by Maggie Pill
When Faye didn’t come out after several minutes, I went in to see what was taking so long. The rest room was one of those two-entry setups, with a small vestibule that had no purpose I could see and a second door leading to the stalls, sinks, and mirrors. Faye wasn’t in the vestibule, so I went on to where a line of women waited for a turn in one of three stalls. Two stood at the sinks, washing their hands while peering at their reflections. Faye stood behind them, brushing her hair with her fingers. That in itself was unusual, since she tends to comb it once in the morning and ignore it for the rest of the day. Catching my eye in the mirror, she telegraphed a warning not to speak until we were alone.
I stood off to one side as if waiting to use a stall. In the few minutes it took for the others to finish up and leave, my mind bubbled with questions. “Where is Retta?” was foremost among them, so when we were alone I asked that first.
“She’s in our room.” Faye seemed unable to decide where to begin explaining.
“When neither of you answered our calls and messages, I drove over. What’s going on?”
The story came then: the murder of Agent Auburn, their discovery of the corpse before the killers could dispose of it, their capture, and the holding of Retta as a hostage.
“What are these men up to?”
Faye shrugged. “All I know is they need the retreat to continue without incident.”
“Why?”
“I guess so Dina Engel gets to do her show.”
“And that matters why?”
Faye showed a rare burst of anger. “I’ve been trying to find that out, Barb.” She was scared.
I put a hand on her arm. “I’m here now, Faye. We can fix this.”
Calming, she explained she’d volunteered to help at the rehearsal that would be starting soon. “I thought if I get to know Dina, I can decide if she’s in danger or if she is the danger.”
“I get it. She should be warned, but then what happens to Retta?”
Faye sighed. “The men claim they’ll let us go once whatever is supposed to happen is over.”
“And you believe that?”
I got a look I seldom got from my sister—well, this sister. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Barb. They killed an FBI agent, so why not a couple of middle-aged women? It’s why I’ve been careful to do as they said.”
We had to call the police, but Faye was right—first we had to consider the consequences. This far from the city, I guessed it would take a while for law enforcement to organize a rescue. That meant Faye had to continue to play her part while I assessed the situation. She would be compliant, and I would give the police specifics about what was needed when I called for help. “You say there are two men you know about?”
She nodded. “Ted is mean as a snake, and Bill is…susceptible to Retta. She’s already working on softening him up.”
Retta could sell mittens in Tahiti if men were doing the shopping. “Might he let her go?”
Faye shook her head. “He’ll do little things for her, but he’s too afraid of Ted to do more.”
I sighed. “Okay. Describe them for me.”
“Bill is about our age and average-looking except he has a streak of silver at the front of his hair. Ted is younger, tough-looking, and blond.” She frowned. “They said there’s a third person who’s watching to see that I keep quiet. That’s why I didn’t speak when I first saw you.” She shifted her feet. “It’s also why we can’t stay in here. They’ll wonder why I’m taking so long.”
“Right.”
“Barb, what if they hurt Retta?”
“As long as she’s their means of making you behave, she’s safe.” I hoped I was telling the truth. “Give me your room key, and I’ll check to make sure she’s okay.”
She dug it out and handed it over. “How will you do it?”
“I’ll pretend to be the manager. I heard we have a sick guest, and I’m concerned.”
“After that are you going to call the police?”
“We have to.” She frowned, but she knew I was right. “Until they get here, let these people think they’ve got you under their control.”
We moved to the vestibule, where a large, fifty-ish woman was just sitting down on a padded chair in the corner. Taking off one shoe, she rubbed her foot. When she moved her head, I noticed an odd effect: her hair was purple under a black top layer. I wondered for a moment how someone did that—and why. It was beyond my comprehension. I also noticed a butterfly tattooed on her upper thigh and smiled to myself. Even Love-Able Ladies must sometimes feel the tug of popular culture.
“Not used to wearing heels anymore,” she commented as we passed.
