Killing Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  She returned the jewelry. “Ammolite is very valuable.” Her eyes wandered away to the far side of the lobby, where the actors had appeared and were being greeted by a general explosion of goodwill. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  Without waiting for any response, Bella reached Carlos, extracting him from some members of his adoring public, and latched onto his arm before shifting toward Gabriel and whispering something in his ear. Perhaps congratulations on a fine performance. It was well-deserved.

  I couldn’t afford to watch any more of the post-show festivity. I needed to get to the Windjammer. My fingers encircled the pendant. Bella hadn’t denied that it was hers or mentioned how she might have misplaced it. Yet, she seemed to know about the origin and history of the material. Something didn’t add up.

  10

  Romeo turned up the volume on his iPod, and music blared through the compact speakers stationed on the bar. What had begun as an after-the-play drink had morphed into an impromptu bash. The only customers left in the Windjammer at this hour were from the ELT, the last of the non-Dracula crowd having taken flight half an hour ago. With the next performance of the show several days away, the cast and crew had decided to let their hair down.

  “Think the booze will hold out?” Benny grinned and uncorked another bottle of white wine.

  “Talk about letting off steam.”

  Abby and Romeo began to dance around the tables along with Pauli and Janice. Gabriel and Mildred joined them as Edna tried her darnedest to pry Walter out of a booth, where he was morosely skimming through emails and pretending that Edna was not tugging on his arm. She shrugged in defeat and waltzed past me. “Walter’s a 10-7. Out of service.”

  “10-4. Anything new on the investigation?” I didn’t add that Bill had been MIA since early that morning.

  “Other than the identification? Can you believe it? The mob in Etonville?” She clamped a hand over her mouth. Too late. “Mum’s the word.”

  Though I already had this intel from Bill, I pretended surprise and raised a hand. “Scout’s honor.” Word would be all over Etonville any day now.

  “The tox screen will close the case,” she said knowingly.

  “Right.” I assumed Edna figured that once I knew about the identity of the dead man, being privy to the standard tests screening blood and other bodily fluids was no big deal. I played dumb.

  “A tox screen should do it,” I said.

  “Copy that.”

  Gabriel twirled a giggling Mildred. “Edna, I have a question…”

  “Yeah?” She stuffed a few loose hairs into her bun.

  “Does Gabriel get along with the rest of the cast? I mean, he’s an out-of-towner, and you know how Etonville can be.” I was thinking of the night I saw the argument between him and Carlos.

  She followed my gaze. Gabriel and Mildred were now dragging Vernon, protesting mightily, to his feet, Gabriel shouting into Vernon’s ear and Mildred mouthing don’t be a stick-in-the-mud.

  “Gabe? Why, he’s like one of us. Like a member of the family. The theater family. Walter treats him like the son he never had,” she said confidentially.

  Cute. That’s all Walter needed. A son…

  At the other end of the bar, Lola, who was deep in a discussion with Penny, raised her head and lifted her empty glass. I caught Benny’s eye, picked up the fresh glass of wine, and maneuvered my way through the wiggling crowd to the stool next to Lola. “Here you go. Penny?”

  “No, thanks, O’Dell. I’m driving.”

  As if the rest of the company wasn’t? “They’re glad to have a few days off.”

  “They need a break. This show has been intense,” Lola moaned.

  We pivoted our bodies to face Walter across the dining room, still holed up in the booth.

  Penny stood, rising to her full five-foot-two inches. “He can’t resign. He can’t! Walter is the ELT, and without him there’s no theater family. We’re all for one and none for all. I know he has a tough hoe to row, but we can’t let him get an insult and an injury and air the laundry that’s the dirtiest. He’s got to climb into a saddle even if it is the wrong tree that’s barking. He can’t choose to be a beggar!” She grabbed Benny’s apron. “Give me a dry martini, two olives.”

  Lola and I gaped at Penny, who strutted her way to Walter’s side. She nudged him over and settled onto the seat. Not sure who I felt sorrier for: Penny or Walter.

