“Of course. Lovely. All the Brooklyn cuisine. I’ll sample the wine.” He handed Benny his cup to be refilled.
Antonio balanced the full plate and wine as he wove through the crowd, stumbling a bit before he sat down at his table. He dove into the knishes, seemingly hungry and ready to make short work of the cuisine. A number of people, including actors, stopped by and Antonio held court, chitchatting, as though all were best friends and he had not badgered them only hours ago. A young costume-crew member grinned stupidly at him and he put an arm around her waist, whispering something in her ear. She giggled. Then he vanished from sight, lost in a crowd of humanity. Amazing, the way these theater people could hide their true feelings.
“Yep. Pretty amazing.”
I whirled around. Penny was stuffing the last bite of a pretzel into her mouth. “How did you know what I was thinking?”
She chewed and talked. “O’Dell, didn’t you learn anything with Romeo and Juliet? I’m the stage manager. It’s my business to know everything.” Off she went.
Maybe she wasn’t as dense as she sometimes appeared to be.
I started to gather up plates and cups and generally spruce up the scene. Lola was busy snapping pictures of the two cops and Jocelyn. Antonio was trying to appear interested in something Edna was saying. He shook his head, smiled at her, and she relocated to the Italian ices.
Then he unbuttoned his shirt collar, his face red. He struggled to breathe. Wow, that elderberry wine was really getting to him. He coughed, grabbed his throat, and fell forward on the table. Oh no. Everything was going so nicely. People were having such a good time, and now Antonio had overdone the vino and passed out. Or maybe he was choking on a piece of food?
I ran to his side, motioning Benny to follow me. “Have you ever done the Heimlich maneuver?”
Benny shook his head vigorously. “Never.”
At Antonio’s back, I jiggled his shoulder. “Antonio? Can you talk?” His face was resting on his plate of pretzels, his arms dangling limply at his sides. Completely unresponsive. “Uh-oh. Help me get him to his feet.”
A little girl several tables away from us, pointed and giggled. “Look, Mommy, that man’s face is in his food.”
Geez.
“Benny, let’s stand him up.” I needed to get my arms around his chest to do an abdominal thrust and dislodge whatever had apparently caused him to stop breathing. I grabbed one shoulder, Benny the other, and we lifted his torso off the table.
“He’s like dead weight,” Benny said, grunting.
I was about to encircle his chest when Antonio’s head snapped back—his eyes had bugged out, staring, shocked. A piece of knish hung out of his mouth. Speechless, Benny let go and Antonio’s head dropped back down on the table.
My hand shaking, my heart pounding, I put one finger on Antonio’s neck. There was no pulse. “Call 911!” I yelled.
Edna plowed through the hordes. “What do we have here?” Her gray wig sideways, she bent down to glance at Antonio’s gruesome face. “Oh my. Oh my. Oh my.” She snapped from startled bystander to professional dispatcher and punched in the numbers. “Suki? I’m at the food festival. We have an 11-41. Right away.” She mouthed “ambulance” to me.
I took deep gulps of air to calm myself.
“It’s a 10-54,” she said to Suki. “Possible dead body,” she said to me.
“Possible?” My voice slid up the scale.
Edna spoke into her cell, “Make that a 10-55,” and clicked off. “Medical examiner case.”
4
“You better find Tiffany,” I babbled to Benny, and draped a plastic tablecloth over Antonio’s body. No one should be on view with that facial expression. It had to be a heart attack.
I glanced up as Benny ran off. I’d been so concentrated on Antonio that I hadn’t noticed the gathering bunches of festival attendees pressing steadily forward. Word had skyrocketed through the crowd faster than the speed of light.
“Was that the director?”
“Is he sick?”
Officer Ostrowski appeared and spoke briefly with Edna, then to the crowd with authority. “Okay, folks, let’s back up and give him some air.”
It was too late for air.
“Do something,” one of the Banger sisters screeched and grabbed hold of an actor costumed as a cop. “You’re an officer of the law.”
