by Maggie Pill
If the subject of danger arose Faye made a joke, contending she’d rather die taking action than languish to a ripe old age in a nursing home. Dale always smiled and shook his head when she started in. “We don’t get to choose,” he’d tell her. “If we did, we’d all come with an off-switch.” Dale and Faye were one of those lucky couples meant for each other, and they kept going forward together despite the tragedies they faced. I was often a little jealous, though I’d had my moments.
I touched the necklace I wore almost every day, given to me by the man who’d have been my mate for life if ALS hadn’t killed him. A second chance at love had arrived with the local police chief, though we agreed it was too late for wedding bells and setting up housekeeping together.
As if he’d read my mind Dale asked, “Rory’s not around today?”
“He’s visiting his daughter,” I replied.
“Guess Allport can do without him for a few days.” Dale helped himself to another of the oatmeal cookies Faye had left us and shoved the bowl toward me. I shook my head. In mid-life, every cookie counts against you.
He rose, taking a third cookie for the road. “I’m almost finished with Terry Cantrell’s motorbike, so I guess I’ll get back to it.”
“So we’ll get to hear that angry bumblebee whine up and down our street again soon?” I asked glumly.
Dale winked. “I put a muffler on it. The kid isn’t smart enough to figure out how to get it off, so the neighborhood should be a little quieter from now on.”
Chapter Ten
Faye
Ted ushered Retta and me through the side door we’d exited earlier, keeping one hand on the gun in his jacket pocket. Though Bill wasn’t much of a tough-guy, when there’s a gun involved I tend to do as I’m told. I hoped we’d meet someone who asked what he was up to, since two scared-looking women preceded a man wearing a jacket on a day when it was eighty-five degrees outside. There was no one around.
Once we were inside our hotel room, Bill ordered us to sit on the small couch near the window. Placing himself between us and the door, he consulted the conference schedule. “You’ll go down to dinner at six,” he told me. “Tell people your sister isn’t feeling good and ask for her dinner to be brought up here.”
“If I were sick, I wouldn’t want anything to eat,” Retta told him.
“I need to eat.”
“Well, you’re not getting my supper.”
“I’ll get what I say.”
Retta raised her nose a little. “We’ll split it.”
After glaring at her for a few seconds, Bill turned to me. “Say she hurt her back taking stuff out of her trunk.”
“I didn’t bring in my own suitcase,” Retta said. “That’s what valets are for.”
Bill looked grumpy at being corrected a second time. “She don’t know how she hurt it, but she can’t stand up.”
“If I were in that much pain, I’d go to a doctor.”
His jaw jutted. “Today you’re going to suffer in silence, because you spent all this money to come here. You’re hoping it gets better overnight.” He pointed at Retta’s nose. “But it ain’t gonna, so get used to these four walls.”
We lapsed into an uneasy silence that was interrupted by static coming from a radio attached to Bill’s belt. “Maintenance? Where are you?”
The look on his face said he wasn’t pleased to get a call, but he removed the radio from his belt and answered, “Uh, out back.”
“Can you make a run to the store? We’re out of some things.”
His face twisted, and it was obvious he couldn’t think of a plausible lie. To my surprise, Retta pantomimed turning an imaginary screwdriver.
Bill got it. “I got the lawnmower all torn apart and—” Now Retta seemed to be putting on gloves, but he understood. “There’s grease all over me. Somebody else better go.”
“Okay,” the caller said with a sigh. “I guess I can go.” When the transmission ended, Bill looked relieved and Retta seemed pleased. I rolled my eyes at her misplaced kindness: aid and comfort to the enemy. She gave me half a wink, and I realized what she was up to. Retta was trying to get Bill, the weaker of our two captors, on our side.
Rising, Bill fetched the TV remote, and soon we were watching a Gilligan’s Island rerun. Of the three of us, one thought the show was hilarious.
