“One? That’s not enough time. The Methodist church has an eleven o’clock service and the Episcopalians aren’t finished till noon.”
Henry gave me a grudging nod. Let’s face it—he knew, I knew, today was probably going to be a bust.
And then I spied Lola parking up the street, followed by Penny.
“Okay, now we’re cooking,” I said metaphorically.
Strictly speaking we were not out of the throwback-food woods yet; Lola was here to take pictures with, hopefully, actors who had yet to arrive. I appreciated the fact that Lola and the cast were depressed about Antonio, but maybe participating today would help lift their spirits. And mine.
Carol dropped Pauli off—he took his place with the pretzels and cookies—and Edna, in full costume, emerged from the theater and onto Main Street, ready to get her picture taken with whoever appeared. The two fake cops were wary, lest they accidentally be called into action, mistaken for the real thing again. Tiffany was not present, of course, and neither was her Romeo. All in all, not a great showing.
“How’s Tiffany doing?” I asked Lola.
“I don’t know. I was in the shower and she disappeared again. No note. Nothing.” Lola eyed the skimpy cast turnout. “I’m sorry, Dodie, I called everyone. Most of them had excuses. Some of them just didn’t want to have to think about the show without a director.”
As if on cue, Walter, in his gangster getup, waltzed out of the theater. Carlyle followed him.
“Uh-oh,” Lola said. “This could mean trouble.”
“Maybe they’ve called a truce?”
Lola blinked. “I can’t imagine that.”
Walter nodded to Lola and he and Carlyle headed for the bar. Carlyle was a mystery. What had made him commute from Queens to Etonville? Loyalty to Antonio? Or maybe Penny was right . . . a romance with Tiffany.
“I’d better see what’s up,” Lola said and hurried away.
“Hey, O’Dell,” Penny called out.
“Hi, Penny. Have Walter and Carlyle made up?”
Penny snorted. “Walter’s just buddying up to Carlyle because now that Antonio is . . . you know . . .”
“Dead,” I said.
“Yeah. Everybody figures Carlyle is in charge.”
“So you think he’ll direct the show now?”
Penny gazed at me, the world-weary ELT stage manager. “O’Dell, that’s not how these things work. It’s a board decision,” she reminded me.
“Got it.” I knew it was more a Lola decision.
Penny nudged her glasses and tapped her clipboard. With only a handful of actors to keep track of, her day would be a short one. “Gotta get to work.”
* * *
Our day was a short one, too. We hung around longer than one; in fact we made it to two o’clock. By then everyone was grouchy and only too eager to head out. We’d served a dozen people and most of them avoided the knishes, settling for bottled drinks and pretzels. Even the Italian ices were taking a beating; surprising, given the temperature of the day. I had to face the facts. Nobody wanted to take a chance that the medical examiner was wrong about Antonio’s cause of death.
I inspected the crowd. Honey was Snapchatting, the two cops were texting, and the Banger sisters had planted themselves at a table with a good view of the entire area, just in case someone else died. They didn’t want to miss a thing.
I had to admit it was time to call it a day.
I gave Henry the universal sign for wrapping up, and he nodded grimly. I’d hear about this tomorrow.
“Excuse me.”
A warm, friendly voice interrupted my pity party and I turned around. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Antonio Digenza.” A woman removed her sunglasses, her hazel eyes set deep into her face.
My heart thumped. A friend of Antonio’s who hadn’t heard about his death?
“Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Brianna Kincaid.” She had short silver hair, designer sunglasses, and a smart, olive green suit. Way too chic for the food festival. Probably Antonio’s age but with a very youthful persona.
“Hi. I’m Dodie O’Dell.” I shook the hand she offered. It was cool and dry. Mine was clammy. “Antonio’s . . . not here at the moment.” I couldn’t handle this alone. Where was Lola? I shaded my eyes and searched the front of the theater where she was last seen sitting on the bench, tapping her foot, waiting for customers. “The artistic director might be able to help you. I guess she’s taken a break. Would you like to wait for her inside the Windjammer? It might be more . . . comfortable.”