The kid freaked. “I’m not a real cop. I’m just acting like one.”
The other sister glared at him. “Shame on you!”
The bogus officer backed away into Lola. “I think some guy died,” he said, and ran off.
Lola’s eyes grew round. “Is that true, Dodie?”
I pulled her aside. “Oh yeah. You’re not going to believe—”
A piercing wail split the racket of the assembled onlookers. It was Tiffany discovering her dead husband. She collapsed theatrically over his body, then, as Benny attempted to get her upright, she threw herself into his arms and clung to his neck for dear life. Benny caught my eye. “Help me!” he signaled.
“Antonio?” Lola whispered.
I nodded my head. “Can you . . . do something with Tiffany?”
Lola, in a daze, rescued Benny and walked Tiffany inside the Windjammer for privacy.
I whipped out my cell. “Hello? Bill?”
“Hi, Dodie. Can’t talk now. Can you believe it? We’re only behind by twelve points with ten minutes to go and—”
“Are you coming to the food festival?”
“Just as soon as the game is over.” There was a rustling on the line. “Send in Petey,” I heard him say to someone. “Let’s see if he can tackle.”
“Bill?” A frantic note had crept into my voice.
“What?” he asked.
“There’s been a death.”
“Where?”
“Here. At the festival. Antonio, the director,” I said urgently. “Probably a heart attack.”
“Have you called—?”
I heard the sirens of the ambulance and fire department. “They’re here. Edna called it in.”
“Oh boy.” I could see him running a hand through the spikes of his brush cut, sitting at various angles to his scalp. “A heart attack, right?”
“I think so.” I paused. “I hate to interrupt the game. I just thought you should know.”
“Thanks for calling,” he said.
I wasn’t so sure he was grateful.
“I can be there in about half an hour.”
Relief flooded my veins. “Good.” Somehow with Bill on the scene, things would seem less bizarre.
I stuffed my cell into my back pocket. Henry was beside himself. “Somebody said it was food poisoning?” He was white as a ghost.
“No, I think his heart stopped suddenly.”
An elderly gentleman overheard us. “Probably caused by spoiled hot dogs. Or something in the knishes.”
“There was nothing wrong with the—”
“Dodie, maybe the eggs in the egg creams were rotten,” Jocelyn said helpfully.
“There were no eggs in the . . .” I shook my head. “Never mind.”
Etonville had begun to reveal its inner wacky. Again. Just when I was getting used to this place, it caught me off guard: The gossip machine would be going full tilt by tomorrow and there was nothing I could do about it. Forlorn, Henry shook his head.
I touched his arm. “It couldn’t have been the food. Look at all of these other people who’ve been eating all afternoon. No one else is even sick.”
Just then the elderly gentleman dropped a half-eaten knish in a trash can. “I don’t feel so well.”
* * *
“This sure puts a damper on things,” Lola murmured. “Hard to celebrate a show opening when its director is no longer on the scene.”
We had parked ourselves next to the pretzel and cookie station to stay out of the way of the ambulance and fire truck, which had arrived ten minutes ago, lights flashing. Several minutes later the county medical examiner appeared in
a black van.
“Right.” Not to mention the fact that the food festival was scheduled to be a two-day affair; but with the rumors about food poisoning swirling everywhere . . .
I felt depressed and sad, for Henry, me, the ELT, and Tiffany, of course—who was playing the grieving widow to the hilt.
“That’s the best acting I’ve seen her do,” Penny muttered in my ear.
I started. “Really.”
“Word is they were overdue for a divorce,” she said and shoved her glasses up a notch.
Carol was right. “So she and Romeo were having a ‘thing’?”
“Romeo?” Penny snorted at the idea. She leaned in between Lola and me. “More like Carlyle.”
“Carlyle?” Lola looked shocked. “Are you sure?”
Penny looked about to deliver her standard lecture on how she was the stage manager and stage managers knew everything, when a familiar gold BMW pulled in behind the ambulance.
