I jerked awake.
Bill sat up. “Wha…?”
“Sorry. Go back to sleep,” I murmured.
He promptly did so, leaving me staring into the half-light of early dawn. I gathered the sheet under my chin. Whew. In my dream state I’d done a mash-up of the festival scenes becoming Cinderella with the Salesman’s sample case surrounded by the kids from The Sound of Music. I shuddered. Talk about a nightmare.
It was barely 6 a.m., and the bed felt comfy; I should have snuggled next to Bill and gotten at least another hour or two of sleep. After all, this was our vacation. I hated to admit it, but this visit down the shore was becoming too much like Etonville: the theme food, the rehearsals, even the murder. After an hour of mind-racing activity, I submitted to the day and stole out of bed, careful to avoid waking Bill.
I took a cup of coffee to the porch and settled into the rocker. The town was snoozing, Atlantic Street undisturbed. Gunmetal-gray and white clouds occasionally gave way to patches of blue. Overcast. Not a great beach day. Never mind, the NJCTF was up and running, Grody’s reception was a success, and my responsibilities as a best buddy were over. I could safely kick back and work on my tan after handling one niggling fragment of unfinished business. Jackson. The Candle Beach Police Department must have moved on from him since there were no more interviews—that I was aware of, or that Jackson was sharing—and Jackson was still roaming free and sleeping who-knew-where. Early this morning I had resolved that I would move on too. Let the authorities handle the loose ends, Vinnie’s unscrupulous past, and Sam Baldwin’s irons-in-some-suspicious-fires. Dodie O’Dell was on vacation.
I tucked my legs under me, sipped my coffee, and rocked back and forth. I would make the rest of this escape from Etonville an amazing time. We deserved it. Today Bill and I could take that drive to the lighthouse we’d talked about—
“Dodie?” Bill called out.
“On the porch. Hey, why don’t we—”
“Have you seen my wallet? I thought I left it in my pants pocket last night.”
“On the chest of drawers,” I said. “Coffee’s ready.”
Bill appeared on the porch, his bedhead a tangle of sandy-colored spikes. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans.
“Going somewhere, sailor?” I asked.
“Actually I am. Going somewhere,” he said apologetically.
I stopped rocking. “Where? Let’s get out of Candle Beach today and take a drive to the lighthouse. With that gloomy sky, the beach isn’t such a great option.”
“I’d like to see the lighthouse. Just not today,” he said carefully.
I followed Bill to the kitchen. He poured half a cup of coffee, then downed most of it in a couple of swallows. “I got a text that the state police have a lead on my BMW. They’d like me to come by.”
“That’s great news, but couldn’t they talk by phone?” I asked, a tad petulant.
“They want me to see some mug shots of perps recently arrested for car theft. See if anyone is familiar.” He was in police chief mode.
“Give me a minute and I’ll go with you.” I bolted for the bedroom.
“Dodie! Wait. I’m a cop, remember? I’ve been through these sessions before. It’s going to be tedious.” He glanced at his watch. “It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.” He kissed the top of my head. “I’ll text you later.”
A few hours? I was disappointed to say the least. But I knew getting his beloved car back was a priority for Bill. Probably catching a car thief too. “No ghosting me today,” I said firmly.
Bill raised his hands in defeat. “Got it.” He snapped his NFL cap on his head and hurried out.
As long as I had the morning to myself, I would make the most of it. I had a leisurely breakfast of eggs and toast. I cleaned up the kitchen, tidied up the bedroom, and lingered in the shower, letting the warm water cascade over my head and shoulders. It would be cloudy but sticky today—my stretchy Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless tee would work. I could use a power walk along the shoreline, create a trail of footprints in the damp sand, drop into one of the shops on the boardwalk and buy souvenirs. I owed my nephew Cory something for his birthday next month. He was two going on three. Then I might pop into the Sandbar for a makeup lunch from yesterday. Bill could join me there.
