No More Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “I have, and he’s been tight-lipped. Like he’s hiding something. Obviously, I didn’t pick up on problems between the two of them back then,” I said, chagrined.

  Grody walked around the end of the bar and sat down next to me. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. It’s been four years, kiddo. Hard to re-create events from that time.”

  I understood. Some days it was painful for me to remember Sandy. I swung my bag over my shoulder. “Gotta go. I’m stopping by the theater to watch—”

  “I do remember one thing.” Grody frowned.

  “Yeah?”

  “A rumor banging around Candle Beach that Vinnie had gotten himself into hot water,” Grody said slowly.

  “With the charter boat?”

  “No. With some people he owed money to. Vinnie liked to hang out in Atlantic City when he wasn’t on his boat.”

  “Vinnie? A gambling debt? Jackson never mentioned that. I assumed the debt was from the business,” I said.

  Grody gestured to a waiter. “Vinnie was a fun guy, but he could be bad news. It’s a shame Jackson never caught on.”

  Unless he did.

  * * * *

  I slid into a seat at the back of the theater. Luckily, no one was manning the door to inquire about my presence there. I was ready with an explanation about being an assistant-something-or-other with the ELT, but no explanation was necessary. I slumped down in my seat. I had no intention of showing up late for Bill’s dinner and after-party…I knew each theater was allotted thirteen to fifteen minutes, so that would put Arsenic and Old Lace, show number six, between six thirty and seven. Perfect.

  Onstage, an older man in an ill-fitting suit and a suitcase wandered around, talking to himself. Had to be Death of a Salesman.

  “Hey, O’Dell,” Penny muttered.

  “It’s warm in here. Is the air conditioning on?” I asked.

  “On the blink. The guy in charge claims it’ll be fixed by tomorrow night.”

  That would be Sam. “Hope so. How’s it going?”

  “Behind schedule. Cinderella had a wardrobe malfunction. Somebody left her ‘glass slippers’”—Penny formed air quotes with her fingers—“in the theater’s van.”

  “Oooh, that’s too bad.”

  “The actress threw a hissy fit. And her tiara. Then Maddy threatened to cancel their dress rehearsal.” Penny cackled. “That one’s a real piece of work.”

  “So when do you think Arsenic will go on?”

  “O’Dell, you know better than to ask stuff like that,” Penny rebuked me. “It’s dress rehearsal, and that means—”

  “Got it.

  “Besides, the light cues for The Mousetrap got screwed up and the perp got caught in his own headlights.” Penny waggled her head. “Amateurs.”

  As if the ELT was a professional theater.

  “It’s almost a professional theater,” Penny said.

  Yep…she was in my head once more. “So that’s the first two shows. What about the next one?”

  “Noises Off.”

  Lola had given me a thumbnail-plot summary of each play, so I knew Noises Off was a play-within-a-play about backstage escapades during the run of a show. Pretty funny, I thought.

  “Supposed to be funny…” Penny said. “The big moment is a guy falling down a set of stairs.” She indicated the stage with its collection of black cubes, door frames, and bentwood chairs. “See a set of stairs up there?”

  “No. So…?”

  “The guy trips over a couple of black boxes. Then falls flat on his face.” She chuckled.

  Penny definitely had a cold-blooded streak.

  “Why didn’t they pick another scene?” I asked. “That would make more sense.”

  Penny turned sideways in her seat. “O’Dell, every theater’s got to put their two feet forward, and that means the most exciting scene. Even if it is a hot mess.”

  Ouch.

  “Penny,” Walter hissed, appearing from backstage. “Where’s Romeo? We’re on in fifteen minutes.”

  “His call was an hour ago. He’s backstage,” Penny said confidently.

  “He is not backstage!” Walter spit out through gritted teeth.

  “How can he not be backstage? His call was an hour ago?” she asked.

  “Penny!” Walter clutched his graying hair.

  Penny winced. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Text him, call him, send a carrier pigeon. I don’t care. Just get him backstage!” Walter trounced off.

