Time Out

by Suzanne Trauth

  His lopsided grin appeared. “Has that ever stopped you before?”

  “Oh. We’re being funny today.” I was playing it cool, but my heart bounced around like a Mexican jumping bean.

  “Just practicing my presentational skills.”

  “Right. The introduction to the mayor. How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say no one’s going to choke on their appetizer laughing at my jokes.”

  Which of course reminded us both of Antonio.

  Bill became serious. “Sad about his death. But heart attacks can happen to anyone at any time.” He paused. “I had an uncle who ran marathons, never smoked, no red meat. And he dropped over dead at forty-nine.” Bill shook his head. “You never can tell.”

  “So it’s official?” I asked hopefully.

  “Well, the ME filed a preliminary report. Cardiac arrest as the cause of death. It will take a few weeks for the lab results from the blood and tissue samples, but he doesn’t expect to find anything unusual. I guess that means I need to give a statement to the Etonville Standard.” He nudged the local paper in my direction.

  The headline blared GUEST DIRECTOR SUCCUMBS AT FOOD FESTIVAL. There was a picture of Antonio, black turtleneck, luxurious curly hair, brilliant smile. He looked to be about thirty. I skimmed the article; it summarized the events of his passing. Antonio, in full costume greeting the townsfolk of Etonville, was eating knishes and drinking elderberry wine when he was suddenly stricken. And, of course, the paper made sure to mention that folks were leery of attending the festival Sunday due to suspicions about food poisoning. Trust the Etonville Standard to fan the flames of innuendo.

  “The sooner you talk to them the better. Our lunch service was noticeably smaller. And Henry’s getting a little frantic.”

  “I understand. I’ll call them this afternoon. His grilled cheese was out of this world.” He looked at his waist. “Probably not too heart-friendly, speaking of dropping over dead.”

  I laughed. “I think you’re safe. You get a lot of exercise running around . . . 10-78s and 11-14s and 20-20s.”

  “Edna’s rubbing off on you,” he said with a smirk. “But I’m going to be busier in the next month. Serving as a consultant to the Creston PD.” A hint of pride sneaked into his voice.

  Creston was a decent-sized city, population 20,000 compared to Etonville’s 3,284. It had a variety of middle-class and upscale neighborhoods and buzzed with chain stores and fast food places. Also crime, apparently.

  “I guess congratulations are in order.”

  “Nah. It’s just that they’ve been handling a bunch of upmarket residential robberies in the last month and they requested some help. I worked on a special task force years ago in Philly. A band of jewel thieves targeted million-dollar mansions in Society Hill.”

  “Old-fashioned cat burglars?”

  “Burglary and theft. They managed to hit a dozen homes before we caught up with them.”

  “I read something about this in the Standard. Creston’s not exactly Society Hill, but there’ve been three or four break-ins?”

  “More like six or eight. All the same MO.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  He checked his watch. “Thanks. Actually I need to get to Creston for a meeting. Was there anything else . . . ?”

  Oh yeah, I thought, as the afternoon light behind his head brought his chiseled face into sharp relief. But all I said was, “Not really. Well, maybe one thing.”

  He looked up from his briefcase. “I know that look. You’re getting the itch to play detective again.”

  “I just wanted to let you know that Antonio’s ex-wife showed up at the festival yesterday.”

  Bill looked interested. “Yeah?”

  “A nice woman. Really broken up over his death. I guess there was still some . . . feeling there.”

  “Unlike many divorces,” he said.

  Did he speak from personal experience?

  “Right. Well, she said Antonio probably had heart issues, didn’t watch his diet, and hated to go to doctors. Like he didn’t take care of himself.”

  “As I said, they can—”

  “—happen to anyone,” I finished for him. “I’m glad the medical examiner has confirmed the cause of death, but . . .”

  Bill took his jacket off a hook. “But what?”

  I shook my head.

  “Come on.” He tapped his index finger against the brim of his cap.

