Time Out

by Suzanne Trauth

  “So it seems.” Beneath the fold on the front page was a small story on my assault last night. RESTAURANT MANAGER HAS RUN-IN WITH BURGLAR. There was a brief description of someone “attempting a break-in” at the Etonville Little Theatre, followed by several lines on my attack and removal by ambulance. At least there were no exaggerated theories on the identity of the burglar.

  I heard laughter floating down the corridor and turned to see Bill and the brunette from Creston, still elegant, still in a business suit to die for, and still sporting three-inch heels. Instinctively, I stood up straighter, flipped my hair off my neck, and whipped on my sunglasses. As if he could sense my attempt to compete with his companion, Bill rotated away from the brunette and looked at me, his mouth still in that lopsided smile.

  “Dodie, hi. I’ll be right with you.”

  I’ll be right with you? How personal was that? Where was that look of concern that he’d flashed at me early this morning?

  “I’ll be in touch, Pia,” Bill was saying, grinning like a fool at the brunette.

  My heart thunked and my shoulders sagged. What chance did I have with that kind of competition? As she did on the prior occasion in Creston, Pia lifted her face to receive Bill’s kiss on her cheek. TMI. I almost turned on my heel and strode away. Instead, I smiled at Pia as she clip-clopped her way out the door.

  “Come on in,” Bill said.

  I followed him to his office. “A lot for you to celebrate today.”

  “Yeah.” He laughed ruefully. “The Standard likes to make a big deal out of everything.” It must have occurred to him that I was part of the front page as well. “How are you feeling?” he asked quickly.

  “I’ll live,” I said.

  “Good.” He knocked a pencil against his desk blotter.

  Was he distracted thinking about the Creston achievement? Or the brunette?

  “If this isn’t a good time . . .”

  “No. No. I just need to be in Creston in forty-five minutes for a press conference.” He opened a file. “But I want to be sure I have everything on the record from last night.”

  “Okay.”

  I waited while he appeared to be studying the police report. Then he confirmed the time of my arrival on the scene, parking in the alley behind the theater, observing the person from my location on the pathway, and finally being blinded by a light and getting conked on the head.

  “I guess that’s about it,” he said.

  “Any chance of finding them?” I asked.

  “Not unless we get lucky. There wasn’t any evidence to go on at the scene, and you didn’t notice anything particular about the pair . . .” Bill raised his hands in surrender.

  “Why would someone want to break in to a place and then hit me on the head when there’s nothing much to steal?”

  “It’s hard to know what motivates perpetrators to commit crimes. Even petty theft.”

  “Unlike the major thefts in Creston,” I said lightly.

  Bill checked his watch again.

  “Did you find anything on the note?”

  He looked perplexed.

  “The one from my car? ‘Leave Antonio alone’?”

  “Oh that. No usable prints.” He stood up and pulled on his uniform jacket.

  “Uh-huh. Well, I did a little Internet browsing on Regan Digenza,” I said quickly.

  Bill stopped with his second arm halfway into its sleeve. “Oh?”

  “Regan has quite a background. She was a casino dealer in Vegas and then in Atlantic City. Might still be. And she’s an actor. Part of a web series,” I said in a rush, aware that Bill was easing his way out of the office.

  “How did you—?”

  “LinkedIn. The Internet Movie Database.” I left out Pauli’s name to protect the innocent. “She was in a short film Antonio directed in 2013, but otherwise no specific mention of a connection to him.”

  “You’ve been active.” He raised an eyebrow and buttoned his jacket.

  “You know me and unfinished business . . .”

  He wagged a finger in my face. “I do know you. I also know how that mind of yours works overtime.”

  With Bill on his way out the door, I had no other option but to postpone disclosing Antonio’s visit to Dr. Xiu and my snooping on his cell phone. It would have to wait—

  “Look, I know I’ve been a little tied up with the Creston business. . .”

  More like AWOL.

  “But with the thieves arrested, I’ll be back in Etonville full-time,” he said, and the left side of his mouth crept upward. “Maybe we can sit down and hash through all of your concerns about Antonio’s death.”

