Bad Company Read online

  Or was it just another attempt to create anxiety and distress in Demeter Ascending as a whole?

  Sherry, Roseann, Boneset. Producer, actor, techie. The only pattern, if there was one, seemed geared toward the whole production.

  From her perch near the top of the roof beams, she could see the other women at work. Lifting, carrying, steadying, handing. They worked together smoothly, like a team. More than that, she thought as someone said something she couldn't hear and the rest broke into gentle laughter. They worked as a loving team.

  It wasn't any overt show of affection. But the energy wafting from them was warm and caring. They were easy with each other, and sure of themselves. If one woman needed a tool, another was beside her with it before she could ask. If one needed an extra hand, another magically appeared to help. Their actions were like a dance, carefully choreographed and well rehearsed.

  Boneset offered to take over the light hanging again, but they pushed her back.

  "Not without a Feminist analysis of the dialectic of the situation," Barb said in a loud and professorial tone.

  The rest "booed" her.

  It was hard to imagine any woman in that group wanting to harm any other.

  Boneset cornered them as the entered the living room from the darkened patio. They'd taken a walk down by the lake to clear their heads and try to make sense of what had happened tonight. They hadn't succeeded at either.

  Stoner was still nerved up. Her shoulder was beginning to ache and go stiff. She was working on a dull headache. Even Gwen's promised bath was beginning to lose its charm. She just wanted to take an overdose of aspirin and go to bed.

  Three incidents so far—four, if you could count the missing flash lights. And the whole thing showed no signs of making sense. Threatening notes were one thing, easy to do and requiring little planning, adequate for a spontaneous expression of disgruntlement. She'd been tempted to write threatening notes, herself, though not since she was eleven. Still...

  But it wasn't so easy to tamper with a manuscript. First you had to get hold of the original, and that had only become available last night. Then you had to match the typing, probably by using Divi Divi's computer disk and printer. Finally, have your counterfeit pages reproduced on matching paper and get hold of Roseann's script to make the substitution. Strictly from a convenience angle, that made Divi Divi the logical suspect for this part of the caper.

  Gwen made a note for them to find out exactly who had taken the script to the copy shop. And what time the copy shop closed, and where it was, how far away, which would narrow down the time frame a little.

  When they applied the means-and-opportunity method to the ladder, most of the tech crew came under suspicion. Except for Boneset. Even if she'd done the other deeds and wanted to deflect attention from herself by appearing to be a victim, she seemed too intelligent to rig such a potentially disastrous accident. Because, if Stoner hadn't broken her fall, Boneset would have quite a few bones that needed to be set.

  Then there was the matter of the paper on which the threatening note, serious or not, had been written. It seemed to match the pad on Barb's clip board.

  It was beginning to look as if half of Demeter Ascending was turning on the other half.

  None of it fit together. She couldn't even figure out where they should start to look for clues. It gave her a helpless, depressed feeling. Who did she think she was, accepting Sherry's offer, letting her believe Stoner might be able to help her? Who did she think she was, pretending to know what she was doing?

  "Hey," Boneset said in greeting. "I was just on my way to your room." She had changed into short seersucker pajamas and bare feet and was carrying a mug of steaming liquid. "I wanted to thank you again for saving my life."

  "That's okay," Stoner said. "It was my pleasure."

  Boneset giggled. "I doubt that. Anyway..." She held out the mug. "Here's the tea I promised you. I just had some. Sherry let me use the kitchen tonight."

  "Thanks," Stoner said, and took the mug. The tea was a kind of greenish-dishwater gray. “What's in it?"

  "Chamomile," Boneset said. "And valerian. That's what gives it that awful color and odor. And some other herbs. You're not allergic, are you?"

  Stoner shook her head.

  "Well, I have to hit the sack. Don't drink that until you're ready to go to sleep. It packs a wicked punch, but no hangover. See you in the morning." She disappeared up the stairs.

  Stoner wrinkled her nose. "I don't know about this. It looks awful."

