Show Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  Shakespearean costume history was not my strength, but even I knew that covers for the men’s crotches were an Elizabethan custom. I’d seen leather versions on heavy-metal rockers; I couldn’t wait to view the ELT variety. “Sounds like fun.”

  I waved at Chrystal and quick-stepped to catch up with Mildred. I passed large multicolored murals with cartoonish characters grinning crazily. Someone’s version of a nightmare.

  At the end of the hall, Mildred paused beside an open door and waited for me to enter. There were four computer stations. Only one was being used. “Feel free to stay as long as you like.” She cocked her head to one side. “Do you have an email address, or do you need to set up an account?”

  “I have an address. But how would I set up a new one?”

  Mildred placed a plump hand on the top of the console. “It’s very simple.” She touched the mouse and clicked on an item. “You begin here and need only follow the prompts. They will lead you through the process to create a new account and password.”

  I nodded my appreciation.

  “I imagine a young woman like you will have no problem finding her way. It’s mostly the older gentlemen and women who aren’t acquainted with the Internet.”

  “Do you have many seniors using the computers?”

  “Oh yes. Our computer room is very popular. Everyone these days needs to email. Well, let me know if you need any help. I’ll be at the front desk until four.”

  “Thanks. By the way, did you know Jerome Angleton?”

  She put a hand to her mouth. “Poor Jerome. So terrible what happened to him.”

  “Yes.” I allowed a proper beat. “Did he use this lab?”

  “Oh, he was a frequent visitor,” she said. “To the computer lab, to our Friday morning non-fiction book club ...”

  Jerome read other things besides mysteries and thrillers?

  “... and our special collections,” Mildred added.

  “The special collections?” I asked.

  “In the basement. It’s where we keep our rare books and papers.” She glanced at the wall clock. “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to the circulation desk,” she said contritely.

  “No problem. Thanks for your help.”

  As long as I was here, I might as well see exactly what Jerome would have had to do to get an email account. I clicked on the first prompt. I was able to set up an email address and password with a minimum of effort. If Jerome was surfing the Internet, it would be simple enough to come here for a few hours and check out various dating websites.

  I decided to stop by the basement area before I headed to the Windjammer. Downstairs was the media room, with a checkout desk in front of rows of metal shelves covered with old VHS tapes, CDs, and DVDs. To the left were the small listening rooms with CD players and headsets. Directly across from the desk was a locked door with SPECIAL COLLECTIONS stamped on a frosted window. I looked around; the floor was empty. Since there was no one to talk to, I retraced my steps to the lobby, waved good-bye to Mildred, and walked out into the sunshine.

  * * *

  Henry’s cream of asparagus soup and grilled three-cheese sandwich killed during lunch. It took all hands on deck to handle the crunch of customers. But Henry was happy, and that made me happy. While my feet were running from the phone to the tables to the bar, my mind was slowly sifting through everything I knew about Jerome’s life and death. It wasn’t much.

  I wanted to chat with Chief Thompson about the possibilities generated by the appearance of the mystery woman; but what could I add that I hadn’t mentioned to him two days ago? There had to be something or someone else that could shed some light.

  By three o’clock, I’d made up my mind. My break provided enough time to visit Ellison Street and hopefully get a look at Jerome’s living space. And by going during the afternoon, I stood a better chance of dealing with the “friendly old man” instead of the “pill of a landlady.”

  I stepped outside the Windjammer. The late-afternoon sun had reached its zenith and begun to drift toward setting. It was going to be a lovely evening, high sixties and a beautiful sunset. Of course, nothing could compare to the sun over the ocean. Though I loved Etonville, I missed the pounding waves and thin film of foam that lapped at the sand as the tide rolled in.

  After a short ride, I pulled down Ellison Street, which seemed as quiet by day as it did by night. I checked out the houses across the street from Jerome’s residence. No sign of Monica Jenkins on a front porch. There was plenty of street parking so I eased my Metro to the curb and switched off the motor.

