Carol counted her change, thrilled about her poker winnings. “Okey-doke.”
Lola followed me into the hallway.
“I need a favor.”
“Sure. What’s up?” she asked.
“Pauli should come to the theater festival tonight to take photos,” I said.
“He doesn’t need to. We’ve got plenty from rehearsals and performances—”
“Lola, I can’t tell you everything…”
She stared at me.
“I’d like Pauli to stay in the theater tonight. With the rest of the Etonville crowd.”
Lola gasped. “Oh, something’s happening?” She knew enough not to ask more questions than necessary when I’d gotten myself involved in murder investigations.
“I don’t know. Until I do, the theater is the safest place for him,” I assured her.
Lola’s expression transitioned from surprise to worry and ended with determination. “I’ll get him there. Never fear.”
“Thanks, Lola and—”
“I know. Mum’s the word,” she said, pleased to be an asset.
* * * *
The ELT dressed in rain gear and headed off to the boardwalk for dinner, Pauli in tow. Lola had convinced him that pictures of the award winners—whether or not Arsenic and Old Lace was among them—would be great publicity for the Etonville Little Theatre. The kid was puzzled and grimaced, as if to ask “Really? After all I snapped for the last five days?” Nevertheless, he was a good sport, shrugged off his doubts, and picked up his digital camera. I suggested he take his laptop and work on the “Windjammer website” before the evening’s events began. Pauli winked and jammed the computer into his backpack.
I declined to join the group, claiming that I needed to speak with Bill, which earned me a few giggles. Etonville never tired of commenting on my love life. Once on their way, I was free to jump in my car and drive the short distance to the theater. I had an impulse that demanded attention and not a lot of time to tend to it.
The parking lot was mostly empty; it was at least an hour before the companies would check-in with stage manager Maddy. I opened the front door of the theater and was hit with a dank, musty odor. The wooden structure had absorbed more than its share of moisture this week. All was quiet. I wanted one last chance—because I knew by morning I would have to surrender my evidence to the police—to confront Sam Baldwin. To ask him point blank about Vinnie and his partnership. About Tiny and the stolen cars in the warehouse. About framing Jackson with the ice pick. It was a bold, hazardous move, but I was tired of pussyfooting around. I wanted answers and Sam was the only one who could provide them. I trusted my instincts. If he lied to me, it was straight to the PD in the morning. With or without Pauli’s findings on the black book. Sam had to be here…it was the final night of the festival he sponsored.
I stepped into the house. An eerie silence permeated the dark, unoccupied theater. Only a security light onstage provided limited illumination.
“You looking for someone?” Maddy, emerging from the shadows, asked in her characteristic curt manner. She defined prickly.
“Hi, Maddy. How’s things?”
She stared at me.
Trivial talk had no impact on the stage manager. “Is Sam around?”
“Who wants to know?” She put her hands on her hips.
Who? Really, Maddy? After all of our interactions, she still had no clue who I was? “Dodie O’Dell? Sandbar catering? I need to see Sam about the bill,” I said firmly.
She looked unconvinced. “He’s not here.”
“Is he due in soon? I can just wait around,” I said helpfully.
Maddy grunted. “He’s not been around today. Don’t know if he’s coming tonight.” She sounded forlorn, as though she missed Sam.
I knew there was a possibility he wouldn’t have arrived yet. I assumed he’d have to show up eventually. “He isn’t giving out the theater awards?”
“Don’t know,” she said.
“Dodie!” a booming voice interrupted us.
John Bannister walked off the stage and up the aisle.
“Hey there. Haven’t seen you around Candle Beach recently. Keeping busy with the festival?” I asked.
“This and that. You’re a little early for the festivities. The ceremony doesn’t begin ’til seven thirty.”
“Right. I wanted to speak with Sam. Have you seen him?”
John frowned. “Not this afternoon. Is there something I can help you with?” he asked courteously.
“Catering bill for the opening night reception,” Maddy offered.
