by Sarah Dreher
"Of course," Roseann went on without listening or stopping for breath, "if you'd just walked in without knocking, you'd have been in for a rude surprise. I got a glass of permanent wave lotion propped on top of the door frame. If you'd knocked that down, you'd stink for a month."
"I wouldn't have walked in."
''You wouldn't have walked in twice, that's for sure. Look, I've been thinking, like you asked. Like who might want to get rid of me and why? At first I thought it might be anyone, on account of I'm not like them. I mean, I don't have a lot of education and I sure don't have much political... political..."
"Consciousness?" Stoner suggested.
''Yeah. Shows, huh? Then I said to myself, 'Roseann, you're just thinking this way because your feelings are hurt, and it isn't fair to get down on all these gals who have been real good to you on account of one rotten apple in the barrel. I mean, a person can take a dislike to you for no reason, maybe you remind them of some mean old school teacher they once had. You can't know what's in another person's mind,' I said to myself, 'unless they care to tell you.' Do you think I should apologize?"
Stoner frowned. "To whom?"
"Everyone."
"I'm sure that isn't necessary."
"Sure," Roseann said with sudden cheer, "how do they know what I've been putting in my own mind? I must be getting a fat head." She pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket. "But I did sit down and ask myself, 'who stands to profit?' like you said. You know, Stoner, that's a really valuable way of looking at things. It'll come in real handy, you know, when things turn a little weird, I'll just ask myself 'who stands to profit from this?' "
Stoner gritted her teeth. This was making her edgy again. "And what did you come up with," she asked as evenly as she could.
"I figure someone wants my part. I mean, that's the only profit anyone's gonna get from me turning tail, right? Now, Divi Divi doesn't much like to act, so that leaves her out. Rebecca and Barb aren't going to make any more trouble for themselves, they have enough already. Besides, they're the ones who 'discovered' me. What kind of sense would that make, trying to get rid of me?”
You have no idea, Stoner thought, what senseless things can make sense to a twisted mind.
"Rita doesn't care about anything but not getting blown up," Roseann pressed on, "and anyway she figures hanging around in spotlights too much, she might get radiation."
"From spotlights?"
"Who knows what she knows?" Roseann said. "Too much, if you want my opinion. I mean, if we all knew everything about everything, we'd never get out of bed in the morning. It makes you crazy. Boneset—well, she'd figure if the Goddess wanted her to have the lead, she'd have the lead. Marcy, she knows she's up next in the rotation and she has the almost-lead now."
"I didn't know that."
''Yeah, she doesn't talk much. I mean, she talks a lot, but she doesn't say much. Did you ever notice that?"
Stoner shook her head.
"Still waters run deep, they say. I don't know. Thelma doesn't say much, either, and I'm sure there isn't much going on in her head. Most of what she says I wouldn't use to wrap the dog's throw-up."
"And Sherry?" Stoner asked.
"Well, Sherry can be sweet as pie one minute, and spit in your eye the next. But she's aiming for the Jet Set, you can tell just by looking around. I don't think she'd do anything down and dirty, soil her lady's hands, so to speak. And this sure is down and dirty. Stealing's one thing, you can figure maybe the person has a bad need for the stuff, or some kind of mental illness. But tearing stuff up? The down can't get much dirtier than that."
"Maybe," Stoner said.
"Besides, Sherry's in this up to her tush already. Where's she going to get the time to play the lead?" She put down her little coffee cup and little saucer and folded her arms proudly across her chest. "I got it narrowed down so there's only one person that might want to get my part."
"Who?"
''You.''
The room turned upside down. ''Me?!''
"You're assistant director, aren't you? Listen, I saw 'All About Eve.' Six times."
"But I'm not the understudy, Marcy is."
''Yeah, but you see, you have to get me out of the way first. Then you deal with her."
"Roseann..."
''You think it came like a snap for Eve Harrington? Go rent the movie."
"Roseann, believe me, I don't want your part."
Roseann broke into peals of laughter. "I really got you going, didn't I? I'm only kidding. You wouldn't try and put one over on me. You have principles. Principles up the wazoo."
