Time Out

by Suzanne Trauth

  “A burger’s fine. Rare. And a Dr Pepper. Large.” She deigned to join the rest of the cast onstage.

  I texted Benny and put in Tiffany’s dinner order. Hmmm. Tiffany had no concerns about Windjammer food. Did she know something?

  Carlyle and Lola had reached some sort of détente because he was nodding his head and she was wearing a lopsided smile, probably the result of biting her tongue while choking back an opinion. Penny tooted one blast of her whistle and everyone quieted down. Carlyle headed out of the theater, for coffee; no doubt to escape the warm-up.

  Walter gathered everyone in a circle and explained the premise of the exercise. Lola slipped into a seat next to me.

  “What’s Carlyle’s beef?” I asked.

  “He thinks the back wall isn’t anchored properly.” Lola rolled her eyes.

  “At least the scenery looks almost finished.” The doors were on their hinges, the floor was painted to resemble hardwood, and the furniture was stacked at the back of the set.

  Lola crossed her fingers.

  Walter demonstrated a new exercise: Arms spread out, he floated around the space until he came close to an actor. Then he held out a hand and said, “Hello.” The actor was to respond in kind.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s called Balloon Hello,” Lola whispered. “First you drift around weightless like a balloon, and then you greet whomever you touch.”

  I slid my eyes in her direction. “And the point is . . . ?”

  Lola frowned. “I think it’s about communing with the space and treating the cast like friends. Or family. Walter is all about theater as a family.”

  Edna dove in enthusiastically, twirling until she bumped into Romeo and gave him her hand. He shook his head and slapped her fingers.

  “Light as air, up on your toes. Float! Float! And greet each other with awareness,” Walter shouted.

  Abby reluctantly clomped around in a circle, then stuck her hand in Tiffany’s face, who batted it away and “floated” off stage to the green room.

  “Faster! Faster!”

  The actors began to run, leap, twirl, grabbing each other’s hands, yelling and hooting until they were breathless.

  Walter was taking little notice, having committed himself fully to the Balloon Hello, spinning, rotating first in one direction, then another, reaching out for actors who by now were flopping on the floor in fits of laughter.

  “At least they’re enjoying themselves,” I said.

  Lola looked dubious. “I hope they have something left in their tanks for the run-through.”

  Walter finished the warm-up with the actors in a circle holding hands, eyes closed, visualizing themselves romping around the set. Romeo coaxed Tiffany out of the green room and stood next to her, hand in hand, while Abby and Edna moved as far away from each other as possible. Some family.

  Penny signaled a ten-minute break. The actors scattered to the bathrooms and dressing rooms. Lola ran down the aisle to intercept Walter before the run started, and I had my fingers crossed that all went well.

  “You better do more than cross your fingers,” Penny hissed in my ear.

  I jumped. How did she do that?

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  “The guy playing the minister—”

  “Mildred’s husband Vernon?”

  “He forgot his hearing aids. He’ll miss every cue,” she crowed.

  For someone in charge of managing the production, Penny got a perverse pleasure out of seeing the show on the brink of ruin.

  “Can someone call Mildred to drop them off?” I asked.

  “Already checked. She’s at choir practice.”

  “Do you want me to go get them?”

  “Nah. I’ll tell everybody to yell their lines to him.” Penny hurried off. “Hey, you two”—she shouted at the policemen who were lounging on the settee—“move your butts off that thing and help me with the furniture.”

  Honey stuck her head in the theater door. She plunked Tiffany’s dinner on the seat next to me. “Here you go, Dottie.”

  “Thanks. Much traffic next door?”

  She flicked her hair off one shoulder. “Like, no. I only made thirty dollars in tips. I should get a real job.”

  As if working at the Windjammer is volunteer labor. “Customers will come back soon.”

  Honey looked unconvinced. “You should forget about theme food next time.”

  I clamped my mouth into a tight line to prevent a toad from escaping. “I’ll just go and deliver this.” I picked up the Styrofoam package and brushed past Honey. “Maybe you should get back to the restaurant.”

  “What for? I’m just hanging around the dining room.”