  In the mystery novels I’d read, I’d learned that when gathering evidence, adopting a low profile was often more productive than entering with guns blazing. My plan was to knock on the door, tell whoever answered that I was Jerome’s friend, and ask, politely, to see Jerome’s room.

  I couldn’t concoct some wild, cockamamie story in this town. Word traveled too fast. I needed to play it straight.

  I walked to the front door, alert for any sign of landlady Betty Everly’s father staring soulfully into the street. The living room windows were open, and classical music wafted through the sheer curtains. I rang the bell and the music softened. After a few moments, an elderly man opened the door, squinting into the late-day sunlight. He was probably late eighties, with thin wisps of white hair above his ears and around the back of his head. A noticeable paunch hung over a belt that kept corduroy pants and a flannel shirt in place. His light brown eyes were watery, his large nose lined with red threads.

  “Yes?” he said and smiled cheerfully.

  “Hello, is this the Everly residence?”

  “Well, yes. My daughter is Betty Everly. I’m Charles Waters.”

  “Mr. Waters, my name is Dodie O’Dell, and I was a friend of Jerome Angleton.”

  His face crumpled and his mouth formed an O. He opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Please come in.”

  I’d been preparing myself to have to convince someone to let me in. This might not be as difficult as I had anticipated. I followed him into the foyer. The house smelled like a combination of furniture polish and freshly baked cookies.

  “So sad,” he said.

  “Yes. He rented a room here?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “We played checkers on Sundays. I think he always let me win.” He stood helplessly at the foot of a staircase and gazed up the steps, as if he expected Jerome to appear and walk down them.

  I never saw Jerome on Sundays. The Windjammer was closed, and the ELT rarely rehearsed on weekends unless a show was about to open. “That sounds like him.”

  Charles wrung his hands helplessly. “I miss him.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Do you think I could take a look at his room? I thought maybe I could find something to send to his family.” It was only a little lie.

  Charles looked at me blankly as if the thought that Jerome had a family was completely unexpected.

  “Well, you know the police were here. . . .” As his voice trailed off, Charles jammed his hands in his pants pockets and rocked backward on his bedroom slippers. “They took a few things.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said and nodded. “That makes sense.”

  He closed his eyes as though he might nod off.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “For what?” His eyes flew open.

  “To see Jerome’s room . . . ?”

  Without another word, Charles turned, padded to the stairs, and ascended slowly, taking one step at a time.

  We paused in a hallway dimly lit by a single window on the back wall. There were three doors, two on one side, one on the other. Charles opened the door to the second room on the left.

  Somewhere downstairs, a phone rang.

  “That’s my daughter. She doesn’t trust me home alone.” He smiled again.

  “I won’t be long,” I promised and scooted into the room. As Charles descended the stairs, I sh
ut the door.

  I wasn’t at all sure what I was looking for, but I knew I had only a few minutes to scour the place. I allowed my gaze to work its way around the bedroom. Beige walls, a closet, a bed, a rocker, two watercolors of pastoral scenes, a small night table, and the bureau. No computer. I crossed to an old oak chest of drawers and noiselessly opened the top one. Boxer shorts, undershirts, men’s handkerchiefs, and half a dozen pairs of socks. The next two drawers held folded shirts: short-sleeved, long-sleeved, and polo. The bottom drawer was nearly empty except for three pairs of pajamas still in their plastic wrap.

  I spied the nightstand and slid open its single drawer. It held a Bible, a notepad and pen, and a well-thumbed copy of a Sherlock Holmes mystery, overdue at the Etonville Public Library.

  I considered the room again. In the closet I found khakis, neatly pressed, two dark suits, some starched dress shirts, a cardigan sweater, and half a dozen empty hangers. Slippers and a pair of sneakers lay on the floor of the closet. I brushed the suits aside to see if I had neglected anything. No luck.

  I moved to his bathroom and checked out the medicine cabinet. Just the usual. Cold and cough products, Vicks, lozenges, Advil, aspirin, and an out-of-date prescription for penicillin.

