The glow of the street lamp lit up his sandy-colored brush cut, blonder now as a result of the summer sun. The police department was a fifteen-minute walk down Amber Street and up Main to the Windjammer. A little more than a stretch. “You had a busy August.”
He scraped the toe of one shoe back and forth like an embarrassed kid. “Yeah. My two-week vacation—”
“To see family in Vermont, right?”
He stared at me, his face a question mark.
“Snippets.”
“No privacy in Etonville,” he said.
I laughed. “I guess not.”
“Then there was our conference. The Association of—”
“—Chiefs of Police. Right. Also Snippets.”
He shook his head. “And you were?”
“Down the shore for a week. Feeding fries to the seagulls, getting buried in the sand . . .”
He grinned. “Sounds like illegal activity to me.”
“It was nice to see the boardwalk rebuilt after Hurricane Sandy.”
He turned serious. “I can imagine.”
We let the silence settle between us for a moment. I could sense, rather than see, his laser-like blue eyes on me. “Guess I’ll head home. Knowing you’re on duty makes me feel a lot safer,” I said dramatically. “Anyway, you must be getting cold.”
“Nah. I used to play in Buffalo with bare arms in zero degrees.”
“The Bills, right,” I said.
“Speaking of which. Did you talk with Henry about our picnic?”
Bill had agreed to coach Etonville’s Youth Football team for the nine- to eleven-year-old crowd. Saturday after next he planned to treat the kids to Henry’s cheeseburgers and fries after the game, win or lose.
Between the food festival this weekend and the football picnic the following weekend, the Windjammer was going to be busy the next couple of weeks. Henry was lukewarm about both events—he was more a stay-home-and-cook kind of chef—but I had convinced him that catering to the town was way more Etonville-friendly than a four-star review in the Standard. Honey agreed, mainly because she could practice packaging skills with cardboard, Saran wrap, and Styrofoam. “No problem. We’ll have the food on the field by the fourth quarter.”
“If the kids make it that long. Last Saturday we were losing thirty-five to nothing after three quarters, and the official called the game.” He shook his head. “The NFL was nothing like this.”
I unlocked my door and eased behind the steering wheel. “I’ll write up the invoice for the burgers.”
“Drive carefully.”
I nodded and put my Metro in reverse. Bill’s figure on the sidewalk grew smaller as I cruised down Main Street. I mused over our relationship . . .
Relationship? Is that what we have? I wondered. I coasted past the Etonville Little Theatre, dark at this hour, and Coffee Heaven, an old-fashioned breakfast diner with a handful of red booths, a soda fountain, and a few modern coffee items on the menu. Caramel macchiato was my obsession.
I paused for the red light at the corner of Fairfield and Main Streets. Bill and I’d had a nice moment together after I’d stepped into the investigation of the murder of my good friend Jerome and orchestrated a sting to catch the killer. He was initially a little resistant to my participation, but eventually came around. He even squeezed my hand on opening night of Romeo and Juliet . . . But then came summer. And his vacation. My vacation. The police chiefs’ convention. Now it was fall.
I stepped on the accelerator and started to turn right. From out of nowhere a distinctive white Mercedes tore past me, barreling down Fairfield at what had to be seventy miles an hour. In a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone. I jammed on the brakes instinctively.
That was weird, for midnight on a Monday in Etonville. What was even weirder was the occupant of the Mercedes: guest director Antonio Digenza. I’d recognize that face and beret anywhere.
2
I’d slept fitfully. I couldn’t get Antonio out of my mind. Why was he driving like a maniac at midnight at the opposite end of town from Lola’s, where he was staying during the rehearsal and run of the show? A pattern of disappearances from the ELT, plus this late night excursion. Hmm.
Snippets was already humming when I opened the door at nine. Carol’s salt-and-pepper curly head was bouncing up and down, the phone in one hand, a comb in the other. She motioned for me to head to the sinks at the rear of the salon for a shampoo. I worked my way past cutting and color stations, to the back wall where silver side-by-side sinks were occupied by the Banger sisters. I had no idea what their first names were; no one ever referred to them individually. They were always together—same flowered blouses, same brown walking shoes, same gray permed hair in little ringlets.
