No More Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “Willing to what?” Sam asked.

  “Never mind.” I stood. “I’m sorry to take up your time.”

  Lola gazed at me as if I’d lost my mind. We came here to get bail money, she seemed to be saying. “Mr. Baldwin…”

  “Sam, please,” he said, shifting his focus to Lola.

  “Our friend Jackson is in deep trouble. He confided that he might be going to work for you,” Lola chose her words carefully.

  “We discussed options.”

  “He’s in dire need. Without the means to…have himself released after his arraignment,” Lola said sorrowfully.

  “You’re talking bail,” he said.

  “Yes. We wouldn’t have come here if Jackson hadn’t been an acquaintance of yours. Or if we had anywhere else to go.” She rested her hands modestly in her lap.

  Lola was first-rate! This was the best acting I’d seen her do in months.

  Sam leaned back in his chair. “Sorry. I’m not in a position to take on this responsibility.”

  “Could The Bounty be put up as collateral in some way?” I blurted out. “You own part of it. As a partner you could choose to…”

  As if in slow motion, Sam swung his head to face me. For a brief moment I saw a flicker of the cigar-chomping mob boss who’d threatened an employee on the phone outside the theater. “Not possible. Vinnie’s estate is in probate. And I can’t help your friend.”

  He ushered us out of his office, politely but firmly.

  Lola and I sat in the MINI Cooper, both of us quiet. “Thanks for trying,” I said.

  “Well, it was always a long shot.”

  “True. Jackson had delusions of grandeur as far as Sam Baldwin was concerned. The guy may have offered to hire him. Bail him out of jail? No way.” I turned the ignition key and flicked on the windshield wipers. A light drizzle had descended on the shore. “Lunch at the Sandbar? Let’s get a table in the corner. Hidden out of the way when the news hits about Jackson’s arrest.”

  12

  Best laid plans. I scanned my lunch companions at the round table smack in the middle of the restaurant. We’d no sooner stepped foot inside the Sandbar when the Banger sisters cried, “Yoo-hoo!” Lola and I had no choice but to join Etonville for lunch. No being tucked out of the way for us. Of course, the Candle Beach Courier sat prominently among the fish sandwiches, clam chowder, shrimp salad, and lobster rolls. Me? I needed an aggressive approach to my afternoon, so I opted for red meat: a burger and fries.

  “Poor Jackson,” said Carol.

  “Of course he’s innocent,” asserted Lola.

  “Of course,” Carol agreed.

  “Dodie, what’s going to happen to him?” asked Mildred.

  I picked up the newspaper. The headline blared the obvious. FORMER PARTNER CHARGED WITH LOCAL MAN’S MURDER. No new information in the article, only that Jackson had been arrested and awaited his day in court. No specific mention of the evidence tying him to the murder. “I’m not sure.”

  “Does he have a lawyer? Now that he’s a 10-15, Jackson’s going to need to lawyer up,” Edna said grimly. “He’ll need bail too.”

  “He didn’t do it, did he?” asked a Banger sister.

  “I can’t imagine that nice young man doing anything like this,” said the other sister.

  “Copy that. Jackson stepped up to the plate and filled in for Romeo during the dress rehearsal,” Edna announced.

  True.

  “Abby said he served snacks for the cast at your house. That’s an awfully generous thing to do,” said Mildred.

  Of course, it was my house and my snacks. Pauli eyed me and shrugged, his mouth full of fried clams.

  “You can’t spill your milk and not cry,” Penny intoned wisely.

  “What does that mean?” asked a Banger.

  Penny shrugged. “What’s done is done.”

  “You think he’s guilty?” Mildred asked, her jaw dropping.

  “We’ll have to see if the handwriting’s all over the wall,” Penny added.

  Everyone focused on me. Penny had a way of providing an inkling of truth in the midst of her mangled clichés. There must be some conclusive evidence. “I don’t think he murdered anybody. I’d like to know what proof the police have.”

  The table was silent, all pondering Jackson’s fate.

