I showed her my sheaf of papers. “I need the chief’s signature.”
She nodded solemnly.
I knocked on the door to Bill’s inner sanctum.
“Enter.”
I opened the door and peered in. I hadn’t been in here for four months. Since the murder investigation, actually. Things were still the same: NFL paraphernalia—a Bills ball cap and a team picture from his time in Buffalo—and the faint whiff of furniture polish. His desk was tidy, stacks of papers and files neatly arranged around its perimeter.
“I have the invoice for the football picnic,” I said, and stepped in.
Bill looked up from his laptop keyboard and a smile creased his face. “Good.”
He removed his uniform jacket from a reception chair and motioned for me to have a seat. I couldn’t help but notice his flexing biceps.
“Busy day?” I smoothed my silk blouse and sat.
He ran a hand over his spiky hair. “Speech writing. I got suckered into introducing the mayor at the New Jersey Conference of Mayors dinner next month. He’s getting a community service award.”
Mayor Bennet was the former chief’s brother. There was no love lost between Bill and Etonville’s top executive, but maybe this event would square things and convince the mayor that Bill was here to stay, that he was finally getting into the rhythm of small-town policing after his stint with Philadelphia law enforcement.
“Good luck with that. I have enough trouble writing menu descriptions. ‘Savory squash and pungent pickled beets.’”
He laughed and paused. “So. The invoice.”
I handed it over.
He inspected the form. “Looks good to me. Burgers, fries, and sodas. Setup at eleven thirty a.m. The game starts at nine and we’ll be done by noon, one way or the other.” He signed the form and pushed it across the desk. “Will you be accompanying the delivery?” he asked casually.
“Well, I am the manager . . .” I said equally casually.
“Come early and watch some of the game, that is if you can stand to see the home team soundly beaten.” His hypnotic blue eyes twinkled.
I twinkled back and tossed my hair off one shoulder. Was this an invitation? Like a date? Of course it would be a date accompanied by a crowd of nine- to eleven-year-olds in too-big helmets and orange jerseys.
“I just might. I’m kind of a sucker for losers,” I said.
Bill cocked his head. “Really.”
I was walking on air as I left the Municipal Building. I had an almost-date with Bill. So I decided to treat myself to a caramel macchiato from Coffee Heaven. I pushed open the door to the tinkling of bells announcing a patron.
“Hey, Dodie,” Jocelyn, the waitress, called out as I slid onto a stool at the counter. “Caramel macchiato coming up.”
I liked that about life in Etonville. Almost everyone knew your name and your coffee preference.
She grinned. “Been visiting the chief?”
And your business.
“Just getting paperwork signed for a football-and-burgers event,” I said.
“Going to be busy this weekend in Etonville, with the food festival. You know, I’ve never had a knish,” she said.
“It’s a fried pastry with potatoes and onions.”
“And you eat ’em with egg creams? What is that? Like eggs whipped up in cream?” she asked.
“Egg creams are just carbonated water, chocolate syrup, and milk.”
Jocelyn looked puzzled. “No eggs?”
I shook my head.
She placed my caramel macchiato in front of me. “That’s like saying Arsenic and Old Lace has no arsenic and no lace,” she said, waiting for me to respond.
I was stumped. “Right.”
* * *
I mentally created my to-do list as I made my way back to the Windjammer, sorry to have to spend the rest of the day indoors. My conversation with Jocelyn had reminded me I needed to confirm the schedule with Henry. Thursday was the delivery of the ingredients for the egg creams and “elderberry wine,” in a nod to the drink featured in Arsenic and Old Lace, which Benny would be serving; Friday was stocking the hot dogs, condiments, Italian ices, and pretzels; Saturday morning Henry would be preparing the knishes. A huge weekend for all of us, but a real windfall for the Windjammer. I was congratulating myself on juggling all of these balls as I arrived back at work.
I had no sooner stepped into the restaurant than Benny gave me the eyeball.
“What’s up?”
“You better get in there and quiet things down,” he said in a hushed tone.
We were between lunch and dinner and there were only four customers in the place, but they had already perked up; an argument was in progress in the kitchen.
