Killing Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  I peered into his palm. “Oh no! See these little Xs? You’re about to make momentous decisions,” I muttered.

  “What little Xs? That’s a scar.”

  “You missed the best part of the evening. Madame Bella’s palmistry. She can tell the future, you know.”

  “Oh yeah? Me too.” He enveloped me in a bear hug, partly lifting me off the ground, kissing me firmly. “I’ve got a pretty good idea how we’ll spend the next hour!”

  Yowza!

  * * * *

  I ran and ran, the crumbling walls of a mansion closing in on me. At my back, twin zombies, their faces bloody, eyes gouged out, grasped and clawed at my Wonder Woman costume. I gasped for breath, desperate to reach a door into the castle. At the last minute, when I was about to be sucked into the waiting arms of the undead, the door swung open and a figure in black emerged. It was Carlos, and he handed me a red rose. I stretched out my hand to take the flower and he laughed. “Momentous decisions. Surrender to others! Surrender to others!” He slammed the door in my face and I jerked awake, my breathing ragged.

  “Wha’?” Bill rolled over.

  “Shh. Go back to sleep,” I whispered.

  He did.

  I tossed and turned, afraid to close my eyes for fear I’d see the zombies chasing me again. I shuddered. The creatures made sense. Even the mansion and Carlos in evening dress with a rose. My subconscious was reliving the Halloween party. His words? “Surrender to others!” Was I overreacting to Bella’s reading of my palm?

  I gave in to exhaustion.

  * * * *

  A loud jangling yanked me out of a deep sleep. Not again! No more zombies!

  Next to me, Bill had clamped on his cell phone, clearing his throat, running a hand through the spikes of his brush cut. “Chief Thompson.” His voice was like sandpaper, then he listened.

  I was wide awake now, the bedroom suddenly filled with the kind of tension that accompanied trouble. Big trouble. I squinted at the digital alarm: 3:00.

  “Give me ten minutes,” Bill said and immediately stood, grabbing clothes. He clicked off his cell.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  He shoved his legs into pants, plucked a uniform shirt from a chair where he’d lain it last night.

  “Bill?”

  “Bunch of kids were messing around in the cemetery.”

  The Etonville cemetery was an historical landmark, some of its graves dating from the American Revolution. It hosted the gravesite of Thomas Eton, the town founder. Every once in a while, area teenagers got caught roaming the grave markers, generally getting into mischief. And last night would have been an especially great time to “mess around.”

  “Halloween night. Kids like to go to the graveyard. Scare each other silly.”

  “They’re scared all right. They stumbled on a body. Male.”

  Oh no! “Dead body?” I murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “Did they…know who it was?” I asked, trembling.

  “No.” He clapped a baseball cap on his head. Located his wallet and car keys. “Suki’s there now.”

  “Cause of death?” Hoping against hope the victim died from natural causes.

  “Waiting for the coroner. Go back to sleep,” he said.

  As if that was possible.

  “I’ll call you later.” He kissed me.

  “Maybe it was a heart attack?” Although why someone would suffer a cardiac arrest or a brain aneurysm in the cemetery in the middle of the night was—

  Bill hesitated. “He had a metal stake in his chest.”

  Murder.

  Seconds later, the front door slammed, the engine of Bill’s BMW turned over, and then all was quiet. A metal stake…like the one missing from the Dracula prop closet? How many metal stakes could be running loose in Etonville on Halloween night? I shut my eyes to avoid the image of ELT folks once word of the murder boomeranged around town. Which it would within hours, driven by the efficiency of the gossip machine.