  “I need some sleep,” said Lola. She drained her wineglass and gave me a hug.

  I watched her exit, then nodded at Benny, who blinked the dining-room lights to signal last call. Within half an hour, the music died, the cast and crew departed, and Benny and I cleaned up the remains of the gathering. I swept and mopped as he scrubbed the bar and emptied the sink.

  “Glad we’re closed tomorrow,” Benny said, zipping his coat.

  “Hooray for Sunday! I hated to end the fun, but it’s late.”

  “I’ll say. Twelve thirty. Want me to lock up?” he asked.

  “No, you go. I’m good.”

  Benny said good night and took off. I scanned the dining room, all set for the lunch service on Monday. I flicked off the lights, turned the key in the lock, and moved down the sidewalk past the theater to my MC, parked half a block away. Deep in my bag, my cell phone buzzed. I dug it out and saw a text from Bill. I’d messaged him almost two hours earlier, saying I’d be home shortly. That was before the dancing started…where are you? he asked; on my way. long story, I responded. Had Bill been waiting up for me? I’d expected to find him snoring away. Without warning, my exhaustion took a hike. I slammed the car door shut and switched on the ignition.

  As I backed out of my parking space, happy to see that the Etonville meter maids had cut me a break, I noticed a light flicker in my rearview mirror. Someone else was pulling onto Main Street. The road had been deserted when I left the Windjammer. Normally at this time of the night, I would execute an illegal U-turn and cruise to Bill’s place. Though it was getting later by the minute, and I had assured Bill I would be home soon, my curiosity was on overdrive. Adrenaline kicked in.

  I drove at a snail’s pace one block, waiting until the light turned yellow at the intersection. I turned right in a hurry and, switching off my headlights, ducked into the alley that ran behind a bookstore, the theater, and the Windjammer. My MC was small enough that I could squeeze into a space adjacent to the dumpster at the ELT loading dock. I cut the engine and cracked the window, scooting down in my seat as I heard the hum of an engine close by. I imagined that the car had stalked me through the intersection and now sat on Amber Street, trying to decide its next move. I peeked through the rear window. All I could see around the corner of the dumpster was a dark shape. We waited in this standoff for a couple of minutes that seemed like forever. Then the other car blinked first and coasted down Amber.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath and exhaled, relieved to be rid of whoever was tailing me. If that was what this was about. I put the MC in reverse and crunched gravel as I drove slowly out of the alley. To my left lay Main Street and the path to Bill’s; to my right, the mystery car. I turned right. I had no idea if I’d catch up with the automobile, but my instincts would not give up. I kept the headlights off, picked up speed, passing the Valley Savings Bank and Lacey’s Market, and headed for State Route 53, which provided access to highways leading east to New York City and west to more rural parts of New Jersey.

  Out of the blackness of the night, two red dots appeared up ahead. Did they belong to my stalker? I had no definite way of knowing, but no harm no foul. The worst that could happen? I’d tail a car that was headed home and I’d be even later arriving at Bill’s. I pressed the accelerator, inching closer to the red lights. One thing for sure: I felt more secure being the follower than the one followed.

  About a hundred yards from the entrance to Rt. 53, the car abruptly veered to the left on
to the access road, driving faster now. So, he, or she, wasn’t heading onto the highway. The speedometer inched up as I tried to keep pace. We flew down the street, circling back to town, zigzagging through neighborhoods. Was my pursuer trying to shake me? I knew Etonville like the back of my hand, but so did the other driver, apparently. Within minutes, we’d crisscrossed streets that took us to the outskirts of town. There was nothing much out here. La Famiglia, the cemetery, an open field... My heart thunked. The old Hanratty place. And Carlos.

  The car shot forward at the next turn, but I’d lost my enthusiasm for the cat-and-mouse game that was being played out. I gave up and limped back to Bill’s. I parked in the driveway, keeping as quiet as possible as I let myself into the house. I didn’t want to wake him if he’d fallen asleep. And I didn’t want to have to explain what I’d been doing for the last forty-five minutes. I needn’t have worried. I slipped under the covers, rolling over to face him in bed, his spiky hair a tangle, his stubble pronounced. Bill snored away. Unfortunately, now I was hyperalert, my eyes wide open. Sleep was not on my radar.

