Show Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  I craved the anonymity I’d enjoyed down the shore. Too many people and too much happening there for anyone to care what I did with my time. Of course, I hadn’t been smack in the middle of a murder investigation. After my appointment this morning, I had to make a decision. To tell Bill what I’d learned or not. My great aunt Maureen called indecision the graveyard of good intentions. I didn’t want to end up with my name on a tombstone.

  Piscataway, New Jersey was a forty-five-minute ride from Etonville by way of the Garden State Parkway, U.S. 1, and 287 North. It was a large township by New Jersey standards, fifty thousand people and a mix of ethnicities, with a full range of suburban neighborhoods, corporate parks, strip mall businesses, and light industry. I’d had a couple of occasions to visit Piscataway when I was in college and dating a guy from Rutgers University whose family lived there. I spent an agonizing Thanksgiving around a formal dining room table listening to conservative political ranting. We split up by Christmas.

  Even with traffic on Route 1 and 287, I arrived on time at ten-fifty-five. Forensic Document Services was located on a busy street a mile outside downtown Piscataway. Set back a hundred feet from the road, the office was a single-story, yellow-sided building, modest in appearance, with a row of parking spaces adjacent to the front entrance. I pulled into an empty space and shut down the engine.

  I entered a reception area—really just a row of red molded plastic chairs and a matching coffee table covered with People, Time, and Car Mechanics. There was a reception desk, but it was unoccupied.

  I wasn’t sure what I had expected, maybe something a little more refined, academic, or artsy. After all, the business was probably dealing with historical documents, books, and other printed materials. From the look of things, this could be the generic DIY office of an accountant, credit counselor, or small-time lawyer. Maybe even a private investigator. I could hear a voice rising and falling from somewhere further inside the building.

  “Hello. Anybody here?” I called out.

  There was a scuffling from a hallway behind the desk. A bald, overweight guy in the middle of a cell phone call rolled himself out of a room in an office chair and waved for me to come on back. I followed the man in the chair to an office on the left.

  “Jay, Marshall here. Woody had a stroke last night. Yeah. Too bad. Right. Anyway, you need to send Harry to Plainfield to cover for him, and tell Marge to get out of Edison and go to New Brunswick. When she gets there, she can send Al to Jersey City. What?” He glanced at me and waved to two chairs, one of which was buried in files and papers. I sat down on the other one.

  I saw a series of business cards slotted in a holder on his desk: besides Forensic Document Services, there was ABC Trucking and Sam’s Auto Body Repair.

  “Listen to me,” he yelled into his cell. “We can’t afford to wait and see if Woody survives this. I mean, we all want him to, of course, but meantime, chop chop. Get on the horn and get this stuff in motion.” Marshall clicked off. “Sorry. Busy morning. Can I get you something?” He stuck his head out the door. “Angela?”

  “She’s not here yet,” I said.

  “Hard to get good help. Even if it is your sister-in-law.” He giggled in the high-pitched titter of a young girl. “So?”

  “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m Dodie O’Dell. My uncle was Jerome Angleton.” I waited to see any flicker of recognition. Nada. Marshall pursed his lips and crossed his arms on his ample chest. “Maybe you heard about his death? He was murdered in Etonville two weeks ago.”

  “Murdered? I don’t know nothing about any murder.”

  “Well, I’m following up on his business affairs . . . after his untimely passing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I noticed that he was in email communication with you about a document.”

  Marshall blinked. “What kind of document?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “There were four emails from February 20 through April 12.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I reviewed the correspondence. It looks like he was interested in hiring your company to do an authentication.”

  “Maybe.” Marshall tilted his head, then stared up at the ceiling. Thinking. “I might remember the guy. Seemed to me he was asking about prices and how authentic our authentication service was, and how long it would take.”

  “There wasn’t any specific information about the process or the cost—”

  “Look, we never say too much in an email. I don’t trust the Internet and some of the stuff we work on is very valuable, if you know what I mean.” He giggled again.

  “You didn’t meet with him?” I asked.

  “Nope. Only contact was through email.”

  “So you never found out what the document was?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Never thought he was serious. Every once in a while we get a joker who cleans out an attic and thinks we’re Antiques Roadshow. Just wants free information.” He leaned in. “I’m not in the business of handing out freebies.”

  I nodded at the business cards. “You’re in a lot of businesses,” I said and smiled.

  Marshall studied me. “You could say that.”

  I looked around. “So is this where the authentication process happens? Testing paper and dating the ink?”

  Marshall barked a short laugh, this one from his gut. “Nah, that’s done in Woodland Park. My brother runs the lab.”

  “Interesting mix of companies. A document service and a car repair.”

  Marshall squinted at me. “And trucking. And a few others.” His cell rang and he examined the caller ID. “Anything else? I need to take this,” he said in a hurry.

  “Could I get the name and address of the lab? Maybe your brother’s contact information?”

  “Hang on, Jay.” Marshall grabbed a business card stamped with FORENSIC DOCUMENT SERVICES and scribbled a phone number on the back. “That’s Morty’s office number. But he won’t be able to tell you anything. Like I said, we never made personal contact with the guy.”

