“I've been eavesdropping. Weird things are happening," Shelley said, when Jane was seated.
“You're telling me," Jane said, thinking of her encounter with Lucky Smith.
“Somebody set the boat adrift this morning. They had to call a neighbor across the lake to go out and fetch it back," Shelley said. "And all the straps on the life preservers are missing, as are the tapes for some exercise and dance thing they were planning. The front door of the Conference Center was locked and the key's gone missing."
“Somebody's playing silly games," Jane said. "Yes, but why? Who?"
“The environmentalists?" Jane suggested. "They must have been hanging out in the woods this morning, getting ready for their demonstration."
“I don't know. Doesn't sound like their kind of thing. They're obnoxious, but like to get credit for it. Are you listening? What are you staring at?"
“Sam Claypool," Jane said.
He was across the room, with a cup of coffee and a legal pad, jotting down figures.
“Why?" Shelley asked.
“I don't know," Jane said. "It just seems there's something wrong.”
Shelley gazed at him for a minute. "Doesn't look like it to me. He's just making notes. He looks perfectly content."
“Right, but. . I can't figure out what it is. It's like my subconscious is trying to tell me something about him.""Then tell it to speak up louder," Shelley said. But Jane couldn't dredge up what it was that she found bothersome. As she watched, he picked up his legal pad and left. The dining room was nearly deserted now; only a few of the kitchen staff were left, eating their lunch before cleaning up. "I'm off," Shelley said.
“What class are you going to?" Jane asked. "Just going to drop in on a few of them and stay wherever something takes my fancy," Shelley said. Jane went upstairs and tapped very lightly on Allison's door. It was two o'clock, but Allison might have still been napping. The door opened a moment later. "Come in, come in. Let's look at your laptop." It was soon apparent that while Allison understood the problem, Jane probably never would. "Why don't you go on and let me just fool around with this for a while and see what I can do," Allison said. "You'll be bored watching me, and I'll have the urge to explain things to you that you don't even want to know and wouldn't remember."
“Allison, if this is going to be a lot of trouble, I don't want to bother you with it."
“No, it's a challenge, and I don't have anything pressing to do this afternoon. I'll have it fixed in an hour."
“How'd you learn so much about computers?" Jane asked.
“I took a couple classes, just before we moved up here. Of course, they've changed enormously since then, but I knew just enough to keep up. I subscribe to several magazines and can always find help on the interne.”
"What did Benson do before you bought the resort?”
Allison laughed. "Nearly everything. In fact, he worked for a while for Sam Claypool. He was a mechanic at his car dealership. While he was there, he got an idea for some kind of gadget for car engines. He worked on it in his spare time and patented it, then sold the patent to a car manufacturer. That's how we got the money to buy this place. Now, run along while I still remember what I want to try with your laptop.”
Jane went downstairs slowly. Benson had worked for Sam. What a coincidence. Or was it, really? The car dealership was a huge one. Lots of people must have worked there over the years. She passed through the dining room slowly, deep in thought, and found herself looking again at where she'd seen Sam sitting a short time before. It was, she thought, the same place where he'd sat the night they arrived. He'd been writing on a legal pad that night, too.
Writing..
Jane gasped. Then closed her eyes and tried to bring up the image. Yes, that was what was wrong. Unless her mind was playing tricks on her. She had to be sure. Where was Shelley? She went to the lobby, riffled through some of the paperwork on the long table, and found the list of classes that were currently going on.
Campfire construction and safety. No.. Shelley wouldn't be interested in that.
Hiking gear selection and care. No way. Rappelling. Hah! Beadwork. Maybe. Ditto a wildflower program.
Both were being held in the Conference Center. Jane pulled up her poncho hood and set out. It was pouring down rain again. Her mind was racing as she sloshed through puddles, head down to keep the rain out of her face. She passed a few people who'd apparently given up fighting the weather and were heading home. Though it was only a little after two, it was as dark as twilight. Except when the lightning flashed. She stumbled in the main door of the Conference Center and stood for a moment, dripping rivulets.
She heard a voice in a room opposite the dining room. She opened the door gingerly and the instructor smiled and waved her in. She glanced around at people who were strapping each other into rappelling gear. "Sorry, wrong room," she said, backing out.
She hadn't brought the class list along and had to roam the halls looking in doors. She finally located Shelley in the beading class, being held in one of the small rooms in the basement. "Come with me," she said to her friend. "I think I've figured out something, but it's so bizarre!”
Shelley didn't question her. She got up and excused herself to the instructor, put her poncho on, and followed Jane.
“Back to the lodge," Jane said. They raced through the rain, sending up splashes of muddy water. They stood on the covered porch for a second, letting the worst of the water run off.
Inside, they dumped their ponchos. "What on earth. .?" Shelley asked.