  "I disagree," Gwen said. "It looks evil. But most of Aunt Hermione's potions look evil."

  "Most of them are evil. Aunt Hermione doesn't know what she's doing with herbs. It's some kind of mental block."

  "She cured one of my headaches once," Gwen said as they started up the stairs.

  "She gave you plain parsley tea, and went in the other room and did a healing chant. She doesn't do well on the material plane. I'll bet a lot of psychic people have that problem. We'll have to ask Edith Kesselbaum."

  "That's an idea," Gwen said, coming to a dead stop.

  Stoner, following, nearly crashed into her. A few drops of tea spattered on the stairs. She wiped them up with a tissue, and was relieved to see they didn't eat into the wood or pulverize the tissue. "What idea?"

  "Call Edith. Tell her what we know. Maybe she can give us an idea of what to look for, psychologically speaking."

  "It couldn't hurt. And we'll call Aunt Hermione, too. She might be able to focus in on someone psychically."

  "Good," Gwen said, turning back to the stairs. "Now that we have a plan, we can get some sleep. After bath time, that is."

  Stoner doubted it. Unless Boneset's tea was a miracle drug, pain, worry, and frustration were going to combine to give her another sleepless night.

  Sherry was lounging on Gwen's bed reading a magazine.

  "Hi," she said cheerfully. "Hope you don't mind my just coming in. I knew you'd be along soon."

  Actually, she did mind, but Sherry seemed to think it was the most natural thing in the world. She didn't want to appear selfish or tight-assed, so she said, "It's fine."

  "So," Sherry said, swinging her feet to the floor and tossing the magazine aside. "What have you found out?"

  Stoner hesitated as Gwen closed the door tightly behind them. They didn't have anything to report, really. And she found herself resenting Sherry's assumption that they'd tell her everything. On the other hand, she had hired them. At least she'd asked for their help and was supplying them with room and board. So maybe she did have the right to know...

  "I'm sure you heard about the ladder," Gwen said.

  Sherry nodded, and a frown crossed her face. "It's really scary, you know. All the stuff that's going on. I don't know what to make of it."

  "Neither do we," Gwen said. She pulled her pajamas from the bureau and made a great display of taking off her shoes, giving the definite Going To Bed message. "It's a miracle no one was badly injured."

  "I know," Sherry said. "I can just picture the law suits. And it would have been terrible if someone had been hurt," she added quickly. "I feel so responsible."

  "To the best of your knowledge," Stoner said, taking her cue from Gwen and lifting her robe from the back of the bathroom door, "was that ladder in good shape?"

  "I think so. The only time it's used is when we're picking apples down at the little orchard. Nobody's ever complained. Do you think there was something wrong with it?"

  "There was obviously something wrong with it," Gwen said with an edge of irritation. "It broke."

  Sherry glanced over at her. ''You mean you think someone tampered with it?"

  "We haven't the slightest idea," Gwen said. “What do you think?"

  "I don't know," Sherry said, her voice a little shaky. "The whole thing really scares me."

  "Well," Stoner said, and began to unbutton her shirt, "I wish we had news for you, one way or the other. At least everyone escaped unscathed."

  ''You didn't." S
herry's eyes were big and round.

  Stoner gave a little laugh. "My injuries aren't exactly of law-suit quality."

  "Do you really believe that's all I care about?" Sherry's lower lip trembled a little. "I'm sorry if I made you think that. These are my sisters. You're my sisters. Nothing's more important than your safety."

  "We know that," Gwen said kindly. “We're tired and cranky, that's all."

  "Oh." Sherry brightened. "That's okay."

  "How did it go with the suppliers," Stoner asked, determined to be kind and hospitable if it killed her.

  Sherry laughed and shook her head. "Boys. They just can't understand the importance of things. When we say we have only organic vegetables here, we expect our vegetables to be organic. To boys, a carrot is a carrot. Do you think they're trainable?"

  "Carrots?" Stoner asked.

  "Boys."

  "Trainable," Gwen said. "Probably not educable."

  "I'm getting a reputation as The Bitch who runs The Cottage."