  I took the card. “Thanks.”

  He waved good-bye. As I moved down the hallway, I could hear Marshall shriek into the phone, “Jay, Jay, I don’t care what Woody’s wife wants. Business is business.”

  Charming guy, I thought as I exited the building. I wondered if he was on the level. If he was telling the truth about not meeting with Jerome. Or if his brother knew anything.

  I took my time driving back to Etonville. The temperature was rising so I wound down the window to let the gusts of warm air circulate through my Metro. I felt elated that I’d made an actual connection between Jerome and the document service but disappointed that I’d gotten so little information. Nothing, really, that I hadn’t known before. Other than the fact that Marshall’s brother was responsible for the actual authentication in another location.

  My stomach growled, reminding me that I had bypassed breakfast and almost missed the lunch hour. A stop at Coffee Heaven was in order. I left my Metro in a parking space and walked the half block to the corner of Amber and Main. I pushed on the glass door with the OPEN sign displayed prominently and was greeted by a wall of noise. The place was full—which meant that I would probably have to sit at the counter.

  Jocelyn looked up from pouring coffee for a customer and gave me a big grin. “Dodie!”

  Her voice was loud and it reverberated around the diner. Within seconds, the room went still as people twisted in their seats and looked to the door, where I stood like a deer in the headlights. Then, one by one, they started to applaud. One thing you had to say about Etonville: it was a grateful town.

  I nodded self-consciously, slipped onto a stool, and picked up a menu as the clapping died down.

  “Coffee’s on the house,” Jocelyn said. “You’re a regular hero, investigating that prop place and finding that liquor bottle.” She leaned in close. “Tell me, did Walter have anything to do with it? I always thought he had shifty eyes.”

  “I think the chief’s still investig
ating,” I said softly. “And I’ll take two eggs over easy.”

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  As I waited for my food I texted Lola to see how she was doing. I was feeling bad for Walter. I couldn’t imagine he’d had anything to do with Jerome’s murder, even if he was nipping at the box office till.

  Ten minutes later, Lola called my cell.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Coffee Heaven, having a late breakfast.”

  “Can you talk?”

  A large woman on my right was borrowing half of the stool next to me, in addition to her own, and the man on my left had tilted his upper body forty-five degrees so that his armpit was dangerously close to my whole wheat toast. “Let me call you back in a few.”

  “I’m calling an emergency meeting at the ELT,” she said dramatically. “Me, Elliot, Penny, you, I hope, and Walter, of course. Elliot said he could make it by four o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there. And calm down, okay?”

  “Oh, how did your meeting go? Did you find out anything about Jerome?” she asked.

  I switched my phone to the other ear and leaned down over my eggs. “Nothing much.”

  I clicked off as Jocelyn sidled up. “More coffee, hon?”

  I smiled my thanks. I thought about all the problems at the ELT. Then Jerome’s murder. In my mind, I was an official unofficial part of the investigation. Maybe something would develop from my meeting with Forensic Document Services. And then there was Bill. . . .

  I picked up my check—minus the cost of the coffee—and slipped a tip under my plate. I was headed for the cash register when my cell rang again. It was Bill.

  “Hi,” I said cautiously.

  “Dodie, can you stop by the station this afternoon?” He sounded weary.

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Not much.”

  “Sure. I’m leaving Coffee Heaven now.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  The Municipal Building was hopping. Two crime scene techs I recognized from last night passed me on the way to Edna’s dispatch window.

  “Dodie, you’re the toast of the town today,” Edna said as she answered a 911 call and held up her hand for me to wait.

  “Mrs. Parker, you’re going to have to get that husband of yours to find Missy. Did you check up in the tree? We’re just too busy today. We have more important things to do. Good luck.” She cut Mrs. Parker off. “Dodie, I’m worried about the play. If Walter is . . . incapacitated, who’s going to direct us?” she asked plaintively.

  “I don’t know, Edna,” I said honestly.

  “It’s my first real role. I’ve been tweeting my relatives from Pennsylvania about rehearsals.”

  “You’re on Twitter?”

  “I’d hate to have to uninvite them.”

  She looked sad and I felt sad for her. Closing down Romeo and Juliet would be a shame. “Let’s just see what happens, okay?”

  Edna nodded as her switchboard lit up again. “Go right in,” she said and went back to her calls.

  I knocked on Bill’s door, and when I heard “Enter,” I did.

  He was on his walkie-talkie. “Suki?” He waited. “Come in. This is base to squad one.” He waited some more.

  “Chief, Suki here.”

  “Did you find Ralph?”

  “Eating lunch.”

  “Get him on the road. They’re filling potholes over on Anderson and he’s on traffic duty.”

  “Copy that.”

  “He can take his lunch with him,” Bill said.

  “10-4.”

  I sat down then. “Have you seen the paper?”

  Bill nodded and exhaled heavily. “Sorry you were targeted. I don’t know where they get their information. I spoke with someone early this morning, but all I gave them were the absolute facts. No theories.”

  “If you’re not talking and neither is Suki . . .”

  Bill shook his head.

  “That leaves the crime scene unit—”

  “They’re on loan from the state police and don’t have a dog in this hunt.”

