I moved between tables, assaulted by gossip:
“I heard he was on the lam from somewhere out West.”
“He’d only been in the country a few days.”
“No wonder he was in disguise.”
“Grim Reaper. Kind of predicting somebody’s death.”
“Like his own…”
Folks in Etonville loved to take a molehill of information and transform it into a mountain of hearsay. It was the town’s favorite pastime. Yet, out of the mouths of investigative innocents could come a seed of wisdom: it was prophetic that Daryl Wolf chose to wear a Grim Reaper costume.
Across the room, Mildred and the Banger sisters waved at me. Might as well get the day’s wackiest chatter out of the way. “Hi, ladies. Enjoying the prime rib?”
“It’s delicious,” said Mildred. “Rare. Perfect.” She chewed a bite and grinned.
“Where’s Vernon tonight?” I asked.
Mildred swallowed. “He decided to eat at home.”
“He doesn’t appreciate garlic the way we do.” The Banger sisters were nibbling on soup and a salad, fingering their necklaces.
“Aha.” Definitely slider week coming up.
An oversize book sat on the table. “What’s this?” The title was Dracula Through the Ages and featured a photo of a man in formal dress with a black cape, protruding eyes, pitch-black hair combed back from a high forehead, and a demonic smile.
“Vernon’s research for the show. He didn’t actually read the book. He left it in the dressing room under his makeup kit. I need to take it back to the library.” She wiped her mouth and set the napkin aside. “It’s the history of all the actors who’ve played Dracula.”
The little hairs on the back of my neck quivered. “Do you mind if I take a look? I’ll return it to the library when I’m finished.”
“Don’t read it before you go to bed. It’ll give you nightmares. I flipped through some of the pages. Pretty creepy pictures in there.”
The Banger sisters continued to finger their necklaces.
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, my eyes glued to the book cover.
“Dodie, have you heard about the murder victim?” One of the Bangers.
“Uh…what exactly?” I asked, distracted.
“The man died from shock.” The other Banger. “Not from the stake.”
I wrenched my attention away from the Dracula photo to the table. “Shock?” Bill had said a heart attack. “Are you sure?” Then I caught myself. Really, Dodie? You’re confirming rumors with the Banger sisters? You need to get a grip! I excused myself and hurried to my booth, book in hand. I slipped onto the seat and stared at the cover again. In fine print at the bottom of the picture was a name that neither Mildred nor Vernon had detected: Carlos Villarias. I flipped through the pages, bypassing the general history of vampire mythology, looking for the man on the cover. Halfway through the book, I found a short biographical statement and a filmography of Carlos Villarias. A Spanish actor born in 1892 who eventually came to the US and died here in 1976. His list of films was extensive, but by far his most famous was a Spanish-language version of Dracula. Forget Chicago. What kind of bizarre coincidence resulted in the ELT’s Dracula having the same name as an actor from decades ago whose claim to fame was playing Dracula? A tension headache had reared its ugly head.
I jammed the book in my carryall, told Benny I’d take him up on his proposal to close the Windjammer tonight, reassured Henry that his prime rib was a roaring success, and, once the dinner service was winding down, made my exit. It was overcast, clouds obscuring the moon. Possibly rain tomorrow. The street was empty, the outdoor lights of the theater next door glowing brightly, reminding me that Dracula would be well into its second act by now.
I hopped into my MC, already envisioning a glass of chardonnay and my sweats. I drove a block down Main Street toward Bill’s place and stopped. Then executed an illegal U-turn and beat it to my bungalow. Maybe it was all of the wedding chatter that had me anxious to hunker down in my own place for the night. Though I loved Bill’s more spacious, beautifully decorated home, my five-room, half of a duplex was like an old shoe. Slightly worn down at the heels but comfortable and welcoming. I raised the heat, changed clothes, climbed into bed with my wine, the Dracula book, and my laptop. Then I texted Bill: spending the night at my place. talk tomorrow. xoxox. I added a string of heart emojis.
