by Sarah Dreher
She looked. Gwen was right.
But... "Nobody but us can get in here."
"Maybe."
"Clara rekeyed the door, remember?"
"These are old doors with old locks," Gwen said. "I'll bet a child with a hairpin and a little skill could get in here." She brushed her hair back angrily. "Somebody's playing with us. What's worse, somebody's playing with your head. I won't have that, Stoner."
Stoner looked at her, at her sweet, angry face. She sat on the edge of the tub.
"We're being set up," Gwen said.
"You really think so?"
"I know so. And I resent it." Gwen counted off her points on her fingers. "First, why did Sherry end up going with me to Bangor instead of Marcy? Because Marcy had to stay home and wait for a phone call. Did she ever get the call, do you know?"
Stoner shook her head. "She didn't."
"And who told her about the call?"
"Sherry. But Sherry claimed someone else took it and told her."
"Did she say who?"
"No. Just some other guest."
Gwen dismissed that with a wave of her hand. "So that got Marcy out of the way. We go in to Bangor. Next, she claims to hear something wrong with the truck. I didn't hear it, but I don't know that truck, so I believed her. Three, I wanted to call you, but she insisted you wouldn't be back from Green Lake, anyway, and she had to leave orders for the kitchen crew."
"She never leaves orders for them," Stoner put in. "Only on Mondays. Michelle told me. She doesn't like her."
"Michelle is a woman of great wisdom and sensitivity. Four, instead of leaving you a message of explanation and affection, instead of repeating exactly what I told her, she leaves a message that... what?"
"That you'd decided to stay in town. But that could have been Marcy's mistake."
Gwen snorted. "I doubt it. It's consistent with the rest." She held up her hand, fingers extended. "And five, to round it all off, she takes my night shirt so you'll freak out, and returns it while I'm delivering the styrofoam, That part was a little tricky. What if you'd been in the room?" She frowned. "But she was insistent we leave Bangor at eight, not before or after, now that I think of it. She must have timed it so we'd get here while you were at breakfast. Were you?"
"No."
“What were you doing?"
"Snooping around Sherry's room."
"Good woman! Find anything?"
"Only some keys," Stoner said. "They look as if they fit strong boxes. I took them."
"Bummer," Gwen said.
"I know, but I don't dare risk trying to return them. She could walk in at any time."
"On the other hand," Gwen said thoughtfully, "it might not be so bad for her to suspect we're onto her. It could make her careless." She grinned." "Besides, I want to see her squirm for a change."
''Yeah, and I really think there's something important in those boxes, but I don't have any idea where they are."
"All in good time. Something tells me the tables are about to turn."
"She's pretty good at what she does," Stoner said.
"You haven't seen me in action when I'm riled up." Her fingers curled into fists. "God, I hate being manipulated. My previously-alive husband was bad enough, but this... Even the lunch meat was a set-up to make you jealous. The little twerp."
“Well," Stoner said, "I played along. I fell for it. It takes two to tango."
''You know our problem? We're both too innocent. Even you, with your suspicious nature. We're minor league, dearest."
Stoner smiled. It was going to be a beautiful day. "Are you fierce when you're riled, too?"
"Formidable." Gwen thought for a moment. "I suggest, for now, we pretend we've had a fight. Let her think her little scheme worked."
"Good idea."
Gwen looked down at her surroundings. 'Just goes to show you, I always do my best thinking in the tub."
Stoner leaned down and kissed her. "You better get out of there before I'm tempted to turn the water on again."
"Be my guest. I'm going to take a quick bath. I think it would be better if we went down to the barn separately."
"Okay." She got up. "Gwen, don't you think we should have a plan?"
"Probably," Gwen said. "But at the moment I don't have one, do you?"
"No. What I do have is a terrible appetite."
Gwen began taking off her clothes. "You always do when we've had an argument. For me, it's sex. For you, it's anger."
Stoner shook her head. "My anger isn't about anger, it's about fear."
