by Sarah Dreher
"Edith, do you think this woman would want to wreck the theater company she's an integral part of?"
"It's possible," Edith said hesitantly.
Stoner knew that hesitation. It meant Edith knew she was verging on making clinical judgments without proper evidence and was trying not to.
"I really couldn't say," Edith went on, "without knowing her better. Contrary to what the insurance companies and HMO's would have us believe, it's impossible to know what a person's real problems are in three sessions. If I thought I could do that, I'd get a job as a call-in shrink on a talk show."
Stoner smiled to herself. She found it warmly reassuring, having Edith Kesselbaum behave like Edith Kesselbaum. It made the world seem safe and predictable.
"Let's take a hypothetical example," she suggested.
"Good," Edith said eagerly. "Let's."
"Suppose someone inside Demeter Ascending is trying to sabotage the production. Why would she do that?"
"I assume you've ruled out material gain."
''Yes.''
"Fame?"
"Hardly likely."
"Personal vendetta?"
"Possible, but the women here who are most likely to want to get back at each other aren't the type. They'd rather announce each other's deficiencies in public."
"Okay." Edith made a crinkly, rustling sound in the background. "This is complicated, so pay attention."
"I am."
"There are some twisted individuals… I know you won't believe this, but bear with me... some people who might do a thing like this simply for the thrill of setting people at one another's throats. Or for a reason so obscure no one else would think of it. An imagined slight, for instance. I've encountered a few in my practice. They can turn a capable, well-trained hospital staff into spitting, name-calling children in no time at all. A women's theater group might be just the place for someone like this to find entertainment."
"Ah," Stoner said.
"The trouble is, these people are very hard to spot. I've personally worked with them for months, sometimes years, before I realized what's happening. They're very good at covering up their manipulations. It's usually only when they involve a third party that their pathology comes to light."
"How would that happen?"
"In a setting such as yours? Let me see." Edith's voice turned muffled. "Forgive me," she said. "I'm eating a Jolly Rancher. It helps me to concentrate. Now. I would look for three things. First, no two people will experience her the same way. To one, she'll appear to be an absolute angel. To another, the incarnation of evil. Very dramatically different impressions, you see."
Check, Stoner thought.
"Second, they try to create walls between people. I remember a client I once had, who convinced me that she was so embarrassed by her family that I must never, ever tell anyone, not even a colleague or peer supervisor about them. Not even anonymously. Not even during her brief and dramatic hospitalizations. Foolishly, I agreed, in the interest of sustaining the therapeutic relationship. Later, I found out that everyone who had ever met her had heard the same stories. But, by swearing us all to secrecy she had us not communicating with one another."
How many people, Stoner wondered, had been sworn to secrecy, and about what? She'd agreed to be silent on at least one occasion, herself.
"They're geniuses at coming between people, even in casual settings. It's almost a compulsion. Put them with two other people, they'll try to get one off in a corner paying attention only to them. Couples seem to be especially challenging, since one is completely taken in and flattered, while one is left out in the cold. You should see what they can do to a marriage."
"This is complicated," Stoner said.
“Well, it would be particularly difficult for you to comprehend, since you tend to be rather direct and open. Deviousness isn't second nature to you. To these people, deviousness isn't second nature, either. It's first nature."
"Is there anything I can be looking for right now? The way things are escalating, I don't think I'm going to have time to study the group dynamics."
"There's one thing that might be helpful. It's not sure-fire, as it depends on how good your manipulator is at covering up. But sometimes, when everything is falling apart around them… if you happen to catch them off-guard, they appear almost cheerfully excited."
The penny dropped. The gears meshed. She had it now.
One last question. "There is 'someone' here... hypothetically, of course... well, it's odd," she said. "I mean, sometimes she gets very upset, but I don't feel anything for her. Do you know what I mean?"
"I know exactly what you mean," Edith said. "Thank your lucky stars you're not her therapist. When I get a client like that, my tendency is to fall asleep, just to get out of the room. No matter how hard I try, I nod off. And, believe me, in the world of psychotherapy, falling asleep in the presence of a client is considered very bad manners." She paused. "I think you've found your villain. Hypothetically, of course."
Stoner grinned. "I think so."
"Listen to me very carefully," Edith said. "Be very, very cautious when you decide to move on this. People like this can make a great deal of trouble when they're cornered."
"Two-ninety-seven point threes?"
"Among others."
"Well, I can make trouble too," Stoner said, feeling almost giddy.
"I'm serious about this, Stoner. Their desire to win is so great that nothing is beyond these people. They don't really expect to be caught. Once trapped, there's no telling what they'll do. And when they turn on you, they can be very dangerous."
"I'll watch my back," she said. "Thanks, Edith. You've saved my sanity."
She hung up the phone and curled her hand into a victory fist.
Got you.
"No motive necessary," she wrote in her notebook. "Trouble an end in itself. May be cheerful when things are falling apart..." and realized she didn't have to write any more. She wasn't about to forget what she knew.
Now she had to lay the trap. Up until now she'd been playing catch-up with their perpetrator. The time had come to try to get ahead of her.