As I sipped my chardonnay, I paged through the book. Aside from the entry I’d already read, there was very little about Carlos Villarias. Mostly photos from his Dracula days. Though melodramatic and exaggerated in horror mode, his face was creepy. I picked up my laptop. I’d speculated about Carlos for weeks now but hadn’t done a basic Internet search on him to see what materialized. I typed his name in the search bar, and up popped a string of links for the actor Villarias: his IMDb page listing his films, a Wikipedia page with the bare bones of his biography that I was already familiar with, and YouTube videos of his Dracula performance. There was even a black-and-white, Spanish-language segment of his work on Vimeo, complete with subtitles, eerie production values, a crazed Renfield, and howling dogs. There was a blog devoted to a discussion of whether Carlos Villarias was even dead. Yikes! That was carrying the vampire thing a bit too far.
I also found a video of a Carlos Villarias, bodybuilder.
Facebook yielded only a couple of scary-looking characters. I scanned links on several additional pages, but none provided new “Carlos Villariases.” I could find no presence of the Etonville Carlos on the Internet. Odd. Almost everyone had something in their history or biography that landed them on the web. Or maybe Carlos Villarias was simply an uncommon name? I had hit a dead end and set my laptop aside. Maybe Pauli could dig up something. I’d have to broach the topic carefully, of course.
I picked up the latest Cindy Collins mystery—Murder Most Personal—from my bedside table, where I’d left it a few nights before. Chapter eight: in the midst of a gruesome homicide investigation, the heroine detective is debating how she’ll balance her work life with her private life once she ties the knot with her fiancé. Sheesh. Too close for comfort.
I closed the book. I couldn’t concentrate. I opened my own Facebook page, saw my brother Andy’s posts of his three-year-old son, Cory, on Halloween. Dressed as a minipirate, my nephew held a jack-o’-lantern of candy aloft. I laughed out loud. The pictures reminded me that I owed Andy a call. We hadn’t spoken since I told him the news of my engagement last month. He was thrilled for me; Andy loved Bill. As did my parents. I owed them a call too. The whole family was happy to see me “settle down,” my father’s description of wedded bliss. And especially with someone like Bill, the uber son-in-law. Kind, thoughtful, good sense of humor. It didn’t hurt that he had a professional career, was ex-NFL, and knew his way around a gourmet recipe. I loved Bill and felt lucky, as Lola, Carol, and most of Etonville reminded me often enough. So why the recent uneasiness whenever wedding planning came up? I was probably driving Lola crazy.
I avoided my troublesome thoughts and turned out the bedside lamp, early for me. At least I’d get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow I could thrash through my niggling doubts. As my head hit the pillow, my cell pinged from its charger on my dresser. I wavered. It could wait till morning, I decided. I rolled over, pulling up the comforter. My cell pinged again. Maybe I should check it out. Maybe it was an emergency. Nope, I told myself. In emergencies, people called. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, imagining that I was sinking into the mattress—a third ping made me sit up in frustration. What was going on? My alarm clock read ten thirty.
I threw back the cover and stomped across the chilly wood floor. Three texts awaited me.
I crawled back under the covers. Bill: miss you 2night. love you. With a string of emoji hearts back at me. He really was the sweetest thing…and getting pretty frisky. Lola: late drink? Carlos in strange mood… I texted
back that I was already in bed and would catch up tomorrow. I was about to replace the phone in its charger when I remembered that I had a third text. It was from Pauli. I hated to disappoint him, but tomorrow I would tell him he could suspend the snooping into the obits from the Daily Herald. There was no need to decipher the paper’s importance to Carlos. Our Dracula could remain a mystery to the town of Etonville, even if he had the same name as a famous actor who also played Dracula….
I stopped my mental rambling and read the text: hey…you up? found something… I was going to let this all go, right? My free-wheeling investigative reflexes went to war with my rational, post-engagement impulses. My thumbs fluttered above the keyboard, unsure how to respond. Then: thanks for searching but no need to now. Before I hit the Send icon, my little hairs twitched wildly, demanding that I pay attention. I surrendered. I erased the sentence and replaced it with come by Windjammer tomorrow afternoon.
