Eat, Drink, and Be Wary (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 5)

by Maggie Pill

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Faye

  There was no one in our hotel room. After I knocked several times, a maid came along with some towels. Smiling as if embarrassed, I told her I’d left my key inside the room. With no hesitation she used her badge to unlock the door, holding it open for me as I entered.

  The room was much as I’d left it, except Retta and Bill were gone. I peered uselessly into the bathroom and even opened the louvered closet door. No one. On my second turn, I noticed a block-printed note next to the TV.

  YOU KNOW THE DEAL.

  It had to be either Ted or Bill who’d left it, which meant I was still expected to play the role of carefree retreat attendee. When I picked up the note, I found writing on the back side, this time in Barb’s messy printing: Exploring the landscape. Meeting a friend at six.

  I paced from the window to the door for several minutes, deciphering what that meant. “Exploring the landscape” would be searching for Retta. The kidnappers must have moved her before Barb arrived. Bill had complained he’d be missed around the inn, and Ted hadn’t seemed interested in chaperoning, so they moved Retta somewhere they could lock her in and leave her unguarded. Barb was out trying to find her.

  From the “meeting a friend” part, I concluded Barb had contacted the police. I hoped she’d be back soon to tell me what the plan was. Even better, she might return to say Retta was safe and we could leave this place forever.

  No. If she’d found Retta, Barb would have let me know. That meant she was still looking, and I had to keep showing up at events downstairs. Bill and Ted couldn’t suspect the police were on the way to arrest them.

  That brought up a question. If the authorities were on the way, who would we tell them to arrest? Ted for certain and Bill too, but they weren’t acting alone. Was Dina in charge or was it someone we were unaware of? My contribution would be to find out what I could about Ted and Bill’s employer.

  It made me antsy to sit and do nothing. I decided if I hadn’t heard from Barb before I went down to dinner, I’d search the inn. There wasn’t much chance Retta was locked in a closet somewhere, but it was something I could do.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Retta

  “Ain’t nobody coming to rescue you now, Miss Love-Able Lady.”

  The gloating tenor of Ted’s voice sent a chill down my spine. “Your friend went canoeing, and you know how dangerous them things can be. She had a bad accident.”

  I think he left then, but I didn’t care. Leaning against that dirty, rusty old tractor, I gave in to despair and cried for a long time.

  When I stopped sobbing, the sun no longer shone through the boards over the window. I went a little crazy for a while, unable to believe I could succeed but equally unable to sit and do nothing. I went over every inch of the shed again, searching places I’d already searched, knowing I wouldn’t find a way out but determined to try. Soon it would be dark, and I’d be even more helpless than I was in murky daylight.

  Finally I was too exhausted to continue. I retreated to my corner, telling myself I should rest so that when someone came to kill me in the morning, I could fight back. Though nothing I found felt remotely like a weapon, I settled on the crank. It was an unwieldy club due to its bent shape, but I laid it on the floor next to me. When I heard the padlock click open, I’d hurry to the door and whack Bill or Ted on the head as he came in. If they came together, I’d deal with it somehow. The fact that they’d killed Barbara made it certain Faye and I were doomed.

  They killed Barbara. It was almost impossible to think that without going—as Mom would have said—“stick, stark, raving mad.”

  What would life be like without Barbara Ann? Of all reasons I’d miss her, the silliest came to mind: the “Correction Events” she’d begun in retirement. In the middle of the night she went out dressed in black, lugging paint cans and brushes and fixing improperly worded or punctuated signs. When I caught her at it, I’d forced her to let me come along. She was reluctant at first, and we had some minor disagreements, but overall we had fun with it.

  Sometime in June we’d gone out to edit a sign on the outskirts of town that contained one of Grammar Nazi Barbara’s most hated errors: misuse of your. Since it was election-related, I’d argued the sign was temporary and didn’t merit our time. Barbara had given me a look that said she intended to fix it with or without me, so I dug out my black jeans and hoodie and rode along.

