I stepped slowly across the scene-shop floor. When I reached the doors that opened into the hallway, I grabbed the doorknob and twisted. It wouldn’t open. Someone had just padlocked them. I swallowed to keep the fear from rising into my throat and sucked in air through my mouth—my great aunt Maureen’s remedy for car sickness. I reminded myself that the exit to the loading dock was open. There was no padlock on the outside of that door. My mind knew this, but my stomach was doing a trampoline act and didn’t care.
I threaded my way again around the shop machines back to the dock exit, where a faint whoosh of air rattled the steel door. I reached down and my hand grazed the padlock. Still there. I stood and grasped the knob of the wooden door. It turned but wouldn’t open. My heart thudded so loudly my ears rang. In the last few minutes, someone had padlocked the outside of this door, too. A chill ran down my back. I shivered. I’m locked in the scene shop and no one knows I’m here. I forced myself to calm down, breathing in to the count of four, exhaling to the count of four. No problem. I would simply call Lola and have her rescue me. I shoved my hand into my front pants pocket. She might still be in the theater office with Walter or Carlyle and—
Palpitations kicked in: the pocket was empty. I groaned. My cell was sitting in my purse on a seat in the theater!
22
I pounded on the hallway door, accompanied by loud shouting, for a good ten minutes. Everyone must have left, including Walter, Carlyle, Chrystal, the cast, the CSI techs, and Lola, who probably assumed I went home. But someone else was still in the theater and had gotten me out of the way. To search every nook and cranny? To find what?
I sat on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest, my back against the tool cage. Which was, of course, padlocked. I found a garbage can full of lumber odds and ends and grasped a foot-long two-by-four. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but at least holding it firmly made me feel safer. I considered possibilities. Of which there were few. Eventually, someone would have to open the scene shop tomorrow—JC was still touching up the mock woodwork. But I was doomed to spend the night here. I lifted the face of my watch to catch a little of the moonlight: eleven thirty. The cement floor was hard and cold; I buttoned my leather jacket.
My mind raced. I ticked off a list of the people linked to Antonio who might have been responsible for the attack on Penny and my being held captive in the scene shop. Admittedly, it was a short list: Kenneth Amberlin, Kenneth’s fellow crook, and Regan. As per the Etonville Standard, Kenneth Amberlin was in the hospital, but his accomplice was out on bail. I kept returning to Regan Digenza. I hadn’t had the opportunity tonight to push Bill into giving me her address or checking her out himself. Despite the cold and my fear, I could feel my eyelids getting heavy. I scooted farther into a corner near the cage. It had been a crazy day.
* * *
“Dodie! Are you in there?”
Pounding and banging. The overhead fluorescents suddenly washed the shop in a flare of intense light.
I dreamt I was trapped inside a vending machine and a little girl kept pressing her face against the glass case, pushing B5: Raisinets. “I’m not eating candy, little girl. I’m just trying to escape.” She kept pummeling the machine, yelling, “Dodie! Are you in there?”
I forced my eyes open, relieved that I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my life wedged between the peanut butter crackers and the Snickers bars.
“Dodie!”
But I wasn’t in my bed, either. I was lying on the floor of the Etonville Little Theatre scene shop. The left side of my face was numb from the icy floor, my damp hair the result of drool that had escaped my mouth. All in all, not a pretty picture. “I’m in here!” I croaked.
Voices rose and fell and cut each other off.
“Is this the right key—”
“No. It’s not even the right padlock—”
“Try the bolt cutters.”
“Here. Let me—”
More jingling and crunching and a loud snap. The doors banged open.
“Dodie! What are you doing in here? It’s one a.m!” Lola looked as if she hadn’t been to bed yet—wrinkled jeans and a sweatshirt under her rain jacket. Walter’s beard was a straggle of hairs, pointing every which way. Only Bill had it together, frustration mixed with worry. I was amazed at how hot he could look at this hour.
“How did you lock yourself in?” Walter asked. “We never put the padlock on these doors.”
Walter and Bill approached and each of them grabbed an arm and hauled me to my feet. “I didn’t lock myself in here. Someone else locked me in here,” I said, and shuddered. The cold had permeated my bones. “And they padlocked the loading dock door.”
“We don’t even have a padlock for that door.”
“Well, I guess it was BYOP.” I hadn’t lost my sense of humor.
“The crew never lock up after themselves,” Walter said.
“For all we know, someone could still be in the theater,” I practically yelled.
“We’ll do a thorough check,” Bill said. Then he smiled sympathetically, but I was too tired and cold to care. “And get the padlock off the other door.”
Lola rubbed my back. “It’s freezing in here. You need something hot to drink. Come on. I’ll take you home.”
Bill stopped us. “I’ll need a statement.”
“In the morning, okay?”
He nodded. Then studied the padlock and door. “This padlock is brand-new.”
“Like I said, we lost the old one and never replaced it.” Walter struggled to stifle a yawn.
“Same with the loading-dock door?” Bill asked.
“Yes.” Walter scratched his beard. “I just never thought we needed to put the theater in lockdown.”
“Well, I guess it was BYOP tonight,” Bill said, and glanced at me.
