Just in Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “Sorry. Listen, have you spoken with Lola today?” Bill asked. “I know she often texts you first thing in the morning.”

  True. So sweet of Bill to pay attention. “Very observant of you.”

  “I saw your text messages last week.”

  Or not.

  “I’m trying to reach Dale Undershot. He’s not picking up his landline or cell phone. I thought Lola might know where he is?” he said.

  “Funny you should ask. She called minutes ago, and said she was looking for him, too.”

  The line was quiet. I recognized Bill’s police chief pause. “Oh? Is that all she said?”

  “Also that he’s been testy lately and got into it with Alex and Walter last night.”

  “I saw a little bit of that. He was gesturing wildly and pointing at various spots on the stage floor. I figured typical dress rehearsal stuff,” Bill said.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No. Standard investigative practice,” he said guardedly.

  I could hear a shroud of vigilance in his voice.

  “Speaking of Dale’s testy behavior…”

  “What?” he asked abruptly.

  “The night I spoke with Ruby at rehearsal? At intermission, she crossed the stage to go to the loading dock for a smoke and Dale…well they had a conversation,” I said.

  “What kind of conversation?” Bill’s voice was tense.

  “Intense. Dale grabbed Ruby’s arm and appeared to be angry.”

  His vocal register rose. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t think too much of it at the time. I assumed it was an argument about musical cues, but now…” Sometimes, I had a tendency to read more into a situation than was actually there. “You’re the one telling me I have an overactive imagination,” I said in my own defense.

  Bill exhaled loudly. “If you hear anything about Dale, text me?”

  “Sure.”

  He clicked off.

  In the kitchen, Henry was studying the recipes for tomorrow night’s final food contest winner: pistachio crusted chicken and cauliflower steaks. I wanted to go with a more exotic entrée, but Henry assured me that choosing a dish submitted by the mayor was good for business and for the town. Meanwhile, Wilson mixed the ingredients for the salmon burgers. We featured them a few times in the last year, and they were always a hit with the customers. Our Haitian sous chef was creating his own version of the burgers. Wilson kneaded the red and yellow bell peppers, panko bread crumbs, and garlic into the chopped fresh salmon, adding eggs, soy sauce, and lemon juice as he worked.

  “Can’t wait to try them,” I said.

  “Do-dee, I will make one especial for you!”

  “Thanks, Wilson.” He really was a nice guy, thoughtful and—

  A clatter succeeded a bang, as a bowl with seasoned mayonnaise tipped over and tumbled to the tile floor.

  “Wilson!” Henry exclaimed.

  The young man looked stricken, dropping his eyes to the puddle of soy sauce and sesame oil, as it slowly spread in an ever-widening circle.

  “Got it covered!” I said and darted for a mop and bucket.

  * * * *

  It was all hands on deck—loading the snack boxes, wine, and soda into the Windjammer van. I’d already prepped the plastic cups and napkins.

  “Sure you’ve got enough help at the park?” Benny asked. Hooray for the weather app—the sun was shining, the air was thick with humidity. I pushed the thought of showers tonight out of my mind with a vengeance.

  “All good,” I said. I’d enlisted the aid of Pauli and some of the teenagers in the cast to help set up. Pauli asked Janice, who had asked a few others, and soon I had a working contingent of half a dozen kids. Probably more than I needed, but never mind. It was nice to have them involved. “Ready Wilson?”

  I drove the van onto the path used by the Public Works Department to deliver landscaping equipment to the park and pulled up next to the concession stand. My crew was already waiting.

  “Hi, guys. Thanks for helping out.”

  Pauli opened the door of the van. “Like, easy peasy.”

  He unloaded the hand truck, hopped on the back of the van, and shifted the cartons of snacks to Wilson, who stacked them up on the hand truck for the teenagers, who wheeled them to the concession stand. It was a coordinated effort.

  Within half an hour, the food and drinks were neatly stowed inside the stand, the bottles of wine and soda tucked under a shelf for safekeeping. Good thing Wilson was now guarding the stash of concessions!