It wasn't going to be easy. It was essential to trick her into doing something in front of the others. Because if Edith was right, this woman would be expert at turning them against one another. The more out in the open this could be, the better. Let them all see the same behavior.
So what Stoner had to do was think like a manipulator. And not just any manipulator. She had to think like the Grandmother of all manipulators.
But she had the identity of her perpetrator.
And she had the motive.
Now all she had to do was prove it.
Chapter Eleven
What was left of the night crawled by. Exhausted in mind, body, and emotion, she turned out the lights and crawled into bed, grateful for the smooth sheets and soft, comforting pillow.
She became aware of the silence. Suddenly. It exploded like a fire cracker. Her eyes flew open. Her heart pounded as if she'd been thrown down a well.
Take it easy, she consoled herself. Gwen may be momentarily transfixed by Sherry Dodder, but as soon as she knows the truth...
...if she believes the truth...
She'll believe it, because I'm going to set up such an air-tight, fool-proof, alibi-resistant trap, she'll never be able to squirm out of it.
Oh, yeah? Let's hear a few brilliant ideas along those lines.
She stared at the ceiling, her mind blank. Edith Kesselbaum was right, she wasn't good at things like this. She needed to talk with someone with a devious mind.
And who would that be?
She couldn't think of anyone. No one in her personal life, and no one in Demeter Ascending.
That's pathetic, she thought. I have to start hanging out with a worse class of people.
Well, there was Divi Divi. She was a writer. Writers were probably devious, at least in their heads. How else would they make up plots? She'd have a talk with Divi Divi in the mor
ning, first thing. As soon as she got some sleep.
She closed her eyes and waited. Sleep showed not the slightest interest in her.
Trouble was, Divi Divi might be too close to things. And she might not like the idea of setting up a sister.
So put Divi Divi on the short list—the extremely, ridiculously short list— of helpful plotters, and think some more.
Sleep helped her think by remaining a thousand miles away.
Devious. Have to think devious. Like a criminal...
Clara.
She sat up in bed and turned on the light. Clara was perfect. She'd spent a lifetime out-thinking criminals.
All she had to do was wait for morning... probably early morning, elderly people usually got up early... and find Clara.
Now that she had an idea, she really couldn't sleep.
Getting up, she slipped into her bathrobe and went out into the hall. Maybe there'd be something to read in the living room. Something really boring and difficult. Maybe something by Charles Dickens—not too difficult, but truly boring.
On the other hand, maybe she could find a detective novel that would give her ideas.
Where do people get ideas, anyway?
She walked the length of the hall and started down the stairs.
J. B. Fletcher never had this kind of trouble. J.B. Fletcher could come up with a plot to entrap without even thinking hard, as quickly as you could make a pitch for switching from AT&T to Sprint. And J.B. Fletcher wasn't even a cop, just a writer.
Which brought her once again to Divi Divi. She turned and walked back to Divi Divi's darkened room and stood there, as if she could catch cleverness by osmosis.
She couldn't. And she couldn't spend the rest of the night standing in the hall like an idiot. Back to the living room.
The sky was beginning to tarnish, the stars fading out. The viscous night grew less dense as dawn purple diluted the black. Any minute now, the birds would start up, each in its assigned, raucous place. Already she could hear an occasional "peep" as the thrushes tested their voices.
Well, it was useless to try to sleep now. She stretched out on a couch and watched the trees take shape. As soon as things were moving, stirring around—as soon as she heard the kitchen crew begin their metallic symphony—she'd go upstairs and dress and come back and wait for Clara. But for now, she didn't want to face that empty, night shirt-less room alone.
Before the thrushes had yielded to the warblers, she was asleep.
Michelle the waitress woke her, coming in to set up the coffee urn. Stoner jumped up, murmured apologetically about "couldn't sleep - fell asleep," and was about to go upstairs to dress when she had an idea.
"Has Sherry come back yet?" she asked.
The waitress shrugged "I don't know, could care less," and arranged packets of Sweet 'n Low in a tiny silver dish.
"Doesn't she usually check in with you before every meal, to make sure things are running smoothly?"
"Nope." Michelle looked as if she were one of those people who couldn't function before noon, and who found herself in a job that demanded action and sanity by six a.m.
"I thought she did," Stoner said in a deliberately puzzled way.
The woman just looked at her.
Right. Her mind isn't engaged yet. Have to be direct. "She's always telling us she has to confirm arrangements with the kitchen crew."
“Well, she doesn't. We get our orders Monday morning, and she doesn't talk to us again until the next Monday, unless something goes wrong."
Stoner frowned. ''That's odd. I've seen her go into the kitchen after meals on more than one occasion."
"Snooping," the woman said. "Trying to catch someone making a mistake. Sometimes she goes upstairs, through the back. Probably trying to catch the housekeepers off guard."
"I take it," Stoner said carefully, picking up on the waitress' disgruntled tone, "Sherry Dodder isn't your all-time favorite employer."
"Nope."
"How come?"
She shrugged again. "Dunno. Just never took to her."
