Bad Company

by Sarah Dreher

  Menu. Menu.

  Food.

  Kitchen. Something about the kitchen.

  She remembered, and detoured through the dining room.

  The cooks were busy, and obviously resented her intrusion, just as she had always suspected real cooks would. Not like Aunt Hermione, who would beam a welcome and declare herself desperate for company, and before Stoner knew it would be curled up in the window seat blowing cigarette smoke out the window while Stoner finished up whatever slicing, dicing, or sautéing she had interrupted.

  She found the salad prep woman, who had prepped the salad and was lounging against a cupboard. "Listen," she said, "when I was down here with Sherry the other night, she mentioned something about a back stairway. Do you know which door it is?"

  "Sure," the woman said, and pushed herself away from the cupboard and went to the door and opened it for her.

  "And this is unlocked at the top as well as in this room?"

  "Wouldn't be much good if it wasn't."

  No, it wouldn't.

  "What's up?"

  She started and turned. Sherry stood behind her, an open and vacuously innocent smile on her face.

  "She was asking about the back stairs," said Salad Prep before Stoner could jump in with some transparent, trumped-up, lame explanation.

  Sherry gave her a "don't you have something to do?" look.

  The woman scooted back to her lounging point against the cupboard.

  "I thought it might be a way someone might have gotten in and out of the Cottage to do things," Stoner said, and could see her eighth grade English teacher spinning in her grave.

  ''You're right," Sherry said thoughtfully. "It could." She leaned close to Stoner. "You know what this means, of course."

  “What does it mean?"

  "That anyone could be doing this. Sneaking out the back way in the night, sneaking in during a break in rehearsals when no one would notice. Anyone."

  "Well," Stoner admitted, "anyone who knows about the stairs."

  "And, if you were going to set out on a well-orchestrated campaign of terrorist acts, you'd plan it out ahead of time, and part of that planning would be to check out where the entrances and exits are. Right?"

  "Right," Stoner said.

  Sherry grinned. "Maybe I should go into the detective business. I'm beginning to think like a criminal."

  Beginning? the voice in her head wondered.

  "So what's next?" Sherry was asking.

  Stoner looked around the room. The next logical step, of course, would be to interview the kitchen crew. But she could just imagine Sherry—budding detective that she was—leaping forward eagerly to do that job, and she couldn't think of a good reason to stop her. "I'm not sure," she said. "I'll let you know."

  As she was heading up the stairs to shower before dinner, she heard Clara hail her. The older woman handed Stoner her room keys, and explained that during the afternoon she had re-keyed the lock so that only Stoner's and Gwen's keys would fit. Even the pass-key wouldn't work. That should take care of unauthorized entries. She advised against starting any fires or doing anything else that would require someone getting into the room to save their lives, as they were going to be a pair of cooked geese if they did.

  Stoner wondered what Sherry would think of this, when she finally told her. But it was in the line of duty. After all, Sherry had invited them, hadn't she? She'd probably be glad, and think they were all terribly clever.

  Oh, sure. And Jerry Falwell organizes Gay Pride marches.

  As Divi Divi had promised, Green Lake had a lake but little else. The lake was green, too, choked with algae and duckweed that seemed incandescent in the late twilight. The town itself boasted a general store, a gas station, and a gun-and-fishing-tackle shop where you could also buy topographic maps, hunting licenses, and liquor. A small restaurant that had probably been someone's old living room was closed tight. It had chipping red paint, a sagging porch, and a trellis clogged with bittersweet. Split window shades hung against glass streaked by years of tobacco smoke and cooking grease. The hand-painted sign spelled out "Sue's" in awkward, primitive vines that most closely resembled poison ivy. A crayon-on-cardboard sign announced that "Sue's" would be open again for breakfast at six am.

  Stoner wondered who in the world Sherry—who certainly seemed to aspire to sophistication, if you could judge by the ambience at The Cottage—could be dating in Green Lake.

  As a matter of fact, she found it a little strange that Divi Divi would insist on coming to this tiny, weary town to have her Blazer serviced when there must be plenty of places in Bangor where the waiting was more interesting.