Before I left the room at six, Bill gave me a long list of mostly useless instructions. He warned that someone would be watching me, so I shouldn’t do anything “goofy.” I wasn’t sure if he was lying or not, but as I went down the stairs to the open area, it felt like everyone below looked up from their wineglasses to notice me.
As I surveyed the crowd below, I wondered who among them was watching me for reasons more sinister than judging my fashion IQ. Something that was supposed to happen on Sunday couldn’t be threatened, but what? Had Ted killed an FBI agent to keep him from disrupting a fashion show? Where was the response from the rest of the FBI? If Auburn had come alone, how long would it take for his people to become worried and start north to investigate?
What was going to happen during the show or immediately afterward? I thought, quite naturally, of kidnapping. Dina Engel’s father was very wealthy. Did that mean she was in danger? If kidnapping was the plan, why had Ted killed Auburn? My mind was going in circles. I simply didn’t know enough to make a decision, much less a plan. I started down the steps, determined to learn what I could about everyone I met during the evening.
In the dining room, women were choosing seats for dinner. The hum of conversation was underscored by the soft clink of wine glasses filled and set before willing tasters. I felt a wave of nervousness, almost nausea, at the prospect of joining one of the groups and pretending to be at ease among them. To keep Retta safe, I had to. I’d been given a part to play, and I had to face these strangers—alone and with confidence. Pasting on a smile, I approached a table and asked, “May I join you?”
The women were obliging, and I told my story of arriving with my sister only to have her back go out. “I got her some ibuprofen,” I concluded. “We hope she’ll be okay in the morning.”
“Isn’t that the way it goes?” one of my tablemates said. “You look forward to something then Life reaches out and slaps you in the face.”
They began telling stories related to that theme. Apparently listening, I glanced around the room, searching for Dina Engel. If I could locate her, I would introduce myself somehow and try to figure out if she was the target of an impending plot, the reason for the plot, or completely separate from the plot.
At the front of the room was the VIP table. The woman who’d spoken at lunch (which seemed like years ago) was there, along with conference director Angel Sonora, who seemed on edge. Twice I saw her excuse herself to tend to some issue. Once she spoke to the waiter in charge of the crew, and he went off in a purposeful manner to relay the message to the others. The second time she went to the doorway, where an ancient but expensively-dressed woman tottered in on the arm of a younger one, perhaps a relative. Angel led them to her table, where two chairs had been tilted against the table to signify reservation. When the old woman was seated, Angel returned to her chair. Though she hardly touched her meal, she made bright chatter with her guests, smiling at each one an equal number of times, as far as I could judge. A well-run conference apparently means a lot of stress for the person in charge.
The last chair at the table remained empty until just before the main course was served. When a woman slipped past the waiter and took it, I recognized Dina Engel from the picture we’d found online. She looked surprisingly normal for a fashion maven: simple white pants, a pale pink top cut longer in back, and soft flats that offered nothing in the way of foot support. Her hair was longer than it had been in the picture, falling softly onto her shoulders. As the salad plates were cleared, the woman next to Dina made large gestures as she spoke. Though she didn’t have much to say in return, she listened attentively.
Catching a look of concern on t
he face of one of my tablemates, I realized I hadn’t touched my salad, which had been removed and replaced with a plateful of food. Once again we’d been given enough to feed a roomful of lumberjacks, a braised, marinated pork tostada with grilled pineapple and a black bean salsa. It was paired with a Pinot Noir, according to the placard at my place-setting. I ate a little and tried to seem as delighted with it as everyone else at my table was.
As we ate, one of the women shared her current family crisis, which in my opinion should have been nobody’s business. Her daughter was pregnant by a man who had no job and who treated her, in her mother’s words, “like a dirty rag.”
“I couldn’t stop crying the whole month of June,” she confided. “We’ve given that girl everything, and she’s throwing it all away.”