“We're doing an experiment. To see if you re- member what I think I remember," Jane said. "I can't tell you without influencing your thoughts.”
“Jane, are you okay?"
“I'm not sure. Come in the dining room.”
It was deserted now. Lunch had been cleared up and they could hear voices and the sounds of dishes and silverware being put away in the kitchen. "Okay, Shelley, think back to the night we got here. Picture us sitting at that table by the fireplace."
“All right."
“It's after dinner, after Marge had hysterics about the face in the window, after dessert. Liz is trying to talk us into having a planning session. Where is everybody? What are they doing?"
“Jane, can't you just tell me what's on your mind?"
“No, I can't. It has to come from your mind."
“Okay. Liz is pontificating. She's sitting here. Al's next to her, pushing dessert crumbs around his plate and saying, 'Now, Lizzie.' Bob Rycraft is standing with his back to the fireplace, hands behind him."
“Good," Jane said. "Go on."
“Benson wasn't in the room. John Claypool was sitting sideways, staring at the windows in the back wall. Eileen was filing her nails, which I thought an especially odd thing to do at the table. Marge was sort of huddled at the end of the bench, looking miserable. Sam was glancing up at Liz as she spoke and making notes on a legal pad. I thought he was pretending he was taking down what she said, but it was probably something entirely unrelated. He was ignoring Marge entirely, which was really insensitive, considering how upset she was.”
Shelley smiled. "I gave him an extended glare, which usually intimidates people, but I don't think he noticed.”
Jane said. "Go sit where he was and pretend you're Sam."
“Jane, this is starting to get silly. Okay, okay.”
She sat down, using a class listing sheet someone had left behind, pretending it was a legal pad. She gazed at where Liz would have been, jotting down imaginary notes with an imaginary pencil. "Is this what you want?" she asked Jane.
“Right. Exactly. Now, you sit here and let me take your place.”
Shelley got up and watched Jane imitate her imitating Sam.
“Have I got it right?" Jane asked.
“Lean forward a little and tilt the paper a bit. Okay. Yes, that's it.”
Jane grinned. "Now, go sit where we were a little while ago and close your eyes."
“You've lost your
mind," Shelley said, but did as she was told.
“Now, picture Sam again this afternoon. Have you got your eyes closed? He's sitting in the same place—"
“But not so stiffly," Shelley said. "And not as dressed up."
“Right. Get the picture clear in your mind.”
“I have."
“Open your eyes. Pretend I'm still Sam. Is this right?”
Shelley stared at Jane for a long moment. "No. It's not. There's something wrong.”
"Does this make it right?" Jane asked, shifting the paper and imaginary pencil and pretending to write with her left hand.
Shelley's mouth fell open. "Omigawd! You've got it! He was writing right-handed the first night and left-handed a while ago."
“Not exactly," Jane said. "Sam Claypool was writing right-handed the first night. Somebody else was writing left-handed this afternoon.”
Fifteen
“what do you mean?" Shelley asked.
• "Remember when I suggested the dead guy and the live guy were identical twins and you laughed?" Jane asked. "Well, I laughed, too. But I think I was accidentally right.”
Shelley had come back to the table where Jane was sitting and they were speaking in hushed tones. "No, that's too absurd," Shelley said.
“Finding a dead body that's come back to life is an absurd problem. Only an absurd answer will explain it."
“Jane, maybe he's just ambidextrous. Some people are. I had a teacher once who could grade papers with both hands at the same time."
“But there are other things different about them, Shelley. The big one is that he seems to like his wife and she likes him. That surely wasn't the case the first night. They treated each other like slightly antagonistic strangers. The 'current' Sam is less stiff, like you said. The features are the same, but that stance is different. This one sort of swings his arms when he walks. The old one moved more like an automaton.–
“But something happened to him that gave him that temporary amnesia. Maybe the same thing just jarred him out of his stiffness.”
Jane didn't respond. She just looked at Shelley smugly.
“Furthermore, there are just the two brothers. Sam and John," Shelley said.
“Eileen said Sam was adopted, remember? How the parents had given up having a child, adopted Sam, and then along came John," Jane reminded her. "Sam could well have been a twin and they only adopted one of them. Adoptions used to be a lot different in regard to siblings being kept together."
“Golly!" Shelley said. "She did say that. Maybe you're right. If so, what do we do about it? Tell the sheriff?"
“I don't think Sheriff Taylor would believe us for a minute," Jane said. "I'm not entirely certain I believe it yet. Let's don't do anything right away. Let me get my laptop back from Allison, then we can go back to the cabin and figure this out in a careful, rational manner."
“I'll meet you at the cabin.”
Allison already had Jane's laptop neatly tucked back in its carrying case. "Easier even than I expected," she said as she handed it to Jane. "A corrupt file. I deleted it and replaced it from my system.”
Jane gushed her gratitude, but Allison wouldn't have it. "It was nothing, really."
