“I suppose.” Where was she going with this?
“It’s good to trust your intuition. Still, be careful,” she said quietly. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Me neither. I strode away.
“Hiya, Dodie,” Edna called out from dispatch, where she removed a lid from her takeout coffee container. “What’s today’s slider special?”
I waved as I walked to her window. “Mini cheesesteaks. Philly by way of Etonville.”
“The chief would love those. Take him back to former days in the City of Brotherly Love.” Edna winked.
“Guess so.” I had a sudden inspiration. Mr. Chicago. “Has there been an increase in parking tickets by the Windjammer?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “What do you mean?”
“We had an out-of-town customer several days this past week, and each time he parked illegally in front of the restaurant. You know how the town meter maid is about Main Street.”
“Hmmm; 586s. Don’t know, but I can check.” She grinned slyly. “You looking to have Bill fix them?”
Yikes! “No way! I was thinking if he had gotten tickets, I might persuade him to park elsewhere.”
Edna picked up a pen. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll bet the car is a rental. He’s been a good customer.” At least a consistent one.
She leaned through the window, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
“10-4.” I breezed down the hall and out of the building.
It was a long shot, but maybe Edna could come up with a name and address for Mr. Chicago without my having to request that Suki, or Bill, run his license plate through a rental company. At least I’d gotten past my visit to Suki without having to reveal anything too problematic.
I hadn’t had my first hit of caffeine for the day, so I popped into Coffee Heaven for a takeaway caramel macchiato. Jocelyn took my order, then whizzed around the diner. The place was packed. I took out my cell to check for texts or emails just as a flurry of motion behind me caused me to look up.
It was the Banger sisters, waving from a booth to beat the band. Impossible to ignore them. “Dodie, we’ve got new hairstyles, dontcha know,” said one, patting her head.
“Just like yours,” said the other.
Like mine? Their still-identical cuts still featured gray permed hair. I couldn’t see any difference.
“Attractive,” I said.
“Sexy and sassy!” said the first. They beamed.
Sheesh. I grabbed my drink, gestured that I had to leave, and rushed out the door. With a little over an hour before I had to report to the Windjammer, I had one more errand on my agenda. Carlos’s place of work. I retrieved the address from my cell phone and set my MC in the direction of Bernridge. Traffic was light on State Route 53, and I made it to the exit in record time. It didn’t compute for me. Carlos going to work in a shabby building in an industrial part of Bernridge. Bella had said he was in “management.” What was he managing in that location?
Within minutes of arriving at the town center, I was sitting in the same parking lot where Mr. Chicago had brought Carlos, thanks to having avoided the morning rush. I peered out my windshield. From this angle, I could see the front of the two-story structure. The exterior of the first floor was covered with faded gray paint. The second story had a beige exterior with two windows. Painted over, from the looks of them. There was a sign atop the door into the office that read “Speedwell Auto Parts.” I could easily concoct a reason for entering the building—I was lost, I needed directions, etc., etc.—but what if Carlos was working behind a desk in the space? What would I say to him?
Before I could decide, Carlos appeared in the parking lot. Once again, I found myself ducking behind the wheel to avoid being seen. But I needn’t have worried; he darted out of the building, hopped into his car, and took off. I could either tail him to who-knew-where or check out his work environment. The work won.
I straightened my clothes and walked to the entrance. The distinct odor of oil and machines—factory smells—hit me the moment I pulled the door open. A woman of indeterminate age—fifties to seventies—sat behind an old metal schoolroom desk, a cigarette in one hand, a pencil in the other, as she studied a sheaf of papers. A bad henna dye job covered short, straight hair. She jammed the cigarette in an ashtray and stubbed it out.
“Help you?” she asked brusquely.
“Hi. I think I’m lost. I was looking for…” I made a show of taking a Coffee Heaven carryout receipt out of my bag and scrutinizing it. “Hawthorne Street.”
“Hawthorne Street? Kiddo you’re on the wrong end of town.”