  Bangor, it turned out, didn't have Hank Markle. Hank and the Blazer had met two summers ago during an alternator incident, and it was mutual love at first sight. Hank understood the Blazer with an understanding that verged on empathy. She was the car he'd been waiting for all his life, the car his mama had convinced him to save himself for. When he touched the Blazer, there was love in his fingertips. He could stand, eyes closed, listening while Divi Divi idled the motor, and tell within seconds just what was wrong with "his girl."

  "It's kind of a Zen thing," Divi Divi explained when they had wandered out of ear shot. "I swear, if I took the car to someone else, he'd know it and sue me for contributing to the delinquency of a Chevrolet." She laughed deeply. "I can tell he hates to take money for fixing her. It makes him feel like a prostitute, and probably isn't respectful of their relationship. But he does good work and deserves to be paid. Besides, I'm neurotic about money."

  "So am I," Stoner said.

  Divi Divi shot her a quick glance. "Doll, you're neurotic about a lot of things. I'll bet you have all your insecurities catalogued."

  Stoner laughed. "No, but Gwen keeps track of them for me."

  "Looks like she might," Divi Divi said with a sage nod.

  "What do you mean?" Stoner asked with a quick glance at her.

  "It's pretty obvious that woman cares a lot for you. You might not notice it, being a little on the butch side and neurotic to boot, but she has a right protective air about her where you're concerned."

  "Really?"

  "Really. I know I wouldn't mess with you. Though there's some that might."

  Stoner stopped walking. They were opposite Sue's and heading for the general store. “What do you mean?"

  "Well, I don't like to spread gossip, but since there's already enough shit coming down and you seem to be trying to do something about it, I'll tell you. For what it's worth, I've seen Sherry shooting daggers at you from out of her eyes."

  Stoner stared at the cracked and buckled pavement and hoped Divi Divi had more to say and would say it.

  "She covers it up fast,” the woman went on. "But it's hard to hide things from an astute observer of human nature like myself."

  “What do you think it means?" Stoner asked.

  "I think she's sorry she ever laid eyes on you."

  "She kind of invited us here," Stoner said vaguely. "Because she was concerned about the things that had been going on, and she thought an outside observer..." She trailed off.

  "Uh-huh. Well, it's my guess she regrets the day she ever did that." Divi Divi slipped her hands into her loose pockets and fluttered her skirt. "Seems to me it's all gotten worse since you arrived."

  "Do you think we're doing it?"

  "Nope. But you know what I do think? I think it's being done for your benefit."

  There was a telephone on the corner, its dog-eared directory shedding bits of pages in the breeze.

  "Go make your call," Divi Divi said. "I'll flounce my black ass around the general store and give the old guys hemorrhoids."

  "Blessed be."

  Stoner felt her face turn into a grin. "Aunt Hermione. I'm glad I caught you at home."

  "I had planned to go to a movie with Grace," her aunt said, "but then Spirit informed me you'd be calling."

  "Did Spirit tell you what time I'd call?" she asked. She absolutely believed th
at her aunt believed these messages came from her Spirit, but she couldn't resist trying to catch her in a lucky guess. It was a game they'd played for twenty years, and one they'd probably go on playing for the rest of their lives.

  "No, but I was informed at about four thirty. Does that fit your time frame?"

  Stoner sighed. "Perfectly. You know, we could save a lot of long distance money if we just communicated on the Astral Plane."

  "We would," her aunt said. "But in order for us to do that you'd have to believe in it, and that's just not something you're ready for. Despite all your evidence."

  She had to admit Aunt Hermione was right. She had had enough supernatural—or at least paranormal—experiences to qualify as a Born-Again Psychic. Trouble was, as soon as the experiences ended her belief in them started to fade, until she was left with nothing more than the conviction that Something Very Strange Had Happened.

  "Be that as it may," Aunt Hermione went on, "I'm willing to be patient with you." She gave a low chuckle and lit a cigarette. "I've been patient through at least six lifetimes, if memory serves. Well, maybe the seventh time will be the charm."

  Stoner wasn't sure about this reincarnation business, either. But she hoped she and her aunt would go on through eternity.