  The sign said Think about You’re Vote. Now even I know how to take a contraction apart to test correct usage. Think about you are vote?

  Someone wasn’t thinking. Sadly, he or she would still vote.

  I’d stood looking at the billboard as Barbara Ann got out the correct paint colors and two brushes. “There’ll be a big gap once we take out the apostrophe and the e,” I commented. “It’s going to look uneven.”

  “Better uneven than wrong.”

  That’s why you can’t stay mad at Barbara when she gets all fussy. It really matters to her.

  With that thought, I recalled my sister was possibly—probably—dead, and tears filled my eyes again. Since Ted had no reason to lie, I had no reason to hope.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Barb

  After I tipped the canoe over, things got really fuzzy. It seemed I was both freezing and burning. I felt buoyed by the water yet squeezed by its pressure. There was darkness and there was light. My shoulder hurt like nothing I’d felt before, and the arm attached to it didn’t respond to my brain’s commands. Somehow I held onto the crossbar with the other hand and kept my head above the surface. I don’t know how long I floated there, knowing I had to remain still and quiet but not completely able to recall why. Though I wasn’t aware of it, the action of the waves pushed me shoreward, little by little. At some point I realized my foot had touched bottom.

  Ducking out from under the canoe, I squinted at the beach. Ted was gone, which was a good thing, since I was incapable of doing any more to elude him. Standing was the most I might accomplish, and I reeled like a drunkard, barely able to make it to my feet. My shoulder throbbed, and it felt like someone had lit a campfire over my right eye. Putting my good hand up, I touched a lump on my forehead and heard a cry of pain. I was vaguely aware it was me who’d made the sound, and I promised myself I’d never touch that spot again, ever.

  Stumbling across the beach, dripping water and blood into the bay and then onto the sand, I focused on reaching the trees. I knew I had to hide, though I could no longer articulate the threat that drove me forward. When my reaching hand touched a skinny birch, I collapsed against its trunk, my whole body one painful protest. I’d rest there for a while, just for a few minutes. Then I’d go find—what? What had I been looking for, and why? The tree’s pale bark ground against my palms as my hands slid down the trunk. The sandy soil seemed to rise to meet me, hard yet soft, painful and yet so very, very restful.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Faye

  By six-forty I was dressed for a dinner billed in the program as formal. Retta had put the malachite-and-gold jewelry she wanted me to wear in a small fabric bag and hung it on the hanger, so I couldn’t go wrong. The single jarring note was my plain black shoes, which were neither fashionable nor pretty. Retta had frowned when I packed them, saying a creamy color would go better with the dress, but I told her when you own only one pair of dress shoes, they’re probably going to be black.

  Aware that Retta would care what I looked like, I examined myself in the full-length mirror before leaving the room. I must admit I looked a little like a princess—maybe Fiona from Shrek. Along with that came the thought that in fairy tales some level of tragedy has to be endured before the good part arrives. I was definitely ready for Happily Ever After.

  Dinner was a choice between pepper-crusted pork loin with apple cider gorgonzola sauce and a Rosé wine or a bacon-wrapped, stuffed chicken breast on angel-hair pasta served with Chardonnay. I went with the chicken, being unsure what gorgonzola sauce would b
e. Bacon I understood. My appetite wasn’t good, and I struggled to appear interested in table talk about which sessions had been interesting and what life changes my companions planned as a result of their experience at the retreat. I found myself thinking the two groups—these women and the models I’d spent the afternoon with—weren’t as different as they supposed. Friendship, perceptions of themselves, and concern for the future were threads that ran through every conversation. It’s like Maya Angelou said, we’re more alike than unalike.

  When the entertainment began I excused myself, mentioning a visit to the ladies’ room. The schedule included an auction for charity, some humorous prizes that promised “lots of laughs,” and a funny-but-inspiring skit about the contributions older women make to their communities. I figured I had at least an hour to assure myself that Retta wasn’t in the building

  There was no one in the common area. Apparently even the blank-eyed perfume girl had been given the night off. I tried all the doors, poking my head into closets, storerooms, and offices. I tapped on locked doors, but only once did I get an answer. A polite clerk informed me I was in the employees-only section. Apologizing, I went on.

