Just in Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “Why, Vernon, I didn’t know you were so cosmopolitan,” Mildred said with a giggle.

  The Bangers stared at him blankly. “Cold or hot. It doesn’t matter. We like our soup room temperature,” one sister said.

  “Give it a minute and it will warm up. Meanwhile what about a sandwich? Or salad?”

  “Oh no. Watching our waistlines, don’t you know,” the other sister said. “We’re getting our head shots taken tonight.”

  Poor Pauli.

  I circled the dining room, accepting comments on the soup and recommending Henry’s grilled chicken wrap. While customers were polite as I strolled around, they were more interested in chewing over the facts of Ruby’s death than any of Henry’s dishes.

  “Who do the police think killed Ruby?” asked Mildred knowingly. She winked at me.

  “I have no idea,” I said politely. Everyone assumed I had more information than the Standard reporter had gleaned from the Etonville police department. It didn’t matter anyway. What the town didn’t know factually, it would create fictionally.

  “Well, you could ask…Bill,” one of the Bangers tittered.

  That was enough. “Let me send Gillian over with the coffee pot.” I gritted my teeth and hurried away.

  That might have been the end of the murder speculation, had Bill not walked into the Windjammer two minutes later. Interested customers followed our progress to my back booth.

  “Lots of rumors today,” I said and set a menu in front of him.

  “Whatever’s special,” Bill said dismissively and waved the menu away.

  “Soup and a chicken wrap.” I placed his order in the kitchen and drew a soda.

  “Suki said you stopped by.” Bill took a drink of his Coke. “That was a cryptic conversation you had with Ruby.”

  “Nothing that provided any hint of a looming crisis in her life. Have you interviewed the cast?”

  “Suki’s working on it. So far, nobody has much of anything to say. The Creston people never socialized with her. I guess she kept to herself. The Etonville contingent had less to say. Ruby had a smart mouth on her, but most folks ignored it or laughed it off.” He scowled and tugged on his blond spikes. “Not a lot to go on. Her car is clean. No prints inside or out—except Ruby’s.”

  I reached in my bag. “You might want to see this.” I handed him Ruby’s scrapbook.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “The scrapbook I mentioned?” I said lightly.

  “You never mentioned a scrapbook.” A light scowl creased his forehead.

  “I didn’t? I picked it up the day Lola and I visited her apartment,” I said.

  “You removed evidence from a murder victim’s home?” Bill’s face reddened. “You’re not going off on your own and—”

  “Calm down. She wasn’t a murder victim when I borrowed the scrapbook. I intended to return it, but then you discovered her death was a homicide. So there it is.”

  Bill regarded me warily. “What’s in it? Because I know you’ve gone over everything.”

  “I paged through it. Some family photos and a ton of clippings. Did you know Ruby was a world class concert pianist?”

  Bill said, “No, I didn’t.”

  “She played for royalty and at the White House and won every award in the book,” I said.

  Bill studied the scrapbook in his hands. “Doesn’t sound like the woman everyone is describing to me.”

  “I know, right? What do you think happened to her career?” I asked.

  “I have no idea and, more importantly, neither do you, so let’s keep it that way,” he warned gently.

  Gillian brought his gazpacho and chicken wrap. Bill dug into his lunch.

  “Any other news?” I asked innocently. Had Edna overheard the ME conversation accurately?

  Bill hesitated, and then lowered his voice. “Ruby had an overdose of Ambien in her system. Enough to knock her out in no time. There was a half-empty bottle in her purse.”

  Edna was right on. “She was drugged as well as asphyxiated?”

  “Possibly. Unless she was so inebriated she took them by mistake. There were half a dozen vitamin bottles in there too—like a pharmacy. Keep all of this under your hat for now.”

  Penny said Ruby was an insomniac. Someone made certain she would fall asleep before she began to notice the effects of the carbon monoxide.

  “What?” Bill said.

  “If someone wanted to make sure Ruby swallowed the Ambien, they might have put it in her flask.”

  Bill’s soup spoon halted halfway to his mouth.

