“Do you think it had anything to do with the casting of Romeo and Juliet? After all, the competition was fierce,” the first sister said. The other nodded and both of them looked at me expectantly.
I gritted my teeth. “I’m pretty sure the play had nothing to do with Jerome’s death.”
* * *
I was worn down to a nub by the end of lunch, tired of fending off ridiculous theories on Jerome’s murder, tired of soothing Henry’s ruffled feathers when a patron sent his meat loaf back to the kitchen because it was too salty. In addition to helping organize the menu and managing staff, I also made sure Henry stayed away from customers on his grumpy days.
Henry planned to serve French onion soup for dinner. I knew he had a dentist’s appointment—he’d been complaining about a toothache all week—so I offered to help Enrico with the prep work and sent him off to seek a cure. Benny had the dining room in hand so I wrapped myself in one of Henry’s aprons, picked up his prized tool—an eight-inch chef’s knife—and faced a mound of red onions. Normally, I never lifted a utensil in the kitchen, but this wasn’t a normal day. I began to peel and chop, and before too long, streams of water coursed down my cheeks. I stopped to blow my dripping nose and wipe my eyes, but the tears were undeterred, running down my chin and dropping onto my neck. Unexpectedly, I began to feel really bad, sad for Jerome, sad for my loss, and I cried—not just because of the onions, but because I had lost a friend. Enrico glanced my way discreetly and then went back to marinating chicken.
After about twenty minutes of crying and mincing, I calmed down. All of Etonville’s theories on Jerome’s death got me thinking. What if the missing box-office money was connected to Jerome’s murder? Could he have discovered the culprit, who then killed him to keep him quiet? Did any of it involve Walter? I wondered. I was beginning to discover that Jerome’s death was like a gnat bite that required scratching.
Chapter 5
Between Jerome’s murder and the casting for Romeo and Juliet, the anxiety level at the ELT was off the charts. Walter had promised everyone that the list would be posted by early afternoon—online and in the theater lobby for those who refused to do e-business.
I took a break from the Windjammer at three after the lunch rush had died down and went to see Lola. I now sat carefully on her pristine couch, wary of dropping crumbs from my cinnamon coffee cake onto her Persian rug. Lola was particular about her living room and its furnishings—antique end tables, a baby grand piano, and brown leather sofas. The décor was spare, stylish, and dominated by earth tones. What my Irish father would have called artsy. I would have preferred the kitchen table, but Lola liked to entertain in here.
“I couldn’t sleep at all last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jerome’s body lying on the loading dock.” Lola downed two aspirins with a swallow of black coffee.
I studied her blond hair as it cascaded loosely around the nape of her neck and partially covered her face. She could easily be taken for a thirty-year-old. To the world, Lola was a figure of poise and elegance with posture to die for and perfect timing. But the woman in front of me in a bathrobe and slippers was neither poised nor elegant; her eyes were rimmed in red, face devoid of makeup, her head propped up on her right hand.
“It’s like Etonville has suddenly become . . . I don’t know . . . dangerous.”
In her lap, the front page of the Etonville Standard blared its headline: MAN MURDERED—NO SUSPECTS. The paper had published a special afternoon edition and the story was brief—an indication of the lack of evidence surrounding the case—and referred to a single bullet wound in Jerome’s chest. There was a mention of Jerome’s unmarried state and a summary of his years teaching English at the high school. Former students were quoted remarking on his enthusiasm, generosity, and love of literature. I could have said as much and I’d never stepped foot in his classroom. The sub-heading of the article included “member of Etonville Little Theatre.” There were two pictures. One was from the Etonville High School yearbook and the other was a picture of Jerome, Walter, and a third man I didn’t recognize, all in formal wear. Walter would love that.
I picked up the paper and pointed to the photo. “Who is this?”
“That’s Elliot Schenk.”
“I’ve never seen him around the theater.”
