Something shady, p.16
Something Shady, page 16
part #2 of Stoner McTavish Mystery Series
Marylou threw back her head and laughed - a little too loudly. “Change you? If you ever changed, the planets would spin out of their orbits.”
“I just wondered.”
“How’s Gwen, by the way?” Marylou asked, digging in the package for an unbroken cookie.
“Not too well. She was beaten up by two men.”
“Outrage! That would never happen in Boston.”
“It happens in Boston all the time.”
Marylou waved her cookie. “Maybe in the suburbs. Should I send flowers?”
“She’ll be all right. Aunt Hermione’s doing something for her, God knows what.”
“So she’s at your house,” Marylou said in a carefully casual tone. “Is that permanent?”
“Only for a day or so.” She felt tired. “She didn’t want to cope with her grandmother’s reaction.”
“Understandable, considering.”
“To her being beaten up. We’re keeping the other quiet for a while.”
“I see.”
“Only you and Aunt Hermione know.”
“Well,” said Marylou, “I feel privileged.”
“Marylou…”
She perched on the edge of her desk and swung her leg. “So tell me all about it. Was it torrid?”
“Sort of.”
“Details, please.”
Stoner laughed. “I am not going to tell you the details of my sex life.”
“I tell you the details of mine,” Marylou pouted.
“You’re different.”
“No, Pet. By all available statistics, you’re the one who’s different.”
Things seemed to be getting back to normal. Stoner tilted her chair against the wall. “You know I don’t talk about things like that. I didn’t tell you about Agatha, did I?”
“You didn’t have to. I’m sure that was completely sordid and debauched.”
Sordid, not debauched. Actually, debauched sounded kind of interesting. “Have you ever been debauched?” she asked.
Marylou pondered. “The associate professor in Civil Engineering from M.LT. That was debauched. I think it was debauched. It seemed debauched.”
“What did you do?”
“I don’t really remember, to tell you the truth. We did it in a hot tub and threw my electrolytes off balance.”
“That doesn’t sound particularly debauched.”
“With two dolphins and a harbor seal?”
Stoner hurled a pencil at her. “You made that up.”
Marylou shrugged. “You asked. Do you want to go to lunch, or work?”
“Work, I guess. Is there work?”
“Party of eighteen,” Marylou said, shuffling papers. “For a charter to Orlando.”
“You already tried that one on me.”
“This is for real.” She passed Stoner a list of names and dates.
Her feet hit the floor. “Our first charter! Marylou, we’re a success!”
“Only if you can manage not to lose them.”
***
By four o’clock she had booked the charter - which, with luck, would remain aloft for the entire trip - and was growing increasingly restless. She wondered how things were going at home. She wondered what Gwen was doing. She wondered how she was going to bring up the subject of her plan for Shady Acres.
Gwen wasn’t going to like it. Marylou wasn’t going to like it. Aunt Hermione might not like it. Her therapist, Edith Kesselbaum, probably wouldn’t like it. She didn’t like it herself. She didn’t like it even more than anyone else wasn’t going to like it.
But she couldn’t think of an alternative.
She tried unsuccessfully to straighten out the month’s accounts. She watched the people walking by the window, but they bored her. It was a typical Monday afternoon at Kesselbaum and McTavish. Nothing was happening.
“Marylou, do you need me?”
“Always, love.”
“I mean, for the rest of the day?”
“Not noticeably.” Marylou looked up from the mysterious forms she was always filling in. “Going home to debauch?”
Stoner clenched her fists. “She isn’t well, Marylou. I’m concerned, okay?”
“Sure, go.” She dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Nothing here I can’t handle.”
As she passed Marylou’s desk, Stoner looked down. “Where do you get all that paperwork?“
“We live in a bureaucracy.”
“How come you never let me do it?”
“Because you’re incompetent.” She looked up and batted her eyelashes. “About things like this.”
“I guess I am. Marylou, are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Mind if I drop over later?”
“You never had to ask before.”
Marylou looked back down at her paper.
“Nothing’s changed, Marylou.”
“Yes, it has, Pet,” Marylou said, scratching out a column of figures and starting over. “Everything’s changed.”
***
Gwen was curled up in a corner of the kitchen love-seat, reading. She looked a little better.
“How do you feel?” Stoner asked.
“Like a million. Aunt Hermione works miracles.”
“What did she do?”
“Gave me some kind of herbal something. It tasted like poison, but I haven’t slept so well in months.”
“Did she mention what it was?”
“Valerian, I think. She says it causes hallucinations and draws rodents. Should I worry?”
“Only if you start hallucinating rodents.” Stoner slipped her hands into her back pockets. “Uh... did she do anything else?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“I was afraid she’d try to cast a spell.”
“She burned some incense and mumbled a little. Is that what you mean?”
Stoner sank onto the love-seat. “I wish she wouldn’t do that.”
“It can’t do any harm, Stoner. It’s only white magic.”
“Someday she’s going to be tempted.”
“She won’t,” Gwen said firmly. “She believes in karma.”
“There’s trouble down the road. I know it.”
