Killing Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “According to history, he really did live.” Bill knotted his tie. “Not Count Dracula; the historical person Bram Stoker based him on. His name was Vlad the Impaler. Had a real taste for blood.”

  “Since when are you studying the history of vampires?” I asked.

  “I read that article in the Etonville Standard. Preshow publicity. Quotes from Walter and Lola. And Penny.” He chuckled. “She claimed vampires exist in parts of Europe today.”

  “She said that?” I tied a gold headband around my wavy auburn hair, the result of Irish ancestry on both sides of my family, and studied my reflection in the mirror. Not too bad.

  Bill put his arms around my waist and kissed my ear. “What’s it going to be like engaged to Wonder Woman?”

  “Step out of line, buster, and I’ll show you,” I teased, twisting in his arms.

  He planted a good one on my lips. Yowza!

  “That should hold you until tonight,” he said.

  “Speaking of tonight, you’ll make it to the costume shindig, right?”

  “I’ll try. I have my first Police Chiefs meeting in Trenton late this afternoon.”

  “You have to wear a costume—”

  “I’ll go as—”

  “And you can’t go as—”

  “—a cop,” we both said in unison.

  Bill put on his pouty, little-boy face. “I hate wearing costumes.”

  “Didn’t you trick or treat as a kid?”

  “Back then there was candy at stake.”

  “Think of the grand prize as a ten-year-old’s bag of goodies.”

  He looked skeptical. “What’s the grand prize?”

  “It’s a surprise.” I trailed Bill out of the bedroom. “I put the Superman costume in the front hall closet.”

  “Superman? Oh no—”

  “You said you’d go as my hero,” I said sweetly.

  “I thought that meant I could wear my uniform,” he complained, hunting for his car keys.

  “There’s a shirt, cape, boots…”

  “I might have to work late.” He kissed me quickly and darted out the door.

  “…and tights,” I said to his disappearing back. Bill was as bad as Henry when it came to dressing up. Hell might have to freeze over before the town of Etonville would catch sight of Bill in tights and the equivalent of Speedos.

  As I climbed into my MC and drove from the north end of town, where Bill’s two-story Colonial was located, to Main Street, I considered his comments about the real Count Dracula—Vlad the Impaler. In the bright sunshine of this morning, it was hard to envision Carlos as anything weird even if he did unnerve Lola. And me. Good thing the show opened tomorrow night. The sooner it was up, the sooner it would close. Hopefully without incident and with a healthy box office.

  Etonville had awakened early this morning. Main Street was already jammed with cars stopping and starting as they crept into and out of town. By three o’clock the main drag would be blocked off to allow the youngsters’ parade to proceed from the Municipal Building down several blocks past Coffee Heaven, the Etonville Little Theatre, and the Windjammer, ending at the Etonville Library. The littlest tots might not make it all the way, but for the kids who did, the library was handing out its own special treats: books and DVDs.

  I had arranged to meet Lola for breakfast at Coffee Heaven, Etonville’s nod to the old-fashioned Jersey diner. A handful of booths and a wide variety of comfort food. My go-to favorites were heavily iced, warm cinnamon buns and caramel macchiato, my obsession. Enough sugar to accelerate my day. I found a parking space directly in front of Coffee Heaven, put some coins in the meter, and, in keeping with my costume, strutted into the diner. The welcome bells jingled as I entered, and heads turned and stared at my boots and miniskirt.

  I smiled bravely as I accepted comments on my way to a back booth.

  “Morning, Dodie!”

  “That’s some getup.”

  “Who’re you supposed to be?”

  “I know! A cheerleader!”

  “Where’s your pom-poms?”

  Geez. Maybe Wonder Woman wasn’t such a terrific idea—

  “Love the costume,” said Lola. She sat opposite me. “Wish I had the nerve to wear something like that. In public.”

  Was it that revealing? I eased my leather jacket closed to conceal exposed chest. “You’re going as Cleopatra. Not too shabby in the cleavage department.”