“Ah, yes. That was quite a seafood feast. Very clever hors d’oeuvres. Were you responsible?”
I glanced from Maddy to John. How much could I get away with? “I assisted Grody Van Houten from the Sandbar.”
“Do you have the bill with you?” he asked.
Yikes…now what? I rummaged around in my bag as though it was in there somewhere. “Uh…”
“Never mind. Email it to Baldwin General Contractors. I’m sure his secretary can take care of it,” he said.
“Great. Thanks, John.”
Maddy tapped her clipboard impatiently. I knew the gesture. I’d seen it often enough with Penny: Let’s get on with this.
“Is there anything else?” John asked, then checked his watch.
“No. That’s it.” This visit had been a bust. No Sam, no confirmation that he’d be in the theater anytime in the next hour or so, no asking about Tiny, Vinnie, framing Jackson—
“Would you like to get a drink sometime?” John asked, his brown eyes twinkling.
“A drink?” I stammered. Was this kindly older guy hitting on me?
John laughed. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I think you’re a rather interesting person that I’d like to get to know better.”
I was? I could hear Maddy rolling her eyes.
“Well…um…sure. Of course, I’m only here into next week,” I said.
“Fine. Can I have your cell phone? I’ll put my number in your contacts,” he said.
I tapped in my password and handed my cell to John whose thumbs manipulated my phone as fast as Pauli’s did. Wow…pretty awesome. My parents couldn’t begin to maneuver their cells like this.
“When the festival is officially over tonight my appointment as greeter will be completed.” He returned my cell. “By the way, you’re connected to the Etonville Little Theatre? I’ve seen you with them.”
“Yes. Very observant,” I said archly. I was flirting with a senior citizen!
He leaned in conspiratorially. “I think they have a good chance to win something.”
“You do?” Was he kidding?
Maddy harrumphed. “John, you’re not supposed to—”
He raised a hand to silence her. “As good a chance as all of the other theaters.” Then he winked at me.
Yowza! If he was twenty years younger and I wasn’t practically engaged to Bill—did I say that?—I might be tempted to—
“John?” Arlene called from the stage. “Can I see you?”
She was dressed for the night in a sleeveless crew neck maxi dress. Tie-dyed pale pink and white with toeless spiked heels. Doubtless genuine Jimmy Choo. Not the knockoffs that I wore. Her ensemble reeked of expensive. I felt dowdy in my hoodie and rain slicker.
“I’ll be in touch,” John said, patted my arm lightly, and walked back to the stage.
“Whoa,” I said aloud without realizing it.
“A real ladies’ man. Been divorced twice.” Maddy stuck her clipboard under her arm. “And, uh, you can ignore that stuff about Etonville winning something. The envelopes are sealed,” she said decisively.
Maddy stomped off. I was at loose ends; at least half an hour before actors would arrive, another hour before audience members would drift in. I debated. Hang around the theater
hoping Sam showed up? Or run to the boardwalk in the soggy, chilly night and grab something to eat? If Sam arrived on the scene in the next hour it might be a challenge to buttonhole him for a down-and-dirty chat with Maddy hovering in the background. Still, I intended to give it a try. I was sure I could wheedle information out of him. Maybe incriminating.
I opted to brave the elements and jog to the Candle Diner for a quick takeout dinner. Coffee and a sandwich would be fine. Then I would jog back and wait for Sam. In the lobby I inhaled sharply. Walking rapidly to the entrance, bent head covered by a hooded sweatshirt, was Tiny. I hadn’t counted on Sam’s fixer showing up. Tiny must be out on bail too, probably paid by Sam. My feet were glued to the floor. I had to do something and fast. Tiny would recognize me from the arcade and maybe the warehouse. I had no intention of confronting him.
I darted back into the theater and scanned the space. Maddy was gone and the stage was empty. Where to go? I sprinted through the house to a middle row of seats and ended up near the far aisle. I crouched down. I would only be discovered if Tiny chose to do a broad sweep of the house. What were the odds of that? I counted to ten.