Gwen closed her book and put her glasses down. “For someone who doesn’t believe in the occult, you’re as superstitious as a Medieval peasant.”
“Just because I don’t believe in it doesn’t mean I can’t worry about it.”
“She talked to Grandmother,” Gwen said.
“How did it go?”
“She was upset, but not hysterical.”
“How much did she tell her?”
“That I’d been mugged. Why didn’t we think of that?” She sighed. “Aunt Hermione has the rare talent of making everything seem matter-of-fact.”
“Everything is matter-of-fact to her.”
Gwen pulled her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees.“You’re tired, aren’t you?”
“It’s been a long day.”
It was beginning to drizzle, to the delight, no doubt, of the Channel 5 meteorologist.
“How’s Marylou?”
Stoner gazed out into the twilight. “Strange.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“You’re not?” She drew a frown-face on the misted window pane.
“She’s been your closest friend for more than twelve years.”
“I’m not going to turn all weird, for God’s sake.”
“You know that,” Gwen said. “I know that. But how can Marylou know it?”
Stoner turned away from the window. She was, frankly, tired of feeling responsible, tired of worrying, tired of problems. She’d almost welcome Shady Acres. That, at least, was clear-cut, us-against-them, the good guys versus the bad guys. Nothing murky, nothing bittersweet, no overtones or undertones. Just good, old-fashioned danger.
Except for the house.
“Did she threaten my life?” Gwen asked.
“No.”
“This isn’t going to interfere with your friendship, is it, Stoner?”
“Not on my part.”
“It better not. I won’t stand for it.”
Stoner looked at her. “You really are remarkable, you know.”
“I am not.”
“You are. Some people would be jealous of Marylou.”
“That’s silly.”
“I love you,” Stoner said.
“I heard a rumor to that effect.” Gwen poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “By the way, Aunt Hermione also called Nancy Rasmussen.”
“What did she tell her?”
“That there was something going on at Shady Acres, and Claire was caught in the middle. Incidentally, Claire doesn’t have any history of mental illness - not even normally neurotic, apparently. And Nancy was pretty sure she wouldn’t willingly take drugs.”
Stoner sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “So that means...”
“Coercion. How long do you have to be crazy on drugs before you stay that way?”
“Probably not long.”
Gwen frowned and traced the pattern of veins on the back of Stoner’s hand with her fingertips. “Stoner, what are you planning to do?”
She looked away. “I haven’t decided.”
“Yes, you have.” She waited. “Out with it.”
“I guess...” Stoner said reluctantly “...I’ll check into Shady Acres as a patient.”
Gwen’s hand went dead. “I thought so.” She was silent for a long time.
“Aren’t we going to fight about it?”
“Would it make any difference?”
Stoner shook her head.
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“If you can come up with another way,” Stoner said, “I’ll jump at it.”
“You could just drop it, I guess. It’s not your problem.”
“After what they did to you?”
Gwen put one hand over her heart and raised the other. “I swear to hereby release you from all obligations on my behalf.”
Stoner smiled. “I’m afraid that won’t do it. It’s a matter of honor.”
“Damn,” Gwen said. “I’ve signed on for a lifetime of irrefutable arguments.” She sighed. “The world is full of nice, selfish people who don’t care what happens to anyone but themselves. Why did I have to fall in love with you?”
“If you asked me not to do it, for your sake, I wouldn’t.”
“Would you ever forgive yourself?”
“I doubt it.”
Gwen rested her elbows on her knees and stared at her hands. “Well, then, there’s not much I can do but get behind the damn project, is there?”
“You could threaten to leave.”
“I love you,” Gwen said, and kissed her. “And you couldn’t get me out of your life with a Roto-Rooter.”
Stoner held her. “I’m frightened, Gwen.”
“You’re frightened? I’m so frightened I may take up black magic.”
From the front of the house came a banging sound like someone moving a piano.
Gwen sat up. “What’s that?”
“Either a Sagittarius leaving, or Marylou’s paying us a visit.”
A hand crept around the corner of the swinging door. The hand held a bottle of champagne.
“That doesn’t look like Sagittarius behavior to me,” Gwen whispered.
“Hi,” Marylou said. “Do you have a few minutes for a contrite jackass?”
“For you,” Gwen said, “always.”
“I thought we might raise a glass together after I apologize.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Stoner said. “I understand.”
Marylou rolled her eyes. “Spare me your understanding. It takes all the fun out of guilt.” She perused the cupboards. “I behaved abominably. I insulted you, I insulted Gwen, and I insulted our deep and undying friendship. I’ve made an appointment to be drawn and quartered immediately after dinner. Gwen, love, you look like something left by the side of the road. Don’t you have any Dixie cups?”
“Thank you,” Gwen said. “Dixie cups?”
“Never drink champagne from proper glasses. It cheapens the experience.”
Stoner got up. “We’re out of Dixie cups. Will jelly glasses do?”
“They’ll have to.” She handed Stoner the champagne.
“Knowing Stoner,” Gwen said, “you haven’t heard any of the lurid details. Let’s have lunch soon.”
“Now I know why I love you,” Marylou said. “Can you get away tomorrow?”
