Just in Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  Enrico was busy at the grill, flipping burgers and creating the three cheese sandwiches. “Dodie, it’s nice to be back during the week,” he said.

  “It’s nice to have you back.”

  Enrico looked over his shoulder to the center island, where Wilson was humming and creating beet salads. “Our chef is happy today,” he murmured.

  “He’s happy every day.”

  As if he knew we were discussing his temperament, Wilson glanced up when he saw me. “Do-dee! My beet salad is special. Ze customers love it, yes?”

  For the most part. No point in mentioning the Banger sisters’ evaluation. “Absolutely.”

  “I will go to ze dining room now and speak with ze customers.” He wiped his hands and set the salads aside.

  “What? No! You need to stay in the kitchen and keep things moving. After all, you’re in charge in here. Maybe tonight you can greet the customers.”

  * * * *

  I’d been holding my breath for three hours, waiting for one shoe or the other to fall. To my amazement, all went well during the lunch rush—and Wilson demonstrated surprising competence in the keep-the ball-rolling department. We had one meal down and one to go. Henry texted half a dozen times to see if the Windjammer was still standing. I assured him that all was well, and encouraged him to have a good time with his daughter’s future in-laws—fat chance.

  “Benny, I’m going out for a minute.”

  Most tables and booths were empty. Only a few stragglers remained. Wilson and Enrico were hard at work—prepping for tonight’s menu. We were keeping the potato and mozzarella croquettes, lamb and beef meatballs, fingerling potatoes, vegetable skewers, and small salads. We eliminated the chorizo-filled dates and flatbreads.

  “Go ahead.” Benny wiped down the bar with a sudsy cloth. “No accidents in the kitchen today. Wilson did a great job.”

  “I agree. Henry will be proud—or feel competitive,” I said.

  Benny understood. “Game on.”

  I exited the restaurant and sat down on the loading dock out back that faced Henry’s herb garden. I had about an hour before I needed to ride shotgun on the kitchen, and one important task on my to do list. Earlier, I’d searched the Internet for the Greenburg Chronicle’s phone number. I was relieved that it was still publishing, and hoped I might find someone in the obituary department with a recollection of the details of Otto Heinlein’s death in 1986. I tapped the numbers and waited while the phone rang on the other end. I lifted the hair off my damp neck, whipping it into a ponytail. The temperature was in the high eighties, but the humidity had dropped a little.

  “Greenburg Chronicle, Stanley Felten speaking,” said a crisp voice with a Midwestern twang. I envisioned suspenders and spectacles.

  “Hello, I’m calling from Etonville, New Jersey. I’m looking for some information about an article published in the paper in August 1986.”

  “What kind of article?” the voice asked politely.

  “It’s about the death of an Otto Heinlein. A kind of obituary. He lived in Greenburg.”

  “1986 you said? Obits…about thirty years ago. I wasn’t here then, but I might be able to connect you with someone who was. What’s your interest in the story?” he asked.

  “I knew a friend of his and I’m trying to track down information on his death.” Did that make sense?

  It passed muster with Stanley Felten—because he stepped away from the phone after asking me to wait a minute. I listened to musak while I was on hold, running through the potential challenges facing the restaurant during the next five or six hours.

  “Obituary department, Helen Woziak.” The voice was female and throaty.

  “Hi, I’m not sure if Mr. Felten explained what I was looking for. I read an article in the Greenburg Chronicle from 1986 about an Otto—”

  “Heinlein. That’s right. I wrote it. What can I do for you?” Also no nonsense.

  “As I explained to Mr. Felten I knew a friend of Otto’s and I was wondering about his death.”

  “What about his death?” A note of impatience crept into her voice.

  “Did you know him personally?”

  “No, not really. I live outside Greenburg. I saw him back in the eighties. With his wife and son. They ran a music store. Sold instruments,” she said.

  Like Ruby, Otto was also in the music business. “He was married?”

  “Of course,” Helen said as though it was a rule if one wanted to live in Greenburg, Indiana.