"Thank you."
"If there's one thing I am, it's a good judge of character . You stand around all day with your hands in people's hair, you get to be a good judge of character." She reached into her pocket. "Anyway, I wrote down some notes for you, like you asked. Anything funny that's been happening to me. But mostly you know it."
Stoner took the sheet of paper and glanced over it. She turned to the other side.
Someone had written, "Get out of the show or else," in the same childlike block printing as Sherry's note.
"Roseann, where did you get this paper?"
"I don't remember. Why?"
She showed her the paper. "It's a threatening letter."
"No kidding?" She took the page and studied it. "Jeez, I've never seen a threatening letter before. Sounds like some little kid wrote it, doesn't it?"
"That isn't the important thing..."
"Look at the handwriting. Whoever wrote this never saw the inside of a convent school, that's for sure. The nuns would've rapped our knuckles."
"People sometimes write like that," Stoner explained, "to disguise their identity."
''Yeah?'' Roseann wrinkled her nose in distaste. ''You'd think they'd take more pride in their work. I wonder who did it?"
Stoner shook her head. She wanted to tell, so they could speculate together. Despite her rough edges, Roseann did indeed seem to be a fairly good judge of character. But it wasn't time yet. Now it was just time to collect evidence, as much and as specific evidence as she could.
"I don't know any little kids," Roseann went on, still staring at the note. "Except my brother's two, and they live in Dubuque, Minnesota."
''Try to remember where you got the paper. Was it in your room, or..."
“Why would my brother's kids want me to get out of the show, anyway? They don't even know I'm in it. I mean, why should I tell them? They'd just smirk."
"Think, Roseann. Maybe someone broke into your room."
"I remember. I was looking for something to write on, and I put my hand in my pocket and there it was."
"Okay, who might have been in your pants?"
Roseann looked shocked. "Look, Stoner, there's no need to talk dirty to me. I have principles, too, you know."
Roseann had been wearing these slacks yesterday, she thought. If it had happened while Sherry was away, they were back to square one. On the other hand, this was the U S of A, and you were considered innocent until... etc., etc. If there was another suspect... "Can you remember, at any time in the past 24 hours, leaving your pants in a public place?"
"Boy, you really have your mind in the sewer this morning."
"Roseann..."
"Well, we had that costume parade thing yesterday afternoon, remember? I probably left them in the back of the barn for that."
And there were people coming and going there all afternoon. Darn, she should have been watching more closely.
"How'd you like that little chartreuse number I wear in the second act," Roseann asked. "Pretty, isn't it?"
She tried to reconstruct four hours of comings and goings in her mind, but it was impossible, of course.
"You don't think it was too revealing, do you?" Roseann asked. "I don't want to look like some floozie out of Vogue Magazine."
Under hypnosis, maybe. There wasn't time for that.
"My Dad would've beat me to a pulp if I ever dressed like some of those girls
in Vogue Magazine."
"Did you see anyone lurking around back there, more than necessary?'
"It's a good thing he died."
"Please, Roseann, concentrate."
"Dropped dead right in the middle of the third inning of the Red SoxYankees game. In the bleachers. It's the only thing that ever happened in the third inning in the entire history of Fenway Park."
"Roseann, think!"
"I am thinking," Roseann said. "Talking is how I think. No, I didn't see anyone in there except people who should have been there. The actors and costume girls, and Gwen, and Sherry..."
"Sherry?"
“Well, sure. She's the producer, isn't she? Has to have her nose in everything."
"I'm not positive," Stoner said, "but from what I've heard, very few producers take such an active part in the day-to-day activities of the company."
Roseann thought that over. 'Well, she's kind of a nosy-newser, isn't she? Sort of like a stray dog, sniffing in all the garbage cans."
Well put, Stoner thought.
The dining room doors opened. Eight-thirty and no Gwen and Sherry in sight. She supposed she ought to go on in, sit with the other women, pretend nothing was wrong, or she didn't suspect anything, or didn't care...