  7

  I sifted through my conversation with Bill over lunch. Drugging Ruby felt, somehow, more premeditated than asphyxiation. I gave him a nudge about the final dress rehearsal tonight. He half-heartedly agreed to show up.

  I took my three o’clock break in the back booth and fanned a stack of mail I’d stuffed in my bag yesterday and had yet to open—utility bill, cable bill, cell phone bill. Ugh. There were offers for hearing aids, window washing, various medical services, and an appeal from my alma mater’s alumni association. It had been a while since I’d sent even a minimal amount. I promised myself once I got ahead of my bills and stashed a bit in my savings account I’d be more generous with requests like these. Alumni… Something was gnawing at the back of my brain.

  * * * *

  By five thirty, the early birds were arriving to sample tonight’s food contest winner. Word was out that it was an English specialty. All of Etonville would feel more continental.

  “I like beer with my meal, so steak and ale is right up my alley,” said Jim, Abby’s husband and a big teddy bear of a man.

  “Not sure you’ll actually taste the beer,” I said.

  “It’s a pie, Jim, in a pastry,” said Abby as she dug into Henry’s flaky crust. “Not bad. Kind of a beef stew pot pie with mushrooms and carrots.”

  I was happy with the verdict. Bless Georgette’s cousin Rebecca. That was three out of three for the food contest. One more to go. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  “Need to get my energy up for this dress rehearsal,” said Abby. Then she continued, darkly. “All these murders. Someone’s jinxed the ELT.”

  “You think so?” I asked, noncommittally.

  Abby considered me. “Mostly since you arrived in town.”

  Jim scooped up the end of his steak pie. “Now that’s what I call a dinner.”

  I hurried away.

  I’d arranged for Benny to take over at seven so that Wilson and I could skip out. Henry was fine with giving Wilson—and himself—a break. Beginning with tomorrow night’s opening, Wilson would be responsible for organizing the snack boxes and drinks. I’d hang around to supervise in case of any mishaps. Gillian would pitch in at some performances as well. Former sous chef Enrico and his wife Carmen, a part-time server, worked weekends so Henry was happy to see Friday come.

  I parked my Metro on a side street near the park and Wilson and I got out. I inhaled the scent of new mown grass and lilacs. The Etonville public works crew had cut the lawn, trimmed the bushes, spruced up the flower beds, and generally beautified the natural elements surrounding the newly created theater. “I love that smell.”

  Wilson inhaled too. “Ze smell of nature.”

  “Takes me back to my summers down the shore. I spent most of my time on the beach. My aunt Maureen had a lovely yard and lots of trees and flowers. Crab apple trees and blueberry bushes. Her flower beds were the talk of the neighborhood: lavender, hydrangeas, wildflowers…I hung out with her a lot.”

  Wilson hugged me. “You love your aunt!”

  “I did love her. She’s passed away.” I missed my favorite great aunt. Her legacy to me was a philosophy of life, a terry cloth robe, a ceramic lamp, and tons of fun memories. She made me laugh harder than anyone else in my life, and she taught me
how to play poker.

  “I am sorry for you,” Wilson said forlornly.

  I gestured for him to join me, and we cut through the seating area on the sloping lawn to the portable concession stand. “Here’s where we’ll sell the snack boxes and drinks.”

  Wilson nodded somberly. He was taking his job seriously. “Do-dee, I am ready to take charge!”

  “Good. We’ll bring the coolers and drinks here tomorrow afternoon so you can open the concessions at six. That will give the audience plenty of time to nibble before the curtain.”

  Wilson’s attention had shifted to the stage where the small band was tuning up and Lola and Dale—already in costume—were getting set to rehearse a number. Alex played the introduction to their duet “Rosie.” Dale was singing about how his girl was sweeter than any other flower around, and Lola, twirling in and out of his arms, was singing about how her life would be rosy and happy and how they’d set off to find a preacher. The number captivated Wilson. His head bobbed, and his foot tapped in time to the music. It was sweet to see him so engrossed—

  Suddenly he grabbed my arm and spun me into his chest, then flipped me out again. “Whoa! Wilson! Back to work—” I released his hand, intending to rotate away and end our dance number, but I didn’t see Walter walking up the path behind me. I rotated right into him.

