Show Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  I closed the lid of my laptop and trundled off to bed. I didn’t need Cindy Collins tonight; I had my own mystery to solve.

  * * *

  I dreamed I was living inside the old Chutes and Ladders game I had played with my brother on rainy shore days, falling down ladders, bumping off of one A-frame after another, and having to begin the climb back to the top again. I woke in a cold sweat. I closed my eyes and tried to re-enter sleep, but it was impossible. The only solution was coffee and the paper. Yesterday’s leaden gloom had been blown away by overnight gusts. The sky was a cloudless, deep blue and the sun warm on my shoulders as I opened the front door, got a lungful of clean, crisp air, and retrieved my New York Times.

  My cell clanged. The caller ID wasn’t familiar. “Hello?” I said cautiously.

  “I hope this isn’t too early?”

  So this was what Bill sounded like in the morning, slightly hoarse, slightly sexy. I glanced at the wall clock above the sink: eight-thirty.

  “No, I’ve been awake for hours.” Sad but true.

  He cleared his throat. “I thought you might want an update on the SUV incident.”

  You bet, I thought. “Would you like me to stop by the station?”

  “How about Coffee Heaven in an hour? I have to go by the Unitarian church first to deliver their May Festival permit.”

  “Right. The May Festival. Henry’s doing the catering.” I paused. “Are you sure you can talk in public?”

  “We’ll sit in a back booth. Anyway, whatever I have to say is probably already around town. See you in a few.”

  He clicked off and I stared at my phone. What was I doing entertaining thoughts about Bill? Sure, he was a terrific-looking guy with a body to die for. And he seemed on top of things. He was unattached, as per the Snippets crowd, and he apparently was able to get my engine revved. Still, what did I know about him, other than the Philly connection and NFL experience? Maybe I needed to do a little investigation of Etonville’s chief of police.

  * * *

  I was into the Arts section of the NYT and my second caramel macchiato, this one a decaf, when Bill slid his compact frame onto the bench across from me.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Problems with the May Festival?”

  “Reverend Taylor wants to close Amber Street in front of the church all day, and the permit is only for four hours. He is being difficult.”

  I nodded. “Small-town life.”

  He smiled. “Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. I just need to get used to the place.” Jocelyn set his coffee on the table and he took a swallow from the steaming cup.

  “So the hit-and-run?”

  “More like a bump and run. Mrs. Parker thought she had put the car in drive but really put it in reverse. She banged into the SUV, not the other way around.”

  “Still, the SUV took off, right? Didn’t wait until you arrived.”

  “True.”

  “I assume no license plate number?”

  “Nope. Only Mrs. Parker’s description. ‘A big black sport utility vehicle.’”

  I waited for him to go on.

  “I’m feeling like it’s some kind of phantom automobile. I never see it,” he said.

  “Counting the Banger sisters, there are four people who have seen it,” I said.

  “Yeah, and three of them are certifiable.” He downed the last dregs of his cup.

  “I certainly hope I’m number four.”

  His walkie-talkie squawked. “Yes, Edna.”

  “Chief, Officer Shung is looking for you. State police dropped off an analysis of Jerome’s—”

  Bill pressed the volume button. “I’ll be right there.”

  “10-4,” Edna said.

  “Sorry, gotta go. If you see the SUV, let me know.”

  I nodded. “Will do.”

  And that was that.

  Chapter 16

  It was all hands on deck for chopping at the Windjammer. Henry had two kinds of salad, soup, and homemade marinara sauce, for vegetable lasagna, on the menu, and that meant a ton of veggies, not to mention the fruit for his dessert medley. Henry, Enrico, and Carmen had each staked out a corner of the kitchen.

  I grabbed a bundle of table napkins the laundry service had delivered an hour ago and set myself up at the bar. Ever since I was a kid, kitchen tasks—folding napkins, setting the table, chopping vegetables—have always been restful activities for me. My hands did their thing while my mind wandered or, as necessary, focused. I’d spin imaginative stories with fanciful characters while helping my mother to prepare dinner; it was our special time together and the only time I was allowed to play with knives.