  “Okay. I was thinking that something didn’t feel right, you know?”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but Antonio told Lola he had the heart of a twenty-year-old and was careful about his diet. She also told me Antonio had been disappearing from rehearsals and once he stayed out all night. And then he nearly drove into me at midnight last week at the opposite end of town from where he was staying.”

  Bill sat back down. “It’s not a crime to drive around other parts of town, and given the stories I’ve been hearing lately about the ELT rehearsals. . .”

  “Edna?”

  “Edna. I’d probably take a powder and disappear, too.” He laughed.

  “I guess so.”

  “I know you have an overactive imagination. But this time, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Was I wrong? Was I imagining a problem where there wasn’t one? Of course my great aunt Maureen always said even a stopped clock is right twice a day. Still, whenever something unexplainable bothered me, these tiny hairs on the back of my neck were like a radar system, alerting me to pay attention. They’d lain dormant for the past few months, but since Antonio’s death I could feel them come alive.

  Bill patted me on the back. “I have to get going. See you Saturday at the game?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Out on Main, I could still feel his hand on my upper back. It was just a pat, but still, contact was contact.

  7

  The sky overhead turned gunmetal gray and the wind picked up. I made it back to the safety of the restaurant just before a downpour drenched everything and everyone still on the street.

  Benny was on the phone with his wife; she’d been downsized from the box factory in Bernridge and was now working at Georgette’s Bakery, supplier of Windjammer’s baked goods. They had a five-year-old daughter and, in his spare time, he drove a UPS delivery truck. Benny was usually grateful for any extra shifts I could offer him. Tonight that seemed like a good option. Usually I hung around until dinner was over, but what was the point? With only a handful of patrons in the restaurant, I wasn’t needed and Benny could spend the later part of the evening doing crosswords and listening to Henry kvetch.

  “Hey, want to work late?” I asked when Benny ended his call.

  “You bet,” he said eagerly. “The kid is home with an earache and the wife is grumbling about her job search. The Windjammer’s the safest place to be tonight.”

  I punched in Carol’s cell number.

  “Hi, Dodie. How are you holding up?”

  I could hear the whoosh of running water and the whirr of hair dryers. “Fine, I guess.”

  “The word here is that no one’s eating at the Windjammer and you might have to call the health department.”

  “What? No! In fact you can announce that the medical examiner confirmed Antonio had a heart attack. It’s going to be in the Etonville Standard tomorrow morning. That’s one piece of information I hope you spread around.”

  “Will do. That’s good news!”

  I heard a glint in her eye. “What?”

  “My new shampoo girl—”

  “The one with the earrings?”

  “Imogen. Yes. She has a neighbor whose cousin works at a doctor’s office in Bernridge. She was on duty a few days before Antonio died.”

  “And?”

  “He had an appointment to see the doctor. Maybe he was already ill. Maybe he had heart problems nobody knew about. Or maybe he had food poisoning already and something he ate just pushed him over the
edge.”

  Huh? “The medical examiner said—”

  “Cardiac arrest, I know.” She lowered her voice. “But people around town aren’t buying it.”

  “There goes business.”

  “I’m sorry, Dodie. Anything I can do to help?” Carol asked.

  “Could you ask Pauli to call me? I’ve been texting but no answer back,” I said.

  “That kid! He lost his cell phone. I’ll give him the message. Meantime, do you think you should shut down the Windjammer? Just until this blows over?”

  “Talk soon.” I clicked off and downed two aspirin to combat the headache that I could feel coming on. I assumed I had gotten used to Etonville when the rumors swirled around the death of Jerome Angleton and nearly waylaid the investigation. But there had also been positive aspects to the town’s gossip mill. People had noticed other people doing things that eventually helped crack the case wide open. One just had to take the positive with the not so positive. I decided to speak with Lola and see if she’d heard the Snippets rumors.

  * * *

  At seven o’clock, I stood under the awning that covered the door of the Windjammer and waited for a break in the rain; after two minutes the steady thrum of the water hitting the canvas softened to a gentle patter as the rain became a drizzle. I dashed next door to the theater and ran into the lobby. Two actors were sitting in a corner running lines; two others were drinking coffee and, from the look of their tetchy faces when they saw me, exchanging opinions on the food festival’s liability for killing off their director.

