I felt the urge to slip out of my Jimmy Choo knock-offs.
“So how is everything in Romeo and Juliet land?” he asked, his lip curve in action.
“Well, let’s see. Walter is in a frenzy because the ELT can’t afford a full-blown second-story balcony, and when he tried to substitute a ten-foot ladder, Romeo threw a hissy fit because he’s angoraphobic—”
“Don’t you mean—?”
“Acrophobic. Sorry. It’s a Penny-ism. If Walter’s in turmoil, so is Lola, and Penny just stands around with her clipboard. Oh, and the Nurse quit because her granddaughter had a baby so Edna is stepping in.”
“Yeah, she informed me,” he said. “The department won’t be the same until this show is over.” He speared a piece of radicchio in his green salad.
“At least she’s sane and happy. She and Elliot and a few others. It’s the grumblers who are driving Walter crazy.” I poured buttermilk dressing on my own leafy greens.
The waiter arrived with our entrees—Bill went with a traditional eggplant parmigiana and I chose sautéed scallops with a butternut squash caponata. They melted in my mouth; Henry would die to have this on our menu. I wondered who supplied their seafood.
“There’s something in here that’s just . . . wonderful,” I said.
“I’ll bet it’s the rosemary, raisins, caper combination. Mixture of the sweet and tart,” Bill said.
“I’m impressed.”
“I’ve had it here before,” he said.
“You’re a loyal customer?”
“Hey, a guy can eat in two restaurants, you know?” His eyes crinkled as he dunked a bit of Italian bread in herb-infused olive oil. “So. How did you get from business management to the Windjammer?”
“By way of a lovely beach restaurant whose owner was a laid-back old surfer bum. We specialized in ocean breezes and barefoot dining. It was rated a top pick on the Jersey Shore.”
“Sounds like a great job.”
“The days and nights were grueling during the summer season, but the patrons were fun and you couldn’t beat the location.”
“How long were you there?” he asked.
“The shore? All my life. Bigelow’s . . . five years.”
“Until . . . ?”
“A fifteen-foot elm landed on the roof of my house. Hurricane Sandy,” I said.
“Sorry to hear that. No family?” he asked.
“My parents live in Florida and my younger brother Andy’s in California. I miss them.”
“I know what you mean.” Bill smiled regretfully.
I wondered who he was missing.
“You traded fundamentals of accounting . . .”
“And finance and blah blah blah for a career managing restaurants from burger joints to seafood shops to Bigelow’s. After my internship at a restaurant in Philadelphia. Of course I’d spent my summers waitressing down the shore so I was already food-friendly.”
“And now Etonville,” he said.
“It beats being a desk jockey with my nose to a computer screen surrounded by Excel spreadsheets.”
Bill frowned. “That sounds like my job some days.”
“But not every day, right? I mean, look, it’s exciting about Mary Robinson, yes?”
“Well . . .”
“Now that it’s confirmed she and Jerome were friends, or at least acquaintances, it makes sense they might have had a meeting planned for four-sixteen.”
“Confirmed? Makes sense?” Bill set his fork down and took a sip of his wine.
“There’s the sheet of paper and the envelope I found in the box office, both with the initials MR. It appears as if Jerome had a get-together of some kind on the calendar for the day after he died.”
“So you think they were involved.”
“He bought a diamond ring and a gold bracelet. I’d say that’s pretty serious.” The wine was going to my head. It made me courageous. “Did you find anything interesting in Jerome’s checking account?”
The vino must have had the same effect on Bill because he answered without a beat. “Nothing much in his checking account, a couple thousand in savings.”
“Oh.”
“But his credit card was another matter. He’d racked up about three thousand in bills over the last two months. A pattern that was significantly different than the previous twelve months.”
I let loose a low whistle. “So something was going on. What else was he buying?”
“Women’s accessories. Jewelry. Sadlers and elsewhere.”
“Aha!” I said.
“We can’t jump to conclusions,” he warned me. “But . . . it does look as though something in his life changed.”
“You heard Mildred. Jerome spent time in the special collections. I think he was interested in more than the books.”
Bill shrugged. “Possibly.”
“Jerome read popular mysteries and thrillers. We liked the same authors. Not the kind of books you find in the special collections.”
“Even if it were true, what’s the connection with the murder?”
“That’s what I haven’t figured out yet,” I said, breaking off a piece of crusty Italian bread. “I did find out that Mary’s nephew lived in Poughkeepsie.”
Bill opened his mouth, then closed it. “How did you—?”
“Snippets.” I grinned. “Don’t underestimate the power of the hair salon. Gossip central.”
“Well, I’ll be. . . .”
“I’ve been searching for Robinsons in the Poughkeepsie area. Nothing yet, but—”
He shook his head and laughed. “Great work, but keep me—”
“Posted. I know.”
We chewed over the rest of the case along with the last of our meals. I hated to see my scallops disappear.
“By the way, the lab guys identified some stuff on Jerome’s pants. It was a synthetic substance, a type of polymer.”
The synthetic latex I’d overheard Suki mention outside Bill’s office. “Really?”