“You wouldn’t have. He left town very suddenly just before you arrived,” she said and polished off the rest of her coffee. “Elliot was a star in the ELT firmament and ran the box office. Jerome was in the chorus a couple of times and had a role in The Mousetrap, but he mostly ushered and worked backstage doing props until Elliot left. Then he took over the box office.”
“When was this taken? The three of them look very fancy.”
Lola studied the picture. “This was the fundraiser for the theater several years back. Walter decided we needed a dash of elegance.”
The yearly fundraiser, in addition to box office receipts, comprised the bulk of the theater’s income. Fortunately, the town was generous, and donations of furniture, props, and clothing often made up for holes in the budget.
“Handsome dudes. Did you raise any money?”
“Yes, but then we overspent that season. Walter and money . . .” She groaned.
Which of course made me remember Jerome and the missing ELT funds.
She stood up. “I have to get ready to go to the theater. Walter needs to post the cast list.”
“Right. Before sixty auditionees commit hari-kari.”
Lola laughed, then stopped herself.
“I know. Tough to be light-hearted when Jerome . . .”
She nodded.
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but you made a terrific Lady Capulet,” I said. “Where’d you learn to speak blank verse? Not teaching high school biology.”
I had a sudden flash back to my ninth-grade biology class. If I’d had to coerce thirty bored kids to stick their fingers into a formaldehyde-reeking frog’s innards and stab at muscle tissue, I’d have retired early, too.
Lola headed out to the kitchen, and I followed her, newspaper, plate, and mug in hand. “I did lots of plays in college. I wanted to major in theater, but my parents thought it was too risky a career.”
And monitoring thirty kids with dissection knives in a lab wasn’t risky?
“I did a couple of plays in New York. Nothing much. Just some off-off stuff.”
“Like Walter?”
Lola nodded. “That’s where I first met him. In fact, I was responsible for getting him to apply for artistic director. I hope I don’t live to regret that,” she said and frowned.
“He’s done a lot of good work for the ELT.”
“True. Anyway, my car’s in the shop. Can you drop me off?” she asked.
“Sure. I don’t need to be back to work for another hour.”
I waited in the kitchen while Lola went upstairs to dress. I studied the picture in the newspaper. Jerome had his arm around Elliot Schenk. Walter had adopted a degree of decorum—I knew Walter never really drank beyond a glass of champagne at openings—but the other two had drinks in their hands and were having a grand old time.
Lola reappeared, having transformed herself via white silk blouse and tan, pressed trousers, all trace of the morning’s angst having vanished.
“Were Jerome and Elliot good friends? I mean they look like drinking buddies in this picture.”
She snickered. “Oh, yes. The two of them were always into mischief. When Elliot was on the stage crew, he and Jerome used to sneak out between the opening and intermission. Penny would have to call Jerome’s cell phone to get them back here for scene changes. They even took trips to Atlantic City every so often.”
“Jerome?”
“I think he mostly walked on the boardwalk and played a few slot machines. Elliot was a high-stakes poker guy—who tended to lose.”
“Two retired buddies on the prowl,” I said softly.
“Elliot wasn’t retired. He worked on Wall Street.”
“No one really knows.” She shrugged. “Maybe Jerome knew, but he never said anything. They did stay in touch though. Jerome mentioned that he had spoken to Elliot a few times in the last month. But there was speculation.”
“Such as?”
“That Elliot had gotten into some financial trouble and had to skip town. Or that he had a drinking problem and had to go into a rehab center. Or that he had a long-lost child who showed up one day.” Lola smiled. “It was all quite a mystery.”
“It’s nice that Jerome had someone he could hang out with.”
“They laughed a lot together,” Lola said; then little frown lines appeared. “The only time I heard them argue was one night after they returned from a weekend in Atlantic City. It had to do with Elliot borrowing money from Jerome and not paying him back when he said he would. But it all blew over quickly.”
“Jerome in Atlantic City. Something I never knew,” I said, as we walked out the door.
