No More Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  Lola spotted me. “We’re running behind schedule. We should be going on in fifteen minutes but it’s anybody’s guess.” Lola twisted a section of her blond hair. It was a nervous gesture.

  Penny had schooled me well: There was real time, theater time, and tech time… “Things always run slowly at a first tech, right? And with seven different shows to account for, moving scenery must take extra time.” I was my supportive BFF self.

  Lola squeezed my hand. “I could do with some chardonnay,” she said.

  “Later,” I muttered.

  Maddy thrust her body out the door of the theater and, to my utter amazement, blew on a whistle around her neck. She out-tooted Penny! Every conversation came to a standstill with the shriek. Maddy examined her clipboard. “I need Sound of Music on deck and Arsenic and Old Lace in the house. Pronto.”

  Penny rolled her eyes—she had finally met her match—and the two companies followed Maddy into the theater. The Sound of Music stood in the wings ready for their tech while the ELT sat in the first row of the house, as per Maddy’s instruction. I hunkered down in the last row to keep out of Maddy’s line of vision. I had no desire for a second run-in with her. The stage was empty save for a stack of two-foot-square black boxes. Where was the set for Death of a Salesman? The actors from that show moved from one spot to another as the light crew tinkered with instruments, adjusting focus, and Maddy yelled “Go!” and “Hold!”

  Penny, apparently bored, wandered to the back of the house as the crew set up for The Sound of Music and the ELT actors headed backstage. She sat down next to me.

  “Where’s the scenery?” I asked sotto voce.

  Penny assumed her world-weary expression. “On the stage.”

  “Those cubes are the set? For every show? They’re so…black.” I said.

  “O’Dell, this is a black box theater. Those are the black box sets. Duh.” She toyed with her whistle. No doubt wishing she could use it.

  “I get it. But they’re a little…plain…for a theater festival,” I murmured.

  “The set’s not the point. It’s the acting, the directing, the costumes. There’s no time to get sets on and off the stage with seven shows. Anyway, black boxes save money.” Penny shifted her focus to the stage, where the cast of The Sound of Music was singing about the hills being alive. “See that actor on the end? She thinks she’s Julie Andrews. I caught her warming up an hour ago in the ladies’ room. She tried to carry a tune in a bucket. No dice,” Penny cackled.

  Maddy shot a glare into the house, and Penny and I scrunched down in our seats like bad kids avoiding the principal’s reprimand. I’d been there, done that in grade school. And on the tech went, the Austrian kids with Maria, their nanny, singing “Do-Re-Mi” and “My Favorite Things.” Maddy hussled them along from light cue to light cue.

  My cell vibrated. Grody sent a text wanting to know if I was at the theater and if I’d seen Sam Baldwin. He’d left a message for Sam but hadn’t been able to speak in person. Would I mind speaking with Sam if he was around and obtain his approval of the theme food hors d’oeuvres? Of course, I texted back.

  Maddy yelled “Places,” for Arsenic and Old Lace. Penny hauled herself out of her seat. “Showtime,” she said grimly.

  Walter maneuvered his cast for the first beats of a scene between Edna and Abby as the Brewster sisters. It was approaching the dinner hour and Bill would be here soon. Lola would understand if I snuck out. Sam Baldwin had not made an entrance this afternoon, so Grody could follow up with him later.

  I signaled my departure to Pauli, who was discreetly taking photos of the ELT actors, and exited the theater, appreciating the late afternoon breeze after sitting inside. I sauntered past the gazebo and stopped when I heard a voice. It was Sam on his cell. He wasn’t visible, but his side of the conversation was audible. I hesitated. I could wait a few seconds to see if his call ended, but then it would seem as though I was eavesdropping.

  “I said ‘no.’ We’re done with that guy,” he growled. “Cut him loose. We’ll find other transport.”

  This wasn’t the voice of a patron of a theater festival. It belonged to a mob boss. Like from The Sopranos.

