Time Out

by Suzanne Trauth

  “If it is a prank, I don’t think it’s very funny,” Lola said. “And if it’s a threat? That’s serious business.”

  I twisted the stem of my glass.

  “Dodie? Are you okay? You seem a little out of it,” Carol said.

  “Just thinking.” And I was, only not about someone warning me to forget about Antonio, but about the mystery woman that Bill had so freely kissed publicly. I shook myself mentally. “Carol, I should tell Bill about Imogen’s neighbor’s cousin.”

  “Good idea. Maybe someone should speak with her.” Carol paused, swallowing her wine. “Speaking of Bill, did you know he’s got some interesting things going on in Creston?”

  Did I ever.

  Carol leaned across the table like a conspirator. “One of my colorists said that Edna said that he’s working on a case there.”

  I was sure he was.

  9

  I understood why Lola was frazzled. In addition to keeping the Etonville Little Theatre on schedule for an opening in ten days, she had had to put together a funeral very quickly. We sat in the back row of Ristaino’s Funeral Home; me in my black skirt and dark blue jacket, she in a black suit and pearls that set off her blond hair and gave her a dignified, other-worldly presence. If I didn’t know better I would have taken her for the grieving widow. It was 8:30 a.m., a half hour before the viewing was open to the public. I had agreed to keep Lola company when she brought Tiffany to see Antonio’s body. We watched her sitting in a chair in the first row of seats, almost as if she had no idea what she was supposed to do. It was to be a simple service here, followed by a burial in St. Andrew’s Episcopal cemetery.

  “I hope this comes off okay,” Lola murmured, twisting a lace handkerchief.

  “Things will be fine.” I patted her knee, which reminded me of Bill patting my back.

  “It’s just that I had no idea what Antonio would have wanted.”

  “Tiffany wasn’t any help there?” I asked.

  Lola shook her head. “Not really. She claimed she didn’t know Antonio that well. They’d only been married a year.”

  “Wow.”

  “She left everything up to me.”

  The minister arrived and approached Tiffany. “I guess I’d better get ‘onstage,’” Lola said, and joined them.

  So Tiffany didn’t really know Antonio’s background, his family, his history. He might have been part of the witness protection program for all she knew. But then again, what did any of us know about the people in our lives? What did I know about Bill? He was a former NFL running back who served on the Philadelphia police force before arriving in Etonville. He was a wine connoisseur and appreciated great food—at La Famiglia, unfortunately. Was that all I knew? Oh, and of course there was the brunette in Creston on the steps of the police department.

  A rustle of activity at the front of the room tugged at my attention as Mr. Ristaino opened the doors and mourners filed in. Lola had wisely left Tiffany in her chair and positioned herself to greet people as they entered. She was all composure and poise. I admired Lola’s ability to play whatever role she was handed. Leading lady? She was there. Artistic director? No problem. Funeral arranger?

  OMG. At the head of the line was Brianna, looking as smart as Lola, in a muted gray suit and black neck scarf. The two of them could have been sisters. Brianna greeted her as if they were good friends and made a beeline for the casket, kneeling, then laying a hand on Antonio’s chest. She had to notice how good Antonio looked. The undertaker had done an amazing piece of work; Antonio’s skin was rosy and his lips were in a slightly condescending smile—just as he’d looked in rehearsal. Brianna blotted her eyes, nodded at Tiffany, and walked back toward the foyer. I craned my head to see where she’d gone, but the room was filling up and she disappeared into the crowd.

  The membership of the ELT was well represented: the entire cast of Arsenic and Old Lace, of course, scenery and costume crews, Chrystal, even JC from the hardware store.

  The Banger sisters were present; word was they loved a good funeral as long as it wasn’t one of theirs.

  “Pretty good show, O’Dell,” I heard at my back.

  I was becoming accustomed to Penny appearing out of thin air and responding to my thoughts. She landed in a seat next to me. “Where’s Walter?” I asked.

  Penny pushed her glasses up a bit on her nose. “He’ll be here. He likes to make an entrance.”

  “Not in costume, I hope.” I remembered his Elizabethan cape and frilly shirt, à la Romeo and Juliet, for Jerome’s funeral.

