by Maggie Pill
He made a move toward the fork, but I got to it first and handed him the teaspoon. Moving the cake to a napkin, I transferred the asparagus, potatoes, and cheese onto its small plate. “Those potatoes do look good,” I said. “Do you mind if I just see how they taste?”
Though his frown said he did, Bill held the plate while I speared a quarter of his starches. “Thank you,” I said. The world is a nicer place when you’re polite, even to kidnappers.
“So you’re supposed to be working on the grounds,” I said as we ate. “What happens if they go looking and don’t find you?”
“It’d take a while before they got suspicious,” he replied. “I’m the only maintenance guy, so I’m all over the property. They can call on the radio, but it ain’t like it’s got GPS.” He grinned. “Sometimes I pretend I’m out of range when I don’t want to answer.”
“What if someone needs to see you in person?”
The frown returned. “I gotta figure that out. Tomorrow I’m supposed to meet with the fashion show people and help them get ready for Sunday.” Squaring his narrow shoulders he explained, “I done some work for the Cherry Festival a few years back, so I know about sound and that.”
“Then you can’t spend all weekend in this room.”
“No.” He shook it off. “But Tr-Ted will figure it out. He says they pay him to think and they pay me to do what he says.”
I wanted to say he really should do a little thinking for himself, but I guessed it wouldn’t help. Instead I finished off the cake, which was amazing.
When we’d finished eating, Bill set the tray out in the hallway and went back to watching TV. I sat on the bed, contemplating the oddity of my situation.
I had been kidnapped by criminals—murderers. I should be in tears, shaking like a leaf and cowering in a corner. But it was hard to be afraid with my captor watching I Dream of Jeannie and chuckling at Barbara Eden’s antics.
Besides, the Evans girls aren’t much for crying.
Lying on my side on the bed, I let my mind wander back over the years. I’d never seen Barbara Ann cry. Faye had had plenty to cry about over the years, but she never surrendered to tears for long. Me? I’d done my share when Don died, but since then, not much.
If our dad ever felt like crying he never showed it, and I remember Mother crying only once, when I was in high school. When it was over, she refused to talk about why she’d been so sad. I remember it because I’d gotten a Minor in Possession citation the weekend before and was kicked off the Honor Society because of it.
I always wondered what Faye or Barbara Ann did to make our mother cry.
Chapter Twelve
Faye
It was almost eight when the after-dinner speaker, who was all for chastity until marriage, let us go. When I got back to the room, Retta and I had no chance to speak privately, but she appeared to be all right. In fact, she and Bill had an exchange that might have been funny in different circumstances. He sat in the lone upholstered chair while she half-reclined on the bed, every pillow in the room piled behind her for back support. When the TV show they were watching ended, Retta said, “It’s my turn to choose.”
Bill looked at her like she’d just swatted him with one of the pillows. “Your turn?”
She gave him a one-brow-raised look, which is when Retta most resembles Barb. “Didn’t your parents teach you about taking turns?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Do you think it’s fair that you chose every single show since we got here?”
Bill’s brow furrowed as he considered that, and Retta went on with the assurance she always exhibits when explaining why you’re wrong. “All afternoon we watched re-runs from the ’60s and ’70s, and I didn’t object. Now it’s prime time, and there are decent shows on.” Taking up the remote, she navigated to the guide and scrolled for a few seconds. “Have you seen Orphan Black? I think you’d really like it.”
Bill’s lips moved, repeating the title without voice, and his forehead creased as he groped for a response. Would he get angry at Retta’s audacity and remind her he was the one with a gun?
“I guess.” And they settled in to watch Sarah’s latest adventure.
Uninterested in fictional accounts of TV troubles, I settled on the second bed with my back to the room, ostensibly reading a novel. In truth I was trying to figure out what we’d stumbled into and how we might escape. My first thought was a plot to kidnap Dina, perhaps to put pressure on Engel or avenge something he’d done. But why would that happen during the fashion show, when she’d be surrounded by people? Why not now, when she seemed to be on her own?
The show might be a cover for some other crime, like robbery. There were plenty of well-off women at the retreat, and Bill and Ted might plan to burgle their rooms while they were oohing and ahhing over Dina’s designs. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
At eleven Bill took out his phone and made a call. “Where are you?” He listened then said, “Okay, but you need to stay with the ladies in the morning so I can at least pretend I’m doing my work.”
As he listened, his jaw jutted. “It ain’t baby-sitting. It’s guarding, and I did my share.” He glanced at us. “I can’t even use the john, man.”
More listening. “I know you did. Did it, um, did it go okay?” … “Sure, sure, I get it. So are you going to come here and help out or what?” … “Okay, okay. I was just asking.”
He stabbed the disconnect button with more force than was necessary, mumbling something that had the word jerk in it.
Retta was instantly sympathetic. “He doesn’t understand how hard this is for you.”
“He don’t. I mean, I know he’s got stuff to do too, but jeez.”
“Listen,” Retta said. “We can handle the problem you mentioned pretty easily.”
“Problem?”
“You need to visit the little boys’ room, right?”
Bill’s face flushed. “I—um—yeah, I guess so.”
