by Maggie Pill
“Shut up,” Ted ordered. “They don’t need to know nothing.”
Before Ted left, he and Bill stood near the door for a few minutes, speaking in low tones. Bill was agitated; Ted was placating, but in a commanding, superior way. Whatever he said shut Bill up, at least temporarily.
While they talked, I ordered breakfast. When I heard the door close, I looked up to see that Ted was gone. Bill seemed put out that I hadn’t ask for his input, but I explained it should appear to be my order, not his. In a few minutes a girl brought the meal on a tray and I did my bad-back routine again. When Bill emerged from his hiding place in the bathroom, he took the cover off the main dish, bent over to glare at it, and announced he hated green peppers in an omelet. “You can have it,” he said grumpily. “I’ll eat the toast.”
“I always have toast with an omelet,” I told him. “We’ll split it.”
It turned out Bill didn’t care for raisin bread either. His expression got even grumpier as he picked the dark, chewy morsels out with the knife and dumped them onto a napkin as if they were fried June bugs. Finished with that, he spread the tattered remains with jam, filling in the holes with determined precision. Feeling a little sorry for him I offered the orange juice, but apparently citric acid doesn’t go well with grape jam and a nervous stomach. Bill turned up his nose at half the coffee too, since I’d already added cream and sugar.
Between bites of the omelet (which was deliciously fluffy), I asked, “How did you get hooked up with Ted? You don’t seem like the criminal type.”
Bill frowned as if he’d asked himself the same thing. “This place doesn’t pay so great, you know?” He looked embarrassed. “Ted offered me a lot of money if I let him stay in my room over the garage and keep my mouth shut about it.”
“No one’s supposed to know he’s around?”
“I thought him and his girl was gonna rob the rooms or maybe the guests’ cars.” His gaze dropped to the floor. “No way I thought anybody’d get hurt.”
“Murdered.” I said it softly, not an accusation, but a reminder.
Bill raised his hands, palms out. “He says the guy attacked him.”
“From inside his car? And Ted just happened to be carrying both a gun and a knife on his person?”
Bill lowered his head like a stubborn bull. “He had to do it.”
“You didn’t actually see what happened when the guy got killed.”
“No, I was out in the vineyard. Ted came and found me so I could help him get the—so I could help him. When we got to the parking lot, there you two were, looking right into the car.” In a justification typical of criminals everywhere he added, “If you’d just stayed away, things woulda been all right.”
“Bill, that man was an FBI agent. When it’s discovered he’s missing, there will be a response like you can’t believe.”
“That’s why we had to get rid of the—the evidence. By the time they find out he’s--not around anymore, we’ll be long gone.”
“You’re leaving with Ted when this is over?”
He took a long drink from the glass of the water he’d got from the bathroom sink. “He says I can work for his boss and make a sh—lots of money.”
“Are you sure you can trust him?”
“I’ll be okay.” Gathering the remains of our meal on the tray, he checked the hallway to be sure it was empty then set it outside the door. When he returned he said, “You ladies will be okay too. Ted says we got no reason to hurt you.”
And if you believe that, I’ve got some snake oil right here…
We settled in to watch the morning shows on TV. As insipid hosts mugged and emoted, I tried to plan my future—any future. I could keep trying to win Bill over, maybe get him to release me, but it was pretty clear he was afraid of Ted. I heard it in his voice when he spoke of the man. I eyed the door, wondering if I could get to it and call for help, but Bill had set the intruder bar, which would slow me down. In addition, Ted had ordered him to stay between me and the door at all times, and he hadn’t forgotten once. If I started screaming for help, would Bill have the nerve to--
Static sounded, and Bill took the radio from his belt. “Yeah?”
“Where are you?” a female voice asked.
He looked at me with confusion in his eyes. “I’m—uh—a guest is having trouble with her—uh—”
I pointed to the latch on my suitcase.
“—her luggage. It won’t open.”
“Well, when you’re finished there, Jerry needs help setting up.”
Bill rolled his eyes. “I can’t. I gotta—” He stalled again, and I made sawing gestures. “Oh, right! I gotta do some trimming out back. Greg said he wants it done today, so you’ll have to get someone else for the inside stuff.”
“Okay.” The woman sounded doubtful, and why wouldn’t she? They had over a hundred guests and their maintenance man insisted he was busy elsewhere.
Bill replaced the radio in its holster. “Thanks. I have trouble when I gotta think fast.”
“Lots of us need a few seconds to process,” I said. “It doesn’t mean you’re not smart.”
He huffed a negative. “That’s not what most people say.”
“Well, most people are wrong then.” Bill almost smiled before he remembered I was his prisoner and he was supposed to be stern.
A few minutes later a click at the door signaled Ted’s entry. He looked satisfied and smelled faintly of bacon. As the scent wafted toward us, Bill’s gloomy expression hinted regret at his own skimpy breakfast.
Ted made a startling announcement. “We’re taking her out of here.”
“Why?” I demanded.
“None of your business.” He turned to Bill. “You said there was an old shed on the property with a door that locks?”
“A chain with a padlock.”
“Have you got the key?”
Bill shrugged. “They just hang it under the eaves. It ain’t like anybody’s going to go looking for it.”