  Penny cackled softly. “Nah. He and Antonio were . . .” She crossed her index fingers to form an X.

  “Right. Well, now he’s gotten what he wanted. He’s directing the show.”

  “Codirecting,” she corrected me. “Too bad about Antonio. He was getting to like Etonville.”

  “Small-town life? He’d miss New York City,” I said.

  “Well, he was thinking of moving out here.”

  I stared at Penny. Where did she get her information? This was not the standard Snippets gossip; this sounded as if she and Antonio—

  “We had a few conversations, eye to eye.”

  “You mean . . . heart-to-heart?” I asked.

  “Whatever.” She poked my shoulder and jerked her head toward the front of the room.

  Carlyle had entered, pausing to glance first at Antonio, then at Tiffany, as if unsure about which direction to take. He opted for the living and advanced on Tiffany. She stood up for the first time and threw herself into his arms. It was an awkward moment and the place was suddenly silent.

  “Told you,” Penny muttered.

  As if on cue Walter strode into the room. The ELT membership pivoted their heads toward him, acknowledging their leader’s presence, and resumed their quiet murmuring.

  For half an hour townspeople streamed in, many of whom had probably never met or even seen Antonio; but he was an honorary member of Etonville, having worked at the theater, and that was good enough for the citizens of the town. I recognized most of the crowd, but there were ten or twelve people who looked unfamiliar. Actors Antonio had worked with before, no doubt.

  At nine thirty, the minister rose and signaled the start of the service. He asked everyone to take a seat and began with a prayer and general request for the repose of Antonio’s soul. Heads bowed reverently. There was a Bible reading, the singing of “Rock of Ages” by Mildred Tower, choir director of St. Andrew’s in addition to Etonville librarian, and a short sermon on the struggles of this life versus the peace of the next. It was Antonio’s “time.”

  Maybe Antonio’s “time” had come a little prematurely, I thought.

  The minister motioned to the front row. Carlyle stood up and crossed to the coffin, placing one hand on its polished wood, the other holding a three-by-five note card. He cleared his throat.

  “Antonio was my friend, my mentor, a shining star in the theater firmament . . .” His voice broke.

  There was a collective gulp in the room. He took a breath. We took a breath. And waited.

  “Now we need to figure out how to go on without him . . .”

  Did Walter toss his head a little dismissively?

  Carlyle continued, summarizing their bond (like brothers) and recounting lessons Antonio had taught him (how to run a rehearsal, how to deal with troubled actors—squirming from the ELT bunch—and how to have a successful relationship). This last caused a minor stir. A few eyes slid in Tiffany’s direction. What an odd thing to say, considering Carlyle’s closeness with Antonio’s wife.

  Carlyle wrapped it up and the reverend asked if anyone would like to say a few words. I fervently prayed that the crowd was too moved to speak. I hadn’t even gotten to “Amen” when Walter rose.

  “Watch this,” Penny whispered.

  Walter stood majestically, the resurrected Artistic Director of the Etonville Little Theatre. He turned and studied Antonio as if in conversation with the dead man, then faced us, allowing his gaze to take in
the whole room.

  “I didn’t know Antonio well, unlike Carlyle, but I do know theater.”

  Some ELT members nodded in acknowledgment.

  “And so to honor both him and his place in our Etonville family, I would like to lead us in singing an ode to his life that I’m sure Antonio would appreciate.” Walter thrust a piece of paper into Mildred’s hands. She blinked and looked at the minister, who shrugged helplessly. This was Penny’s cue. She pulled out a stack of papers she’d been hoarding in her stage manager’s bag and hurriedly passed them out to the gathering.

  Walter found his first note and began slowly, “‘There’s no business. . . like show business . . . ’” he sang dramatically, his baritone full and rich. Mildred added her soprano tentatively as Walter signaled for the gathered assembly to join in. Up front Lola looked stupefied, Carlyle furious, and Tiffany numb. It was too late to question the wisdom of Walter’s choice of hymn. One by one mourners looked at each other, then down at the lyrics on the sheet. Despite the occasion, the momentum seemed to grow and by the time we all reached the end, everyone was more or less into it. We let the last note hang in the air. Walter stole an extra bow, Tiffany burst into fresh tears, Carlyle comforting her, and Lola just shook her head.

