Something shady, p.5
Something Shady, page 5
part #2 of Stoner McTavish Mystery Series
“What’s the house dressing?”
He shrugged.
“Is it gray?”
“Sorta.”
“Just butter, thanks. And a salad.”
“No salad. Slaw.”
“Is it gray?”
“Sorta.”
“I think I’ll skip the slaw.”
“Comes with the meal.”
Stoner sighed. “All right, I’ll have the slaw. If I agree to take it, can I have coffee? Black?”
“Yeah.” He engraved the order on his laundry list and turned to Gwen.
“I’ll have the same.”
The boy chuckled. “Girls never make up their own minds.”
Stoner made a move to rise. Gwen warned her back with a glance.
“You on vacation?” Steve asked.
“Yes,” Gwen said pleasantly.
“Funny time of year.”
“We wanted to hit the off-season rates at the East Wind Inn,” Stoner said.
Gwen kicked her. “Castleton seems like a nice town.”
The boy grimaced. “I think it sucks.”
“It does,” Gwen agreed. “A little.” She gave him a charming smile. “Where are all the people?”
“Screwing around.”
“I see. Are there any local industries?”
“Fishing. Screwing around.” He turned to go.
“We noticed what looked like a large estate,” Gwen said, calling him back. “Out on the Cliff Road. Do you know who lives there?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want to know for?”
“Just curious.”
“Nobody lives there. It’s a nut house.”
“Exclusive?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Real exclusive. You oughta see the cars some of those weirdos drive. Guess rich people have a lot of problems, huh?”
“Like anyone else, I guess,” Gwen said.
“I’ll tell you,” he went on, “if I had the bucks some of those characters got, I wouldn‘t check into a joint like that. I’d split for L.A. and catch the big ones.”
“You like to fish?” Stoner asked politely.
He stared at her dumbfounded.
“I think,” Gwen explained, “the gentleman’s talking about surfing.”
“Shag me a board and a box and a 4x4 and a six-pack, and just lay on the sand soakin’ up the bennies and checkin’ out the chicks.”
“Translation?” Stoner asked.
“He wants,” Gwen said, “to get a surfboard, radio, a 4-wheel drive vehicle, and beer. And pass his days sun-bathing and girl-watching.”
“That’s what I said,” Steve complained.
“My friend just moved to this country,” Gwen said. “Her parents were missionaries in China.”
“That’s cool,” Steve said. He moved half a step closer to Gwen. “Whata you do?”
“She’s a teacher,” Stoner said.
Steve backed up. “Shit.”
“Substitute,” Gwen said quickly. “I’m trying to get out of it. As a job, it...”
“Sucks?” Steve offered helpfully.
“Sucks. Maybe I could find work out at ... what did you say the name of that place was?”
“Shady Acres.”
Gwen nodded. “Shady Acres. What do you know about the staff?”
“Nothing,” Steve said abruptly, his face closing over.
“That’s strange, isn’t it? An isolated town like Castleton, you’d think they’d mingle with the townspeople...”
“Not as strange as coming here on vacation.” He turned on his heel and crossed to take the Gray Man’s order.
Stoner watched him go. “Do you think you wounded his civic pride?”
“Nope,” Gwen said. “I think I struck a nerve.” She leaned across the table. “For future reference, when we want to get information from an adolescent, don’t tell them I’m a teacher. Adolescents and teachers are natural enemies.”
“He certainly clammed up when you asked about Shady Acres. What do you think that means?”
“Maybe something, maybe nothing. I’d have to consider on it.”
Stoner grinned. “Southerners talk funny.”
“Yankees got no couth. Having a nice time?”
“Great.” She looked down at her drink. “Gwen, do you mind terribly spending your vacation like this?”
“Like what?”
“Looking for lost nurses.”
“If we weren’t doing that, I’d be looking for local history. I’ve always wondered, what do most people do on vacations?”