“It’s like the speaker said at lunch,” another woman opined. “These feminist types have destroyed all sense of family. How can society remain strong when girls have babies by one man this year and a different man next year? Some of my friends wouldn’t know their grandchildren if they met them at the mall.”
The others commiserated, tutting and tsking about ungrateful children who have no idea what their parents have sacrificed for them. “I remember when getting pregnant outside marriage was a shame,” one said. “Now you see girls walk across the stage at graduation and you hope they don’t deliver before they get to the other side.”
I kept my eyes on my plate, but her words brought to mind the only time I saw my mother cry. It was toward the end of my senior year when I told her I was pregnant for Jimmy. I moved in with Dale soon after and graduated high school with a barely discernible baby bulge. Mom never said out loud that it hurt her, but I never forgave myself for making my strong, wonderful mother cry.
As the desserts were being served (cheesecake with fresh blackberries in a sweet sauce), we were introduced to our special guest for the evening, Rosalind Rayburn. It was the old woman I’d noticed earlier, and when the emcee gave her bio I realized I’d read a few of her books decades ago. Rosalind was one of the early “bodice-ripper” authors, romance novels with plenty of adventure, sex, and adventurous sex. She was now nearly ninety, and her grand-daughter and heir apparent had come along to do the speaking.
In her speech, “Free from Feminism,” Robin Rayburn spoke at length about how romance novels allow women to use their imaginations and therefore become more complete as women. The heroines, she explained, don’t try to be like men. They remain fully female yet achieve their goals through perseverance and (she really used this word, I swear) pluck.
Taken for what they were, I couldn’t say Rosalind’s books were bad. Still, I was aware Barb would have had plenty to say if she were here. What goals do the characters have other than marriage? Do a woman’s problems magically disappear when the right man chooses to make her his wife? And even if they do, is it worth giving up her right to be who she is?
Retta, on the other hand, would have said it was all in good fun, and only the silliest of us believe there’s anything realistic about Scottish lairds finding mysterious women on the heaths or New York millionaires needing a convenient bride, no questions asked.
Reminded of Retta, I considered borrowing a phone, hiding in the rest room, and calling for help. The question that stopped me was whether the local police had the know-how and the resources to rescue her before Ted or Bill killed her. It was hard to say. I might call Barb, but what could she do? The FBI should be informed of Agent Auburn’s murder, but again, I might start a chain of events that would end with my sister’s death. Apparently adjusting my chair, I glanced around the room. Their confederate was supposedly watching me, so I decided I couldn’t take the chance until I knew more. Which led me back to my earlier plan: approach Dina Engel and assess her involvement.
When people began to make their way to the pool area for the wine-tasting, I went toward Dina’s table, where I heard her tell her companions she intended to head upstairs and get some sleep. It wasn’t easy for me to introduce myself to a complete stranger, but when she stepped away from the others I approached and asked, “Are you the fashion designer?”
Dina looked past me as she answered, and I imagined her wishing she’d left a few seconds sooner. “That’s me.”
“I’m Faye Burner, and I love what I saw of your stuff on the Detroit Chic website.” It was probably a mistake to call it stuff, but it was a lie anyway. Most days I put on stretch jeans and an oversized t-shirt and call myself dressed.
“Thanks.” She was hard to read: shy? Uninterested? Since I’d pinned my hopes on her reacting with pleasure at meeting a fan, I was at a loss as to how to continue. “I can’t wait for the show on Sunday.”
A hint of nervousness showed on her face, and she answered with unexpected honesty. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
It wasn’t a ringing statement of confidence, but if I were a former stay-at-home about to launch a project that had captured the attention of relevant media and interested females all over the state, I might be feeling a little jittery too. Dina probably should have developed nerves of steel from living with a man who courted arrest daily, but I supposed this was different, more personally scary.
I’d noticed she seemed to be alone. “You probably have a lot to do before Sunday. Will you have help?”
She gave me an assessing look. “My father is sending someone.”
“That’s good.”
I got a second look. “I’m sure you’re right.”
