“Something romantic might work.”
“I remember a dinner al fresco years ago . . . oysters, cheeses, avocados, champagne.... It was luscious.” Lola sighed.
“Maybe we should look into an outdoor café,” I said, as Carol blow-dried my hair, giving it a fluff now and then. “Lola thinks I should audition for R and J.”
“We need all the potential actors we can get,” Lola trilled, still flipping through the magazine.
“Why don’t you audition?” I said to Carol, looking at her in the mirror.
“When would I have time to rehearse a play? Not to mention that I can’t act.”
“Ditto,” I said. “Are you helping with the hair and makeup?”
“Yes, she is,” Lola volunteered. “Walter needs her expertise.”
“If I can get the shop covered.” She gelled her hands and patted my hair to pacify the frizzies.
Without our realizing it, Pauli had abandoned his nest in the back of the salon and ambled over to Carol’s station.
“Mom?”
Carol looked up and smiled. “Honey, say hi to Lola and Dodie.”
He brushed a hunk of dark hair off his pimply forehead. “Hey.”
“Are you hungry?” Carol asked.
“I can wait.” He was smart and considerate.
“After I do Lola, I’ll drive you home.”
I stood up and grabbed my bag from the floor. “How’s the website going?”
Pauli hesitated. “Okay, I guess.”
“Better than okay. Show Dodie what you’ve done.” Carol nudged him.
He pretended to be reluctant to demonstrate his computer prowess, but I could read his face. He was thrilled to walk me through the various pages and links. It was impressive.
“Maybe we can hire you to do one for the Windjammer. I’ve been on Henry’s case to move into the twenty-first century. I’ll let you know.”
Pauli just nodded, trying to hide his enthusiasm.
My cell binged: a text from Henry, wanting to know where I was. “See you all later.”
* * *
At ten-thirty p.m., I took a break in my favorite booth with a bowl of black bean soup—Henry was famous for his homemade soups—and mulled over the idea of an R and J amorous dinner theme. I was just getting lost in the romantic possibilities of various entrees when I heard, “Thought I’d find you here.”
“Hi, Jerome,” I said to the elderly gentleman who sat down across from me. “Want something to eat? Kitchen’s open for about twenty more minutes.”
He shook his head. “Just a drink.”
I waved to Benny and pointed to Jerome Angleton. Benny nodded. Jerome was a regular. He drank a double Scotch, Chivas Regal, neat, no more, no less, almost every night that the Windjammer was open. Often, he exited the Etonville Little Theatre, walked next door, and sat at the bar. But when I wasn’t busy, he liked to sit with me. I enjoyed his company.
Long retired from Etonville High as an English teacher, Jerome—seventyish, tall, and lanky with thinning hair and a lot of energy—was a fixture at the theater. He supervised the box office, ushered, did some backstage work, and once in a while assumed a role on stage. His big break had been Sergeant Trotter in The Mousetrap last year. I had no idea what he did when he wasn’t at the ELT. But he was friendly, had taken a liking to me—if I was twenty years older, or he was twenty years younger, we might be hitting on each other—and he shared my love of mysteries and thrillers.
He pulled a paperback out of his jacket pocket. “Got the new Cindy Collins mystery.”
“Yeah? Let me see.” I eyeballed the cover art. An angry slash of red broken up by crisscrossing lines of a picket fence, the title in bold type. Murder One and a Half.
“You can have it when I’m finished,” he said as Benny set his drink on a coaster.
“Here you go, Jerome.” Benny smiled at the older man and sauntered back to the bar.
Jerome took a long swallow. He looked frazzled.
“Tough day in show business?” I asked.
“It’s Walter. He’s been on everybody’s case. Especially mine.”
“He’s probably just anxious about auditions next week. Shakespeare. . . you know?”
“Maybe, but I think there’s something going on.”
“Oh?”
Jerome lowered his voice. “Money’s been disappearing from the safe.”
“Seriously?”
