“Recalculating,” the GPS announced.
“What’s the point of having a GPS system if we ignore it?” Lola asked.
“They always take you the longest way around,” Carol offered.
I didn’t agree, but there was no point in arguing as long as we arrived at the Daytime Inn soon. I felt an urgency to speak with Tiffany that was driven by my upcoming meeting with Bill.
Carol leaned forward between the two front seats. “Turn here. The Daytime Inn is just beyond the post office.”
Lola followed orders, but instead of “Your destination is on the left” we got “Recalculating.”
“Carol, are you sure you remember where the inn is?” Lola was getting a little impatient.
Carol hesitated. “It was right here last Christmas.”
I cut in. “Never mind. Let’s just see where the GPS takes us.”
Three minutes later Lola steered her Lexus into a full parking lot between a van and a pickup truck. The Daytime Inn was a typical motel strip of rooms—about a dozen on this side of the building. I assumed there was another parallel set of rooms in the back. The complex was whitewashed, with a bright red roof; the packed parking lot suggested it was doing a brisk business.
“Now what?” Lola asked.
“Isn’t that Tiffany’s car?” I pointed to a white Mercedes an aisle ahead of us.
Lola craned her neck. “Yes, I believe it is. Should we call her? Or Carlyle?”
I didn’t want to startle them; on the other hand, the three of us showing up at his motel room at 9:00 a.m. was going to be a surprise any way you looked at it. But calling either of them gave Tiffany an opportunity to refuse to chat with us. “Let me try to get his room number from the clerk on duty. If that fails, we can always call. You two stay here. I’ll be right back.”
The steady torrent of rain that had fallen since we’d left Etonville had reduced to a drizzle. I walked quickly to the inn’s office, opened the door. The man on duty was in his late forties, had an overnight growth of stubble on his face, drooping eyelids, and wore a wrinkled, pale pink shirt. As I entered he stubbed out a cigarette.
I smiled at him through a hazy wash of blue smoke. “Good morning.”
His eyes travelled from my head to my feet. “You need a room?”
“Not really. I’m trying to locate one of your guests. Carlyle . . .” It dawned on me that I had no idea what his last name was. “Carlyle,” I said firmly.
“Sorry, but we don’t give out room numbers.” He withdrew another cigarette from a pack he’d stashed underneath the counter. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, no doubt eager to see me leave.
“I understand. But Carlyle is a relative of mine . . . and there’s been a bit of a family emergency.” I tried for sad, but only got as far as forlorn. “He’s medium height, brown hair . . . maybe if I took a look at the register—”
“Why don’t you call him. You gotta have his phone number. If you’re his relative.” He dismissed me as though he’d seen and heard it all, and my lame explanation didn’t even rise to a level worthy of his attention.
“Of course I have his number—”
A horn honked in the parking lot. Several short beeps, then a long one.
“What the . . . ?” he said, and walked to the door.
I looked over his shoulder to see Carol standing outside the Lexus waving at me furiously to come back.
“Do you know her?” he asked.
“Uh . . . thanks for your help,” I said and hurried out.
Lola had the engine running as I vaulted into the front seat. “What’s going on?”
“Tiffany and Carlyle just left.” She backed out of her parking space, swung a wide arc around an aisle of automobiles and floored the gas pedal.
“They turned left at the light.” Carol searched the roadway ahead.
“Quick thinking, you two,” I said. They both grinned.
We barely beat it through the intersection before the light turned red. The drizzle became a deluge and Lola flipped on the windshield wipers. Four cars away, Tiffany crawled to a stop behind a dump truck. A battered Volvo hung a right and a delivery van turned left. It was as though both cars knew we needed a clear path to the Mercedes. There was only one car between us now.
“Do you think they know we’re following them?” Carol asked.
“No idea. But unless they spotted you two in the parking lot, they’d have no reason to suspect we’d be here,” I said.