  “Dodie, are you going to find out who did kill Vincent Carcherelli?” asked Mildred. “After all, you solved murders in Etonville.”

  “The shore’s not Etonville,” Vernon replied between bites of his lobster roll. “They don’t do things the same way down here that we do up north.”

  Vernon was actually correct. Candle Beach was a sleepy town most of the year; in the summer its population swelled and its police force expanded. Not to mention it had the resources of the county prosecutor’s office.

  “If we were home in Etonville, we could hold a bake sale to raise bail money.” A Banger sister.

  “Or a jumble sale at the Episcopal Church.” The other Banger sister.

  “The chief could get him released,” said Mildred. “As a professional courtesy?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Mildred, the man’s in jail for murder,” shouted Vernon. “The chief can’t bust him out of the big house!”

  Mildred tossed her head dismissively as if to say “we’ll see.”

  I was glad Bill was out of range of this conversation. The Etonville crowd finished their lunch, provided more opinions on Jackson’s future, and encouraged me to hang in there. Since a light mist continued to fall, some folks set off to join a bus tour of an historic village half an hour away. Lola gave my shoulders an encouraging squeeze and headed back to the hotel for a nap.

  I was relieved to be alone, finally, and when the traffic in the restaurant slowed, I sat on a bar stool waiting for Grody to take a break.

  “Thought that was you,” said John Bannister at my back. He glanced at the newspaper spread out in front of me on the bar.

  “Arlene said you stopped by the theater asking for Sam. Something about your friend?” he asked.

  “Jackson was under the crazy impression Sam might be willing to put up his bail money,” I said, almost embarrassed.

  John was silent for a moment, leaning on his cane. “No luck there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe I could have a word with Sam,” he said.

  I stared at the kindly gentleman. “You’d do that?”

  “Keep your chin up. Tell your friend to do the same.” He nodded and walked away.

  What a generous offer.

  * * * *

  “Pretty grim news, Red,” Grody said. “Coffee?”

  He filled a cup before I could say yes. Though Grody had lowered the acrylic sheets that served as temporary walls to retain some warmth, gusts of cool air found their way into the restaurant. The heat from the mug was welcome.

  “Have you spoken to him?” Grody asked gently.

  “I was his one phone call,” I said. “He asked me to speak to Sam Baldwin about bail.”

  “He what?” Grody was as mystified as Lola and me about Jackson appealing to Sam.

  “I know, right?” I said.

  “So…?”

  “I found him at his office. He was courteous, listened to our appeal.” Or rather Lola’s appeal.

  Grody propped his elbows on the bar. “And?”

  I ducked my head. “He politely rejected our request. Claimed he couldn’t help Jackson.” I wasn’t banking on John Bannister having any better luck with Sam.

  Grody frowned. “I know your intentions are noble, kiddo. For the record, I don’t believe Jackson’s guilty, but something bad is going on here. You should steer clear of this business and let the police handle the case.”

  “And if he doesn’t get terrific representation and make bail, he’ll sit in ja
il until his trial. That could be months.” I sipped the coffee, allowing the heat to trickle down my throat and warm my belly.

  Grody spread his arms in defeat. “What else to do?”

  “If only I knew what evidence the cops have to charge him…” I permitted the thought to dangle.

  “There’s nothing in the Courier,” Grody reminded me.

  “You do know someone in the county prosecutor’s office. Do you think you could—?”

  “Whoa!” Grody backed off. “Wait a minute! Picking up a little gossip is one thing. Prying hush-hush information out of a county official is another.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I hate to abandon Jackson, even if he is a pain in my butt. We have—”

  “History. So you said before.” Grody sighed. “It’s not gonna be easy. I’ll make a call and see if I can coax anything out of my contact.”

  “Thanks, Grody.” I clasped his arms.

  “No guarantees, but he owes me. I let him win at poker,” he said.

  “You’re a nice guy,” I said.

  “Not really. He’s my brother-in-law,” Grody said wryly.