  “She’s a queen. My costume’s royal,” Lola said serenely.

  “You’re in a better mood. Must have had a good tech rehearsal.”

  “That and a full night’s sleep. Forget what I said about Carlos yesterday. My imagination was on overdrive. He’s doing a spectacular job and is a nice guy. An ordinary nice guy,” she said.

  Who was creepy in the moonlight. Never mind, no sense in revving Lola’s engine with my overactive imagination.

  “In fact, Carlos offered to help clean up the props.”

  “That’s unusual?”

  “For an actor.”

  “So you all left the theater together last night?”

  Lola yawned. “Actually, I cut out with most of the cast. Walter and Carlos and a few others stayed behind.” She picked up a menu.

  “You gals want your regulars?” It was Jocelyn, the Coffee Heaven waitress. She pulled a pencil out of her red French twist.

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Make my coffee black and my eggs over easy.”

  Jocelyn wrote up our orders, then scrutinized my costume. “Hmm. Tried to get Walter to saddle up with me and go as zombies.”

  A zombie? Jocelyn had decided last summer that she was gunning for Walter—cranky, anxious, full-of-himself, insecure Walter. She was a woman on a mission. Walter, gobsmacked by her attention, tended to run the other way when he spotted Jocelyn. She was nothing if not persistent.

  “That’s sweet,” I said. “Zombies…”

  “Nope. Walter had another costume in mind. He keeps me on my toes. Must be why we’re so good together.” Jocelyn sashayed her buxom self to the kitchen.

  “Poor Jocelyn. What parallel universe is she living in?” I asked. “She still thinks Walter has it bad for her.”

  Lola tittered. “Anyway, his costume has nothing to do with zombies.” She raised her coffee cup and eyed me over the rim. “Wait and see.”

  * * * *

  By four o’clock Main Street was packed with ghosts of all sizes, cowboys with and without ten-gallon hats, princesses galore—including Benny’s daughter—and ninja warriors. Plus a variety of animals and characters from popular movies. They popped in and out of shops, loading up brown bags and pillowcases with treats. I manned the refreshment table, handing out doughnuts to hungry kids and providing apple cider for their thirsty parents. I’d told Benny to go and have fun with his own little princess while Gillian kept an eye on the dining room. Early diners wouldn’t surface for another hour. Henry had resolutely remained in the kitchen, preparing tonight’s rollout of the garlic specials: roasted garlic and anchovies on focaccia bread, garlic mashed potatoes, and shrimp in garlic sauce. I hoped I hadn’t gone overboard with the theme food.

  Ralph Ostrowski, a member of the Etonville Police Department, was usually assigned traffic management and crowd control. He sauntered over and sized up the doughnuts, putting his hands on his hips, and selecting three. Ralph was a walking cop cliché.

  “Mmm.” He gave his seal of approval and headed back into the crowd.

  Benny’s little girl, swathed in pink, flouncy layers of taffeta and tulle, had tired of the parade and promptly sat down in the middle of Main Street. She waved her wand at her dad. He ran over to the doughnut table, his pirate costume complete with frilly shirt, eye patch, hoop earring, and a mascara-drawn mustache.

  “Cute. And the princess too,” I smirked.
<
br />   “Funny.” Benny picked up two doughnuts and a cup of cider. “Like she needs more sugar! I’ll be back in time to handle dinner.”

  “Take your time. I can cover for a while. Before the dress rehearsal.”

  He looked at his daughter slapping her magic wand on the ground. “Gotta rescue the street.” Benny raced away.

  Henry stuck his head out the door of the Windjammer, harried. “Georgette is asking about the garlic ice cream!”

  Georgette’s Bakery supplied the desserts for the Windjammer, and she’d graciously offered to handle the ice cream as well. “Coming.” The parade was winding down, the last of the kiddie procession dragging their tails as well as their candy. They could help themselves to the remainder of the doughnuts.

  On to the next event.

