Show Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “Okay.” I waited.

  “Jerome wasn’t killed at the theater,” Bill said quietly. “Forensics said he was killed elsewhere and deposited on the loading dock.”

  “How do they know?” I asked.

  “No significant amount of blood at the crime scene. When the heart stops, no more blood is pumped,” he said matter-of-factly, as if investigating a murder were an everyday occurrence for him.

  “But his car was still parked at the theater the morning he was found.”

  “We had it scrubbed. Nothing in it to help us.” Bill ran a hand over his bristly hair. “There’s just not a lot to go on. Could have been a robbery gone wrong. His wallet and cell phone were missing.”

  “Like someone assaulted him on the street? That doesn’t sound like Etonville.”

  “Even small towns like Etonville can be susceptible to crime. And when someone is intoxicated . . .”

  “Intoxicated? I never saw Jerome drink more than one at a time,” I said.

  “His blood alcohol content was .08. Just at the legal limit.”

  “No way. I mean, I did smell alcohol on him when he arrived at the theater, but not so much that he couldn’t audition.”

  Bill snapped his head up. “He was drinking before he got to the theater? You didn’t mention that.”

  “I didn’t? I guess it slipped my mind,” I said.

  “Anything else ‘slip your mind’?” Bill asked.

  After I said my good-byes, I paused outside his door to read a text from Lola, who was checking in. Suki brushed past, glancing quickly at me, the faintest hint of irritation on her normally Zen-like face. Could it be about her goose chase to Sadlers? She knocked and entered Bill’s office, leaving the door slightly ajar. I overheard her say “the substance on his trousers . . . a resin of some kind . . . synthetic latex . . . still working on it.”

  * * *

  There was no point in arguing with Bill over Jerome’s blood alcohol level. Facts were facts, but I still had a tough time with it. Just didn’t seem like Jerome. The courteous soul who loved to read thrillers, left the Windjammer after one double Scotch, and patiently waited on lines of ticket holders at the theater, even when they badgered him for better seats. The random robbery-and-murder theory didn’t sit well with me. It was possible he’d met the murderer after auditions and had a few more drinks and then . . . what?

  The rain had stopped by the time I stepped outside the Municipal Building. I walked briskly back to the Windjammer to help set up for the dinner rush. Gillian was on the phone taking reservations, Benny was behind the bar, and Carmen was fast at work helping Enrico make chicken stock and prepping the rosemary potatoes.

  I collapsed into my booth with the cast list and the rehearsal schedule, as well as the restaurant’s wine order and staff calendar. As long as I didn’t get the Windjammer staff measured for costumes or the R and J cast bussing tables, I’d be fine. It was like juggling two jobs.

  My ring tone chimed, and I checked the number and clicked ANSWER. “Hi, Carol.”

  “Uh, no, it’s me. Pauli.” Then he added, as if he needed to explain using Carol’s cell, “I’m at Snippets.”

  “Hi, Pauli. What’s up?”

  “Did you want to work tonight?” he asked carefully.

  “On the website? I think we can wait ’til the weekend. I had a few more ideas about the pictures on the home page, and maybe we can add a bit of history. You know, like the Windjammer was owned by a sea captain who—”

  “I meant that other thing.”

  “Oh. Right.” I looked around the dining room. Things would begin to heat up in the restaurant in another hour, and I needed to stay through dinner. But afterward I planned to head to the theater to speak with Lola and meet with Chrystal about costume fittings. I had no idea what Pauli’s rules of engagement were on school nights. “Could you stop by the theater instead of the restaurant later? I’ll be over there working. Around eight-thirty? Check with your mom.”

  “Okay.”

  I could hear muffled voices in the background.

  “Hi, Dodie. I can bring Pauli to the theater later,” Carol said.

  “You’re sure it’s okay? I’m not interfering with his homework or something?”

  “Not a problem. He does homework off and on all day, as far as I can figure. Most of the time his face is buried in the computer.”

  “He’s really talented,” I said.

  “Thanks. Anyway, I need to speak with Chrystal about hair issues so I’ll catch her when I drop Pauli off.”

