“Uh-huh. And word was, Jerome persuaded Walter to cast Elliot time after time.”
“Jerome persuaded ... ?” I thought it would have been Lola who had pushed to have Walter include Elliot.
“And then people wanted Elliot to direct and Walter got his ego bent out of shape and then suddenly Elliot up and left,” she whispered. “He says he had a business opportunity two years ago, but I think it was Walter who drove him away.”
“Wow. I’m surprised he agreed to do Romeo and Juliet after all that.”
“Well, I guess it was a tribute to Jerome,” she said.
“I suppose.”
I’d have to call Lola and get more details. I could only guess what would happen tonight. I rang up Edna’s order and made change; she said good-bye and left.
Benny dunked glasses in soapy water. “I heard Henry’s beside himself.”
“Someone must have seen me in La Famiglia last night with Chief Thompson,” I said.
“No private life in this town.” Benny gestured for me to come closer. “How was it? The food, I mean.”
“I had sautéed scallops with butternut squash caponata.” I closed my eyes. “It was to die for.”
“Awesome.” Benny sighed. “The specialty here was pot roast. Good pot roast but still . . .”
“I know what you mean.” My cell phone rang and I hit ANSWER.
“Dodie?”
“Hi, Lola.”
“Did you hear?” she asked.
“From Edna, yeah. Whatever possessed the two of them to slug it out in the middle of rehearsal?”
“I don’t know. Walter was over the top with notes this early on. Romeo said he was treating the cast like puppets and everybody was getting frustrated.”
“But Elliot? He seems so easygoing. Above the fray.”
“I thought so, too. I guess Walter just pushed one too many buttons with him.” She paused. “To tell you the truth, Elliot only said what others were thinking. But Walter is under a ton of stress and calling out the director of a show like that, well, it’s just not done. Not at the ELT. Not anywhere.”
“Then Walter fired back, right?”
“Oh, I think he really hurt Elliot’s feelings. You should have seen his face. Like all of the air went out of a balloon.”
“So where does that leave the show?” I had images of Walter and Elliot dueling it out with the R and J swords.
“Walter cancelled rehearsal for tonight but we’re supposed to start staging Act III tomorrow.”
“I’ll drop in.”
* * *
At three, I was ready for my break and some heavy thinking. I opted for fresh air instead of Henry’s homemade soup. I took my jacket off the hook by the door and walked briskly down the street. After fifteen minutes, I passed Betty’s Boutique, Coffee Heaven—avoiding the temptation to settle into a booth with a caramel macchiato—and the Unitarian church. I went another couple of blocks before I stopped to lean on a picket fence that outlined the property of one of Etonville’s quaint, eighteenth-century houses. Early spring rituals were under way as landscapers cut grass and trimmed bushes despite the rumble of thunder off somewhere north of Etonville. Normally, the pungent smell of fresh-cut grass made me feel happy. Summer was definitely on its way. But today I was distracted and needed to focus my mind.
I sat down on the curb. Bill was right. He was the police chief; I had no business one-upping him as he tried to do his job. But I felt I owed something to Jerome, regardless of how illogical that seemed. One thing was clear: I could not call his office until I had something tangible to bring to him. Like information on Forensic Document Services. It was a cinch Bill would not pursue this angle if he thought information was obtained illegally. But I had so such qualms.
* * *
I turned out the lights and locked up. The Windjammer had been fairly empty the last couple of hours; a few ELT regulars showed up, tight-lipped and weary-looking. At home, I changed into comfortable sweats and fuzzy slippers, poured myself a glass of chardonnay, and hunkered down with my laptop. There had to be a way to locate Forensic Document Services. I began with the assumption that it was a New Jersey business, and if it had a New Jersey business license it had to be registered with the State Department of the Treasury.
I scanned state websites for information on registering a corporation.