  “Are his wife and son living in the area?”

  “His wife Ellie died shortly before Otto. She’d been ill a while.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. And his son?”

  “Not sure where he is today. He left town after Otto died.” There was a pause on the line. “It was a suicide.”

  “Yes, I read that in the paper.”

  Something shifted in the conversation because when Helen Woziak spoke again, the edge had faded and her inflection had softened. “He was a nice man. And to think he had to go that way.”

  I gulped. “What way was that?”

  Silence for a moment. “Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  * * * *

  A short line had formed at the door, as Gillian ushered a couple to a table near the front window. Benny poured drinks and delivered them to customers. Carmen hopped from booth to booth. I was monitoring everything. Word spread that Wilson was in charge tonight, and that the special menu consisted of small plates. Though some customers weren’t certain what that entailed, it was a change of pace and that was enough to stimulate the appetites of Etonville. Curiosity was the lifeblood of this town.

  “Love these meatballs,” Mildred said, spearing the lamb variety.

  “Me too,” chimed in her husband Vernon, “but why the heck do we have to eat them off of these little plates. And why is the portion so tiny?”

  Mildred nudged him. “Vernon, that’s the whole point of small plates.”

  “Well, I like regular plates. And normal amounts of food.”

  “Here, try the croquettes.” Mildred said and plopped two on his plate.

  “What’s that?”

  “A fried roll with potato and mozzarella,” I said. “Really tasty.”

  Vernon took a bite. “I generally like my potatoes and cheese separate. But this isn’t too bad.” A rave review coming from Vernon.

  Lola, at the door, motioned to me from behind Georgette and Edna. I walked over.

  “It looks like most of Etonville has come in for dinner tonight,” Lola said.

  “Tables and booths are full, but I could set you up at the bar,” I said.

  “The bar is fine.”

  Lola settled onto a stool, ordered dinner from Benny, and buried her face in her cell phone.

  Half an hour later, as she nibbled on a vegetable skewer and toyed with a green salad, I led the last of the waiting patrons to a table. Things were beginning to calm down.

  “Whew,” I said and drew myself a seltzer. “Be careful what you wish for. I was hoping we’d get through the night without any major mishaps, but I didn’t anticipate this. Big crowd and great reviews. Wilson is ecstatic.” I sipped my drink. Lola was preoccupied. “What’s up?”

  “It’s Dale again.”

  “What now?”

  “We had a date tonight…sort of like a do-over from last week when he was out of sorts, and this week when he had these nightly meetings with clients. I was so looking forward to it. I bought a new outfit. Macy’s at the mall had a sale and then an hour ago he called and canceled. I am so upset that I could—”

  “Stop the presses, Lola,” I said. “What was his reason this time?”

  She panted. “He said he had to take care of a sick friend. Doesn’t that sound like a trumped up excuse?”

  It was like all the times my grade sc
hool classmates and I claimed the dog ate our homework. Even if we didn’t have a dog. I didn’t dare breathe a word of Bill’s eyewitness evidence and the implications for Dale’s future. I needed to change the subject. “Maybe he’ll call later. But speaking of calls…” I shared the phone conversation I’d had with the Greenburg Chronicle.

  “Isn’t that strange? Ruby and a guy she knows from the past both die of carbon monoxide poisoning?” I said.

  Lola was totally engrossed with my story, Dale forgotten for the moment. “Yes, it is strange except that one was a suicide and the other a homicide.”

  We sat in silence.

  “Interesting that music was his business, too,” Lola said.

  “But not surprising if he was Ruby’s friend from school days in Greenburg. It’s possible that’s how they met…in a high school music class.”

  “And fell in love…and then she went away to Maynard—” Lola said.

  “And he was left in Greenburg until he came to New York—” I added.

  “Where they had a terrible argument and a falling out.”

  Lola and I had created a fantasy love life for Ruby and Otto. I needed to do some Internet digging on Otto Heinlein. Either that or get a hobby.