  “Okay, and I’ll bring Pauli home.”

  “No need. His friends will pick him up. They’re working on a project, he said.”

  Pauli had more than one project going.

  * * *

  The cast was on a break and a production conference was in progress when I opened the door of the Etonville Little Theatre. Sitting on stage, Walter was debating the pros and cons of balcony construction with the set crew head—JC—while out in the house, Penny and Chrystal fussed over costume business, and Lola fingered satin and velvet fabric swatches.

  “The balcony needs to be three feet higher and reinforced,” Walter said, jabbing his forefinger at a blueprint of the set. “There’s going to be a lot of action up there.”

  JC stared at Walter’s finger. “That’s going to take more time and money.”

  “We’ll rehearse with a ladder until it’s ready. We’ve got a ten-foot one in the shop.”

  A ladder? I was glad I didn’t have to scramble up and down—

  “Dodie, what do you think of this material?” Lola stared at the samples in her hands.

  “Penny, we need these measurement sheets filled out this week,” Chrystal said firmly. Then she turned to me. “At least we don’t need sizes for the codpieces.” She snickered.

  “Here’s a draft of a measurement schedule,” I said, handing her a sheet of paper. “It’s based on who’s called what nights this week.”

  Chrystal’s eyes opened wide. “Uh . . . thanks! This is great.”

  Penny looked sullen. “I would have done it if Walter had asked.”

  “Of course you would,” Chrystal said.

  “I think I like this blue.” Lola held the swatch at arm’s length.

  “That’s good because Walter wants the Capulets in blue and the Montagues in red.”

  Definitely the Jets and the Sharks, I thought.

  Actors had just begun to trickle back in, some alone, some in twos, when a sudden whoop erupted from the lobby, followed by some yelling and hooting. I looked at Chrystal, and Penny darted up the aisle and wrenched open the door. Romeo and Tybalt were chuckling and jabbing each other in the ribs like little boys on a playground.

  Abby flounced past Penny and paraded herself down the right aisle of the theater. Everyone froze.

  Under her breath, Chrystal muttered, “Oh my Lord. I asked the ladies to bring in a rehearsal skirt from home.”

  Abby was dressed in a flaming-red Elizabethan gown complete with starched ruff and a bodice cut way too low, with a score of colored feathers jammed every which way in her hair.

  Juliet and another young Lady-in-Waiting ran into the theater just as Abby halted, one Elizabethan-clad foot in front of the other, as if she were walking a tightrope. Juliet playfully nudged the other girl, who lost her balance and tumbled into Abby. Caught off-guard, she yelped, wobbled sideways, and landed on her back with a cloud of billowing red satin held aloft by a petticoat made of wire and muslin.

  The two girls dissolved into a fit of giggles. Abby flailed her arms and legs and screamed at the top of her lungs. “Get me up!”

  There was a mad dash to her side, Chrystal pulling while I pushed, grabbing a handful of wire and satin and inhaling feathers.

  “Penny, what is going on?” Walter demanded.

  Lola and the rest of the cast stood wide-eyed, mouths agape, while Penny threw up her hands in dismay and then made notations on her clipboard.

  “Rehear
sal skirt, I said, not full costume. That’s not even your character,” Chrystal said to a tearful Abby, who was by now upright.

  “I could have played Juliet,” Abby whimpered to no one in particular.

  Abby’s dramatic entrance had thrown the rehearsal schedule askew. By the time we had her and the cast under control, we’d lost at least twenty minutes. Walter didn’t help move things along, either. He was still using present-day British vernacular like “you lot” and “bugger off” and the cast either laughed or exchanged expressions of “huh?” And sometimes Walter communicated via theatrical directions that were a little old-fashioned and just a bit pompous. “Hence” he would say, and “dress the stage.”

  I hadn’t been able to pull Lola aside and talk with her about turning Jerome’s ledger over to the police. Though Walter “borrowing” from the box office had nothing to do with Jerome’s murder, I wanted Bill to see the notation that indicated Jerome had had a meeting planned with an MR for the day after he died. Which may have been as innocent as a haircut or a doctor’s appointment. Still, I was feeling some guilt at holding back this information and remembered my great aunt Maureen’s favorite saying, that she had crocheted on a wall hanging: In life’s wardrobe of emotions, guilt is the itchy wool turtleneck that’s three sizes too small. I’d been scratching for several days now.