  Right now, folding napkins provided the opportunity for me to hunker down mentally. Where the devil was this SUV? Bill was spot-on about one thing: the vehicle was a kind of phantom, appearing suddenly in various parts of town, and then disappearing just as quickly. Despite the fact that there were more pieces to the Jerome puzzle available now, the picture still was not taking shape. What was Jerome’s connection to Forensic Document Services, and who was MR?

  “Dodie.” Enrico had sidled up to my elbow without my noticing. He was whispering.

  “Hey, Enrico.” I escorted myself back into the present moment.

  “I am worried about Henry. He is afraid of La Famiglia.”

  “Afraid?”

  Enrico nodded. “That is why he is creating vegetable lasagna,” he said confidentially.

  “It’s just another restaurant,” I said.

  “But Henry has his pride. He was the first and best in Etonville for a long time,” he said seriously.

  “There are enough customers to go around.”

  “It’s hard to surrender your position.”

  I patted Enrico on the back and sent him back to work. It was difficult to believe that Henry felt threatened by a small Italian bistro. Couldn’t two restaurants live in harmony in the same town? Maybe seeing Romeo and Juliet rehearse was affecting my perspective, but the competition between the Windjammer and La Famiglia was feeling more and more like the Capulets and Montagues, without the sword fights and the poison.

  I looked up as Benny walked in the front entrance. “The beer and soda delivery should be here any minute.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” Benny said teasingly.

  “I put on the coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And would you remind me to tell Henry that he needs to call Reverend Taylor about the May Festival at the Unitarian Church?”

  “Got it, chief.” Benny saluted. “Anything else?”

  “Probably, but I can’t think of it yet.” I smiled.

  Lola banged through the door. “There you are. I went by your house and didn’t see your car so I figured . . . oh, hi, Benny.” Back to me. “We need to talk.”

  Benny raised his eyebrows.

  “Come on, Lola, let’s go to my ‘office.’”

  She followed me to my back booth.

  “Coffee?”

  She nodded, and I signaled Benny.

  “Whew. I need a vacation. Maybe I’ll get out of town for a few hours later,” I said.

  Lola stared at me uneasily. “Dodie, are you okay? Is the Jerome business getting to you?”

  “Yes and yes. What’s up at the theater?”

  Lola filled me in. The balcony crisis wasn’t going away since the budget couldn’t afford the lumber and hardware. Chrystal was insisting on velvet and satin for the costumes, and Walter was pushing for cheaper muslin. Romeo claimed he had a sprained ankle this morning, the Nurse finally quit, and Lola didn’t think Edna had the role in her.

  I shook my head. “Everyone is on edge.”

  “Tell me about it. Walter and I don’t know what to do to hold it together. If Elliot wasn’t in the cast, we’d be in even more trouble.”

  “All of this happened this morning?” I asked.

  “Most of it through email.” She paused. “Some days I hate the Internet.”

 
“Speaking of the Internet . . . I have news about Jerome.”

  Lola’s eyes got bigger. “What?”

  “You can’t talk about this to anyone. Not Walter, not Carol, especially not Carol, at least right now.”

  “Tell me,” she demanded.

  “I need to tell the chief, but I’m not sure I should yet.”

  “I’m going to burst if you don’t—”

  “Did Jerome ever mention an historic document to you? Something of value?” I asked.

  “Never.”

  “Well, you know how we said if we could find out who Jerome was seeing, we might learn something about his death?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how the best way was through his email?”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, you know how clever Pauli is with a computer. . . .”

  Lola’s eyes opened even wider as I related my hacking story, concluding with the discovery that Jerome had been in correspondence with Forensic Document Services.

  “So where might he get his hands on something like that? And why was he keeping it a secret?” I asked.

  “Jerome had a lot of secrets,” Lola said thoughtfully.