  I climbed out of bed, slipped into a sweat suit, and padded to the kitchen. I debated: coffee? tea? a snack? I rummaged around in Bill’s refrigerator. Way more appealing than mine. There was the end of a gourmet tuna casserole and some spaghetti carbonara, not to mention the artisanal cheeses Bill kept on standby. I removed a jar of olives buried behind the Greek yogurt and systematically ate half a dozen before I replaced the lid. I scoured the pantry and settled on herb crackers and a jar of peanut butter. I brewed a cup of tea and hunkered down in the living room, wrapping myself in an afghan Bill’s aunt Josephine had knitted for him last year. Speaking of relatives, Bill and I had yet to consider a possible guest list for our wedding. We’d only been engaged for two months, but as Lola, my matron of honor, reminded me, “we have to pick a date, choose a venue, and get cracking.” The thought of planning a wedding made me tired. Maybe it was the hour—three a.m.—or my crazy nightmare, or the disturbing news from the graveyard. My mind was a jumble of discombobulated notions.

  Who was the victim? A local resident? A stranger? Did he have a connection to the Etonville Little Theatre or the Dracula production? I remembered a discussion with Penny last week, when I’d inquired about the eighteen-inch metal rod supposedly thrust into the heart of Dracula. What if Romeo misjudged his blows when he pounded the stake? I’d asked.

  “O’Dell, it’s all fake. Theater’s fake. None of it’s real. Haven’t you learned that by now?” She’d cackled at my ignorance.

  I knew it was all “fake.” Yet I’d seen a rehearsal as Walter and Vernon jockeyed for positions near Dracula’s coffin to witness the delivery of the fatal wallops. The stake was set carefully in “Dracula’s heart” before Romeo raised the hammer. What if he missed the stake?

  “O’Dell, that’s a dummy in the coffin. Carlos is backstage. Anyway, the point of the stake is blunt. Walter sticks it in a hole in a sand box before Romeo whacks it. It couldn’t cut butter.”

  So the Dracula prop couldn’t have been a murder weapon, right?

  I forced thoughts of the dead man out of my head and opened my laptop. I needed a matrimonial to-do list. The clock on the wall was inching toward three thirty. I yawned and typed: date, venue, guests, food, photographer. Maybe we should elope? My parents would be devastated. My mother had been waiting for this day for years. Lola was right. I had to get cracking.

  Lola! I had to let my BFF know about the death. Anything that could disrupt opening night should be on her radar. Since I knew Lola kept her phone on 24/7, it was too early to text. I had to wait at least three hours. I hoped it wouldn’t be too late. My cell phone pinged. A text from Bill: going to be a long night and day. I’ll call later.

  * * * *

  Sun poured into the living room, forcing my eyes open. It was seven a.m. I pushed the afghan aside and headed for the bedroom, calling Lola on the way. It was still early, but I couldn’t wait any longer.

  After five rings, a sleep-deprived Lola answered. “Hullo?” she rasped.

  “It’s me. We gotta talk. Can you meet me at Snippets in an hour? I have an appointment at eight thirty. I’ll call Carol and ask her to come earlier.”

  “Dodie?”

  “Lola, get moving! I’ll bring coffee.”

  “Fine,” she muttered before clicking off.

  * * * *

  We sat in the swivel salon chairs sipping caffeine, all of us half awake after last night’s revelries, yet jittery after my bulletin about the homicide. Until the body was identified, we’d be sitting on pins and needles.

  “So it’s good news, bad news.”

  “What’s the good news?” wailed Lola, erect in her seat, eyes gaping, wildly twisting a strand of blond hair.

  “Yeah, what’s the good news?” echoed Carol, who scanned her appointment calendar for the day. I was at the top of the list.

&nb
sp; “They found the missing stake?” I tried to lighten the situation. “Assuming it’s the prop used in Dracula.” Which they’d have to replace for tonight’s opening because the metal rod was now a primary piece of evidence.

  “How did it get to the cemetery?” Carol asked.

  Or into the hands of the murderer?

  Lola closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair. We were all probably thinking the same thing: someone connected to the show had removed the stake from the prop closet. “It couldn’t have killed anyone. Penny said the tip was blunted.” Though Bill did say the dead man had a stake in his chest. And who was the victim? I winced inwardly to think it might be someone from the theater. From the cast of Dracula…

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. How are we going to open tonight when all anyone is going to be thinking about is this murder in the cemetery? And what if the victim…?” Lola didn’t need to finish her thought. “I have to call Walter before word spreads around town.” She leaped to her feet, grabbed her bag and coffee.