  * * * *

  Bill munched on fried clams as I steered my MINI Cooper onto Ocean Avenue, the wipers intermittently clearing the windshield.

  “These are great. Tell Grody.” He finished off the last of his lunch.

  “I will. Sorry you missed the Etonville bunch.”

  “Me too.” Bill chuckled, then turned sober. “Tell me about Jackson’s arrest.”

  What to tell? I resisted sharing Grody’s offer to dig around in the prosecutor’s office. I knew what Bill’s reaction would be to that, and I didn’t have the stamina today to squabble over my efforts to free Jackson. “The newspaper article was noticeably vague. Just that the investigation had revealed evidence permitting the police to charge him.”

  “And Jackson? How’s he doing?”

  “He called. Had me reach out to Sam Baldwin about bail,” I said.

  “Who’s that?” Bill asked.

  Bill wasn’t privy to my interactions with Sam during the past few days. “He’s the patron of the community theater festival. Supposedly he’s hiring Jackson for some job. He runs several companies.”

  “Are they good friends?” Bill asked. “Because if they are, why’d Jackson have to sleep on our front porch?”

  “No clue,” I said honestly. Since Jackson had removed his things last night, he’d likely seen the last of our bungalow.

  “Well, the PD will get to the bottom of it. Hard to believe Jackson’s the perp. ’Course we don’t know what evidence the department has,” Bill said hastily.

  Not yet. “So, what held you up? Any of the mug shots familiar?” Although why criminals in the Candle Beach area would be recognizable was beyond me.

  Bill shifted in the passenger seat and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. “Nope.”

  “You mentioned leads on the BMW,” I reminded him.

  “Nothing materialized.”

  Was it my imagination, or was Bill being deliberately evasive? I’d gotten this ambiguous treatment before…usually when he was on a case. The state car theft unit doubtless appreciated having one of their own on assignment with them. Still, it was our vacation.

  “So…the lighthouse?” Bill said.

  When Bill had arrived at the Sandbar as I was leaving, we made plans. While he ordered takeout, I Googled directions on my cell. With the on-and-off showers, we decided to take a day trip to the Barnegat lighthouse. It was an hour away, enough time for the clouds to clear a bit as per my weather app. By three o’clock the sun was struggling to peek out from behind a thick cloud cover. All traces of the morning’s drizzle had faded.

  “We have an hour and a half before it closes.” I pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the park, whose website indicated that tourists were invited to partake of various activities: picnicking, fishing, birdwatching, hiking along its many nature trails, and climbing to the top of the catwalk on the lighthouse. All two hundred plus steps.

  Bill craned his neck and shaded his eyes. “We’re going all the way up there?” he asked skeptically.

  “It’ll be great. You’ll see.” Honestly, I had my own doubts about the trek to the top, but I’d gotten us here and we had an afternoon to kill. I needed something to take my mind off Jackson for a couple of hours until I heard something from Grody.

  “Did you see the list of conditions that should keep people from attempting the climb?” Bill read the sign posted at the entrance to the lighthouse. “Heart trouble, back trouble, recent surgery, dizziness, fear of heights—”

  “Come on, sailor. You’ll be fine. The view’s supposed to be spectacular.”

  “My back’s been aching lately,” he grumbled and followed me inside the lighthouse.

  “Two hundred steps. Not even a tenth of a mile,” I said brightly. Climbers were sparse today, three twenty-somethings ahead of us and a middle-aged man and woman a dozen paces behind. We set foot on the spiral staircase and began our ascent. I could swear Bill counted each step aloud, pausing periodically to take a break.

  “Are we there yet?” he asked.

  I’d given up conversation after the first twenty-five paces. The climb was more challenging than I’d expected. We reached the catwalk and burst out of the dimly lit stairwell to the bright light of day—while we were climbing, the sun made a bona fide entrance. “Yay!” I said as Bill huffed his way onto the catwalk and leaned into the guardrail. “We made it! Isn’t this exhilarating?”