  “I’ve got a little more digging to do.”

  “If I can help, let me know.” She stood up. “See you tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Lola promised to keep the email story to herself, while I promised to show up at the theater.

  * * *

  The jury was out on Henry’s vegetable lasagna. Mildred’s husband, who had progressed from soup and salad to entrees, wondered why he couldn’t use meat like in “regular lasagna,” and the Banger sisters said it tasted “too mushroomy.” I defended Henry: he was just trying to broaden the palate of Etonville. Abby’s Jim said his palate was doing just fine, thank you.

  I was relieved to turn over the helm to Benny after dinner and headed next door to the theater. I relaxed into a soft seat cushion in the theater’s last row, house left. I’d brought my laptop to do a little more surfing on the Internet in case I got bored. Walter was avoiding me and focusing on the night’s work: swordplay. God help us.

  He had a limping Romeo, an impatient Mercutio, and a silly Tybalt all flexing foils and horsing around, slapping one another on the butt.

  “Hey, you guys. Knock it off. Those things aren’t toys and they cost money,” Penny yelled. “This is where the gang stuff starts,” she said to me. “Jets and Sharks.” Then turned her attention back to the cast. “Two minutes until end of break.”

  I watched Walter take the men through their paces, counting beats and choreographing steps until somebody invariably ended up on his backside. At which point, the whole process began all over again. I wanted to touch base with Chrystal, but she wasn’t due in for another hour and I was getting restless witnessing the men’s antics with swords, so I opened my computer.

  It wasn’t a stretch to believe that Jerome might have had an historical item of great value—I read recently about a baseball card collection worth over a million dollars. People found treasures in their attics and garages. But Jerome had neither, so I had no idea where he might have found his. I Googled rare letters and diaries and learned that they could fetch hundreds of thousands of dollars. But it was all theoretical without knowing what I was dealing with.

  Just for fun, I typed in William Thompson law enforcement and, no surprise, there were dozens of links. I restricted my search to Deputy Chief William Thompson + Philadelphia and there he was. The first link was a story from the Etonville Standard quoting Bill on Jerome’s murder. The second link was a reference to the anniversary of Bull Bennett’s death and mentioned Bill’s NFL career in Buffalo and Cleveland. The third link dated from a year ago, and there it was: a story about some scandal in the police department in Philadelphia. This might have been why he took the job in Etonville.

  “Hello, Dodie. Having fun?”

  I blushed and snapped the lid of my laptop shut as if I had been caught by the teacher viewing unsavory websites. “Hi, Elliot. Just keeping an eye on things. You’re not due in tonight,” I said.

  “Just keeping an eye on things, too.” He smiled and jerked his head in the direction of the stage. “I don’t know who’s getting the worst deal. Walter or the actors.”

  I stifled a grin. “Maybe the swords?”

  We both cackled, and Penny shot us a stern look, her finger plastered vertically on her lips.

  I lowered my voice and made a quick decision. “Elliot, did Jerome ever mention a valuable document in his possession?” I fervently hoped I would not regret opening this can of worms, but someone had to know something and Elliot was Jerome’s friend.

  Elliot frowned and shook his head. “What kind of document?” “Maybe something historical?”

  “Not that I recall. Why?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just something that has come up,” I said.

  “Oh.” Elliot waited.

  “I thought that since you were friends, he might have said something about it.”

  Elliot shrugged. “I’m sorry, but if he had a document like that it’s news to me.” He hesitated. “Sometimes Jerome could be . . . reticent about his personal life.”

  “I’m beginning to see that,” I agreed.

  By the final hour of rehearsal, Mercutio, Tybalt, and Romeo had nearly poked each other’s eyes out brandishing the swords as Walter tried to choreograph the big fight scene. When Tybalt whirled right instead of left and whacked Walter on the rear end with the flat edge of his sword, Walter decided to call it a night even though it was only ten o’clock. I’d already buttonholed Chrystal about the dress rehearsal schedule and had listened to her lament on the budget. She’d managed to find a compromise on the principles’ costumes and had agreed to settle for cheaper, and slightly less authentic, undergarments. Who would know anyway?