  * * * *

  “You look like you haven’t been to bed at all,” Bill said, scooping up the last of his oatmeal.

  “Sunday, you know? I thought we could sleep in.” I yawned. It was only eight o’clock. I loved having the freedom of a day off.

  “I waited up last night as long as I could.”

  “Sorry,” I said, my head planted on top of my fist. “The Dracula gang would have partied all night if we’d let them.” No need to mention my car episode.

  “Couldn’t throw them out, huh?” Bill laughed. At least his mouth laughed. His eyes were another matter, taking on the cloudy expression I’d seen before when something was gnawing at him.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “More coffee?” Bill rose and retrieved the coffeepot.

  I pushed my mug toward him. “Can’t talk about it?”

  He filled my cup. “It’s this Daryl Wolf business.”

  “The pro.”

  “The coroner came back with the results of the tox screen….”

  Which, according to Edna, would put an end to the investigation.

  “Nothing really unusual. No drugs, blood alcohol level normal. Heart medications in the bloodstream. Some stuff for blood pressure and arrhythmia. The autopsy confirmed what the coroner had already established in the preliminary findings. Heart disease.”

  Which everyone in town knew by now. “So good news, right?”

  “I don’t know. Something feels off.”

  “Oho! Now you’re operating on instincts,” I teased. Instincts were usually my bailiwick; not exactly in Bill’s wheelhouse.

  He ignored my gentle jab. “I’ve requested some specialized tests from the medical examiner. I’d like him to dig a little deeper.”

  Just when the death appeared to be wrapped up. I was almost afraid to ask. “Now what?”

  “We’ve got calls into Chicago to see what they know about his associates. Why he might have been in New Jersey. Any way you slice it, knowing about his background only makes things more complicated.” Bill sipped his coffee in silence. “I have to get moving.”

  “On Sunday?” I’d had other things in mind.

  “Emergency meeting of the police chiefs commission in Trenton. State budget issues.”

  “You were going to make chili for the Giants game.” As a former NFL running back, this was Bill’s default activity for a Sunday afternoon.

  “I am. The meeting’s at ten o’clock. I’ll be home by one. The game isn’t on until four, so there’s plenty of time for the chili to simmer.” He kissed me on the cheek, grabbed his coat and keys, and was out the door before I could protest any further.

  I had the day to squander until Bill got back from his meeting, so I weighed my options: I could go back to bed; I could clean my bungalow and catch up with laundry; or… I’d left my laptop in my bag. Pauli had sent me notes about his cross-referencing of the obits from the Daily Herald. I opened my computer and clicked on his email. The obvious information—who had lived in Chicago, who had what kind of an education or had done a stint in the military—hadn’t been particularly enlightening. What did pique my curiosity was his ability to track the deceaseds’ geographical patterns outside Chicago—where else they had lived or traveled to—and the family trees. Maybe there was a scrap of information buried in the notes that would provide a hint to Carlos’s interest in the Chicago area newspaper. One more deep dive into Pauli’s research might satisfy my craving to sort out his background. Unless this sheet of newspaper meant nothing at all.

  I poured my last cup of caffeine for the day and settled onto Bill’s comfy plush sofa with my laptop. I opened Pauli’s notes and took a leisurely stroll through his findings about these seventeen souls. I bypassed causes of death, survivors, careers, and lingered for a moment on social media. Pauli had discovered that fourteen of the seventeen had either Facebook pages or Twitter accounts. Or both. No Instagram accounts. Six of the accounts were inactive, according to his notes. Which left five people on Facebook and three on Twitter. I skimmed the FB accounts of the five and found nothing that seemed unusual: all were grandparents and posted pictures and videos of children and grandchildren. I smiled, thinking of my own parents’ posts of their life in Naples, Florida: pictures taken on the golf course, at my mother’s book club, at their favorite restaurant, and in their kitchen as my father attempted to make Bill’s gourmet meat loaf.

