Killing Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  * * * *

  There was a black hood over my head. I was suffocating. Then a hideous skull mask appeared in front of my face. I screamed for help. I woke with a jolt, my heart banging in my chest, the nightmare a mash-up of the coffin and the Grim Reaper.

  The alarm read 5:30. Too early to rise. I hunkered down under the covers. It was over an hour until sunrise, the middle of the night as far as I was concerned. I shut my eyes and did one of Walter’s breathing exercises to shift my system into low gear. He tended to foist them on his actors during rehearsal warm-ups. The cast usually rolled their eyes. I would never reveal the fact that I had begun to find his rehearsal drills useful. Especially after his snarky comments to me last night. He could have been a little sympathetic to my having been locked inside the coffin. I was locked in, right? Was I doubting my own experience?

  Despite the calming workout, my mind began to leapfrog over one thought after another—the Grim Reaper, Carlos, Bella, Barbara Mercer, Mark Johnson, Daryl Wolf…the list of dodgy names was growing day by day.

  Staying in bed was pointless. I took a quick shower, dressed in leggings and a hoodie, and strode to my car. A brisk walk in the park and a visit to Coffee Heaven would settle my soul. Or else rev me up. Either way, I needed to move into the day.

  The sun was rising as I crawled down Main Street, then turned right on Amber past the Municipal Building, wondering what progress was being made in the Daryl Wolf investigation, if any, with Bill out of town. When I reached the edge of Etonville, something clicked for me. Bella had said Carlos left the house “early” for work that morning. What did early mean? It was almost seven a.m. If he commuted to Clifton, as she’d revealed, he might be leaving home in the next hour.

  If I intended to see what Carlos was up to, I had to be cautious. His rental house stood out in the open; anyone who came near the place would be seen. I swung down the closest side street, almost a hundred yards from the Hanratty place, did a U-turn, and pulled to the curb. I could just make out the front door of the house. It was seven fifteen. I slid down in my seat until I was barely visible. And I waited. Across the street, a woman left her home, hurried into an SUV, and drove off. I waited some more. Behind me, the door of a house opened and a couple I recognized from the Windjammer walked to their car parked in the driveway, laughing and talking animatedly. In no great hurry and apparently in a good mood despite the fact that they were probably heading to work.

  My eyes felt heavy and drifted shut. I blinked hard a few times and opened the window. I needed oxygen. The cool air was like a shot of adrenaline. More alert now, I evaluated my mission. Doubtless a fool’s errand, to quote my mother. What did I expect to discover? Even if I managed to follow Carlos somewhere—presumably to his job—what would that tell me? And what if Bella was fabricating a story to protect her husband for some reason?

  Carlos exited the Hanratty house. He wore a suit coat, an open shirt—no tie—and carried a briefcase. Carlos looked like many other ordinary folks leaving home for a day at the office. Except that he was not an ordinary individual. He hesitated on the front porch, as if he was waiting for someone. Then he turned back to the house and leaned into the open door. Saying goodbye to Bella?

  Seconds passed, and Carlos shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other. Then a black sedan zoomed down the lane leading to Carlos’s home. This was someone not afraid to signal his or her presence. The car swerved onto the Hanratty property, gravel flying out from under its tires, and came to an abrupt stop in front of the actor, who had descended the steps. Without missing a beat, Carlos jumped into the front seat. I switched on the ignition, and my MC crept forward. In a flash, Carlos’s chauffeur backed up and made a sweeping turn off the driveway and onto the lane. I eased down in my seat again as the two of them sped past me. They were in a hurry. I darted onto the lane after them.

  The black car turned onto Fairfield Street, a stone’s throw from my home. We were headed back into the town center. But instead of turning down Main or another road in Etonville, the car shot down Fairfield, past the entrance to my street and Lacey’s Market, and raced onto the access road leading to the state route. Where were the two of them going? I kept my distance while craning my neck to see around anyone who got between us. Once they darted onto the highway, I was in safer territory. Morning commuters had clogged the route, most likely either traveling to Route 3 and Manhattan or to Bernridge—home of the actor playing Renfield, the teenagers guilty of pitching beer bottles in the cemetery, and the Chinese takeout menu I saw on Carlos’s desk. My money, for some reason, was on Bernridge.