After twenty minutes, I found the “New Jersey corporation and business entity database.” I could do a name search! I followed the steps outlined and entered Forensic Document Services on the line indicated. Seconds later I had my answer: a business registered in that name had a filing date of September 2010 and a location in Piscataway, New Jersey. I stared at the screen. I couldn’t believe it. I called information and received a phone number. Tomorrow, I planned on calling it and requesting a meeting with Marshall Wendover.
I felt giddy. The little hairs danced and my heart pounded. Needless to say, I was awake for hours.
* * *
Just when I thought things had calmed down with Henry, I had to hold his hand, figuratively, in the kitchen. He was peeved at a review for La Famiglia in the Etonville Standard. The food and service had received four stars, and the chef’s specialties—roasted red bell pepper pasta and, my favorite, scallops with butternut squash caponata—were described as “superb.” I had to agree.
To make matters worse, La Famiglia had taken out a half-page ad touting its stars and quoting the review. Last year, the Windjammer earned three stars. The rivalry was taking a toll on Henry’s mood.
“I don’t care what ratings La Famiglia earned, no one can beat your homemade soups,” I said encouragingly.
“I never get four stars,” he griped.
“It’s the Etonville Standard, for Pete’s sake. Who cares what they think?” I didn’t have to wait for an answer. Henry cared. “Look, let’s get that Asian fusion dish on the menu, and what about the gourmet stew you were thinking about?”
Henry shrugged. “Maybe I need to throw out the entire menu and start over,” he said dramatically.
Geez.
I still had half an hour until the lunch crowd would appear. I slipped outside and sat in my Metro to get a little privacy as I tapped out the number for Forensic Document Services. The phone rang five times before a gravelly voice spoke.
“Hello?”
“Is this Forensic Document Services?” I asked.
“Who’s calling?”
“Mr. Wendover . . . ?”
“That’s me.”
“My name is Dodie O’Dell, and I’m calling because my uncle, Jerome Angleton, passed away recently and I’m trying to tie up some of his . . . business affairs.” I waited for some response.
“Okay,” he said.
“I understand he was in touch with you about a document that he wanted authenticated?”
“I’d, uh, have to check my records,” he said.
“Would I be able to meet with you? I have a few questions—” I said.
Another phone rang in the background. “I’m not sure what I could tell you,” he said reluctantly.
“I’d appreciate just a few minutes of your time,” I said as vulnerably as I could.
“Well, I got a busy schedule. . . .”
“How is the day after tomorrow? In the morning?”
If he refused to see me, what was plan B?
“Okay. Eleven.”
Marshall Wendover gave me his address and made it clear that he could squeeze me in for only a few minutes.
Back in the Windjammer, I confirmed the week’s menus, checked the meat locker, took an accounting of fresh vegetables, and inventoried the bar. Lunch was well under way so I retreated to my back booth and studied the spreadsheet with staff schedules while I scooped up a spoonful of Henry’s crab bisque.
“What do you recommend?”
I looked up into Elliot’s tanned, handsome face. “Sloppy Joes with parmesan-cheese chips are the special. I hear they’re going fast. And of course the crab bisqu
e,” I said, smiling.
“May I join you?” he asked, glancing at the array of paper in front of me.
“Sure.” I folded the printout and set it aside.
“I hope I’m not interrupting important work.”
“Staff schedules. I spend my life arranging other people’s time. Here, next door . . .”
“Ah yes. Well, the theater needs your organizational skills.”
I cocked my head as though weighing my judgment of his appearance. “You don’t look half bad for someone who barely escaped a fistfight.”
Elliot’s sense of humor was still intact. “I could have taken Walter in two rounds.”
“Lola said what you did just ‘isn’t done.’ Criticizing the director in front of the cast,” I said.
Elliot shrugged. “Someone needed to say it.”
“What’s going to happen now? The show must go on, right?”
“We’ll all traipse in tonight, pick up our scripts, hit our marks, and pretend the other night never happened.”
Gillian came over and took Elliot’s order. He settled on the bisque.
“How is the murder investigation proceeding? I hear the town gossip at rehearsal, and it sounds like you’ve been busy.”