  I put Honey out of mind and scanned the stage, where actors were beginning to gather in rehearsal clothes. “Edna, have you seen Tiffany?”

  “I think she’s in her dressing room.” Edna looked around and lowered her voice. “Having some line difficulties, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew what she meant. Lola had complained on several occasions that Tiffany hadn’t completely memorized the script yet. “Whoops. Maybe she needs some food.”

  “She needs a prompter,” Edna muttered.

  “Well, good luck tonight,” I said and moved away.

  “We’re going to need it.”

  I crossed the stage and opened the door to the green room, a cozy hangout with a sofa, folding chairs, and a soda machine, which, in turn, led to the dressing rooms. Two actors exited the men’s dressing room, pulling on rehearsal jackets. “Hi, Dodie,” Mildred’s husband said.

  “Hi,” I answered.

  “What did you say?” he asked, hand to his ear.

  “Nothing.” I turned to the women’s dressing room. The door was ajar. Through the crack I could see Walter and Tiffany.

  “I have Act One down,” she whined.

  “But you promised you’d have the entire play memorized by tonight,” Walter said, a tinge of terror seeping into his speech.

  “I’ve had a few things on my mind lately, in case you didn’t notice,” she said roughly.

  “I know this hasn’t been easy for you but you insisted on staying in the show.” I could hear him sigh. “Look, if you get into trouble, just skip to the next line you know. Whatever. Just keep the play moving.”

  Tiffany must have been weighing this advice in the silence. “Well, I could do that if the play was like, in my system, you know? But right now it’s only up here in my frontal lobe.” She pointed to her forehead.

  I figured Walter was about to say frontal lobe this. It was my cue. I knocked on the door and entered. “Tiffany, here’s your dinner.”

  She grabbed the bag and unwrapped the sandwich in one move. “I’ll be ready to go in five minutes,” she said to Walter, her mouth full, and fled the dressing room.

  He watched her exit, his jaw hanging off its hinges. “This is what we get for casting the director’s wife. Who can’t act!”

  A scream came from the stage. Walter looked stricken and hurried away, with me close behind.

  The cast stood around Tiffany, who sat on the ground on top of a bentwood chair that had shattered legs, the remains of her dinner on the floor next to her. “I knew that chair was not safe. I told Penny it was too rickety.”

  Penny gaped, about to blow her whistle, when Edna pushed through the crowd of actors. “What have we got here? Looks like an 11-80 or 11-81. Depending on the injuries.” She raised her voice as if Tiffany was hard of hearing—of course that would be Mildred’s husband. “How badly are you hurt?”

  Tiffany brushed Edna away. “It’s my back.”

  Romeo and one of the cops helped Tiffany to her feet and set her on the sofa. Walter was running his fingers through his beard and pacing as Lola entered the house.

  “What’s the matter?” she yelled, and ran down a side aisle.

  I intercepted her advance toward the stage. “A chair broke under Tiffany and she claims her back is hurt.”

>   “Oh no.”

  “Why don’t you let me take her to your place, get her something for her back, and if she’s up to it I can run lines with her. Meanwhile, the rest of the cast can run the show.”

  Lola hesitated for only a moment. “That would be so . . . great.” She closed her eyes and sighed.

  15

  It took only a minute to convince Tiffany to leave with me—and sidestep efforts to challenge her frontal lobe—and even less time to persuade Walter that I could help Tiffany run lines and handle her back issue at the same time.

  Carlyle insisted on helping Tiffany to my Metro, asking her repeatedly if she was okay. Tiffany teased him about being a mother hen and the two of them hugged briefly before he settled her in my front seat.

  I drove carefully to Lola’s house in the upscale, north end of town—unlike my neighborhood in the south end of town, which was middle-class and practical. I parked in her driveway, watching with amusement when Tiffany needed no assistance springing out of my car. I followed her into the living room, where she threw herself on one of Lola’s pristine leather love seats and chucked her bag on an antique table. I’d dutifully rubbed my feet on Lola’s entrance mat. She was particular about her wood floors and Persian area rugs.

  “How is your back?” I asked.

  Tiffany studied me, probably calculating what she could get away with. “It aches.”