  “Is that it, Dodie?” asked Janice. She was a pretty brunette with dimples. No wonder Pauli was smitten.

  “That’s it. You’ve all been great.”

  Because they had a couple of hours before the curtain rose, the cast members drifted away from the refreshments to the stage to hang out where everything—the floor, lighting instruments, curtained dressing rooms, and orchestra pit—had been covered by JC with heavy duty tarps. The audience, however, could arrive at any time to picnic, eat the snack boxes, or drink wine. I glanced longingly at a bottle of chardonnay.

  “So uh, like, Janice might come to my graduation party,” Pauli said confidentially, his eyes shining.

  “Nice!”

  “Yeah. Epic.”

  Out of the blue, his smile faded. He was fixated on Janice. The athlete actor from Creston High had joined her, laughing, making the other girls laugh, sucking the air out of Etonville Park and deflating Pauli’s balloon.

  “Hey, don’t let him intimidate you. Get in there and fight for Janice.” I gently nudged his shoulder.

  Pauli shrugged. “I gotta bounce anyway.” He took off.

  Geez.

  I left Wilson in charge of the concession stand with a cashbox. I posted a sign for the Etonville and Creston patrons, which listed what they would pay for a snack box, wine, or soda. Some of them might bring their own picnics; however, there would be folks who wanted to sample the Windjammer fare…or so I told Henry. I moved away from Wilson and cut across the damp, sloping lawn. I hoped people would be sensible enough to bring lawn chairs as well as bug spray. I wiped some sweat from my face and sat down on a large rock. On it was a plaque that proudly proclaimed this spot as the site of town founder Thomas Eton’s log cabin. I hoped I wasn’t defiling the founding father’s living space. My cell buzzed, indicating a text. It was my mother, asking if I intended to spend a week at the shore in August. Though they were now permanent citizens of Naples, Florida, I had the sneaky suspicion if Bill and I were down the shore, my parents might join us. They still had friends there and talked about visiting to catch up. I texted back: Not sure yet. I’ll call.

  I mulled over family and how mine kept in touch via email, texts, Facebook, and Skype. I wondered about Ruby. Was there anyone she was in touch with? Family or friends in Indiana? Her apartment was so spare, so lacking in personal touches that it was impossible to know.

  Lola’s Lexus parked behind my Metro and she alighted dressed in running shorts and trotted over.

  “Hi. Sorry I was such a mess this morning. The sun is out and Dale’s meeting me here for a run around the park before our call.” She stretched, testing the limits of her lime green spandex tank top.

  The jogging was a new pastime: Dale’s influence.

  “I’m glad you caught up with him. Did he say where he was?” I asked

  “Oh, you know. Running last minute show-opening errands. Join us?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Need to keep an eye on the concessions.” Besides, I get enough exercise just pushing my luck.

  Lola waved and ran to meet Dale, who’d parked his dark sedan behind hers. He was similarly dressed in jogging gear. They sprinted off, and I whipped out my cell and tapped Bill’s number in my contacts.

  “What’s up?” He sounded frazzled.

&nbs
p; “Thought you should know. Dale Undershot is here at the park. He and Lola are jogging around. Don’t know why given the humidity, but—”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” he said, a mite more personal. “I actually reached him earlier. He was very cooperative.”

  That last word hung in the ether between us.

  “Is there any reason he wouldn’t be cooperative?” I asked.

  Bill hesitated. “Not really. We have Ruby’s laptop and are checking her emails and search history…”

  “What about social media and credit cards and bank accounts? Maybe she posted things or had a spending or saving pattern that would tell you something. What about a cell phone?” I was trying to be helpful.

  “Already covered.”

  He was being more cryptic than usual. “Oh.”

  “She didn’t have a cell phone. At least we haven’t found one.” Silence for a moment. “Look Dodie, I know I can trust you…we’ve discovered some weird things.”

  I waited.

  He lowered his voice. “We found a lot of cash stashed away in a bank account that isn’t consistent with her lifestyle.”