I grabbed a visor, a bottle of sunscreen just in case, and my bag. I had barely locked the front door when my cell pinged. It was Lola: What’s up today? Lunch? I hesitated. Bill and I needed some alone time. I texted back: Not sure. Walk on beach? Meet me at tiki bar in ten? Lola agreed and I set off. My cell rang. Could it be Bill already? I checked the caller ID. It was Jackson. The Godfather came to mind. Just when I thought I was out he reeled me back in…
“Hi.” I was peeved.
“Dodie?” Jackson’s voice quavered.
And exasperated. “Who else would be talking on my phone?”
“You gotta help me.” A note of desperation had crept into his voice. “I think I’m toast.”
“Where are you?”
Jackson spoke softly. “They, like, gave me one phone call. I’m—”
“Arrested?” My voice skated up the scale.
“No longer a person of interest.” He tried to laugh. “Prime suspect. Call Sam.”
“Sam Baldwin? What can he do?”
“Sam knows everybody. He can help,” Jackson said.
I assessed the situation. “Hang tough for a bit. I’m on my way.”
For the first time since Jackson returned to Candle Beach he sounded panicky. What had happened since yesterday? Did the police have new evidence? Where had they found him? All of my early morning resolve to back away and release my past melted with the knowledge of Jackson’s catastrophe. As much as I wanted to power walk my way out of Jackson’s life, I couldn’t leave an old friend stranded. I called Lola and filled her in; she insisted on accompanying me to the police department. I didn’t refuse her offer. I could call Bill, but what could he do? I ran to my MINI Cooper, jammed it into Drive and zoomed off to Lola’s hotel.
Half an hour later, Lola and I were seated in the outer vestibule of the Candle Beach Police Department. Jackson was being kept in a holding pen awaiting a court appearance before a judge to set bail. We weren’t permitted to see him. I asked to speak to the arresting officer and was told to wait here—I was dying to find out what the police knew. Lola twisted blond streaks of hair. I recognized the nervous gesture. I texted Bill to give him an update. No response so far.
“Want some coffee?” I asked, gesturing to a machine in the corner.
“I’ll pass,” said Lola. “What’s keeping him?”
“No clue.” I knew what could happen to a murder suspect when they lawyered up: The right attorney could get a person out on bail for any offense. But how would Jackson afford that kind of legal defense? His budget meant a public defender.
A receptionist motioned for me to approach her window. She slid it open. “The arresting officer is unable to meet with you at this time. You’ll need to call later to make an appointment.”
Behind the receptionist, the tall, thin cop who’d interviewed Jackson at my place swiveled his head and glared at me. Still no smile, still edgy, bouncing on his feet. He made my skin crawl.
I took a chance that this cop had been the arresting officer. “Are you sure? Because I think I see him right there—”
“You have a nice day.” The receptionist snapped the sliding window shut in my face.
We needed to take Jackson’s case to the next level.
* * * *
Lola and I drank coffee in the Candle Diner pondering my next move.
“What does Bill think?” Lola asked.
“I can’t reach him.” I doodled on a paper napkin, intending to create a to-do list. Unfortunately, the list was empty except for one word. Sam. Somehow Jackson thought Sam would hel
p him get out of jail. Did they have that kind of relationship now? As far as I knew, Jackson had only met Sam this week in the course of applying for a job. He was totally in the dark as far as Sam being the silent third partner on the JV until I told him. However, considering there were no other options, it wouldn’t hurt to try contacting him. “I’m going to see Sam Baldwin.”
“The patron of the theater festival?” Lola asked. “What does he have to do with Jackson?”
I forgot that Lola was not privy to the Jackson-Vinnie-Sam triangle. “Jackson has been trying to get a job with his company and seems to think Sam might help him post bail.”
Lola was skeptical. “Are they that close?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s worth a shot,” I said.
“I thought Jackson would be fun to know better…” Lola lamented.
Aka boyfriend material. “Sorry. For the present that would mean all dates behind bars,” I said.