  “Is Lola around?” I asked, trying to look businesslike.

  One of the guilty gossipers jerked his thumb in the direction of the theater.

  “Thanks.” I entered quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever dramatic moment was being created.

  I needn’t have bothered. It looked like nothing was being created, except maybe frustration. Walter and Carlyle stood onstage, facing each other, arms folded across their chests identically. Lola sat, head in hands, in the front row. Penny was stretched out on a sofa downstage, and a bunch of actors wandered around upstage, whispering until their voices grew too loud and Penny shushed them. To my shock, Tiffany was perched on a chair next to Romeo, who sporadically put a comforting arm around her.

  “We can’t start run-throughs this week. We haven’t worked through Act Two yet,” Walter said, and tugged on his brown-gray beard. It was a gesture I recognized from the past whenever he was stymied in the process of getting a show on its feet.

  “Antonio scheduled the run for this week and then work-throughs next week,” Carlyle shot back. “We should honor his plans.” Carlyle sneaked a peak at Tiffany, who shrugged indifferently and walked off the stage, Romeo close behind.

  Walter scowled. “But he’s not here, so maybe we need to make our own decisions.”

  It looked like a stalemate. They both turned to Lola. “Let’s give the actors a break and maybe we can sort this out,” she said hopefully.

  “I’m going for coffee,” Carlyle said. “Tiffany?” He looked around for her.

  “I’ll be in my office.” Walter tramped off.

  “Take ten,” Penny yelled and hauled herself up and off the divan. “Hey, O’Dell.”

  “Hi, Penny.” I slid into Lola’s row. “Whew. You’ve got your hands full.”

  “Rehearsal’s a hot mess,” Penny said at my back. “Lola, you want coffee, too?”

  “No thanks.”

  Penny disappeared and I dropped into the seat next to Lola. “Who’s in charge?”

  “They both are. Codirecting,” Lola said.

  “Is that wise?”

  “Probably not, but it was the only way to guarantee the show gets up. Walter has more experience, and of course some off-off-Broadway credits, like Antonio, but the cast is a little turned off by his attitude. Carlyle has never directed on his own, but he has the actors’ sympathy. Now, anyway, being Antonio’s assistant and all.”

  “What’s Tiffany doing here? Why isn’t she in mourning with family in New York or wherever?”

  “I encouraged her to take the night off, take the show off, for that matter. We’d find someone to replace her. But she insisted on coming.”

  “I’m afraid to even ask . . . is she making funeral arrangements?”

  Lola lowered her voice. “And that’s another thing. They’re releasing the body tomorrow, so she’s free to proceed. I offered to help, you know, call people. But her family’s in Oregon, and anyway they don’t really know Antonio. Apparently, Tiffany doesn’t think he had many friends who would come.”

  There was at least one other person who would want to come.

  “So, what are you saying?” I asked.

  “She wants to hold the service here. Bury Antonio in Etonville,” she said.

  OMG. Another funeral service run by the Etonville Little Theatre?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Lola said. “But this time no eulogy by Walter, just a simple remembrance and burial. At least that’s what Tiffany said she wanted.”

  Last April, Jerome Angleton’s funeral had been an ELT extravaganza, orchestrated by Walter, complete with Shakespearean quotations and Elizabethan costumes.

  “Should I notify Brianna? I guess it’s Tiffany’s call. But she seemed genuinely grief-stricken.”

  Lola twisted a lock of her hair. “I hate to bring Brianna up again. I mentioned her name last night and Tiffany had a meltdown.”

  “Maybe better to leave her out of the picture. Let me know if there is something I can do.”

  “I’d suggest a repast at the restaurant, but under the circumstances. . .”

  “Right,” I said.