“Morning ladies,” I said.
The new shampoo girl, a tiny thing with rings up her ears, in her nose, and poking out of her tongue, wrapped towels around their wet heads. They looked up.
“Oh, Dodie. You poor thing,” said the first sister.
“You are taking it so well,” said the second.
I looked at them blankly. “What?”
They glanced at each other, then back at me and clucked sympathetically. “Who would think Henry could replace you with his niece?” said one.
“Replace me? No, she’s just here—”
“We heard that she intends to change the menu—”
“—and redecorate.”
“Who said that? Has Honey been talking?”
“Okay, ladies, time for perms.” Carol positioned her forty-year-old compact frame next to the sisters for leverage and helped hoist them to their feet. The new shampoo girl escorted the Bangers to empty chairs.
“Do you know what they were saying?” I asked Carol as she whipped out a cape and prepared to snap it around my neck.
Carol shook her head.
“Someone has been spreading a rumor that Henry is firing me and Honey’s taking over my job,” I fumed. “As if.”
Carol stopped mid-snap. “Henry did that? Why—?”
“No, Carol. It’s just gossip,” I said patiently. “But still. I wonder if Honey has been talking out of turn.”
“She was in here yesterday chatting it up with Rita.”
“The shampoo girl with—”
“The tattoo.”
“By the way, how’s the new one working out?” I asked.
“Imogen?” Carol shifted her gaze to the young woman, who was currently taking selfies with the Banger sisters. “It’s so hard to find good help.”
“Amen to that,” I said as Imogen sauntered over and flipped on the warm water.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, I stared at myself in the wall mirror behind Carol’s back. My chestnut-colored hair, a gift from my maternal grandmother, now barely skimmed my shoulders and complimented my father’s contribution—green eyes. My bangs were half an inch shorter. I felt lighter, freer. I wiggled my head a bit and watched my hair sway back and forth. I studied my reflection. Maybe I’d drop by the police department later with the invoice for Bill’s picnic food. I visualized his deep blue eyes crinkling in the corners when he caught sight of me, new hairdo, silk blouse, some makeup . . .
“What did Lola mean last night about keeping Antonio in the theater?”
“It seems that he’s been disappearing lately.” I made eye contact with Carol in the mirror. “And no one knows where he goes or why. I think Lola’s getting frantic.”
Truth be told, I was getting a little frantic myself. If things didn’t settle down between Lola and Antonio, the food festival could turn into a disaster.
“I heard that his wife is having a ‘thing’ with one of the cast members,” Carol whispered.
“A ‘thing’? What kind of a ‘thing’?” Now I was getting worried. “I heard Tiffany’s difficult and can’t learn her lines, but a ‘thing’?”
“And that Antonio’s assistant . . .” Carol paused to think.
“Carlyle. I’ve seen him around the Wind
jammer. What about him?” He was a thin, prissy-looking guy who I’d heard was a part-time bookkeeper and lived with his mother in Queens.
She tilted her head toward me confidentially. “He’s going to quit because no one listens to his ideas.”
I grumbled. “Where do people get this stuff? I mean, sure, there are a few bumps with the production, but—”
Rita was gesturing to Carol from reception. “I have to scoot,” Carol said and unsnapped the cape, sending a cascade of cut hair to the floor. “You should pop over and see the chief now.” She let out a vigorous laugh, winked, and hurried away.
OMG. I hoped Bill and I weren’t a topic of conversation with the Snippets crowd. I paid my bill and was halfway out the door when I remembered. “By the way, could you ask Pauli to call me? I want to do some updates on the website.”
Carol beamed, a proud mother. “Of course. Did I tell you he’s taking a computer class online? He’s so into it.”
Pauli was my seventeen-year-old IT guru who did everything from creating a website for the Windjammer—despite Henry’s reluctance to enter the twenty-first century—to introducing me to password hacking, in the interest of solving a murder. The kid was a genius in the Internet universe and I had corralled him to help with the food booths Saturday.