  Ooops. Penny’s primary assignment was rounding up the ELT actors and getting them onstage on time. With Romeo missing, she had crashed and burned. Walter was frantic, as usual. Times like this usually required one of his chill pills. I hoped he’d remembered to pack them…

  “Later, O’Dell.” Penny sighed as she headed to the lobby, already punching Romeo’s number into her cell phone.

  Willy Loman and son Biff were deep into the second act confrontation, which meant that Sound of Music was on deck. Which also meant that if Romeo didn’t materialize immediately, Lola would be talking to herself in Arsenic and Old Lace.

  The stage went silent. Death of a Salesman was over.

  Maddy popped up from her stage manager’s table in the house and tore off her headset. “Clap clap clap. Salesman actors offstage. Sound of Music, wait for the blue light cue, then places. Arsenic…Arsenic? Are you back there?” she yelled.

  Penny stuck her head out from behind a side curtain. “Missing an actor,” she mumbled.

  “What?” Maddy shouted. “We need all actors onstage so we can check lighting. You got to get a body up there.”

  “We’re trying to find him,” Penny shouted back. She’d had it with Maddy.

  “You got fifteen minutes to get a replacement.” Maddy wasn’t kidding.

  The lights shifted, and the Julie Andrews wannabe belted out “My Favorite Things” while the Von Trapp family skipped around the black box setting and the youngest of them—she had to be about seven or eight—skipped to the lip of the stage. A collective gasp as the kid caught herself in time and skittered backward into the rest of the Von Trapps.

  This dress rehearsal was beginning to go off the rails.

  “Yo, Dodie.” Jackson hunkered down in the seat next to me.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Supposed to hook up with Sam to talk about job prospects.”

  “Now?”

  Jackson squinted at the stage. “Is that The Sound of Music?”

  “Sam’s not here. At least I haven’t seen him for the past half hour,” I said.

  “Not to worry. I’ll hang around.” He gave me a knowing glance. “I’ll need to hang around someplace later too.”

  Jackson had gotten Bill’s text that he and I planned to spend the evening alone. I had no intention of discussing my love life with my ex-boyfriend. “What kind of position is Sam offering you? He has a construction company. What experience do you have in construction?”

  “I pick things up fast. Looks like I could end up on another charter boat,” he said coolly.

  The hairs on my neck were like Mexican jumping beans. Something felt off about Jackson hooking up with Sam Baldwin. “You should think twice before you get involved with him—”

  “Is she waving to you?” Jackson asked and jerked his head toward the stage.

  Penny and Lola had eased out from behind the wings and were, indeed, waving to me. Penny sneaked offstage—Maddy’s head was down, buried in her promptbook—and hurried up a side aisle to reach me.

  “O’Dell, get up here,” she said. “We need you onstage.” She held out a script.

  “Me? What are you talking about?”

  “We need someone to replace Romeo and sit on those blocks. Just read the lines with the actors. The light crew needs to see if t
he focus is off.”

  “But—” I sputtered.

  “I’ll do it.” Jackson grasped the script from Penny’s hand and trailed her to the stage.

  “Wait a minute!” I called out.

  Maddy’s head jerked up. “Quiet in the house,” she growled.

  The Von Trapp family sang their last note, did a group bow, and trotted off the stage, confident in their performance. The stage went dark, then blue light rose as the crew scuffled about, rearranging the black boxes and chairs. Actors entered rapidly and lurched onto the set, lights rising on Abby and Edna, the two daffy old ladies of Arsenic and Old Lace, and Jackson, grinning from ear to ear. Abby was shell-shocked as she and Edna began the scene by explaining to Jackson’s character, their nephew Mortimer, that they felt sorry for lonely old bachelors and to put them out of their misery, served them elderberry wine spiked with arsenic and a pinch of cyanide. Mortimer was supposed to be stunned at this news, but Jackson read his lines as though he could easily understand their drive to kill. Edna prodded him to sit, stand, and move when required. Abby, disgruntled, stared daggers at both of them.

