“Thanks,” I mumbled and picked up the slip of paper.
“Hey, I know things are little stressful here now.” He glanced around the restaurant. “Business will pick up. You’ll see.”
My heart sank. I think I botched it with him. Again.
* * *
I slept in and dreamed of hordes of people fighting to get into the Windjammer. If only. I awoke in a cold sweat, relieved to be in my bed. I reran my conversation with Bill last night. He was sympathetic to the whims of my creative illusions, up to a point. It was clear he didn’t see any reason to pursue Antonio’s death as anything out of the ordinary. I had cashed out my goodwill account with the note and the license plate; I was now on my own, at least until I had something more substantial to present to him.
I hopped out of bed and into the shower. As the warm water splashed off my face and neck, I ran through my day’s agenda. I had decided that the only way to tie up loose ends was to manipulate the strings myself. With Pauli coming later, I had the day to explore a few matters—Regan Digenza and the doctor in Bernridge. I ran a brush through my hair, stepped into a fresh pair of jeans, and tugged on a warm, fleecy pullover. I made a cup of coffee and rye toast—I intended to avoid Coffee Heaven today and circumvent the risk of running into Bill.
I powered up my laptop and parked myself at the kitchen table. Who was Regan and did she have a more visible Internet presence than Antonio? As I sipped coffee, I typed in her name and hit Enter. I was prepared to have to dig around. Not necessary. A handful of links with Regan Digenza in the top line came up immediately. I clicked on the first one: LinkedIn. There was no extensive profile, only a listing of positions and a picture. It was my lady in green, all right. Her hair was a different color—brown instead of black—but her expression hinted of the disdain she’d demonstrated at Antonio’s grave site. Her profile indicated she’d held a series of jobs—a casino dealer in Las Vegas and, more recently, in Atlantic City. I scrutinized the photo. Regan looked to be in her midthirties, posed at the entrance to a commercial building inside a revolving glass door. A hotel or casino?
Another link referred to a newspaper article revealing that she had been part of a group of casino workers who won a $100,000 lottery in Nevada. Nice. I scrolled down a few links and stopped at one that mentioned her work in a web series that played on YouTube. An actress and a casino dealer. Regan was versatile!
I clicked on the last link and watched a three-minute episode of a series called On the Clock, where a handful of actors, including Regan, ran around a stage throwing cream pies at each other while a guy timed them with a stop watch. I sat back in my chair. What to make of her? Other than the fact that she seemed to lead a colorful life, I had no information on her connection to Antonio.
My cell jingled. I checked the caller ID. “Hi, Lola. How’s things?”
“Did you have to ask?”
“Sorry.”
“Dodie, can you do me a favor? Could you come to rehearsal tonight? It’s our run-through and I need an objective opinion. I know I can trust you.”
I could hear the desperation in her voice. “I guess so. I have a few errands to run today and then a meeting with Pauli—”
“That reminds me. I need to call Carol and make an appointment to get my roots done before opening.”
“How would sevenish be?”
“You’re a good friend,” Lola said gratefully.
I was. “By the way, I saw Bill yesterday and he gave me the name of the woman in green at the funeral.”
“What woman in green?”
“You remember . . . she threw a flower on top of Antonio’s casket and had this look of vengeance—”
“That’s right!” Her tone changed. “So, Bill, huh?” she teased.
I let Lola have a light moment since she hadn’t had much to smile about lately. “He’s been preoccupied with the Creston robberies. But he came by the Windjammer last night.”
“So who is she?”
“Are you ready? Her name is Regan Digenza.”
“She’s related to Antonio?”
“I guess. But I’ve been on the Internet for the past hour and can’t find any connection to him, although she is an interesting character.” I enlightened Lola on Regan’s work life. “Bill thought she could be a relative who didn’t care for him. But I don’t know. You said you thought his family was out West?”
“California. But I got the impression that he was estranged from his parents and had no siblings.”