  That almost sounded like a date. I felt a warm sphere in the center of my chest; something inside was melting.

  “I have football practice Thursday night after school. How about stopping by and we can get a bite afterwards? If you can get a break from the Windjammer.”

  I would make it work. “Sure.”

  He opened the door and I stepped through.

  “By the way, did it occur to you that Regan could have been another ex-wife?” he asked.

  I halted in my tracks. “He had three wives?”

  Bill shrugged. “It’s been known to happen. Some people just need to be married.”

  Now what did that mean?

  17

  Henry had an appointment with Rita, Carol’s shampoo girl, to finalize menu ideas for the rehearsal dinner. I opened the door to the Windjammer, put on coffee, and laid out menu sheets before either of them appeared.

  Rita arrived first and I set her up in my back booth with a cappuccino and a piece of apple pie left over from yesterday’s dessert menu. Her fiancé couldn’t leave his post at a construction site in Jersey City, so she was on her own in choosing the food. I’d seen Rita in Snippets dozens of times over the past two years, but I’d never really studied the most memorable aspect of her appearance: an intricate tattoo of a leafy vine that began somewhere on her back and coiled over her shoulder and upper arm onto her chest, where it culminated in a bright red rose against a background of two entwined hearts. I was fascinated watching the flower and hearts jiggle whenever Rita bent to dig something out of her bag.

  “Can I get you anything else?” I asked.

  “Sorry?” She removed an earbud that was connected to her iPod.

  A little louder. “Another cappuccino?”

  “No way. Too much caffeine makes me jumpy.” She waggled her head to the sounds in her earphones. “I have to run to work after this. Carol’s promoted me to assistant manager.” Rita pushed a few loose strands of highlighted hair behind her ears.

  “Congratulations.” Henry and Honey walked in the door. “We can get started now.”

  Henry joined me in the booth while Honey trudged off—somewhat sulkily—to the kitchen to join Enrico chopping vegetables for today’s soup, and Rita went to the ladies’ room.

  He eyed me warily and dropped a copy of today’s Etonville Standard on the table. “This is how you spend your day off? It might be safer coming to work.”

  “I see we have a sense of humor this morning,” I said.

  “Hunh,” he answered.

  Henry described some selections for Rita, stressing several of the Windjammer’s signature dishes, such as French onion or cream of asparagus soup, or baby greens with walnuts, pears, and goat cheese; parmesan chicken cutlets with a choice of pastas, or panko-covered tilapia with saffron rice, or herb-crusted pork loin and rosemary potatoes; desserts were courtesy of Georgette’s Bakery.

  Rita and Henry noodled over this choice or that, with Henry emphasizing which entrées would complement which starters, while Rita emphasized that she and her groom were on a budget. It was only a party of a dozen; still, it was a big enough group to hold Henry’s attention.

  By eleven thirty, Honey and Carmen had set up the dining room, Benny had cleaned the bar and restocked beer and liquor, while Henry and Rita had agreed on a menu: baby greens, pork loin, rosemary potatoes, and a
ssorted pastries.

  My mind wandered from time to time and I felt fidgety. I couldn’t wait until my break and the opportunity to research Tony Dickson. A few customers ambled in for lunch, along with a couple who were passing through on their way to Pennsylvania to see the leaves changing colors.

  Benny and Carmen had the dining room well in hand, so I took the opportunity to eat an early lunch and do a little Internet mining. I typed Tony Dickson into the search bar and watched as a list of links appeared. There were Tony Dickson profiles on LinkedIn, several Facebook Dicksons, and a Wikipedia page for an actor with that name. I scrolled down and viewed the page of links. None were promising; all were recent. I was into the third page of Dickson entries when my cell rang. I checked the caller ID. “Hi, Lola.”

  “Did you see the paper? I was so distracted this morning I put it aside and only looked at it just now.” Lola sounded as though she was choking on her words.

  “Yeah. Why?” I asked.

  “The article on the Creston burglaries? Dodie, I recognized one of the men,” she whispered.