Bill, still in his Youth Football orange sweatshirt with Tigers emblazoned across the front, strode to the secure area where Antonio was being attended to by the medical examiner. He spoke briefly to Ralph, who had managed the crowd by installing crime scene tape, even though this was only a crime scene if you counted the fact that I still had fifty pounds of hotdogs and two hundred pretzels to sell.
At the end of the block, the actors were gathered around the Italian ices, sporadically staring at the table where Antonio’s body was being transferred to a gurney, and huddling among themselves, gesturing and squabbling.
Lola observed them for a moment. “I know this might sound inappropriate, but what are we going to do about the show? Who’s going to direct?”
“Carlyle?”
Lola moaned.
Where was Carlyle anyway? Walter was in the center of the group of actors. Probably fomenting rebellion.
“Would you consider—?”
“Walter? I don’t know if I can go through that again.” She paused. “At the beginning everyone was so excited about a guest director.”
“No sense beating yourself up now. You couldn’t have predicted that Antonio would have a heart attack.”
“So you don’t think it was food poisoning?” Lola asked.
“I don’t think you keel over that suddenly.” The medical examiner shook hands with Bill, closed a black bag, nodded a few times, and walked back to his van.
Bill watched as Antonio was loaded into the ambulance, which made its way slowly down Main Street. The remaining festival patrons packed up their families and belongings, pointedly leaving any remaining food on tables and in trash bins, and headed for home.
The sun was sinking lower in the sky and the food booths and equipment cast silhouettes on the street. “I’d better see if I can do anything for Tiffany,” Lola said. “It was a terrific event, Dodie, until . . .” She smiled sadly. “What should Penny tell the actors about tomorrow?”
“Let me check with Henry. He was in such a dither half an hour ago.”
“I’ll call you in the morning,” Lola said and moved off.
I surveyed the remains of the festival. We’d need to wash tables, stack chairs, and package food. Honey would love that. Was there any point in even setting up for Sunday? I was mulling over my predicament. Maybe Etonville would forget about the food poisoning rumors and return tomorrow eager to eat, laugh, chat, and take pictures with actors.
“It probably wasn’t food poisoning.” Bill took off his ball cap and scratched his head.
I spun around to face him. “It wasn’t?”
“I heard about the gossip,” he said.
“I didn’t think it was, but you know Etonville and how everyone likes to talk and create stories even when there isn’t any cause.”
“Uh-huh. I know Etonville.” He looked off in the direction where the ambulance had disappeared, frowning.
“Was it a heart attack?” I asked.
“Well, something stopped his heart. Exactly what, the ME’s not sure. They’ll take blood and tissue samples.”
Henry, with a sulky Honey in tow, no doubt still peeved over missing the Pumpkins and Pirates Festival, emerged from the Windjammer, looking nervous. He nodded at Bill. “So, what did the medical examiner have to say?”
Bill scrunched his ball cap. “He has to run tests. Nothing definite at the moment. Probably a heart attack.”
Henry shook his head. “I had the feeling this whole thing was not going to end well. We’d better forget about tomorrow.”
Honey smiled, did her hip thing. “Dot, maybe you’d better pack up all of that extra food. Like, I can’t imagine where you’re going to put it.”
I knew one place I’d like to put it.
“Look, if it’s any consolation, the medical examiner doesn’t think it was related to anything he consumed,” Bill said.
“That makes sense. Too many other people ate the same things Antonio ate, and they’re fine.” I tried my best to be encouraging.
“Well . . .” Henry said.
I turned to Bill. “Is there any reason we can’t have the festival tomorrow?”
He shrugged. “I don’t see any.”
Of course, I wasn’t sure how the actors would feel about participating without their director. But even without actors in costume, we could sell food, right? We just had to get beyond the food poisoning theory and act like everything was back to normal.
Bill gave me a reassuring nod. “Say, what about some carryout for me?”
Henry appeared relieved that someone was actually asking to eat his food. Honey snapped to attention and unlocked her hip. “Like, I could do that. I know just what packaging to use.” She ran inside the restaurant and reappeared with three small boxes and a roll of Saran wrap.