  "Sometimes I think you can't wait for me to go away so you can smoke all you like," she said in an accusatory way.

  "You're absolutely right," her aunt replied. "I love you dearly, but there are some advantages to your absence. At least I tell myself that. The first couple of days, I lounge around like a pig in mud doing perfectly disgraceful things of which you would never approve. But by Day Three, I'm afraid the hole in my heart where you belong begins to feel a little drafty."

  "Me, too. What disgraceful things?"

  "Disgraceful things?"

  "What disgraceful things are you doing?"

  "I would call them ‘graceful' not disgraceful."

  Stoner smiled. So things were still going strong between her aunt and Grace D'Addario.

  "I know what you're thinking," Aunt Hermione said.

  "Well, I know what you're thinking, too. And what you're doing."

  "Just be glad I can still frolic at my age," her aunt said, sounding very pleased with herself, "and don't be stuffy."

  "I worry about what's going to happen when we move." The sun had gone down. Even the humidity-lengthened twilight was fading. Darkness was coming on fast. "How will you and Grace get together?"

  Aunt Hermione took a deep and satisfying drag on her cigarette. "Maybe I'll learn to fly. Do you think they have a little airport near Shelburne Falls?"

  That struck terror into Stoner's heart. "You don't even drive."

  “What good is a witch who can't fly?"

  "Brooms are one thing:' Stoner said. "Planes are another."

  “We don't use brooms, Stoner. Not in this day and age. Never did, as a matter of fact. We went out of body."

  "I don't think you want to go out of body for what you and Grace are doing."

  There was a brief pause, at the end of which her aunt said, "Did you call for a particular reason, or just to harass me?"

  She couldn't help grinning. It wasn't every day she could reduce Aunt Hermione to silence. "I win,” she said.

  "You do. Now, what can I do for you?"

  Stoner ran her hand through her hair. "I feel completely at a loss. Things have been happening... Some of them could be just nuisance stuff, but it seems to be getting nasty."

  "Give me a for instance,” her aunt said.

  "Okay. Sherry showed us a note she'd gotten, telling her to close down the show. We didn't think much of it, but we put it in my underwear drawer..."

  "Where you always put things you're trying to hide. Honestly, Stoner, it's the first place people look. I know you wouldn't, but most criminals would."

  "Well, they did. Because when we went to find it, the note was gone. Later, it was returned, with a knife stuck through it. Roseann's script was tampered with, and her costume torn. Someone planted marijuana in Boneset's herbal teas, and Boneset herself was almost badly hurt when the ladder broke, and it turned out someone had tampered with it."

  "Boneset?" Her aunt interrupted. "Is she Wiccan?"

  "I don't know, but I'll ask her."

  "Please do. There's a subtlety about the Lammas Ritual that I just can't grasp. Unless you think she's your troublemaker."

  "No more than anyone else. I have a dozen suspects and no motive. Everyone's had the means and opportunity to do these things, and I feel as if I could narrow it down if I could come up with a motive."

  The older woman was thoughtfully silent. "I'm sorry, but I just can't pick up anything occult. Whatever this is, it's apparently without any astral component whatsoever. Purely material plane mischief. And fairly amateurish, as material plane mischief goes. But sincere. Quite sincere. Please be careful, Stoner. There's nothing quite so dangerous as a twisted soul who's clumsy."

  "I know," Stoner said. "It feels dangerous to me, too."

  "Surround yourself with a white light at all times. I'll send you all the helpful energy I can."

  "Thank you."

  She could hear her aunt lighting up another cigarette. "Dear, are things all right between you and Gwen?"

  "Sure. Why?"

  "I notice you slipped from saying 'we' to ‘I.' I wondered if it meant anything."

  She wondered why she felt uncomfortable. "I don't think so. We haven't had time to talk over the latest stuff, so I don't know her thinking on it, that's all."

  "I see. Well, if it should turn out that there is a little something wrong, remember to approach it with an open heart."

  "I will."

  "And remember that I love you."

  "I never worry about that, Aunt Hermione. I love you, too."