“I am? Oops! I get confused whenever I’m in Bernridge.”
“Go left out of here until you hit Main. Then hang a right, drive for a mile or so. You can’t miss it.” She smirked wryly as if to add “well, maybe you can.”
I had to laugh. “Thanks.” I got a glimpse of the shop behind the tiny, crowded office space. “Auto parts.”
“Yep.”
“I’m from Etonville, but I had a neighbor who worked in this part of Bernridge a few years ago. He was a business manager.”
She grunted. “Didn’t work here. No managers.”
“Must have been another business.”
“Yep. There’s only me, Johnny, his brother, and Carlos.”
My pulse accelerated. “Small enterprise.”
“Family owned and operated. Except for Carlos.”
“Oh? What does he do?”
“Bookkeeper. Good with numbers.”
I thanked the “receptionist” for her help and ran to my car before the “bookkeeper,” Carlos, returned. So he was good with numbers… Not exactly the employment picture Bella painted of him. Surely she was aware of his job at Speedwell Auto Parts?
15
So Carlos Villarias was a bookkeeper, probably from the Chicago area. Where he might have been referred to as an accountant. Was there something about that occupation that drove him to New Jersey, first, and to change his name, second? I’d seen enough movies on TCM to recognize the-accountant-on-the-run-from-the-mob character. Was that why Daryl Wolf was in Etonville? To track Carlos down because he was familiar with shady accounting practices? And then what…? I shuddered. I was letting my powers of invention run too freely.
“Getting a cold?” Benny asked as he filled two glasses with soda.
“Don’t think so. Is it chilly in here?” I asked.
Benny examined me. “No. Do you need an early night to go home and hit the sack?”
Come to think of it… “I thought I’d run next door at about seven. Dress rehearsal.”
“No problem.”
“How was the dance recital?”
Benny whipped out his cell and spent the next ten minutes sharing videos of his princess tapping away in her tutu and spangles. He certainly was a doting father. Which reminded me: my father’s birthday was at the end of the month. Time to think about a gift.
From behind me, I heard, “Set me up with today’s special sliders.”
The voice made my skin crawl. “Good choice. Mini cheesesteaks,” I said perkily. Benny wrote up his order and went to the kitchen.
Mr. Chicago flipped through his cell phone, ignoring me.
“Hope you didn’t park illegally today. The meter maid was on the prowl earlier,” I said.
“Hah,” he barked. “Haven’t gotten a ticket yet.”
Damn. Edna would spin her wheels for nothing. Benny sauntered out of the kitchen with a plate of cheesesteak sliders and set it in front of the plumbing salesman, drawing a soda for him without even asking what he wanted to drink. He smiled his thanks, set the phone aside, and took a large bite of his sandwich.
I had a brilliant brainstorm. I whipped out my cell and snapped a photo.
&
nbsp; “Hey!” Mr. Chicago said, holding a napkin to his mouth.
“We’re redoing the Windjammer website. Featuring specials. Would you mind letting me take your picture with the sliders?”
He stopped chewing for a second.
I hastened on. “With Benny?”
“Got it.” Benny moved around the counter, standing next to Mr. Chicago before he could refuse. I clicked away.
“Perfect!” I praised the two of them. “These will be terrific on the site. Enjoy your lunch.”
I drew a cup of coffee and retired quickly to my back booth. My impulse not only included getting a snapshot of Mr. Chicago, but sending it to Pauli for some of his facial recognition exploration. I’d seen him do age progressions and regressions with photos in the past. I forwarded it to my tech guru with a request to run it through his law enforcement software for matches. Maybe the out-of-towner had a past too.
Which brought me back to a central point. What was Daryl Wolf doing in Etonville? Was he there to find Carlos? Bill would be coming home—great news—with intel provided by the Bureau of Organized Crime that might link Carlos to Daryl Wolf. What would happen then?