  Grody could handle this himself. I turned away.

  “You want something?” Sam stood in the center of the gazebo addressing me, his stare cold and unwelcoming.

  “Uh…well…yes. Grody from the Sandbar asked me to speak with you about the food for the opening night party. The hors d’oeuvres named for each of the plays?” I added helpfully.

  Sam studied me. “Sure. Tell Grody the food’s fine.” He lit a cigar. “Was that hors d’oeuvre thing your idea?”

  His change of tone caught me off-guard. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Uh-huh. Smart.”

  Was he sizing me up? “Thanks. I’ll tell Grody the menu’s fine.” As I dashed off, I could feel his eyes boring a hole through the back of my skull.

  Whoa.

  I was happy to reach the boardwalk. Sam Baldwin gave me the creeps. The descending sun meant it was time to hit the Sandbar and check in with Grody. My mind wandered about, jumping from thoughts of Sam and the theme food hors d’oeuvres to the ELT’s tech rehearsal to Jackson’s predicament to Bill’s arrival. I hadn’t received any updates on the Garden State Parkway traffic.

  The boardwalk was crowded. Families and pairs left the beach for drinks, dinner, arcade games, and rides. Up ahead a small assembly of people had gathered near a bench that looked out on the ocean. One person stood in the center of the group and held out a newspaper. I slowed down, something making my skin crawl. I eased to the edge of the gathering and took in the comments:

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “In Candle Beach? What’s the shore coming to?”

  “Poor guy.”

  “My cousin knew him. They were fishing buddies.”

  I peered over the shoulder of a young woman. She turned to me. “Like, murder here? I mean, that’s like something in the movies.”

  “Who was murdered?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

  “Vinnie Carcherelli. At first police said it was a simple drowning. More than that now,” said the guy whose cousin fished with Vinnie. “Damn.”

  * * * *

  Palm trees surrounding the perimeter of the Sandbar swayed in the gentle wind while the tiki torches scattered shadows throughout the seating area and onto the sand. I sat at the bar sipping my drink and nibbling on fried clams. The restaurant was full, as it undoubtedly was most nights this summer, and Grody played the role I usually found myself inhabiting—keeping one eye on the open-air kitchen and the other on his customers. Moving from table to table to confirm that everyone was satisfied and pleased with their dinners.

  “Crazy-busy night,” he said as he paused behind the bar to fill a glass of water.

  “Business is rocking. Can’t knock that.” We clinked glasses.

  “You got that right.”

  “You see the Candle Beach Courier? They put out a special afternoon edition.”

  “Vinnie was well known in Candle Beach. People liked him. Or at least they tolerated him when he’d had one too many. He threw money around like he was drowning in the stuff.” Grody took a drink of his water. “Sorry. Bad comparison.”

  “The article said the medical examiner found evidence that Vinnie had died before he was submerged in water. No water in his lungs,” I said.

  “Yeah. It’s called dry drowning.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Years ago, a surfer from Ocean Port got hit on the head with a board and died.” Grody snapped his fingers. “Just like that. When they pulled his body out of the ocean and did an autopsy, his lungs were dry. He died before he inhaled water.”

  “You’re suggesting that something happened to Vinnie and then he was…what? Dumped overboard?”

&nbs
p; “And his body washed up on the shore,” Grody said.

  “Never mind washing up on the shore. Maybe he was only dunked in the water and then dumped on the beach,” I said and drained the last of my wine. “To make it appear like a drowning.”

  Grody regarded me carefully. “Henry told me about the murders in Etonville and how you ‘assisted the police,’” he said.

  I shrugged. “My instincts were helpful on a couple of occasions,” I said modestly.

  “Not according to Henry. He says…how did he put it…you were the ‘investigative linchpin’ more than once.”

  Wow! “Henry said that?” I didn’t realize my boss paid much attention to what I did outside the Windjammer.

  Grody leaned over the bar and murmured, “You got any instincts operating now?”