  “Oof,” he said, flinching.

  I rebounded off his chest. Walter was the last person I would want to get up close and personal with—accidentally or on purpose. I rotated back into Wilson.

  “I love to dance, Do-dee!”

  “I can see that,” I said, catching my breath.

  Walter regained his dignity, adjusted his sunglasses. “We don’t have time for fooling around.”

  He glared at the stage as the number ended. Dale laid a big smooch on Lola and she responded accordingly. Talk about method acting. Was that in the script? Were the two of them rehearsing the kissing scene offstage as well?

  “Penny?” Walter roared, drowning out the applause of Wilson, Edna, and the Banger sisters, who were watching the duo perform. “Get the cast onstage for warm-ups!”

  “I’m on it.” She signaled that it was time for another of Walter’s bizarre pre-show workouts. I didn’t get it. Most of his exercises left the cast in stitches, less, not more, focused. Walter was oblivious.

  The actors proudly displayed their 1950s costumes while Chrystal, fiddling with accessories, and Carol, waving a can of hair spray, ran hither and yon. The teenagers were the last—and loudest—actors to make it onstage. At least they wouldn’t have to create the circle—

  “—of light,” Walter said.

  Not that again. Walter used it to create trust in the cast. I’d participated once and the thing I learned was not to trust the cast. The Creston Players looked confused while the ELT members reluctantly formed a circle, and allowed themselves to collapse into each other’s outspread arms, assuming the company would catch them. It took three minutes for the discipline to break down and the cast to dissolve into giggles. Penny tooted three or four times but to no avail.

  Lola confronted Walter, who submitted to the hilarity, changed tactics, and motioned to Alex to continue the warm-up. Now that made sense. After a few runs up and down the scales, he had them work through various numbers. I leaned against the counter of the refreshment booth as the actors settled down and their voices wafted into the night air. It was going to be a beautiful production, marred only by Ruby’s death. I wondered how many of the cast had been down to the municipal building.

  “Do-dee,” Wilson whispered, “I am going there.” He pointed ahead to the seating area.

  “Sure,” I said. Henry wasn’t expecting him back tonight. His sous chef was really into the musical and I was planning to stay for the entire run. I’d seen Act One several times this week, but had yet to see Act Two. The overture began.

  Pauli fell into a seat next to me, his digital camera slung around his neck. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. Saw you taking photos of actors,” I said slyly.

  He ducked his head. “Like yeah. Some people need headshots.”

  Like the Banger sisters. “Janice?”

  Pauli adjusted the camera lens. “Yeah. It was awesome.”

  “And did you talk to her like I suggested?”

  “Sort of. We might hang out after the rehearsal.”

  “All right.” I raised my hand to high five him.

  Pauli giggled like a little kid and smacked my palm. It was cute to see him in high spirits. He stopped giggling and leaned closer. “Like, I, uh, heard about the piano player.”

  “Ruby. Yeah. Really unfortunate.”

  “Murder, right?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “If, like, you need help with digital forensics or whatever…”

  Most of the time Pauli was a typical teenager—a nice kid with raging hormones—who was preoccupied with his cell phone. When it came to the digital world, Pauli was a skillful practitioner of Internet investigation. He could find anything on the web.

  “I’ll let you know,” I murmured.

  “Cause I’m only working part-time at the Shop N Go until September,” he added.

  Pauli was graduating from Etonville High in two weeks and attending college in the fall. He wanted to continue with his online digital forensics courses, but Carol and her husband insisted on a liberal arts education. They compromised on a local community college for the next two years. Besides the Shop N Go, Pauli was staying busy with his website company, keeping area businesses online. Including the Windjammer. “You’ll be an Etonville High alum in a couple of weeks.”

  “Totally,” he said, straining to see if Janice and the athlete from Creston High were onstage yet.

