Give it three days, get to know the women. See if anything happens. If you still think it's all in my mind, we'll call it off."

  Three days. In three days Marylou would have the office sorted and boxed. It was tempting. "What do you think?" she asked Gwen.

  "Sure," Gwen said. "What's three days out of one lifetime?"

  "Thank you," Sherry breathed. "You won't be sorry. I promise."

  Chapter Three

  "Stoner," Gwen whispered into the darkness, "are you awake?"

  The half moon had risen and was setting. A rectangle of light, the color and texture of gray construction paper, crawled up the wall.

  "Yes."

  "Something's not right."

  Stoner rolled over to face Gwen's bed. "I agree."

  "But lean't put my finger on it."

  "I keep going over it," Stoner said. "But all I can think of is, if all that's wrong is some petty theft and accidents with fresh paint, why in the world did she think it was dangerous enough to bring in help?"

  "Yes, that's it. There's got to be something more than that. She's keeping something back. But why?"

  "Maybe she doesn't trust us yet," Stoner suggested. "Or maybe she's afraid."

  “What do you think we should do?"

  "I don't know what we can do. Not until something happens."

  Sheets rustled as Gwen sat up. "Just like the police," she said with a sigh. "Can't do anything until someone dies."

  "What I don't understand," Stoner went on, "is why anyone would want to sabotage a play."

  "Maybe it's a really bad play."

  Stoner laughed. "Seriously."

  "I am serious. I've seen plays I'd sabotage in a minute. Professional productions, at that."

  A scream shattered the darkness. Terror and rage forged into a silver blade.

  "Good God!" Gwen said.

  Her heart racing, Stoner threw back her sheet and ran to the window.

  Outside, the lawn appeared flat and smooth. The setting moon threw long, faint shadows of trees ac
ross the grass. Stars glittered through the humid air. Nothing moved.

  “What was it?" Gwen asked.

  "I don't know. It didn't sound exactly human."

  "What it sounded like," Gwen said, "was a soul in torment."

  Everything was still.

  "I think we were the only ones who heard it."

  "Really?" Gwen got out of bed and came to stand beside her. "In that case, it was probably a cwn annwn."

  "A coon at noon?"

  "Cwn annwn. It's a banshee or Hell-hound. Usually signifies someone's going to die. Usually the person who sees it. Or hears it."

  "Thank you for that kind thought, Gwen."

  Gwen leaned forward to peer out into the yard. "Do you see anything out there that looks like a large black dog?"

  "It'd be hard to see, unless it was right under the window."

  "Well," Gwen said ominously, "be glad it's not."

  Stoner shuddered. "Don't joke about it."

  Gwen slipped an arm across her shoulder. "It was just an animal."

  "Animals don't start screaming in the middle of the night for no reason. And why just one shriek? Do you think it's dead?"

  "What I think," Gwen said, "is that it was a screech owl, and someone disturbed it."

  That made sense. "Who?"

  A pinpoint of light flashed at the edge of the trees, moving toward the barn.

  "There," Gwen said. "Someone's going to the barn."

  The light flashed again, then disappeared. A faint glow passed a barn window from inside.

  "Well, that explains the owl." Stoner watched the light moving back and forth behind the windows. "I wonder what they're doing."

  "If we were normal people," Gwen said, "instead of mildly paranoid amateur detectives who don't know what we're doing, we'd assume someone forget something after rehearsal and was going back to get it."

  "We're not normal."

  "I'm normal enough to want to go to sleep."

  Stoner gave her a quick kiss. "Go ahead. I'll watch for a while."

  The moon had almost slipped into the lake before the prowler left the barn and started back toward the inn.

  Someone was tapping on their door. Softly but quickly, urgently.

  Gwen rolled out of bed and threw on her robe and opened it.