But she did care. She couldn't hide from that, or from the feeling that she was being chewed to pieces inside.
All right, if Gwen wanted to have a fling, okay. She could live with that.
But she couldn't live with the fact that Gwen had lied to her, had sneaked behind her back, had contrived with Sherry to set the whole thing up. She couldn't live with the fact that Gwen liked Sherry Dodder, trusted Sherry Dodder, believed in Sherry Dodder.
It put a gap between them as wide as the Grand Canyon.
"Hey," Roseann was saying, "you coming?"
Stoner shook her head. She couldn't go in there and pretend. "I have some stuff to do first," she said. "I'll catch you later."
Unfortunately, the conversation with Roseann had made her doubt herself. She had to think realistically. She wanted Sherry to be the one, more now than she had even last night. But what if it was jealousy making her think like this? What did she have, really? That funny glint in Sherry's eyes, caught off guard, when everything was falling apart. Hardly solid evidence of guilt. Adequate to fuel a therapist's hunch, but they weren't dealing with hunches here.
She poured herself another miniature cup of coffee.
It was all too damnably complicated. Maybe she ought to pack up and get out right now. Just take Gwen's car—if she didn't want Stoner to take the car, she shouldn't have left the keys behind—and start driving. At this point, she didn't care where she ended up. As far as her money would take her.
Flopping down on the sofa, she put her feet up in the upholstery and took a measure of satisfaction from possibly marring the furniture.
It was a very small measure.
She wished Clara and Esther would show up. They could talk about the case and get her mind off things. Maybe they could even talk about "things" and come up with some other possibilities than the junk she was torturing herself with.
What she got instead of Clara and Esther was Rita and Seabrook.
Rita was looking radiant this morning. Dressed entirely in yellow and stepping briskly along. When she spotted Stoner she ambulated over. "Good morning," she said cheerily. "Your lady not back yet?"
Stoner shook her head. "They had to stay overnight. Car trouble."
"She used to make up better ones than that," Rita said. "Age must be taking its toll." She reached into her tote bag. "Want an apple."
"No, thanks." She wanted her to go away.
Rita settled onto the couch and took a huge, crunchy bite from her apple. "That bitch has seen the inside of every motel room between here and Tijuana."
She really didn't want to hear this. "I guess they'll finish the set today, huh?"
"Especially the ones with double beds," Rita went on, ignoring her.
Stoner felt tears leap into her eyes, and thought frantically about how to make an exit.
"I may be a frog, Rita," Seabrook said loudly, "but you give me warts."
"Shut up, Seabrook," Rita said.
"Know what I think?" Seabrook persisted. "I think you've had your teeth X-rayed once too often."
Rita drew back in horror. "Seabrook!"
"Oh, stuff it. If you weren't crazy, you'd be boring." He turned his head and looked at Stoner with his black, round button eyes. "I want to tell Stoner a story."
Much as she wanted to leave, Stoner found herself fascinated.
"She doesn't want a story," Rita said.
"This isn't one of your garden variety, dull cocktail party, good God isn't it time to leave yet stories. This is a frog fable."
Rita tapped Stoner's leg. "You'd better listen. Frog fables are quite rare."
"This is for you," Seabrook said, leaning close to her. "Not for Rita, may her warts clone." He cleared his throat several times, and tried out various postures. "Once upon a time... when I say 'once upon a time' you have to listen very carefully, because what you're about to hear is true and important. Are you listening?"
Stoner nodded.
"Once upon a time there was a woman named Rita, who had a lover named Jennifer. They lived in a depressing little apartment on the third floor of a building that also housed a second-hand furniture store and El Carbo Carry-out Grinders and Subs. They were very much in love. Well. One day along came a wicked witch, disguised as a beautiful princess, and she sang her songs and weaved... wove?... weaved her magic spells and fluttered her eyelashes. And before Rita knew what had happened, beloved Jennifer had run away with the wicked witch, leaving behind a Christmas cactus that wouldn't bloom, a lean and hungry pregnant cat, three months' worth of unpaid phone bills, and an overdue book from the Boston Public Library."