  What had made him volunteer to do the scene? Of course, better Jackson than me… I heard a handful of guffaws in the house, but the lights hit the actors where expected and the scene plodded along.

  “Hey.” It was Pauli, gasping as though he’d run here from somewhere. “What’s going on up there? Like, where’s Romeo?”

  “Nobody knows and they needed a body to fill in. Pretty nutty, right?”

  Pauli shrugged. “The play’s pretty nutty.” He craned his neck to locate Maddy before furtively withdrawing his camera from his backpack and holding it up to his eye. “The stage manager banned cameras from the dress rehearsal.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Dunno. Something about cameras sucking the spirit out of the actors before the play opens.”

  I hooted softly. “You gotta love these theater people.”

  “Walter’s exercises are goofy, but compared to this…”

  We snickered.

  “Shh!” Maddy said.

  Onstage, Abby yanked Jackson’s shirt and pulled his face to within inches of hers to deliver a speech. She meant business. Jackson played along, apparently amused by her intensity. When Abby finished and pushed him backward, he obligingly gave into momentum—having no clue what he was supposed to do—and landed in a chair that toppled over. More guffaws in the audience. Abby was fit to be tied, to quote one of my aunt’s favorite expressions.

  Luckily it was the end of the scene and the actors segued into Lola’s entrance. As Mortimer’s love interest, she had better luck controlling Jackson by pointing and nudging. Feeding him cues on a silver platter and, at the crucial moment, landing a big whopper on his lips. Which Jackson enjoyed thoroughly. Unlike the rest of the ELT, Lola was an actual pro, having spent time Off Off Broadway in New York before committing to the Etonville Little Theatre.

  Pauli beamed. “Epic.”

  “Not sure kissing Jackson like that is in the script,” I murmured.

  “It’s method acting,” Pauli said earnestly.

  The scene ended, the lights came up briefly for a curtain call—Edna smiling broadly, Abby grinding her teeth, Lola playing the sophisticated diva, and Jackson bouncing on his sneakers beaming. I could imagine the ELT somewhat embarrassed and grateful that their fifteen minutes of onstage terror were over. The crew scrambled to clear the stage for King Lear.

  Maddy ran through the house and stopped by an emergency exit to talk with someone. It was Arlene Baldwin, dressed as she’d been this morning at the memorial service. She was an enigma…

  Pauli capped his lens and repacked his camera.

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Uh-huh. Wassup?” Pauli asked.

  “It’s about the people running this festival. See what you can find on them?” I knew Pauli’s years of online digital forensics classes had provided him with databases and search engine information unavailable to the average civilian. I had personal knowledge of his email hacking skill and facial recognition software.

  “Easy peasy.” Then he grew quiet. “Is this like about that guy who got murdered?”

  Maybe, maybe not. Sam, and by extension Arlene, was simply a scratch that needed itching. “I’m curious about them.”

  “Got it,” he said enthusiastically.

  Nothing revved Pauli’s engine like digital forensics. Except Janice.

  “Should I search on the victim?” he asked slyly.

  “Vinnie?” That wasn’t a bad idea. If Grody’s gossip was correct, something about Vinnie’s gambling career might show up. I patted his shoulder. “Go for it.”

  “Gotta bounce. Going to the beach.” Pauli sauntered off.

  I checked my watch. I had to beat it back to our bungalow. I texted Lola that things hadn’t gone too badly…considering Jackson had assumed Romeo’s role. She responded: “I NEED A DRINK!” I could sympathize.

  I sped from the theater, through the town park to the boardwalk. I had twenty minutes to make it back or Bill would be cracking that bottle of champagne by himself. I laughed thinking about the dress rehearsal. I felt bad for Lola and company, but Jackson on that stage trying to keep up with the dialogue and avoid Abby’s verbal browbeating had transformed a comedy into a farce. I passed the Surf Shack, still open, and got a glimpse of the boats moored at the marina opposite.