Which reminded me, it had been a few weeks since I’d called my own parents, who had been living in Florida since before Hurricane Sandy. They’d traded one beach for another.
“Huh. I might pay her a visit.”
“Where is she?” Lola asked.
“Atlantic City maybe?”
Lola was silent for a moment. “Dodie, you think there was more to Antonio’s death?”
“You know me and unanswered questions.”
Lola laughed softly. “You go, girl. Let me know if there is anything I can do.”
“How about drinks after rehearsal tonight?” I said.
She groaned. “If I make it that long.”
14
By late morning I was ready for some fresh air. It was a balmy fall day. According to my weather app, temps would be hitting the high seventies by late afternoon. I was always happier when I was actively pursuing solutions to problems. Digging into Antonio’s visit to Bernridge lifted my spirits. There were only three doctors in town with Chinese names. It wasn’t difficult to connect Imogen’s “shoe” with a Dr. Xiu; the others were a Dr. Wang and a Dr. Chen.
I left the parkway and followed the off-ramp to Lambert Street, where my Genie commanded me to drive two miles and turn left onto Charter Drive. Like both Etonville and Creston, Bernridge was a bedroom community of New York City, although a more blue-collar version than the other two. Its most prominent claim to fame was a box factory that dated from the 1920s and recently went out of business. I cruised slowly down Charter until I reached number seven, a modest two-story Victorian, painted maroon and white. Attached to a light pole in the front yard was a sign that read “Dr. Xiu. Traditional Chinese Medicine.” What was Antonio doing with Asian medicine? I parked, two cars down from the house.
I expected miniature waterfalls and burning incense. But the waiting room was occupied by typical reception seats, stacks of magazines, and fluorescent lighting. An Asian woman and child, holding hands, sat against one wall, and against the opposite, an elderly man with headphones moved his head up and down rhythmically. The receptionist was a young African-American. Imogen’s neighbor’s cousin Tess? My plan was to claim I had back pain—generic enough—and ask to see the doctor.
I approached the receptionist’s window. Her ID tag read Theresa. Bingo.
“Hello,” I said. “I would like to see Dr. Xiu.”
“What’s your name?”
I didn’t want this visit to reach the ears of Etonville. “Maureen.” My middle name. “McDermott.” My mother’s maiden name. Might as well keep it in the family.
“You don’t have an appointment,” she said.
“I know, but I was hoping you could squeeze me in.”
Tess studied me. “What’s your reason for wanting to see the doctor?”
“Back pain,” I said and hunched a tad, frowning.
Tess clicked a few computer keys and read a screen. “I have an opening at one o’clock.”
Forty-five minutes. “Fine,” I said. More time to figure out a way to approach Dr. Xiu.
She handed me an information sheet and I sat down to answer a few questions, acting as though I was deeply engaged with my medical history, of which there was very little. Ten minutes later, an assistant ushered the woman and child into the doctor’s office. The man was still engaged with his iPod. I finished the form. “Excuse me, but do you have a cousin in Etonville?” I asked as I handed it in.
Tess looked up from her keyboard. “What?”
“Imogen, she works at Snippets hair salon, said her neighbor had a cousin who worked for Dr. Xiu.”
“I met Imogen once.” She checked the sheet I handed her. “Have a seat and I’ll call you.” Tess wasn’t especially unfriendly, just brusque and to the point.
The assistant opened the inner door again. “James?” He removed his headphones and followed the assistant out of the waiting room.
Imogen was not going to be a lead-in. I had to go for broke. “I was wondering if you remembered my friend Antonio Digenza?”
Tess looked impatient. I might have been getting on her nerves. “Who?”
“He was here a week or so ago. He died of a heart attack shortly after. Imogen mentioned that you had mentioned—”
Tess sat up straighter, her eyes immediately sympathetic. “Oh yes. At a food fair or something.”