  From the kitchen there was the dull clatter of objects hitting a tile floor. Benny looked over and winced.

  “Can you speak up? I’m having trouble hearing—”

  “One of the robbers. I met him.”

  “You met . . . Where?”

  “Remember that guy who came to the theater and said he was a friend of Antonio’s and just wanted to look around?” she said.

  I also remembered that he bonded with Penny and claimed to be an actor in New York.

  “Well, he was one of the men breaking into houses in Creston and robbing people,” she added.

  “Are you sure?”

  “His face was inches from mine when he stooped down to pick up my papers.”

  I paused to organize my thoughts. Notions were flying randomly hither and yon. Why would a friend of Antonio’s stop by the theater for a visit during the same period he must have been lying low to avoid capture for a series of thefts in a neighboring town? “It makes no sense,” I said aloud, and found Henry’s copy of the Standard on the bar where Benny was doing the crossword puzzle. Despite his silent protest, I eased the front page away from him with a smile. “You need to tell Bill.”

  “I called the station. He was away. Maybe I should speak with Officer Shung?”

  “Good idea.”

  Lola sounded agitated. “Walter is calling me. He and Carlyle are fighting over some costume choices. I should go.”

  I scrutinized the two pictures of the Creston culprits. “Which one was he? The one on the left or—”

  “The one on the right. I’ll check in with you later.” She clicked off.

  I sat down in the booth. I had skimmed the article in Bill’s office but hadn’t given much thought to the two offenders. The one on the left had a gaunt face, a shaved head, and a grim expression. I wouldn’t want to meet up with him in a dark alley. The other man had kindly, attractive features, a half smile that was mysterious, yet reassuring. Wow. The two couldn’t have seemed more different. I reread the story until I reached their names. Johnny Bilboe, the bad boy, would probably be released on bail; and Lola’s acquaintance, Kenneth Amberlin, was in the hospital recovering from an injury he’d received during the arrest.

  The lunch crowd had exited, Henry and Enrico were busy with dinner preparation—it was a comfort-food menu featuring shepherd’s pie and mac-and-cheese. I needed to clear my head, so I grabbed my jacket and waved to Benny. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Maybe you should go home and rest. After all, you had a traumatic night.”

  “Thanks, Benny. That’s sweet of you. I just might do that.”

  There was no way I was resting. There were now many questions, and all of them led back to Antonio and the theater. If this case were a Venn diagram, he and/or the ELT would be the two things all of these people had in common: Kenneth Amberlin, Regan Digenza, Tony Dickson, Dr. Xiu, and my attackers.

  I climbed into my Metro and cranked the engine. I drove through Etonville, past Snippets, Georgette’s, and the frame shop. I toyed with dropping by the Etonville Public Library just to find some quiet space; but all of Etonville was a vast pool of innuendo and I didn’t feel up to having last night’s incident being the subject of conversation.

  I found myself on the outskirts of town, heading onto Route 53, as if my reliable Chevy Metro had a mind of its own and knew what was best for me. Four miles down the road I took the turn-off to Creston. So this is where I intended to go! I threaded my way through the town center and debated about taking a breather at my favorite Creston café. I decided against stopping and allowed my instincts full rein. I turned left and slowed down as I passed the Creston PD—Bill’s cruiser was still out front. But I didn’t have time today to fret over Bill’s relationship with a beautiful brunette in Armani.

  I’d memorized the Creston address Antonio had visited shortly before his death. I had no idea whether it was near the town center or the soup kitchen or the police department. I punched 112 Terrace Road into my GPS and listened as Genie led me to another part of Creston. I turned left, then right, then left again, past a strip mall and a cemetery, and noticed that small, boxy houses built in the forties and fifties gave way to stately homes on a half acre or so of land. Farther down the road, the street climbed upward, cresting at the top of a hill that overlooked the New York City skyline. The stately homes had become mansions that backed up to a wooded area, with tree-shaded verandas and circular driveways.

  “Destination is ahead on the right,” Genie said.