Lola drained her coffee cup and waved off the waitress’s offer of a refill. “I’m meeting Walter to go over our Arsenic scenes. He thinks the pacing is off. We’re not getting the reaction we should.”
Good luck with that. “I’m going to the theater to see if Sam or Arlene is hanging around there,” I said.
“And if not?” Lola asked.
“Baldwin General Contractors. The office is off of Route 195.”
“Dodie, you’re a terrific ex-girlfriend. I’m not sure I’d have done the same for Antonio, or Dale.”
“Or Walter?” We both smiled.
“I’ll meet with him while you visit the theater. Then let’s hook up and if you decide to go to Baldwin’s company, I’m in too,” Lola said.
“Right.” We split up and I headed down the boardwalk to the theater. I started to feel more confident about my agenda. After a visit to Baldwin General Contractors, lunch at the Sandbar was in order—with or without Bill. Grody had a contact in the county prosecutor’s office who might know a thing or two about Vinnie’s murder investigation.
The sky had been threatening rain all morning, a gale churning up the water. The beach was deserted except for the handful of resilient bathers who enjoyed the possibility of being pummeled by a potential downpour. Raindrops pinged off my head as I hurried into the lobby of the theater. All was dark and hushed. A huge change from last night, when the place was teeming with laughter and applause. As Penny would say, that’s show biz—
“Can I help you?” A voice thundered out of nowhere.
I flinched. “Hello?” The place was empty.
“You want something?” The speaker was unseen, but there was no mistaking the voice.
“Hi, Maddy,” I said. “Is Sam around?” I scanned the lobby. Aha…a surveillance camera and a loudspeaker were attached high on a far wall. Was there enough illicit activity in the Candle Beach Community Theater that warranted this kind of security?
“Who wants to know?” Maddy emitted aggravation.
Did she remember me? Probably not. “I’m Dodie O’Dell.” I hesitated. Being an honorary member of the Etonville Little Theatre might carry no weight with the stage manager. I opted for another tactic. “I worked with the Sandbar and Sam to set up the reception for opening night.”
“Wait a minute.”
Within seconds Maddy materialized. “Sam’s at work. Being the benefactor of the New Jersey Community Theater Festival isn’t a full-time occupation, ya know,” Maddy announced.
Her declarations were more and more like Penny’s. “Right. By the way, you did a fantastic job stage managing the performances last night. I know it’s hard work rounding up actors, dealing with their neuroses…”
“Like herding cats.” Maddy regarded me with more civility. “Arlene’s backstage if you want to see her.”
I hadn’t banked on approaching Sam’s wife, but she was better than no one at this point. “I would. Thanks.”
I trailed Maddy through the house and into a dressing room behind the stage, very much like the dressing rooms in the Etonville Little Theatre: parallel counters with chairs facing mirrors rimmed with light bulbs. Arlene was in dress-down mode—no wraparound skirts or linen ensembles in sight. She wore jeans and a button-down shirt several sizes too large. Her brown hair was swept up in a ponytail, her face devoid of makeup except for bright red lipstick. She concentrated on a ledger.
“Arlene? This is…?” Maddy gestured at me, her manner understated and respectful.
“Dodie,” I said.
Arlene glanced up, took in both Maddy and me, and snapped the ledger closed. “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.” Her tone was notably snippy.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to speak with Sam,” I said apologetically.
“He’s not here,” Arlene said briskly. “Maddy can handle all theater issues.” She rotated her body away from us.
“I’m not here about the theater festival. I’m here about Jackson Bennet.”
Arlene’s expression was a blank.
“He was a former partner of Vinnie Carcherelli. I understand Sam was also an associate of Vinnie’s. That he was going to hire Jackson to run Vinnie’s charter boat business.” I mentally crossed my fingers that this white lie would elicit some interest from her. Given that she was also a co-owner of The Bounty.
“No idea who this Jackson is.” Arlene Baldwin would never be Miss Congeniality. At least I had her attention now. “Why do you want to see Sam?”
“Jackson’s in some trouble,” I said.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked abruptly.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter with anyone but Sam.”