  Next, I studied geographical travel patterns. Interestingly enough, two thirds of the deceased had hardly ever left the Midwest. Their travel had consisted of trips to Ohio, Michigan, Missouri, and the deep South. Two had gone to Europe and one had traveled to China. That left five. One had been a missionary and spent most of her life abroad in Africa; one had a career in international banking in London; two had never left Illinois.

  The travel profile of the last person, Barbara Mercer, was the most intriguing. Eighty when she passed away last summer, besides California and the Northwest, she’d been to Australia, Eastern Europe, Asia, and …New Jersey. Not a typical East Coast vacation to New York City or Washington, DC. But New Jersey? Possibly meant nothing, nevertheless my snooping reflexes were triggered. Her visits to the Garden State occurred every other month for a year to an address in Lennox. I’d never heard of the town.

  I Googled the name, and up popped a listing of the tiniest towns in the state. Lennox was one of the tiniest. Population 1,150. Situated about forty-five minutes west of Etonville, near the Delaware Water Gap, the town had a general store and a church. I’d thought Etonville was small. Its profile described the municipality as working class, most residents living in apartment complexes and condo units. No full-time police force and one employee in the Department of Public Works. What had attracted Barbara Mercer to Lennox?

  I skipped from geographical tracking to family trees. The genealogy wasn’t extensive, Pauli’s research revealing three generations at most for the obits. I browsed Barbara’s relatives. Her husband had passed away, but she had two children—Olivia and Ethan. Olivia lived in California and had never married. Ethan and his wife had raised a son—Mason—in the Chicago area. No record of their current address. None of the Mercers were on Facebook.

  I sank into the sofa cushions and closed my eyes. Contemplating. It was a tenuous link between Barbara Mercer’s obituary in the Daily Herald and Carlos Villarias’s wastepaper basket that hid the newspaper. Did Barbara and Carlos have anything in common? Had I forced Pauli to spin his wheels looking for…what?

  My musings were giving me a headache. I should have spent the morning cleaning my house. Then I felt a tingle on the back of my neck…something felt strange. No sign of Ethan or Olivia Mercer or the Villariases on social media. What did that mean? On a whim, I scanned the White Pages on my laptop for “Mercer” in Lennox and found no addresses.

 
My cell pinged. Lola: what are you up to? did you check those wedding venues? hate to bug you. Poor Lola. As a wedding planner, she had her work cut out for her. I had an inspiration. I texted back: how about a road trip?

  I had one more text to send. I asked Pauli if his algorithm and deep geographical searching could generate a specific address in a specific town for one of the obits. Two minutes later I had it: 782 Lancer Avenue, Lennox, New Jersey.

  * * * *

  “Usually we take my Lexus,” Lola said.

  “I was in the mood to drive.” Lola was ecstatic that I had begun the wedding planning process. Except that I hadn’t.

  “So this place is in a town called…?”

  “Lennox.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” she said.

  “Me neither. The restaurant description was fantastic. Old world charm, dates from the late seventeen hundreds. Family run.” Had I said enough? I felt a smidgeon of guilt involving Lola in my Lennox road trip. However, she provided cover for the afternoon in case Bill got curious. I would fill her in later. For now, I simply wanted to drive by the address Pauli had located and see if anyone by the name of Mercer lived there.

  “Do they host many weddings?” Lola asked, skeptical.

  “I think so.”

  “Have you and Bill decided how big you intend to go?”

  Bill and I hadn’t had an in-depth talk about our nuptials since our engagement at the Jersey Shore in early September. We’d been busy, or tired, or distracted…were we avoiding the topic? “We’re still discussing it.”

  Lola folded her hands and laid them in her lap. “Dodie?”

  My GPS Genie said we were fifteen minutes away.

  “Are you getting cold feet? About the wedding?” she asked.

  “Me? No!”

  “Because it feels as though you are…dragging your heels.”

  “Bill and I are good to go. Things are hectic. And now with the death of that man in the cemetery…”