Show Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “Since most of the cast will be available, maybe we can put some of them to work catching up with the set and costumes. Chrystal needs help in the shop so, Lola, why don’t you gather a few folks and get them to work there tonight?”

  “That is an excellent idea, Dodie,” Lola said with relief.

  “Walter, if you can rehearse someplace else part of the night . . .”

  “You can run lines in the dressing room,” Lola said.

  “Penny, you might want to get a crew in here to paint the Verona backdrop. JC was complaining about having time on the stage last week,” I added.

  Penny bobbed her head.

  “I’ll text other actors and see if I can get them to come in and run lines for a few hours. When they’re not working with me, they can help with costumes or painting,” Elliot said.

  “Thank you, Elliot,” Lola murmured. “Walter?”

  “Fine,” he said grudgingly.

  The meeting ended with Penny going into high gear on her set assignment, and Lola and Elliot working on rehearsal details with their heads together. Walter watched, offering a suggestion periodically. I signaled my exit and left. Since I was next door to the Windjammer, I elected to stick my head in, though it was still my day off. The dinner service was in full swing, the dining room loud, Gillian bouncing from customer to customer, and Carmen bussing tables.

  Benny, frazzled, bounded past me, five plates balanced on his tray. “Great day to be off,” he muttered and practically dove onto a table.

  Copies of the Etonville Standard were on many tables, and a few people saw me and poked dinner companions. I rushed to the kitchen and hid behind the swinging door. Henry looked up and shook his head.

  “Don’t say it,” I said.

  Benny crashed into the door. “Those Banger sisters are bonkers. Know what they said?” He grabbed three burgers and fries and two bowls of chicken soup.

  “I’m afraid to hear.”

  “They heard Jerome was dating Walter’s ex-wife. That’s why he shot him.”

  “Now that at least would make sense,” I said.

  * * *

  By six-thirty, the cast and crews were sorted out: Walter had the use of the stage for two hours, after which JC and a few actors would be painting; Lola and Chrystal had gathered a costume crew and were noses to the grindstone with seam rippers and sewing machines. I much preferred to pretend to use a needle sitting down, than paint a backdrop of Verona on my hands and knees. So I offered to join them for a while.

  After several hours, we had altered a stack of rented bodices, nipped and tucked to fit the ELT cast, and worked our way through the Ladies’ skirts, hemming each with a hot glue gun—more efficient said Chrystal. Though most of the crew had gone by ten-thirty, Lola struggled with pleated strips of starched muslin, trying to create the folds of a fan, for the Elizabethan ruff Walter insisted on wearing. Carol dug through the theater’s stock of boots to see if there was anything of use. I had pricked my finger for the fifth time.

  “Has anyone seen my bag?” I asked. I was sure I had brought it with me from the house to the basement shop.

  Carol pulled her head out of a cardboard box and wiped dust off her hands. “I don’t think anyone has been in these shoes since Little Mary Sunshine.”

  “Two years ago? Really?” Lola looked under her bolt of muslin. “I don’t see it, Dodie.”

  “Guess I left it upstairs.” I slipped off a stool, stretched my back, and headed for the door.

  “While you’re up there, would you ask Walter for some petty cash? Chrystal needs about fifty dollars,” Lola said.

  I stopped. “Are you sure we should disturb him?”

  “Of course. Chrystal needs to do some thrift shopping tomorrow.” Lola was taking no prisoners this evening.

  I climbed the stairs that led from the underground costume shop to the backstage. I opened the fire door expecting a bustle of activity, but I was met with silence. The house lights were off and the only illumination was provided by the security light stage right. Apparently the scene crew had decided to call it a night. I bent over to check out a half-painted pastoral vista of Verona, spread out across the upstage floor. Good work, I thought.

  I stepped carefully around the backdrop and into the house, found my bag in Row D where I had left it, and, relieved, walked up the aisle. In the lobby my eyes adjusted to the darkness broken only by the light that outlined the edges of Walter’s office door. I knocked gently.

  “Walter?” I heard a creak and a slam.

  “Who is it?” he asked abruptly.

  “Dodie.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Walter’s shoes clomped as he moved to the door and unlocked it.

  “Yes?” he said through a two-inch crack.

  “Chrystal needs some petty cash. Fifty dollars.”

  He stared balefully at me and, for the first time, I actually felt sorry for him.

  “I’ll get the money. Wait here.” He shut the door in my face.

  I put my ear to the wood and could hear nothing. Then the whoosh of the door and his hand inserted into the opening, clutching a fistful of dollars. “Remind Chrystal I need receipts.”

  “Will do. Walter—?”

  The door shut once more.

  Clearly there would be no communicating with him tonight. I walked back through the dimly lit theater and my foot hit the edge of the first seat in row A, house right.

  “Damn,” I said aloud and massaged my ankle.

  I climbed onto the stage just as a silhouette moved off to my left behind the security light. Fear surged up my throat and into my mouth. I choked, then called out.

  “Lola? Carol?”

