by Maggie Pill
The emcee—Angel—wrapped up the first meal of the weekend by urging us to chant with her three times: “Since I was born a girl, I’m going to be a real one!” The audience obeyed, sounding more determined each time. I made my mouth move and clapped politely, embarrassed by the demand for group participation.
As we left the banquet room, two-thirds of the crowd headed straight for the ladies’ room. Touching my arm, Retta indicated a different direction. “We have a few minutes before the first session starts. Agent Auburn said to find him first chance we got.”
“What’s his cover?” Except for the valets and a couple of teenaged waiters, I’d seen only women in the hotel.
“He’s posing as a limo driver, pretending to wait for someone in the back corner of the parking lot.”
We left by the south-facing side doors, stepping into blinding sunshine and heat that was like an oven opened in our faces. On our left was the stunning view of the bay, and we both paused for a few seconds to take it in. To our right was the vineyard, where log benches had been placed along the first few rows to make pleasant seating for guests. We followed a limestone pathway to the parking lot, where Retta’s Acadia sat between two similar models. She continued past it, heels dragging like little brakes against the slant. In the corner farthest from the road, under some trees that provided shade, was a black, square-looking car. Squinting a little, I saw there was someone in the driver’s seat. His head lolled against the window, and his mouth hung slightly open. The FBI man was napping while he waited for us.
Except when we got to the car, Auburn wasn’t asleep.
Retta realized it first, being a few steps ahead. I almost bumped into her as she gasped and stopped short. After a second of confusion I saw the ugly wound in a chest that was no longer rising and falling. We’d found a corpse where we’d expected an adviser.
We turned to each other in disbelief. “Is that—?”
She nodded. “Lars sent me a photo of the two of them fishing in the Gulf of Mexico.” Retta opened her bag. “We need to call the police.”
“Local or FBI?”
“The sheriff’s department, I think. They’ll bring in the FBI when they find out who he is.”
She hadn’t got her phone out when a man stepped from behind a panel truck. Slight and smaller than average in build, wearing skinny jeans, a sleeveless shirt, and a faint grin, he was handsome in a slightly greasy way. “You don’t have to call anyone. I’ll handle Agent Auburn.”
Grabbing my sister’s arm I said, “Run, Retta!”
But when we turned, a second man blocked our path. He was older than the first one, with gray stubble, salt-and-pepper hair, and clothes that looked as if he’d slept in them. A patch on his shirt identified him as an employee of St. Millicent’s. He seemed confused, as if he’d come in late to the movie, and his demeanor lacked the hardness I saw in his companion. This guy was almost as scared as we were.
Flanked by the vehicles, we were blocked in. I was considering a leap over the hood of Auburn’s car when Retta tapped my arm and pointed. The first man had drawn a gun. He held the weapon low, so a casual glance across the parking lot would reveal only two women talking to two men. Our body language might have telegraphed fear, but most of the attendees were by this time trooping into a session on one of two topics: Beauty after Fifty or Tone That Midsection! The staff was clearing away lunch. It wasn’t likely anyone would see us.
“What are you two doing out here?”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say, but Retta came up with a pretty good lie. “My sister wanted a cigarette before our session.”
“Why’d you come all the way over here?”
“There’s a sign.” Retta pointed to where there was indeed a notice asking people to move away from the doorways to smoke.
He wasn’t sure he bought it, but Retta can look so darned innocent that it’s hard to believe she’s capable of a lie. The gun-toter spoke, possibly to his partner but more likely to himself. “What are we gonna do with them?”
The older man shifted his feet, apparently worried about the answer. I guessed he hoped it wouldn’t be the same thing they’d done with Agent Auburn. Since he had no gun, it wasn’t likely his opinion held much sway with the younger man.
“They ain’t cops.” He looked at us. “You ain’t cops, are you?”
“No, we’re not,” Retta said firmly.
“Don’t mean nothing,” the younger man said. “They saw him.”