I shoved the swinging doors. At a counter in the corner, Enrico, Henry’s sous-chef, and his wife, Carmen—one of our waitresses—were chopping onions and peppers for a sausage dinner dish, their heads down, pretending not to hear. Henry and Honey stood toe-to-toe, arms akimbo.
“You can’t take off this weekend and that’s final,” Henry said between clenched teeth. “I don’t care if it is the annual Pumpkins and Pirates Festival.”
I had an image of rambunctious, one-eyed buccaneers hurling orange globes with their swords. “Hi.” I took the delivery clipboard off a hook on the wall.
“I need everybody here.” Henry stared at me as if the food festival was entirely my fault.
It was, actually.
Honey was silently fuming, either out of arguments or unwilling to let me see too much of the confrontation with Uncle Henry. “But, like, I’ll have to cancel tickets to the concert,” she sputtered, and slammed out the back door.
It was a dramatic exit that only led to the dumpster and an herb garden that kept the kitchen stocked in aromatic plants. I counted to five. Honey reentered, marched through the kitchen, her back rigid, and exited into the dining room with a “humph.” Henry heaved a sigh and went back to his homemade tomato basil soup.
This weekend was going to be a lot of fun.
3
Two days to go until the food festival. I hadn’t seen Lola since Tuesday; ELT rehearsals had probably sucked up all of her time and energy. Benny and I shared closing duties most nights and this was his night on, so at eight o’clock I decided to swing next door once the dinner rush was over. I simply wanted to confirm that the cast would be costumed and ready to mingle with the patrons on Saturday. I was staking a lot on this weekend—Henry’s goodwill, the reputation of the Windjammer, and a continued relationship with the Etonville Little Theatre. Not too much pressure.
The lobby of the theater was empty, as expected, but I could hear the rise and fall of voices in the house. I opened the door quietly and slipped inside. The scene was ugly. Edna and Abby, who played the sweet, daffy Brewster sisters in Arsenic and Old Lace, stood sullenly staring out at Antonio, who was quarreling with set designer JC—from JC’s Hardware—about the construction of a window seat that held dead bodies; while Carlyle, Antonio’s know-it-all assistant, was demonstrating how to walk up a flight of stairs to Walter, former artistic director and kingpin of the ELT, who smoldered; and Tiffany, the director’s buxom wife, took provocative selfies with Romeo, her leading man. He’d played the actual Romeo last spring and the name just stuck. Were the “thing” rumors true? Lola was sitting in the front row, biting a fingernail, next to Penny, who was holding the promptbook.
Penny Ossining, the ELT stage manager for twenty-five years, worked the early shift at the post office. She wasn’t one of the most efficient members of the theater, but she was loyal, dedicated, and armed with a clipboard and whistle.
Edna saw me standing at the back of the theater and swung her arm in a wide arc.
“Stay in character, please!” Antonio hollered.
Which caused the rest of the cast to look up. Abby nodded her head in Edna’s direction as if to say See what I mean? and Lola jumped up.
“This is a closed rehearsal,” Carlyle yelled.
Carlyle shrugged and went back to ordering Walter around while Antonio took a break from arguing with JC in order to mesmerize a teenage crew member—even younger than Tiffany—with a dazzling smile and a hug.
“Oh, Dodie,” Lola whispered, “this show can’t open too soon for me.”
“That bad, huh? The set is looking good.” The walls were covered with faux flocked burgundy wallpaper with period-looking light fixtures.
“True. But Antonio has alienated the entire cast and most of them are ready to quit.”
“Not before Saturday, I hope. I need them front and center at the food festival. Where’s Chrystal?” The ELT costumer.
“She’s down in the shop. I’ll call her.” Lola whipped out her cell phone and punched in numbers.
Penny blew her whistle, startling the cast and crew. “Take ten,” she commanded.
“Chrystal will be right up,” Lola said and hurried off to intercept Antonio.
“Hey, O’Dell,” Penny said behind me, tapping a pencil on her clipboard.
“Hi, Penny,” I said.
“I’ve got the sign-up sheet for Saturday.”