  * * * *

  “Hey, these have garlic in them too,” said Vernon, stabbing a fork into a mound of mashed potatoes.

  Mildred, choir director at the Episcopal Church and Vernon’s wife, poked him gently. “That’s the point. All of the specials have garlic in them. It’s part of the theme.” She delicately speared a shrimp dripping garlic sauce. “You’d better not breathe on anybody tonight.”

  Etonville might be hit with an epidemic of halitosis.

  The Banger sisters pulled out their ropes of garlic, dangling them over their dinner plates. “We’re protected!” said one.

  “From what?” Vernon was truly mystified.

  “Vampires,” said the other Banger sister.

  Vernon shook his head.

  “The Hanratty place is supposed to be haunted,” Mildred said.

  “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that old rattrap. Gives me the willies. They should have declared it a 10-7A,” Edna said firmly. As dispatcher of the police force, she loved her codes.

  “Translate please,” begged Mildred.

  “Out of service.”

  “It must be livable. Carlos and Bella have been there for three months,” I said.

  “Who knows where they lived before.” Mildred’s tone was ominous.

  Abby had been silent until now, chowing down on one of Henry’s special burgers. No garlic for her. “What’s that mean?”

  Vernon defended his wife. “It means we don’t know where they came from. What kind of place they lived in before.”

  “You mean like a coffin? You believe in this vampire stuff too?” Abby asked, not amused.

  So it wasn’t only Lola who was bitten by the vampire bug…

  “That’s nuts,” Abby added.

  “You can’t be too sure,” said a Banger.

  The conversation was in danger of going off the rails. “You all have your costumes for tonight?”

  Mildred and Abby nodded. Vernon ploughed into his potatoes. Only Edna was truly excited. “Got a feeling I might haul in the grand prize.”

  “Who’re the judges?” Mildred asked. Everyone exchanged looks that said not me.

  Roving anonymous judges had been chosen by the city council. After roaming through the crowd for most of the night, they would announce the winners: funniest, most dramatic, most creative, scariest, and the grand prize.

  “That’s a 10-36,” Edna said. “Confidential information.”

  “Dodie, what do you think about Carlos and Bella?” Mildred asked, sincere.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Wonder Woman!” Abby cracked.

  “I don’t know them. He’s certainly terrific in the role of Dracula, according to Lola.”

  “A real natural,” Edna announced.

  Silence for a moment.

  “What’s for dessert?” asked Vernon. “I hope nothing with garlic.”

  Yikes.

  3

  “Go without it!” roared Walter, fidgeting, while Chrystal fussed with his cravat.

  “Without it?” Penny was aghast. “We’ve never done that before.”

  “And we’ve never done Dracula before either!”

  Everybody milled about the stage—Walter and Vernon and Romeo in period suits, Edna the Maid in a black skirt and white apron, Abby, as the Attendant, in a uniform, the young man playing Renfield, tousled and unkempt, and Janice as Lucy in a filmy negligee. Carlos stood alone upstage in his black tux and cape. The cast looked believable, timely, and twitchy. All but Carlos.

  I had left the Windjammer in Benny’s assistant manager hands and hurried to the theater intending to watch the first act. I assumed the run-through would start around six, giving the ELT time to complete the rehearsal and make an appearance at the party by eight thirty. But when I arrived, I was met with the theater in crisis mode.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Pauli, who sat in the house, digital camera in hand, transfixed by Janice in her semi revealing nightgown. She was, no doubt, responsible for Pauli’s transformation: his floppy brown mop was replaced with a trim, gelled haircut, his worn-out hoodies exchanged for casual sweaters and knit shirts. Pauli had become handsome.

  “Hey, Dodie.” He didn’t take his eyes off his girlfriend.

  “Walter’s steaming.”

  “Some mix-up. Like a prop missing,” said Pauli, dragging his attention away from Janice. He gave me the once-over. “Nice costume.” He grinned.

  “Thanks. What’s missing?”

  “The stake.”

  “What stake?”