  I didn’t find Retta, but I did find Dina. The workroom she’d been given had no A/C, so she’d propped the door open with a rock. She was seated at a table with piles of clothing on both sides and her forehead damp with perspiration. The sight all but convinced me she was blameless in whatever criminal activity was going on at St. Millicent’s. Who would stay up all night altering clothing for a fashion show that was only a cover for some crime?

  In front of Dina was a portable sewing machine, and off to one side sat a bottle of St. Millicent’s wine and a half-full glass. In a plastic chair in the far corner, Gwen was dismantling a pair of pants with a seam ripper. The machine’s noise had covered the sound of my footsteps, and when she looked up and saw me in the doorway Gwen jumped, jabbing herself in the thumb. Her gasp caused Dina to notice me, and the whirr of the machine stopped. “Faye! What are you doing here?”

  I couldn’t very well say I was searching for my sister the kidnap victim. “I have a few minutes, so I came to see if you needed help.”

  She waved at the piles of clothing. “The more, the merrier.”

  Sitting down in the remaining chair I said, “Give me that blue frothy thing. I’ll take it apart so you can sew it back together.”

  Still sucking her injured thumb, Gwen handed the dress across the table to Dina, who passed it to me, almost knocking her glass over as she did. I snatched the fabric out of the way, and she grinned, steadying the glass. “Oops!” Her manner told me she was tipsy, maybe more than that.

  While it isn’t nice to take advantage of drinkers, these were desperate times. If liquor had loosened Dina’s tongue, I might learn things I wanted to know. Glancing at my watch, I guessed I had twenty minutes, maybe thirty, before the program ended and I had to return to my room.

  Taking up a pair of scissors, I cut carefully along the seam line of the dress, from the armhole to a few inches below the waist. Dina returned to the piece she’d been working on, and I marveled at her coordination in light of the level of wine remaining in the bottle. Gwen’s gaze met mine briefly, but without judgment. She apparently had no opinion of Dina’s current condition.

  They’d done an amazing job since I left at four, and there were only a half dozen items of clothing left in the to-do pile. Still, they had to press the altered pieces, reassemble the outfits, and hang them in the places designated for each model after the dining room emptied. There was plenty of work ahead.

  “You probably should put the cork in that bottle,” I advised as Dina refilled her glass.

  She tilted her head to one side. “Would it make a difference?”

  “What’s going on?” I left the question wide, hoping for an answer that gave direction to the next question and the one after that.

  Pulling her lips around her teeth until she looked a little like a turtle, Dina thought about it. “I called Roger and told him what I thought of his trying to sabotage my business.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, he didn’t answer. Roger ignores any direct communication from me.” She huffed in disgust. “I’ll admit I haven’t exactly been sweet to him lately, but then, he’s never been a doting father.”

  “Oh.”

  “I left a message.” She glanced at the glass but didn’t take a drink. “A long one.”

  What I overheard on the stairs had been a monologue, not a conversation. I decided to try the direct approach. “Dina, if your father wants you to fail, why did he let you start a business in the first place?”

  Her gaze slid to the wall behind me. “Let’s just say he’s got a lot to make up for, and I reminded him of that.”

  I kept my eyes on my work. “I hope that after tomorrow, he’ll see that your work is worthwhile.”

  “With this mess?” She gestured at the piles of clothing. “Wanna-be models too short for my pants, too busty for my shirts, too clueless to tone down the brass?”

  I glanced at Gwen, but she showed no resentment at being part of the “mess.”

  “I don’t think they’ll embarrass you now that they know what’s expected, and you’ve got the alterations under control.” I waited until she looked up from her work before finishing. “You just need to make sure you’re under control when show time rolls around.”