  Carol and Pauli walked in the door. Carol made a beeline for Chrystal to consult on hair and wigs, and I set Pauli up in the box office. I told a few folks he was doing his homework.

  “I’m working on some new software that can help identify passwords. What it does is—” Pauli said.

  “Some kind of forensic program?” I asked.

  “Sort of. Do you want me to explain it to you?”

  “No, that’s okay. Just go ahead.” I watched him sort through all of the information we had collected on Jerome, his forehead furrowed.

  “I’m leaving,” Carol called into the box-office window.

  Pauli looked up and nodded and then went back to work.

  “He’s really into your website, isn’t he?” Carol asked.

  “Yeah. Did you get the hair straightened out?”

  “There are a few wigs in storage that I’ll pull out. Mostly everyone’ll wear their own hair and I’ll fool around with styling. Pauli, home by eleven, okay?”

  He nodded again.

  “Bye, Dodie.”

  “Bye.”

  “You got anything to write on in here?” Pauli asked.

  “Let me take a look.” I opened the top drawer under the ticket counter; it had been cleaned out, presumably by Lola. I checked the second drawer and found only rolls of circus tickets. I rummaged around in the bottom drawer and lifted up a handful of old programs and some ticket reconciliation sheets. A pale, rose-tinted envelope slipped out of the pile and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up, and my heart skipped a beat. Someone had written MR on the front of it.

  Chapter 13

  A half hour later, two clones appeared in the lobby. They were exact duplicates of Pauli: shaggy hair in their earnest faces, a smattering of acne across their foreheads, hoodies, sneakers, and baggy jeans. They approached the box-office window.

  Pauli brightened immediately. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” one said.

  “Hey,” the other responded.

  “I’m going, okay?” he said to me.

  “Fine. I’ll call you tomorrow about the website,” I said, and he smiled slyly as he packed up his laptop.

  I watched the kids exit the theater and then withdrew the envelope from my bag, where I’d stashed it while finding Pauli some scratch paper. The stationery had a subtle floral pattern and a vaguely rose-like scent. I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. The envelope was empty, but the initials on the front, along with the last page of the ledger, suggested that Jerome’s mystery lady and MR might be one and the same. I made up my mind. I took the ledger from my bag and carefully detached the back page. I could give Bill both the page and the envelope and not even mention Walter. I could just say I’d found the loose page in one of the drawers when I was searching for—

  My cell rang. I punched ANSWER. “Hi, Carol. Pauli left ten minutes ago with his friends.”

  “Dodie!”

  “What?”

  “I just got a call from Rita, my shampoo girl, who got a call from her cousin Monica. The one you—”

  “—talked to. Right.”

  “Well, she said the police are all over her street.” Carol was breathless.

  “Ellison? Jerome’s street.”

  “Yes. And they’re going into his house. What do you think is going on?”

  “I don’t know. Thanks, Carol.” I grabbed my bag.

  The lobby door banged open, and Penny stuck her head in the box office. “Walter wants you to see him after rehearsal,” she said gruffly.

  “Sorry. Tell Lola and Walter I’ll check in with them later. I have to run.” I headed for the exit.

  “But Walter’s redoing the circle of light tonight because the trust has been broken and—”

  Walter would have to regain the trust without me.

  I ran to my Metro, hopped in, and cranked the engine, shooting up Main and over Fairfield. I drove down Ellison and came to an abrupt stop two doors from 1428. I recognized the white car in the driveway from my previous visit. Red and blue flashing lights atop the police cruiser had begun to draw attention. Front porch lights snapped on, and neighbors ventured out and gathered in small knots of murmuring humanity. I cut through a neighbor’s yard just as Officer Ralph Ostrowski raced his police vehicle down the street and slammed it into the curb. He jumped out and waved his arms at the handful of people who lined the sidewalk.