“I hear you,” Faye replied. “I’m missing my tennies too.”
Outside the rest room we parted as casual strangers, Faye heading for Dina’s rehearsal while I went to see what I could do about freeing our captive sister.
Except she wasn’t there. I knocked on the door of Room 210, ignoring the Do Not Disturb card hung over the handle. “It’s the manager, ma’am.” I waited, but there was no answer. I tried again. “Management.”
Nothing. Pressing my ear to the door, I heard no sounds inside the room. After a third knock, I used Faye’s key and stepped inside.
Retta’s suitcase lay open on a folding stand. Faye’s was on the floor in the far corner. Items scattered around the room testified to occupancy, but Retta and her captor were gone. Beside the TV was a sheet of hotel stationery with four words written in block print: YOU KNOW THE DEAL.
Chapter Twenty
Retta
It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness in the shed. After a few minutes I could see that the place was about ten by fifteen feet, with a wooden roof supported by rough beams. A block and tackle overhead hinted at its use for machine repair at some time in the past. As Bill had said, the single window was boarded over, perhaps because two of its four glass panes were broken. Slits of sunlight showed between, but the boards themselves were solid when I reached through a shattered pane and tested them.
I tried pushing at the doors, hoping there’d be enough give between them that a petite woman could slide through. They gapped maybe two inches before the chain caught and held. I tried all four corners in the hope a hinge was loose or rotted. No luck.
Next I did a circuit of the place, touching the walls with my hands to keep from tripping over unseen items on the floor. Each time my foot hit something I stooped, hoping to find a tool useful for escape. I found only old tractor parts, at least that’s what I judged them to be from the odd shapes and the heavy layers of grease. Not only were they useless, I had nowhere to wipe the gunk off my hands except the scratchy cement walls.
The air inside the shed was stale, hung with dust, and hot yet slightly clammy. The surrounding woods was deadly quiet. I could scream for help, but I guessed the only people anywhere near were Ted and Bill. Ted had made it clear: if I made trouble, I was expendable.
After my fruitless exploration of the walls, I turned my attention to the tractor, more visible as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Even without being able to read the logo, I recognized its lines and familiar red paint. Dad had always had a Farmall, and most of his equipment was old, since our farm had been a bare-bones, single-family operation. This tractor was probably from the 1940s, which was both good and bad. According to Dad, older tractors are pretty simple machines that last forever if they’re well-maintained. I had no idea if this one had been taken care of, but the fact that it was stored in a shed was a hopeful sign. Would they protect a piece of junk from the elements?
The front tires were small and close together. The back tires were almost my height and fat, with deep tread to push them through all kinds of terrain. Metal fenders shielded the driver from flying dirt (or manure). I recalled riding with Dad when I was little, him in the metal seat and me beside him, leaning against a fender and holding onto its edges with both hands. Today they’d cite a parent who let his kid ride that way for child endangerment, b
ut in those days it was perfectly acceptable.
As I walked around the big machine, trying to recall what was what, Dad began singing songs in my mind. He’d always had a tune as he worked: whistled, hummed, or sung in syllables of “Dee-dee-dee.” I suppose it meant he was a contented man, and the memory calmed me a little.
Climbing onto the tractor seat, I studied what was there. There was a single gauge on the dashboard, but I couldn’t make out its purpose. Gas? Temperature? Oil pressure? It had been a long time since I’d had reason to pay attention.
Dad taught me to drive the tractor at a young age so I could pull the wagon while everyone else picked stone. He’d often joked the crop that grew best in Michigan was rocks. Each spring, new ones appeared in the fields and had to be toted to piles outside the ground to be planted. Mom, Barb, and Faye wrestled smaller stones onto the trailer while Dad handled the larger specimens. It was hot, back-breaking work that no one looked forward to. After Barb and Faye left home, Dad started hiring neighborhood boys to help him. I don’t think Barbara Ann ever got over Dad “spoiling” me by hiring workers to do “my” job.