  "You're certainly cheerful," Divi Divi said as they pulled out of the Dairy Queen lot. "I never saw anyone get such a lift out of a phone call. You win the lottery?"

  "It was good to talk to the folks back home."

  "Uh-huh."

  Stoner savored a spoonful of chocolate covered cherry Blizzard. ''You've been in Demeter Ascending for some time, haven't you, Div?"

  "Some." She managed to drive and stir her Peanut Buster Parfait at the same time. "Days like today, it feels like my whole life. Days like today, I think I'm in that place my Mama used to tell me I was going if I sassed her. 'Somewhere hot and dry,’ she used to say, 'and it isn't Tucson.' " She shifted gears. The Blazer's motor purred. "Damn, that boy's good with this car."

  "Is it always this difficult, doing a show?"

  "Do you mean are sawed-off ladders and ripped-up clothing an everyday occurrence? No. But it's always hard. Sometimes I'd like to quit, but I'm afraid they'd call me racist." She laughed. "Isn't that a kick? First we were all oppressed, now we oppress ourselves trying not to be oppressive. Is this what Liberation is all about?"

  "Probably," Stoner said.

  "It's just a passing thing, wanting to quit. Has to do with all the anxiety that goes into theater work. It's kind of like being in labor, I guess. Once that baby's there and grinning up at you, you forget all the pain. Besides, these women are my sisters now."

  Suddenly Stoner felt like a spy, trying to get Divi Divi to squeal on her friends.

  Except that someone in Demeter Ascending wasn't a sister, or a friend.

  She squeezed her cup to crack the chocolate that had hardened onto the side and scraped it down into the Blizzard dregs where it belonged. "Do you have any idea about who's causing the trouble?" she asked casually as she scrounged with her spoon for the last creamy mouthful.

  "Nope. Do you?" Divi Divi glanced over at her. "I thought that was what you were taking a particular interest in finding out."

  Stoner felt herself redden. "Am I that obvious?"

  "To someone with my superior powers of observation, yep." She glanced over again and grinned. "Rita told me. She said you were really nice to her about Seabrook, and let her in on your t
heory that this was all deliberate."

  Oh, great. She wondered how many people Rita had told, and whom.

  "Rita won't forget that, you know,” Divi Divi went on. "She never forgets a kindness."

  "Or an unkindness?”

  ''You suspect her?" She let the car steer itself and ate a spoonful of parfait. "Rita wouldn't try to ruin the show. It's not her way. You see how she is about Marcy, glaring and yelling. That's as far as Rita goes. And she goes there often. I'll bet every one of us has been called a douche-bag at one time or another. I keep telling her to broaden her vocabulary, but she doesn't listen to me. Nope, Rita's not our woman. Besides, she doesn't have the attention span for what we're seeing."

  What Stoner was seeing at the moment was a totally dark, not very straight road with pine trees pressing close and deer no doubt lurking behind every bend waiting to fling themselves into the path of the car. And Divi Divi calmly eating a Peanut Buster Parfait with both hands.

  “Would you like me to drive?" she asked. It came out in a kind of squeak. "I've fInished my Blizzard."

  "Am I making you nervous?"

  “Well, you know, moose and all..."

  "Don't worry," Divi Divi said. "I've driven this road a hundred times, never even came close to having an accident." She paused thoughtfully. "Well, there was that one time... but you don't want to hear about that."

  "Divi Divi..."

  "I'm teasing you, girl." She put her cup in her left hand and rested it on the steering wheel. “Will one-handed do?"

  Not really, but she didn't want to say so. "Okay."

  Divi Divi eased the car to the side of the road and stopped. ''You drive. I only get a Dairy Queen about once a week, and your nerves are spoiling it for me." She opened the door and got out. "Get yourself over here before I change my mind."

  Sitting up high, looking down at the road, sensing the Blazer's power in her hands gave her an invincible kind of feeling. She found herself looking around for male-driven black muscle cars to harass. The kind that liked to tailgate and pass on the right, or blow their horns impatiently when you were lost in the bowels of Boston looking for a street that had been here yesterday but today had completely disappeared. She'd love to slip up behind one, real close, and hit the high beams...