Time Out

by Suzanne Trauth

  I scribbled my name on the inventory clipboard for the Cheney Brothers delivery guy. For once, the vegetable and seafood requisitions were complete. “And don’t forget we have a special order coming tomorrow.” That would be for Rita’s rehearsal dinner Saturday night.

  The kid cracked his chewing gum and tucked his pen behind one ear. He couldn’t have cared less.

  “Miss Dodie,” Enrico said, up to his elbows in eggs, spinach, ham, sundried tomatoes, and cheese for Henry’s spinach frittata.

  “Hi, Enrico.”

  He gestured across the kitchen at Henry, who was studying a recipe and making notes. “He is experimenting again. It’s a good sign?” the sous chef said hopefully.

  “Yep. I just hope his experiment isn’t too ambitious for Etonville. . . or the Windjammer.”

  Out of the blue, Henry had announced yesterday that he was changing today’s menu. We had planned on meat loaf and mashed potatoes, a reliable, cool weather plate. Instead he decided to go all out with rack of lamb, roasted cauliflower with capers and hazelnuts, and grilled romaine. Who was going to eat all of that food? But if it made Henry happy, well, I guessed the leftovers were worth it. So little made him happy these days.

  “Dottie, I need some shelf space to store these.” Honey waltzed into the kitchen, her hands full of little white boxes.

  I reached for one and she backed away as though my touch might contaminate poster board.

  “They’re, like, very fragile.”

  “So what are they for?” Apparently, Honey had been assembling miniature cartons instead of prepping the dining room.

  She smiled smugly. “Favors for the rehearsal dinner. I designed them myself.”

  As far as I could tell, they were just two-by-two-inch cardboard containers. “Kind of small for takeout.” I laughed.

  Honey was not amused. “I’m filling them with little bundles of rice. For the wedding.”

  “Okay.”

  “To throw at the bride and groom,” she explained.

  “Isn’t it customary to hand out the rice after the ceremony?” I asked.

  “Dot, in my business you have to think ahead. It’s all about packaging. Uncle Henry agrees.”

  We both swung our heads and watched Henry stir his homemade vegetable soup in a stupor. His mind was not on tonight’s experimental menu, or packaging, or even the dinner Saturday night.

  Enough of this. Neither Henry nor the Windjammer would recover unless Antonio’s murder was solved and Etonville once again embraced his culinary services.

  “Honey, you can store your boxes on the bottom shelf in the pantry. Next to the packaged rice. They’ll feel right at home.”

  Honey turned away.

  “And then I need you in the dining room.”

  “Sorry, but I have to—”

  “Pronto,” I said firmly.

  She blinked. “Well, okay, if you put it like that.”

  I assembled my staff and provided directions: Carmen was behind the bar, Gillian and Honey were waiting tables.

  “What are you going to do?” Honey asked, hand on hip, mouth in a pout.

  “I am going to save this restaurant,” I said, pointing at her. “And when I leave, you’re in charge. You are responsible for making sure lunch comes off without any glitches.”

  Honey’s eyes widened, she straightened up, and lifted her chin an inch or two. “Like, I can do that.”

  Carmen and Gillian exchanged glances. They’d get over it. Besides, there wasn’t much danger of Honey screwing up; I intended to wait until the lunch hour was well under way. And putting Honey in charge guaranteed that she would remain in the dining room.

  I exaggerated slightly. Saving the Windjammer would require more than one afternoon escape; but Bill was preoccupied with Creston today and I had Regan’s address. A match made in heaven.

  At one o’clock I gave Honey a last-minute warning to stay on top of the customers, all dozen of them. I picked up my bag from the back booth. The early sun had disappeared behind a bank of clouds to the southwest, leaving a gray expanse in the sky. I fired up the Metro and backed out of my parking space. There was another reason I felt relatively comfortable paying a call on Regan Digenza during the middle of the workday. I had assumed that she was dealing in a casino in Atlantic City, a drive of about two hours from Etonville. But the address that I’d committed to memory was much closer and way more familiar: Bernridge. I could easily make it there, look her up, and return in an hour or so. There was a good chance she wasn’t home, but I was antsy, my little hairs were dancing, and the trip was worth a shot.