“Are there windows she could crawl out of?”
“There’s one, but it’s boarded up.”
“Good. She can spend the rest of the weekend there, and you can show up for work so nobody goes looking for you.”
Bill frowned. “It’s gonna be hot today. That closed-up place will be like an oven.”
“If it bothers you,” Ted said grimly, “I can take care of her like I did the FBI guy.”
With a gasp worthy of a soap opera Bill said, “You told me you weren’t gonna hurt her.”
“Yeah.” Ted didn’t sound pleased. “But you’re supposed to be working, and I got stuff to do. We need to put her somewhere we can keep her secure.” He turned to me. “You’ll be fine if you behave yourself, but don’t get cute. If I have to, I’ll kill you in a heartbeat and then do the same for your sister.”
I thought about promising to behave if they left me here in the room, but I knew that wouldn’t fly. Faye would be horrified when she returned to find me gone, but the move might be good. Without someone guarding me, I might find a way to get free.
It never hurts to be optimistic.
Ted didn’t let me bring anything, not even a lipstick. Gripping my arm, he guided me while Bill went ahead as a scout, stopping at corridor intersections and peering through the outside doors before we exited. His behavior was almost comically suspicious, but since the staff was busy and the guests were closed in their sessions, the only person we saw was a maid whose trim rear was toward us as she vacuumed the hallway.
At the south entry door we stepped into blinding sunlight and a rush of air even warmer than the day before. By mid-afternoon the heat would indeed be unbearable. “This way,” Bill called softly, and we walked across the lawn and down the edge of the parking lot. Seen from the inn we might have been a couple led by an inn employee to some spot we’d asked directions to.
The trees that flanked the vineyard on the north and south were mostly maple and oak with a few pines mixed in. Turning south, Bill followed a
path the forest had almost reclaimed. Low-hanging branches impeded our progress, and a few downed saplings required us to either duck or step over their dying trunks. Once we were away from the inn Bill said, “I’m supposed to be clearing this to make a cross-country ski trail for next winter.”
I let a drooping branch go and barely missed whacking Ted in the face. When he swore I turned with an innocent expression. “Sorry!”
“Keep going,” he growled, “or some skier will find your bones on the trail come February.”
When we reached the shed, my optimism faded. I’d pictured a slanted wooden structure with rotting boards, but my new prison was made of cement blocks set on a concrete slab. I wouldn’t be bashing a hole in a wall or digging out from under it, even if there were any tools inside. Bill retrieved the key, unlocked the padlock, and opened the wide, double doors. The place was empty except some low piles of metal junk and a vintage tractor, the kind with a hole in the front for a crank that started the engine.
A shove at my back sent me staggering forward, and the doors closed behind me, shutting out almost all the light. “Lock it up tight,” I heard Ted order. “Then go back and let them see you at the inn. We don’t want anybody wondering where you went to.”
Bill’s attempt at reassurance came through the crack between the doors. “It’s been empty for years,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t think there’s any big critters living in there, just bugs and that.”
That wasn’t reassuring. It was also dark and stifling, about ninety degrees.
Hurrying to the door I spoke softly, hoping Ted had already gone. “Will you bring me some water, Bill?”
There was a long pause, and his reply was almost inaudible. “I can’t—”
“You’re not the kind of person who’d leave me here to die of the heat, are you?”
His voice got even softer. “I’ll try.”
I gave him my best smile, though he couldn’t see it. They say a smile reflects in a person’s voice. “You’re a good man.”
There was a click as the padlock engaged, fastening the chain that held the doors closed. I thought I heard a tap, as if he’d patted the door once in regret. Then all was silent.
Chapter Eighteen
Faye
Like a stream of obedient lambs, we trooped into the dining room after the morning session. Some of the women stopped to peruse the vendors’ wares, and I noticed the same bored-looking girl at the perfume table. Today she wore a high-necked, long-sleeved pullover, despite the August weather. Covering tattoos, perhaps? As Dina said, most Love-Able Ladies wouldn’t approve of body art, especially if it happened to be skulls, blood drops, or impolite suggestions.
Inside the dining room I looked for Dina in the crowd of women jockeying for chairs at the tables of their choice. She was nowhere in sight.
Throughout the morning I’d considered how I might tell her that an FBI agent had been murdered and the crime probably had something to do with her. It might create problems, because if she believed she was in danger, Dina might do something that put Retta at risk. Since whatever was going to happen was scheduled during the fashion show on Sunday morning, I figured I had time to decide on a course of action. At the moment my choice was to observe and not report.
I’d considered going up to our room to check on Retta, but there was really no reason to. I thought Bill and Ted would hold up their end of the bargain as long as I did my part. Surveying the women around me, I wondered again who the mysterious third person, my watcher, might be. It could be anyone, even Dina herself.
Joining a group of women, I listened to their chatter as waiters served ahi tuna with jicama slaw and crusty bread. The wines offered were Pinot Noir and Sangiovese. I ordered what the woman next to me took, since it was hard to care what I ate or drank. My companions seemed to have bonded in some way I didn’t understand, so they pretty much ignored me. That was okay. I had a lot to think about.