Her eyes flicked in the direction of the restaurant. “I’m fine here. I was on the edge of town getting gas and the attendant mentioned the festival.” She paused, replaced her glasses. “What a lovely idea.”
“Thanks.” I had to put a stop to this innocent conversation; Antonio lay dead in the county morgue!
“Brianna . . . may I call you Brianna?”
“Of course.”
“I’m so very sorry. I’m not sure how to tell you this, but there’s been an unfortunate . . .” Incident? Event? “Antonio is no longer . . . with us.”
She laughed. A deep, full-throated hoot. “How like him. To quit a show weeks before it opens. I know this is just a community theater, but a commitment is a commitment.”
“Brianna . . .”
“Of course Antonio sometimes has difficulty with commitments,” she said wryly.
Out of the corner of my right eye, I saw Lola approach, brushing her blond hair off her shoulder. I saw Henry out of the corner of my left eye, motioning to me to hurry it up. I felt squeezed. “Here’s Lola now.”
“Hello,” she said, assuming Brianna was a new customer who represented one more potential warm body in an ELT seat.
“This is Brianna Kincaid,” I said. “She was asking about Antonio?” I underlined his name.
Lola shot me an “uh-oh” look and stammered, “Are you a friend of his?”
“His wife.” She sent Lola and me a magnificent smile.
* * *
“Ex-wife.” Brianna massaged her empty glass.
We sat in my back booth inside the Windjammer. I’d whispered the situation to Benny, who’d promptly passed the word to Henry. They’d left us alone as they cleaned up the remains of the food festival, hauling equipment, wiping down the steam table, moving the portable bar. Pauli and Honey stacked the tables and chairs.
Lola and I sipped coffee. Brianna claimed she needed something stronger, so Benny poured her a double shot of bourbon, which she’d downed in one gulp.
“Would you like another?” Lola asked.
Brianna shook her head.
We’d broken the news of Antonio’s death as gently as possible, then hurried her inside the Windjammer. She had cried, not uncommon for an ex-wife, especially one who seemed as emotionally attached to her ex-husband as Brianna. But in keeping with her sophisticated demeanor, she pulled herself together, drank her liquor, and pressed us on details.
“He was eating knishes when he died?” she asked me.
“Well, yes, but I don’t think they had anything—”
Brianna frowned. “He was told to avoid fried foods. I understood he was on a strict diet.”
I was about to defend the festival menu when Lola chimed in. “That’s true. I tried to fix him dinner a few times, but he insisted on handling his own meals. Now Tiffany was another matter. She’d eat anything I cooked.”
The name of Antonio’s current wife hung in the ether.
“Yes. Tiffany.” Brianna’s lip curled.
Whoa. I slid my eyes in Lola’s direction. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Did you know Tiffany?” I asked.
“I met her. Once. I couldn’t imagine the two of them . . .” Her eyes filled.
Better to change the subject. “So Antonio had heart issues? High blood pressure, or an arrhythmia, or something?” I asked.
Brianna nodded. “Probably, but he avoided doctors like the plague.”
“A
ntonio did complain of not feeling well a few nights ago. He left rehearsal early,” Lola added.
Brianna shook her head. “If he’d only taken better care of himself. To die so young . . .”
“The county medical examiner will run tests,” Lola said gently. “They’ll be able to determine exactly why he died.”
Brianna dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. “It’s all so unbelievable. . . and shocking.”
We nodded sympathetically. “At first we thought it might have been something he ate, but he was the only one at the food festival to . . .” Lola shrugged.
“He had the elderberry wine, too,” I said. “We were using ideas from the play. It was really Merlot.”
Brianna looked amazed. “What was he trying to prove? Eating knishes and drinking red wine? Antonio disliked red wine,” she said.
“When I knew him in New York, he pretty much drank anything,” Lola said. “Of course that was fifteen years ago.”
“Were you married to him then?” I asked Brianna.
“No. We met and married in Los Angeles. By 1998 we’d drifted apart. We divorced and I came back East,” Brianna said simply and checked her watch. “I should go.”