“Whenever I’ve been in the safe, I leave an accounting of what I take out for petty cash for the costume shop or whatever. Lately there’ve been some . . . irregularities.”
I knew about the business practices at the ELT from Lola. My Accounting 101 professor would have yanked the few stray hairs on his head out by the roots. Walter kept Post-its scattered around his desk with notes on bank deposits and withdrawals and the petty cash account in the safe. I had hinted to Lola more than once that Walter needed to keep a better eye on the financial status of the theater. She agreed, but said Walter was testy about management suggestions. He liked to run all aspects of the show his way.
My management mind was racing to create a to-do list for Jerome: talk to theater folks to see if anyone else was in the safe; check all of the Post-it notes for an accounting error; confirm who had keys to the theater and knew the combination to the safe.
“Have you approached him with it?”
Jerome nodded. “In a roundabout way.”
“And?”
“He said that I was the one responsible for petty cash accounting.”
“Is he accusing you of stealing from the theater? He can’t think you would do such a thing. What are we talking here, fifty bucks? A hundred?”
Jerome emptied his glass and returned it carefully to the coaster. “More. Lots more.”
“Like how much more?” I asked carefully.
“Over the past month or so, more like a thousand.”
My jaw hung loosely on its hinge, my mouth forming an O. “In cash?”
Jerome nodded.
“No wonder Walter’s on edge. Did he call the police?”
“I told him he should, but he just waved me away.” Jerome took a swipe at the air in imitation of Walter’s dismissive gesture.
Funny that Lola hadn’t mentioned anything about this. Did she know? It seemed that she and Walter were getting closer these days, but maybe—
“Don’t tell anyone I told you, okay? Walter is short-tempered enough, and I wouldn’t want to aggravate him further.”
“No problem.”
“Take care, Dodie,” Jerome said and saluted. It was his standard way of saying good-night.
“’Night, Jerome. And don’t let this get you down. I’m sure it will all work out.”
I knew better than that. Walter was a smooth operator in front of an audience or when hosting post-show wine and cheese parties. But I’d had occasion to see his wrath in full bloom when the dinner-then-theater program hit a few bumps. There were two sides to his personality.
A thousand dollars, I mused. Walter was the one having some post-marital financial difficulties at the moment.
“Go home. I’ll finish up,” I called to Benny, who was about to take a wet mop to the tile floor. He nodded with appreciation. Benny had a four-year-old daughter, a working wife, and a mortgage. Besides waiting tables at the Windjammer, he drove a UPS delivery truck part-time and always looked tired.
“Thanks.” He practically ran out the door.
* * *
By eleven-thirty, I had shooed Henry out the door, too. I could close up more efficiently by myself; straightening up the dining room, closing out the register, doing a last bar inventory and freezer check to see what needed to be ordered for the weekend. Henry had gussied up the menu with a few “spring changes.” La Famiglia had already printed its spring menu in the Etonville Standard. The competition was really getting to him.
I stepped outside, breathed in the nippy night air, and looked upward at a dark sky with a smattering of white specks.
Not bad for north Jersey. Of course, it couldn’t compare to the wide expanse of the night over the ocean. I was still getting used to the idea that I lived inland.
I took the long way home as I drove slowly through Etonville; it was one of my favorite times of day. People were off the streets, a certain quiet had descended, and I felt as if the town were all mine. Population 3,284. Home to a park, an art gallery, an antique shop, one bank, two churches, a post office, and a Saturday farmer’s market, Etonville was a placid, close-knit place, small enough to feel cozy but large enough to need its own police department. Etonville had its own personality.
I passed Snippets, the Etonville Public Library, and my personal favorite hangout, Coffee Heaven—five booths, a soda fountain, a counter that seated eight, and a stack of local and national newspapers by the door, free for the reading. The Etonville literary society met in its back room once a month. Its only concession to modern times was the addition of a few fancy drink options to the standard menu. Caramel macchiato was my obsession.
