Bad Company

by Sarah Dreher

  Stoner looked up. "Security people?" She hadn't seen any security people. Hadn't seen any security whatsoever, now that she thought about it.

  "We use an electronic service, in town. They're very efficient. We had a robbery once, and they were here less than nine minutes after we hit the alarm."

  Stoner had a mental image of Sherry pressing the alarm button and rushing to stand in the doorway, stop watch in hand, to time the arrival of the security service. She wondered how many minutes had to pass before they'd get written down in her little note book with her little silver pen. The woman was exacting to the point of obsession. It must be very unpleasant to work for her.

  ''You keep saying 'we'," Gwen noted. "Is there someone else?"

  Sherry gave an embarrassed laugh. "I guess it's the Imperial 'we.' Though I had an actual partner when I first started, but it didn't work out."

  Aha. Stoner wondered what the story was behind that. She was certain there'd be one. "How long ago was that?" she asked.

  "At least..." Sherry pondered. "...at least five years." Her face brightened and she laughed. "You don't think my ex-partner's causing the trouble, do you? She's been living in California for years."

  Maybe so, but some people could wait a long time to get revenge. She had a few old scores to settle herself, some day.

  “Why do you want to know about keys?" Sherry asked. "Has something happened?"

  "Routine," Gwen said. "In an investigation like this, we like to know who has access to what and where."

  Stoner didn't think Sherry looked entirely convinced. "One more thing," she said, "do you know who owns the cream-colored Lexus in the parking lot?"

  Sherry reached over to center the rose bud in the vase in the middle of the table. "I do. Why?"

  "When I saw the light last night, I went out to check. Your car was still warm.”

  "Really? The alarm didn't go off when you went outside, did it? The police didn't come."

  "No, they didn't."

  Sherry whipped out her note book again. "I'll have to call them. Could be a malfunction." She glanced up. "It's happened before. Our wiring is ancient. Another thing I have to upgrade as soon as I have the money."

  "So you were out late last night?" Stoner persisted.

  The woman looked at her with a sheepish grin. "I had a date." She blushed a little. "I'm seeing someone in Green Lake. I got back late, about 2:00, I guess. Went straight to bed, you know how it is. You must have come outside right after that."

  "I see," Stoner said. "And you didn't see anything?"

  “Well, no. I had other things on my mind." She glanced toward Gwen and gave what looked like a meaningful wink. "Know what I mean?"

  Gwen was paying close attention to her grapefruit half.

  "Sure," Stoner said.

  “Well, hey, gotta go. Catch you at rehearsal." She gave Gwen's shoulder a squeeze. "Right?"

  Gwen glanced up. "Rehearsal. Right."

  "What was that about," Stoner asked when Sherry had gone.

  “What?"

  "Meaningful looks, shoulder squeezes."

  "Oh, Stoner," Gwen said with a little laugh. ''You're such a nut."

  Stoner felt a flash of anger. ''You're denying meaningful looks and squeezes?"

  "I'm not denying looks and squeezes," Gwen said. "I'm denying meaningful." She put her spoon down. "Stoner, are you jealous?"

  She felt herself redden. "No, I just wondered what was going on, that's all."

  Gwen reached across the table and took her hand. "I think you're jealous, and I think it's very sweet."

  "I'm not jealous, Gwen."

  "Okay," Gwen said, and looked at her with those soft, brown, bottomless eyes. "But if you were, I'd think it was sweet."

  Stoner forced herself to pay attention to her blueberry muffin. She wasn't jealous. At least she didn't think she was. But something was bothering her, and she couldn't put her finger on it. She hated it. It made her feel crazy.

  The muffin tasted like saw dust. She tried her coffee, and didn't like its taste, either. She felt stuck, and the only way to stop feeling stuck was to do something. Because if she didn't do something, the old Goddess of Insecurity About Relationships was going to take control, and she was going to pick a fight with Gwen.

  "I'm thinking," she said aloud, "that I should have a talk with the Crones. Maybe the one who used to be a cop could help us out."