“You do? For the food festival?” I knew I sounded a little bit pathetic and overly grateful. “How many have committed?”
Penny pushed her glasses up her nose, checked her clipboard, and chuckled. “Eight if Walter agrees to do it. He might have to show a house.”
Walter was a full-time real estate agent in addition to being the former ELT head honcho.
“And if Edna and Abby both come. Not sure about Tiffany. She’s got an ‘appointment.’”
It wasn’t the entire cast, but eight was still respectable. I needed to speak with Chrystal, check Penny’s sheet, and then head home for a glass of wine and the latest thriller in the Cindy Collins Mystery series. I was addicted to them.
“Probably won’t matter much anyway. Gonna rain Saturday. Later, O’Dell.” Penny blasted her whistle.
* * *
Penny was only half-right. It rained early Saturday morning, leaving a slick sheen on the streets of Etonville, but by ten o’clock the sun was poking its head above banks of clouds and promising to keep the day warm and bright. The booths had been delivered yesterday afternoon and Benny, Enrico, Carmen, and I had worked until 11:00 p.m. setting them up. Honey had had a pass, due to a sudden bout of hay fever. We had a permit from the town to close the block of Main that ran past the Windjammer and the Etonville Little Theatre, so we set up a tent and placed rented tables and chairs in the street. The crowds could flow out, sit and eat, or stroll from kiosk to kiosk, munching. At least that was the plan.
By eleven thirty Saturday morning we were ready. Henry had a fryer and steam table set up to produce the knishes; Enrico was responsible for dispensing the hot dogs; Benny and Carmen busied themselves behind a portable bar with kegs of beer, a soda fountain, the makings of the egg creams, and the wine. Honey was miserable, sitting behind the freezer with the Italian ices. Pauli, being a good sport, was selling soft pretzels and black-and-white cookies. I intended to keep an eye on the booths, the patrons, and the actors.
To suit the occasion, I was in full 1940s dress. Chrystal had raided the costume shop for me and I was feeling pretty fierce in a vintage black cocktail dress with padded shoulders, a long slim skirt, and a red belt that cinched the iridescent fabric. I was topped off with my own version of a period hairdo: Ava Gardner waves and a touch of Lauren Bacall’s off-the-face pompadour. As a kid, I’d spent many an evening curled up on the sofa with my mom watching old movies. I’d look right at home with the cast.
“Where do you want me?”
I looked up from the warmer, where I was placing several dozen pretzels, into Lola’s frowning face. She hugged her digital camera to her chest. I’d had a brainstorm: While eating their Brooklyn food, patrons could get their pictures taken with cast members. Lola had agreed to act as photographer.
“I set up a bench in front of the theater.” I pointed over my shoulder.
Lola nodded listlessly. “Okay.”
I studied her expression. “Another bad night? I hope Antonio didn’t stay out—”
Lola waved away my question. “No. He was actually pleasant last night. Kind of a personality transplant.”
“What, then?” I asked.
“I don’t know . . . I just feel like this whole thing is doomed. Maybe it’s time for me to take a break from the ELT.”
“Lola,” I said calmly, “pump the brakes. You have a show opening in two weeks. This isn’t the time for extended soul-searching. You gotta snap out of it,” I said with tough love.
She nodded grimly. “I know.”
“So let’s have a good time today.” I gave her a big, phony grin.
The door to the theater opened and out they came: the two Brewster sisters, barely speaking, Romeo, a couple of gangsters, and two cops. All in period dress, looking slightly uncomfortable at being in costume off the stage, as though they had been caught in skimpy swimwear on the street. Only Edna was having a ball in her Victorian hoop skirt, fancy blouse, gray wig, and a large lace collar that stretched from high on her neck to mid-bosom.
Penny trailed behind with her clipboard.
I hurried into their midst as customers started to appear in front of the booths. “So. Mingle and smile,” I said to the cast. They looked at me like I had two heads. “Let’s give them a taste of Brooklyn,” I offered. A few actors plunked down on chairs and one of the cops yanked the collar of his uniform to let in some air.