  The black car swerved in and out of traffic, cutting off other motorists. I leaned forward, squinting at the sun coming through the windshield, my hands tensely gripping the steering wheel. It was the Indy 500 in suburban New Jersey. This driver had to be crazy, most definitely reckless. I stayed two car lengths behind my target, changing lanes when necessary to keep up.

  Then, without warning or blinking an indicator light, the black sedan veered to the right and the exit to Bernridge. I was correct. Little comfort, though, as Carlos’s driver ignored honking horns and one braking SUV to rocket off Route 53 down the exit ramp. I followed slowly, afraid to get too close. The sedan barely slowed at the stop sign at the end of the ramp, making a quick right into Bernridge’s rush hour. We proceeded at a snail’s pace through town until we reached the far end, an industrial area. Warehouses lined the street, delivery trucks backed up to loading docks. Despite the shining sun and brilliant blue sky, the area felt dark and dingy.

  I tailed the black sedan until it moved through the warehouse area, and the driver tapped the brakes. A first. I eased to the curb behind a van. Up ahead, Carlos and companion pulled into the parking lot of a run-down, two-story building. Could this be where he worked? Was this his office? Bella had said Clifton, not Bernridge. I left my MC behind, kept the sedan in sight, and maneuvered my way around the parked cars on the street until I was within a dozen yards. I crouched down behind a pickup truck. As far as I could tell, neither Carlos nor the driver had gotten out. Minutes passed. I was getting tired, hunched down and afraid someone was going to come by and blow my cover, asking who I was spying on.

  The passenger side door opened and Carlos emerged, reaching back inside for his briefcase. He walked around the back of the sedan and stood adjacent to the driver’s side door. It swung open, and a man stepped out. He wore a brown coat, a baseball cap, was of medium build, shorter than Carlos. They faced each other for a moment, then the driver burst out laughing and slapped Carlos on the back. The actor bobbed his head and shook the driver’s hand, like an old friend. In the past weeks, I hadn’t seen anyone get that personal with the Dracula star. Neither on nor offstage. Until they drove the stake through his heart…

  Carlos walked into the building. The driver pivoted to his left. I ducked down, my vision blocked by the hood of the pickup. I heard an engine rumble and assumed it was safe to look up again. As the sedan squeezed between two cars and turned to exit the lot, I scooted to the back of the truck to keep hidden. But before he moved onto the street, the driver looked right, then left, and I caught his face. Those eyes were familiar. Mr. Chicago.

  * * * *

  “Regular, hon?” Jocelyn asked.

  I confirmed the order.

  “You look like you could use extra icing this morning.” The Coffee Heaven waitress sidled away, filling coffee cups, taking another order or two.

  I drove to Etonville in a daze, remaining in the slow lane. The plumbing salesman from the Midwest who had been hanging around Etonville for the past few days, who didn’t acknowledge at the performance of Dracula that he knew Carlos, apparently did know him. Well enough to drive him to work.

  Jocelyn appeared with my breakfast. “Looking a little peaked, Dodie. Maybe you should take it easy.”

  I smiled my thanks and picked up a napkin.

  “You should hire a
wedding planner. Take a load off your mind.”

  Etonville was full of advice about my upcoming nuptials. It wasn’t my wedding that had me disturbed this morning. I couldn’t get the image of Mr. Chicago out of my mind. “Lola’s helping plan my big day,” I said brightly.

  “Lola.” Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed. “Think she’s still after Walter?”

  “Lola? No!” I said a mite too forcefully.

  “I saw them together at the Halloween party.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t blame her if she was. Walter’s some kind of man.”

  Agreed. I was curious. “What do you like about him the most?”