  I had a sudden brainstorm. “I have the perfect cure for you. It will make your pain disappear in a second.” I hoped Tess was right about the herb prescription. “Why don’t you head upstairs and get undressed and I’m going to prepare a nice warm bath with a special remedy.”

  Immediately suspicious, Tiffany sat up. “What kind of remedy?”

  “It’s a prescription from an herbalist for my back pain.” Or at least it would be if I had back pain.

  She shrugged. At least this got her out of rehearsal and a reprieve before she had to confront the script and Walter. Tiffany went upstairs to change and I went to work. I retrieved the brown bag from the backseat of my Metro and deposited the contents into Lola’s largest pot. The mess of twigs and leaves soon boiled, filling Lola’s gleaming kitchen with a stench that could only be described as bad corned beef and cabbage. For the heck of it, I ladled a bit in a mug and sniffed the contents: cow dung seasoned with just a soupçon of decayed tree bark. I held my nose and carefully stuck the tip of my tongue into the liquid. There was a gritty texture to the tea and the sensation of swallowing dirt.

  I strained the pot and hauled it upstairs to the bathroom. I turned on the spigot, emptied the contents of the pot into the warm water, and swirled the mixture as the tub filled. My fingers felt tacky on contact with the water and I could see a dirt ring start to appear around the inside of the tub. My hands floated in the murky water like buoys in a polluted lake.

  Tiffany appeared at the door of the bathroom in a crimson chenille robe. She wrinkled her nose when she saw the color of the water. “I’m not getting into that!”

  “I really think this bath will be awesome for your back.”

  “No way.” She stood her ground.

  I pulled my cell out of my pocket. “Walter texted a few minutes ago. Wondering if your back felt better.”

  Tiffany looked from me to the tub. “What do I need to do?”

  “Just sit down and let the infusion soak into your back muscles.”

  She sidled into the bathroom a few feet and untied her robe.

  “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be out here.” I left the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I could hear Tiffany lowering herself into the water. I wondered if Antonio had done the same.

  “Yuck,” she yelled.

  Oh well, maybe the herb bath would cure her, and if I could get her to study her lines, it would be my contribution to the Etonville Little Theatre. I decided to stay on the second floor in case Tiffany needed my help.

  I noticed the door to the guest room was ajar and my inner snoop got the better of me. I peeked in. Clothes were strewn around on most surfaces—the unmade bed, a soft armchair, one of the drawers in the bureau. The closet spewed hangers with slacks and sweaters and a jacket or two. I entered and approached the wardrobe. There were men’s clothes, too. A black turtleneck sweater, a leather jacket, and several dress shirts. OMG. Tiffany hadn’t gone through Antonio’s possessions. Maybe she couldn’t bring herself to part with his things?

  I backed away from the closet and saw the bedside tables. On one side of the bed there was a soda can, a paperback romance novel, and a cell phone in a bright pink case. On the other side there was another cell phone, reading glasses, and a copy of Arsenic and Old Lace. My heart skipped a beat. I walked to the hallway and listened at the bathroom door. Tiffany must have surrendered to the cloudy water; all was quiet.

  I tiptoed back to her room and grabbed Antonio’s cell phone. What had Lola said about his password? I tapped out the letters TONY. Then I closed my eyes and concentrated on my conversation with Pauli just a few hours ago: I started at Settings and worked my way to Frequent Locations of the places Antonio had visited in the days prior to his death. I recognized Charter Drive in Bernridge and various locations in Etonville, but there were also addresses Antonio had visited in Creston and Rumson. But the Rumson location was not Flowers by Kincaid, and I couldn’t identify the Creston locations. Antonio had been a busy guy. I memorized the most recent Creston address.

  I heard the faucet run in the bathroom and dashed to the hallway. “Are you okay, Tiffany?” I called out.

  From behind the door, I heard, “Need more hot water. This herb stuff stinks and is sticking to my skin. I’m getting out.”

  “I’d give it ten more minutes.”