  “The one they, like, ram through Dracula’s heart,” Pauli said.

  Penny corralled the actors backstage, alternately blowing her whistle and flapping her arms to get their attention. “I guess the show must go on. With or without the stake,” I said.

  Pauli held the camera to his eye. “Like yeah.” He was the ELT photographer, more motivated than ever to take pictures with Janice in the cast.

  I plopped into a seat next to him. “Haven’t seen much of you lately. College keeping you busy?” Pauli was a freshman at a local community college.

  “And new online classes.” He perked up whenever the topic of digital forensics cropped up. “This semester it’s file system analysis, data artifacts, evidence collection. Awesome.”

  “Wow. I’ll let you know if I need your help,” I joked.

  He sat up straighter. “You have…something for me?” His eyes glowed.

  Pauli had been my go-to tech guy when I’d gotten involved in murders in the past. He employed a variety of tools—facial recognition software, unique search engines; he’d even done a little email hacking when necessary. But those days were behind me. I had a wedding to plan. “No, no,” I said hastily. “All good.”

  Chrystal hustled up the aisle.

  “All ready backstage?” I asked.

  The usually unruffled costume supervisor looked worried.

  The stage went black, the house slowly dimmed, and in the dark, howling wolves raised goosebumps on my neck and arms. It was make-believe, I reminded myself. The lights rose on the library of Dr. Seward’s Sanatorium. Edna led Romeo, Lucy’s love interest Harker, into the room and the dialogue began. Then Vernon as Dr. Seward entered, frantic over his daughter Lucy’s strange symptoms. Before long, Walter/Van Helsing strode on stage, already agitated. Either from the anemia killing Lucy or the missing stake. Hard to tell. Renfield, the fly-eating patient, zipped around the set grabbing imaginary bugs out of thin air, chased down by a Cockney-spewing Abby as the Attendant. Beside me, Pauli snapped photos when Lucy entered, unsteady, leaning on her fiancé’s arm, unnaturally pale, a scarf around her neck. She was totally convincing as the dying ingénue. Even more so when she collapsed on the sofa and recounted her nightly dream: a mist in the bedroom, two red eyes in a white face staring at her. Van Helsing unwrapped the scarf to reveal two small marks on her throat. Yikes.

  A clap of thunder, a flash of lightning. I jumped involuntarily. Dracula appeared in the doorway.

  “Wow!” I whispered t
o Chrystal. “Those effects are bloodcurdling.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Pauli leaned my way. “Janice is awesome.”

  He had it bad. “Yep.”

  Dracula explained how he loved England and his ruin of an estate, even though the dust was deep and the walls were broken. Sounded like the Hanratty place to me. Carlos didn’t mind living there either…

  The dogs barked again, Dracula exited, characters discussed the existence of vampires, and plotted to use Lucy as bait to capture the “Thing” that haunted her. And sucked the blood out of her! The stage lights dimmed, Lucy reclining on the divan in firelight. Dracula’s hand, then face stealthily materialized from the back of the couch. Lucy screamed, Dracula disappeared through the trick bookcase, and chaos broke out. Act One ended.

  Whew. I was stunned. I’d seen bits and pieces of rehearsals, but not a whole act. The ELT had a winner on its hands and Carlos was sensational, realistic… Too realistic? I did a mental head slap: knock it off!

  * * * *

  The basement of the Episcopal Church was swathed in orange and black. Crepe paper streamers looped and dipped from one end of the room to the other. Black paper cloths covered the banquet tables and plastic pumpkin centerpieces held candles. Even the paper plates and cups were orange. The decoration committee had taken its task seriously.

  The entertainment committee was no slouch either. We’d set up games—a guess-the-number-of-candy-corns-in-the-jar at the entrance to the room, bobbing for apples in one corner, and a pumpkin-carving contest in another. At the back of the basement, we’d fashioned an improvised booth with spotlight, curtains, card table, and chairs for Bella to read palms. There was something to suit every taste. Perfect.