  My pulse shot up. Standing by a yacht halfway down the dock was a tall, rough-looking man in a captain’s cap. I’d seen him somewhere before. I stooped down to pretend to adjust my sandal strap. The man shifted his position and another person became visible: Sam Baldwin. My mind was like the Indy 500. Thoughts racing in circles, driving each other out of the way. How were the two connected? The big guy…was he the man who had threatened me on the pier a few nights ago? Was it Sam in The Bounty’s lower deck whose shadow moved behind the curtained windows? To quote Jackson, Sam did seem to have a “lotta irons in the fire.” The two men headed away from me toward the end of the harbor.

  Totally flummoxed, I sat down on the boardwalk.

  “Are you okay?” said a concerned voice.

  I looked up at the young cop who’d interviewed Jackson at my rental. The short, pudgy, sympathetic one with the baby face.

  “Aren’t you the woman in the house on Atlantic Street?” He extended a hand.

  “Yes.” I took up his offer, and he pulled me to my feet. “Thanks. My…uh…sandal strap…” I didn’t need to bother with any justification. He regarded me carefully.

  “Dodie O’Dell.”

  I was truly stunned. “You remembered my name?”

  “I’m terrific with names. And faces. And putting the two of them together,” the kid said proudly.

  He was out of uniform in neatly pressed shorts and a golf shirt. His light brown hair was gelled up, not unlike Bill’s on a night out. “That’s a terrific skill to have as a police officer.” I judged him to be early twenties. “You were very professional that day. You must have to handle a lot of serious crimes down here in the summer,” I said innocently.

  He shuffled his feet. “I’m only out of the police academy six months. This is my first assignment.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “My first murder investigation too,” he said with satisfaction.

  Bingo.

  “Really? I’d never have known that,” I said.

  “It’s hard handling a major case…lot of offices to coordinate with. The medical examiner, the State Police lab, departments in nearby towns,” the young cop said.

  “Plus interviewing witnesses and suspects,” I added.

  “I’ve only been in on two interviews so far.” He was disappointed.

  Oops. “I read in the Courier that there was physical evidence the victim was murdered. And, of course
, no water in his lungs.”

  “He didn’t need water in his lungs. He had a puncture wound in his chest that went straight into his heart,” the kid divulged.

  “Like he was killed someplace and then left on the beach,” I said helpfully.

  The young man stuffed his hands in his pockets and abruptly retreated. He knew he’d said too much. “Well…have a pleasant night.” He did a semi-salute and darted off.

  I double-timed it down the boardwalk and raced the block to my place. It had been a profitable conversation with the newbie cop. I’d learned that there were no new suspects, which kept Jackson front and center as a person of interest, and that Vinnie was murdered by a wound in his chest. Which meant it could have happened anywhere—Vinnie’s boat, a house in town, even on the beach.

  9

  “So Jackson ended up on the stage,” Bill said and topped off our wine.

  “It was either him or me. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when Walter meets up with Romeo.”

  “Where do you think he was?”

  I sipped my chardonnay and flashed on the actor flexing his pecs on the beach to impress women passing by. “My guess is either he fell asleep on the sand or has second-degree burns from the sun and can’t get his clothes on.” I scooped up the last of my grilled shrimp with orange sesame noodles. “This meal was fantastic.”

  “Thanks. Or rather we should thank Grody. It’s his recipe. I couldn’t find the tamari…”

  “What’s that?” I asked and wiped my mouth.

  “Dark soy sauce. I had to settle for the lighter version.”

  “The fresh orange juice and ginger give it some zip,” I said. As a result of Bill’s influence, I was becoming something of a foodie. Managing the Windjammer certainly kept me attuned to recipes and menus. But Bill’s cooking was of the gourmet variety. He loved to experiment.

  The sun had set. The outdoor table in the backyard of our house was lit with candles. Tiki torches surrounded the patio and threw shadows into the night. We polished off the very expensive wine and I extended my legs in front of me. Bill lifted them up and placed them in his lap. It didn’t get much better than this. Relaxing with my guy on a warm summer night…my cell phone pinged.