I stared at a Cheney Brothers inventory sheet, not even seeing the print on the page. I had to get a grip and prepare the kitchen for next week. I’d been encouraging Henry to experiment with some hearty one-dish specials, like chili rellenos and cheesy broccoli and quinoa with sausage. I’d dug up delectable recipes while I was down the shore on vacation. Casseroles would be an appealing late-autumn option. I tried to concentrate, estimating a meat and vegetable order, but my mind kept looping back to Carlos and Chicago. I’d Googled Villariases in that area to no success. Ditto with Mark Johnson. No one fit his description. Of course, if Carlos was in the habit of altering his identity, who knew what other names he might have taken?
My pen ran out of ink and I rummaged in my bag for a replacement. I bypassed my wallet, keys, Kleenex, a power bar, and a bottle of aspirin. At the bottom of my bag was a ballpoint pen and an Etonville Standard review of Dracula from last week. I hadn’t gotten around to reading the entire article. I skimmed it now. Generally glowing and congratulatory, it had to swell the collective ego of the Etonville Little Theatre. Muted praise for Walter’s “novel decisions to update the gender of the Attendant and the age of the Maid.” Less-than-enthusiastic mentions of Abby and Edna. However, Carlos received a rave for his portrayal of the vampire—no surprises there—he was a “natural, the role fit like a glove, as if he’d been born to play the part of the Transylvanian monster.” Hmm…maybe Dracula “fit like a glove” because Carlos had played him before.
I pulled out my cell phone, tapped on the Internet, and paused. Then typed “Dracula productions in the Chicago area 2011-2015” and hit Enter. Up popped half a dozen links. There were three productions of the play in and around Chicago during that time period. Wow! One in the city proper, one in Glenview, and another in Naperville. I clicked on links for websites of each theater, perusing recent production histories and reviews with actor mentions, crossing my fingers that I’d find photos of the casts somewhere. The Chicago production had a ton of mixed reviews and a picture of Dracula that definitely was not Carlos. Ditto for the Glenview show. Although with better and more flattering notices. Then I checked Naperville. On the website, I found an archive with references to past productions. There was a profile shot of Dracula biting the neck of Lucy. It could have been Carlos…but maybe not. I turned to reviews, also mixed except for the character of Dracula. One critic claimed the role “fit like a glove.” My heart slammed in my chest. I scrolled through reviews until I found one that included actors’ names. One reviewer was very generous, giving everybody in the cast a positive notice. Dracula was played by Ethan Mercer. Mercer.
“Dodie!”
I flinched.
Henry stood above me, frowning. “We’re short twenty pounds on the flounder. Again.”
Barbara Mercer in Lennox. So, she was his mother. Also likely Mercer was Carlos’s actual name.
“You hear me?” Henry asked.
“Yes. Twenty pounds of flounder,” I mumbled, dazed.
“Short.”
“Got it.”
Henry sighed, stopped to get iced tea at the bar and have a word with Benny, and marched back into his kitchen cave. I watched Henry’s progress, not really seeing him or absorbing the fact that Mr. Chicago had departed the restaurant. Some pieces of the Villarias puzzle were clearer now; others even more mystifying.
* * * *
Talk about a zombie. I’d gone about overseeing dining room preparation for the evening service in a fog, details bombarding me at every turn. Villarias, Johnson, Mercer…
And, of course, Daryl Wolf and Mr. Chicago. I was banking on Pauli coming through with results on that last one. Bill would have intel on Daryl Wolf by the end of this day. He should have texted or called by now to confirm his flight tonight. Why hadn’t I heard anything from him?
My phone buzzed. Lola: coming tonight? I had already intended to stop in next door to offer support. However, now I knew Carlos’s real name. I needed to think through my next move. I texted back: wouldn’t miss the brush-up! I wasn’t sure what I would do there…talk with Carlos? Confront him with what I knew? If his life was in danger, surely he and Bella would want to hit the road again after Dracula closed.
“Yoo-hoo! Dodie!”