  I pulled over to the curb, threw the Metro into Park, and leaned back in my seat. I turned off the engine and stared at the house. Or rather the mansion. Probably dating from the 1920s, it was an elegant gray stone Tudor nestled among mature trees that partially hid the driveway. It was set well back from the street on several acres. I could just make out the heavy wooden front door; the slate roof and turrets gave it an English country feel. There had to be over a dozen rooms—probably worth a million or more. I looked across the road. The view of the city was spectacular.

  I put my Metro in Drive and inched up the driveway until I could see the entire façade of the house. No lights were visible, though the sun was sinking lower in the sky and casting shade that covered the oval turnaround at the top of the driveway. I pulled up in front, then it occurred to me: This neighborhood could have been a target for the high-end burglaries. I turned off the engine and smoothed my crimson sweater under my leather jacket. While I might pass muster, my Metro wouldn’t, I thought ruefully.

  I tried for confidence as I approached the door, but had to settle for brave; after all, the future of the Windjammer was at stake. I pushed the bell and waited. From deep within the recesses of the house I heard a chime reverberate, followed by the soft barking of a dog. Possibly a watchdog. Footsteps padded to the door, one set light and quick, the other slow and labored. The barking grew louder. I held my breath as an outdoor light blinked on.

  A maid, in a traditional black dress with white collar and cuffs, opened the door. “Yes?”

  Behind her, a tiny woman with thinning silver hair and a heavily lined face had both of her hands on the collar of a German shepherd. Her eyes were bright, though rheumy.

  “Hello. I’m sorry to bother you. I was looking for 120 Terrace Road. I’m not familiar with this neighborhood . . .” I let my explanation dangle and slid my eyes in the direction of the dog. He must have noticed and gave out a shrill yowl.

  “Quiet, Rex. You have to forgive him. He’s not very gracious with people he doesn’t know. He likes to bark but really is gentle as a lamb,” the older woman said.

  I glanced at Rex. A lamb? Really?

  “He’s blind in one eye and as old as me.” She let out a tinkle of a laugh. “It’s fine, Maria.”

  The maid nodded, stepped aside, and disappeared into the interior of the house.

  “Oh. Well, it’s good he barks at strangers. I read abou
t the thefts in Creston.” I backed away a step. My quick movement must have startled Rex. He jerked at the woman’s hands and I involuntarily yelped.

  “Rex!” she said crossly and tapped him on the top of his head. He collapsed on all fours and whimpered.

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked, almost wistfully. “My name is Adele.”

  I guessed she was lonely. But I was a stranger and no matter how old he was, Rex didn’t like strangers.

  “Maria made an apple strudel,” she offered with enthusiasm.

  “I guess I could stop in for a minute.” I skirted Rex, following her into a grand foyer that led to a winding staircase on one side and opened into a living area on the other.

  “Let’s sit in here,” she said, as though we were two old chums having afternoon tea, and gestured toward the parlor.

  “Thank you.”

  “Maria will serve us.” She pushed a discreet button on the outside wall of the room and proceeded to perch on the edge of a green velvet armchair. I sat opposite her on a matching settee. “It was so nice of you to call,” she said affectionately.

  Since she had no idea who I was, I now guessed she was a tad senile as well as lonely. Rex stretched, bored.

  “My name’s . . . Dorothy and, well, I was in the neighborhood looking for 120 Terrace Road,” I reminded her. Only my mother used my baptismal name. Mostly back when I was a teenager caught in flagrante delicto. But this setting seemed to require formality.

  “Oh yes.”

  What were the odds she’d heard about Antonio’s death? I decided to take a chance. “A friend of mine is staying in this area. Antonio Digenza.” I scanned her face for any sign of recognition.

  She frowned. “That name is not familiar.”

  “Maybe I have the wrong street. Or number.”

  “You might want to ask at the house two doors down. They’re new to the neighborhood. Maybe your friend is staying there,” she said helpfully.

  “I’ll do that.”

  Rex had lowered his head onto his paws and was now snoring at Adele’s feet while Maria served us tea and strudel. It was delicious, and when Adele forced a second piece on me, I didn’t protest.