“I don’t know,” Stoner said, “but I’m sure they don’t do it in Castleton, Maine.”
“Why not? It has scenery, atmosphere, and lobstah.”
“Probably gray lobstah.”
Gwen leaned back and sipped her drink. “Tell me, how do you know if you’re a lesbian?”
“Good grief, Gwen! Not here!”
“There’s nobody around, except for our little gray friend over there, and I hardly think he’s interested in…”
“Everybody’s interested in.”
“So what are the signs, other than paranoia?”
“I really think we should talk about something else.”
“Okay,” Gwen said. “Let’s talk about you.”
Her deflector shield snapped into place. “Why?”
“Because there are a thousand things you haven’t told me about yourself.”
“Such as?”
“What was your dog’s name?”
“Scruffy.”
“What are your parents’ names?”
“Walter and Dotty.”
Gwen choked on her drink. “Walter and Dotty?”
“Walter and Dotty.”
“Nobody’s named Walter and Dotty.”
“Your mother’s name was Daphne. Think about that.”
“I try not to. Walter and Dotty. Jesus.” She leaned back. “When did you stop believing in Santa Claus?”
“I never believed in Santa Claus. My parents are realists.”
“And you’re a romantic. How did that happen?”
“I’m not a romantic.”
Gwen smirked.
“I am not.”
“Okay, you’re not.” She toyed with her silverware. “I’ll bet you made good grades in school.”
“Sure, it was easy. I didn’t spend all my time thinking about boys.” She laughed. “I spent all my time thinking about why I wasn’t thinking about boys.”
“Did that frighten you?”
“It terrified me.”
“Does it still?”
“No. Gwen, are you driving at something?”
“Not me. You brought it up.”
“It’s awkward at times,” Stoner said. “When I meet new people, mostly. I never know how they’re going to react.” She took a drink. “And there’s the problem of when to tell them. Do you say, ‘How do you do? I’m Stoner McTavish, lesbian?’ Do you kind of slip it into the conversation? Or do you wait until someone makes a nasty remark about queers, and storm off in a huff?”
“As I recall, when you told me, you kind of slipped it into the conversation. Have you ever stormed off in a huff?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be polite.” She glanced across the room. The Gray Man was reading a newspaper.
“What was your first lover like?”
“We were in the same journalism class at B.U. Well, we weren’t lovers, really. It was more like a romantic friendship. You know, long intimate talks, moonlit strolls along the Charles. After we graduated, Laurie went to Texas to law school, dropped out during the first year, and got married. Probably has six kids and low back pain by now. Texas can do terrible things to you.”
“Romantic friends,” Gwen said, swirling her drink around in her glass. “I like that.” She looked up. “Is that what we are? Romantic friends?”
Stoner tightened her grip on her glass. “I guess so.”
“Allowing, of course, for the fact that you’re not a romantic.”
“All right, Gwen.”
Gwen reached across the table and took her hand. “I hope we’ll always be friends, Stoner.”
Always? I doubt it. One of these days you’ll meet one of those “nice young men” your grandmother’s so fond of. Six months after you marry him, he’ll decide to move to Oklahoma City and you’ll go along, no questions asked. I’ll visit you once a year in his house, eating his food, cooked by him on his brick bar-b-cue grill on his patio. After dinner we’ll sit around, the three of us, making small talk in his living room until it’s time to go to bed - you with him, and me in the guest room. With luck, we’ll get a couple of hours alone together in the laundromat playing with the baby. After a while, we won’t know what to say to each other anymore.
She smiled tightly and stared at Gwen’s hand.
“What’s wrong?” Gwen asked.
“I just hope you’re right.”
Gwen played with her fingers. “Tell me, what’s absolutely the worst thing I could do to you? The one thing that would make you hate me forever?”
“I would hate you forever,” Stoner said with great seriousness, “if you asked me to wear a dress.”
Gwen laughed.
“What about you?”