“Yeah. An acrylic casting resin used to create rubber objects. Like tires. ”
“That sounds like a factory material. Maybe the resin had been on his pants for a while.”
Bill shook his head. “They said it was fresh. Hardened, but fresh. Recent.”
“All of this evidence is like having nothing but consonants in a Scrabble game,” I said.
“Meaning?”
“Each of the tiles is valuable, but—”
Bill cut me off. “Taken together, they don’t add up if there are no—”
“Vowels,” I finished.
Bill insisted on ordering dessert: tiramisu for him and peach gelato for me. We emptied our coffee cups in companionable silence; I was feeling really relaxed, stuffed, but definitely wound down. Before I could think too much about the advisability of potentially ruining a lovely evening, I decided to tiptoe into deeper waters. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something all night.”
His body shifted slowly from tranquil to tense, shoulders hunching forward, hands interlaced in front of his jaw to form an inverted V. After all, I could be introducing any one of a number of matters: personal, theatrical, criminal.
“And what’s that?” he asked.
Suddenly I wasn’t as confident of the reception I might receive when Bill knew about Jerome’s email. But it was too late. The wine had loosened my tongue, and my body felt rubbery and vulnerable.
“Remember when I said it would be a good idea to see who Jerome might be communicating with because if it was an MR, or somebody else, then maybe we could find out what led to his murder?”
“Go on.”
“So I got Jerome’s email address from his audition sheet—”
“The audition sheets. Yes. Penny delivered them to me.”
“Right, well, I was able to get into his account and discovered something interesting. It looks like—”
The waiter set the bill on the table discreetly and we both fell silent. Bill inserted a credit card into the pocket of th
e folder, barely glancing at the total, and handed it back to the young man. He lowered his voice.
“How did you get access to his email?”
“I had the address and then got the password—”
The waiter returned the sales slip and credit card, and Bill scratched out a tip and total. “You mean you hacked his private account?”
“I guess you could say that. After all, he’s not around to complain about his privacy.”
“That’s not the point.”
“But isn’t it more important to know what I found? Jerome was corresponding with a company called Forensic Document Services. They deal in rare documents. It’s got to have something to do with—”
“Hacking into someone’s email is a serious offense.”
“I know. But it won’t interfere with the investigation. It’s just a lead.”
Bill scoffed. “You have absolutely no respect for my office, do you?”
“I have respect for you. But I don’t get it. You’re not curious about what I found?”
“I can’t use evidence obtained illegally, Dodie,” he said firmly.
“It’s not evidence. It’s just some information. Do you want to solve Jerome’s murder or don’t you? Simple as that.”
“Nothing’s simple where you’re concerned,” he said.
We sat in a tense silence for a moment.
“Look, I’m sorry.” He rubbed his hand across the top of his head, placing the spikes of his brush cut at various angles to his scalp. “But it’s frustrating. Trying to play by the book when someone is thwarting your every move.”
“I’m thwarting your every move?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said.
“I’m just trying to help solve a murder.” I could feel my mouth clamped shut, tight across my face.
“And I get that, but there is protocol that needs to be followed.” His voice softened. “I’ve been through this before. I left a department that was full of corruption and had never heard the words ‘by the book.’ I don’t want any part of that.”
So what I’d surmised from the Internet article was right. A scandal in Philadelphia law enforcement had sent Bill running straight to Etonville.
“I understand protocol. But I want to find out who murdered Jerome.” I took a pen and a scrap of paper out of my purse, and wrote, Forensic Document Services. fdsnj@gmail. “Jerome was corresponding with a Marshall Wendover.” I pushed it across the table. Bill pushed it back.
He stood up peremptorily. “Let’s go.”
The mood had changed drastically, and I was mentally kicking myself for launching into Jerome’s email.
He walked me to my Metro, which was parked next to his BMW, his mouth a straight line with no hint of the playful curve. I got in the car, started the engine, then opened the window. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Be careful, Dodie. You’re on thin ice.”
I put the Metro in gear and pulled out of the lot.
Geez, I thought, that didn’t end well. The evening was a shambles. Now, Bill felt he couldn’t trust me. There was nothing to do but limp home, lick my wounds, and climb into bed with a good book.
I drove the half mile back into Etonville center. When the light at the corner of Islip and Gates turned yellow, I stepped on the gas, calculating how long it would take me to make it through the intersection. I sped through and the light turned red. I glanced in the rearview mirror. I was surprised to see that the vehicle behind me had sped through the light, too. When Islip dead-ended at Anderson Road, I paused at the stop sign and slowly turned left. It was the black SUV. I sat up straighter in my seat and began to pay attention.
My chest thumped. I could see the intersection of Anderson and Main up ahead where the light changed from red to green. I knew I’d be safe if I could beat the SUV through the light and speed down Main to the Etonville Police Department on Amber.
I checked my rearview mirror again. Only the two of us on the street at this hour. I stepped on the gas, and my Metro jerked forward obediently as if it knew I needed help; the SUV kept pace. I tapped on the brakes, slowing down a bit, and the black hulk followed suit. I leaned into the steering wheel, tightening my grasp on the rim, and took deep breaths. My heart and stomach were a trampoline act.