“I could use a beer,” Bill said and followed Henry to the bar.
I could have used an entire six-pack.
5
The Windjammer staff scrubbed the booths and tables, closing up shop by nine. I was so exhausted I fell into a deep sleep and didn’t budge until the clang of my alarm clock forced my eyes open at 8:00 a.m. I tumbled out of bed and jumped in the shower, letting the warm water ping off my face as I remembered yesterday’s catastrophe—Antonio was dead.
I toweled my hair, ran a blob of gel through the damp tresses, and slid into a pair of jeans and a white sweater. No costume for me today. Then I called Lola.
“We’re on,” I said. “Can you spread the word to the actors? I’m not sure how many people will show, but I think we should be ready in case—”
“Oh, Dodie, what a mess. Tiffany has been acting strange.”
“Understandable under the circumstances—”
“First off, she drank a glass of wine and then she polished off two gin and tonics.”
I whistled. “Guess she’s really broken up. Maybe all of that wailing wasn’t an act.”
“I made an effort to comfort her. But she just went into her room and started talking on the phone. I couldn’t make out the conversation.”
“But you tried, right?”
“Well, someone should keep an eye on her,” Lola said solemnly.
“Maybe she was contacting Antonio’s family.”
“I don’t think he had much family. I don’t remember him mentioning children or parents.”
“Did she at least sleep? She’s going to need her wits about her to face a funeral director.”
“That’s the worst thing. She took off right after the call. Just got in the car and drove away. I asked where she was going, but she just shook her head and ran out the door.” Lola sighed.
“When did she get back?”
“I don’t know. I waited up until midnight, then I passed out. Her bedroom door’s still closed and the car’s in the driveway.”
“Where will she have the funeral? New York?”
“Dodie, I’m just not sure about anything. I’ll offer to help her with arrangements. But who knows what she’ll want.”
I hung up after convinci
ng Lola that she was doing the best she could to handle Tiffany and begging her to get a few actors out on the street again. I had just enough time to grab a caramel macchiato at Coffee Heaven and arrive at the Windjammer by ten. I squinted into the sunlight; it would be another pleasant fall day, a brisk breeze lifting the hair off the nape of my neck.
Luckily the Windjammer was closed on Sundays, so I wouldn’t have to listen to Henry gripe about losing customers while the food festival was still on. I walked from my parking space on Main, through the tables and booths, to the entrance of the restaurant.
I put my game face on. “Morning, all,” I said cheerfully.
Henry was putting together the ingredients for his knishes and Benny was taking inventory of the beer kegs and wine stock. “Nobody’s going to come to this today,” Henry whined.
“Don’t be such a gloomy Gus.” I glanced at Benny, who shrugged. “Let’s be positive. Maybe the food poisoning rumors died out overnight.” Both Henry and Benny stared at me skeptically. “Okay, so let’s just hope for the best.”
Honey stomped in the door, dropped her purse on the bar, and confronted me, glaring. “Dot, if, like, I was managing a restaurant and somebody died while eating my food, the least I would do is close up for a day.”
Her voice swooped up on the last sentence as if she was asking me for permission to lock the door and close the blinds. I guessed the Pumpkins and Pirates Festival was still running this afternoon, too; Antonio’s death must have given Honey hope that she’d have the day off.
“Honey, a little respect for Uncle Henry’s efforts here?” I said with as much sweetness as I could muster. I was determined to outlast her sulky disposition. Next semester could not come too fast for me.
Once Enrico and Carmen arrived, we restocked the booths and plugged in equipment. Unlike yesterday, when noon saw a trail of actors and clusters of Etonville families and friends, today saw only a group of tired Windjammer staff, a warmer than usual late fall morning, and fading hopes that the food festival would survive yesterday’s tragedy.
“Like, how long do we have to wait for people?” Honey asked, sticking her head inside the portable freezer to cool off.
Henry turned off the steam table. “I’m giving them till one o’clock.”
Time Out Page 4