The speaker for the noon meal was a humorist, and if all else had been well, I’d have enjoyed her stories of raising kids on one income to give them a “traditional” home life. After the audience howled with laughter at her monologue about leaving the baby at church after services one Sunday, she ended with the theme of her message: She’d chosen to be a full-time mother because it was what was best for her family. The women around me met each other’s eyes and nodded agreement.
Barb would have reminded them that women have always worked, whether in the fields, in the home, or at the family business. The Ozzie-and-Harriet-type family, where Dad goes to work and Mom stays home and bakes cookies, is a nice arrangement for some. Barb would insist, and I’d have to agree with her, that there’s room in the world for other models.
That’s why I always end up in the middle on important questions. I don’t mind a lot of things feminists despise, like pink for girls and blue for boys. Most people are comfortable when they know their role in the world. When roles interfere with an individual’s choices, then they need to be examined. My approach is pretty practical. Use the roles that work for you; ignore the ones that don’t.
A waiter came through the kitchen doorway, and I caught a glimpse of Dina Engel inside. Though she was turned away from me, tension radiated from her like the glow of a lightsaber. Excusing myself with a smile, I left the speaker summing up and went to see what new crisis Dina was dealing with. As I stepped into the kitchen I heard her speaking to someone I couldn’t see. Her voice sounded harsh. “If she’s going to be a problem, I want you to get rid of her,” she said coldly. “I don’t want anything else to go wrong.”
Backing away, I turned to a table set with desserts and pretended to consider my choice. Who was the problem person who’d made Dina so angry, the one she wanted to be rid of? Suddenly it was imperative that I go upstairs and make sure Retta was safe.
Chapter Nineteen
Barb
I circled the common area outside the inn’s dining room, waiting for my sisters to finish lunch. Vendor tables set in arcs offered products and services of interest to women—at least some women. I stayed away from the fragrance table, though a young woman with lanky hair and too much eye makeup eyed me hopefully. Perfume makes me sneeze, and I suspected if I went anywhere near her, she’d spritz me. When I moved in the opposite direction she took up her phone and began scrolling, her hair falling forward like a curtain between us.
There was a table of exotic teas, loose-leaf, of course, and an array of books by a woman whose name I recognized as a successful romance novelist from the ’60s. She had to be in her nineties, but I supposed her publisher trotted her out at events like this to keep the inventory moving. A poster on an easel invited attendees to write their goals for the retreat. Become more feminine-G.S. was scribbled next to a neatly printed: Find a diet that works for me-Dora.
The Bellarina shoes table stood next to one filled with purses whose price tags made me shake my head in disgust. Farther down was a small tent that offered personalized, private fittings of “foundation garments”—very expensive ones.
Another table had registration forms for future Love-Able Ladies Retreats, and scanning the details, I was shocked at the cost. We hadn’t paid, of course, but it was hard for me to understand why anyone would fork over that much money to be brainwashed. The next table was a sign-up for the in-house spa, and the surface was peppered with little star-shaped signs that offered what someone considered encouragement:
Don’t worry your pretty little head—Take it to the girls at our salon!
We can teach you exercises that will make your man say, “Nice butt!”
Smile! Our tooth-whitening treatments will make him eager for more!
The last one was too much. I have what is sometimes referred to as RBF, a face that in repose looks angry and forbidding. I blame it on my astigmatism, which makes me frown in order to focus. Over the years, male colleagues thought it was ever-so-witty to tell me to “Smile!” when we met in the corridor or crossed paths in the parking
lot. Who greets professional men with cutesy commands like that?
Since my retirement I’d begun anonymously correcting public mistakes in grammar, punctuation, and usage, whether it was badly-composed signs, television personalities with poor grammar skills, or newspapers too cheap to hire competent editors. The only person aware of it was Retta, who’d found out by accident and held it over my head ever since. While I didn’t think she’d ever tell on me, I hadn’t had the nerve to test her on it yet.
None of the signs before me had grammatical errors, but I felt an overwhelming need to draw attention to their blatant sexism. Forcing women into boxes is bad enough when men do it, but why would women encourage other women to think they only matter if they have pretty heads, nice butts, and oh-so-white teeth?
Taking a blank sign-up sheet and a convenient ink pen, I turned the paper over and wrote in block letters on the back: I see my body as an instrument rather than an ornament. ~Alanis Morissette. Folding the sheet in half, I set it like a tent in the middle of the table.
Pleased with that, I returned to the poster of goals and wrote in one corner, The emotional, sexual, and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says, "It's a girl." ~Shirley Chisholm
When I turned, the woman at the perfume table was looking at me. I managed a semi-casual smile, and she returned to whatever she was doing on her phone. Wandering to a corner where there was a bench, I sat down and read a book on my phone until I heard applause and a shifting of chairs. The doors of the dining room opened, and women streamed out, chatting and laughing.
I didn’t see my sisters in the first few groups, but finally I spotted Faye exiting alone. Relieved to see she was okay, I waved. She seemed for a moment to have seen me, but she didn’t respond. Turning sharply left, she went into the bathroom. That I understood, as many women over fifty do. I’d already been there myself.