* * * *
Getting seven solid hours of sleep did wonders for my head. I bounced out of bed, energetic and ready to face the day and all of the question marks in my life, including whatever Pauli had found on the Internet. A hot shower, a cup of coffee, and a stretchy black sweater gave me a dose of adrenaline and confidence. I had a fantastic idea. I would swing by the Donut Hole in the north end, choose a few of Bill’s favorites—jelly, glazed, and iced bowties—and surprise him with breakfast.
I parked in the driveway next to his gold BMW and let myself into the house. All was silent. No shower running or sounds of him traipsing around upstairs. Could he be asleep? At seven thirty?
“Bill?” I climbed the stairs and peeked into the master bedroom. The bed was unoccupied and already made. My fiancé was a neatnik. No clothes scattered around, no stray shoes out in the open.
He must have driven the squad car home last night.
I descended the stairs and contemplated the bag of doughnuts I’d left on the counter. Who was I kidding? Bill’s favorite doughnuts were also mine. My stomach growled; my mouth watered thinking of biting into one of the glazed variety. Then I flashed on the wedding dresses I’d researched yesterday. I placed the bag in the refrigerator—they’d keep better that way—and made up my mind. I needed to get into a workout routine. Expend more calories before I seriously considered wedding garb.
I locked the front door and sat behind the wheel of my MC, contemplating my next move. I could begin with a simple walk in the park. The day was overcast, with gunmetal gray clouds scudding across the sky. They, as well as my weather app, hinted at rain later. For the moment, the temperature was in the midsixties, comfortable enough for taking a hike. I backed out of the driveway and cruised down Bennington Street to Anderson toward the east side of Etonville. Driving along the outskirts of town would save time and the temptation to stop at Coffee Heaven. I passed the former home of Thomas Eton, now the Eton B & B, and La Famiglia, and approached the old town cemetery where the Grim Reaper was found. I slowed down as I approached the entrance gate. The graveyard wasn’t used anymore and only remained of interest to history buffs, folks who liked to wander through the markers and appreciate the solitude, and mischievous kids with nothing good on their minds. Especially on Halloween.
On a whim, I pulled to the side of the road. I could as easily tramp through the cemetery as the town park and get some fresh air in my lungs, burn a few pre-breakfast calories. I had no trouble spotting the scene of the would-be crime: yellow police tape outlined an area that included several headstones. I scanned the graveyard; there was no one in sight, and I walked the thirty yards or so until I stood next to the crime scene tape. Worn grave markers—many dating from the late 1700s—stood in parallel rows like ancient soldiers, some leaning, about ready to topple over. The grass around the headstones was neatly trimmed. I assumed the Etonville historical society engaged a landscaper to keep the place tidy and respectable. I’d only been here on two occasions. Once with a group from the Etonville Library, when I had just moved to town and wanted to learn about the history of my new home. And once by myself, on a bright summer day. I’d been overwhelmed by the town chatter and needed some solitary time with my favorite mystery author.
I’d almost forgotten about that afternoon…how pleasant and serene the cemetery was. Not a bit eerie or weird. Simply an attractive alternative to the library in providing peace and quiet.
I also knew what had attracted the teens—a spooky cemetery on Halloween night was like catnip to a group of rowdy kids. What had brought the Grim Reaper out here? In costume? A breeze kicked up, and I pulled my jacket tighter around my waist.
I walked the perimeter of the yellow tape, imagining the vantage points of the kids aiming beer bottles at the largest marker in the area. Large enough to conceal a body swathed in black. I stopped by a patch of ground that had been dug up. Probably where the deceased had lain. The caretaking crew would have some work to do when the tape was removed. Which could be any day now, because the death would soon be declared “natural.” But what was natural about a man in a Halloween disguise dying from cardiac arrest in a cemetery? With a fake stake planted on him? Could he have been frightened to death?