  “You mean…she had money…but where did she get it and why didn’t she spend it?”

  Bill said, “Something like that.” Then more seriously, “This is really confidential stuff until we can figure out what was going on with her.”

  “Got it. See you later—all tricked out in that fifties cop get-up,” I said.

  He chuckled. “I should have told the mayor to play the cop.”

  “Bye, Bill!” I said brightly and clicked off.

  Ruby Passonata had been a wealthy woman who wore the same rumpled clothes, drove a well-used, modest car, and lived in a bare efficiency apartment. Bill was right…something odd was going on. Someone had to know more about who she was.

  9

  The applause following the teenagers’ “Telephone Hour” grew and reached a crescendo as the kids posed with the old-fashioned equipment. Not sure who enjoyed the number more—the sold-out crowd or the performers. Never mind, the rain was holding off despite a light wind that had kicked up and gentle rolling thunder that punctuated a song every now and then. The patrons were game—bringing chairs to avoid the wet grass, scarfing up their own picnics as well as our snack boxes and downing multiple alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. Wilson had nearly sold out the food, and cases of empty bottles were stacked counter high in the refreshment stand. Even the mosquitos took pity on the ELT and Creston Players. The spraying and body slapping were minimal.

  “Bravo!” Someone screamed later as the young girls fainted over Conrad Birdie, falling and standing and falling again. It was a riot and Walter had obviously settled the swoon versus squeal issue.

  The combo played their hearts out, Alex shifted his focus from the piano to the musicians to the cast as if he was juggling balls. Finally, we made it to intermission. The only mishap was a wardrobe malfunction for Conrad Birdie: his gold lamé could take only so much hip thrusting, and Chrystal had to stitch a pivotal seam. When the lights dimmed for the end of the first act, folks hurried to the portable bathrooms and purchased the remaining soda stock. Wine was off-limits for the second act: the Public Works Department wanted everyone to get home safely.

  “Do-dee, it is ze last of ze drinks,” Wilson said, emptying a container and putting it into a carton.

  “Good work, Wilson. Let’s close up, and you can watch the second act from out there.”

  “Beautiful!” He clasped me before I could brace myself and fend off his affection.

  “That’s fine. You head on over.” I kindly pushed him in the direction of the grassy slope. I needed to have a talk with him one of these days. I appreciated his warmth and friendliness but—

  “Hi.” It was Bill in his work clothes.

  “What are you doing out here? It’s performance conditions!” I sounded like Penny. “You have to get into costume.”

  “I know.” He was out of breath.

  “Did you jog here from the municipal building?” I asked.

  “Almost. Parking’s full around the perimeter of the park.”

  “Well, mister, you better head backstage,” I said, playfully reprimanding him.

  “Yeah. I’d better go before Penny blows her whistle.”

  “As if.” Penny materialized behind us. “I can’t blow my whistle with the house open. Get going.”

  Bill looked at me. “I have no idea how she does it,” I said. He ran off.

  Penny smirked. “Rookies. They never get the theater drill.”

  “Right. Even if they are veteran cops in real life.”

  “O’Dell you kill me. Real life doesn’t matter in the theater. It’s all fake.”

  “What about the magic?” I asked. I’d heard Lola wax poetic on the mystery of the stage often enough. Anyway, I loved to stump Penny.

  “Magic?” Penny chortled. “Haven’t you ever heard about breaking the walls? Third wall, fourth wall? Unwilling inspection of disbelief?”

  I was so caught up in Penny’s lecture on theater lingo, neither of us saw Walter until it was too late.

  “Penny!” he hissed. “It’s five minutes until places.” His forehead was furrowed, his jaw tight with tension.

  “I’m on it.” She scurried off.

  He took one disdainful look at me and followed her.

  * * * *

  Toes were tapping, heads bouncing to the music. We’d reached the second act reprise of “Lot of Livin’” with Sweet Apple, Ohio’s teenagers and all was well. I felt a sprinkle and my heart plummeted. The cast was oblivious, singing and squirming around the stage. Ten minutes to go, and two more numbers. Lola was about to begin “Spanish Rose.” Raindrops splattered my face. I moved inside the concessions booth.