  Too late.

  The door to the salon burst open. A winded Edna stood in the frame. “Have you heard? It’s a 187 in the cemetery—”

  Homicide.

  “Those kids were guilty of a 594—”

  Malicious mischief.

  “—and nearly had the pants scared off them.”

  “Have they identified the…deceased?” I asked tentatively.

  “Don’t know. It’s a 10-55,” she said grimly. “Gonna take some time to—”

  “Edna! The codes?” Lola shrieked. She was over-the-top angsty and not in the mood for Edna’s shorthand.

  The dispatcher blinked, taken aback.

  I, however, was used to Edna’s codes by now and knew most of them. A 10-55 was a coroner case. “Maybe you should go to Walter,” I said soothingly.

  Lola gestured apologetically at Edna and hurried out the door.

  Carol sighed. “She’s got a ton on her plate today.”

  Edna and I agreed.

  “It would help if we knew who the victim was,” I said.

  Edna looked around the empty shop as if we might be overheard and murmured, “You thinking about solving the murder?”

  “No!” Because I’d done a little investigating in the past didn’t mean I was ready to—

  “I’ll keep my ears open for any scuttlebutt I pick up today,” Edna said knowingly. “We gotta know if the vic was connected to the ELT.”

  True.

  “Hard to have a murder hanging over an opening,” Edna said.

  Again.

  “Gotta go. I’m on a coffee run for the chief and Suki,” she said.

  “Is B…uh…the chief in this morning?” Edna may be my only source of info on Bill’s whereabouts today.

  “Came in right from the crime scene at about three a.m. I hear.” Edna smiled slowly. “Guess he didn’t get much sleep last night.” She winked and disappeared out the door.

  Geez. Etonville’s general interest in Bill’s and my love life had gotten worse since our engagement was announced last month.

  “Speaking of which…” Carol grinned. “What are we doing with your hair today?”

  A trim to get the bangs out of my eyes. My waves were going wild. “The regular.”

  “Oh.” Carol eyed me critically. “How about something a little different? Maybe we could experiment with an eye toward the wedding.”

  What? The wedding was months away. I assumed.

  “Never too soon to be planning.” Carol swung my chair in an arc to face a mirror. “I’m thinking an inch or two off the length…” She fussed with my hair. “You could wear a wreath of flowers. Or else pin it up so a few curls drift down like this.” She demonstrated with a handful of bobby pins.

  With the hair off my neck, I felt cool and light. Uh-oh. My pinned-up, prewedding, experimental coif quivered, giving me notice beyond Carol’s styling attempt: something was up besides my hairdo.

  * * * *

  I zipped my MC into a parking space outside the Windjammer, scooped up my bag and this morning’s Etonville Standard, catching a glimpse of my new self in the rearview mirror. Not too bad. Henry greeted me inside the restaurant.

  “How was last night?”

  Which meant “how was the food catered by La Famiglia?” That rivalry would never end. The restaurants were like two bratty kids always at each other.

  “The costumes were fun, everybody played the games, even had their palms read, and—”

  “What did you do to your hair?” He squinted at me.

  “Like it?”

  He grunted. “We’re out of butternut squash. I had to change the soup special. Better call Cheney Brothers.” Henry trudged into the kitchen.

  I fluffed my new do; Carol had clipped two inches off the length, resulting in a springy, curlier bob. The wind chimes above the entrance tinkled as the door opened.

  “Hi,” Benny said, hanging his coat on a wall hook. “Some party last night.” He looked as tired as I felt. “What did you do to your hair?”

  “Like it?”

  Without even a second glance he headed for the bar and began his daily ritual. Wiping down the beer and soda taps, stocking wine, washing a few glasses that remained in the sink from yesterday. “Sure.”

  I drew myself a cup of coffee and plopped onto a bar stool. I opened the Standard so that the front-page headline was visible: HALLOWEEN HAVOC IN CEMETERY: MAN FOUND DEAD. The newspaper had wasted no time. It had even published this special early morning edition. “You heard?”