Back to the present and this particular tractor. Could I go back decades and remember how to start the thing? Three metal pedals were positioned in front of the driver’s seat. I knew one was the brake and one the clutch. What was the other? I hoped I didn’t need to know. There was a throttle on the steering column, a piece of fan-shaped metal with teeth along the top edge. A lever that moved along those teeth would control my speed if I got the engine started. The gearshift was on the left, and I took hold of the hard-rubber handle and wiggled it, practicing the different positions. Neutral, a sloppy area in the middle, was where the shifter had to be when the tractor started. If not, the person at the front with the crank—me, in this case—might get run over.
Even if I got the settings right, I still had to muster the strength to turn the crank, which, given the age of the machine, might be difficult. Dad had sometimes had trouble turning hard enough to start an engine, and he’d warned the crank could kick back, wrenching a shoulder or even breaking an arm.
I experimented for probably half an hour, but I couldn’t remember the process. I tried setting the throttle low, then high, then in the middle. Each time I went to the front and turned the crank, but nothing happened. With a sore shoulder and a defeated attitude, I leaned against a rear tire, trying to come up with something else to try. Escape was essential, and all it took was remembering what had once been a normal task. Dad would have been disappointed in me, as I was in myself.
After a few minutes of sulking, I figured out that if the tractor couldn’t get me out of there, at least it could raise me high enough to test the solidity of the shed roof. Standing on the seat, I could just reach the main support beam overhead. I wrapped my arms around it and hung there for a moment like a sloth on a tree branch. Dust and grime fell onto my face and hair as I pulled my bottom half up onto the beam, first one foot, then the other, then my torso, until I could twist myself and balance on hands and knees along its six-inch span. Slowly I made my way along it until I touched the rafters. Grasping one on either side of me, I stood up. To my great disappointment, every board within reach was firmly fastened in place. Worse, I found a knothole that revealed there was galvanized tin over the boards. There was no chance I could push my way out through the roof.
Lowering my rear to the beam I slid off, holding on for a second before dropping to the floor. My feet stung when I hit the concrete, and for a second I envied Faye her sensible, crepe-soled shoes.
Able to think of nothing more to do, I moved some spiders and their conquests out of the way with my foot and slumped into the corner they’d inhabited. Pulling my knees up, I laid my arms across them and rested my head on my arms. Where skin touched skin, I felt the grit that now coated my whole body. Running a hand through my hair, I shook out an alarming amount of dirt and some kind of bug encased in cobweb. I could smell the sweat on my clothes, and on a day like this, that odor could only get worse.
As I sat there curled into a ball, I let myself consider the worst-case scenario: the possibility that Ted would come back and kill me. He might not want Bill to know, but my death would certainly simplify things for him. I thought Ted was a guy who liked things simple.
Biting my lip, I tried to hold onto my courage. I did not want to die—and certainly not in my present condition. Dying at fifty is hard enough. Dying unkempt, stinky, and filthy is just wrong.
Chapter Twenty-one
Faye
I had serious reservations about spending the afternoon helping Dina Engel. I’d rather have gone with Barb, but if I was being watched, we couldn’t afford to tip our hand. I certainly wasn’t interested in attending the afternoon sessions, Still Sexy and Knees Up!, apparently some new kind of exercise instruction. Continuing my observation of Dina was the most productive use of my time.
Since the show was a highlight of the retreat, it would be held in the biggest space available, the dining room. A woman with a badge that said Love-Able Ladies Staff was guarding the door to keep the curious out, but when I said Dina had invited me, she let me go inside. I stood near the door for a few seconds, unsure what to do. The inn staff was finishing clean-up from lunch, but I noticed them glancing with raised brows at a group of newcomers who sat at a table near the back. Ten young women listened with varying degrees of interest while a man with his back to me talked earnestly to them. Dina wasn’t there, but I saw immediately that at least some of her fears were justified. Pink, green, and lavender hair colors stood out—not exactly what this retreat’s clientele would relate to.