Okay, Faye, I told myself. You aren’t exactly a skilled interrogator, and this woman has no doubt practiced not telling anyone anything personal for decades. Give it up.
We parted at the door. I headed upstairs to our room, anxious to be sure Retta was okay but faintly bothered by my exchange with Dina. For a woman whose lifelong dream was about to come true, she seemed more anxious than excited. Was she nervous because she knew an FBI agent had been murdered? I couldn’t decide what the woman’s manner told me. Was she afraid for her show, for herself, or for something else?
Chapter Eleven
Retta
You picture being kidnapped as a terrifying experience, and for the first few minutes, it was. But once Ted, the more dangerous of our two captors, left to dispose of the corpse he’d created, we had only Bill to deal with, and he was no killer. There was the gun Ted had given him, but he seemed half afraid of it. As long as we did what he said, I figured we were safe. Over the course of the afternoon, Bill repeated several times that we’d be released when the retreat ended. I could tell Faye didn’t believe that, but he insisted it was true. “You don’t know our real names, so why should we care if you girls call the police after we’re gone?”
I could think of several answers to that question. They’d killed Agent Auburn, which indicated life wasn’t exactly precious to them. Bill was employed by the inn, so if we reported he was in on the murder the police could track him using the information they had on him. We could give detailed descriptions of each man. Overall, it wasn’t in their best interests to set us free.
What were Bill and Ted doing here, and whose side were they on? If they were guarding Dina, Ted must have thought Auburn posed some kind of threat, but why murder him? If they weren’t bodyguards sent by Roger Engel, they might be part of some rival gang that planned to kidnap Dina or even kill her. Aside from the vague reference to the fashion show and the command from someone higher up the chain of command that it not be interrupted, I had no inkling of what was going on. Ted hadn’t been willing to share information, and Bill didn’t seem to have any. We’d have to wait and see.
After Faye went to dinner, an uneasy silence hung between Bill and me. He watched yet another old sitcom, casting sideways glances in my direction from time to time. We both tensed when someone rapped on the door softly, but right afterward came, “Room service, ma’am.” Bill disappeared into the bathroom, motioning with his head as he went to indicate I should answer.
I’d already been told what to do,
so I opened the door with my back bent in what looked like a painful wrench. A young woman holding a tray said, “We hear you’re having a bad time.”
Backing away in my crumpled state, I let her enter and set the tray on the counter. “I hope to be back to normal tomorrow.”
“If there’s anything else we can do, just give us a call,” she said. I gave her the tip I had in hand, already checked by Bill to make sure it was only a couple of dollar bills. She left, wishing me a good night’s sleep and a better day on Saturday.
Ted emerged from the bedroom and went directly to the tray of food. “What have we got here?” Lifting the silver plate cover, he revealed a chicken breast smothered with melted cheese, three spears of asparagus, and four baby redskin potatoes. Off to one side was a bowl of spinach salad with what looked like raspberry vinaigrette dressing. On the opposite side was a yummy-looking slab of Victorian walnut cake. Two small carafes sat beside an empty wineglass and a tumbler. I peered into one; it was iced tea. Bill sniffed at the other and said, “Wine. I don’t know what kind.”
“White Zin, I’d guess. My sister knows what I like.”
Bill frowned. “Doesn’t look like much for two people.”
I thought about saying I hadn’t exactly invited him to dinner. Still, the man had to eat. “I’m not fond of asparagus,” I told him. “You can have that, and I’ll eat the salad.” He opened his mouth to say something then closed it. “And that big slab of cheese is too much for me. I’ll eat the chicken and you can have the cheese, so we both get protein to fill us up.” I considered the rest of the meal. “You get the potatoes—too starchy—and I’ll take the cake. I’m sure you don’t want the wine, which would make you sleepy, so you get the iced tea.” Bill looked doubtful, but it was a fifty-fifty split, as least as far as I could manage.