  * * *

  I’d arranged with Pauli to meet me at the Windjammer after school to talk about updates to the website. We’d been online since April and there had been only one major glitch—in an effort to be proactive Pauli had listed Things To Do and Places To Go in Etonville and inadvertently offered free publicity to Henry’s nemesis, La Famiglia. I’d managed to smooth things over by brokering a short-term reconciliation between the two eating establishments: They both participated in my theme-food nights for Romeo and Juliet.

  But their goodwill took a hit when La Famiglia received its four-star endorsement, and I gave up on détente: The cold war was once more underway. I had to up the ante and plump up the website.

  “Hey, Dodie.”

  I lifted my head from an inventory sheet where I was weighing vegetable choices—asparagus, broccoli, and kale—and took in a familiar sight: a hank of brown hair drifting over an acne-spattered forehead, a black hoodie, and a laptop. “Hi, Pauli.”

  I cleared papers from the other side of my booth and Pauli slid onto the bench opposite me. “Thanks for your help with the food festival.”

  “No problem,” he said. Then with a frown, “Kinda freaky with that guy . . .”

  “Dying. Yeah, I know.” The Etonville Standard still lay on the table. “At least they published the truth about his death.”

  The paper’s follow-up article was below the fold, had no pictures, and briefly quoted the medical examiner’s official language: “All indications point to an acute myocardial infarction.” Still, business had been slow all day.

  Pauli swiped one hand across his forehead to reveal his whole face. “I didn’t eat the knishes.”

  “Right.” I motioned to Benny to bring Pauli a Coke and he opened his laptop. “So the website.”

  We stared at the Windjammer page and took a moment of silence to appreciate our efforts from the spring: pictures from the herb garden, a link for menus, and an online reservation system. We had talked about using reviews, but they were only three stars and would pale in comparison to La Famiglia.

  I got down to business. “We need to add some pizazz, you know?”

  Pauli nodded seriously. “Totally. Because, like, people still think the guy croaked of food poisoning.”

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  His ey
es gleamed. “I did some research.”

  In seconds he had called up a series of restaurant websites. We scrolled through them for ideas. Pictures of the staff, gift cards, photos of various dishes, and news about past and upcoming events. Some even had blogs.

  “This is great, Pauli,” I said. “We can definitely do the photos and I could write up a description of previous theme-food events for a news link.”

  Pauli slowly munched on chips.

  “But maybe I should skip the food festival.”

  He nodded.

  “And I can do a blurb on community outreach for the football picnic this weekend.” I wasn’t ready to commit to a daily or even weekly blog about the Windjammer, but a few short notes would be fine. “So we’ll have a staff photo and a gallery of pictures of Henry’s signature dishes and an events link. How does that sound?”

  Pauli slurped down the rest of his Coke, already making notes on his laptop.

  I smiled at his youthful enthusiasm. Nice to be almost eighteen—he had a birthday coming up soon. I was feeling older than my thirty-four years. Was it spending time on the beach this summer and seeing all of those tanned, hard bodies that made me feel as though—

  “Is that okay?” Pauli asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “I can take pictures later this week. I have to finish up my online class tonight.”

  “That’s right. Your mom mentioned it. Digital forensics?”

  “Yeah.” His face glowed. “Like we’re studying the basic tools and procedures. Seizure of equipment, forensic duplication process, hardware recognition—”

  “Whoa. Seriously?” I said.

  “Like yeah.” He stirred the ice in his glass with the straw. “We also study ethical stuff.”

  I knew what he was referring to. His ability to find a password and hack into Jerome’s email account had made a huge difference in putting away a bad guy. Still, it was our little secret; ours and Lola’s and Bill’s. Even Carol had no idea about the extent of her son’s technical skills. “Pretty soon you’ll be able to investigate devices legally,” I said quietly.

  He grinned. “Next I’m going to take a class on Internet searches.”

  I started to gather my inventory sheets. Time to get back to work and time for Pauli to report home for dinner. “Pauli, can I find someone on the Internet even if they don’t want to be found?” I had an itch about Antonio. Why didn’t he have a bigger web presence? Even Henry had a handful of references and he was allergic to anything on the Internet.