  I chuckled. Then got serious. “Only that Jackson is in deep water and has no clue how to get himself out of it. Talk about drowning.”

  He refilled a bowl of peanuts, nibbled a few.

  “The police claim Jackson’s a person of interest, being one of the last people to see Vinnie alive and…” I hesitated. Could I share what I’d discovered with Grody? “Between us…”

  Grody studied me. “Yeah?”

  “I accidentally found a wad of bills in his jacket pocket.”

  “Accidentally?” Grody grinned despite the gravity of the conversation.

  “I was cleaning up his clothes that were thrown around my front porch where I, and Bill, have been letting him sleep out of the kindness of our hearts, and I folded his jacket and I accidentally touched something and had to investigate—”

  “—of course.”

  “—and there it was. Or they were. The money and an IOU signed by Vinnie,” I said.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “I didn’t count it, just fanned through it. Hundreds. Could be a thousand.”

  Grody let out a soft whistle.

  “Right.”

  We were silent for a moment.

  “What does Bill think about Jackson? He’s a cop, after all,” Grody said.

  “He’s told me more than once that I have an overactive imagination and to keep my nose out of other people’s affairs. Including Jackson. He even offered to rent a motel room to get him off our porch.”

  Grody arched an eyebrow. “Looks like Jackson could pay his own way.”

  Where was my former ex anyway? “I should tell Bill to forget the motel. Save his bucks for Jackson’s bail,” I said, only half-joking.

  “Hey, settle down. It won’t come to that.” Grody patted my hand.

  “I don’t know. Bill’s probably right. I should cut Jackson loose and stay out of his life. But…we have history.” Grody nodded sympathetically. “My aunt Maureen used to say ‘when your past calls, hang up and pretend it’s a wrong number.’”

  “Great advice. And speaking of Bill…” Grody said quickly.

  I was so caught up in Vinnie’s murder and Jackson’s plight I hadn’t noticed the hunky guy standing behind me! I whipped around. “Hey there, stranger.” Bill embraced me enthusiastically and planted a big one on my lips. Yowza! “Guess you missed me.”

  “Guess I did,” Bill plonked down on a bar stool next to mine. “What’s for dinner? I’m starved.”

  “Crab specials tonight,” Grody said and signaled a waiter to bring menus. “Let’s get you two a table….or else a room,” he said.

  We laughed. It was terrific to see Bill unwinding and playful. The circles under his eyes had disappeared, the tension in his body melting away. Ditching Etonville—except for yesterday’s court appearance—was healthy for him.

  Grody sat us personally at a table on the sand and took our orders. Soft shell crabs for Bill, crab legs for me with sides of roasted Jersey corn and tomatoes. And a pricey bottle of wine compliments of the house. I loved Grody. Almost as much as Bill…

  6

  “C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Bill said and tucked my hand into his as we strolled down the boardwalk.

  “But I haven’t golfed in years,” I said and shivered. It had gotten downright chilly during our dinner on the sand. The shore had a way of doing that, the temperature dropping unexpectedly.

  Bill put his jacket around me. “That better? Besides, it’s not real golf. I don’t play either. This is miniature golf.”

  I knew all about miniature golf. I’d spent hours and hours on the course as a teenager, but I hadn’t held an iron in my hands in over a decade. “Okay, but I’m not letting you off easy. I used to be a very respectable player.”

  Bill studied me. “I don’t picture you as the athletic type.”

  “Oh, so there’s only one athlete in the family?” I said, then stopped myself. Is that what we were becoming? Family. It had a comfortable ring to it, and—

  “Guess you can take the folks out of Etonville…” He jerked his head in the direction of the golf course up ahead.

  Sheesh. Mildred, Vernon, Edna, and Penny stepped out of the payment line, putters and balls in hand. “Do you think they saw us?” I took Bill’s arm. “Let’s run back to the bungalow and pretend we didn’t see them. That way—”

  “Hi, Dodie! Hi, Chief!” Edna waved to us.