“Are you okay to drive?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
Brianna offered no further information about her living situation or Antonio. We watched her scoot out of the booth and withdraw a card from her purse. “If you don’t mind . . . if you hear anything more . . .”
I nodded and took the card. “Sure. Take care.”
After she’d left, Lola said, “Now I need a drink.”
I ran my thumb over the embossed letters of Brianna’s business card. Flowers by Kincaid, Rumson, New Jersey.
6
Lola and I chewed over Brianna’s appearance, along with a couple of Henry’s special burgers, before I closed up for the night. Henry, Benny, Enrico, and Honey had all lit out by seven; I agreed to turn out the lights and lock up.
“Strange.” Lola dabbed her mouth. “Brianna said Antonio never went to a doctor. But one night when we were talking about vegetarian diets, he said he was told he had the heart of a twenty-year-old. Who would have told him that if he’d never gone to a doctor?”
“Maybe he got healthy after he divorced Brianna? I guess there’s more to Antonio’s backstory,” I said.
“I knew he’d been in Los Angeles before New York. But then he just disappeared. Thirteen years later he’s emailing me and wanting to get back in touch.”
“When was that?”
She thought. “Maybe a year ago. That’s when I got the idea of having him as a possible guest director.” Then she winced.
I picked up Brianna’s card. “She’s certainly done well for herself. She has her own business.”
“Funny that she called herself Antonio’s wife at first,” Lola said. “Of course, I had no idea he’d been married and divorced when I knew him in New York.”
“Maybe she never got over him.”
* * *
Monday morning, bright and early, I brewed a cup of coffee and opened my laptop. I Googled “Flowers by Kincaid.” The website was attractive and easy to navigate. You could find what you wanted. I had become a website connoisseur since Pauli had created an Internet presence for the Windjammer. Which reminded me, I had to give him a call.
Flowers by Kincaid had links for gift baskets, special occasions, same-day delivery, and great deals—a variety of autumn flowers arranged in baskets and bowls. Nice. The prices, for the most part, seemed reasonable. There was also a home page picture of Brianna and her staff, all of them smiling, ready to serve. Brianna looked as poised as she had yesterday hearing about the death of her ex.
I rested my fingers on the keyboard, then downed the last of my coffee. On a whim I deleted “Flowers by Kincaid” and typed in “Antonio Digenza.” Up popped a handful of links that included either “Antonio” or “Digenza.” Several had to do with classical composers and musical content. I added “+ New York” and got a number of hits: Digenza Towing, Digenza Bakery, and an appellate court case for an E. Digenza and two other defendants.
I scrolled down the links and on page two there were theater reviews for Antonio’s shows from 1998 and 1999 and one for a 2000 off-off-Broadway production. The play—some bedroom farce I’d never heard of—received a good reception but only ran three weeks. It featured a young actress named Lola Trotter. She’d gotten an excellent notice. There were other reviews from 2013. But nothing else. Unusual in this day and age, when every aspect of one’s existence was often blared front and center on the web and social media. I needed to check some other sources. But first I needed to get to the Windjammer and mend some fences with Henry.
* * *
The coffee was already percolating when I stepped through the door. Benny hadn’t arrived yet, but Carmen was setting tables.
“Good morning, Miss Dodie,” she said in her thick accent.
“Hi, Carmen. Henry’s . . . ?” I pointed to the kitchen.
“Sì.” She lowered her voice. “He is little bit disgustado.”
I barely passed high school Spanish, but I got the gist.
I pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. Enrico was chopping carrots for Henry’s homemade cream of carrot soup; Henry was sautéing onions. “Mmmm. Something smells delicious.”
Henry grunted. Enrico smiled.
“So we’re doing the fried trout in herb butter sauce for dinner. With the walnut salad, right?”
Henry nodded and kept stirring the onions.
“Guess I’ll do some inventory.” I grabbed the clipboard off a hook by the door. “I’m sorry about the food festival. I think we might have sold out Sunday if Antonio hadn’t . . . you know.”