I retraced my steps to the car. I glanced around again—no one in sight—and looked down as I unlocked my MC. On the edge of the road, half-buried in the damp grass, was a colorful object. I stooped and dug it out. An iridescent, pear-shaped pendant in a gold frame, its colors swirling shades of red, orange, green, and blue. Very unusual. Where had I seen this before? I pocketed the piece of jewelry. A rumbling from the south suggested that rain could come sooner rather than later. I ducked into my car. My cell pinged as a text materialized. Lola: where are you? time for coffee? I answered that I was in the cemetery and would meet her at the Windjammer ASAP.
* * * *
“There’s a name for that, you know,” said Lola, biting into a piece of rye toast.
I’d unlocked the Windjammer two hours before the official opening time and whipped up simple breakfasts for us—scrambled eggs, toast, and black coffee. The calorie counter’s special. I intended to make every effort to bypass the caramel macchiatos and hot cinnamon buns at Coffee Heaven. At least until I found a dress I could live with.
“Taphophilia,” Lola added triumphantly, finishing off her cup of coffee.
I retrieved the coffeepot. “What’s that?”
“Having a passion for cemeteries, gravestone rubbings, studying the history of famous deaths, reading epitaphs, wandering among the markers…”
“Taphophilia? Are you kidding?”
“I had a great-uncle who was a taphophile.”
“Who knew? I’m not a taph—”
“Supposedly, he spent every day in a cemetery once he retired,” Lola said.
“Really?”
“Doing gravestone rubbings, taking photos. He was also rumored to be a somnambulist.”
I refilled our cups. “Sleepwalker?”
“One night they found him sleepwalking in the cemetery.”
“Seriously?” I said.
Lola crossed one jeans-clad leg over the other, flipping her blond hair. Not for the first time did I marvel at her youthfulness: no way her appearance suggested she had a daughter close to graduating college. “What were you doing there anyway?”
I hesitated. What was I doing there? “I stopped at Bill’s to deliver some doughnuts, but he was gone. Probably an early beginning to his day. Then I decided to up my exercise game before I chose a wedding dress—”
“Great! Not that you need to get in shape,” Lola backtracked. “You look terrific as you are, but focusing on the dress will get you oriented toward a wedding venue and we could visit some—”
“—and I was headed to the park.” I blew by Lola’s fixation on venues. “But passed the cemetery on the way and thought I might walk there.”
“Nice idea,” Lola said. “If a little creepy.”
“I
like the solitude. The crime scene’s still taped out.”
“Even though it’s not a crime anymore?” she asked. Lola had read the article in this morning’s Standard, declaring that the victim died of natural causes. She was relieved Carlos was off the hook. Which meant Dracula was off the hook, which meant the ELT box office was secure.
“He was peculiar last night,” Lola said thoughtfully.
I brought myself back to the conversation. “Who?”
“Carlos.”
“He’s quirky. Has been from the beginning.”
“Last night was a different kind of peculiar. Before the show, Penny and a few of the actors were in the green room talking about the murder, which, of course, everyone knew by then wasn’t actually a murder, and Carlos walked in and demanded that they stop.”
“Stop talking?”
“Yes. He said, ‘Please stop talking about that man’s death.’ He was very upset.”
“What set him off?”
“I don’t know. When Penny tried to calm him down, he turned on his heel and marched off.”
We sat silently, Lola wary of rehashing the confrontation she witnessed the night of the party. As if thinking about it might make Carlos guilty of something once again. I pulled the pendant out of my pocket. “Does this look familiar to you?”
Lola took the piece of jewelry and rubbed dirt off it. “It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”
“I found it at the cemetery. Is it familiar?”
She looked up. “Sorry.”
I pocketed the piece and checked the clock on the wall. Time to get to work. I cleared our dishes, told Lola I’d catch up with her later, and settled myself in the pantry among the shelves of cans and packages and spices to take inventory.
I’d seen the pendant somewhere before.
9
“Hey, O’Dell. What’s for lunch?” Penny slid onto a stool at the bar, decked out in her postal service uniform. “I’m in a hurry.”
Killing Time Page 10