Tiffany meandered down the street for several blocks before reaching the town center. They were certainly taking their time.
“Where are they going?” Lola asked, inching along.
I checked my watch. “Breakfast?”
Carol mused. “So this low-speed chase might end up in a coffee shop?”
Sure enough, Tiffany edged her Mercedes into a metered space in front of my favorite café, after Coffee Heaven. “I know this place. Great food.”
Tiffany and Carlyle got out and sauntered into the café, not a care in the world. We found a space farther down the street.
“Now what?” Lola asked and switched off the ignition.
“I’m in the mood for an espresso and a Danish. What about you two? Follow my lead,” I said as we entered the café. “We don’t want to spook them.”
Tiffany and Carlyle were seated at a table in the far corner. I requested a booth near the door for us. Lola and Carol slipped onto one bench; I sat opposite, leaning slightly to my right. I could see through the restaurant to the back, where Tiffany and Carlyle had their heads bent over menus. “I have a good view. Let’s order something, give them a chance to eat, and then—”
“Pounce?” Carol asked excitedly.
“More like slink.”
We ordered coffee and food and talked quietly among ourselves. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for; I figured I’d know it when the time was right.
I was halfway through my strawberry pastry when Carlyle rose and proceeded to walk toward us. Too late I realized we’d put ourselves directly in the path to the restrooms.
He glanced our way, then looked back again. “Lola?”
Lola had a forkful of omelet on the edge of her tongue. “Carlyle. Oh! Nice to see you.”
He gazed from one to the other of us. “What are you doing here?”
Lola swallowed the omelet, Carol fiddled with her napkin, and I was left to speak. “Actually we’re here to speak with Tiffany.”
“Tiffany?” He looked over his shoulder as if to check that she was still at their table. “Why? Is this something about the show?” he asked suspiciously. “I don’t care what Walter says, that kid from the restaurant is not replacing Tiffany.”
Good news for the Windjammer, not so good for Honey. “It’s not about the show. It’s about Antonio.”
Carlyle’s back straightened. “What about him?”
“I suggest we join you at your table,” I said coolly.
Carlyle forgot about the restroom and Carol and Lola forgot about their meals. We made our way to the back of the café. Tiffany was, as expected, shocked to see us, especially Lola.
“Did you follow me?” she asked with a touch of belligerence.
“Well . . .” Lola stalled.
“Yes,” I said, fastening my eyes on hers and refusing to let go. “There are some things I need to ask you. About Antonio.” At the mention of his name, her face crumpled.
“Leave Antonio alone!” Carlyle demanded. “It upsets Tiffany.”
Those words are familiar. “So it was you who put the note on my windshield.”
Carlyle looked dumbfounded, Tiffany mystified.
“You threatened Dodie?” Lola asked.
“I just wanted her to back off,” he said.
I pressed my advantage and dove gently, but resolutely, into Antonio’s past: his name change, his scams, his time in prison. I concluded with the pièce de résistance: Kenneth Amberlin—one of the two crooks arrested for the Creston thefts—was,
most likely, an acquaintance of Antonio’s and his former partner. I left out the Creston security scam, and the implication that Antonio might have been involved in the break-ins himself.
Tiffany and Carlyle swung from suspicious to dazed to flabbergasted. If I had any doubts that they were blameless with regard to Antonio’s death, their responses dispelled all reservations. Especially Tiffany. She was not that good an actor.
Needless to say, Lola and Carol were equally stunned. Carol shook her head in disbelief from time to time and Lola commented under her breath.
“He never mentioned any of this to you?” I asked.
“Of course not. Do you think I’d marry an ex-con?” Tiffany said defensively.
“But didn’t you ever ask him about his past?”
She shrugged. “Not really. I wasn’t interested in what he did before he met me. But he’s dead. So what do I do with all of this now?” she whined.
Carlyle took her hand. He’d been in the dark about his mentor, too.
“I don’t think he died of simple cardiac arrest. I think he was murdered.” There. I’d said it out loud.