I ignored the traffic light. I pressed the gas pedal and began to turn the wheel hard to the left so I could tear down Main. The angry growl of the SUV’s engine erupted into the night. It swerved around me, barely missing my front bumper. We were like two graceful athletes, two vehicles making a synchronized turn in tandem. I was on the right, avoiding parked cars and negotiating the correct side of the white line in the middle of the road. The SUV was on the left—in the lane of oncoming traffic. We straddled the center line for two blocks. I had no choice but to keep going, fast. We passed the Windjammer and the theater, and I could see the dimmed lights of Coffee Heaven ahead.
The SUV roared again. It shot past me and veered abruptly into my lane, directly in my path. I jammed on the brakes, and I could feel the car going into a skid that brought me a few feet from the passenger door of the SUV. This is it, I thought. It would all end here. I held my breath, half expecting an armed assailant to emerge and make short work of me. The silence lasted seconds but seemed like hours.
Out of nowhere a pickup truck—minus a muffler—rattled down Main behind me. By the time it was within ten yards, the SUV had backed up, then swung around in a wide arc and headed the other way down Main Street. The truck passed me, oblivious.
I forced myself to breathe through my mouth until the blood moved back into my clenched hands. I was shaking and my mind raced. Images, thoughts, what-ifs tumbled helter-skelter, bouncing off each other. What if my Metro had not stopped in time? What if the driver in the other vehicle had jumped out and taken a baseball bat to my windshield? What if he/she had a gun? What if the pickup had not appeared when it had?
I wound down the window and stuck my head out into the night. The temperature had dropped, and an evening breeze blew wisps of damp hair off my neck. This time, the stillness was peaceful, nonthreatening.
I leaned back into the headrest, realizing I had been too rattled to get a license number, again. But I also grasped another fact: someone wanted to scare me off the investigation. And they were doing a damn good job, too. I started the engine and drove slowly back home. I could not go to Bill about the SUV again without a license plate number.
I parked on Ames Street near a streetlight instead of in my dark driveway. I checked the neighborhood before I alighted and hurried up the sidewalk to the front door. I tested all door and window locks—dead bolts and chains—and drew the curtains. I lay down on top of the bed just to rest my eyes. In two minutes, I was fast asleep.
Chapter 19
I’d come in early to the Windjammer to work last night out of my system. If I focused firmly on taking inventory and ordering supplies, I might be able to ignore my regret over the spoiled dinner and my terror at being stalked by the SUV.
A half hour after I arrived, Henry trudged in, glanced at me silently, and tied an apron around his middle. I noticed he’d been adding a few extra pounds these last months. Was he eating out of frustration?
“What?” I said.
“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” he asked glumly.
Uh-oh. I decided to bite the bullet. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.” Which was only partly true.
Henry grumbled and started to unload vegetables from the refrigerator.
“Look, Henry, La Famiglia is just another restaurant. Okay, so they have a . . . different kind of menu. But the Windjammer has its own special character.”
Henry wasn’t buying it. “Their food was better?”
I could still taste last night’s caponata. Henry’s specials were tasty and sometimes a trifle experimental, but for pure culinary sophistication, one couldn’t beat La Famiglia. And that was bad news for the Windjammer.
“Of course not. This is silly.” I remem
bered Bill’s defense. “People can dine in two restaurants. You have regulars who I’ll bet have never eaten at La Famiglia.”
“What did you have?”
“Uh, just . . . a scallop dish. With squash.”
Henry stopped slicing eggplant and looked up with interest. “Scallops and squash?”
“Butternut squash.” I said carefully, and filled in a requisition. “I’ve got shrimp on the order. Didn’t you talk about some Asian fusion dish ... ?”
“With spicy fruit salsa.”
“Let’s put it on the menu for the weekend.”
He nodded, not completely over my treason, but at least he had a battle plan that included a new experiment with seafood.
Gillian had the dining room under control so I planted myself by the cash register to handle take-out orders. At noon, Edna bounded in, a frown replacing her usual cheerful demeanor.
“Hi, Edna, let me get your order.”
“Dodie, I wish you had stayed for the entire rehearsal last night,” she said without preamble.
“How did it go?” I said.
“Okay for the first hour. But then all hell broke loose.”
I stopped in my tracks. “What?”
“Walter kept stopping the run through and giving notes which frustrated just about everyone, especially Lola, and Elliot just up and confronted Walter.”
“Polite Elliot?” After Jerome, he seemed the next most gracious member of the ELT.
“Yep. The two of them got into it.” She gave me the eyeball.
“What about?”
“Elliot said Walter left something to be desired as a director of Shakespeare—”
“Oh no.”
“And then Walter said Elliot only came back because he had no place else to go and was a bust in Pittsburgh and if it hadn’t been for Jerome, Elliot would never have been a member of the ELT.”
“What does that mean?”
Edna dropped her voice. “Walter never liked Elliot. I think he was a little, you know ...”
“Competitive?”
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