“Here’s what we’ll do. Faye and I will sit on the bed, facing the window. We promise not to look, and you can do what you need to do with the bathroom door open. We can even turn up the TV so the, um, sounds are covered.”
He glanced around the room, assessing her offer. The bathroom was near the door, so he would remain between us and escape. “Okay.”
As we turned our backs, I wondered if Retta had a plan. Were we supposed to wait until Bill was fully occupied and make a break for it? It would have to be both of us, and we’d have to be really quick. I looked at her for a sign, but she simply sat there, facing the window as she’d promised. She even whistled softly, covering the sound of water on water that was audible even over the weather girl’s predictions.
I heard a zipper, and Bill came back into the room. “Uh, thanks.”
“No problem,” Retta told him sweetly. “Maybe you’ll do something nice for us sometime.”
Bill set his chair across the passageway to the door, turned off the lights, and told us in an almost kindly manner to get some sleep. I turned my back and pretended to sleep. After a while I heard soft snoring and turned hopefully to look. His snuffling sounds were the kind of settling-in noises that often wake the snorer, not the deep breathing of real sleep. In the soft light from the window the gun was plainly visible, wedged between the buttons of his shirt like an oversized tie tack. Though his method of keeping it handy would be frowned upon by any self-respecting weapons trainer, I saw no way to sneak up on him without getting shot for my efforts. Maybe later in the night, when he slept more deeply, his hand would fall away and I could snatch the gun before he woke and stopped me. I wasn’t particularly optimistic about that prospect, but it was the only hopeful thought I had.
Chapter Thirteen
Retta
I figured out right away that Bill was a lot like Gerald, a kid I’d known in seventh grade. Because he wanted so badly to be liked, Gerald would do whatever the guys in eighth grade told him to. He plugged up the toilets in the boys’ bathroom with paper toweling
and jammed the lock of the history classroom door with pencil lead while the teacher was at lunch. Every time, the older boys told him it would be cool and he’d never get caught, but every time, someone saw him in the vicinity or word got around to the principal, and he did. Everyone but me thought it was hilarious that Gerald always got in trouble but kept doing dumb stuff anyway. Gerald would accept his punishment like he’d been given an award, because he thought his fellow students admired his daring. Instead, they laughed at his cluelessness.
In the spring of that year, I took Gerald on as a project. He really was a sweet guy, but his parents were drunks who provided no guidance at all. I wanted Gerald to see he was just entertainment for the mean kids, but of course you can’t just tell someone that. I began by chatting with him in classes we shared, asking about his new Wranglers or if he liked Olivia Newton-John’s new song. Once we got to know each other a little, I worked on convincing him he didn’t need to show off for the others. I said his drawings of Vikings and monsters were really interesting, and after a while I invited him to hang out with me and my friends at lunchtime. Every day from then on he waited at the lunch room door for me, ready to carry my tray or run for whatever I might have forgotten, like a spoon or some milk.
My friends didn’t get it, and I admit Gerald didn’t fit in very well. He was geeky and immature and kept interjecting comments about what Thor would do in a certain situation. Still, he listened to every word I said like I was Freyja herself, and he was ready to do whatever I suggested. He stopped being the school prankster and, with my encouragement, started doing his homework and passing his tests. He ignored the rolled eyes and subtle sarcasms of the others at the table or in the bleachers at the basketball games, focusing only on me and what I wanted.
Things got a little uncomfortable when Gerald started showing up at our house, but he never minded that I had other things to do. On Saturdays he’d hitchhike or walk out to the farm then hang out in the barn with Dad or help Mom in the garden. He became like another pet, and we had plenty of those. Despite his immaturity and lack of manners, Mom and Dad included Gerald in whatever they were doing that day. Barbara ignored him, but she always had her nose stuck in a book anyway. If I was on the phone with one of my friends or experimenting with hair color, Faye took pity on Gerald and took him with her, teaching him how to spot edible mushrooms in the woods or how to saddle a horse. It didn’t matter to Gerald that we mostly just tolerated him. He liked being around people who didn’t consider him a joke.
Gerald’s family moved away that summer, and I always wondered how much of my influence stuck with him. At his new school, did he go back to doing crazy stunts to get noticed, or did he have a better sense of himself? At Allport no one much noticed his absence. Some of my friends spoke of my losing my little slave, but that wasn’t how I thought of Gerald. I think if a person has…I guess charm is the right word, she should use it to help others become the best people they can be. That’s what I tried to do with Gerald.
Bill was the same type of guy. He wanted to be important, wanted to be part of something. Ted had come along promising the moon, and Bill agreed to do what he asked without putting much thought into how serious the situation might become. Now he was involved in the murder of an FBI agent, and he was in big trouble. I’d have bet Bill didn’t even know what the plan for the weekend was.
I decided to work on Bill the way I’d worked on Gerald, showing him his better side and offering an alternative to Ted’s plotting. To get what she wants with men like Bill, a woman is sweet but a little aloof. The guy should doubt where he stands in her estimation, hoping for approval but unsure how to please her. I’d started getting Bill on my side by helping with the call from his boss. Now he felt he owed me something, which made him vulnerable.