I looked up from my cell. It was the Banger sisters, at a table in the middle of the dining room. Both of them wore their garlic necklaces. “Hi ladies. Something I can get you?” I said brightly.
They waved me over to their table, then bent their permed heads to speak to me as if in confidence. “We don’t want to start any rumors…” said one.
Uh-oh.
“But we heard that you and…Chief Thompson…” said the other.
“Have called off your engagement.” They gazed at me expectantly, eyes like saucers.
“What? Where did you hear that?” Now it was my turn to gawk. I knew the rumor mill worked overtime—Bill and I had been grist on more than one occasion. This was carrying things too far. “We’re still engaged.” I flashed my diamond, and the sisters shifted their focus from me to my ring. “You can spread that around. It won’t be a rumor but the truth.” I tried to smile pleasantly. It was more of a grimace.
Apparently satisfied, the sisters dug into their dinner of panko-crusted flounder and rosemary potatoes. I could swear when I wasn’t looking they studied my every move like they were reading tea leaves. Which reminded me of Bella. Now there was a mystery. Assuming Carlos was the runner from Chicago, where did Bella fit in? While I had been busy trying to sort out Carlos’s background, I’d ignored his wife’s. What did I know about her? She read palms and tarot cards, had an herb garden, and was sociable enough. In other words, not very much.
I scanned the dining room. It was approaching seven and the evening rush was over, traffic into the restaurant a mere trickle. I was free to go because Benny would take over. I packed up my bag, grabbed my takeout container of coffee. “Night. See you in the morning.”
“Hey,” he said, “Have you heard what those batty Banger sisters are saying about you and Bill?”
I groaned. “Don’t know who their source is.”
“They don’t need a source. They make things up out of thin air. Sometimes I think they’re not playing with a full deck.” He shook his head.
I laughed. My cell pinged. Bill: got delayed here…taking flight first thing in the morning. can u talk now? I texted that I could and left the Windjammer. On the sidewalk outside, I paused to inhale early November. The air was getting nippier by the night, the light breeze forcing me to flip up the collar on my leather jacket. I sat on the bench outside the theater. The lobby lights were on, the lobby itself empty. Probably the usual commotion in the theater that accompanied ELT brush-up rehearsals: Walter doing his best
to run the pre-show warm-ups, Penny blasting her whistle to get everyone’s attention, and the cast schmoozing and texting. Except for Carlos. He never schmoozed.
My cell rang. “Hey there, handsome,” I joked. “Guess you’re going to have to spend another night—”
“Dodie.”
Bill’s voice was grim, stopping me cold. “What’s up?”
“This Daryl Wolf thing is taking a turn. Getting complicated.”
My dread-o-meter shot up. “What’s that mean?”
“I’ve already alerted Suki.” He hesitated. “She told me about the note on your car door. Have you been investigating Daryl Wolf’s death?” he asked abruptly.
“No,” I said firmly. “Absolutely not.” I hadn’t done any digging into the murder victim.
“What’s the note referring to?” He was exhausted and exasperated.
“Maybe a prank. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
He exhaled loudly. I envisioned him running a hand impatiently through the spikes of his brush cut. “According to the organized crime guys, the runner from Chicago? In the state witness protection program.”
OMG! Carlos was in witness protection? Explains why he’d changed his name—
“…for testifying against a crime figure.”
“What kind of evidence did he have?”
“Not completely clear. But the guy was an accountant, so he probably knew how the books were cooked and where the bodies were buried. No pun intended.”
Carlos, the bookkeeper at Speedwell Auto Parts. I glanced at the entrance to the theater. He was onstage right now, pretending to be a bloodsucking villain, all the while he was one of the good guys, blowing the whistle on the mob.
“I don’t get it. If he was in witness protection, why was he running loose?”
“That’s complicated too. He was stashed in Colorado, but then he disappeared. The mob guys lost him until last summer, when they tracked him to North Jersey, which explains Daryl Wolf.”
Killing Time Page 18