“Oh, brother,” Stoner said. She held up the bottle. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Open it, Pet. Unless you have a nuclear sub you want to christen.”
“I can’t open these things. They frighten me.”
Marylou snatched the bottle, unpeeled the gold foil, and popped the cork. It hit the ceiling and landed in the sink.
“Stoner’s planning to check in to Shady Acres,” Gwen said.
“That’s the most absurd idea I’ve ever heard.” She splashed champagne into glasses. “She should be locked up.”
“She’s going to be.”
“And you approve?”
“No.”
“Then stop her.”
“I can’t,” Gwen said. “It’s a matter of honor.”
“Honor!” Marylou waved the bottle. “Honor went out at the end of World War II.”
“Marylou...” Stoner said.
“There are unbalanced people in those places, Stoner. Ask your therapist.”
“I was counting on her to get me in.”
“Mother will get you in, all right. She’s as crazy as you are.”
“I don’t know what else to do, Marylou.”
“Go to the cops.”
“Claire’s on probation.”
Marylou tapped her foot.
“We’re not sure enough of anything,” Gwen said. “We have suspicions, some funny goings-on... Nobody knows anything. When Delia tried to get the police to help her...” She shrugged.
“From the looks of your face, they’re not running a health club up there.”
“But we can’t prove a connection,” Stoner reasoned.
“Maybe Max could call up a few old buddies from the Bureau.”
“Your father’s retired,” Stoner said. “And if we can’t go to the police with what we have, we certainly won’t get a rise out of the FBI. We don’t even know for sure if there’s been a crime.”
“If there hasn’t been, there will be before you’re through. You attract trouble like a magnet.”
“I do?”
“Why can’t you be more like Gwen?”
“Please,” Gwen said. “It hurts when I laugh.”
Marylou sighed. “All right, once you’re inside, what’s the plan?”
“I don’t have a plan.”
“Take a gun.”
“I don’t have a gun.”
“Well, get one.”
“In the first place,” Stoner said, “I don’t want a gun. I don’t like guns.”
“It wouldn’t have to be a big one. Get one of those pretty little ladies’ guns with a pearl handle.”
“And in the second place, they probably search you.”
“They probably do a lot worse than that.”
“It’s a mental hospital, Marylou. Not the Black Hole of Calcutta.”
“I’m telling you,” Marylou said, “those places are filled with twisted, demented, deranged, potentially violent people.”
Stoner was shocked. “That’s not a nice way to talk about mental patients.”
“I’m not talking about patients!” Marylou shrieked. “I’m talking about the staff.”
“Look,” Gwen said, “I’m frightened enough. Can’t we try to be a little optimistic about this?”
“You were eager enough,” Stoner added, “to send me off to Wyoming after a murderer.”
“We discussed that after dinner,” Marylou said. “I can’t be optimistic on an empty stomach.”
All right,” Stoner laughed, “I get the hint. As soon as Aunt Hermione’s finished with the Sagittarius, I’ll run out for Chinese. What would you like?”
“Sweet and sour crow.”
“Marylou,” Gwen said, “It’s perfectly normal for you to feel the way you do, but…”
“Normal! How disgusting!”
“Well, when you get tired of self-flagellation, there’s something I need your help with.”
“What’s that?”
“Delia’s daughter ran away to Canada. I’d like to try to find her.”
Marylou rubbed her hands together. “Marvelous! Our own mystery!” She turned to Stoner. “How soon are you leaving?”
“As soon as Edith can arrange it.”
“Well,” Marylou said, picking up her jelly glass, “I want to propose a toast. To danger, love, and deviance.”
“To friendship,” Gwen said.
“To Charlie’s Angels,” Marylou said. She downed half her glass. “Don’t count on me, though. Self-flagellation sounds lusciously kinky.”
CHAPTER 7
Clutching her suitcase, Stoner hung back in the doorway and stared at the floor. Edith had warned her not to giggle. She had never felt less like giggling in her life.
Dr. Edith Kesselbaum smiled at the fat little man in the baggy business suit and steel-rimmed glasses. In his left hand he held the stringy, well-chewed stump of a cigar. With his right he fondled the chart he had been reading when they interrupted him. His fingers resembled over-fed maggots.
Edith turned to her. “Come meet Dr. Lefebre, Stoner. Dr. Lefebre is Shady Acres’ clinical director. Doctor, my patient, Stoner McTavish.”
She hoped he wouldn’t try to shake hands. To touch that lump of stretched and swollen flesh... She shuddered and looked back at the floor.
“Hostile?” he asked, indicating Stoner with a tilt of his head.
“Withdrawn,” said Edith. “One of her most troubling problems. It’s my hope, in a setting like this, she can work on forming object relations. I know you’ll encourage any attempt on her part to reach out.”
He uttered a non-committal grunt.
“But she mustn’t be pushed,” Edith went on. “Let her move at her own pace. She frightens easily.”
Dr. Lefebre cleared his throat with a sound like beans in a tin can. “We’re professionals here, Dr. Kesselbaum. Highly trained professionals. I’m sure you’ll agree we are capable of formulating an adequate treatment plan.”