“Well, that's normal." She was down to her underwear. "There's a bag of Dunkin' Donuts in the bedroom. I made her stop long enough to get them for you."
"I love you forever. Any vanilla creme filled?"
"Of course."
Gwen had thought of her. It really was all right.
Her grin was wide enough to permanently damage her face.
She could hear Gwen singing in the bathroom, over the running water. ''You're certainly cheerful about all this," she called through the door.
"You better believe it," Gwen called back. "It's the first time in my life I've ever been right about somebody."
Chapter Twelve
They decided to go to the rehearsal separately, in keeping with their roles as feuding lovers. Stoner would go first. If they needed to talk during the day, they'd pretend to have an irresistible impulse to get in the last word.
Gwen agreed to try to fake friendly feelings toward Sherry, though it was going to be difficult. She insisted on being granted unlimited private bitching sessions, and other favors to be named later.
Carefully arranging her face in what she hoped was a look of cold rage and desperation, Stoner left the room. The hall was empty. Either the women had left for rehearsal right from the dining room, or they'd frightened them away with their shouting match.
The way things were escalating, there could be a new incident any minute. She wanted to be on the scene when it happened. But first she had an idea.
Detouring through the nearly empty living room and the French doors, she found Clara and Esther on the patio where she expected them.
“Well," said Clara when she spotted her. "You look as if you've been through the mill."
"I have. Can't explain now." She took the cluster of small keys from her pocket. "I found these in Sherry's room."
"Didn't get caught, did you?"
"No."
Clara glanced over at Esther. "I told you she had possibilities."
"If my memory serves," Esther said. "I told you."
"Our memories don't serve either of us," Clara huffed. “We're old, remember?"
"Of course," Esther said. "I forgot for a minute."
"See what 1 mean?" Clara turned back to Stoner. "Old age—no memory."
"I need a favor from you," Stoner said, "if you think you can do it. I'm kind of in a hurry."
"Youth," Esther said. "No patience."
"It's not my fault," Stoner said. "Our perpetrator's getting ahead of us."
"Do you know who it is yet?" Clara asked.
"I'm pretty sure it's Sherry Dodder. I don't know why she's doing this stuff, but I'm sure she's the one doing it. I only need to prove it."
Clara grinned and touched Esther on the leg with the tip of her cane. "Told you she'd figure it out."
Esther brushed the cane aside. "Batterer," she said in a bantering way.
"Did you suspect it was Sherry?" Stoner asked. '
"I was getting there," Clara said. "She was the only person with periods of time when she was out of sight of the rest. Short periods, but time enough to do some mischief The only snag was, she was supposedly in the kitchen during those times."
"There's a stairway from the kitchen to the other floors. Probably to an outside door, too."
Clara nodded. "There's our missing piece. We couldn't get to the kitchen without attracting attention."
"Not even at night?" Stoner was puzzled. "I was under the impression
she left food available, in case anyone got hungry."
"The kitchen door was always locked," Esther said. "We've tried it three times."
So, they'd been manipulated even more than they knew. The night of the Pickle and Pimento Caper, the door had been wide open. Sherry must have planned that. Gwen had probably told her—having been carefully led in that conversational direction—about her night time cravings. Then, when Gwen had mentioned the childhood "comfort food," Sherry had laid in a supply and waited for Gwen to get hungry in the night, knowing that one of them would come looking for something, knowing it would cause trouble between them.
Sherry Dodder was an astute student of human nature.
But it would have required keeping watch, to be sure the kitchen was unlocked when Stoner got there.
No problem, if Bangor had a Radio Shack as well as a Kinko's. She could have wired their room with a sensing device. Every time someone opened the door, it would send a signal to Sherry's room.
Except she hadn't seen anything remotely resembling a receiver in Sherry's room.
Not in Sherry's designated room, anyway.
There was another room. She was certain of it. Maybe in the basement or an attic, but probably on the third floor, where it would seem to be just another uninhabited guest room.