  Wilson burst through the swinging doors that led into the dining room and addressed the Windjammer crowd, arms outstretched in a welcoming embrace. “Bon soir, mes amis…” he sang in his full-throated baritone.

  Etonville diners looked up. Lola’s jaw dropped. “What the…”

  Wilson was taking me up on my suggestion that he greet the dinner crowd instead of the lunch bunch. “I thought a few words here and there. Not a concert,” I muttered.

  Wilson proceeded to move from table to table, asking patrons how they liked the dinner. Did they have any comments? He smiled and embraced them when he received compliments, usually ended with another round of “merci” and “bon soir.” After five minutes of this, I gently interrupted and escorted him back to the kitchen on the pretext that Enrico needed his help. Wilson was gracious in his departure, air-kissing customers whose reactions ranged from mild amusement to eager applause. I escorted him off the stage.

  I needed to put this Windjammer fire out—before things went too far. I was prepared to apologize for the interruption to the diners’ meals. Instead, an excited buzz greeted me.

  “That Wilson is the nicest man…”

  “I hope he stays in Etonville…”

  “I hope he cooks more meals…”

  “Henry should come out of the kitchen too…”

  Uh-oh.

  By eight o’clock, Lola said good-bye, and promised to keep me posted on Dale. I promised I would try to get Bill to the brush-up rehearsal tomorrow night. The throngs of customers thinned, and Gillian was cleaning tables. The door opened, and musical director Alex walked in. I motioned for him to join me at the back of the dining room.

  “Hi, Alex. You just made it.”

  “I hear the special is a variety of small plates. I’ll take one of everything.”

  “Hungry, are we?” I teased.

  “I spent the day cleaning out my garage and dumping trash.”

  I realized that I had no idea where Alex lived or what he did for a living. “In Creston?”

  He paused. “Actually Bernridge.”

  Bernridge is a community next door. More blue collar than Etonville, its residential neighborhoods sit side-by-side with manufacturing areas.

  “Lived there long?”

  “Long enough to know I’d like to move elsewhere. Etonville’s a nice, quiet community,” he said.

  I flashed on Snippets on days when gossip was at its peak. “Sometimes.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your accident. I guess it was a close call,” he said sincerely.

  “Not really. Loss of brake fluid. It happens,” I said.

  “You must have been terrified,” he said.

  “I was. But I had to react so fast I wasn’t really frightened until it was over and my car was off the road.”

  “Reacting fast. Like improvising,” he said.

  “Right.”

  “Sometimes I felt that way working with Ruby. I had to react quickly. She liked to adlib musical phrases, and I had to adjust so the actors could keep up. ”

  “Wow. That’s a talent.”

  “Not really. I’m just good at working fast. But Ruby was a…creative challenge.” He smiled. “A rare bird.”

  * * * *

  “Woohoo!” Gillian sang out as the champagne cork hit the ceiling.

  We closed down the Windjammer half an hour ago. Wilson, Benny, Enrico, Carmen, Gillian, and I collapsed into seats, proud of the way everyone functioned without Henry at the helm. Wilson was especially thrilled. He sang a Haitian melody in French.

  “What we need is a toast!” I said. It was unusual for the staff to hang around after closing and celebrate, but it was equally unusual for Henry’s sous chef to take over for the night and perform so well. I chose a mid-priced bottle of chilled champagne—there was hardly any call for it among the Windjammer’s regulars—and Benny eagerly popped its cork and poured.

  We held our glasses aloft. “To Wilson. Well done!” I said.

  We drank.

  “To the entire staff,” Benny added.

  We drank.

  Everyone chimed in with their own tribute to the night—small plates, the Windjammer’s customers, the entire town of Etonville, the island of Haiti that spawned Wilson…a second bottle was required, and the party continued. In the middle of it, Henry texted that his neighbor had driven by the restaurant and saw lights glowing. I reassured Henry that we were merely late cleaning up—and all was well. Enrico and Carmen persuaded Wilson to sing another song, and he obliged them with show tunes: “There’s No Business like Show Business” and “Hello Dolly,” with a napkin-waving chorus consisting of Enrico and Benny!