We climbed into my red Metro, still chugging along at ninety thousand miles. Lola was used to her new Lexus and allowed only the faintest traces of distaste to cross her face at having to ride in my pre-owned Chevy.
“What’s that odor?” she asked.
“Take-out garlic balls from La Famiglia. But don’t tell Henry I was patronizing his competitor.”
Lola tactfully held her hand to her face.
* * *
I dropped Lola off at the Etonville Little Theatre and cruised down the block to find parking. My regular spot in front of the Windjammer was occupied so I pulled into a metered space and searched my car—the ashtray, around the seats, in the upholstery—for money. The town meter maids were known to be crafty and appear out of nowhere. The result was a thirty-dollar ticket.
“Hi, Dodie.”
I was stuck between the steering wheel and the console, one arm flung over my head into the passenger seat, the other wedged under the driver’s seat. I looked up into Abby’s eyes. “Hi, Abby. How’s it going?”
“You need help?”
“Just looking for some spare change for the meter.”
“Here.” She dug into her pocket and withdrew a fistful of coins. “Take what you need.”
“Thanks.” I disengaged myself from park.
“Do you think Walter will post the cast list soon?” She checked her watch.
“I think so.” I squinted into the glaze of sun that formed a halo around Abby’s dishwater-blond hair. “You know there are a lot of good parts in Romeo and Juliet besides Romeo and Juliet.” I wanted to let her down easy. “Like the Ladies-in-Waiting.”
Abby tossed her head and sniffed. “I would never stoop to being one of them,” she said haughtily.
“But you want to be in the show, right?”
She hesitated only a fraction of a second. “I have seniority at the Etonville Little Theatre.”
Whatever that meant. She waved good-bye and flounced off.
I caught up with Lola outside the theater. She clicked off her cell. “I have ten messages from ELT actors,” she said warily.
“Uh-oh.”
In the lobby, we could hear yelling. Alarmed, Lola opened the door of the house and we went inside. Walter was toe-to-toe with a forty-year-old guy a head shorter and twenty pounds lighter.
Penny chewed gum and tapped her clipboard.
“A Servant!” the man shouted.
“Also a Watchman, a Guard, and a Citizen of Verona,” Penny added, all business.
“Are you kidding me?” He backed up too quickly, lost his balance, and tripped over the leg of a table, knocking over a chair and landing smack on his backside. Lola rushed in and offered her hand, which he rejected. Irregular breathing was all that was left of the argument.
“I’m outta here,” he said and limped off stage and through the house.
“Walter, are you okay?” Lola asked sympathetically.
“I guess the cast list has been posted?” I said as innocently as possible. Penny nodded.
Walter gathered a handful of papers together haphazardly, stuck them in a file, and tugged on his beard. “If anyone asks for me, I am gone for the day.”
“But, Walter, we need to discuss the budget—” Lola said.
He icily raised a hand to curtail her reminder and stalked off the stage. She followed after him.
I righted the chair the Servant had toppled over. I picked up the cast list. Sure enough, the little blond was Juliet and the tall, dark kid I remembered from auditions was Romeo.
“People have been emailing and calling—” Penny said.
“You too?”
“—and then Leonard showed up . . .”
“Let me guess.... He wanted to be Romeo?”
“They all want to be Romeo or Juliet. I’ve never seen ELT casting like this before. Some of the regulars are fine with a contemporary play but Shakespeare? No way. And they just can’t accept it.” Penny paused. “Well, that’s show biz,” she said with authority.
I wondered how Abby would take the news. I was praying she and Jim didn’t decide to spend the evening at the Windjammer. I was fed up with histrionics—both onstage and off.
“Penny, tell Lola to call me if she needs a ride home.”
* * *
As I helped Gillian set up the dining room for the dinner service, and reminded her to remove her nose ring, I couldn’t help thinking about Jerome. Seeing his picture in the newspaper and hearing about his friendship with Elliot made me remember our last conversation the night of auditions, the night he was murdered. He’d seemed to be trying to tell me something about his situation, but we had been interrupted. Had it been related to the missing money, or had it been something more urgent?