The door into the theater nearest to me rustled, followed by his voice on a cell phone. Damn. Couldn’t he have come in the other door? This aisle would bring him close to my hiding place.
“…see me tonight,” Tiny muttered as he stopped a couple of rows away. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Who was he meeting? I didn’t dare pop my head up in case he was still in the house. Hungry and frustrated, I resigned myself to hunkering down in this awkward position until people arrived. The minutes ticked by slowly. I adjusted my legs, then my backside. I checked my email. My eyes shut. I might have dozed off.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” a voice asked, then cackled.
I sat up and blinked. “Hi, Penny.” The ELT cast had gathered behind her, gawking at me on the floor.
“Dodie?” Lola said, alarmed. “What are you doing down there?”
“It’s a long story.” I stood and brushed myself off. “I’ll save it for later.”
“O’Dell, you sure know how to have a good time,” Penny laughed.
“Funny. Where are Carol and Pauli?” I asked, alert.
“They’ll be here,” Lola said pointedly. “Carol wanted to buy souvenirs.”
The company trooped backstage to hang out. I casually glided into a theater seat as though I was one more patron anxious to witness the last night of the New Jersey Community Theater Festival. Other casts trickled in, whooping it up, enjoying the final hurrah. Lights flicked on in the theater. I texted Bill to say I’d be back as soon as the award winners were announced. He sent a smiley face emoji. He was, no doubt, in a fantastic mood.
While I had been in a semiconscious state hiding on the floor, a notion had emerged. What kind of booking information did a charter company request from its guests to register for a day at sea? Credit card info, phone numbers, addresses. Pauli had worked on those for the men on the list. What else?
I mentally slapped my forehead! Vinnie must have advertised his business, had a website. I’d gotten so caught up reading about Vinnie’s partner that I neglected to click on his website link. Maybe there was useful information there. I Googled Vinnie’s name with boat businesses and sure enough there it was—Carcherelli Charters. The website was slick and classy with a home page that featured a photo of The Bounty and a beaming Vinnie on its deck. Other pages outlined charter trips and rates for daily expeditions, corporate events, and parties; a fishing report for the Jersey Shore; a photo gallery of satisfied customers displaying their catches; and an online registration form. A half page was devoted to the charter’s valet service: pull up to the dock and your car was parked for you. That had to be a nice perk. Grody was right—these fishing excursions were pricey events. If Vinnie’s customers filled out the registration form they’d supply name, address, phone, email, and intended dates. Nothing unusual there. No information that might provide Vinnie with blackmail fodder, if that was how he intended to get revenge. I was stumped.
“Hey.”
A spray of raindrops peppered me as Pauli removed his jacket and slumped into a seat.
“Taking more photos tonight?”
“Like I took about a thousand already.”
“Lola wants to spotlight the ELT if it wins something.” I remembered John Bannister’s words.
Pauli fidgeted with his camera.
“Between shots you can work on the list.”
“Got it. I’m gonna bounce soon as I can and go back to the hotel,” he said.
I had a sudden flash. “Do you have the names from the book in your computer?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Then I’d better take the book for safekeeping,” I said softly.
Pauli regarded me wisely. “Cuz like, if somebody found out I had it…” He finished the thought to himself. “Awesome.”
He was enjoying the detective stuff too much. I soft-pedaled my concerns. “I don’t want us to lose it,” I said casually.
Pauli scanned the house, opened his backpack, and attempted a clandestine move, passing me the book. I placed it in my bag.
“Brrr. It’s getting downright cold out there.” Carol whipped off a rain cap. “The drizzle is turning into another downpour. Pauli, are you staying for the whole show?”
“Nah. I’m taking some shots at the beginning and cutting out.”
“Stay until the winners are announced. You never know…!” She bobbed her salt-and-pepper curly head and walked off.
Hope sprang eternal in Etonville.