My explanation sounded silly to me. It apparently passed muster with Arlene. She whipped out her phone and tapped a message. “Sam’s at the office.” She scribbled an address—which I already had—on a paper towel and thrust it at me. “He’s only there for the next hour.”
“Thanks. I appreciate this.”
“What’s your name again?” Arlene asked.
* * * *
It wasn’t an especially productive conversation with Arlene Baldwin. But I did learn that referring to Vinnie and the charter boat business earned me Sam’s address. I swung by the Windward and texted Lola that I was outside, hoping to avoid bumping into any of the Etonville gang and having to invent a scenario for Lola and me. I needn’t have worried. She was alone. I did a double-take. In the time I’d been at the theater, she’d huddled with Walter over the Arsenic script, and changed into a brown knit top, beige pencil skirt, and straw espadrilles. Designer sunglasses hung from a chain around her neck, and even though the day was cloudy, her blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She gave the impression of a runway model.
“Wow, you look…”
“Too much?” she asked. “I thought I’d dress for the occasion. You know, begging for money.”
“I was going to say awesome.” I paused. “If I get stuck pleading for Sam’s support, I’ll let you take over.”
“Deal.” She smiled serenely.
Baldwin General Contractors was a short trip from Candle Beach by way of Route 195. I used the GPS Genie on my cell phone to direct us, and in fifteen minutes we’d cruised down the highway and exited onto Mount Pleasant Avenue. A quarter of a mile down the road was a two-story, modern office building, with glass windows on all sides. A parking area bordered the entrance.
I switched off the engine. “Here goes nothing that I hope turns into something, for Jackson’s sake.”
We entered the vestibule and immediately stood in front of a woman sitting behind a desk. The lighting was muted, the carpeting a subdued gray and white pattern, the walls covered with photos of beautifully designed and executed construction projects.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked. She was middle-aged, kindly, and conservatively dressed in a black blouse and skirt.
“I’d like to speak with Sam. He’s expecting me,” I said with what I hoped was a dash of confidence.
The woman paged through an appointment calendar, frowned, and picked up the telephone. “You are?”
“Dodie O’Dell. From Candle Beach,” I added as an afterthought. But I was pretty certain that Arlene had given Sam a heads-up and he’d know who I was.
The receptionist replaced the phone in its cradle. “Down that hallway. First door on the right.”
Lola and I crept quickly down the hall, pausing to nod to each other before knocking on the door. I raised a fist but before I could land a blow, the door opened.
Sam smiled graciously at us. “Come on in.”
“Thank you. We’re sorry to disturb you, but Arlene—”
“Please. Sit down.”
He gestured to beige leather seats facing a large, sleek desk. They were soft and cushy.
“What can I do for you? Arlene mentioned something about Vinnie’s friend Jackson?” he asked.
I was shocked at his tone. Sam couldn’t have been any nicer, any more accommodating. This was another side to him. “We met before. I helped with the theater reception, and this is Lola Tripper. An actress with the Etonville Little Theatre.” Lola extended a hand, and Sam shook it warmly. Yowza. The two of them could have been playing a scene from one of Grace Kelly’s sophisticated mystery movies. To Catch a Thief came to mind.
“Arlene may have told you that Jackson is a friend of mine. That’s he’s in trouble,” I said.
“Oh?” he asked, noncommittal.
No point in beating around the bush. “He was arrested this morning for Vinnie’s murder.”
If my announcement came as a bombshell, Sam kept his reaction contained. He blinked once, then set his face in a mournful mask. “I’d heard something from a friend at the Candle Beach Courier.”
Geez. The news would ricochet around Candle Beach like a boomerang in the next hour. “When I spoke with Jackson this morning, he suggested I contact you. He had the idea you might possibly be willing to…” I hesitated. Both Lola and Sam waited expectantly for me to continue. How ridiculous was it that Jackson believed this well-to-do businessman would bail him out of jail for murder. I had difficulty even forming the words. There had to be another way.
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