As I turned into my driveway, it occurred to me that I would have loved to curl up with a good man instead of a good book tonight. But that ship had sailed for me. Literally. The month before Hurricane Sandy struck, I broke up with my boyfriend of three years. Or, more accurately, we agreed to put things on hiatus. Jackson owned a charter fishing boat and had experienced great years and not-so-great years. When he received an offer to join his brother selling farm equipment, he decided to chuck the boat business and head back to Iowa. He wanted me to come with him. But I couldn’t leave the shore. At least that was the excuse I’d given Jackson. When Hurricane Sandy gave me the perfect opportunity to bail on New Jersey and join him, I opted to head north instead of west and held my breath as I crossed over the Driscoll Bridge, uncertain about a new life away from the sun and sand and saltwater taffy. North Jersey felt different from the shore: it knew where it was going and had only a short time to get there.
I suppose I was admitting the truth about Jackson and me. He had been the longest, most serious relationship of my life, not counting a high school crush that lasted on and off through college days. I had begun to think that we might settle down, buy a little shore cottage, open our own restaurant.... Now I knew those were pipe dreams. Despite his foray into the boat charter business, he was tied to the Midwest while I had always wanted to be within spitting distance of the shoreline. True love was like a good pair of socks. It took two, and they had to match.
I missed him for the first few months. We emailed and texted a few times, but we sort of fell out of touch. I turned the key in the lock of my front door and switched on the lights. The good book was calling me.
Chapter 3
I had assured Lola I would be at the auditions for Romeo and Juliet by six-thirty since it was Benny’s night to close. Henry was in a foul mood: too much lemon in his chicken soup and the seafood supplier ran out of flounder. He had been forced to improvise, which he hated. It was a good night to vanish.
I raced home to my unfussy but comfy home, large enough for me to have a decent-sized dining room and a guest bedroom, small enough for me to keep tidy on a regular basis. I showered and flung open the closet door, tugged on a black skirt and a black V-neck sweater, and studied myself in the mirror. I was Irish on both sides of my family, and my dark red, wavy hair came straight from my maternal grandmother. The green eyes were compliments of my father. I was lucky I’d inherited his build and metabolism as well. I could usually eat just about anything, watch someone else exercise, and still maintain a decent weight and shape. Right now, I was feeling okay with my reflection.
It had been rainy throughout the day, but the sky had cleared, leaving a blanket of blue overhead. I found my usual parking space in front of the Windjammer—I deliberately avoided glancing in the front window—and strode into the theater. I was greeted with a barrage of nervous babbling in the lobby. Two dozen folding chairs lined the walls, occupied by prospective cast members—including some folks I recognized from the Windjammer—filling out audition sheets. I remembered the first time I’d seen Romeo and Juliet on stage. The most vivid part of the production had not been the swordplay, or the murders, or the potions, but the old, funny, gentle Nurse. When she’d held Juliet in her arms, I’d cried. She had reminded me of my grandmother. Did the ELT have someone to play the Nurse? Depended on the depth of the talent auditioning, I thought.
* * *
Penny, a pencil jammed into her short black hair, stuck her head out of the theater door and knocked a pen against her clipboard. “Lola said you might be stopping by to help out,” she said guardedly. Penny straightened up to her full five-feet-two inches. She was built like a fireplug: short and squat. When not “managing” the Etonville Little Theatre, her day job was post office clerk. Her inefficiency wasn’t a problem there....
I glanced around the lobby. It was still twenty minutes before the auditions began. “She thought you might be inundated with hopefuls.” No need to intentionally offend Penny by commenting on her managerial skills. “You want to show me the ropes?”
Penny frowned, cracked her gum, and looked me over carefully. She jerked her head in the direction of the theater. “Let’s go.”
Walter’s office was to the right and the box office to the left; the theater was wedged between them.
A few more folks appeared in the lobby. “People are here early.”
“Walter likes everyone to be on time.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s not even six-forty-five,” I said.