“I don’t know why you did that anyway, I mean—”
“Shut up.” His tone would have done it, but the order was accompanied by a look that made the older man press his lips together. “I guess we could put them in the back of the Feeb’s car and let them ride into Lake Michigan with him.”
The man in the inn’s staff shirt clearly didn’t like that idea. “They’re s’posed to be at this lady-thing, Tr—”
“No names!” the guy with the gun interrupted.
His head drooped. “Sorry. It’s just when I talk to people, I like to say their name.”
“Then pick a fake one.”
The older man’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”
“Who cares?” The blond guy jerked the thumb of his gun-free hand in our direction. “They don’t need to know nothing about us.”
“How about Ted and Bill?”
“What?”
“Like in the movie. Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.”
The handsome one shook his head scornfully. “Fine. I’m Ted, you’re Bill.”
“Okay, Ted. What if somebody asks where these ladies went?”
“They won’t find them.”
“Yeah, but guests disappearing would mess up the weekend for, um, somebody.”
“Right.” ‘Ted’ was reluctant. “I better ask. Hold this.” Glaring a warning as he reached between us, he handed the gun to his companion. ‘Bill’ held it as if it were a grenade with the pin already pulled.
Though part of my mind screamed that death was imminent, another part noticed the lightning speed with which Ted texted. I think each generation alters genetically, adapting to technology without conscious awareness of capabilities it has that older people don’t. Aside from Retta, I don’t know anyone over fifty who doesn’t labor over every letter of a text message.
As we waited for a response, Retta met my gaze and raised her brows, indicating she had no idea what to do next. I couldn’t fault her for that, because neither did I.
The phone pinged, and the guy read the message. “Huh.”
“What?” the older guy said. I thought of him as “older” only in the sense that he was closer to our age than to his pal’s.
“We need to make sure the fashion show goes on Sunday like it’s planned.” Ted’s manner indicated he was quoting an authority figure. “If these ladies keep their mouths shut about what they saw, nobody at the FBI will know Auburn isn’t on the job.”
Bill rolled his eyes. “So we ask them nice not to tell they saw a corpse in the parking lot?”
Ted responded with a greasy grin. “I think one of them is starting to feel a little sick. She’s going to spend the weekend in her room while the other one attends the conference.”
The wheels spun in Bill’s head, but nothing shifted into gear. “I don’t get it.”
“You chaperone the sick one, and the other one makes excuses downstairs.” His tone changed to what I interpreted as an attempt to sound truthful while telling a lie. “Once things are wrapped up here, we let them go.”
Though he liked the last part, Bill had a question. “I’m going to spend the weekend in a hotel room with these two?”
“Until I say different.” Ted turned to Retta. “What’s your room number?”
“Two-ten.”
“You each got a key?” She nodded and he ordered, “Give me yours.” When she complied, he spoke to me. “Do whatever you’re supposed to do at these things, and make it look like everything is okay. If anyone asks, your sister
feels real bad, but you paid good money to come here so you’re going ahead as planned.” He poked a finger in my face. “You got that?”
I tried twice before my voice worked. “Y-yes.”
“I picked you because this one looks like a schemer to me, and we don’t want none of that. Do like I tell you and we’ll be gone on Sunday. After that you can tell anybody you want to. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He turned back to Bill. “You understand what you’re going to do?”
“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be working.”
“Doing what?”
Ted surveyed the trees around us. “The boss said to work away from the inn so I don’t bother the ladies. I was gonna trim some trees.”
“Perfect. They won’t expect to see you very often.”
Ted’s expression revealed doubt. “Are you sure—”
“Just do what you’re told,” Ted interrupted. “Now help me get this body out of the driver’s seat.” He set the gun on the running board of the truck, within easy reach. “You two stand in front of the car so nobody sees what we’re doing.”
Feeling like I was in a horror movie, I stood near the grill of Auburn’s car, pretending to chat with Retta while Ted laid the front seat down. Grunting and swearing, he and Bill dragged the body into the back. As Retta and I tried not to look, the seat returned to upright position with a grind. Ted got in, turned the key, and rolled down the window. “Don’t screw this up.”