  Bill wheezed. “Now I need to get my heart back inside my chest.”

  “What happened to that NFL body?” I put a hand on his arm. “Beautiful.” From my vantage point you could see up and down the New Jersey shoreline for miles. The panorama was spectacular.

  “This is nice,” Bill said appreciatively. “Those houses are like playthings.” He pointed to a nearby town whose rooftops formed a patchwork of squares. “This reminds me of Google Earth.”

  “Right!” I used Google Earth to sweep in on my parents’ place in Naples. I got a kick out of seeing what they were up to.

  We observed an ocean vessel—some distance off-shore—sail through the choppy water as it made its way south. I crossed to a plaque on the lighthouse wall and read. “In the past sailors needed this lighthouse to guide them through the shoals and swift currents.” I gestured at the ship. “Wonder where it’s going? Or coming from.”

  “Likely from the Port of New Jersey if it’s hauling cargo. Could be going all the way to Africa.” Bill stared at the ship. “According to the car theft unit, that’s where most of the stolen vehicles are shipped.”

  The BMW was on Bill’s mind. I took his hand and we retraced our way down the spiral staircase, emerging onto the pavement in no time from the rapid descent. Bill sneezed.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “You okay?”

  “Fine. Most likely an allergy.” He sneezed again.

  * * * *

  Bill was silent on the ride back to Candle Beach. No other mention of the BMW, no warning me to stay out of Jackson’s affairs, and when I asked what he was up for this evening—playing hard to get—he suggested I go see the theater festival while he rested at the bungalow. Alone. I wasn’t offended, only mystified. He claimed to be tired and achy. The sneezing seemed to be more than an allergy, he said. What was going on? He checked out. AWOL. According to Aunt Maureen absence—distance in this case—did not make the heart grow fonder. She believed in out of sight, out of mind. For the present, I was out of Bill’s mind.

  I offered to whip up something for dinner. Bill declined my offer, kissed me on the top of my head, and went to the bedroom to take a nap. I felt sticky from my hike up to the top of the lighthouse. I jumped in the shower, changed into a lightweight cotton skirt and blouse ensemble, and looked in on Bill. He was sleeping so I g
ave him a peck on the cheek.

  “Huh…?” He rolled over without opening his eyes.

  Possibly the bloom was off the romantic-vacation rose. I shook off my gloomy mood and decided that the theater festival had to be more entertaining than sitting in the house waiting for Bill to awaken from his nap. I had an hour to kill before the curtain went up on the NJCTF; Lola and company would be prepping for tonight’s show; Grody would be over-the-top busy at this hour—and I wanted to give him time to communicate with his brother-in-law; that left a Creamsicle Crush at the tiki bar.

  I settled onto a stool, and while I waited for my drink and appetizer, I checked email and clicked on my Facebook page. There were posts from ELT members about the theater festival and the other entrants, some pictures of the Arsenic and Old Lace cast, and a video of my brother Andy’s son Cory in the wading pool. Andy loved to post videos of Cory running around in the backyard, eating pasta, and singing “The Wheels on the Bus.” I smiled and reminded myself to buy and send my nephew’s birthday present.

  I scanned the national news and put my cell in my bag. A copy of today’s Candle Beach Courier was folded in half, stuffed into the menu holder. Was that a comment on the local paper’s quality? I reread the article on Jackson’s arrest. The accompanying mug shot was unflattering, typical for this kind of photo. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, he sported several days’ worth of beard, and his dark hair formed a curly halo around his face. I couldn’t help myself. I felt sorry for my old boyfriend. And yet, he projected a hint of mischief. As though he thought this was all a game and any moment now he would be released to join his surfer buddies and thrill them with his escapade behind bars. Oh, Jackson…

  “Like, hey.” Pauli plopped down beside me.

  “Pauli! Fancy meeting you here,” I joked.

  “I figured you’d be here if you weren’t at the Sandbar.”

  “Nice detective work,” I said. Pauli dipped his head and opened a folded paper napkin.