Fear of Frying

dining room. She opened the door gingerly and the instructor smiled and waved her in. She glanced around at people who were strapping each other into rappelling gear. “Sorry, wrong room,“ she said, backing out.
    She hadn’t brought the class list along and had to roam the halls looking in doors. She finally located Shelley in the beading class, being held in one of the small rooms in the basement. “Come with me,“ she said to her friend. “I think I’ve figured out something, but it’s so bizarre!”
    Shelley didn’t question her. She got up and excused herself to the instructor, put her poncho on, and followed Jane.
    “Back to the lodge,“ Jane said. They raced through the rain, sending up splashes of muddy water. They stood on the covered porch for a second, letting the worst of the water run off.
    Inside, they dumped their ponchos. “What on earth...?“ Shelley asked.
    “We’re doing an experiment. To see if you re- member what I think I remember,“ Jane said. “I can’t tell you without influencing your thoughts.”
    “Jane, are you okay?“
    “I’m not sure. Come in the dining room.”
    It was deserted now. Lunch had been cleared up and they could hear voices and the sounds of dishes and silverware being put away in the kitchen. “Okay, Shelley, think back to the night we got here. Picture us sitting at that table by the fireplace.“
    “All right.“
    “It’s after dinner, after Marge had hysterics about the face in the window, after dessert. Liz is trying to talk us into having a planning session. Where is everybody? What are they doing?“
    “Jane, can’t you just tell me what’s on your mind?“
    “No, I can’t. It has to come from your mind.“
    “Okay. Liz is pontificating. She’s sitting here. Al’s next to her, pushing dessert crumbs around his plate and saying, ‘Now, Lizzie.’ Bob Rycraft is standing with his back to the fireplace, hands behind him.“
    “Good,“ Jane said. “Go on.“
    “Benson wasn’t in the room. John Claypool was sitting sideways, staring at the windows in the back wall. Eileen was filing her nails, which I thought an especially odd thing to do at the table. Marge was sort of huddled at the end of the bench, looking miserable. Sam was glancing up at Liz as she spoke and making notes on a legal pad. I thought he was pretending he was taking down what she said, but it was probably something entirely unrelated. He was ignoring Marge entirely, which was really insensitive, considering how upset she was.”
    Shelley smiled. “I gave him an extended glare, which usually intimidates people, but I don’t think he noticed.”
    Jane said. “Go sit where he was and pretend you’re Sam.“
    “Jane, this is starting to get silly. Okay, okay.”
    She sat down, using a class listing sheet someone had left behind, pretending it was a legal pad. She gazed at where Liz would have been, jotting down imaginary notes with an imaginary pencil. “Is this what you want?“ she asked Jane.
    “Right. Exactly. Now, you sit here and let me take your place.”
    Shelley got up and watched Jane imitate her imitating Sam.
    “Have I got it right?“ Jane asked.
    “Lean forward a little and tilt the paper a bit. Okay. Yes, that’s it.”
    Jane grinned. “Now, go sit where we were a little while ago and close your eyes.“
    “You’ve lost your mind,“ Shelley said, but did as she was told.
    “Now, picture Sam again this afternoon. Have you got your eyes closed? He’s sitting in the same place—“
    “But not so stiffly,“ Shelley said. “And not as dressed up.“
    “Right. Get the picture clear in your mind.”
    “I have.“
    “Open your eyes. Pretend I’m still Sam. Is this right?”
    Shelley stared at Jane for a long moment. “No. It’s not. There’s something wrong.”
    “Does this make it right?“ Jane asked, shifting the paper and imaginary pencil and pretending to write with her left hand.
    Shelley’s mouth fell open. “Omigawd! You’ve got it! He was writing right-handed the first night and left-handed a while ago.“
    “Not exactly,“ Jane said. “Sam Claypool was writing right-handed the first night. Somebody else was writing left-handed this afternoon.”

Fifteen

    “What do you mean?“ Shelley asked.
    “Remember when I suggested the dead guy and the live guy were identical twins and you laughed?“ Jane asked. “Well, I laughed, too. But I think I was accidentally right.”
    Shelley had come back to the table where Jane was