Antonio’s death might be forever linked to the Windjammer. “I was surprised to hear that he was being treated for heart disease. Antonio seemed so healthy. A vegetarian, I think.” Is that what Lola had said? “I didn’t know that you could heal heart issues with Chinese medicine.”
Tess shook her head. “Poor man. Dr. Xiu treats everything with herbs, but Mr. Digenza wasn’t a heart patient.” She leaned across her desk. “He nearly collapsed,” she added confidentially.
I didn’t know if she was violating any HIPAA protocols but seemed suddenly eager to talk. I felt the little hairs dancing on the back of my neck.
“Antonio had been looking a little pale lately.” I was amazed at my growing facility with manipulating the truth.
“Gastrointestinal issues will do that to you.”
Antonio had gastro issues. “So Dr. Xiu uses herbs to treat everything?”
“Yes. Colds, cancer, infections. Even your back pain.”
I remembered why I was here. “You know, I’m feeling a lot better. Maybe—” The assistant appeared at the inner door. “Maureen?”
“You might as well see Dr. Xiu,” Tess said.
I sat on the examining table as Dr. Xiu, a diminutive, older woman, poked, prodded, and pressed every square inch of my back. Her face was tranquil—ageless and wrinkle-free.
“Have you ever had acupuncture?” she asked.
“Needles? No.”
“It would help.”
I had to think fast. No way was I going to become a pincushion for an ailment that was nonexistent. “I was hoping that I could be treated with herbs. At least for this first visit?”
Dr. Xiu scrutinized my face. “Yes. But if the pain persists you will need to consider additional therapies.”
I dressed quickly and took my prescription: a brown grocery bag. I peeked inside as Tess checked me out. It was full of twigs, dried brown and red leaves, chunks of moss, and pieces of bark.
“What do I do with all of this?”
“You boil it and make an infusion and drink some as a tea. Then you pour the rest into your bath water and take a nice long soak. I guarantee your back will feel lots better.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Does this stuff really work?”
Tess smiled knowingly. “It’s not called ‘ancient medicine’ for nothing.”
On impulse I asked, “I guess Antonio had a bag like this as well?”
Tess’s brow puckered. “He was scheduled to come back for his weekly prescription, but he never made it.”
“So Antonio came here more than once?”
It must have finally occurred to Tess that she was violating his privacy. Her eyes became hooded, her expression guarded. “That will be seventy-five dollars.”
I paid and left.
I couldn’t imagine the degree of pain that would force me to drink, much less take a bath in, a tea made with clumps of my backyard. I pitched the brown bag into the backseat. So Antonio had been seeing Dr. Xiu for gastrointestinal problems. Not heart disease. Rather than answer questions, my visit to Bernridge had raised more. How long had Antonio had stomach issues? For that matter, why did he opt to see a Chinese herbalist instead of a traditional doctor? Did he drink the infusion or soak in it?
* * *
Pauli was right on time and I was ready for him. I’d brought home a pan of spaghetti and meatballs from the Windjammer last night; it wasn’t his mother’s recipe, but Henry made a pretty good Italian entrée, despite what La Famiglia thought. Meanwhile, there were chips and oatmeal-raisin cookies to hold him over.
“So, like, you want to go deep on the Internet?” he asked, opening his laptop on my kitchen table.
“Whatever we have to do to find out more about Antonio Digenza. Maybe there are search tools I don’t know about?” I was a civilian, so of course there were Internet antics that were not on my radar.
“Beyond Google, Bing, and Yahoo! searches,” Pauli volunteered.
“He wasn’t on Facebook. I checked.”
“No social media presence.” Pauli cracked his knuckles and went to work.
He concentrated on a variety of search engines that could be used to find people: ZabaSearch, NamUs, Wink People Search, and a few others. With each one he typed in “Antonio Digenza” first, and then added “+actor”, “+director”, “+New York City”. Nothing showed up beyond what I’d already found.
“Some of these engines are just for missing persons,” he said, and finished off a can of soda.
“Remember when you suggested he might have changed his name? Could we still find him?”
