Time Out

by Suzanne Trauth

  Pauli shrugged nonchalantly. “Sure. There’s all kinds of databases. You don’t need much information to get going.” His nonchalance abruptly changed to vigilance. He slid his eyes around the restaurant. No one was paying any attention to us. “Do you have another. . . like . . . thing for me to do?”

  “Shh,” I said.

  “Remember the first rule of digital forensics?” he asked.

  “Confidentiality,” I said.

  He nodded wisely.

  “Got it.”

  Pauli stared behind me. “Hey,” he said and pulled his hood over his head.

  “Hey, yourself.” Honey tossed her straggly locks behind one ear and stuck her chest out an inch or so. “Wassup?”

  Pauli, too shy to respond, jammed the laptop into his backpack.

  “We’re working on the Windjammer website. Pauli’s a computer whiz.”

  He blushed and Honey appraised him anew. “Huh. Maybe you should include like a delivery service. You know, prepackaged food we take to wherever.”

  Pauli beamed. “That’s a good idea!”

  “I’ve got some packaging videos on Instagram.” She smiled teasingly at Pauli. “Bet you can use something on the website.”

  Pauli grinned stupidly. I ground my teeth. Honey was determined to box up Windjammer food.

  “FYI, Dot. Uncle Henry wants to see you in the kitchen. Something about a mistake in the meat delivery. Toodles.” She fluttered her fingers at Pauli’s shining face and strutted out the door.

  Geez.

  “So, uh, Dodie, let me know if you want me to work on . . . whatever,” he said.

  I rose, ready to do battle with Cheney Brothers food distributors. “Will do.”

  “’Cause, like, eventually you can find everybody on the Internet.” Pauli shuffled off.

  I shivered even though the day was warm and the Windjammer slightly stuffy. My little hairs stood up straight and saluted.

  8

  I sat in the theater next to Lola and watched the ELT’s “circle of light.” This was Walter’s way of forcing the cast members to trust each other. Every actor entered the middle of the circle and took turns falling into the outstretched arms of the rest of the cast, who, it was assumed, would catch the actor. I’d taken a turn during Romeo and Juliet and ended up on my backside. My takeaway? Don’t trust the cast.

  Walter was pontificating on the Etonville Little Theatre being a “family” and the importance of breathing as the actors released themselves into the arms of their “comrades.” I was skeptical. I breathed, and look where it got me. Carlyle appeared bored; needless to say he didn’t trust anyone.

  Penny sounded her whistle when the exercise was completed. “Take five. Then we do a speed-through.”

  The actors cringed. Carlyle pouted. “Can’t someone get that thing away from her?” he asked Lola, who was hunched over a rehearsal schedule.

  “Maybe we should cancel the run-through on Friday and push everything back until next week. Tomorrow night we should sit everyone down and run lines,” Lola said.

  Carlyle’s attention drifted away to stage right, where Tiffany was lounging in an easy chair.

  “How is she doing?” I asked.

  He turned his head to face me. “How would you feel if you lost your husband without warning?” He angrily stomped onto the stage and put an arm around Tiffany.

  “Wow. Was it something I said?”

  “Carlyle’s being protective of Tiffany,” Lola said.

  Did Lola know what Penny apparently knew? “Do you think there’s something going on between them?”

  “Tiffany and Carlyle?” she asked. “No. He was just Antonio’s assistant. And a good friend.”

  Maybe.

  “So, Lola, I was doodling around on the Internet, you know, Googling Antonio.”

  I had her full consideration now. “You were?”

  “I couldn’t find anything on him before 1998. You worked with him in 2000, right? I saw the review. Nice notice.”

  Lola acknowledged the compliment. “Antonio did his best, but the rest of the cast was pretty uneven.”

  “You’d think there would have been something about his earlier work in the nineties and later stuff between 2000 and 2013.”

  Lola shrugged. “Is that important?”

  “Just made me curious, that’s all.”

  Lola lowered her voice. “Dodie, do you think there’s something else about Antonio we don’t know?”