  "It's probably just as well," Gwen said. ''You'll get better service." She took her soap and toothbrush kit from the drawer. "I really hate to rush you, but we were headed for bed. Okay if we talk again some other time?"

  "Oh, wow, sure, I'm sorry," Sherry bubbled as she jumped to her feet. "Let me know if you figure anything out." She started for the door.

  "Wait," Stoner said. "I was wondering about the scripts."

  Sherry turned back. "Yes?"

  "Where did Rebecca have the script changes run off last night?"

  "She didn't. Div took them in when she finished writing them."

  "Where did she take them?"

  "Kinko's, in Bangor. Anything else?"

  Damn. Stoner shook her head.

  "Well, good night, then. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite." She closed the door firmly behind her.

  "Kinko's," Gwen said grimly. "Bummer."

  "Yeah." Of all the hundreds of copy shops in a fifty-mile radius, she'd gone to the one that was open 24 hours. So much for narrowing down the time. So much for anyone seeing her come or go, or anyone slip into her room. If Divi Divi was like most writers, it was probably 3 A.M. when she went into town. Which meant she was probably the only one with access to the script changes.

  Gwen went into the bathroom and started running water in the tub. "Come on," she said. "Take your bath and drink your tea. We've done everything we can tonight."

  A little breeze had come up. Just enough to lift the curtains and move like breath across her skin. The night was dark and silent, the moon already gone down behind the lake. Stoner felt herself relax, felt the soft warmth of Gwen's hands gently massaging her back. She tasted the smoky flavor of Boneset's tea on her tongue. And drifted off to sleep.

  Something woke her deep in the night. A solitary metallic click, like the sound of a single typewriter key.

  She listened to the darkness. Gwen's breathing was soft and deep, sleep sounds.

  Must have been her imagination, or the random sound of an old house responding to changes in temperature or barometric pressure.

  She tried to get back to sleep, but her ears were alert as foxes' ears.

  Minutes drifted by, and still no sound.

  Something was happening to the light outside the window. Not dawn, but an occasional pulse of gray, so faint she wasn't certain it had happened. She waited and focused her attention.

  There. And again.

  Slipping from her bed, she sidled to the window. The lawn was black as velvet, the moon gone down, the stars cold.

  There. Someone with a flashlight, just like last night, slipping from the parking lot and heading toward the barn.

  The parking lot.

  Her mind shifted into gear. If Divi Divi had left the new scripts in the car, and hadn't locked the doors... there seemed little reason to lock car doors at The Cottage, and no one would expect a thief to go after script changes, not even whole scripts...

  That was how it could have happened. Take Roseann's new pages, and substitute the fake ones.

  But then the perpetrator would have to find a way to ensure that Roseann got the wrong script. The new pages were probably handed out at random, first come first served.

  Maybe not. Maybe the only changes were to Roseann's and a couple of other scripts—Rebecca's, of course, and probably Barb's, they were the people who would have to have the scripts intact. And the lighting people. And maybe props women would need to have all the right cues. Assistant director, who would be—as we theater folks say—on book.

  No, yours truly was temporary assistant director, and she hadn't been given a script at all.

  But there had been plenty of scripts around which needed to be up-dated. Getting the right one to Roseann would be a problem.

  On the other hand, if the purpose of messing up the scripts was to disrupt the company in general, and Roseann herself wasn't necessarily the target, it wouldn't be difficult at all.

  Assuming Divi Divi had left the new scripts in her car.

  Assuming the perp had access to Divi Divi's car.

  Assuming Divi Divi wasn't the perp.

  Stoner sighed. There was one aspect of this situation that was becoming increasingly clear: whoever was causing the problems with Demeter Ascending was working from the inside.

  The light flashed into view again, lighting up the barn door. It opened, and closed again on darkness. Again the pale glow, indistinct as moth wings in the windows.

  Stoner pulled herself up. If she slipped out now, she could creep across the lawn under cover of night. She might be able to see who it was lurking around the barn. Might even catch them in the act. Red-handed.