“You know the rumor mill.”
“Yes, but the burglary at the library was real.”
Gillian brought Elliot’s lunch and a table setting wrapped in a black cloth napkin. “Here you go. Enjoy.”
I thought about Mary Robinson and Forensic Document Services. “I think there should be a break in the case soon,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.
“Really?” Elliot paused, his soup spoon half way to his mouth.
“There are some leads.”
“Oh? So the chief is on top of things?” Elliot continued to eat.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, that is good news,” Elliot said. “You asked about Jerome’s love life the other day . . . ?” He smiled mischievously.
“Did you remember something?”
“It’s not much, but I think that Jerome might have been seeing someone.”
“How do you know? Did he mention anyone?”
“Not directly. You know Jerome . . . little cagey about himself. But he referred to a ‘friend’ the last time we spoke. I got the feeling he wasn’t talking about a guy he shared a beer with. If you know what I mean.” He laughed.
I certainly did. “When was this?”
Elliot put his soup spoon on the dish and thought. “Possibly February.”
“Just a couple of months ago.” I paused. “Maybe I’m mistaken, but I thought you said you hadn’t spoken with Jerome in quite a while.”
“Did I? I don’t remember that.” He smiled again and finished his lunch.
Was there anything else Elliot had neglected to mention about Jerome?
* * *
I finished the restaurant schedules and looked over tonight’s rehearsal plan. My cell clanged.
“Hi, Carol,” I said.
“Dodie, Pauli just texted me. He said he would be a few minutes late.”
“No problem. I’ll be here. Can you ask him to bring his camera?” I wanted to add a picture from the herb garden out back. Henry had an extensive array of herb pots—rosemary, basil, thyme, chives, parsley, cilantro—on a patch of ground behind the restaurant. It had a kind of English garden, idyllic vibe and would give the Windjammer a country feel.
“Of course.”
“Will you be at rehearsal tonight? Lola mentioned something about hair and wigs,” I said.
“I have to work ’til seven but I could stop by afterward and pick up Pauli, too,” Carol said.
“Great. I’ll feed him dinner.”
* * *
It was four o’clock by the time Pauli got out of school and picked up his digital camera. “Do you want to see your website,” Pauli asked eagerly, sucking back a Coke and barbecue potato chips.
“Sure. But let me get Henry.” Henry could use a pick-me-up, and the website might be just the medicine he needed.
We stood over his shoulder as Pauli unveiled the site like it was a gourmet meal. He was busting his buttons with delight. And he had every right. The Windjammer had never looked so good! The dining room appeared welcoming, the menus mouthwatering, and the pictures from the street made the place look almost stylish. Eat your heart out, La Famiglia, I thought. “This is wonderful, Pauli. Right Henry?”
“Yeah.” Henry looked pleased and scanned the pages as Pauli pointed out a few required bits of editing here and there.
Pauli’s eyes glittered. “We really crushed it.”
He’d done a beautiful job with the website, and the Windjammer came off looking appetizing and classy.
“Let me know what I owe you, Pauli,” Henry said, patting the kid on the back before he headed off to the kitchen.
* * *
Pauli and I stood on the back stoop of the Windjammer. Next door was the ELT. Its loading dock was still framed in yellow crime scene tape. On either side of the dock was an extra-large garbage can with the debris of the scene shop: pieces of lumber, some old plaster board, paint buckets. Midway between the two cans were the faded remains of the white chalk outline where Jerome’s body had lain.
I averted my eyes and forced myself to study the patch of ground that Henry used as his garden. The entire area was about six square yards, with a brick walkway surrounding a plot of land now overgrown with an assortment of weeds. The perimeter was outlined with a wire fence to discourage grazing critters. Henry had only recently moved his herb pots from the kitchen to outdoors; it would be a few weeks before he planted the herbs in the ground.
“Looks like Henry needs to do some work here,” I said and pulled a tall stalk of common pigweed that was threatening to take over. In the corners of the yard, dandelions poked their heads through cracks in the brick pathway. Altogether, the herb garden was not the most photogenic site.