  “I’m not thinking anything . . . yet.”

  “Well, at least the medical examiner confirmed cardiac arrest. You have to feel relieved about that,” she said.

  “I wish it made more of a difference. The town is still suspicious about the Windjammer. If something doesn’t change their opinions soon, we could be out of business.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Maybe.” I might have been exaggerating a bit.

  Penny blew her whistle, whacked her clipboard against her leg. “Let’s go. Everyone onstage.”

  “So the funeral is all set for Friday?”

  Lola nodded. “We sent an announcement to the New York Times and the Star Ledger. In case any actors he’s worked with over the years want to come.”

  “Who’s doing the eulogy?”

  “Walter offered, but I nixed that. So Carlyle stepped up.”

  “Good thing.”

  “This feels like déjà vu all over again,” Lola said. “If we’re going to have a funeral with every production, I’m going to invest in a black wardrobe.”

  “I’ve got to get back to work.” I’d come over after the so-called dinner shift, but even Henry’s herb-crusted pork loin couldn’t tempt the palates of Etonville. I glanced at the stage, where Walter was physically maneuvering actors into various locations on the set. “What on earth is he doing?”

  “Walter insisted he wanted a speed-through tonight. I assumed he meant everyone sitting around a table and doing lines as fast as they could.”

  No one was sitting around a table. Edna and Abby were stationed by the front door, Walter took his place at the top of the stairs, Tiffany stood outside the front door waiting for her entrance, the cops were hanging around the window seat, Romeo sat at the dining room table, and one of the gangsters was killing time in the “basement.”

  Penny tooted her whistle. “Get your rears in gear. On your mark, get set”—Penny blew her whistle again—“go!”

  The actors looked at one another, confused, hesitant, and Walter shouted, “Let your creativity flow. Move wherever it feels right.”

  “What about the blocking?” Penny asked, and held up the prompt script.

  “Don’t get hung up on blocking. You need to make your movement organic. Improvise. Just keep flowing and speaking. Take it from the top!”

  “From the top,” Penny repeated, blasting her whistle.

  Carlyle held his ears and hunched down in a theater seat as the cast began to drift slowly around the set, spitting out lines and trying not to bump into one another.

  “Walter’s supposed to be the one who knows what he’s doing,” I whispered.

  Worry lines deepened on Lola’s forehead.

  And then the rehearsal went from problematic to plain idiotic. Edna tripped on her rehearsal skirt and ricocheted off Abby, who recoiled in surprise and landed in Romeo’s lap. Romeo yelled an expletive and Walter rushed down the stairs. “Decorum, Romeo! Keep it going! Speed up the lines.”

  Romeo propelled Abby off him as the cops decided to climb in the window. Tiffany stuck her head in the front door. “What’s going on?”

  “Stay in character!” Walter barked.

  The actor in the basement opened a trap door. “Is this my entrance?”

  “No!” the cast cried in unison and he disappeared.

  Carlyle marched to Penny and grabbed her whistle. He blasted his lungs out. Everyone stopped. Edna, out of breath, collapsed into a chair. Abby hiked up her skirt and sat on the stairs, the cops perched on the window seat,
Romeo threw his rehearsal fedora on the floor, and Tiffany ran off to the green room.

  “Another one of Walter’s bright ideas,” Lola groused.

  Walter, maintaining his dignity, called, “Penny!”

  “I’m on it,” she said. “Take—”

  “The rest of the night off,” Lola said firmly. She stepped to the stage. “Walter, we need to talk.”

  I headed back to the Windjammer.

  * * *

  “Don’t forget to wear something nice on Friday,” I said to Henry and Honey two hours later as they walked out the door. “Staff picture.”

  Henry wasn’t enthusiastic about the photography, but I’d convinced him that anything we did now to spruce up the website could only help business.

  “Like, we’re actually going to have our faces on the website?” Honey asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said.

  “Dot, like, maybe I can be holding some boxes? For my packaging portfolio?”

  Geez.