“Sure. Like government search engines with his social security number.” He broke out in a grin. “We found out about those in my last class.”
“Great,” I said. “What if I don’t have his social?”
Pauli weighed options. “We could keep digging into, like, other activities.”
“Such as?”
“Did he belong to, like, organizations?”
“I don’t know. Maybe acting or directing unions? Lola might know if he was a member.”
“IMDb,” he said. “Internet Movie Database.”
“Right.” I had no idea if Antonio had had a movie career either in front of or behind the camera, but it was worth a try.
Pauli kept at it while I warmed up dinner; the only find was a brief mention of a short film that Antonio produced and directed in 2013. One of the cast members was a Regan Digenza! Confirmation of a theater/film connection. Pauli was ecstatic that we’d made progress.
We lobbed around other ideas as we downed the spaghetti and meatballs, and he gave me an update on his latest digital forensics assignment: examining personal electronics in criminal investigations.
“Wow. You mean you can locate someone from his tablet or cell phone?”
“Give me your cell.” Pauli began with the Settings app and tapped until he reached Frequent Locations. “You were at Ames Street . . .”
“Right,” I said.
“And Charter Drive in Bernridge, Main Street here, and River Road in Rumson—”
I took my phone back and gawked at the screen. “Whoa.” I was dumbfounded. I knew that my smartphone asked to have access to my location from time to time, but I had no idea it was tracking me. If I had Antonio’s cell, I would know where he’d been in the days before his death. I looked at my wall clock.
“I have to run, Pauli. Thanks for your help.”
“No problem. I gotta bounce anyway.”
I cleared the table and placed the dishes in the sink. The dishwasher was on the blink again, but my landlord had promised a repair visit. Then I dropped Pauli off at the other end of town. “Tell your Mom hi.”
Pauli slung his backpack over his shoulder and bounded out of the Metro. “If you want to keep searching . . .”
“I’ll call you.”
* * *
The Etonville Little Theatre was, as usual, in a state of organized chaos. Technical rehearsal was less than ten days away. Walter was struggling to gather the cast onto the stage for a warm-up exercise, Carlyle was gesturing wildly at Lola about the upstage wall of the set, and Penny was scurryi
ng around, clipboard in hand, whistle at the ready, like a sheepdog herding its flock. It was exhausting watching them.
I planted myself in the back row of the house for the run-through. Knowing Walter, I probably had a decent amount of time before the show started. The houselights had been dimmed, so I dropped my head onto the back of the seat, contemplating the events of the day.
“Bunch of amateurs.”
I twisted to my right. Tiffany stood in the center aisle, shaking her head. “I guess that’s community theater,” I said quietly.
Tiffany glanced at me. We had not really spoken in the weeks before Antonio’s death, and certainly not in the days since, if you don’t count my attempts to mute her wailing at the food festival upon seeing Antonio’s face in his plate. “He never should have taken this gig. He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for the Etonville Little Theatre.”
Technically, I guess that was true. Without the ELT directing job, he wouldn’t have come to town or been at the festival. Or maybe had some sort of gastro reaction.
“It did seem strange that a man of Antonio’s professionalism would agree to direct a small-town theater troupe,” I said.
“It was the money. And a role for me.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Besides, he wanted to get out of the city for a while.”
“I heard that he liked it so well he was planning on moving to this area.”
Tiffany snorted. “Who told you that? He was going to beat it out of Etonville on opening night.”
“And leave you in the show?” I tried to laugh companionably.
“Carlyle would still be here.”
Chalk up another score for Penny and her ear-to-the-ground reconnaissance. “I’m certain the ELT is grateful that you stayed in the production.”
Tiffany shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.” She studied me for a second. “Aren’t you the Windjammer person who arranged the food thing?”
“Yes, I am. I just want to extend my sympathy again—”
“Can you get me some food? I didn’t have time for dinner and I’m starving.”
“Um, sure. What would you—”
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