  Picking up the glass, she drank the last of her wine in one gulp and set it down with a distinct ting. However, she did put the cork in the bottle and set it aside. “It would be great if Roger’s little snitch reported the show was a success in spite of all his interference.”

  “You mean Honny?” Though he was certainly eccentric, the man had worked hard all afternoon. “He seemed embarrassed by the dirty tricks. I thought he helped quite a bit.”

  Dina grunted disdainfully. “How do you think Roger knew I’d hired professional models? How did he know to cancel my order for decent shoes?” She chuckled. “I bet Honny didn’t expect his tattling to result in him schlepping all the stuff by himself this weekend.”

  I felt a little sorry for Honny. Trying to please two masters never works, and he’d seemed pretty good-natured about it. Still, Engel’s antagonism toward his daughter struck me as odd. Was he really that petty, or was he trying to keep Dina distracted and upset?

  Then it hit me: tomorrow morning, the models would be busy getting dressed and undressed. Dina would be up front, busy running things. Honny would be busy with lights, music, and whatever else needed doing. Everyone who’d come here from Detroit would be very, very busy.

  Which meant that during the show, something could happen and none of them would ever know it. Something secret. Something illegal.

  Knowing Engel’s profession, I guessed it would be a drug deal.

  “Dina, did your father seem interested in your plans for the show?”

  The look she gave me was innocent. “Interested how?”

  Oh, like something that warrants murder and kidnapping.

  A rise in the noise level down the hall told me the evening session had ended. “I’m sorry to leave you with this, but I’ve got to go.”

  She waved away my apology. “Cecily’s coming down at midnight to help us put stuff back on the hangers.” As I handed her the piece I’d worked on she said, “Thanks, Faye. With all the help from you and Cecily and Gwen, we might pull this off.”

  “Best of luck tomorrow, or break a leg. Whatever I’m supposed to say.”

  She quirked a brow. “How about ‘I hope your father doesn’t think of another way to screw things up?’ I could use a little luck in that department.”

  When I left she had already pulled her bottom lip under her teeth and returned to work, struggling to make the pieces she’d designed fit the women she was forced to work with. Whatever was going on at the inn tomorrow, Dina’s concern was that her show would succeed.

  I stopped at the front desk and told the clerk I’d
misplaced my room key. After checking my I.D., she made me a new one. Joining the crowd in the common area, I moved through and headed up the stairs as if I’d been in the dining room all along.

  The Do Not Disturb tag was still in place on the door. The room was empty, with no sign Barb had been back.

  Again I considered calling the police. Bill had disabled the room phone and done away with our electronics, but I could call from downstairs and warn them to make a silent approach. Whatever Barb planned to do hadn’t worked. It was time to get the local police involved.

  I left the room and headed to the stairway. Scanning the lobby below, I saw that the night clerk appeared to be napping in a chair behind her desk. The common area was deserted except for one woman who sat in a chair, playing games on her phone. I recognized her as the one Barb and I had seen in the ladies’ room, with tight shoes, oddly-colored hair, and a butterfly tattoo on one leg. Did she have insomnia, or were her sore feet keeping her awake?

  I started downstairs just as Bill came in from outside. Spotting me, he came forward, his gaze a warning. I back-tracked to my floor, and he followed, pointing me to an alcove where we were out of sight.

  “Shouldn’t you be in your room?”

  “What did you do with Retta?”

  “She’s uncomfortable, but she’s safe.” He made an impatient gesture. “She tried to get away, but Ted stopped that real quick.”

  “Did he hurt her?”

  He shrugged. “She might have a bruise is all.”

  That relieved my mind on one sister’s account. I couldn’t ask about Barb, so I tried an oblique approach. “Your plan is still going forward?”

  “Far’s I know.” The comment was an admission he wasn’t in the loop. He seemed almost to regard me as sympathetic, and he went on, “Ted’s all mad—something about somebody staying up all night and getting in his way.”