The man, who hadn’t yet noticed my entry, was about thirty years old. He wore a t-shirt that said 30 Seconds to Mars, skinny jeans, and turquoise flip-flops. Moving confidently and speaking in a slightly affected way, he pantomimed with wide gestures, helping the models visualize where things would be tomorrow. I moved closer in order to hear what he said.
“Your dressing area will be here.” He indicated the corner where they sat. “When you come out you’ll walk through here—” He came toward me, along a narrow pathway through the dining tables, “—take a sharp left, and climb the steps on this end—” He ascended the left side of the dais in full model mode, face blank and shoulders thrown back to an almost impossible angle, “—and cross to center.”
The women giggled at his posing, and he stopped in the center and swept his arms forward, palms up. “There’ll be a short runway here. I want you to go out to the very, very end, do your best turn—no crotch shots, Gail—and exit on the other side. Follow the right-hand wall back to the dressing area and change into your next outfit. Got it?”
Nine pairs of eyes had followed his journey. Eight heads nodded. One woman seemed to be napping, and one was apparently the type who never ignores the invitation to ask a question. “What if we don’t have enough time to change before it’s our turn again, Honny?”
Honny—Roger Engel’s appointed guardian of Dina’s interests, rolled his eyes. “It’s your job to get changed in time.” Perhaps to soften the comment he added, “You have to do like Eliza Doolittle would say and ‘Move your bloomin’ arse.’”
The girl frowned, looking around at her companions. “Who’s Eliza? I don’t think I’ve met her.”
The other girls tittered, but the questioner didn’t give up. “Are they going to put a mirror back there so we can see how we look before we come out?”
Honny set his hands on his hips, a little too far back and stagey. “Sweetie, I’ll be there, and I’m better than any mirror. I’ll tell you when you’ve got the right look.”
Pouty lips indicated she wasn’t satisfied with that, but Honny went on. “Other concerns?”
When no one else spoke he said, “As soon as Dina gets here we’ll do a walk-through so we can time it. Remember, the runway will be there in the morning, so take that into account.”
He left them then, and as unobtrusively as possible, I moved to
a spot where I could see the women’s faces as they talked. I made myself look busy with a notepad and pen from my purse and without appearing to, listened intently to what they had to say.
There were three groups of two, one of three, and the girl who’d asked the questions, who sat off by herself. She had the pink hair, and tattooed leaves climbed out the front of her shirt and twined down her arms, like a storybook character who’s slowly turning into a tree.
Beside her but a little apart sat two women who brought to mind a cousin of Dale’s who owns her own Harley, cuts wood for a living, and smokes fat Cuban cigars at family gatherings while she criticizes anyone “dumb enough” to live in Allport. These women’s tats were all barbed wire and bullets, and their skimpy tank tops concealed very little. Their expressions signaled a tendency to look for someone or something to dislike.
Behind them was the group of three Asian women with heavy-on-the-eye-liner eyes. They were slightly built, and I guessed they had thigh gaps large enough to drive a Humvee through. They’d certainly present a fitting problem for Dina. The one nearest me had the lavender hair I’d noticed earlier. Another had glitter down one whole side of her face in a Harlequin pattern. It made my skin itch to look at it.
The next couple was surprisingly normal-looking. Neither had obvious body revisions; neither wore the amount of make-up the others did. They were of average size, which meant they wouldn’t be too hard to dress for the show. One seemed slightly lost, and the other spoke to her in low tones.
One girl had managed a hair color I’d call Irish Hills, since her head called to mind the putting surface at a championship golf course. She had a collection of metal art threaded through her face that horrified me, though I realized that was exactly the purpose. Her companion appeared normal until you noted two things—both of them on her chest. No one grows something like that on her own, and despite having seen A Chorus Line (twice, thanks to Retta) I didn’t understand why any woman would buy herself “a fancy pair” that size.