I waved good-bye. I had about forty-five minutes before I was needed at the Windjammer. Time to stop home and change into my best green silk blouse and stretchy black pants. Today I intended to take my afternoon break, regardless of Honey.
* * *
Benny whistled from the bar as I stepped through the entrance to the restaurant. “Nice.”
“I needed a trim,” I said, trying to act indifferent.
“Is that makeup I see? What’s the occasion?”
I set sheets of paper printed with the lunch and dinner specials on the bar and dropped my bag into the back booth. “I wear makeup,” I said.
Benny set to work polishing glassware. “Uh-huh.”
I did wear makeup, usually just a little eyeliner and a touch of color to my eyelids and lips. But today I’d included my cheekbones and eyelashes. There was a chance I was looking a little hot.
And then Honey walked in the door.
“Can you believe it? I found these in the trash behind the Shop N Go.” Honey was carrying a stack of brown cardboard boxes, so tall her face was hidden. “It’s like insane!”
The girl was obsessed with packaging. I took a few off her hands and her glowing face appeared. “Honey, we have boxes out back by the dumpster. Why bring these from the Shop N Go? What are you going to do with them?”
There went the hand on the hip and that look. “Dot, I need to practice with this size if we’re going to set up a delivery service.”
“A delivery service? Did you run this by Henry?”
“Uncle Henry agrees with me,” she said and stuck her chin in the air.
I replaced my boxes on hers and her face disappeared again. Honey stomped off to the kitchen and I went to work on the menu inserts.
Lunch specials included Henry’s barbecue rib sandwich, a three-napkin meal, and a new experiment: watermelon and mint salad, with some onion, olives, and goat cheese thrown in for good measure. It was a refreshing addition to the menu, kind of a poetic transition from the warm, lazy days of summer to the cooler, brisker tempo of autumn.
The verdict was mixed.
“What’s that minty taste?” one of the Banger sisters asked after nibbling on a bit of the salad.
“Mint,” I said.
“Oh.” She nudged the watermelon salad to one side; her sister did the same. They nodded their newly coiffed heads in unison.
“I like it,” Abby Henderson said, gobbling the watermelon. “These watermelon balls remind me of marbles. I used to play Chinese checkers as a kid before I started going to the range.”
That would be the Valley View Shooting Range she managed. “Okay,” I said. “How’s rehearsal going?” I hoped for some inside intel.
Abby opened her mouth just as the front door opened. Edna May, her theatrical archenemy, stood on the threshold, stony. “I told Lola casting Edna opposite me was asking for trouble. She just doesn’t have the chops,” she griped. “She’s only done one real role.”
That would be the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet.
“And she only got that because the real Nurse’s granddaughter had a baby in North Dakota.”
“Uh-huh. So . . . besides that, how’s—?”
Edna sashayed past us on her way to the register to pick up a carryout order. “Abby,” she said frostily, nodding her head.
“Edna,” Abby said, equally coolly.
Geez. This town.
* * *
At three o’clock I left the restaurant in Benny’s hands and made him promise to keep an eye on Honey. I had just spent the last two years getting the Windjammer organized, efficient, and full of regulars; I didn’t want Henry listening to her ridiculous ideas on menu, décor, or packaging.
It was a beautiful fall afternoon, the sky a clear blue, the sun warm on my face, and the temperature hovering at seventy. A perfect shore day. I could feel my toes burrowing in the sand and hear the screech of seagulls wheeling overhead. And then I felt sad. If you were born and bred in South Jersey, as I was, this time of the year made one nostalgic for the long, hot summer days. But I was a northerner now.
I strolled down Main, resisting the urge to take a brief detour to Coffee Heaven for a caramel macchiato. Instead I turned left onto Amber Street, passing Betty’s Boutique, which featured exotic lingerie à la Victoria’s Secret. Nestled between the boutique and JC’s Hardware was a one-story, redbrick building dating from the founding of Etonville in the late 1700s. Bill’s black-and-white vehicle occupied the “Reserved for Chief” parking space.