  The drizzle must have distracted the combo, because a musician missed an entrance and the instrumentation tangled between stop and go. Alex motioned frantically, and Lola stood stock-still waiting for her cue. It never came. Always a pro, Lola bravely started off singing a capella. Alex followed her with the piano and urged the rest of the combo to join the party. By the end of Lola’s number the rain was coming down at a steady clip. Dale dashed onstage to wrap up his scene with Lola, his hair matted to his head. They attacked the lines, trying to make it to their last song. The band picked up the tempo, playing “Rosie” double-time, while Lola and Dale rushed through their final love ballad, singing as speedily as they could.

  The audience valiantly attempted to remain faithful, but now gathered up kids and belongings. A mass exodus ensued. The orchestra had barely played the last note when the cast sprinted onstage for a curtain call; insisting on their moment of glory. Most of the combo gave up—but Alex played on as actors slipped and slid around the wet platform. The teenagers were hysterical, Abby bumped into Romeo, whose gold lamé pants were dangerously close to an R rating. Edna, Mildred and the ensemble of townspeople huddled as one, bowed swiftly, and scampered off. Bill tried to maintain some propriety—Walter must have been proud—and bowed stiffly. When he saw the mayhem around him, he gave up and sauntered off. The actor playing Hugo picked up Janice and carried her away. I fervently hoped Pauli wasn’t in the house tonight.

  The only one who remained completely undisturbed by the weather was Wilson. He stood in place, clapping enthusiastically until the last actor was out of sight as the downpour drenched his head and soaked his clothes.

  It was an opening to remember.

  * * * *

  After closing up the refreshment stand, dropping Wilson at the Windjammer, and depositing the cash from the concessions in the night depository at the Valley Savings Bank, I limped home, wet, cold, and looking forward to a warm bath and my terry cloth robe. Bill had an early appointment with the medical examiner in the morning, so I texted my congratulations to him, happy to hunker down by myself.
I was fantasizing about the luxurious bubble bath when my cell rang.

  “Hi Dodie.”

  “Lola, sorry I missed you after the show. I got busy.”

  “What a disaster! I don’t know how they manage the Central Park plays in the city. It’s nerve-wracking…this weather thing.”

  I debated, then pushed the bubble bath fantasy out of my mind. “Where are you? Want to stop by?”

  “I’m in the car. Be there in five.”

  I changed into a dry sweat suit, retrieved a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, and opened two snack boxes that I’d stashed away before the crowd hit the concessions. It would have to do. Lola appeared in my driveway exactly five minutes later. Though she’d barely survived the downpour onstage, Lola coped well with emergencies from a wardrobe standpoint. She tucked her blond hair, still wet, neatly into a bun at the back of her neck. Her sweater was immaculate and her jeans crisp. How did she do it?

  “Congratulations,” I said, holding the door wide for her to enter.

  “At least we made it through opening night, but did you see the curtain call?”

  I laughed. “I did.”

  “Quite the tadoo!”

  I was thinking train wreck. “The kids had a good time. Not sure about Walter, though.”

  “Walter was tearing his hair out backstage.”

  “Dale didn’t want to celebrate tonight?”

  Lola glared. “He was his moody self after the curtain call. Kind of standoff-ish. Something’s going on.”

  “I’ll bet he calls you tomorrow to smooth things over,” I said with optimism. “Anyway, I saw Jocelyn tonight. Wonder if she made contact with Walter?”

  Lola snickered.

  “I’d like to chat with Dale too,” I said.

  “Really? Why?” Lola asked.

  “I’d like to ask if he knew anything about Ruby’s past. The Maynard Institute, her awards.”

  Lola’s cell chirped and she read a text. “You’re in luck. He asked me to join him for breakfast. Want to come along?”

  “I don’t want to be a third wheel,” I said.

  Lola tossed back the end of her chardonnay. “He owes me one after his temperamental act tonight.”