“I would hate you,” Gwen said, “if you took me to a Marx Brothers Festival.”
“Shucks, that’s what I had planned for this evening.”
Two plates bearing steaming lobsters floated in front of their faces.
Stoner jerked her hand away from Gwen’s. “Fast service.”
They waited in silence as Steve-your-waiter spent half a lifetime filling the table with dishes. He surveyed his creation with a satisfied look. “Want anything else?” he asked Gwen.
“No. Thank you, Steve.”
He faded into the shadows.
“Really,” Gwen said, “you’re so jumpy.”
“Sorry. It’s a reflex I picked up in King’s Grant.”
Gwen tore a claw from her lobster. “Where’s King’s Grant?”
“Rhode Island. My home town.”
“Oh,” Gwen said. “Sounded like a shopping mall.” She moved her coleslaw downwind. “What was it like growing up there?”
Stoner shrugged and vandalized her dinner. “Not very nice.”
“Have you been back?”
She shook her head. “The only person I’d want to see is Scruffy, and they had him put to sleep.”
“Was he sick?”
“They did it because I wouldn’t move back home.”
Gwen put her fork down. “Stoner, that’s the meanest thing I ever heard.”
“It created some tension between us.”
“I hope you never, ever give them a thing they want.”
Stoner shrugged. “I’m trying.” She stabbed her baked potato.
Gwen split her lobster tail, slipped the meat out, and began cutting it into tiny pieces. “When did you first suspect you were...” she dropped her voice to a stage whisper, “...a lesbian?”
“In sixth grade, when Ernie Jones kissed me on the playground and I didn’t swoon with delight.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously. You see, I was already madly in love with his mother, who drove the school bus.”
“There was a woman back home in Jefferson,” Gwen said. “The kids used to whisper about her being queer. For the longest time I thought they meant strange. She didn’t seem strange to me, just tall. Queer doesn’t mean tall, does it?”
“Not in Massachusetts.”
“Back in Georgia, nice people didn’t talk about things like that.”
“Back in Rhode Island,” Stoner said, “things like that were a constant topic of conversation.”
Gwen poked at her lobster. “Living with Grandmother’s a little like living in Georgia. Gracious on the outside, but…”
“She’s really getting to you, isn’t she?”
“You know, I honestly believe she’d rather see me married to Charles Manson than happy with a woman.”
“Did she object to you coming up here with me?”
Gwen shook her head. “That would have been direct.”
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Stoner said.
“It isn’t particularly fun.” She strangled a lemon wedge. “I’m tempted to have it out with her, but…”
Stoner smiled. “You’re too polite.”
“Too scared.” Gwen traced the pattern on the placemat with her fork. “She’s the only family I’ve had since I was fourteen. When my parents were killed, she just came along and brought me to live with her. No questions asked, no hesitation.”
“I know.”
“She’s been good to me, kinder, more loving than my parents ever were. But the past year...”
“She forgave you for marrying Bryan. Maybe she’ll forgive you for being friends with me.”
Gwen shook her head. “That isn’t good enough. I want her to change. I’ve never wanted her to change before, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“If I know Aunt Hermione,” Stoner said, “she’s taking a crack at it right now.” She glared at her coleslaw. “They’re probably burning incense and chanting together.”
“I wouldn’t care if they paint their faces with menstrual blood and dance naked in a clearing. It’d be an improvement.”
“You’ve had a rough winter, haven’t you?”
“I’ve seen better.” She scanned the dining room and leaned forward. “Stoner, I think that man’s watching us.”
“I told you. Everybody’s interested.” She glanced over. The Gray Man’s back was partly turned to her, but he seemed to be staring at Gwen.
Gwen shuddered. “He reminds me of Betty Jean’s uncle Ed John that ran the O.K. Used Car lot back in Jefferson.”
“Betty Jean?” Stoner said, suppressing a giggle. “Ed John? I didn’t know you were the Waltons.”