I pulled on the door handle and as it opened I nearly collided with Antonio. “Sorry!” I said, one hand going to his shoulder to prevent my face meeting his. Not that that would be the end of the world. Stunning brown eyes set wide in a bronzed face that sported higher cheekbones than any man had a right to, a square jaw, and the hint of a dimple. His black V-neck sweater and tight jeans made him appear twenty years younger than his actual age. He removed a beret, which on many men might seem pretentious. On Antonio it was a symbol of continental sophistication.
“Oh! Hello . . .” He stared at me, as if my face was a code he was trying desperately to crack.
“Dodie. O’Dell. From the Windjammer?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry. I’m a little . . .”
The thought must have eluded him, but Antonio still managed a fabulous smile. The one he probably reserved for all of the young in-génues.
“Wild time for you with the show.”
“Of course,” he said.
“Right. I saw what kind of a hurry you were in last night.”
His demeanor altered abruptly. “Last night?”
“You know, at the corner of Fairfield and Main? About midnight? You were in your—”
He stiffened, glancing over his shoulder. “You must be mistaken. I was working late at the theater,” he said irritably.
“Sorry. Guess you have a body double.”
I laughed to ease the tension. Antonio nodded curtly, slapped the beret back on his head of untamed dark curls, and left the building. I knew I was not mistaken. It was Antonio last night. And the theater was dark when I drove past. Why not tell the truth? What was he hiding?
Inside the Municipal Building I paused in front of Etonville’s ego wall: decades of trophies for winning teams, certificates of merit from the state police, and photographs of citizens accepting awards for honorable achievements. In the center was a photo of previous Police Chief Bull Bennet and a thirty-pound bass. Next to it was a shot of current Chief Bill Thompson shaking hands with a reporter from the Etonville Standard after solving the murder of Jerome Angleton, ELT member and my personal friend, last April.
I smiled, remembering how exhilarated the town was at the captur
e of Jerome’s killer. Bill was certainly happy in the picture. I considered the distance between us in the months since.
I swung my purse onto my other shoulder and continued down the corridor.
“Dodie!” It was Edna at the dispatch window, a headset covering her brownish-gray bun. “Loved the rib sandwich at lunch. Tell Henry.” Her appetite was legendary.
“Will do.” I stopped. “Edna, was Antonio at rehearsal last night. Till the end, I mean?”
A 911 call came in. She punched a button. “Etonville Police Department.” She listened, her expression shifting from alert and ready to impatient and exasperated. “Mrs. Parker, haven’t I told you not to call 911 every time Missy runs off? Okay, okay, I’ll call Officer Ostrowski.” She clicked off, punched a second button, and waited for Ralph to respond. “Ralph, we got a 10-91 over on Belvidere. Yep. It’s Missy again. 10-91. Missing cat.” She listened for a moment. “Well, take your donuts with you. 10-4.” She hung up.
“I can see you’re busy so I’ll just—”
Edna removed her headset and leaned forward. “You heard about his disappearing act?” she asked.
“Lola told me.”
“Everybody’s on edge,” she said.
“I guess.” No mention of her feud with Abby. “What about last night?” I asked.
“Nope. Not last night. We finished rehearsal about nine thirty and he was there until the bitter end.”
I wondered.
“But Carlyle gave us notes. Antonio went to the office.”
“All set for Saturday? You know the cast is going to be a huge part of the food festival.”
Edna brightened, chuckling. “You should see the dress they’ve got me in. Big hoop skirt, frilly blouse . . . adorable!”
“Can’t wait to see it. Got to check in with the chief,” I said.
Her console lit up and she snapped the headset back in place. I moved on and paused at the outer office where Officer Suki Shung was typing on a keyboard surrounded by three monitors. I’d gotten acquainted with Suki—a Buddhist and martial arts black belt—during the murder investigation back in April. She was enigmatic and calm, but professional in every way possible.
Time Out Page 2