  “And Ralph?” I asked.

  Bill looked surprised, then stern, and finally resigned. “I’ll have a word with him.”

  “So what are the facts?”

  Bill leaned back in his chair. “Traces of blood on the floor and table in the prop room matched Jerome’s type, and the resin on his trousers was similar to what we found in there.”

  “So it gives us the location of the murder. Isn’t that good news?”

  “Yes, but finding that bottle of booze complicates matters. I spoke with Walter this morning.”

  “What did he tell you?” I asked, almost afraid to hear Bill continue.

  “Apparently shortly after Lola left the night Jerome died, Walter went into the lobby to turn out the lights and he heard a noise in the box office. When he knocked on the door, Jerome opened it.”

  “Jerome—? So he hadn’t left the theater?”

  “He was drinking from the bottle, somewhat inebriated and clearly agitated, according to Walter. When Walter questioned him about being in the box office at that hour, Jerome said he had a meeting in the theater and that Walter should mind his own business. That’s when things got testy.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh, yeah. Jerome confronted Walter about the missing money and threatened to go to the board. Walter came clean with me about his borrowing from the till.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I think there was a little shoving and pushing, and Walter took the liquor as evidence of Jerome’s irresponsibility. Maybe get him kicked out of the ELT.”

  “It’s true there was no love lost between them these last months. But why didn’t Walter come forward?”

  Bill shrugged his shoulders. “He doesn’t know why. Didn’t have any reason.”

  “And the bottle?”

  “He says he forgot about it the first time we questioned him.”

  That’s hard to believe.

  I sat in stunned silence. “At least we know Jerome was planning on meeting someone in the theater. What does this mean for Walter?”

  “Technically, he’s now a person of interest.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s not a suspect, but he had information that might impact the investigation,” Bill said.

  My mind played through a catalogue of investigative themes gleaned from my mystery novel fixation. Opportunity and motivation were at the top of the list. Walter certainly had the former. “What was his motivation?”

  “Money? He admitted he was deeply in the red because of his alimony. Jerome was the only one who suspected him of embezzling from the theater.”

  “And his alibi?”

  “Questionable. He said he watched Jerome leave the theater and then he stashed the bottle in his desk. But he can’t prove he left the theater when he said he did. There are no witnesses. When I thought the murder took place elsewhere, that wasn’t an issue. But now that we know it occurred in the prop room. . . .” He drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “So now what? Do you arrest him?” I asked tentatively.

  “No, but we’ll be bringing him back for more questioning. I want to interview the cast and anyone else who was at the theater the night Jerome died. It’s possible someone saw or heard something at the auditions.”

  “Guess those sheets Penny gave you will turn out to be helpful after all.” I slouched in my chair. It was depressing news for Walter and Lola and the ELT. I wanted to climb back into bed and pull a blanket over my head. “Thanks for the update.”

  “Thanks for the interest you’ve taken in the case.” He hesitated. “Let’s keep each other posted on any developments.”

  “Will do.” I turned to leave. “And thanks for trusting me.”

  “No problem . . . partner.”

  Chapter 22

  Bill called me his “partner.” I was feeling guilt as well as indecision. Still, I could not tell him about my meeting
this morning without raising the issue of my hacking Jerome’s email. Would he continue to think of me as a partner if he found out I was investigating on my own?

  I forced my attention back to Lola.

  “Cancelling the show is not on the table,” Lola said firmly, her posture diva-like and imperious. “I’ve thought it through and discussed it with the board. We agreed that it just is not in the best interests of the theater.”

  We’d sat ourselves on stage around a large banquet table, hemming and hawing for twenty minutes, ignoring the elephant in the room—Walter—and throwing out thoughts about Romeo and Juliet’s progress.

  “We’ve only got three weeks,” Elliot said carefully.

  “You’ve done it before, right, Walter? Remember Dames at Sea and the kid who broke his leg and had to dance with a crutch?” Penny punched Walter lightly on the upper arm, but he didn’t respond.

  Since we’d arrived, Walter had sat glumly, silently, picking at his beard and propping up his head with a closed fist. If it was possible, he looked even worse than last night. The usually meticulous artistic director wore wrinkled clothes and sported tousled hair.

  “Why ask me anything? Just go ahead and make all of my decisions for me!” he groused.

  “Walter, we all sympathize with your . . . situation, but we have to think of the company. We’re all in this together.” Lola’s color heightened, and two red splotches formed on her cheeks.

  The tension felt like a shroud that enveloped all of us. Penny pushed her glasses up her nose and tapped a pencil on her clipboard. Elliot concentrated on a crease in his trousers, and Lola studied her nails. I had been silent so far. Partly because I was distracted by last night’s events and partly because Walter knew who had discovered the liquor bottle in his desk drawer. He’d been staring daggers at me.

  I cleared my throat. “We need a plan of action.”

  “Yes, Dodie, good thinking,” Lola nodded. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, you’ve basically staged everything, right, Walter?” I said.

  Walter nodded forlornly.

  “What needs the most work?” I asked.

  “Tonight we’re working with Romeo, Juliet, and the Nurse,” Penny said. “But everybody needs help with lines.”