  Surrounding the sink were an electric toothbrush, toothpaste, mint-flavored dental tape, deodorant, and disposable shavers in a ceramic cup. Under the sink, there were ten rolls of toilet paper, probably from Costco over in Crestmont, and a dozen bars of soap. A black men’s travel kit held a worn toothbrush.

  I crossed back into his bedroom, took a last look around, and was about to close the closet door when I remembered my mother teasingly reminding my father to check his pockets whenever he took off a suit coat, or she’d get to keep the valuables. There was always a treasure trove of fascinating stuff in his pockets—at least so it seemed to a ten-year-old—like lint, gum, and little slips of paper. Never any money.

  I eased my hand into the first suit jacket and withdrew a fresh handkerchief. The other pocket was empty. In the second suit, I found an old pen and a matchbook. Then I slipped my hand into the inside breast pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. I flipped the lid and gasped. I was holding a diamond ring. Though modest in size, its clarity was undeniable. Jerome was getting engaged? I was dumbfounded. He’d never even hinted at having a girlfriend, much less a fiancée.

  Usually when something bothered me, these little prickly hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. I could feel myself shivering even though Jerome’s room was stuffy and warm. I slipped the ring box into my jacket pocket and hurried down the stairs. I couldn’t have been in Jerome’s room more than fifteen minutes, but Charles was waiting for me at the foot of the staircase, tapping his fingers against the bannister.

  “Thanks for letting me into his room. It made me feel . . . close to him.”

  “My daughter’s on her way home,” he said. “She left work early.”

  “Oh, uh, that’s good. Um, well . . .” I needed to leave. I really had no desire to explain my visit all over again, especially with someone much less understanding than Charles.

  “She’s going to rent the room out.”

  So the sign out front was accurate. “I’m sorry you lost your checkers partner,” I said softly.

  He shrugged. “Jerome was leaving anyway.”

  “He was? I didn’t know . . . ?”

  Of course, he was also planning on getting married.

  “Do you play checkers?” he asked hopefully.

  I started to maneuver my way to the front door. “Uh, no . . . sorry. But maybe your daughter . . . ?” I slid out the front door. “Thanks again.”

  He looked so mournful, I couldn’t help myself. I gave him a quick hug and scurried to my Metro. At the top of the street, a white, late-model sedan was barreling down Ellison. I took off.

  Chapter 9

  I brushed my teeth, slipped into a funeral-appropriate outfit, black skirt and sweater, and nibbled on a piece of toast—coffee would have to wait until after the service. Lola’s Lexus turned into my driveway so I grabbed my purse and keys and flew out the door. A few fluffy clouds skidded across the deep blue sky: a beautiful day for a funeral. I shut the passenger-side door and had just barely clicked my seat belt when Lola passed me a Coffee Heaven take-out paper cup.

  “Decaf caramel macchiato, hold the foam,” she said, looking sophisticated and serene in her black suit and pearls.

  “Lola, you are my hero.” I popped up the lid and inhaled. “To what do I owe this generosity?”

  “I just thought it might be nice to be nice.”

  I smiled at her. “What can we expect this morning?”

  “Jerome’s sister isn’t springing for anything beyond the bare necessities. A simple service and coffee in the undercroft.”

  “I’m sure Jerome would have appreciated your efforts,” I said.

  “I did my best. Of course, Walter had a hand in everything. The pallbearers, the eulogy—”

  “I went to Jerome’s place yesterday.” I took a sip of my coffee. “You’re not going to believe what I found.” I described my visit to Ellison Street, including Charles Waters’s loss of his checkers partner and the diamond ring.

  “An engagement ring! So Jerome was stepping out,” Lola said, stunned.

  “More than stepping out. According to Charles, he was planning on leaving soon. Maybe to get married.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did none of us know about her?”

  “Jerome wanted to keep things under wraps?”