Carol and Lola traded uneasy glances.
“Antonio murdered? Now wait a minute,” Carlyle said. “The police never said anything like that.” He slid his eyes to Tiffany, just to be sure.
“I’ll be delivering this evidence to Chief Thompson this afternoon.”
“But this will ruin his reputation,” Tiffany wailed.
“It was bound to come out sooner or later. Look, you’re his widow. There is one last thing you can do for him,” I said, hoping to play on her guilt.
“What?” all four of them asked in unison.
“Call the chief and pressure him to get the lab results. Maybe insist that the lab test his blood for toxins.”
“Toxins . . . ?” Tiffany looked truly bewildered now.
“As in something poisonous?” Carlyle asked, his face pale.
“Possibly. As his widow you could get it done.”
She and Carlyle eased a couple of inches away from each other, their faces studying the table.
Tiffany hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”
“Tiffany,” I said softly, “don’t you want to know the truth about Antonio’s death?”
She studied me a moment, then took a peek at Carlyle. “Yes.”
I scribbled the Etonville Police Department number on a napkin and nudged it across the table. “Do it today, okay?”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
I stood up and Carol and Lola, looking wrung out from the morning’s adventure, followed suit. “By the way, I know you’ve met Brianna.”
Tiffany sniffed. “Oh, her.”
I crossed my fingers on this one. “Is it possible that Antonio might have had another wife? A Regan Digenza?”
Any trace of empathy for Antonio’s untimely death disappeared in an instant. Tiffany’s face turned red, her expression apoplectic. “What?”
We paid our check and lit out.
20
After swearing Lola and Carol to secrecy, I picked up my Metro at Lola’s and drove to the Windjammer. Benny was doing a liquor and soda inventory and Carmen was prepping the dining room.
“Hey, Benny. How’s the little princess?”
“Great. A kids’ aspirin and a good night’s sleep.”
“I wish that’s all it took for me,” I said wistfully. “Life was way less complicated when I was five.”
“No kidding. Did I show you pictures of her birthday party?”
He had, but I pretended he hadn’t, and watched as Benny scrolled through his cell phone—pictures of his daughter posing and making faces in a frilly pink dress, playing outside with a bunch of other five-and six-year-olds, eating cake and ice cream. And a last one with the princess on Benny’s knee. “Really cute. She’s getting so big.”
“Yeah. Pretty soon she’ll be in college and then getting married.” He unpacked a carton of white wine.
“Slow down, papa. You’ve got at least a dozen years before she leaves home.”
“Speaking of college, did you hear Honey is going back next semester?” he asked.
Honey burst out of the kitchen door. “Dot, Uncle Henry can’t find the cream cheese.”
Henry was cooking his shrimp chowder for lunch. Cream cheese was his secret ingredient to create a smooth, rich texture. “Third shelf of the refrigerator.”
Honey tilted her head and proceeded to text. “Like, that Walter guy at the theater? He asked me if I ever acted.” She stuck one hand on her hip. “I think he might want me to take Tiffany’s place. I read her lines that one night and I think I really impressed him.”
I remembered Carlyle’s tirade just hours ago about Honey not substituting for Tiffany. “Oh?” I was noncommittal.
Benny grinned at me. “Did you tell him you’d do the role?”
Honey flipped her hair off her shoulders breezily. “I hate to say no, but, like, I have to catch up on my reading.” She held up a paperback book. Structural Packaging: Designing Outside the Box. “I don’t have time for silly things like plays and acting.” She walked off.
Benny hooted quietly. I shook my head and followed Honey back into the kitchen. “Smells good in here,” I called out.
Enrico looked up from the stove, where he was stirring green onions in butter. “Good morning, Miss Dodie.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling.
“Back at ya, Enrico.”
Henry peeled shrimp and tutored Honey through the blending of the rest of the chowder ingredients. It was almost endearing to watch Henry’s patience with his niece. Almost.