  No, said Gwen's voice in her mind, if you find anything, you wait to act until you have help. No heroics here.

  Okay. Surveillance only.

  Quietly, she slipped her jeans over her boxer pajamas. Struggled into a dark tee shirt. Slipped her feet into running shoes—not the safest things to go creeping about in the dark, with their reflective heels. But the darkest she could find.

  There was always the possibility of going bare-foot. And the possibility of stepping on night-crawlers wriggling out of their subterranean caves to lap up a bit of dew. She'd stepped bare-foot on all the night-crawlers she cared to by the age of five, thank you very much. Not as sudden as snakes, but much slimier. Better seen than slimed.

  Opening the closet door very, very slowly, she fumbled for her knapsack. Touched canvas. Only canvas knapsack left in America, no doubt, things having turned more and more toward weird, smooth, brightly-colored petroleum products—and how in the world could you feel as if you were really camping when your gear looked like something out of the Magic Kingdom?

  She found the buckle and the flap, let her fingers do the stumbling through the collection of necessities inside. Small first aid kit. Sewing kit— never knew when that would come in handy. Compass-whistle-waterproof match box combination. Swiss Army knife that she never used because she didn't want to dull the blades. Swiss Army knives were plentiful right now, but anything could happen, better be safe. She should probably pick up a second knife, for emergencies. Small packet of paper napkins, so fingered and frayed they weren't good for much. A collapsible drinking cup. Personally, she enjoyed drinking from her own cupped hands, but once on a hike she had found a lost dog. In addition to being lost, the dog was thirsty, and they had both been considerably frustrated while she tried to pour water from a canteen with one hand and provide a drinking dish with the other. As soon as she had returned the lost dog (it turned out to be a Dandy Dinmont Terrier/Beagle mix, very high energy) to its tearfully grateful family, she had gone directly to the camp store and purchased the collapsible cup.

  She found what she was looking for at the bottom, of course. Her very own, personal, handy flashlight.

  Standing, she winced at the "pop" in her left knee. Creaking, popping, what next?

  Well, as a sweet young dental hygienist had once told her, after 35 it's all down hil
l.

  Twerp.

  Gwen stirred a little, muttering in her sleep. Stoner leaned closer.

  "Stoner?"

  "Don't wake up. I'm going out."

  "Out where?"

  "To the barn. Someone out there."

  "Oh. Be careful. Love you." Her breathing deepened as she fell back asleep.

  Stoner grinned to herself. If Gwen woke up and remembered that little exchange, there'd be hell to pay in the morning.

  She touched Gwen's hair for luck and slipped from the room.

  The furniture made huge haystack chunks of gray, but they reflected enough light so she could move around them. Creeping to the windows, she looked out toward the barn. Whoever was inside was still there, moving back and forth in the stage area.

  Okay, first we check the inn registry for a description of Divi Divi's car, then try to sneak up on our Barn Visitor.

  Shielding the light with one hand, she turned the pages in the guest book until she found Divi Divi's name. Last name, Jones. Divi Divi Jones? Seemed like a waste of a good first name. Should be something exotic, like the woman herself. Jones, indeed.

  She was in luck. In keeping with the quaintness of The Cottage, Sherry had written all the registration information in the book. Name, address, phone, car description... If she'd had to look it all up on the computer, she'd waste precious time. She could work it just fine, but sometimes people picked very odd names for their files. Marylou always claimed they didn't need password protection for their files at the agency as long as they were creative in naming them. The result was that they had files named things like "IGOPOGO," which Marylou found descriptive of tours to Atlanta. It worked, though. No one had ever broken into their files. And that included Stoner, who always had to call Marylou when she needed information after hours.

  At one time she had toyed with the idea of getting them beepers and interrupting Marylou every time she went out to dinner—or later, if she had gone out with a man she was interested in. But it really didn't seem worth the trouble, and probably wouldn't annoy Marylou, anyway.

  It was very difficult, trying to annoy someone who wasn't annoyed by much. Very frustrating.