  “Okay. Nothing to see here. Let’s break it up.”

  I darted to the porch, wracking my brain for an excuse to get into the house, when the front door opened.

  “Hello! It’s Dodie, yes?” Charles Waters stood there bobbing his head and smiling merrily. He ran one hand through his tufts of white hair and eased back on his bedroom slippers.

  “Hi, Charles. May I come in?”

  Charles opened the door wider and I slipped through, Ralph close on my heels. Over Charles’s shoulder, I could see and hear Bill and a woman, probably Betty Everly, in the living room—he was nodding patiently as she flapped her arms around, talking rapidly.

  “. . . so I went upstairs to check on the plumbing in room three because the tenant was complaining about the trap in her shower and there it was. The door to room two was partly open and everything was ransacked.” She was still in her work apron, her hair a feather duster of flyaway tendrils.

  Ralph tapped me on the arm. “This is a crime scene. No civilians permitted. You’ll have to stay outside.”

  “It’s okay, Ralph. I’m a friend of Charles. Mrs. Everly’s father?” I gestured to the older man, who grinned his agreement.

  Ralph hitched up his pants and jammed his nightstick into his belt. “It doesn’t matter who you’re friends with. You can’t come in here and trample on evidence.”

  “Why don’t you check with the chief?” I said politely.

  Bill appeared in the hallway, Mrs. Everly two steps behind him.

  “Chief, she says she’s a friend of—”

  “—Charles. He let me in.”

  Bill looked quizzically from Ralph to me to Charles. “Uh-huh.” He paused. “Ralph, take care of crowd control,” he said quietly, and jerked his head in the direction of the street, where the tiny knots of people had morphed into one big neighborhood bunch.

  “Are you sure?” Ralph was clearly disappointed, but Bill only nodded and opened the door for him to exit.

  “This is Ms. O’Dell. She’s . . . helping with the investigation,” Bill said firmly to Mrs. Everly.

  She drew her sweater around her midsection and glanced at me skeptically. Then her eyes fell on poor Charles. “Dad, take off those slippers and put on your shoes. You’re going to trip and fall,” she bark
ed.

  His body sagged and he shuffled off to the back of the house. Betty Everly was never going to be his checkers partner.

  Mrs. Everly led the way to the second floor and stood aside as Bill entered Jerome’s room, careful to leave everything untouched. I peered over his shoulder and gasped. The bedroom was in complete disarray: the mattress had been yanked off the bed, the covers thrown about. Someone had inserted a knife into pillow seams and polyester fiberfill had burst out, layering the floor with white balls. The lamps were tipped over, shades askew. Even the paintings had been slashed. Someone had done a thorough job of rummaging around.

  “Who’s going to pay for all of this?” Mrs. Everly wailed.

  I walked to the closet and peered in. “What happened to his clothes?”

  “I gave them away to Goodwill,” she said defensively.

  Her words landed with a thud. As if discarding Jerome’s clothing was a second burial of Jerome himself.

  I hung back and leaned against the archway leading into the living room, chock-full of tchotchkes and furniture. Every surface was covered with china figurines and coasters of various materials and shapes; moving around end tables and easy chairs required the agility of a tap dancer. Bill sat with Mrs. Everly on the sofa.

  “What time did you return home?”

  “Nine-thirty. Same as every night,” she replied. “I work at Lacey’s Market. Frozen foods.”

  “Did you leave the door unlocked?” he asked. “There don’t appear to be signs of forced entry.”

  “Sure. Someone’s always ringing my bell because they forgot a key. I just got tired of waiting on them.”

  “Was there anyone in the house earlier in the evening?”

  “Well, one of my renters has been out of town all week and the other works a night shift.”

  “What about Charles?” I asked.

  Bill and Mrs. Everly swung their heads in my direction in unison: he with curiosity, she with thinly veiled suspicion. “I don’t like Dad to answer the door. Once it’s open, he’s been known to wander off.”

  Bill coughed and frowned, warning me to back off a little. “Have you noticed anything unusual in the neighborhood lately?”

  “Like what?” she asked, her mouth turned down at the corners.