  I punched the address into my cell phone GPS and waited for Genie to begin. Just as I had done when visiting Dr. Xiu, I took the off-ramp to Lambert Street, but instead of turning onto Charter Drive, where Dr. Xiu’s office was located, I entered a roundabout and continued on to Willington Avenue. Where the town was milling the road in preparation for paving. I avoided the raised manhole covers and drove past the now-closed box factory. Though it had a historical district as well as traditional residential neighborhoods, Bernridge was also home to industrial areas. Willington Avenue was one of them.

  On my left were a series of windowless redbrick warehouses. A rusted No Parking sign warned people away from an active driveway. On the right were apartment buildings, boxlike, dirty beige, worn-out. Two women in old-fashioned housedresses sat on the steps leading into one of the buildings. They turned their heads in unison to watch me crawl down the street, as if traffic were new to this part of the city.

  “Destination is ahead on the right,” Genie said. I pulled over to the curb. The number of the building matched the address I had memorized. Unfortunately, I had no apartment number. I looked up and down Willington. The street was deserted.

  I locked my car doors and approached the building. Through the glass entrance I could see rows of mailboxes along one wall and stacks of packages on another. Honey would have a field day here. Measuring, sorting—

  “Yo. Going in?”

  I spun around and gazed into the belt buckle of an extremely tall, well-built young African-American man. I tilted my head up. “Hello.”

  He slid his eyes in the direction of my Metro. “You looking for someone?”

  Spilling the beans about Regan to a potential neighbor might alert her to my spying. Still, the truth seemed to be the best bet here. “Yes, I am. Regan Digenza. Do you know her?” I smiled in what I hoped was a harmless, nonthreatening manner.

  “Why? What do you want?” He transferred his considerable weight from one oversized shoe to the other.

  “Uh, she’s . . . my second cousin. I haven’t seen her in years. I just thought I’d drop by and visit.”

  He wasn’t buying it. “She’s not home.”

  I glanced at the row upon row of mailboxes. There had to be seventy or eighty apartments. Either he really did know her or he was busting my chops for some reason. “Lot of residents. You know most of them?”

  He smiled slyly. “I’m the building manager. I make it my business to know them.”

  “Right. I’ll stop back later. Thanks.” I could feel him watching me as I returned to the car and drove down the street. In my rearview mirror I saw him enter the apartment building.

  I felt like I’d been stonewalled. I could hang around the area and wait to see if Regan’s yellow Honda showed up, or head back to Etonville and see what state the restaurant was in with Honey in charge. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. One more turn around the neighborhood wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I put the Metro in Drive and with a series of right-hand turns found myself on Willington Avenue again, hoping that the building manager was nowhere to be seen. I leaned forward into my windshield to get a better angle on the street when a car whizzed past me going in the opposite direction. I jerked upright. What were the odds that there were two yellow Hondas belonging to residents of this community? I made a quick U-turn.

  Regan must have had her pedal to the floor because her car zipp
ed ahead of me, weaving in and out of traffic. Even the manhole covers didn’t slow her down. I did my best to keep up and when she darted onto the highway, I was only four car lengths behind her. By the time I caught up, she accelerated and zoomed onto the Garden State Parkway, heading south. I followed her out of sheer grit, but I knew when I was beat. I couldn’t afford to tail her to who-knew-where when I was due at the Windjammer.

  I took the first exit and headed back to Etonville.

  * * *

  To my surprise Honey had managed to keep the restaurant in line, and neither Carmen nor Gillian were complaining too much. The place was empty, so I gave them all a break, cleaned a few tables, and sat down in my booth with a bowl of vegetable soup. I scooped up a spoonful of zucchini and tomatoes and savored the tangy liquid. No one made soup like Henry.