  I filled out a deposit form, tucked the day’s receipts—such as they were—into my purse, and flipped off the overhead spotlights in the dining room. Shadows played around the walls and tables. I usually never minded being the last one standing in the Windjammer. In fact, it was nice at the end of the day to have a quiet moment in the restaurant alone. But tonight it felt eerie, as if someone was watching me.

  Ridiculous, I told myself. I walked outside and zipped up my jacket. The night was nippy but clear. Stars glittered and the moon was a perfect crescent. I was lucky today and had caught a parking space directly in front of the Windjammer. Of course, that meant feeding the meter all afternoon, when I remembered. As I grabbed the door handle I saw something lodged under the left windshield wiper. Nuts. The Etonville meter maid was at it again; she had nailed me. Tickets were thirty dollars.

  I yanked it out. I was expecting a sturdy piece of card stock; instead I was holding a flimsy slip of lined paper with writing on it. I stepped under the street lamp and held it up to the light. In block letters it read: LEAVE ANTONIO ALONE.

  * * *

  I had trouble sleeping. I rose early, made my coffee, and studied the note, which I’d deposited in a plastic baggie, although my fingerprints were undoubtedly all over it. It was a five-by-seven sheet of white paper, the letters half an inch tall, as if a kid had printed it. I spent the morning mulling over this turn of events. Was it a hoax? A threat?

  I needed to talk this through with my BFFs. It was my day off, so I did my laundry and straightened the house, a simple job since I lived in a five-room, 1930s bungalow; perfect for my needs. Then I invited Lola and Carol over for an early dinner before rehearsal. We’d all been so crazy busy recently that we hadn’t had a girls’ night out in New York or gone to a movie. I knew Carol would bring some Italian dish, as she always did whenever I hosted them for a meal. I decided to use my great aunt Maureen’s silver, and cloth napkins, and I set the dining room table for the three of us.

  I had baby greens for a salad and a gallon of lemon ice that I’d liberated from the Windjammer freezer. Which reminded me, I had planned to drop off the leftover food from the festival to the soup kitchen in Creston. I checked the wall clock. I had a few hours before either of my guests would show up. I tucked the note in my bag, grabbed my keys off the hook by the back door, and pulled on my denim jacket.

  Outside, my neighbor was back from Ohio and washing her brand-new car. I looked at my red Chevy and considered: It deserved a wash, too. Maybe later. I waved to her and she gestured with her chamois. Someday I’d have enough money saved to buy a new car, but that might mean a change in jobs.

  Never mind. I touched the dashboard of my Metro. We were good friends and had seen each other through some serious scrapes. I headed down Ames and turned onto Fairfield as I calculated exactly how much I’d saved since my arrival in Etonville. Not much. I turned into an alley off Amber that led me to the loading dock of the restaurant. It was two o’clock and lunch would be nearly over.

  “Hi, Enrico,” I said as I entered the back door and headed for the refrigerators.

  He looked up. “Miss Dodie? It’s your day off,” he said, his chocolate eyes opening wide.

  Carmen called him her brown-eyed baby. “Just here to pick up the leftover festival food.”

  Enrico looked over this shoulder. “Go quick before Henry comes.”

  “Bad mood, huh?”

  “His meat loaf was no comfort today,” he said sadly.

  “Got it.” I had no time to play cheerleader for Henry. “Give me a hand.”

  Enrico and I loaded the fifty pounds of hotdogs, two hundred pretzels, and a case of the black-and-white cookies into my car. Honey poked her head out the back door. “Like, what’s going on? Dot, you should tell Uncle Henry that—”

  “Sorry, Honey. Got to go.” I ripped out of my parking space next to the dumpster.

  I was three minutes from the Municipal Building. I had a good reason to see Bill—dropping off the note. And I had a good excuse to beat a hasty retreat—the food packed into my backseat—in case it felt like I was overstaying my welcome. Though Bill and I were on friendly terms, I was cautious about barging in on him too frequently.

  “Hi, Edna,” I said and hurried past the dispatch window.

  Edna took off her headset. “Dodie! The chief’s not in.”