“Dodie, you better call Gillian and see if she’s available. Honey’s going back to school,” he said, a little woefully.
“So I heard.” Gillian was our on-again, off-again server who’d quit this summer due to romantic predicaments. Her then-boyfriend moved to New York State and she’d joined him. But things must not have worked out, because she’d texted her availability just last week. “Henry will miss you, Honey.”
Honey shrugged and stirred the pot of soup. “I have my career to consider.”
Don’t we all. My career had been the Windjammer for the past two years; but with the murder investigation of Jerome Angleton and now the death of Antonio, I was spending more time outside the restaurant. A fact that did not go unnoticed by Henry.
I did a quick check of the meat freezer and the vegetable bins and joined Benny and Carmen in the dining room. A few customers began to straggle in. The numbers were still less than before the food festival, but business was increasing. Probably due to the reality that eating establishments in Etonville were limited. Nonetheless, I was determined to see a resolution to the Antonio affair.
* * *
I sat in my back booth and answered text messages. Lola asked whether she should share Antonio’s past with Walter—no. My undergraduate college asked for a donation—maybe later. And then there was a text from Bill reminding me that we had a meeting today after football practice, which was being held on the town’s soccer field. My heart did a little flip-flop just seeing his name attached to the message. I texted back that I remembered.
Then I came down to earth and realized I’d have to reckon with Bill’s reaction to the nosing around I’d been doing for the past ten days. In April he’d been less than enthusiastic about my investigative activity, even though he was appreciative when the murder was solved. But now?
I scrolled through some texts and found the picture that Lola had sent me of Regan Digenza at the food festival. I still felt she was one of the keys to Antonio’s death. Bill had been a good guy to give me her name; how would he feel about sharing her address?
The door opened and Brianna entered, scanning the room. I waved from my booth and she smiled.
We both binged on Henry’s shrimp chowder. She asked about my leaving the Jersey Shore after Hurricane Sandy. I asked about the floral business. When Brianna paused to blot her mouth on the napkin, I checked her out: t
an slacks with a sharp crease, a matching tan sweater, her hair perfectly styled. She could have been on her way to an afternoon of bridge.
“So the florist shop was a family business?” I asked.
“For many years. I took over when I moved back from California. It was supposed to be a temporary job.” She shrugged. “But I enjoy management.”
“So do I. I found out how much I was into it when I did an internship at a Philadelphia restaurant.”
“Which one? I’m down there quite a bit,” she said.
“Patricia’s Grill.”
Brianna arched an eyebrow. “Very nice. By the way, how’s the play coming along?”
I smiled. “The ELT is always on the brink of disaster. Of course, with Antonio gone . . . they’ve had to scramble.”
“I remember Antonio pulling lots of late nights back in the day.”
“This is community theater. Everybody takes off by ten, ten thirty. Many of them end up in here to drown their rehearsal sorrows.”
We laughed. Carmen brought us coffee and Georgette’s double-fudge chocolate cake. “You wanted to talk?” I said carefully.
Brianna ducked her head. “I think I might have given you the wrong impression about Antonio and me.”
I set my fork on the dessert plate.
“I implied I hadn’t seen him in a while. That wasn’t true. Antonio visited me several times in the last month.”
I leaned back against the seat. Of course. The other Rumson address in Antonio’s cell phone. How else would Brianna have heard of the Etonville Little Theatre?
“You see, Antonio and Tiffany . . . were going through a rough patch and he needed to talk.”
With an ex-wife? “I heard that they might have been headed for a divorce,” I said.
She nodded. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t being completely honest about our friendship.” She twisted her napkin. “Antonio and I’d been together almost fifteen years. I guess old habits die hard.”
“True.” I rubbed at a smudge of coffee smeared on the table. “You must have known about Antonio’s background.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tony Dickson. I’m guessing Antonio was his stage name?”
Time Out Page 17