  “So, Dot, like, maybe I can manage the Windjammer every lunch hour?” Honey had her apron slung over a shoulder. “Until I go back to school?”

  There was a ton of hope in her eyes, a look I hadn’t seen since she started working at the restaurant. “Maybe. Let’s see.” I was feeling positive about our working arrangement.

  “Because, like, you need someone with my organizational skills.” She looked around the dining room. “This place could use a makeover.”

  Sort of positive. “Be sure to get the dinner-special inserts into the menus before you leave.”

  Honey nodded, gave the room a once-over, and shook her head. “Uncle Henry had to be crazy buying this place.”

  I was about to offer a retort, but my cell rang. “Hi, Lola. What’s up?”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Besides working?”

  “Can you slip away for a bit?” she asked.

  “Probably. Benny is due in at five. I might be able to skip out for a while after dinner.” I waited. “Something up?”

  “Penny’s back,” Lola said.

  “How is she feeling?” I asked.

  “Well . . . you know how some people receive a head wound and then their personality changes?”

  Uh-oh. “I don’t think I’ve really ever heard that. Is something the matter with Penny?”

  A torrent of words poured out of Lola. Penny had returned to the theater that afternoon and seemed fine. Then when Walter asked her to do a job, she refused. She insisted that she wasn’t going to be pushed around anymore. That the ELT could get along without her if Walter didn’t like it.

  “Penny said that?” She’d always considered herself the pillar of the theater, its mainstay. Not that the rest of the members actually thought that.

  “Can you believe it? With the opening so close, we can’t afford to lose her. I knew she could be temperamental sometimes, but this is over the top.” Lola paused.

  “Maybe she’s on some meds,” I said.

  “I don’t think so. You’ve always managed to get along with her. And now you have something in common,” Lola said.

  “We do?”

  “You both got hit on the head at the theater. Maybe you could talk with her?”

  “I guess I could give it a try. I wanted to stop by and talk with you about something else, anyway.”

  I could feel Lola checking her watch. “We’re starting later tonight so the crew can finish painting. Can you come by around eight?”

  * * *

  Henry’s special, though delicious, received a mixed response. Mildred and Vernon, who were regularly eating entrées now after several years on a diet, announced that the lamb was magnificent and the cauliflower perfection. They passed on the grilled romaine. The Banger sisters, however, disagreed.

  “I just hate to eat a little lamb. It’s like eating Bambi,” said one.

  “Uh, Bambi was a deer,” I said.

  “All of those baby animals are just too cute to eat, don’t you know,” said the other.

  They nibbled on the romaine and questioned aloud why Henry had to “cook” the salad since “greens were perfectly fine right out of the ground.”

  I bit my lip and moved to another table.

  By eight o’clock, the dining room was winding down and I felt comfortable leaving it in Benny’s capable hands. “Have a good night,” I said.

  “Sure. By the way, did you know that Honey is making little boxes and stacking them up in the pantry?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. Favors for the rehearsal dinner.”

  “She’s putting bags of rice inside.”

  “Right.”

  Benny dunked glasses in soapy water. “Did you also know that she’s creating a centerpiece for the rehearsal dinner, out of boxes?”

  “What?” I shook my head.

  He chuckled. “Helps to be related to the boss.”

  * * *

  The early evening air was fresh. I forced oxygen into my lungs, forcing thoughts of Honey out of my head. Outside the theater, a handful of actors were killing time, chatting it up and texting.

  “Hi, Dodie!” Edna called out.

  “Hey, Edna.”

  “You coming to rehearsal?”

  Suddenly the group became quiet, all ears alert for my answer.

  “For the first half. I need to speak with Lola about a few things.”

  “Wish I could leave after the first half,” one of the actor cops said.

  His sidekick guffawed and Edna punched him lightly on the arm. “You boys cut it out. And don’t let Walter hear you saying such things.”

  “He wouldn’t even notice,” said one cop.