  I stopped. “Oh. Do you expect him back soon?” In other words, was he taking a break at Coffee Heaven or on a 10-something call.

  “Don’t know. He was gone when I came on duty.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Edna.”

  “Officer Shung’s in, if it’s urgent,” she said.

  I hesitated. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  She replaced the headset glumly. “Some rehearsal last night.”

  It wasn’t like Edna to get down in the dumps. I felt sorry for the whole cast. They’d been working hard and didn’t deserve to have the show collapse around them.

  “You know how Walter gets this close to an opening. A little . . . frenetic,” I said.

  “I’ve been tweeting my relatives in Pennsylvania. I may have to uninvite them.” Her board lit up and she punched a button. “Etonville Police Department.”

  I could always drop off the note to Bill tomorrow.

  * * *

  I wound the window down and headed onto State Route 53. The wind whooshed into my front seat and sent my hair in a swirl around my face. I felt free and removed from the food-festival fiasco for the first time all week. I dialed up the volume on my radio and sang along to Katy Perry.

  I slowed down as I entered Creston and followed the GPS—I called her my Genie—on my cell phone. Left on Banks, right on Maywood, and I found myself in a part of town I’d never visited. The houses were old 1920s-style Craftsman bungalows, mostly two-story with upstairs dormers and tidy yards, sided in earth tones—yellows, browns, and greens. I cruised down Maywood and stopped in front of a Lutheran church.

  Inside the door marked Annie’s Place, I found a jolly woman who identified herself as the kitchen manager and offered to find someone to help me unload the car. They were only too happy to receive the food; it made me feel better about all of the leftovers.

  Ten minutes later, I made a U-turn on Maywood and drove back to the center of Creston. I passed a familiar jewelry store, a café I frequented when I needed an out-of-Etonville break, and a doctors’ professional building that offered the kinds of medical specialties unavailable in Etonville. I paused at a red light, humming to the radio, and looked to my left: the Creston Police Department. It made me think of Bill’s involvement with the series of robberies in town. I wondered how that was going and if he was here.

  As if my mind had the power to make things materialize, Bill stepped out of the building with another officer. They shook hands. I imagined he was smiling with that familiar lip curve.

  The light changed and I had to make a decision. My route home was straight ahead, but Bill was to my left. It looked as if his work was don
e and he was leaving, so why not stop by and say hello? I turned on my blinker and slowly spun the wheel, aiming for the curb. I pulled in and put the car in park. I looked down to get my lipstick from the console and when I glanced up, Bill and the officer had been joined by a woman: thirties, striking, short brunette hair, a hot business suit, and three-inch heels. OMG. I scrunched down in my seat, far enough to hide my face but not so far that I couldn’t see the events unfolding.

  She placed a hand on Bill’s arm and he smiled. This time I could see his lip turn up at one end. The three of them chatted awhile longer, then the officer returned to the department and Bill kissed the woman on the cheek. I had never seen or experienced Bill Thompson being that affectionate with anyone. Much less me. My heart dropped in my chest. When he got in his car, I waited ten minutes to be sure he was gone before I edged down the street, went around the block, and got back on State Route 53. Depressed.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe this,” Lola said, staring at the note in a baggie. She took a forkful of baked ziti.

  Carol had outdone herself. The edges of the casserole were crunchy and the melted mozzarella thick and gooey. Just the kind of comfort food I needed tonight. It would have been an all-day affair if I’d attempted to cook. Carol kept a half dozen of these dishes frozen and ready for last-minute emergencies. I picked up the Cabernet bottle to top off our wineglasses; Carol and I had no particular place to go this evening. I was planning on hunkering down, and Carol had one of her hairdressers closing up later.

  Lola, on the other hand, had a line rehearsal to attend—one that didn’t include actors bouncing around the stage as if the theater were a pinball machine. She placed a hand over her glass. “Wish I could,” she said.

  “What are you going to do about the note?” Carol asked, helping herself to another serving of ziti.

  “I guess I’ll give it to Bill tomorrow.”