“I won’t.” Bill sounded less sure than his words indicated.
Ted thought about things for a few seconds. “Take their phones, and check the room for tablets or laptops or whatever. We don’t want them sending any messages.”
Ted had also begun to consider the practicalities of the situation. “How am I s’posed to march them inside with a gun in my hand? What if we meet somebody?”
“For cryin’ out loud!” Ted got out, opened the trunk, and dug around in Auburn’s overnight case. “Here. Wear this, and put the gun in the pocket.” He tossed a black hoodie at Bill, who caught it clumsily.
As he twisted the gun through the armhole, I worried for a few seconds that one of us would be shot through sheer ineptitude. I hoped if that happened, it would be Ted who stopped a bullet.
He apparently had the same thought. “Geez! Didn’t you ever handle a gun before?”
“Sure.” Bill settled the gun in the pocket. “I just never thought I’d aim one at a person.”
Disgusted, Ted got back into the car and rammed it into gear. The sound of the limo’s engine receded to a purr as he pulled smoothly onto the roadway and headed north.
Once he was gone, Bill seemed to pull courage from somewhere inside. “Take me to your room,” he ordered, “so I can see how we’re gonna do this.”
As we approached the inn, I wondered if anyone would ever learn what happened to FBI agent Chet Auburn. Unless we worked very hard to avoid it, I was pretty sure Retta and I would eventually join him in the waters of Grand Traverse Bay.
Chapter Nine
Barb
Retta is a texter, so as soon as my sisters arrived at St. Millicent’s I got a message letting me know. I texted back Have Fun! with a sarcastic emoji. I knew she’d enjoy herself: it was social; it was girly; there was free wine. On the other hand, Faye would find herself wishing she were out of there by bedtime tonight—noon tomorrow at the latest.
My stomach told me it was lunchtime, so I pushed myself away from the computer and went to see what Faye had left us to eat while she was gone. Her dog Buddy raised his head hopefully when he heard footsteps but sank dejectedly to the floor when he saw it was me. I felt a moment of pity for him. Buddy had been Faye’s constant companion since she rescued him on the road more than a year before, and it’s hard to explain to a dog that his life’s focus is only gone for the weekend, not forever.
“She’ll be back soon,” I told him, bending to pat him on the head.
The reward for my kindness was a snarl and a snap. Instinctively I pulled my hand back, though Buddy had no intention of biting me. He just wanted to let me know I could not replace Faye in his life.
“Jerk.”
My brother-in-law stood before the open refrigerator door, surveying the insane amount and variety of food choices Faye had prepared for us in the apparent belief we were incapable of sustaining ourselves. I glimpsed stacked plastic containers with labels like sloppy joes, tuna casserole, and broccoli-bacon salad.
Having heard my exchange with Buddy, Dale commented, “That dog’s all Faye’s. I’m lucky he lets me be in the same room.”
I grimaced but had to be fair about it. “My cat isn’t the friendliest of pets either.”
He chuckled. “Now that’s the truth, but it’s because you’ve spoiled her. She used to take whatever she could get. Now the critter won’t even take a bite of tuna from me.”
When a stray cat started coming to my bedroom window some months before, I’d coaxed her into a relationship. Nowadays, Brat inhabited my upstairs apartment, going and coming on the roof when it pleased her and refusing to visit the downstairs under any circumstances. I’d made one attempt to introduce her, carrying her down in my arms, but when she and Buddy saw each other the result was a growl, a hiss, a frenzied scramble back upstairs, and a nasty scratch on my arm. Most days Brat dozed in sunny corners of my sitting room, and at night she slept at the foot of my bed. Having figured out that having a human meant free food, she ventured outside only often enough to keep her hunting skills sharp.
Dale set several containers on the table while I got out plates and silverware. “People find the pet that suits them,” he said, “or maybe vice versa. Faye likes to be needed, and Buddy sure did when she found him on the road. Styx craves affection, which Retta’s got lots of to give. Your cat wants her independence and her dignity, like you.”