"That's terrible," Stoner said.
"Don't interrupt. Now, Rita had many friends. Not enough to elect her Woman of the Year, but many good friends who loved her. Did she go to these friends and say, 'My heart is broken?' and let them take her to dinner and to sad foreign films? No. Do you know what she did, Stoner?"
Stoner shook her head.
"She sat in her depressing little apartment above the second-hand furniture store and El Carbo Carry-out Grinders and Subs, and watered the Christmas cactus that never bloomed, and raised the kittens that were born to the lean and hungry cat, and only went out to return the book to the Boston Public Library. And she drank. And drank. And drank. And when her friends called and asked, 'Are you okay, Rita? We never see you any more,' she told them she was busy, and they grew discouraged and went away. She locked all her tears and her softness deep down inside, until she went crazy."
He stopped talking and made a little bow.
Stoner looked up. Her eyes met Rita's. Rita held out her hand. "Sure you don't want an apple?"
She took it, turning it over and over. She touched the smooth skin. She smelled the fresh-apple odor. She felt the tears running down her face.
She felt Rita's arm slip around her, and buried her head against Rita's pillowy, comforting chest.
"The important thing," Rita said, handing her a tissue, "is to not just let it eat at you. Fight back. At the very least, scream and yell. This isn't a time for good manners. Think up nasty names and make sure everybody hears them."
Stoner had to smile a little. "Like douche-bag?"
Rita shrugged. "It works for me. Though I kind of have the copyright on that one. How about..." She thought for a moment. Her eyes lit up. "Cunt breath!"
"I don't think so," Stoner said quickly. "Besides, she has friends here. They might not be so understanding."
"Nonsense," Rita said, dismissing Stoner's hesitation with a wave of her hand. "Everyone knows what Marcy's like. I made sure of that, once I got my head clear."
"She isn't with Marcy. She's with Sherry."
Rita sat back, a look of astonishment on her face. "I thought she went to Bango
r with Marcy."
Stoner explained what had happened.
"Oh," Rita said. She seemed to think very hard for a moment. "Then I guess you can use douche-bag."
And who should come waltzing in at that exact moment, Stoner thought, but the douche-bag herself? With a sparkling smile and a brisk, "Sherry here!"
Gwen wasn't with her.
"Where's Gwen?" Rita asked.
"Dropping the foam off at the barn." She beamed at Stoner. "Gwen Owens is one terrific woman, isn't she?"
"Have a nice time?" Stoner asked between clenched teeth.
"The greatest." She perched on the back of the couch. "I know I said it before, but I have to say it again. You two have a really terrific relationship. I have so much respect for you."
"Thank you," Stoner said tightly.
"And Gwen is really terrific. I don't think I've ever met anyone like her."
"That's too bad."
Sherry looked at her. "What?"
"It's too bad you've never met anyone terrific."
“Well," Sherry said with a laugh, "not terrific in exactly the way Gwen's terrific. Know what I mean? She's just one special lady."
"I'm not sure what you're referring to," Stoner said. She wanted to give the woman a good shove off the couch and watch her bounce.
"She's just so… I don't know... warm. And caring. And exciting, and fun. Everything about her, I guess."
Rita rolled her eyes.
Sherry jumped down. "Gotta check the kitchen. They can't make a decision without me." She disappeared into the dining room.
"Don't just sit there," Rita said, nudging her. "Do something."
Stoner got up. "She doesn't do a damn thing in the kitchen," she said. She could hear Sherry making the rounds of the dining room. Everyone was happy to see Sherry. Everyone greeted Sherry with glad cries and peals of laughter. "Cunt breath."
She stalked out of the room.
She knocked loudly on Esther and Clara's door. Esther opened it a crack, saw who it was, then opened it wide. "Stoner!" She turned back to the room. "Clara, Stoner's here."
The older woman wheeled her chair forward. "I have some notes for you," she said, and started to take out her note book.
"Not now," Stoner said. "I need the pass key you made."