“Betty Jean was my friend in junior high. We used to dress up in bouffant hairdos and circle skirts and ankle bracelets, and hang around the A& W Root Beer stand in her Chevy convertible.”
“At fourteen?”
“Betty Jean was sixteen. Anyway, in Jefferson you drove a car as soon as you could reach the accelerator. Betty Jean was big for her age. Or young for her size.”
“What do you do with a bouffant hairdo in a Chevy convertible?”
“You spend a lot of time fixing your hair. I was the quickest back comber in the ninth grade.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Stoner grinned.
“Well, you never will. I put all that behind me when I became a galvanized Yankee.”
“What did they call you? Or were you the only Gwen among all those Sally Jo’s and Billy Bob’s?”
“Eat your dinner,” Gwen said, her earlobes flaming.
“Come on, tell me. I told you about Ernie Jones.”
“Well... no.”
“Come on.”
“Gwyneth Ann,” Gwen said, “and I never want you to mention it again.”
Stoner hooted.
Gwen threw a lobster claw at her. “I mean it, Stoner. If you ever call me that, our friendship is over.”
“Well, shucks, Gwyneth Ann, I think that’s the sweetest name I ever did hear.”
“Listen, Lucy B...”
Stoner froze. “Who told you that?” She realized. “Oh, shit.”
Gwen smiled smugly. “Well, well. Lucy B. McTavish.”
“Lucy B. Stoner McTavish. And you’d better forget it.”
“It’s a deal,” Gwen said. “Aren’t you going to eat your dinner?”
“I’ve finished.” Her plate looked as if it had been attacked by terrorists. “Pick through the rubble if you want. You can have the Deadman. I don’t eat it.”
“The what?”
“Deadman. Liver.”
“My mother was right. Yankees are disgusting.”
The Gray Man was still watching Gwen.
“I wish he’d stop that,” Stoner said.
“Probably wants your Deadman.”
“He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you in ten minutes.”
“Maybe he’s meditating and I’m in the way.” She looked at him and smiled. He looked back at his newspaper. “He’s watching us, all right.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.”
Steve-for-the-evening materialized again, balancing a large plastic dishpan on one hip. He tossed their plates in and left.
“Well,” Gwen said, “that was revolting. How about dessert?”
“Lemon meringue pie.”
“It’ll give you nightmares.”
“I already have nightmares. Lemon meringue pie is what you eat after lobster.”
“Maybe you do.”
The boy was back. Gwen ordered coffee and pie for Stoner, and coffee for herself.
“Gwen,” Stoner said, “do you think you’ll get married again?”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Has my grandmother been talking to you?”
“Your grandmother never says much to me but ‘three no trump’ or ‘two diamonds’.”
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “Sometimes I think it’s not fair of me to ask you to play bridge with her.”
“I don’t take her too seriously. She’s probably having a mid-life crisis or something.”
“At 70?”
“Maybe she’s a little slow to develop. Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Think you’ll get married again?”
“The last thing I want,” Gwen said firmly, “is some Lochinvar to come riding out of the West and sweep me a way to his shining castle.”
“I can understand you feeling like that now, but someday…”
“Someday, someday. If this world doesn’t get itself together, there won’t be a Someday.”
“But if there is...”
Gwen laughed. “When I was a kid, we had a mongrel dog named Bessie. Old Bessie spent most of her time between meals lying in the sun waiting for some- thing to happen. And, since nothing much ever happened in Jefferson, her brain got a considerable amount of exposure to ultraviolet rays. Anyway, one day she saw a chipmunk run down a hole. You could see her mind turn over and start to work in a leisurely fashion. ‘Thing. Moves. Hole. Gone.’ She decided to dig it out. She dug, and dug, and dug. Five years later, every time she passed that hole, she’d start right in digging again.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“You,” Gwen said, “sometimes bear a startling resemblance to that mongrel dog.”