The house was filling nicely, despite the rising wind and steady deluge. People took off slickers and jackets and settled into their seats. I found mine on the opposite side of the theater and joined Mildred, Vernon, and the Banger sisters.
“My, the weather is simply atrocious,” said a Banger sister.
“I like this kind of weather. Puts me in a pleasant mood,” said Vernon.
“Storms like this remind me of Hurricane Sandy,” said Mildred. “I remember the gale force wind and the water everywhere. Dodie, I know you remember it,” she said sympathetically.
All four of my friends looked at me. I had nightmares, like last night, whenever the weather forecast hinted at a possible hurricane. “I do.”
The house lights dimmed, people shushed each other, and excitement rippled through the theater. Arlene appeared in a spotlight center stage, fabulous in her maxi dress and sporting a queenly smile. I spotted John down front in the first row, but no Sam. Arlene thanked everyone for coming out in this “dreadful weather” and introduced Graham from the Westfield community theater. The genial gentleman gave a brief summary of the festival’s highlights—opening night reception, wonderful attendance, and brilliant performances. A blast of wind shook the theater. People murmured but Graham soldiered on announcing the night’s entertainment—a medley of songs about theater sung by the casts of Cinderella and The Sound of Music.
“Give My Regards to Broadway,” a couple from Cabaret and Chorus Line, and “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” When the actors from Cinderella began to sing “Don’t Rain on My Parade” from Funny Girl, they earned generous laughs from the crowd as intermittent gusts beat down on the building. The songs came to an end—to a well-deserved round of applause—and Graham took the stage to present the seven community theaters who had been finalists. One by one, the companies hustled onto the stage, took a bow, and received a certificate of commendation from Graham.
When it was the ELT’s moment, Walter stood prominently center stage flanked by a dignified Lola and a smirking Romeo. Abby seemed unimpressed, but Edna had enough enthusiasm for all—she waved to her supporters in the crowd and Etonville cheered loudly. Pauli snapped away.
“Yay!” Mildred yelled. “Oh, I hope we win,” she said to m
e.
I gave her an optimistic thumbs-up.
The stage lights blipped off and then back on immediately, the electricity under duress. Patrons shared concerns with each other. Graham sensed he might soon be losing his viewers and hurried through the final presentation of actors: King Lear, whose title character did a Shakespearean bow with bended knee. And finally, after days of rehearsal and performances, the winners of the NJCTF were about to be announced. Mildred clutched my hand on one side, a Banger sister on the other. We were in solidarity.
“Third place in the New Jersey Community Theater Festival goes to…” Graham opened an envelope with a flourish. Took a second to register its contents and then intoned, “Death of a Salesman.”
Shouts erupted in the house as the company ran onstage and accepted its bronze trophy graciously. If they were disappointed to place third, they didn’t show it.
When the audience grew quiet, Graham announced the second-place winner: “Cinderella.”
Never mind the bulky glass slipper or petulant lead actor, the show had hit its mark and earned the cast a silver award. The tension in the theater grew. Two of the strongest shows had already won. Who was left? Did Arsenic actually have a chance?
Graham waited until he had the entire house in the palm of his hand. He gestured with the last envelope. “And now ladies and gentlemen, the first-place award goes to…”
A crash from outside startled everyone. The theater went dark.
18
Everything happened simultaneously. Screams from the audience, Graham attempting to maintain order by begging everyone to stay calm, shouting from the stage as the crew struggled to figure out what went wrong. Cell phone flashlights created a hundred pinpoints of light. I reassured Mildred and the Banger sisters that the theater must have a back-up generator. After all, this was run by Sam Baldwin who did seminars on surviving the aftereffects of Hurricane Sandy.
In the hubbub, Pauli leaned over the seat behind me. “Gotta bounce.”
“Be careful out there,” I said.
He gave me a thumbs-up.
“Text me if you find anything. On the list, on the warehouse, on Vinnie. Anything.”
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