  The silence was earsplitting. I could go back to find Walter or run to the stairs leading to the costume shop. In that instant, the security light went black. A crash echoed through the empty space, followed by running thumps as someone closed the distance between us. Instinctively, I shoved my arm into the void in front of my face and backed up. I heard heavy breathing, a soft grunt, and then I was roughly thrown aside. As the footsteps retreated, I tried to see who it was, but it was too dark.

  I crawled to the stairs leading into the house. I sprinted up the aisle, rebounding off rows of seats, and burst into the lobby. “Walter!” I screamed.

  All was quiet. Walter’s office was dark and there was no sign of an intruder.

  The door into the lobby flew open. I scrambled to assume a fighter’s stance. “Arggh!” I shrieked.

  The lobby was flooded with light. “Dodie, are you okay? We got worried when you didn’t return to the shop. Who turned out the security light?”

  “I’m fine.” I told them about what happened. “He appeared so quickly.”

  “What do you think he was after?” Lola asked.

  “He was snooping around backstage,” I said.

  “Where’s Walter?” Lola asked.

  “He must have left.”

  Walter’s office was secure and the painted backdrop was untouched. Break-ins were becoming too frequent: first Jerome’s, then the library, and now the theater. Whoever was prowling around wasn’t looking for box-office receipts. He had bigger fish to fry.

  “The theater is getting to be a dangerous place,” said Lola.

  Carol and I nodded.

  “Should we call the chief?” Carol asked.

  I had my cell phone out. “I’m already on it.”

  * * *

  The following morning, I ducked into the theater and saw Bill on stage. He stepped gingerly around the edges of Verona, spread out before him on the stage floor. “Not bad,” he said.

  “Yes, they do a good job here. But what do I know? I have trouble with paint-by-numbers.”

  He laughed, then got serious. “So show me where you were,” he said.

  I walked Bill through my attack, from the shadow on stage smashing the emergency light to pushing me to the ground.

  “There doesn’t appear to be a forced entry. Someone might have had
a key.”

  “He could have slipped into the theater through the loading dock door after the crew left and Walter was still in his office.”

  Bill nodded thoughtfully. “They’re checking back here, upstairs in the storage and prop rooms again, and downstairs in the scene and costume shops. I doubt the guys will find any prints. The costume shop was ransacked.”

  “After Lola and Carol came looking for me. It’ll take Chrystal a day to straighten up. I wonder where he’s going to strike next,” I said. “Each place has had a connection to Jerome.”

  “And since Jerome died in the theater, this seems like the most significant venue,” Bill said.

  “That’s good because I think we’ve run out of places.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Come on. We need to write this up and I’ll need your statement.”

  “Did you interview the cast and crew yet?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen about half the cast so far,” he said.

  “Anybody notice anything important?”

  “If you don’t count Benvolio in a snit because Romeo read twice while he only got to read once, and a Lady-in-Waiting angry because Walter precast the show before auditions—”

  “That would be Abby.”

  “No, nothing significant,” he said.

  * * *

  I finished giving my statement and waved good-bye to Edna as I left the Municipal Building. I hoped for her sake, for all of the ELT actors, that the show would, indeed, go on. Lola called to say she’d met with board members and they wanted to support Walter and have him continue as director, but only if he agreed to have Elliot as assistant director, in case of an “emergency.” Like if he had to give notes from a jail cell.

  I managed to get through lunch at the Windjammer without having to tell my attack story; I had no desire to be front-page news in the Etonville Standard again or to fend off Maggie Hemplemeyer’s attempt at a human-interest article.

  I settled into my booth with coffee and yesterday’s chicken pot pie, a copy of Henry’s menus for the weekend in hand. I ran down the bill of fare. “Uh-oh.”

  Benny leaned on the back of my booth. “I’d like to switch some hours with Gillian next week, okay?”

  I nodded, distracted.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I think we’re in trouble. Here’s what Henry has planned for Friday: caramelized fennel salad and roasted mackerel with dill and lemon. And Saturday is spaghetti with anchovies and hot peppers.”

  “You don’t think he’s reacting to . . . ?”

  “La Famiglia? Yes, that’s exactly what I think. A little bit of innovation is fine, but this is the Windjammer.”

  Benny raised an eyebrow. “Game on.”

  I slumped against the seat. I felt like taking a nap.

  Henry burst out of the kitchen sputtering, cell phone in hand, ranting. I heard “website,” “sabotage,” and “revenge.”

  “Slow down, Henry,” I said and glanced at Benny. “What’s this about the website and a La Famiglia link?”

  “They called ‘to thank me for putting a link to their place on our website.’ People are visiting our site and calling them for a reservation!” His face was fire engine red, his forehead damp.

  Oh no. “I don’t understand. Let me call Pauli and see how this happened,” I said as soothingly as I could.

  Henry trounced off. “I knew that website stuff was going to be a problem.”

  * * *

  I’d finally gotten Pauli on the line and discovered that, in his eagerness to impress Henry, he’d added a page on Places to Visit in Etonville—with links to websites for businesses all over town, including La Famiglia.

  Geez.

  I stayed late to close up and let Benny go early. I snapped off the overhead lights, and slipped the key in the front door lock. I pulled my jacket around my middle and tucked my bag into my belly. You’d never know it was late April; tonight the air was chilled, the inky sky crystal clear. Constellations resembled a connect-the-dots drawing. I would have thought it was early March.