  “Too late,” Bill muttered and put his quirky smile on display.

  “Candle Beach isn’t big enough for all of us.” I waved back.

  “Might as well be good sports about it.”

  We approached the miniature golf entrance. “You’re in an awfully chipper mood,” I said.

  “Must be the wine…or the company.” He squeezed my hand.

  Yowza.

  The course was busy with twosomes and families trying their hands at knocking the ball into the cup while bypassing miniature windmills, tunnels, and sand traps. It was slow going with the Etonville crew ahead of us: Mildred giving advice to Vernon, who pretended he didn’t hear her and pointed to his ears; Edna painstakingly lining up each shot and insisting that if she banked off the side she’d get the elusive hole in one and win a free game; Penny taking half a dozen strokes for each hole, and then banging her iron on the fake grass in frustration.

  “O’Dell,” she said. “This is harder than real golf.”

  “You golf?” I asked.

  “Back in the day,” she said.

  What day was that?

  “Driving the golf cart was the best part.” Penny whacked the ball. “I’m only three over par on this hole.”

  “Keep up the great work,” I said and lined up my own ball.

  “What hole is this?” Bill asked quietly.

  I pointed to the flag. It was only the ninth hole and we’d been on the course for an hour. It was like watching paint dry.

  He groaned. “Miniature golf was a super idea.”

  “Next time I’ll come up with the post-dinner game,” I said suggestively.

  “Dodie! Calm down…” he said and knocked his ball into the cup. He wrote down his score. “I’m ahead by two strokes.”

  “Not for long.” The ninth hole featured a sloping fairway and a moving windmill. Back in my day, if I timed my stroke perfectly, the ball spun between the rotating blades and plunked into the cup for a hole in one. I gripped the putter and knocked the ball. It spun forward, just managed to scoot between the blades, then spun out the back of the windmill and into the cup. The Etonville crew erupted in applause.

  “Yes!” I said triumphantly.

  “Dodie, you’ve got magic with that putter. I’m glad at least one of us has a hole in one,” said Edna.

  “You can have my free game.”

  “Say, that guy’s death was a 10-55,” Edna said.

  Bill placed his ball on the tee. “What guy?”

  “Vinnie—”

  Edna jumped in. “Name’s Vincent Carcherelli.”

  “What’s a 10-5
5?” asked Mildred, picking up her ball after a bunch of strokes and placing it in the cup.

  “Coroner case,” Edna said.

  “Is that the charter boat operator you knew?” Bill lined up his shot.

  “O’Dell, you knew the victim? Oops. Not a good sign,” said Penny.

  “He was an acquaintance from my past. When I lived down here before Hurricane Sandy,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry you lost a friend,” said Mildred sympathetically.

  “Thanks. We weren’t close. He was a friend of Jackson’s,” I said before thinking.

  “I like Jackson. Really nice last night serving the snacks and all,” said Edna.

  Bill paused midstroke. “Last night?”

  Geez.

  “We had a rehearsal at your place. Thanks for the hospitality,” she added.

  “Don’t mention it.” Bill’s eyebrows inched upward.

  I bent over to retrieve my ball. “I’ll explain later.”

  We completed the course by eleven and parted company with the Etonville crowd, who headed to the hotel two blocks from the boardwalk. “Dodie, are you coming by the theater for the dress rehearsal tomorrow night?” asked Edna.

  “Maybe. I’ll see how the day goes.”

  Bill and I headed off in the opposite direction. Once we were alone, he faced me. “So what’s going on with Jackson? And this Vincent guy?”

  “You heard Edna. It was a 10-55,” I said. “At first the newspaper said it was a drowning, so according to Grody, people suspected that Vinnie had one too many and fell overboard. His boat was found drifting off the shoreline.”

  “But…?”

  “Today’s paper said the investigation revealed evidence that Vinnie was murdered,” I finished.

  “That’s it?” he asked.