Pauli gazed through the viewfinder as he meandered around the yard and checked out angles.
“Do you see any possibilities here?” I asked doubtfully.
“Uh-huh.” Pauli snapped photos, standing, lying down, facing the restaurant, and facing the alley behind the restaurant that served as a back entrance to a row of houses and businesses.
I walked around, trying to find different points of view. Following Pauli’s lead, I sat on the ground looking up at a forty-five degree angle through the spiny stems of the rosemary plants. “Pauli, come look here. Maybe you can sharpen the rosemary in the foreground, and blur the back wall of the theater.”
Pauli duly marched over and plopped himself down beside me. He clicked off picture after picture, then scooted on his butt a few feet right and left to capture the lacy sprigs of the parsley and the rich green plumpness of the basil leaves.
“Awesome,” he said.
I leaned back on my arms and closed my eyes while he worked and absorbed the warmth of the late afternoon sun. My mind wandered to this morning’s phone call with Marshall Wendover. What did he know that he wasn’t saying?
“Uh, Dodie?”
I squinted. “Yeah?”
“I think I have enough.”
I brushed off my hands and shifted my weight forward to stand up. I looked up and over the garden to the ELT as I got to my feet. “I didn’t notice that before,” I said.
“What?” Pauli was busy scrutinizing his handiwork.
“That window,” I said.
Pauli glanced up. “It’s broken,” he said.
A second-floor window at the back of the theater had been punched out. All that remained was the serrated outline of a large hole. Reminded me of the library.
“I’ll bet no one even knows about it. We’ve had some heavy rains lately. I hope nothing important got wet,” I said.
Pauli nodded to be polite and tucked his camera into its case.
“Thanks for your work on the website, Pauli.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
/>
“And thanks for your work on that other . . . project.”
Pauli grinned. “Piece of cake.”
Chapter 20
The atmosphere in the theater was much as Elliot had predicted: businesslike and professional, with one additional element. Uneasiness had permeated the rehearsal, and I could sense folks waiting for the other shoe to fall. Elliot was his charming, jovial self, Lola’s smile flickered like a flashlight with a failing battery, and Walter was grim-faced. Nevertheless, the show had to go on.
Pauli, sprawled in the last row of the house with his laptop, edited the Windjammer web page while I doodled thoughts on theme food. When Lola took a break, I intended to ask her about the rooms upstairs and check out the broken window.
“Hi, Dodie,” Carol said, panting as she sank into a seat beside me.
“Long day?”
“I had four perms, five colors, and seven cuts. I was there by myself for four hours. Two of my girls are still out sick. I think something is going around,” she said as Pauli sneezed.
She raised her voice. “Pauli!”
He removed his iPod earbuds.
“Take the echinacea when you get home.”
He grunted an assent.
Walter called the cast to the stage, delivered some general notes about professionalism and learning lines, and continued to stage Act III, pushing actors around the set and having them mimic his line readings. Romeo was right about one thing. Walter was making the cast look like puppets.
Lola crept up the aisle and whispered, “Let’s go to the dressing room. I have the makeup sheets and hair notes there.”
Carol pulled herself upright. “Pauli, stay here. We’ll go home in a few minutes.”
He nodded.
We followed Lola down the aisle and onto the far right side of the stage, trying to create as little disturbance as possible. We needn’t have worried. Walter was lying on the floor prostrate with grief as he demonstrated Juliet receiving the news that Romeo had killed Tybalt. The Nurse—the bearer of the bad tidings—wrung her hands and wailed. Edna was having a ball overacting and Lola grimaced. “Oh, brother.”
Carol opened a door at the back of the stage that led to a green room and two decent-sized dressing rooms, one for men and one for women. Lola unlocked the women’s and flicked on the lights, a series of bulbs outlining mirrors mounted above a counter that could accommodate half a dozen actors. Across the room was a corresponding set-up.
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