  "You're suspicious of Sherry, aren't you?"

  She felt her defenses go up. "Not particularly," she said, knowing there was some truth to it, but wanting to be absolutely, positively fair-minded and non-judgmental.

  "Well," Gwen said, "she does have a key to the rooms. And we only have her word for it that she went right to bed last night. If I had to put money down right now, I'd put it on Miss Dodder."

  “Why?"

  "Because she's the only suspect we have."

  Stoner had to smile. "I don't think that would stand up in a court of law."

  "Life wouldn't stand up in a court of law," Gwen said. "Do you want that other muffin?"

  "Help yourself." She felt her insides go soft with relief. Things were back to normal.

  The Crones left the dining room and settled down out on the flagstone patio with books and writing paper.

  Stoner pushed her chair back. "I'm going to try and talk to them," she said.

  "Good," Gwen said as she signed the check. "I'll head for the barn and keep an eye on things there."

  She poured herself another cup of coffee, as a cover, and went through the French doors. Standing a respectful distance away from the older women, she gazed out across the lawn as if contemplating the Universe.

  What if it was Sherry?

  Sherry had the master key to the rooms. She could have taken the note. She could have spiked Boneset's herbal teas.

  And anyone could have gone into Divi Divi's car and tampered with the scripts. Anyone could have weakened the ladder. "Anyone" could include Sherry Dodder.

  Sherry would hire her to catch herself? Like one of those serial catch-me before-I-kill-more types?

  But what better cover, than to hire a detective to solve the crime? Especially an amateur detective who didn't know what she was doing.

  That made her mad. It was insulting. She knew perfectly well what she was doing, and she didn't like being used. If Sherry Dodder was doing it, she'd...

  But Sherry hadn't been in the barn last evening, so she hadn't been the one to oil the hinges.

  Really, the only thing that actually set Sherry apart from the rest was her ability to access the rooms.

  Access the rooms? Access the rooms? She was starting to think like a computer freak. She knew it was a bad idea to computerize the travel agency, even though Marylou wanted it so badly she whined, and Gwen had sided with her. Next thing they knew, they were all going to start wearing baggy plaid slacks and horn-rimmed glasses and spend their days arguing about the relative merits of Nintendo vs. Sega and their nights watching the Sci-Fi Channel.

  An ear-splitting whistle made her jump and set her heart racing. Glancing to her left, she saw the wheel-chair-bound Crone gesturing to her in an imperious manner.

  Stoner trotted over.

  "I'm Clara," the woman said. "This is Esther."

  "Stoner McTavish," she said, shaking hands.

  "After the Lucy B. Stoners?" Esther asked.

  "After Lucy B. Stone," she said. "I don't know how it got to be Stoner. My aunt named me."

  "Figured that," said Clara. ''You're too young to've been born during the first Feminist wave, by about a hundred years."

  "The Lucy B. Stoners," Esther explained, "were married ladies who kept their maiden names, the way Lucy did."

  "Now we can only guess," Clara added, "how many of them were ladies of the lesbian persuasion."

  Stoner grinned. "Were you involved in the Women's Movement?"

  "We certainly were," said Esther. "Burned our bras at the Miss America Pageant, protested the Republican conve
ntion in Miami Beach..."

  "And everything else along the way," Clara said.

  "It was a little later when I got involved," Stoner said. "I was pretty young at that time."

  "Doesn't matter," said Clara. "At least you got there. Why have you been staring at us?"

  "Uh..." Stoner said, feeling acutely embarrassed, "I'm sorry."

  "If you're going to be sorry, don't stare," Clara said. "If you're going to stare, don't be sorry."

  "I sort of wanted to get to know you."

  "Why? Because we're old?"

  "Well..."

  "People always act like an old lesbian's some kind of rare jewel," Clara muttered. "Guess we're supposed to crawl off into the woods like stray dogs and die."

  "That's not it," Stoner said quickly, "I mean, that's not it for me. I think all elderly women look like lesbians."

  "You're right," Esther said. "They do. Once their husbands die off, they kind of butch up, don't they?"