“Oh, on another subject entirely," Jane said, "youtold me Benson once worked for the Claypools. You don't happen to know if there were any other siblings besides John and Sam, do you?”
Allison shrugged. "Not that I ever heard of, but we weren't social friends. Why do you ask?"
“Just wondering if there wasn't a brother or sister to help them out with their parents," Jane lied. "It seems a shame they can't take more family trips together.”
Allison looked at her oddly, and Jane, not wishing to further compound an already flimsy story, thanked her again and hurried away. The dining room was filling up again with people stopping by for a snack between classes. Jane grabbed a couple suspiciously healthy-looking doughnuts and two apples. The parking lot was emptying as some of the local people headed home early to start dinner or pick up children from school.
When Jane got back to the cabin, Shelley had coffee made and looked sneeringly at Jane's food offering. "What on earth are these? Oat bran doughnuts?"
“They might not be as bad as they look. There wasn't much choice."
“I think some governmental agency ought to make food producers fess up that things labeled bran are really low-grade sawdust."
“So what do you think of my theory?" Jane slipped off her wet boots and poncho and sat down cross-legged on her bed.
“I think it's loony," Shelley said. "But so far, it's the only one we've been able to imagine that would explain the same man being both dead and alive. But if Sam One, for lack of a better designation, is still dead, where is he?"
“Anywhere," Jane said. "You could hide a six-bedroom mansion with an Olympic-size swimming pool in these woods. Hiding a body would be a snap."
“So did Sam Two kill Sam One?" Shelley asked.
“I think he must have," Jane said thoughtfully. "Sam Two was wearing the same clothes when he was found as Sam One was at the campfire dinner. He must have taken them off the body.”
Shelley shuddered elaborately. "Yuck. Do you think Marge knows?"
“That he's a different person or that he killed her real husband?"
“Either one. Or—!"
“She was in on it!" Jane exclaimed. "Is that possible? Marge? Mild, quiet, scaredy-cat Marge a murderer?"
“Maybe Marge isn't what she seems," Shelley said. "And maybe Sam One wasn't either. Suppose their marriage had been really awful, much worse than it looked to outsiders. She discovers that Sam One has a twin — or maybe Sam Two did the discovering. Anyway, it could be to her advantage and his to bump off Sam One. Marge gets out of a terrible marriage. Sam Two gets to step into his twin's extremely well heeled shoes. And they're bound to each other by the crime. Neither can rat on the other without revealing their own part in the plot."
“And they go off happily into the sunset," Jane said. "Holding hands and making a couple of neigh-hors look like fools for imagining they found a corpse."
“From what we saw of them today, it's a very satisfactory bond," Shelley said, pouring them each a cup of coffee. "They couldn't keep their hands off each other this morning.”
She thought for a moment. "But, Jane, there could be another explanation for that. Suppose there aren't two Sams. Just the same one. He had some sort of physical and mental crisis and it brought them together. You know, pouring out of true hearts and all that like Eileen suggested. A renewal of the love they must have had when they married. A second honeymoon, so to speak."
“But how do you account for the dead body we saw — and we both know it was dead — and the fact that Sam suddenly became left-handed?”
Shelley nodded. "I'm not crazy about the idea of Marge conspiring to murder her husband, though.' She really seems to be such a basically nice, if downtrodden, woman. That scenario — physical and emotional crisis and so forth — couldn't Marge have been taken in by it, too?" She eyed the doughnuts for a moment, broke off a dainty piece of one and tasted it, then made a face.
“Marge is the one person who would know they aren't the same person," Jane said. "It would be hard to have a heart-to-heart talk about your marriage if the other person hadn't been part of it."
“Which is the reason for the amnesia," Shelley said. "If this guy is Sam Two, he could be telling her that he's the same old Sam, can't remember specifics, but has the vague sense that he's treated her badly all these years, has seen the light, and they're going to get a fresh start. Maybe even emphasize that he doesn't want to remember. That he wants to court her all over again, be young lovers."
“Would you buy that?" Jane asked. She broke off another bit of the doughnut and nibbled.
“Not on your life. But then, I'm not timid, shy, obedient Marge."
“I'll say! Yipes! This doughnut tastes as ghastly as it looks." She got up and threw the rest of it in the wastebasket. "Sti
ll, I don't believe Marge could be unaware that this is a different man. He looks the same to the rest of us, but without being too graphic—"
“Go ahead, be graphic," Shelley urged.
“I don't even need to. Different things happen to identical twins. Broken bones, scars, moles in different places. I'd imagine they develop different tastes—"
“Is this the graphic part?"
“Shelley, I'm serious. We all have things we like or dislike intensely for irrational reasons. Nature versus nurture and all that. Like me hating lima beans because I ate too many of them once and threw up at a school play. I wasn't born hating them.”
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