There was no sense attempting to influence Ted. Guys like him never swerve from the path they’ve chosen, and they have no better nature to appeal to. Still, the fact that he’d called someone else for instructions when we blundered onto his murder scene meant he wasn’t the big boss. I hoped the person above him wanted us alive, because I guessed Ted would have no qualms about killing again. My job for Saturday was to work around Ted while I used my carrot-and-stick allure on good old Bill.
Chapter Fourteen
Barb
I checked my phone a couple of times Friday evening, but there was nothing from Faye or Retta. I curled up on the sofa with a book, and Brat immediately jumped up to put herself between me and the pages. My cat doesn’t approve of reading.
I moved the book to a spot where I could see it and gave her some of the squeezes along the backbone that she likes so well. In that position we reached an agreement. I could read as long as I didn’t forget about her.
Living inside had softened the cat’s fur, and having enough to eat had rounded out her shape. Her two trips to the vet (which were quite the experience) had resulted in treatment for ear mites and worms along with the usual shots. She’d responded well and been proclaimed generally healthy.
A low growl in the cat’s throat signaled trouble, and I looked up from my book. Buddy stood at the top of the stairs, his homely face wrinkled in concern.
My first thought was to shoo him away. He’d never come up to my apartment before, and it was obvious my cat didn’t want him there. A second later I asked myself why he was there. Certainly he missed Faye, but I doubted he thought she was hiding in my bedroom. Was he trying to tell me something?
He gave a single “Woof” that was neither loud nor aggressive. The Brat growled, but Buddy didn’t react. After holding my gaze for a moment, he turned and went back downstairs.
He wanted me to know something, but I had no idea what it might be.
Chapter Fifteen
Faye
My mind roiled and rumbled all night, unable to stop thinking dark thoughts and imagining dire endings. At some point I must have slept, because when I opened my eyes, it was five a.m. Ted sat in the chair, and Bill lay sprawled on the floor with his head resting on his arms. His breathing was deep and regular, and I knew I’d missed my chance to escape the room. Ted seemed to read my mind and know I’d been plotting. A raised, mocking eyebrow told me he had the upper hand and knew it.
At seven he ordered me to get dressed for my day of retreat events. Retta was hostage to my good behavior, and he repeated that I should participate “—with a smile on your face.”
Reluctantly, I showered and got dressed, half-listening to a discussion of breakfast. While I would be served a full meal in the dining room, Ted, Bill, and Retta would have to share one room service order.
“We can ask for extra,” Bill proposed. “Say she has guests.”
“Guests for breakfast?” Retta was horrified. “They’ll either think I’m cheating the hotel or that I invited some man to spend the night.”
“Oh, yeah,” Bill agreed. “I guess that wouldn’t look good.”
Ted looked at him in disbelief. “Seriously? You’re worried about the old girl’s reputation?”
“If she’s supposed to be in pain,” I said from the bathroom, “why would she have guests?”
Reluctantly Ted accepted my argument. “Okay, the two of you share a breakfast.” He took up Retta’s purse, rummaged through it, and found her keys. “I’ll take her car and find myself some breakfast.”
“I guess I’m ready.” I’d dressed in the Saturday outfit Retta planned for me, the only pair of zip-up pants I own (black, of course) with a turquoise top cut aslant at the waist. Black, low-heeled sandals completed the outfit—at least, I thought so. Jumping up from her seat on the bed, Retta adjusted the top so that it hung better on my shoulders. From a cloth bag she took a necklace and matching bracelet with oddly-shaped bits of metal set with turquoise and held it up.
“You forgot the accessories.”
We were the victims of kidnapping murderers, and my sister still felt the need to fix me.
“This sets the outfit off,” she said, fastening the necklace for m
e. “I’ll bet someone asks where you bought it.”
A glance at my reflection made me wince, because it looked like someone else standing there. I was supposed to go downstairs and act like the sort of woman who dressed this way every day, when all I really wanted to be doing on a weekend morning was heading out to the farm to see my sons, the kids, and the menagerie of animals they kept and loved as much as I did.
Retta examined me critically. “Put a little blush on, Sweetie. You’re pale.”
“I really—”
“You can’t put on a great outfit and not do the makeup,” she interrupted. Obediently I returned to the bathroom to apply blush. “And lipstick,” she ordered. “There’s a burgundy shade in my kit that will look nice on you.”
“Is she always like that?” Ted asked when I’d done as she ordered. “Telling you what to do all the time?”
I didn’t answer, but in the mirror I saw Ted point a finger at Retta as he spoke to Bill. “She’s one of them people that’s all sweetness and light while she pushes everybody around. Don’t let her get away with it, understand?”
As I made my way downstairs, I thought Ted, though certainly not a nice person, was a pretty shrewd judge of character. It usually takes people much longer than a few hours to figure Retta out.
Breakfast was served buffet style. A woman at one station offered mimosas for the stout of heart, but I went on to the chafing dishes full of bacon, sausage, crepes, and hash browns. When my plate was full, I headed for a table. Not many were up this early, which might have been due to the poolside wine-tasting the night before. We’d heard them under our window, chatting and laughing until well past midnight.