  Jocelyn’s face took on a dreamy expression. “His cute little ears, that smile, his dimple…”

  Walter had a dimple?

  “Walter’s the perfect man. Anybody’d be lucky to have him.” Jocelyn moved on to her next customers.

  Love certainly was in the eye of the beholder. My cell buzzed. A text from Bill. Speaking of the perfect man… hi…miss u…freezing here. finding interesting stuff. want to talk later? I answered that it was nice and balmy here yesterday and I’d love to chat. We agreed on ten thirty tonight. I was closing, but the Windjammer would be quiet by then. I wondered about that “interesting stuff.” I’d have to wait to get the scoop.

  I finished my cinnamon bun and doodled on a paper napkin. I’d also discovered some “interesting stuff” this morning. Should I tell Bill about tracking Carlos? Seeing Mr. Chicago with the actor? What would he make of it, if anything? Mr. Chicago was a puzzle. What was his relationship with Carlos anyway?

  “Get you anything else?” Jocelyn asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  She slipped into my booth and leaned across the table. I was taken aback; she’d never joined me before. Jocelyn lowered her voice. “Heard something strange.” She arched an eyebrow for emphasis.

  Strange? This was Etonville. Where strange things happened on a daily basis.

  “Bella Villarias was in here this morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “We got to talking about the weather, Dracula…Did you know Carlos did a lot of acting in college?”

  “I’d heard that.”

  “Anyhoo, I took her order and was walking away when she got a call. Now, I didn’t intend to listen, but the Banger sisters were sitting there.” Jocelyn pointed to a nearby table. “And they wanted more coffee, so I had to fill their cups….”

  “Right. And…?” I was getting antsy. A lot on my plate today.

  “While I was standing there pretending to listen to the sisters…you know they can go on and on,” she said.

  They weren’t the only ones. I had to move this along. “You heard Bella say something?”

  Jocelyn shifted position, so that her head was inches from my face. “She was talking real low, but I have good hearing. Always have.” She paused for effect. “Daryl Wolf.”

  “Daryl Wolf. The victim from the cemetery?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about him?” This was like pulling teeth.

  “Well…Bella said…now let me get this correct… ‘Daryl Wolf died of a heart attack.’”

  “That’s been in the Etonville Standard. Nothing strange about it,” I said. I placed a ten-dollar bill on the table, thrust one arm into my jacket signaling that it was time to leave, and stood.

  Jocelyn tapped the table. “But then she said… ‘his medicine?’ Like that. ‘His medicine?’ It was a question.”

  Bill had said there were blood pressure and arrhythmia meds in his bloodstream.

  “Most folks with heart conditions are on a variety of medications.”

  Jocelyn glanced around the diner. Satisfied that no one was paying us any attention, she continued. “After that, she said ‘…would kill him,’ real tenselike.” Jocelyn looked at me expectantly. “‘Would kill him,’” she repeated.

  I sat. “When did you overhear this?”

  “About a half hour before you came in.”

  After Carlos had been dropped off by Mr. Chicago. It wasn’t abnormal that he might call Bella and relate his experience with the stranger from the Windy City. They had also talked about the death of the hitman. Across the diner, a customer waved a coffee cup at Jocelyn. She whispered, “Do you think it means Daryl Wolf’s medicine killed him?”

  As per Bill’s confidential disclosure, a deeper dive into the tox screen was coming. “Probably a general conversation about medication. Maybe she has relatives or friends who’ve had heart attacks.” I rose again. “You might not want to repeat what you heard. It could get back to Bella that you were…” Spying? Snooping?

  “Listening in.” Jocelyn heaved herself out of the booth. “You know, Bella offered to read tarot cards for me. I said ‘nope.’ I already know the future.” She waltzed away.

  Yikes. Jocelyn’s eavesdropping complicated Bella’s role in the Daryl Wolf drama….