  * * *

  “Walter has more off-the-wall ideas,” Lola said, as we took our places under the tent by the grave site.

  “It was kind of sweet,” I said. “Unusual, but in keeping with the spirit of Antonio’s life.”

  The ceremony was short and to the point. The reverend was taking no chances. After we’d laid our single roses on the casket, Lola invited everyone to the church basement for coffee.

  We all turned to go and in my peripheral vision I saw a young woman approach the grave, stare intently at the coffin, laugh lightly, and drop her rose flippantly on the casket. I remembered her from earlier. She’d seemed to be slightly underdressed for the occasion and came very late—just as the singing started. My little hairs were standing on end.

  I tugged on Lola’s jacket. “Did you see that?”

  Lola was shaking hands with the reverend and thanking him for his service. She looked back at me just as the woman strolled easily out of the cemetery. “What?”

  “That woman. In the jeans and green jacket. She was at the funeral parlor.”

  “What about her?” Lola was engaged, smiling and nodding at everyone and thanking them for coming.

  “She just about threw her flower on Antonio’s coffin and then laughed. Who in the world is she?”

  “I’m sorry, Dodie, what did you say?” Lola asked.

  “Nothing. I’ll meet you inside the church.”

  I hurried out of the cemetery and skirted groups of people nattering on about Walter’s tribute to Antonio, how brave Tiffany was to stay in the show, and what kind of pastries Georgette had provided for the repast.

  In front of St. Andrew’s I paused on the sidewalk. A car or two were pulling out of the parking lot adjacent to the church. None I could identify, since the Etonville crowd would probably remain for the coffee and cake. Anyone leaving was more than likely from out of town. I walked quickly along the edge of the lot, scanning the automobiles, peering into aisle after aisle to find the mystery woman.

  Then I saw her, one green-sleeved arm hanging out the driver’s-side window of an older yellow Honda, holding a cigarette. That alone made her conspicuous.

  I debated talking to her. What was I going to say? Why were you laughing at Antonio’s grave? She tossed her cigarette stub onto the pavement and started her engine. The car sputtered, then came to life. I lost my moment as the automobile leapt forward out of its parking space. But I had learned my lesson: When chasing a questionable vehicle, get the license plate number! I stared at her beige New Jersey plate, shut my eyes, and memorized the mix of six letters and numbers.

  * * *

  “Awesome. Okay so, like, everybody say cheese.” Pauli aimed his digital camera at the front entrance to the Windjammer, where the staff had gathered for our photo. Henry was swathed in a white apron and chef’s hat; Honey, beaming, held a short stack of boxes; Enrico and Carmen stood arm in arm; Benny had a wise-guy grin; and I posed with what I hoped wasn’t a scowl.

  Pauli snapped shot after shot. Had us rearrange ourselves, had Henry remove his hat, had Honey abandon her boxes, had me try to smile. After twenty minutes the staff lost its pizzazz, so I suggested Pauli call it a day and evaluate what he had. We could always do another session later, I said to him under my breath.

  “Very cool,” he said as he clicked through his pictures, Honey hanging over his shoulder. “I think we totally crushed it.”

  I butted in. “Pauli, text them to me, okay? I’ll check them out.”

  “Dot, you look kind of tired,” Honey said, scrutinizing a picture of me.

  Pauli nodded in agreement.

  It had been a tiring kind of day. First the funeral and Walter’s sing-along, then the appearance of the woman in green, then a quick stop at the repast—just long enough to sample the pecan Danish and watch Lola mollify Carlyle, who pouted by the punch table over who-knew-what—and then lunch at the Windjammer, where the staff almost outnumbered the customers. I was expected to look chipper and perky?

  “You know this one’s a good shot, but, like, who’s that in the background?” Honey asked.

  I squinted at the tiny frame. “That’s the beer delivery guy standing at the bar.”

  “Like I can totally photoshop him out,” Pauli said.

  “Great idea.” I ruffled his hair. He ducked and grinned.