  “We've been watching you," Clara said. "You and your lady friend. Can't figure out what you're doing here."

  Stoner hesitated.

  ''You're not with the theater bunch, they've been here for weeks." Esther motioned for her to sit down. "You're not with the outing club, And you're too young and healthy to want to sit and inhale the scenery like us."

  “With all due respect," Stoner said as she sat, "I believe that's a stereotype. I've enjoyed scenery all my life. I've even been known to sit and stare at it for long periods of time."

  “Well, you have my apology," Clara said.

  "It's okay." She wondered how to ask them about themselves without appearing nosy. Admittedly, she was curious, but she didn't want them to think she found them to be curiosities.

  "Good grief, woman," Clara said, "you're all wrinkled up in the face like a prune. What in the world is on your mind?"

  "I was just wondering," she stammered, caught, "how you met, and what it's been like for you...” She shrugged. ''You know."

  "I know," Esther said with a sweet smile. ''You want to know how two lesbians could find each other back in the Dark Ages."

  Stoner nodded.

  "I was a singer," Esther said. "Private parties, cocktail lounges. Fancy places, mostly. Grand pianos, evening dresses, no rough stuff. It was just after the end of World War II, and everyone was in a party mood, so there was always plenty of work."

  "Tell the truth," Clara said. "You were good."

  "I suppose so."

  "And sultry. She had a voice that smoldered."

  Esther laughed. "All the men thought I was singing just for them, of course, being men. And all the while I was making love to their girl friends with my voice. Some of them knew it, too, those girls. They made love right back with their eyes."

  "And one night Clara came in with her date?" Stoner said eagerly, picturing the whole romantic thing.

  "Not exactly. We'd had some trouble after hours at the club I was singing in. Female employees being accosted on their way home from work. A bunch of us got together and asked the Police Department to send someone over who could show us how to handle it. Maybe teach us a little jujitsu.”

  "That got to be an ordinary thing during the Movement," Clara put in. "But in those days it was shocking. A woman was supposed to have a man to protect her, and if she didn't there must be something wrong with her. Working girls like Esther would be picked up at the stage door by their husbands."

  "And most likely taken home to be raped or beaten, rather than having it happen on the street," Esther said. "So there was some resistance to bringing someone in to show us how to take care of ourselves. But we banded together and made a fuss, and there wasn't much the owners of the place could do. Well, we all expected some burly Irish cop to show up and laugh at us, but we were prepared to put up with a little humiliation if it got us what we wanted. Imagine our surprise when Clara comes sauntering through the door."

  "Most of them had never heard of a lady cop," Clara said with a huge grin. "Much less a female Jewish cop."

  "It was love at first sight," Esther continued. "For both of us. Every night Clara wasn't working the night shift, she'd wait for me outside the stage door..."

  "Just like the other husbands."

  "The other girls thought it was odd at first, but after a while they got used to the idea. And if one of the girls was having trouble with her man, Clara'd drop by in her uniform and have a little talk with him. That usually straightened the situation out pretty quickly." She paused for a moment, thoughtful and sad. “We never talked about what we were doing. I was a lesbian all my life, and even with Clara in my life I was afraid to say the word. We both were. When the Women's Movement came along... well, we hardly knew what to do with ourselves."

  Clara reached across the sofa and took her hand in a firm and gentle way. She held it for a moment. “We've seen a lot of changes," she said, looking into her lover's eyes. "And been through ups and downs." She glanced over sharply at Stoner. "But I still want to know what you're up to."

  She tried not to shift her eyes guiltily, but couldn't stop herself. “What makes you think I'm up to anything?"

  "Forty years on the Boston Police force, that's what makes me think it. One of the things police work teaches you is to know who's up to something."

  Stoner hesitated. She wanted to share what she knew. There were things she could learn from these women. At this point she could use all the help she could get. But...

  "Well?" Clara rattled her coffee cup against its saucer. "Are you going to spill or not?"

  "I don't know if I..."

  "Indulge me, I'm old."

  Esther tapped Stoner's arm. "Don't let her bully you."