  * * * *

  I could hardly believe my eyes. The lunch rush was underway, the second day of sliders attracting even more patrons than the first one had. Barbecued pulled pork. I had scarfed down a couple of the mini sandwiches before we opened. Yummy. Henry had outdone himself, and the town appreciated it. Which they told him in person, because at one thirty he relinquished the kitchen to Enrico for a bit and happily mingled with the customers. They could hardly believe it either because most of them gawked at the chef, exchanging comments with one another before they congratulated Henry on his success.

  “What’s that sweet-and-sour taste?” Vernon asked.

  “Balsamic vinegar, honey, and brown sugar,” Henry said proudly.

  “I like the spiciness,” Mildred said, licking some sauce from her finger.

  “Worcestershire and Dijon mustard.” Henry actually grinned.

  Benny and I exchanged looks. “What is that about?” I asked.

  “Dunno. He’s never liked to reveal his recipes,” Benny murmured.

  “I’ll bet it has something to do with La Famiglia. Like their chef is dining room friendly…”

  “Game on.” Benny uncorked a wine bottle.

  By three, I had been running nonstop for several hours and my feet were killing me. Henry had retreated to the kitchen, his ego roundly massaged. Enough to last him until Christmas. I collapsed into my “office” with coffee and chicken soup. I hoped the rest of the day was quieter. I loved the business, and the Windjammer’s bank account, but between my very early rising, tailing Carlos, and unsettling news from Jocelyn, I was ready for a nap.

  I was midway through examining staff schedules for the coming weekend when the jingle bells at the door tinkled. I didn’t bother looking up. Gillian could seat whoever.

  “I’ll have those special sliders. Pretty good yesterday.”

  Mr. Chicago. He was still in town. And sitting at the counter again. I studied him from the corner of my booth. In the brown coat from this morning, but he now wore dark sunglasses. If he was up to something nefarious, he certainly wasn’t worried about keeping a low profile. Should I make myself known? I weighed the pros and cons of saying hello.

  “Dodie,” Gillian called from behind the counter. She was studying the Windjammer’s iPad.

  Mr. Chicago looked over, my cover blown.

  “Yes?” I ignored his casual glance.

  “Just got a big reservation for tonight, and they want a table in a corner, away from the door.”

  “Who is it?” I asked

  “The garden club,” she said.

  Geez. We’d hosted them once before. About ten or twelve women who had organized Etonville’s chapter of the Garden Club of New Jersey. Usually they held their monthly dinner meeting at La Famiglia. Something must have come up at our competition. “Better tell Henry.” Good-sized groups were always welcome; however, the garden club presented complications. They were picky about their loc
ation in the restaurant and the menu. They disliked too much noise, other customers eating too close to them, kids crying, etc., etc. Somehow we’d have to make them happy.

  My cell rang. “Hi, Lola. What’s up?”

  “Walter’s dander. Ever since that tarot card reading, his confidence has gone down the drain.”

  Walter had apparently called for a speed-through tonight at the last minute. I’d learned a lot of theater lingo over the past few years and I knew that a “speed-through” at the Etonville Little Theatre often resulted in a train wreck. It meant that the cast had to speed through their lines as fast as they could. Between the actors getting carried away and Penny blasting her whistle to maintain some discipline, the whole affair seemed a waste of time to me. According to Walter, it was a test to see how secure they were with the script. Did he think their brains turned to mush because they had a few days off between weekend performances? He had already scheduled a brush-up rehearsal for tomorrow.

  “Can you stop by the theater later?” Lola asked. “It would be nice to have you around for moral support.”

  “I’m closing. And we have the garden club here…”

  “Oh them,” Lola said.

  “I’m sure Walter will settle down once the show is back in performance.” I hoped.

  We agreed to text once rehearsal was over and I had closed up the Windjammer and spoken with Bill, maybe catch up with a chat at her house.

  Mr. Chicago was finishing his meal, digging into his wallet, when I eased out of my booth and walked to the cash register. “Hello there,” I said when it was obvious our paths would cross. “Glad to see you’re enjoying our menu.”