  I left Honey and Pauli chatting outside the Windjammer, and headed in to help Henry with the prep for tomorrow’s football game. In the crunch of the funeral and website work, I hadn’t focused on Bill’s picnic. We had to organize burgers, fries, and sodas for thirty little Etonville athletes. Ordinarily this would be an extra burden for Henry; in fact, when I’d made the commitment the Windjammer was deep into the theme-food festival. But now, with so few customers, cooking cheeseburgers and fries was a welcome diversion. I agreed to join Henry in the morning to assist while Enrico and Benny handled a modified lunch menu.

  * * *

  Two hours later I sat in my back booth, kicked off the heels I’d been wearing since the funeral, and inspected some inventory sheets. Dinner was a bowl of Henry’s homemade cream of asparagus soup. I transferred my attention from next week’s menus and a list of potential vegetable dishes to a scrap of paper that I’d been doodling on. I wrote:

  Antonio’s curious behavior, Brianna’s and Lola’s conflicting stories on Antonio’s health, Imogen’s neighbor’s cousin’s report, the note left under my windshield, the mystery woman at the funeral (and her license plate number), and no trace of Antonio on the Internet before 1998 and after 2000 until 2013.

  What did it all add up to?

  I finished my soup and tucked the paper into my bag. I had to talk with Bill, despite my feelings about the brunette in Creston.

  10

  I picked my way delicately across the grassy strip that surrounded the Etonville High School football field. Everything got drenched with the morning’s downpour, and muddy patches were visible where the green was sparse. With the temperature hovering in the sixties, I opted for my leather jacket and ankle boots. I might have done better with a raincoat and sneakers.

  I checked my watch. Eleven fifteen. “I hope the rain holds off until at least one o’clock. That should give the kids time to eat lunch,” I said to Enrico, who was hauling four dozen cheeseburgers and servings of fries in insulated food-delivery bags, stacked up on a hand truck. “Let’s set up here.”

  Bill had placed two folding tables by the end-zone bleachers—away from the meager but passionate crowd of parents who had gathered to brave the weather and watch their kids do battle with a Youth Football team from Clifton, New Jersey. While I arranged food and eating utensils, Enrico made several trips to Henry’s van for coolers filled with sodas.

  “Y
ou can head back to the Windjammer, Enrico. I’ll call when the picnic is nearly over.”

  “Miss Dodie, you like football?” he asked.

  “Some. I used to go to games in college. I liked the atmosphere, you know, yelling for your team, celebrating afterwards.”

  Bill looked our way and waved me over.

  “Have fun,” Enrico said and winked.

  Did everyone in Etonville think Bill and I might be an item? I sent Enrico on his way and walked toward the other end of the field. I remembered Saturday afternoons in the rain and cold, watching my college’s football team lose to weak and strong schools alike. Despite the fun, it was an embarrassing time on the gridiron.

  The officials called a time-out. Bill’s kids stood in a huddle near the bench. They were damp, some bored and ready to call it a morning, some sidetracked by their parents or other kids, some fiddling with their helmets and cleats.

  “Listen up, offense,” Bill said, holding a dry-erase whiteboard covered with X’s and O’s. A few players snapped to. “We’re going to run E21. The option. Remember?” Three or four nodded, two boys shook their heads. One sat down on his helmet. “Okay.” He scribbled with a marker. “Wishbone formation. Sweep right. Zach, hand off to Jimmy here”—he grabbed the jersey of number 32—“but if the coverage breaks down, check down to Alvin.” He pointed to number 44. “Got it?”

  The quarterback, Zach, gave Bill a high five.

  “Jimmy, wait for your blockers. Offensive line, let’s see some holes out there. Let’s play!” The team ran onto the field.

  The score was seventeen to three, Etonville losing with five minutes left in the game.

  “Maybe that play is a little complicated for them,” I said and pulled my jacket around my midsection.

  Bill looked at me as if I didn’t really understand the finer points of X’s and O’s. “They’re improving every game. I like to challenge them.” He pointed to the offensive line. “We practiced all week.”

  When the referee whistled, the players got set, the center snapped the ball, and Zach took off with the halfback running right. He pitched the football to Jimmy, who turned in the wrong direction, and it landed in the arms of a defensive end, who ran forty yards for a touchdown.