  On the other hand, older people often noticed things. They were often careful, living in a world that had grown complex and abrupt. Attentiveness was a survival technique.

  She decided to be honest. "Yes, we're up to something. And I think I could use your help, but I don't feel comfortable saying too much."

  "How about a compromise," Esther said, leaning forward eagerly. ''You let us help you, and you can share on a Need-to-Know basis."

  "That'd be great," Stoner said.

  "Damn it, Esther," Clara huffed. "You sold out. We could have gotten a better deal."

  "Probably not," Stoner said. "I'm just not sure what's the right thing to do here."

  "If you always wait to be sure," Esther said, "you'll never do anything."

  Clara rubbed her hands. "Know what this reminds me of? One of those murder-mystery weekends."

  “We do them through our local AARP chapter," Esther explained. "They always hate to see us coming."

  "Why?"

  "Clara figures it out before anyone. But they don't dare ask us not to come. She threatens to sue them for disability discrimination."

  "Sounds more like ability discrimination to me," Stoner said.

  "So," Clara said, "what's our first clue?"

  Stoner ran her hand through her hair. "Okay. We were asked to come here because some strange things have been happening in the theater group."

  Clara nodded. “We noticed that."

  "What did you notice?"

  "Nothing you can put your finger on. People seem more tense. Laughter has a forced quality. Everyone's trying too hard."

  "And it's not just theater nerves," Esther added. "I used to sing in cabarets, so I've seen theater nerves. You cry, you shake, you faint or throw up. But this isn't any of those things."

  ”Seems like it was just little accidents up to the time you got here. Oh, there was the business with the flashlights, but the gals seemed to dismiss that as a prank. It was Roseann and the script changes that really threw them. Then the ladder last night... The atmosphere's so thick this morning you could cut it with a knife."

  Stoner stared at them in amazement. "You know all about it."

  "Of course we do," Clara said.

  "How?"

  "When you get to be old," Esther explained, "people get careless
around you. If you're in a wheel chair they think you're rooted to the ground like a tree trunk. They think you can't hear, so they don't lower their voices. They think you no longer have a mind or a memory, so they'll say anything in front of you believing you won't understand or remember it."

  "Old age is very useful," Clara said. "You don't have to spend much time sleeping, and you can just sit in one place and observe. Most of the time they don't even see you. You'd be amazed at what you can find out."

  "I see," Stoner said. "Have you drawn any conclusions?"

  Both women shook their heads. "Not enough information yet," Clara declared.

  “Would you be surprised," Stoner asked, “if I told you I think someone's been in our room?"

  Clara guffawed, "I'd be surprised if they hadn't. These old locks. Give me your key and a file and I'll be in and out of every one of those rooms before lunch. Lock them on my way out, too."

  "Clara was always especially good at breaking and entering," Esther said.

  "So it wouldn't be hard for someone to make a pass key?"

  ”Simplest thing in the world." Clara gave her a deep look. "Have we eliminated your chief suspect?"

  Stoner shook her head. "I don't have any suspects, really." But she would have, of course, if it took a special key to get into the rooms. That would pretty much narrow it down to Sherry Dodder. And Clara, of course, who admitted she was adept at getting through locked doors, and who may or may not be rooted to her wheel chair like a tree trunk.

  "Sorry," Clara said with a laugh. "Not me. No motive."

  "Am I that transparent?"

  “Well," said Esther, "let's just say your eyes shifted in her direction about the same time your thoughts arrived there."

  "The trouble is," Stoner said, frowning, “I can't think of anyone who'd have a motive. All of the women seem to want this to work. I haven't picked up any jealousy or antagonism between them... They get annoyed with each other at times, but it doesn't seem to go very deep."

  "Rita doesn't seem overly fond of Marcy," Clara suggested, "but Rita doesn't strike me as the type to do this. More the plate-throwing sort, if you know what 1 mean."

  Stoner knew what she meant.

  The morning was moving along. They'd be expecting her. She stood and stretched. "I have to go. If you think of anything..."