  I climbed into my Metro, glancing up and down an empty Main Street. I couldn’t be too careful these days. But since last week, there had been no sign of the errant SUV. I turned down Fairchild and onto Ames. As I approached my house, I saw a car in the driveway. By the streetlight I could see a dark vehicle with the shadow of someone in the driver’s seat. I pulled to the curb several doors away from my own and switched off the engine. Who would be visiting this time of night?

  I opened my car door and slipped out, shutting it again carefully. I could play it safe and try to sneak into my house, or screw up the courage to approach the car and confront the driver. I crept stealthily around the front end of my Metro and moved from tree to tree until I was a mere ten feet away. I walked straight to the driver’s side door. The window was open. “Can I help you?” I said loudly and firmly.

  The woman inside turned her head. “Oh! I’ve been waiting here for hours.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Mary Robinson. Jerome’s friend.”

  I was flabbergasted. Her look was Marian-the-librarian—seventy-ish, unfussy gray hair in a French twist, glasses dangling from a cord around her neck. Just the way Monica had described her. But her voice was pure Kathleen Turner—resonant and throaty. All remnants of my exhaustion vanished.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  Despite the late hour, the disconcerting confrontation, the extreme circumstances that had brought her to my house, Mary Robinson was composed and alert. Dressed in black slacks and a matching sweater, she could have been having afternoon tea with an old friend.

  “Would you like something? Coffee? Tea?” I asked after we had settled ourselves in my living room.

  “No thank you.”

  We sat on my sofa. “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “I was a reference librarian for twenty years before I assumed responsibility for the special collections. I know how to find things. With and without a computer. Besides, you called me.”

  Mary’s nephew had been among the Robinsons in Poughkeepsie I’d contacted. The message I’d left had included my landline, which would have been Mary’s connection to my address.

  “I’m sorry you had to sit in my driveway for so long. Why didn’t you just call me?”

  “I wanted to see you in person. I like to see the faces of the people I confide in,” Mary said.

  Confide? This should be interesting. “So you’re staying with family upstate?”

  “Temporarily. I love my nephew and I appreciate his taking me in, but with his four children, his wife, and all of the animals, I have no privacy. I’m used to living alone.”

  “Where does he think you are tonight? Should you call him?” I asked.

  Mary silenced me with a gesture. “He knows I’m staying overnight. At the Eton Bed and Breakfast.”

  “You can’t stay at your home?”

  “I sublet my apartment when I left town to a kind young woman who offered to take care of my cats.”

  “Mary, do you know why I was looking for you?”

  “I think so,” she said sadly. “We, Jerome and I, never intended for things to get so . . .”

  “Out of control?”

  She glanced up at me, helpless. “Yes.”

  “Maybe you’d better start from the beginning.”

  Chapter 23

  We talked for two hours. Mary had met Jerome when he came to the library to use the computer lab and accidentally ended up in the special collections. Their friendship had blossomed, she claimed, over shared interests in rare books and classic first editions. It was a side of him I hadn’t known about.

  “Someone had left a box of old volumes at the library, and Luther told me to bring it down to special collections. It was part of an estate sale. We receive a number of those donations.” She paused. “I was cataloging a book on bird-watching.”

  “When you .
. . ?”

  “Came across the item in question,” she said. “Very neatly folded at the beginning of Chapter Three. I was intrigued. It was over one hundred years old.”

  “A hundred years? Wow. What kind of document is it?”

  She hesitated. “A letter . . . from a father to his son during the Civil War. A very famous father. I did a preliminary check on several websites. Similar documents from that time were sold for a great deal of money to collectors.”

  “Why is it so valuable?”

  She shook her head and looked me straight in the eye. “I’d rather not say any more until I turn it over to the authorities.”

  “You told Jerome about it?”

  “Yes. By that time we had grown . . . quite close.”

  “I see.”

  “He wanted to have it authenticated. He thought we could get four to five hundred thousand dollars if the document was authentic. We were making plans for the future.”

  I nearly fell off the sofa. “Mary,” I said gently, “why did you decide to take the document out of the library? Wasn’t that stealing?”

  She sat up straighter. “The Etonville Public Library,” she said bitterly, “was firing me after forty years. They called it downsizing, but I know they thought I was too old and useless.” She stiffened. “Jerome was outraged when he heard. It was his idea to take the letter. No one was aware of the document. Besides, it served them right.”

  I nodded. “Go on.”

  “Jerome found a company named Forensic Document Services that could provide authentication.”

  Bingo. “Did you contact them?”

  “Jerome did, but there was some issue about the initial fee of a thousand dollars. He felt it was excessive. I offered to pay it, but he refused. Then, I left for Poughkeepsie, and poor Jerome . . .”

  She started to cry. I gave her a tissue.

  “I know,” I said. “We all miss him.”

  Mary sniffed. “I wish I had never found that letter.”

  “Where is it now?” I asked.

  “I have it right here.”

  “With you?” I whispered.

  She nodded and looked into her lap.

  I noticed for the first time that she had been clutching a red and green quilted bag, large enough to accommodate file folders.