* * *
I sat on my sofa wrapped in my robe and a blanket while Lola bustled around making tea and toast, even though I wasn’t hungry. Bill’s scrumptious dinner had been plenty filling. But Lola thought she should treat me as though I was under the weather, so I let her. I felt warm and cozy and drowsy. “I’m still amazed that you found me.”
“I tried calling your cell just after the CSI unit left, and of course no one answered. I just figured you had turned it off. Or left it somewhere. So I decided to drive by your house.” She handed me chamomile tea. “Drink this.”
“You must have been pretty desperate to get Walter out of his pajamas.” I laughed.
“He just said you probably were staying overnight with a friend. What ‘friend’? I said. I’m your best friend. I’d know.”
I smiled. “Yes, you would.”
“He suggested I call Chrystal, who said she’d last seen you in the back hallway by the wardrobe. So I forced Walter to meet me at the theater and then I called the chief.” Lola watched me slyly. “How was dinner?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“We searched backstage and the wardrobe areas and the costume shop and then Walter noticed the padlock on the shop door.”
“The attackers probably assumed the theater was empty until they saw the shop lights on. They had to get me out of the way,” I said, and sipped the tea.
“But who are they?” Lola asked.
“Not sure. Bill and I were sorting through the evidence when you called me, and Suki called him.”
“What do they want?”
I shrugged. “To search various places in the theater?”
Lola sat quietly for a moment. “And somehow this is all related to Antonio.”
“I think so.”
“What could someone possibly be looking for now that Antonio is dead?”
“Well, actually, the hunt started after he died. Kenneth Amberlin, my getting knocked out, and now Penny. Whatever they’re looking for must be worth the risk of detection. And since it looks like Antonio might have been involved in the Creston break-ins, I’d bet that whatever they want to find has a connection to the break-ins, too.”
; “What does the chief think about all this?”
“I didn’t have time to lay out my theory completely. But it makes sense, right?” I asked hopefully.
“I guess.” Lola shook her head. “I’m just so over this production and Antonio and these terrible . . .”
I put an arm around her shoulder. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.
* * *
I slept like a baby—like a baby who didn’t turn in until 3:00 a.m., with a crick in her neck from snoozing in an awkward position on a cement floor. I awoke at eight, my muscles sore, but my brain whirring. I hopped out of bed and stepped into the shower. The hot water streamed off my back and soothed the stiffness in my shoulders and torso.
First off today, I’d visit Bill, try to keep things civil, but urge him to pull Regan Digenza into the station for questioning. I’d also suggest he interrogate Kenneth Amberlin about his connection to Antonio, which might help us determine the attacker’s motivation. Then I’d spend quality time at the Windjammer. Even though Benny had been good about covering for me these last weeks, I wanted to raise Henry’s spirits.
Given the events of last evening, I absolutely deserved a caramel macchiato and a hot cinnamon bun with icing oozing over its edges. Besides, Coffee Heaven was on my way to the Municipal Building.
* * *
I parked two blocks from the Windjammer, midway between the restaurant and the police station. Walking briskly in the morning sun felt good—my body needed the exercise. I swung my bag over my shoulder and sauntered into Coffee Heaven. The place was only half-full and I had no trouble getting a booth near the door.
Jocelyn appeared in an instant. “Dodie, you look good after spending the night locked in the scene shop.”
“Well, it wasn’t the whole night—”
“I heard they had to break the door down! Good thing Walter keeps a hatchet in his office,” she said.
“A hatchet? Where did you hear that?” The gossip mill was on overdrive this morning.
“Edna was here earlier and said they had a possible 207. That’s kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping? They locked me in the scene shop. Nobody tried to kidnap me.”
“Poor Penny. Who’s going to be the stage manager now?” Jocelyn asked.
“I’m sure she’ll be back by tomorrow. Maybe even tonight. You know Penny. I’ll have my regular with—”
Jocelyn angled her head and frowned. “Do you think it was connected to the play? After all, there are some tempers running hot these days, and I wouldn’t put it past someone to take it out on an innocent victim. Like you.”
“—a cinnamon bun,” I ordered as Jocelyn walked away.
She was correct about one thing: There were hot tempers flaring in the Etonville Little Theatre and last night’s events would not lower the heat.
“Well, it’s Dodie, don’t you know.”
I cringed inwardly. “Hi, ladies,” I said to the Banger sisters.
“We’re so happy to see you’re alive and well,” one said.
“Me too.” I broke down and smiled.
“You know the story of the Etonville sea captain who was locked in the refrigerator and never made it out,” said the other sister.
“You mean the one who owned the Windjammer?” I laughed. “That’s an old wives’ tale. Anyway, he was only locked in a pantry for a few hours.”
The first Banger sister nodded wisely. “Being locked away can make you insane.”
I guess.
“It’s a good thing you were only in the costume shop for a day.”
“It was the scene shop and it was only for . . . never mind.” Jocelyn approached with my coffee and bun. “You ladies have a good day.”
They didn’t take the hint.
“Dodie,” one said, “did you notice that since your arrival, the Etonville Little Theatre has had its share of criminal activity?”
They both stared at me, waiting for an answer. They had a point.