  “Too busy prompting Tiffany,” said the second.

  They high-fived each other and entered the theater.

  “Still having line problems?” I asked.

  Edna nodded. “She doesn’t have theater chops like the rest of us.”

  Of course, that was exactly what Abby had said about Edna.

  Abby stuck her head out the door. “Let’s get this thing going. Walter’s blowing Penny’s whistle.”

  The remaining actors trudged inside. “Morale’s a little low,” I whispered to Edna.

  “That’s show biz!” Edna, ever the optimist.

  Inside the theater, Carlyle was corralling actors and periodically checking in with Tiffany, who was lounging in the front row. Walter was yanking his beard—not a good sign—and waving his arms at anyone who paid him attention. I scanned the house and stage for Penny.

  “Dodie, thank God you’re here,” Lola said. “Penny’s taking a break in the green room. Taking a nap is more like it.”

  “Maybe she has a concussion.”

  “She said no. Look, could you . . . ?” She extended Penny’s clipboard.

  “On my way.”

  I grabbed the clipboard and strode onstage, cutting through the maze of furniture that Walter was rearranging. I entered the green room and saw Romeo checking his reflection in a mirror while adjusting his hair. He rotated 180 degrees and confronted me. “So you had to spend the night curled up with the band saw.” He smirked.

  “Only half the night,” I said coolly.

  “Next time you lock yourself in the scene shop, let me know. If I’m around . . .” He sauntered off.

  Jerk.

  “He’s a jerk all right,” Penny said from the depths of the sofa on the far wall.

  “You’re still reading my mind?” I crossed the room and sat down in a chair opposite her.

  Penny shrugged. “Some things you never lose. Like riding a bike.”

  “So why aren’t you out there?”

  “I’ve had a dramatic trauma. They took my keys. I need to avoid stress,” she said.

  “Penny, this is the theater. You thrive on stress. It’s what you’re good at. You can get another set of keys. Besides, Walter needs you. And Carlyle,” I added.

  Penny raised herself on one elbow and stared upward. “Let me check my give-a-hoot meter.” She paused for effect. “Nope. Nothing there.” She lay back down.

  Wow. It’s worse than Lola thought. “Look, Penny, I know how you feel. I was attacked, too. And blac
ked out. And had a pretty good-sized bump on my head for several days. But you have to snap out of it.”

  “I’m resigning from the ELT.”

  “They can’t get along without you!”

  Penny grunted.

  “The actors need discipline.”

  Penny snorted.

  “Walter would be in over his head.”

  Penny barked. “Yeah.”

  I hesitated. “I heard that Walter might hire a stage manager from New York. A real pro.”

  She sat up. “I’m a pro.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “I know just as much as anybody from the City,” she said.

  “Of course you do.”

  She sized me up. “You’re not making this up just to take advantage of me?”

  “Penny, the ELT is your home. It’s your family. Theater people stick together. They don’t abandon the ship,” I said, dredging up theater clichés. “And right now we’re on theater time, not real time.” Huh?

  Penny bounded to her feet, pushed her glasses up a notch on her nose, and stuck a pencil behind one ear.

  “You better rescue your whistle.” I handed her the clipboard. “Remember that friend of Antonio’s who came by the theater last week?” If Penny didn’t mention that he was one of the Creston burglars, I decided not to either. Simpler that way.

  “The pro from New York,” she said wryly.

  “Right. I know he came to offer his sympathy. But did you show him around? Give him a tour of the theater?”

  “O’Dell, it’s like a squid quo pro. Tit for tat. Somebody from one theater is welcome in every theater.”

  I wasn’t sure that was always true. “So you did make him feel at home?”

  “Like I said, squid—”

  “Where did you take him?”

  She shrugged. “He wanted to see the fly space and the scene shop and dressing rooms. The basics.”

  “Did he wander off by himself?”

  Penny stood her full five-foot-two-inches. “O’Dell, what kind of a fool do you think I am?”