  What was it about alumni that caused a twitch on my neck? First my college, then the idea of Pauli graduating, then…Ruby! Ruby was a graduate of the Maynard Institute. The alumni office probably had information on her. People often kept in touch with their colleges even while ignoring the people they went to school with. I knew that from personal experience. I told Bill I had no interest in Ruby’s murder investigation, but something about the elderly woman struck me. Was it because she was about the same age my aunt was when she passed away? Was it because I wanted to know why someone of her talent walked away from a brilliant career? My aunt walked away from a successful banking career when she was fifty. She moved down the shore and took a position at a local newspaper as an advice columnist. I hadn’t thought about it much over the years—until now. Why did she leave her job as a financial officer—only to dish out guidance to the lovelorn?

  On the other hand, maybe it was Ruby’s warning that jabbed at me: You can’t trust anyone…they only get you in the end.

  The Bye, Bye, Birdie overture ended, the lights rose on the stage, and Lola entered, looking smashing in a form-fitting, black and white checked 1950s suit and updo. Carol’s specialty. She glided across the stage to Dale, teasing and insisting that he leave the music business and return to teaching English. Albert, handsome in a beige suit, listens to Rosie hatch the publicity stunt to have Conrad Birdie sing “One Last Kiss” with a teenager from an Ohio fan club. That teenager would be Janice. Pauli’s love interest.

  The band hit the first notes of Lola’s song. I watched Alex take them through their musical paces, while keeping up on the keyboard and directing Lola and Dale via head nods. Whew, Alex was one busy guy, but he seemed up to the task. Had Ruby shared her past with him?

  The sun set over the Etonville Park, its last rays streaked the sky with blues, reds, and purples. The moon rose through a light cloud cover. Night sounds emerged from the dark whenever the stage went still for a moment: crickets, an owl hooting, and the zzzt of the bug zapper.

  Cavorting teenagers danced with period phones for “The Telephone Hour,” while Edna, having a ball playing the Mayor
’s overwhelmed wife, fainted again and again at the sight of Conrad Birdie’s hip-thrusting pelvis. I laughed out loud, and Wilson joined in. He was having a ball too.

  A shadow flitted off to my right and a figure materialized out of the dark. “Hi,” Bill said.

  I shifted in my seat and murmured, “You made it!”

  “Taking one for the municipal public relations team,” he grumbled.

  His costume looked surprisingly like his everyday uniform—except for the billy club attached to his belt. I’d never seen Bill with one of those. Guess he was right. He could have worn his own cop regalia.

  “Any word on the whereabouts of Ruby’s flask?” I asked.

  “We’ve checked the theater, her car…no sign of it. It would have been the perfect means for delivering the drug,” Bill said softly.

  “Whoever killed her had to know about the flask in advance.”

  “Like someone in this crowd,” Bill said grimly.

  “I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary lately. It’s difficult for me to believe someone in the production is responsible for murdering that elderly woman,” I whispered.

  “I’m visiting her apartment in Creston tomorrow morning,” Bill said.

  “There’s not much there. Lola and I went over everything.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said ruefully.

  “The only thing of importance seemed to be the scrapbook, and her laptop, which we didn’t touch,” I added hastily.

  Act One was drawing to a close rapidly—with a cascade of hijinks: Conrad Birdie singing “One Last Kiss” on the Ed Sullivan show, getting ready to plant one on Kim; a jealous Hugo punching Birdie in the face; Rosie breaking up with Albert; and the panicked Albert leading a reprise of “A Normal, American Boy.”

  I had to admit it; Walter had done a nice job with the staging. The last notes flowed into the makeshift house, and the onstage lights dimmed. Wilson, Pauli, Bill, myself, and crew members applauded loudly.

  The house lights rose and the usual disorder broke out. Crew ran onstage to set up Act Two. Actors, giddy with the success of the run-through, ran into the house to chat with each other—while a handful searched for Chrystal to complain about ripped hems, broken zippers, and missing accessories.