  “Oh yeah. Didn’t even need to see the paper. I stopped in the Shop N Go to pick up Cheerios for the princess. You know Betty? The frozen food lady? She was holding court with the cashiers. Her nephew was one of the kids who found the body.”

  Now this was news. “The article doesn’t name names. Guess they were all juveniles.”

  “Drinking beer and tossing bottles at gravestones. You know, hit the bull’s-eye and break ’em. Except one of them didn’t break.” Benny raised an eyebrow.

  It had landed on the victim. “All of the boys local?”

  “One from Etonville. The rest from Bernridge,” Benny added. He studied the newspaper.

  I had skimmed the article quickly on my way to the Windjammer. Long on headline, short on information. A minor reference to the stake found at the scene and the irony of having Dracula open this week. No mention of the identification of the man. If he had been connected to the Etonville Little Theatre, word would have been broadcast by now.

  “Guess the victim was out trick-or-treating,” Benny said.

  “Guy’s probably a little old to beg for candy,” I said.

  “Not too old to dress up. Says he was found in a costume.”

  I missed that detail. “Let me see that.” He was in a costume all right. Whoa. A Grim Reaper.

  “Kind of weird,” Benny said. “Dress up like Death and then…” He shrugged.

  Something was tickling the back of my mind. “Benny, do you remember seeing a Grim Reaper at the Halloween party?”

  Benny thought. “No. I was busy eating, drinking, and dancing. Hey, how about those marinara mummies and pumpkin quesadillas? Delish and clever.”

  “Mum’s the word on the catering.”

  “Got it.” Benny turned his attention back to the bar. “Hope this doesn’t kill the opening of Dracula tonight.”

  “Right.” I knew I had seen a Grim Reaper last night.

  “Game on for the Etonville PD. Again.”

  * * * *

  By noon the Windjammer was full, its customers so enthralled by news of the murder—creating theories on the method and motivation for the killing—that few paid any attention to Henry’s specials: grilled three-cheese sandwiches and his gourmet chicken soup. He might as well be s
erving cardboard on rye. Runner-up topics of discussion were the success of the Etonville Halloween party and my new hairstyle. I whizzed around the dining room, refilling coffee cups, bussing a table here and there, generally giving Gillian and Benny a hand.

  “Dodie, the festivities last night were simply grand,” said a Banger sister, bouncing her head.

  “Such a shame it had to end on a terrible note,” said the other.

  “Yes. Really unfortunate.”

  They leaned together and then tilted their bodies toward me. “Do you think it had anything to do with…?” They fingered the garlic necklaces they’d worn throughout lunch.

  “Dracula? I don’t think so.”

  “But the man had a stake in his heart!” one gasped.

  The word got around quickly. “I think we need to wait until the police investigate.”

  They stared at me, giggling. “Until Bill investigates.”

  Sheesh. I smiled and picked up my coffeepot.

  “Have you set a date?” the other sister asked.

  “Not yet.” I turned to go.

  “What did you do to your hair?”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Like it?” I swept a hand through my newly shorn locks.

  “Mmm,” said one sister.

  “Aha,” said the other.

  I moved on, stopping at a table with Mildred, Vernon, Penny, and Abby. I gestured with my pot. “Refill?”

  “Here we go again, O’Dell.” Penny handed me her cup. “Another opening, another mur—”

  “Don’t say it out loud, Penny! It will bring bad luck.” Mildred spooned up the last of her chicken noodle soup.

  “Like we don’t have problems already, with the vampire thing,” Abby groused. “If the town’s freaked out by a murder, people might stay home.”

  “Do they know who it is yet?” Mildred asked.

  “The vic hasn’t been ID’d,” muttered Vernon.

  “You sound like one of those television detectives,” grumbled Abby, unimpressed.

  Vernon shrugged away the comment.

  “What a terrible way to die,” Mildred whispered.

  “Like Dracula,” Abby said sarcastically.