Though I was a little surprised at Dale’s shrewd analysis, he was correct. While all the Evans girls are fairly independent, I’m the one who most resists leaning on others. Our mother was that way, a self-possessed woman who was kind-hearted but hardly emotionally effusive. Her joys were shared with serenity; her pain was kept to herself.
A memory rose in my mind of the only time I ever knew of that my mother broke down and cried, really cried. I remembered it clearly, because it was my fault.
As her oldest, I was like a friend to Mom in many ways. We shared opinions, gossip, and dreams while Retta played with Barbies and Faye helped Dad with the animals. When I left home for the University of Michigan, Mom had been very proud. Still, Dad had told me privately that she was lonely without me. When I announced I wasn’t coming home for the summer but instead moving in with my boyfriend, Mom said nothing. Later that day, I heard her crying in her room. I guessed that was when she realized we’d never again be as close as we’d once been. Though I told myself she still had Dad and my sisters, I never forgot that day, when my mother’s tears came from what I’d done.
Dale closed the refrigerator door, bringing me back to the present. “I hope the girls are having fun,” I said. “They must be busy, because Retta just sent one short text.”
He frowned. “I tried to call Faye a while ago. She had some papers I was supposed to give Gabe and Mindy, but I can’t find the envelope.” Our once-in-a-while agency go-fer and his new wife had launched a project to benefit senior citizens in the area, and we supported their efforts when we could. Spooning portions from several containers onto his plate Dale mused, “I wanted to ask her where it is, but I guess Faye turned off her phone so it wouldn’t disrupt the meetings. It went right to voicemail. I don’t think she sent an answer.”
He handed me his phone, and I confirmed that Faye hadn’t sent a message. Dale could make calls and check the weather with his phone, but that was all. Handing his phone back, I took my own from my pocket. “I’ll text Retta and ask her to have Faye call you.”
While we waited, I had some of the broccoli salad. Dale finished his lunch and go
t some cookies from the breadbox. When we each had eaten a cookie and still hadn’t heard anything I said, “I’ll try her voice mail.” Retta didn’t answer, so I called and left a short message. “She’ll feel it pulse, even if she’s got the sound turned off.”
As we waited, we chatted idly about the beautiful weather and the chores we each had planned for the afternoon. As always, Dale was funny in a gentle way, pointing out life’s absurdities without coming off as bitter or angry. I enjoyed the meal and his company.
Though our arrangement was what some might consider odd, I like having Dale and Faye live with me. When I returned to Allport in 2014, they’d been in rough shape financially. Dale received monthly disability payments from a work-related injury, but his portion of his medical bills was considerable. Faye had worked all her life at small offices, but citing the tough economy, her last boss had let her go. In addition, one of their three sons always seemed to need financial help, which had left Faye, at almost fifty, struggling to stay afloat. Knowing it would be difficult to find a new job at her age, she’d suggested we start a detective agency. At first I told her she was crazy, but she’d kept at it until I agreed, partly to help her and partly from a need for something to do. As soon as Faye and I got started, little sister Retta insisted on becoming part of it. Some days that was good; other days less so.
Since I never married, I’d suggested Faye, Dale, and I share the big old house I bought a few blocks from Allport’s downtown. We ran our agency from two rooms at the front that had once been parlors. Faye and Dale took the other four rooms downstairs as living space, including the kitchen, where Faye excels and I don’t. I lived upstairs in an apartment I painted off-white and left largely undecorated, suiting my Spartan tastes.
The offer had been made to make my sister’s life easier, so it was a bonus for me to find that Dale and I got along well. He recognized our sister bond, odd because of our different life experiences but firm nonetheless, and he was never jealous of the time we spent together. Dale’s days were mostly spent in a shed in the back yard, where he repaired small engines for locals who lacked either the patience or the know-how to do it. When circumstances demanded, he was willing to man the office and answer the land line so we were free to pursue leads. He accepted that running the agency was what Faye wanted to do, though I knew he worried about our safety. Several times over the last three years, his worry had been completely justified.