Then I saw them. Jim and Abby, heading straight for their favorite booth. Jim raised a hand and signaled to Benny to bring the usual: a couple of tall White Russians with extra ice.
I watched Benny set the drinks on their table—most folks knew to come to the bar during happy hour for the discount, but Abby and Jim made up for it by tipping big time and Benny benefitted from their generosity. I debated whether to escape to the kitchen when they entered. That path would require me to pass dangerously close to their booth and to Abby’s grappling with her future at the Etonville Little Theatre. Maybe I could pretend to have a call on my cell and just nod as I—
“Hi, Dodie!” Abby had spotted me and waved her arm.
I waved back and walked briskly to their table, definitely on my way to the kitchen.
“Did you hear the news?” Jim asked and downed the rest of his drink.
“What news?” I asked.
Jim tucked Abby into his shoulder. “Abby here’s going to play Juliet. Isn’t that great?”
“Understudy, Jim. I might understudy Juliet,” Abby added.
Had Walter lost his mind?
“I’m so proud of my honeybunch,” Jim said and planted a smooch on her mouth.
“Congratulations, Abby. I’m happy for you.” I took my cell phone out of my pocket and waggled it in their direction. “Gotta’ make a call.”
“Wait ’til you see my costume,” Abby said and patted Jim’s arm.
I smiled and dashed into the kitchen. Walter had better pray that the cute, blond Juliet didn’t break a leg, or something else, and force an understudy to take the stage.
Watching Enrico massage raw eggs into minced zucchini, onions, and parsley for the dinner frittata reminded me that I still needed the theme food for R and J. Given my mood, I was ready to forget the love and focus on the tragic. Something blood red? I shook off the morbid thoughts and picked up my inventory clipboard.
Henry’s frittata experiment was a resounding success. Just as dinner was winding down, Carol and Pauli walked in the door. I motioned for them to follow me to my back booth, where we could yak.
They settled in, ordered drinks—red wine for Carol, a Coke for Pauli—and looked at me expectantly: the website. OMG. I had meant
to confer with Henry today but forgot. I made an executive decision.
“So, Pauli, when do you want to get together and talk about the website?”
Carol looked like she could have kissed me, and Pauli stopped sipping and beamed.
“How about tomorrow?” Carol nudged Pauli gently. She’d make a great agent.
“Fine. Come by after school, okay?”
He nodded and gulped down the rest of his Coke. “Can I go?”
Carol nodded. “Don’t be home too late, honey.”
I sipped a seltzer and watched his baggy jeans exit the front door.
Carol dropped her voice. “Big hubbub in the shop today.”
“Really?” I said, and stifled a yawn. It had been a long day.
“Jerome.” Carol raised one eyebrow knowingly.
I snapped to attention. “What about him?”
“Well, one of the shampoo girls—”
“The one with the blue hair?”
“No the other one. Rita. She has a tattoo on her. . . .”
“Right.”
“She said she heard from her cousin that Jerome had a female visitor.” Carol paused to gauge my response.
“How did she know that?”
“Well, Rita’s cousin lives on Ellison—”
“Jerome’s street.”
“Yes, and last month she was hanging out on her front porch, and she saw this car stop in front of Jerome’s place—”
“She’s Jerome’s neighbor?”
“I guess so. Anyway, she saw this woman enter the house, and then fifteen minutes later she left. With Jerome in tow.”
“He never mentioned anyone to me. Who was this someone?”
“She had no idea.”
My imagination kicked into high gear. Was this mystery woman somehow connected to Jerome’s agitated state the night he was murdered?
“Did she notice anything else?”
“They got into a car. That’s all she said.”
“This is important, Carol. Maybe we should tell Chief Thompson.. . .”
“He’s a real hunk. You know he’s single? And apparently unattached, according to Annie Walsh—”
“Who?”
“She owned the bake shop—”
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