Penny stuck a pencil behind one ear. “Just get out there and sell tickets.”
That they understood. Lola positioned herself with the camera, and the cast members scurried off to sample the food.
“Thanks, Penny,” I said.
“No problem, O’Dell. You got to know how to talk to actors.” She straightened her shoulders and headed for Enrico and the hot dogs.
The crowd was growing and the roadway was filling nicely. We’d run ads in the local newspapers of neighboring towns. It looked like it worked because I saw a number of people I didn’t recognize.
I watched as customers meandered from one station to the next, sampling the food and drink, chatting and laughing. I could feel the tension lifting from between my shoulder blades. Maybe everything was going to work out. I crossed my fingers and scanned the crowd. The Banger sisters were driving Henry bananas, trying to decide which knish they wanted. Carol, waving from the pretzel stand, was keeping Pauli occupied when he wasn’t chatting it up with Imogen from Snippets. I recognized Mildred Tower, Etonville Public Librarian, and there was Jocelyn dipping her tongue into an egg cream, even though there were neither eggs nor cream in it. It looked like much of Etonville had closed down today so that everyone could enjoy the food festival. I was feeling a warm spot in my chest that could have been either gratitude to the town or thoughts of Bill, triggered by one of the costumed policemen. I knew he had a game today in Creston, a neighboring town four miles away, but I assumed he’d be back in time to stop by and taste-test some food. Officer Ralph Ostrowski was on duty, happily stuffing his face.
I glanced at the entrance to the theater, where Lola was patiently seating two giggling teenage girls on either side of Romeo, his arms around their shoulders. He kissed their cheeks, they laughed, she snapped their picture. I watched as the threesome ambled off.
Walter exploded from the theater in a fedora and double-breasted suit, glared at everyone walking around, as if they were to blame for his apparently foul mood, and finally let his gaze land on Lola. He tramped to her side, bent down, and, quietly but vehemently, discussed some issue. Lola turned her back on him. Probably had to do with Antonio. Or Carlyle. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but body language was clear. Walter was furious and Lola was fed up. It was the only skirmish interrupting an otherwise lovely afternoon.
* * *
By two o’clock I’d eaten a hot dog, two knishes, one black-and white cookie, and half a pretzel. My stomach was on the verge of rebelling when I saw a commotion in the middle of the block. It was Antonio, arriving in his own version of a 1940s costume: a wide-lapelled, pin-striped, single-breasted navy suit; hair slicked back to keep his curly locks plastered to his head; and a bright red tie. On his arm was Tiffany, in a short, tight black skirt, a sexy knit top, and three-inch spike heels. Definitely not in costume.
Antonio was waving manically, smiling and nodding to actors and townspeople alike, as if he were running for office and every vote counted. His gait was a little unsteady, possibly from tipping a few before his entrance? Tiffany was stone-faced, her eyes searching the crowd. Looking for her leading man? They made their way to a table in a secluded corner of the tent, where Tiffany deposited her purse and promptly took off. Antonio adjusted his tie, ran a hand through his hair, and strode purposefully to the food booths, plastic cup in hand. So he has been drinking.
“Antonio,” I said, greeting him and steering him toward the knishes, where Henry slaved away, his forehead shiny from effort and the warmth of the day. “You need to try one of these.”
Antonio’s face was flushed, his breath coming in short bursts. He dropped his congenial persona. His eyes grazed the swarm of people eating and rambling, as if he were expecting to see someone. Obviously not his wife; she was out in the open, two booths away, licking an Italian ice while Romeo looked on, smiling. Antonio refocused his gaze, his amiable-face embracing me. “Dodie, yes?” he said, taking my hand.
“Right!”
He took the plate Henry handed him; three hot, fried knishes lying in state, and proceeded to move from booth to booth, good-naturedly piling on the food: a hotdog, pretzel, and cookie. He paused at the bar.
“What can I get you?” Benny asked.
“Well . . .” Antonio loosened his tie and coughed.
“We have beer and ‘elderberry wine.’ Really it’s a Merlot, but the play . . . you know.” Benny laughed. “And cream soda.”
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