Jocelyn gently, but firmly, escorted them away from my booth. “Now you-all shoo and let Dodie enjoy her breakfast.”
“I’d watch my back if I were you,” the other sister said as they waddled away arm in arm.
“Those two are always getting the story wrong,” Jocelyn said, and waltzed off with her coffeepot.
Right.
* * *
I entered the Municipal Building just as Edna bustled out.
“Dodie! I’m so glad you’re okay! The scene shop can be a risky place,” Edna said as she backed out the door. “Too bad about Penny and I hope she can make it to rehearsal tonight, of course her health is more important than the show.” She paused to take a breath.
“Edna, please add a black coffee to the order!” Suki called out from the dispatch window.
Edna lowered her voice. “Gotta make a run to Coffee Heaven. The chief’s in a snit.”
“Oh?”
“Seems like some confidential information got leaked to the press.”
So what was new about that? The Etonville Standard was constantly jumping the gun on a story or printing rumors as facts; anything to get a leg up on the Creston paper. They thought they were Woodward and Bernstein. “Well, Edna, you know the Standard—”
Edna leaned in. “Not the Standard. It was the Creston Enquirer. Somebody released a list of stolen goods.” She shook her head. “They ought to get the paper on a 594.”
“Edna!” Bill turned the corner at the end of the hallway.
“Malicious mischief.” She turned to him. “Just going, Chief.”
I took a no-nonsense approach as I hurried down the corridor to meet him. Suki looked up from her console. “I have an appointment,” I said and breezed right past her. Bill grunted and motioned for me to follow him. Despite the probable chaos surrounding both the Etonville and Creston cases, Bill’s office was an oasis of orderliness and symmetry: stacks of files formed parallel rows on his desk. One manila folder sat directly in front of him.
“What?” he asked, suspiciously.
“I was just thinking how neat everything is in here. Especially given all of the commotion you have to deal with in Creston and Etonville.”
“You spoke with Edna,” he said, resigned.
“I was also thinking about last night and Antonio.”
“Have a seat.” He made a tent with his fingers laced together in front of his face. “So let’s start with last night.”
“Did the CSI guys get any fingerprints on the padlocks?”
He shook his head. “Not that I expected them to.”
“And Penny . . . ?”
“She saw the box office door open and went to close it. Standing in the lobby one moment and lying on the floor the next.”
“Probably two attackers. Just like my assault.
And they’re determined to find something in the theater. I don’t know what it is, but they want it badly. I guess I got in the way.”
Bill rocked back in his seat and ran a hand through his hair. “Something connected to Antonio.”
“Yes. I was locked in the shop for nearly two hours. Plenty of time for them to dig around in the theater’s nooks and crannies.”
He hesitated. “Kenneth Amberlin’s still in the hospital. The Creston PD interrogated him again this morning, but he claims he’s still groggy from the meds.”
“Huh.”
“If he knew Antonio Digenza, he’s not admitting it. Very tight-lipped.”
“So you’re going to push the lab for the autopsy test results?” I asked.
“Thanks to your manipulation of Tiffany Digenza.”
“I only suggested that—”
Bill raised a hand. “You didn’t need to go through her.”
I felt myself getting a little hot under the collar. “When I suggested another cause for Antonio’s death, you stuck with the medical examiner’s finding of a simple heart attack.” Heat moved from my neck onto my face.
He tapped
a pencil on his blotter. “We’ll see what the lab has to say. I should have preliminary results by tomorrow.” Bill glanced at the wall clock. “I’ll have to take my coffee on the road to Creston. Some of the stolen property has been found. A fence in New York.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, and some property in their possession when we arrested them. That still leaves missing jewelry and cash.”
“The cash is probably gone, but maybe you’ll get a lead on the jewelry.”
“Maybe. But not a word to anyone outside this office. Got it?” He waggled his finger in my face.
“Right.”
A knock on his door. “Enter.”
Edna stood there with a cardboard tray of takeout cups. “Coffee black, Chief.”
Bill stood, grabbed his jacket and the coffee. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
As I rose to follow him out the door, my eye caught the lettering on a Post-it note on the file on his desk: aznegiD nageR. I’d learned to read proficiently upside down in grammar school, when I was called to the principal’s office and scolded for some minor infraction. I entertained myself by studying the jumble of letters on memos and papers.
I blinked several times. “I have something in my eye,” I said and pulled a Kleenex out of my bag.
“Turn out the light and pull the door shut when you leave, okay?”
“Sure,” I said and pretended to fish around the rim of my eyelid.
Bill disappeared. I disposed of the Kleenex and leafed rapidly through the file. It was a collection of reports and notes on Antonio’s death. A piece of paper on top had Regan’s license plate number and address. I studied it for five seconds; my memorization of significant evidence was improving.
23
There was still a good hour before the Windjammer opened, but the restaurant was bustling. You’d have thought we were expecting a full house for lunch instead of the new normal: half a dozen tables. Still, it was nice to see everyone’s energy. Benny was at his part-time UPS job until five, so I would be helping in the dining room. Carmen was setting tables and restocking the bar. Gillian had started working half days. But where was Honey?
Time Out Page 20