Penny took on a condescending let-me-explain-myself-to-you tone. “There’s life time and then there’s theater time. On time in theater time means fifteen minutes early.”
“Oh. So they’re all early in life time but just on time in theater time. Got it.”
Penny groaned.
I followed her into the house, and she deposited me midway down the aisle before charging back out into the lobby. Walter was seated in Row H, head bent over his script—probably praying, if he had any sense—and Lola was leaning casually against the edge of the stage.
“Hi, Dodie!” She smiled with relief and ran up the aisle.
Walter did a three-sixty in his seat. “Dodie, are you auditioning?” The tinge of hope in his voice told me all I needed to know about the upcoming tryouts.
“No. I’m just here to help out.”
Walter stood up and studied me, his eyes grazing my face, chest, and hips. He looked startled, as if shocked I had legs. Come to think of it, he had probably only seen me in work clothes—black slacks and variously colored tops. “Are you sure?”
“Walter, I asked Dodie to help Penny keep us on track tonight,” Lola murmured and put an arm around my shoulders.
Walter nodded. He brushed a hand through his barely graying hair, which would no doubt be grayer by opening night. “We are taking on quite a challenge here, you know.” His shoulders slumped which made his stomach protrude. Poor guy. He’d lost his usual joie de vivre.
“I can see that,” I agreed a little too strongly.
Penny charged back into the house. “Walter, are we ready to start?”
“You haven’t given out the sides.”
Sides?
“Uh ...” Penny hesitated. “No, but I have the list of who’s—”
Walter handed her a stack of Xeroxed sheets. “Give these scenes out, and be sure to note who is reading what with whom.”
Aha. Sides were scenes. Theater lingo.
“Dodie, you can collect the audition forms,” he said.
“Right.”
Penny and I headed back to the lobby, and I waited while Penny blew a whistle—causing people to hold their ears—and yelled “Listen up.” Most of the auditionees were familiar with the ELT and knew Penny and her ways. Newcomers were alarmed at the shrill blast. While I collected forms, Penny handed out sides, using her theatrical judgment to determine who should read what by accosting every other person who walked in the door. “What part do you
want to read?” she asked and invariably got “Whatever Walter thinks is right for me.” Some major sucking up going on.
Unless it was terribly obvious. A cute guy with wavy dark hair and big brown eyes strolled in. Romeo? I mouthed to Penny. She pretended to consider my suggestion before agreeing. It was a nobrainer.
We lined folks up, sending in twosomes and threesomes, and sometimes groups of people who were going to be considered for extras. “Walter is casting Ladies-in-Waiting, Citizens of Verona, and young guys who fight in the square,” Penny informed them.
I was trying to keep everything straight—forms collected, names checked off the list, partners assigned, actors moving in a steady stream into the theater—and not step on Penny’s toes. I looked around. She was making notes on her clipboard or jawing with friends; they all assumed she was second in command to Walter. Big mistake. Penny was a catastrophe, and if I didn’t keep things rolling, we’d all be here until midnight.
Halfway through the evening, Abby Henderson crept up to Penny to make sure her name was on the list. I knew Abby from the Windjammer, where she tended to sit in a corner booth and enjoy a few drinks with Jim Albright, a big loveable bear of a guy. He was a security guard at the box factory in the next town over. She was the manager of the Valley View Shooting Range and a bit past her prime. They seemed perfect for each other.
“Hi, Dodie. Are you auditioning?” Abby nervously twisted the pages of script until they were limp.
“Me? Oh no. I’m just here to keep things . . .” I saw Penny out of the corner of my eye.
“To help Penny keep things moving.”
Abby edged closer to me. “Do you think I’m right for Juliet?”
I looked into her hopeful eyes and lied. “Well, sure.” I compared my image of the virginal, teenage Juliet to Abby: late thirties, chubby, and in need of a serious makeover. “Good luck.”
Show Time Page 2