  The mini-concert was in full swing when I heard a knock on the front door. Please God, let it not be Henry. The staff had worked hard and deserved to celebrate, but Henry might not appreciate the fact that we’d liberated champagne from his stock. I planned to replace it tomorrow.

  I stole to the door and cautiously eased it open. “Yes?”

  It was Bill. “What’s going on?” He peered around me. “Who’s singing?”

  “It’s only you,” I said relieved.

  “Only me?” he asked, displaying his crooked grin.

  “We’re closed.” I hiccupped. Champagne did that to me.

  Bill smirked. “I don’t have to run any of you in for disturbing the peace, do I?”

  “Nope. Just a little celebration because the night went so well.” I hiccupped again.

  “I’m glad. I wanted to stop by…but things got nuts at the station,” he said ruefully.

  “I’d fix you a small plate but we actually sold out. Henry will be in seventh heaven though he’ll grumble about…” Bill turned away and ran a hand through his spiky blond hair. He was agitated. “Need to talk?”

  “Yeah. In your office?”

  Bill followed me into the Windjammer. Everyone looked up.

  “Hi Chief,” Benny said and lifted a bottle of champagne. Bill declined his offer and accepted a beer instead. “Have you eaten?”

  “Kind of forgot about food tonight,” Bill said. “I guess I am hungry.”

  “What’s left in the kitchen, Wilson?” I asked.

  Wilson saluted Bill. “Chief Thompson, I will bring you a delight zat will tickle your taste buds!”

  “Never mind the taste buds. How about something simple and quick?” I asked.

  Wilson ran off while the rest of the crew, giggling happily, wiped and mopped and generally made the restaurant presentable for tomorrow’s lunch service. Bill joined me in my back booth and took a big swallow of his beer.<
br />
  “Tough day, huh?”

  Bill lowered his voice. “Things are moving quickly with the investigation.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  He fidgeted with the beer bottle. “We brought Dale in again today. He’s one smooth talker. Had an answer for every question.”

  “The Excel spreadsheet?”

  “Says he was Ruby’s financial advisor and paid her monthly dividends. Perfectly legitimate. Unfortunately, Ruby’s not here to contradict his statements. But his alibi’s shaky. Says he was driving around Etonville and Creston after the rehearsal and then he went home. No one can corroborate. The first substantiation came when his neighbor got up early at three a.m. and saw his car in the driveway. But according to the medical examiner, Ruby could have died anywhere between one a.m. and four a.m.”

  Wilson waltzed to our booth with one of Henry’s special burgers. “Henry says ze burger is ze chief’s favorite meal.” He beamed.

  Bill laughed appreciatively. “Henry’s right.”

  “It is ze avocado and ze sauce.” He kissed his fingertips, one of Wilson’s favorite ways of expressing his pleasure.

  Bill bit into his sandwich while I drilled my fingers on the table.

  “So you have means…Dale had easy access to Ruby, but what do you think is his motive? I know they argued backstage, but that could have been about anything. The show, her accompaniment, the cue sheet…” My instincts were whispering that Dale’s conflict with Ruby was about finances.

  Bill unfolded a napkin. “Not clear yet but it might have something to do with the spreadsheet and the monthly payments. After all, Ruby died with a decent amount of money stashed away in a bank account.”

  “Did she have a will?” I asked.

  “Haven’t located one yet. Only living relative is a third cousin in Indiana.”

  I’d spoken with him. “What about the eyewitness?”

  “Shh,” Bill said and peeked over his shoulder.

  He needn’t have worried. Benny and Gillian chatted, Enrico planted a kiss on his wife’s face, and Carmen tittered like a schoolgirl. The two of them headed to the kitchen, arm-in-arm, to help Wilson close up for the night. Maybe we needed a champagne party every night. “No one’s paying us any attention.”