  There was a muffled response. I ran back to the bedside table and replaced Antonio’s cell phone, which I was still holding. I examined the room. I tried dresser drawers—underwear, T-shirts, several sweaters. I spied the small drawer in the bedside table. I pulled on the little knob, but the drawer wouldn’t budge. It was stuck, or locked. I looked around for something to pry it open with and found a nail file on the top of the dresser. I stooped down, inserting it into the lock and twisting first to the left and then to the right.

  “What is that smell in the kitchen? What are you doing?”

  “Aaaah!” Startled, I fell backward onto my bottom. “Sh—”

  “Are you breaking into Tiffany’s things?” Lola asked, almost a reprimand.

  “Antonio’s. Help me out here.” I motioned to the bedside table.

  Lola grasped the knob, jiggled it back and forth, and the wood gave. The drawer opened jerkily. “Why are you—?”

  “See if Tiffany’s still in the tub.”

  Bewildered, Lola walked into the hallway. “Tiffany, it’s Lola. How are you?”

  An envelope lay in the bottom of the drawer, empty but addressed to Tony Dickson at a New York City location on the Upper West Side. My mouth dropped open; I joined Lola.

  The water began to drain from the tub. “I need to take a shower now and get this gunk off me,” Tiffany said.

  “What gunk?” Lola turned to me.

  “I’ll explain later,” I whispered and flattened my face against the bathroom door. “Good idea, Tiffany. A hot shower will finish you off.”

  Another muffled response.

  I grabbed Lola’s arm and pulled her into the guest room.

  “Dodie, what is going on here?” she hissed.

  “I might have found out where Antonio’s been disappearing to.”

  “What? How?”

  “It’s a long story.” I stuck the envelope in my pocket and pushed the drawer closed.

  “This herb bath didn’t do anything for my back,” Tiffany said, standing in the doorway to her room, wrapped in a large bath towel, hair dripping, unconcerned about our presence there.

  “What herb bath?” Lola was, by now, completely baffled.

  “Tiffany, how about a nice cup of tea?” I asked.

  �
�I’ll take a bourbon and Coke,” she said.

  I gently ushered Lola out the door ahead of me. “Come downstairs when you’re ready.”

  “You’re never gonna get that sticky mess out of the tub.” She flipped her head forward and shook her hair.

  * * *

  “What did you cook down here?” Lola asked, peering into her best pot as I rummaged in her liquor cabinet.

  “An herb prescription from a Dr. Xiu in Bernridge. For my back. Ancient Chinese medicine.”

  “Since when do you use ancient Chinese medicine? My God! I didn’t know you hurt your back,” Lola said, concerned.

  “I didn’t. I went there because Antonio went to see her.”

  “For his back?”

  I finished pouring Coke into two fingers of whiskey. “For a gastrointestinal problem.” Where had Antonio boiled his prescription? Lola would have known if he’d done it here.

  “How did you find that out? And what did you do to this pot?”

  “I’ll tell you everything after Tiffany checks out. By the way, how is the run-through going?” I asked.

  “Not so bad. Of course, Walter is thinking we may need an understudy for Tiffany. Even if the person has to be on book.”

  “That’s probably not a bad idea.”

  “Walter’s thinking of asking Honey,” Lola said.

  “Honey? She can’t act.”

  “Well, she was sitting in the house and we needed someone to read Tiffany’s lines and she volunteered. She wasn’t half-bad—”

  “Henry won’t like it. That’s two of us at the ELT. And besides, we need her in the dining room,” I said.

  Lola lowered her voice. “Don’t say anything to Tiffany yet.”

  Geez. Honey was difficult enough to take, with her packaging and complaining and mispronouncing my name. I couldn’t imagine how much worse she’d be if she were actually performing in an ELT production.

  * * *

  I poured a little more Cabernet into my wineglass while Lola kicked off her shoes and stretched out on a sofa. We’d seen Tiffany—two bourbon and Cokes later—off to bed, and relaxed in Lola’s cozy den, away from the stairs to the second floor, where it would be impossible for Tiffany to hear us. I’d told Lola about Regan Digenza, Imogen’s neighbor’s cousin Tess, Dr. Xiu, Antonio’s cell phone, the envelope with the New York address, and the use of her stainless steel pot to boil the mess of sticks and leaves and dirt.