  It had been a long day and I was exhausted. Even my skin was tired. I offered to drop Lola off at home since her Lexus was in the shop again—I thanked the stars for my sturdy Metro—and things seemed to be cooling a tad with Walter. Lola stopped to speak to Elliot, and, as she turned to go, he gave her a brief hug. Hmmm . . .

  Chapter 17

  Lola slammed my car door shut. “Could we drive to Belvidere on the way to my house? I have a book I’d like to put in the overnight library drop. It’s due tomorrow.”

  Since budget cutbacks had started last year, the library now closed at eight on weeknights.

  “Sure. But do they really check that kind of stuff?”

  “I had a five-dollar fine last year.”

  I remembered Jerome’s overdue copy of Sherlock Holmes. I wondered if Mrs. Everly had bothered to return it.

  We rode down Amber a few blocks, and I turned right onto Belvidere. The street, like most of the others in Etonville at this time of the night, was dark, lit only by a handful of streetlights and a haze of ambient light from the moon.

  I drove past the entrance to the Etonville Public Library, where the windows were transparent in the dark, and coasted through the parking lot to the far corner of the building, where the book depository was located. Security lights illuminated this side of the lot, where an asphalt paver and a backhoe had spent the day blacktopping.

  Lola grabbed the door handle. “I’ll just be a second.” She hopped from the car and stepped ten feet to the library wall.

  Idly tapping the steering wheel as I waited, I glanced out the car window, past where Lola was standing, and detected a sliver of light that leaked out from a lower-level window. Odd, I thought, when everything else was dark. Then the light disappeared. Maybe it was my imagination.

  “Done. I can check that off my list,” Lola said as she slid onto the seat.

  “Did you see that light?”

  “What light?”

  I pointed into the inky night. “There. Just beyond where you were standing.”

  Lola stared through the windshield. “I didn’t see anything.”

  I
put the car in drive, turned the corner of the building, and slowly proceeded to follow the wall of the library. We passed a bank of lower-level windows, all of them dark. “I could have sworn I saw a light.”

  “The library’s been closed for hours. Who would be working there this late?”

  I reached the end of the north wall and was about to turn left when I saw a broken window.

  “Look. The glass is shattered,” I said.

  “Probably some kid with a rock.”

  I jammed the car into park and peered into the first floor. I debated getting out and investigating. All that was left of the window was a series of jagged splinters outlining the metal frame. I flicked on my cell phone flashlight. The circulation desk was visible. I knew the layout: to the right of the desk was a conference room, to the left, a reading room. Behind it a hallway with smaller meeting rooms and the computer area where I talked with Mildred. All was quiet.

  “Maybe somebody broke in,” I said and clicked off my flashlight.

  “Another robbery?” Lola asked.

  I turned off the engine. “I’ll call Bill.” But before I could access recent calls a door creaked open, then shut at the back of the building.

  “What was that?” Lola whispered.

  “Shh.”

  There was a moment of silence; then a figure emerged from the shadows along the library wall. We bent down to avoid detection. My heart stopped in my mouth and Lola closed her eyes. All was still for a moment. Then the soft tread of shoes hitting pavement reached our ears.

  “Maybe I should follow him.” I started to move, but Lola grabbed the back of my jacket. “Dodie, no! Wait for the police.”

  From down the block, a car engine hummed to life.

  I called Bill’s cell number.

  “Chief Thompson,” a voice said wearily.

  “Bill? It’s Dodie. Lola and I are at the library, and there’s been a break-in—”

  His voice grew alert. “Where are you exactly?”

  “In the car.”

  “Stay put. I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  Bill arrived first, in his personal automobile—a late-model BMW, who knew?—and walked over to my Metro. “Are you two okay?”