  Lola turned left into the parking lot. A sizeable crowd had gathered in the churchyard of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church—people Jerome had come to know over the years as a beloved high school teacher, along with the ELT folks and the local press. Organ music wafted out of the vestibule as the undertaker appeared and began to direct people into the church.

  “Where’s Walter?” I asked.

  Lola craned her neck as we filed into a pew halfway down the aisle. “I’m sure he’s in the vestibule with the other pallbearers,” she said nervously.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked.

  “Just wait.”

  I’d read enough mysteries and thrillers to know that, next to stakeouts and surreptitious photography, a funeral was a good friend to an investigator: who came, who didn’t come, who broke down. At the left rear of the church, Chief Thompson leaned against a pillar, a good position from which to inspect the assembled parties. Opposite him, on the right side of the nave, sat Officer Suki Shung. Both of them out of uniform, expressions neutral.

  “Show time,” a voice hissed in my ear, and I jumped.

  “Penny,” I said, my heart banging around in my chest. “You’re going to kill me.”

  “I hear the police did a biopsy.”

  “You mean autopsy,” I said.

  “Whatever.”

  “I think that’s standard procedure when someone dies a violent death,” Lola said calmly.

  “You’re looking good, Lola. Walter’s giving the eulogy, right? I mean, after all, the ELT was Jerome’s home,” Penny said.

  Lola nodded. “Maybe you should get a seat, Penny. The service is probably going to start soon.”

  The organist began to play “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence.” It was my fondest wish.

  Penny jerked her head over one shoulder and nodded. “Here he comes to take his final bow.”

  I turned in my seat and saw the pallbearers and coffin in place at the back of the church.

  “OMG, Lola?”

  “I know,” she whispered hoarsely, staring straight ahead. “It was Walter’s idea. I tried to talk him out of it but he thought it was . . . appropriate?”

  Aligned along both sides of the casket were six guys, all ELT members, and Walter. The six were dressed in Elizabethan garb: tights and capes and frilly shirts. Walter, in modified Elizabethan costume with just the shirt and cape, stood at the rear of the casket.

  “How did he convince the
m to dress like that? To wear that stuff to a funeral?”

  Lola shrugged. “They’re actors.”

  The organist started the chorus again, and we all stood as Jerome was wheeled down the aisle. The undertaker led the processional, and Walter pushed from the back of the coffin. In between, the six actors steered the casket. I had to stifle laughter, like, no doubt, many of the pews’ occupants.

  The minister began the service. There were prayers for Jerome’s soul and a few words about his kindness and generosity. Heads nodded throughout the church. And then Walter rose and somberly approached the pulpit. He flipped the ends of his cape over his shoulders and withdrew a sheet of paper from the inside of his flowing white shirt. He cut a surprisingly striking, if odd, figure: grave and somewhat timeless. He cleared his throat. “Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

  Most of the crowd certainly recognized Shakespeare’s hand in this. If Walter had ended there and just said a few words about Jerome and the theater, we could have called it a funeral. But this was a performance.

  “Jerome was our friend, part of the Etonville Little Theatre family. It is therefore only fitting to remember him and his last role in our circle of light and to wonder what his future in the theater might have been had he . . .” Walter took a dramatic beat. “. . . lived. ‘To be, or not to be: that is the question . . . ’”

  No one could confuse murder with suicide, including Walter, but the line was too good to pass up. He described Jerome’s sense of humor and listed all of the various duties he had performed at the ELT. A baby started to wail, but Walter soldiered on, building to the climax of his oration. “Friends and mourners, lend me your ears, I come to bury Jerome, and to praise him.”

  His mashup of Julius Caesar and Hamlet had left the crowd totally confused. “And so I remind us all that ‘tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.’ ”

  He ended to thunderous silence. Then some members of the ELT, forgetting this was a memorial for Jerome, started to applaud. Everyone else looked around as though searching for permission before joining in. Walter bowed slightly and the minister announced prayers in the church cemetery, followed by refreshments in the church basement.