"I need to know what these keys fit," Stoner said to Clara and Esther. "I have a feeling it might be important. They look as if they go to a locked box of some kind."
Clara examined. "Probably. Mid-security grade. Not cheap, but not the most secure, either. Even without the keys, I could get in there in... oh, ten minutes per box, more or less."
"The problem is finding them. I think Sherry has another room somewhere in the Cottage, probably on the third floor."
"I'm afraid that leaves me out," Clara said. "I can only go where I can go."
"Ahem," said Esther.
"Aha," said Clara.
"Perfect," said Stoner. "Gwen and I will be at rehearsal, right under her nose. She'll never suspect a thing."
"What am I looking for?"
Stoner frowned. "I'm not certain. Evidence of tampering with the theater things. A cache of flashlights. Stolen objects, maybe. A computer and/or printer. Anything else you find that looks suspicious."
"Generic evidence," Esther said. "A written confession would be exciting, but I'll bet I won't find one. Nobody keeps that kind of diary any more, except politicians."
"The boxes are important, of course. I suppose you could open them?"
"She could not," declared Clara. "That would be against the law."
"Breaking and entering isn't?" Esther asked, wide-eyed. "When did that change?" She gave Stoner a knowing wink. "She's afraid of being left out."
"Then just take the boxes," Stoner said. “We'll all open them together." She ran over the plan in her mind, in case they'd overlooked something. "And see if you can find a receiver, the kind that tells if a door's been opened."
"Motion sensor and console security system," Clara said. "Similar to the RS 2609."
"But it can't be the kind that sounds a loud alarm," Stoner added. "Don't most of them make a terrible noise and call the police?"
"Easy to disable once you have one. A simple matter of disengaging a few wires. Anyone with a simple knowledge of electronics, or the time to read the manual, could do it."
"Esther, you have to be careful. Her room's probably bugged, too."
Clara laughed. "That woman can get into places only a moon beam could penetrate. After all, she got into my heart."
“We'll keep Sherry under our noses as long as possible." She checked her watch. "It's 9:30 now. She can't really insist she has to go deal with the kitchen until 11 at the earliest. Do you think that's enough time?"
"Unless we're talking about secret passageways and hidden rooms, it is."
“We might be," Stoner said. "I'm beginning to think nothing's too elaborate for her."
"If you doubt her love of elaboration," Clara said with a snort, "take a look at the menus. This is back woods Maine, for heaven's sake. Not the Queen Elizabeth. Folks who come out here would as soon cook a lobster in the sand as pick snails out of butter. Probably rather."
Stoner grinned. "I guess she wants to make a reputation for herself."
"Well," said Clara, "she'll get her wish if we do our job right."
She arrived at the barn to find yet another crisis. Roseann had fallen from the stage while practicing a dance. The extent of her injuries wasn't yet known. At the moment, she was sitting on the floor moaning with pain and clutching her right ankle.
Sherry announced that she'd go for ice.
So she'd have time for a side trip to the secret room? Or to make more trouble? What if she found Esther?
Stoner caught Gwen's eye and tilted her head, indicating that Gwen should go with her.
Gwen got the message.
"How did this happen?" Stoner asked Barb, who seemed particularly distraught.
"She went past her marks. At least, I think she did."
"Her marks?"
Barb led her to the stage and pointed to two small crosses of masking tape a couple inches from the brink of the platform. "We set these to tell the actors when they're coming too close to the edge of the stage. She must have stepped over them."
Stoner glanced at her. "You don't look certain."
"I don't know. Those marks… if I hadn't set them myself, I'd say the weren't right."
Behind them, the other actors were lifting Roseann and helping her to a chair. Roseann was chanting, "Shit, shit, shit," like a mantra.
"I'd like to get a closer look," Stoner said. "Can you put some light on the stage?"
"Can do." Barb caught the attention of one of the techies, who was seated behind a console crammed with switches and dials. "Bring me up to half on three," she said.