Stoner couldn't help admiring and envying the woman. Life would be so simple, if you could just shrug off your dislikes with a "Dunno. Just never took to her." But she couldn't do that. Oh, no. She had to analyze and rationalize and chase down her motives and try to justify every rude or unkind or negative thought. It made everything complicated and confusing.
Michelle had finished laying out the endless array of tiny little silver spoons and little linen napkins next to the little cups and saucers. She gave the table a grudging look of approval and moseyed back to the kitchen.
So, Stoner thought, all those conferences with the cooks never really happened. She was only buying time to make mischief.
She was almost humming as she ran up the stairs.
By the time she got back down, dressed and ready for action, Boneset was curled up in a wing chair, waiting for the dining room to open and reading the Sunday paper.
"It's Sunday?" Stoner said. "I didn't know it was Sunday. I've completely lost track of the days."
Boneset looked up at her and smiled. “Want to look at the Globe? The travel section's interesting this week."
"Spare me!" Stoner said with a groan. "I'm a travel agent."
"Yeah? I didn't know that. I don't know what I thought you were, but I never would have guessed travel agent."
"Neither would I."
"It must be really interesting work."
"Only if you love endless, repetitive, mind-deadening details."
Boneset shuddered. "Not me. Did you ever notice how many boring occupations there are in the world?"
"As a matter of fact, I did."
She waved the Classifieds section. "Look at this. There's not a thing in here I'd like to do."
"What do you do?" Stoner asked.
"I'm a healer."
Well, naturally. What else? "Herbal?"
"And crystals. Candle healing. Energy balancing, Bach flowers. I might get into Reiki, but it takes a lot of time to learn. And money. What do you think?"
Stoner threw up her hands. "Don't ask me. My aunt would say do it if your Higher Spirit agrees."
"Mine doesn't have anything to say on the subject. I've asked. I've asked the Goddess for a sign. Tried the Tarot, the Runes, the Ogham cards. Can't seem to get an answer."
"I guess that's your answer, then."
"Guess so." She dropped the Classifieds onto the floor. "Looks like you had another bad night."
"Sort of."
"Your aura's muddy. Want me to clear it?"
"Later, maybe." She poured herself a tiny cup of coffee. "Has Sherry come back yet?"
"No. I wouldn't look for her until at least eleven."
Stoner sat on the couch. "Really? Why's that?"
"She never gets back before late morning on Sundays. We think she has a little something going for her Saturday nights in Bangor."
She certainly did last night, Stoner thought with a dark feeling in her stomach. She'd been keeping that information at bay, shoving it back with plans and schemes. Now it leapt forward to the place of honor. If Boneset thought her aura was muddy, she should take a look at the color of things inside her psyche. Dark, heavy, and on the horizon flickers of yellow anxiety like distant heat lightening on a muggy night.
It'll be okay once Gwen gets back, she told herself. We'll talk, and I'll find out I was crazy, and everything will have a logical explanation.
What was important now was to stay around people, stay busy so she wouldn't have time to brood.
Speaking of time... "Boneset, do you know what time it is?"
Boneset glanced out the window. "A little after eight, from the shadows. See, this time of year, when the shadow of the Inn reaches the edge of the patio, it's exactly eight-thirty."
"That's interesting." Only a little after eight. They probably wouldn't be back until nine at the earliest. Even if the got up with the birds and dressed right away—if they dressed right away—and then got s
omething to eat... There's no way Gwen would go even ten miles, much less however long it took to get to Bangor, in a car without something to eat first. She was always convinced, once on the road, she'd never eat again. And Stoner was one of those people who could go on driving forever without stopping, or until the gas ran out. It had made for some interesting trips.
So, nine o’clock. You can start to worry at nine o'clock.
Meanwhile...
She glanced up as Roseann came into the room. She seemed frightened.
Roseann saw her, made her face go blank, and slipped onto the couch next to her, sneaking a peek at Boneset out of the corners of her eyes. "I have to talk to you," she whispered.
Stoner looked around. They could go out by the reception desk. That way they'd have a little privacy, and could see if anyone approached. She signaled to Roseann to get some coffee and follow her.
"You told me to tell you if anything happened," Roseann said when they were safely ensconced in front of the front door, at an angle to the stairs, where they could see people coming and going.
Stoner nodded. "What happened?"
“Well, nothing, exactly. I mean, something might have happened, but I'm not sure it was anything."
"What might have happened?"
"Someone was walking up and down outside my door last night."
Stoner smiled. "That was only..."
"At first I didn't think much about it. We're all kind of on edge, what with all the stuff that's been going on and all. I figured, hey, I'd be walking the halls, too, except you told me to be careful, and wandering around in the night didn't feel like careful to me."
"Roseann, it was..."
"It gave me the creeps, you know what I mean? Could have been some really bad person, even a crazy old ghost pacing around out there, even though they say the Cottage ghost is only a joke. Well, that's what they said when Ronald Reagan wanted to be president, and you see where that got us. Some joke."
"Roseann, that was me I was walking past your door."
“What for? Jesus, Stoner, if you wanted something, you could have just knocked."
"I needed to think. I didn't want to wake you."