“So we’re stuck with dogs, pretzels, and Italian ices. Not to mention potatoes and ground meat for the knishes,” he said.
“Let’s feature the Italian ices for dessert some night and I can take the hotdogs, pretzels, and cookies to the soup kitchen in Creston. It’s tax deductible.”
Enrico handed his pot of carrots to Henry.
“Honey can pack it all up. She’ll love fooling around with the boxes and tape. By the way, where is she?” I asked.
“I gave her the day off,” Henry said.
“Good idea.”
He looked up. “We both deserved a break.” He tried not to laugh. “All three of us.”
I snickered quietly and headed to the walk-in freezer.
The lunch special was Henry’s take on Mexican grilled cheese: queso Chihuahua, minced chorizo, and crushed taco chips. It sounded funky but was really a killer menu item. He’d only served it a few times in the past, but the word went out—get here early on those days.
I checked the dining room. Tables set, Benny installed behind the bar, and Carmen waiting for the onslaught. Except it never happened. The lunch “rush” consisted of a small group from South Jersey who were visiting Revolutionary War sites—Etonville’s cemetery, established in 1759, was on the map, along with the Eton Bed & Breakfast; three construction workers repairing telephone wires on Route 53; and Edna, who’d stopped by to pick up a takeout order of the special sandwiches for the Etonville Police Department.
I rang up Edna’s order.
“Not too busy,” she said, turning her head to scan the dining room.
“I guess Etonville is eating in today.” I handed her change.
Edna leaned over the counter. “It’s a shame people in this town are so stubborn. The medical examiner said Antonio died of cardiac arrest. Not food poisoning,” she said emphatically.
“He did? It’s official?”
Edna stood up straight. Her face said it all—oops.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I said.
She grinned sheepishly. “I overheard the chief on the phone. He distinctly said ‘You’re sure? Cardiac arrest?’”
“Wow. Well, that’s good news. I mean not for Antonio.”
“See you, Dodie. I’ve go
t to get these back to the department.” Edna embraced the brown bags and said good-bye.
By three o’clock, I couldn’t stand the Windjammer atmosphere: Henry was morose, Benny was working on a crossword puzzle, Carmen was cleaning tables no one had eaten at. I had to get out.
“Benny, I’m taking my break. Be back in an hour.”
Outside I inhaled deeply. On a day like this I craved the sun and sand, running on the beach until I couldn’t catch my breath and the sweat rolled down my face. Maybe I’ll just stroll around town, down Main to Amber, and stop in Betty’s Boutique and see what’s new in the lingerie world. I could also drop in JC’s and buy a new furnace filter. After all, winter was coming.
Who was I kidding? There was only one place I wanted to go. I bypassed Betty’s and pushed open the outer door to the Municipal Building. The hallways gleamed, as usual, and eau de Lysol lingered in the air. I knew Bill wasn’t responsible for keeping the building shipshape, but somehow everything seemed spiffier and more efficient since his arrival.
Edna was hard at work, one hand on the mouthpiece of her headset, the other surreptitiously holding her play script. Running lines with herself, no doubt.
“Quiet in here,” I said.
Edna slid her script under the counter. “Ralph’s got an 11-66 on Anderson Street and Suki is checking out an 11-24 near the highway.”
I stared at her blankly. I knew she loved her codes, but it was difficult to follow along.
“That’s a defective signal light and an abandoned vehicle,” Edna said.
“Okay. So is the chief in? I just wanted to—”
Edna buzzed his inner office. “Dodie’s here.” She listened, then nodded. “10-4. You’re cleared. And those sandwiches? De-licious. Etonville missed out today,” she said.
“Thanks, Edna. We appreciate your support.”
She picked up her script again. “Roger that.”
I had no real reason to barge in on Bill; I just wanted to get confirmation about the cause of death. Not that I didn’t trust Edna, but the sooner the official report was announced, the sooner the return of the Windjammer’s clientele. I knocked on his door.
“Enter,” he said.
I stuck my head in. “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Time Out Page 5