One of the spot lights went on, spreading amber light across the stage. Stoner knelt by the taped marks. Her shadow fell across them. "I need the light more from the front."
"Take three out, give me full on four," Barb called.
The amber light went out. Soft blue flooded the front of the stage. "Spill," Barb said, squinting critically into the light. "Make a note to fix that," she called to the dimmer board operator.
Stoner pressed her face close to the floor and found what she'd been looking for. "Barb?"
The technical director knelt beside her.
"Look here." She pointed to the faint outlines of two crosses. "Someone..." She hoped she was using the right terminology and not making a jerk of herself. “...reset your marks."
The new settings were only off by a few inches. Not much, but enough to distort Roseann's sense of distance. Especially if, being inexperienced, she was depending on them. "Do the actors usually rely on these?" she asked.
"Some. Especially at first, until they get a feel for where things are. It keeps them in the right places relative to the lights. Once they're on stage, the last thing actors want to have to do is look for their hot spots. It throws them out of character."
"I see," said Stoner, having only a vague grasp of what Barb was talking about but willing to take her word that it was important. "Do you think Roseann needed this in particular?"
"Sure. She's new to this. Doesn't know what she's doing. We're trying to make it as concrete as possible for her." Barb pulled a bandanna-type handkerchief out of her overalls and blew her nose heartily. "Excuse me. Allergies." She stuffed it back into her pocket. "I'd rather work with the inexperienced ones. It's the ones who think they know what they're doing who mess us up." She shook her head ruefully. "Actors."
Stoner nodded sympathetically. "Do you have any idea who might have moved these marks, or why?"
"Hey!" Barb bellowed to the back of the barn. “Who fucked with the marks?"
It wasn't exactly what Stoner had in mind when she thought of discreet investigations. She couldn't imagine women fighting each other for the privilege of being the first to admit to "fucking with
the marks." In fact, no one seemed to want to claim credit. But she hadn't really expected them to. This was just another incident, and the alleged perpetrator was on her way to the kitchen.
With Gwen, who had the unenviable job of trying to appear friendly toward, even fond of, Sherry.
"Okay," Barb said loudly. "Joyce, want to fix the spill on four?"
The woman named Joyce, resplendent in strappy-tee, cut-offs, work boots, and the omnipresent techie wrench hanging by a piece of rope from a leather belt, scrambled up a ladder like a monkey up a palm tree. Perching precariously at the apex, resting on the top step, the one that always bore a "not a step, do not sit or stand" label, she set about adjusting the light with vigor, efficiency, and a great deal of grunting and banging. Whatever the "spill" was, it would never withstand the joint efforts of Joyce and Barb.
She turned her attention to Roseann, who had stopped moaning and now mostly looked as if she were about to go into shock. "How does it feel?"
"I don't think I broke anything, but it's tender." She got to her feet. "Let's see if I can walk."
Tentatively, she put the injured foot down. Stood for a moment. Took a step forward, winced, swore, and fell back into her chair. Rebecca moved to stand beside her protectively.
"Guess I won't be dancin' for a while," Roseann said sheepishly.
"Let's not jump to conclusions," Rebecca said.
Roseann uttered a short, barking laugh. "I'm not gonna be jumping anywhere."
“What happened?" Stoner asked. "As specifically and clearly as you can remember."
“Well," Roseann said, rubbing her ankle. "I was just going along, doing the steps the way I always do..." She glanced up at Rebecca. "I was, wasn't I?"
"As far as 1 could tell." She raised her voice. "Barb, did Roseann have the steps right?"
"Perfect, as always."
"Barb's the choreographer, and the tech director," Roseann explained. "Can you beat that?"
"She has hidden talents," Stoner said.
''Yeah, I'll bet there's nothing she can't do. I'll bet she could even beat the gals from Thelma's Cut 'n Curl—excuse me, Unisex Styling Center—at Friday night Hearts. She's going to sit in, once the play's over. Aren't you, Barb?"
"Sure am," Barb replied, and shot a warm smile in Roseann's direction.