Time Out

by Suzanne Trauth

  “Hello,” I managed to sputter out.

  “Dodie? What’s wrong?” It was Bill’s calm, reassuring voice, urging me back to reality.

  I took deep breaths. “Just waking up,” I said.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but I have the results of the tox screen.”

  I went from zero to sixty. “Yeah?”

  “Can you come here?”

  “How’s three? I can take my break—”

  “Now,” he said, his speech clipped.

  I took a beat to let the implications sink in. “Give me thirty minutes.”

  I deliberately kept the shower on the cool side to coerce me into complete wakefulness. Bill’s demand sounded ominous. My hands shook as I stepped into jeans and a brown sweater, my wet hair swishing around my face. I still couldn’t shake the image of Antonio in my dream, the laughter, the warning. And the weird third figure.

  I threw my bag onto the passenger seat and didn’t even think about a Coffee Heaven pit stop. I pulled into a parking space next to Bill’s, probably reserved for one of his officers. I didn’t care; I was on an emergency mission. The dispatch window was being staffed by Suki, who nodded formally and hit a button to alert Bill that I was here. Before I could even knock on his door, it flew open.

  “Have a seat.” His face was ashy, grim, his uniform rumpled.

  “Have you been up all night, too?”

  He stopped in mid-sit. “Too?” he asked, suspicious.

  “Never mind. What did they find?”

  He slipped his thumbnail under the edge of a manila folder, maybe the same one that I had rifled through earlier, and exposed a sheet of paper. “It’s just preliminary, but you were on to something.”

  My heart banged in my chest. “Don’t tell me—”

  “Poison.”

  I leaned forward. “But not bacteria in the food?”

  Bill shook his head. “No. But it might have been in something he ate or drank. Antonio was probably killed by a fatal dose of a toxic element. Possibly two.”

  My head spun. “What exactly are you saying?”

  “I’d like to keep this information from getting out immediately.” He frowned. “Until I can sift through all of the evidence, the restaurant is a crime scene.”

  OMG. This was going from bad to worse. “But you said bacteria was not the cause of his death?”

  Bill studied the sheet of paper. “There were traces of arsenic in his blood.”

  “Arsenic?”

  Uh-oh. It was life imitating art. I’d read enough mysteries to know that poison could be a murderer’s friend. But this was real life, not a thriller.

  “Arsenic is easily available and difficult to detect in certain foods and drinks. It even occurs naturally in groundwater and soil. It might have been given in a number of doses, with the fatal dose delivered during the food festival. The medical examiner said arsenic poisoning increases the risk of cardiac arrest. Depending on the size of the doses, Antonio could have experienced symptoms days or weeks before his death.”

  Thoughts were tumbling helter-skelter. “Would some symptoms be gastro issues? Abdominal pain?”

  “Could be.”

  “Dr. Xiu,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “But why is the restaurant a crime scene? Any evidence of someone lacing Antonio’s knish or elderberry wine is long gone.”

  “Because it was the scene of his death.”

  I started to stammer out my opposition, but Bill raised a hand to halt my spewing. “It’s not like we’re going to be closing the Windjammer. We just need to do a little poking around.”

  “As in showing up with CSI techs?” I asked, knowing what his answer would be.

  “It won’t take long. The guys are in and out quickly. They should be there within the hour.”

  Henry will go ballistic. “What will they be looking for? Antonio died outside.”

  “Traces of arsenic. The restaurant was open that day, and someone could have slipped in and doctored his food. Or his wine.”

  I doubted it. The Windjammer staff were the only ones handling food or drinks. But then I remembered both Imogen and myself seeing Antonio with a cup in his hand from someplace outside the festival. “Antonio brought his own cup with him. Maybe the arsenic was placed in it somewhere else.”

  “His own cup? What are you talking about?”

  I recounted my memory of that afternoon—with Imogen’s recollection as backup—as Bill’s expression swung from surprise to skepticism.

  “You didn’t mention this before,” he said darkly.

  “And you were certain it was a heart attack.”

  Edna knocked on the door and delivered two black coffees. “Here you go, Chief.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She winked and left.

  I waited until the door closed before I blurted out last night’s story: the search of the theater, the spooky figure running across the stage. I left out sitting in the alley waiting for the guilty party to appear. I wasn’t sure his system could take it. “I think Regan is mixed up in this.”

  I could see Bill’s patience wearing thin. “There you go again with your assumptions. Why didn’t you call me? Never mind.”

  I tiptoed into my next idea. “I know you might not want to hear this, but Antonio must have hidden stolen property in the theater.” There, I’d said it. “And person or persons are pretty desperate to find it. One of your burglars is out on bail. Maybe he has something to do with it.”

  Bill shook his head, then surrendered. “I’ll bring in Regan Digenza for questioning.”

  Yes! “Maybe Johnny Bilboe?”

  “But I want you to stay out of trouble, and no going off on your own anymore and endangering yourself. I want to be informed.”

  My heart fluttered. He cared!

  “I don’t want any lawsuits,” he grumbled.

  Back down to earth. Oh well... “By the way, you said there were possibly two toxic elements.”

  “The medical examiner found another, more obscure substance. He hasn’t identified it yet.”

  * * *

  On my way to the Windjammer, I rehearsed my spiel to Henry. How the state forensic team would be in and out, how knowing that arsenic was the cause of death ruled out food poisoning, how—I hit the brakes. The Crime Scene Investigation van was already on the premises, prominently displayed in two spaces in front of the restaurant. We opened in an hour and a half.

  I hurried from my Metro to the Windjammer, arriving just in time to see Henry standing, astonished, in the middle of the kitchen. He was holding a box of broccoli—for the broccoli Florentine bisque on today’s menu—and looked completely befuddled as the techs moved through the kitchen, pantry, behind the bar, in the corners of the dining room.

  “It’s okay, Henry. It won’t take long,” I said and directed him to the center island, where he could chop the veggies. Enrico, sautéing onions and garlic, watched the CSI guys wide-eyed, fearful.

  “Dodie, what are they looking for?” Henry asked, tight-lipped.

  “Didn’t they tell you?”

  He shook his head. “They just barged in, waved badges and forms, and went to work.”

  “Arsenic,” I whispered.

  “Arsen—”

  “Not so loud! Bill . . . the chief... will be here soon to explain it all. Meanwhile, let’s get lunch going.”

  Enrico nodded and added vegetable broth for the soup base.

  “But why are they looking for arsenic in my restaurant?” Henry demanded, attacking the broccoli.

  “Because it might have been the substance that killed Antonio. They don’t really think there’s any arsenic in the Windjammer, but they have to go by the book, because technically this is the ‘scene of the crime,’ even though Antonio died outside.” I hoped my air quotes would lighten the atmosphere or at least reduce the tension level. No luck there.

  Henry manhandled a large blade as though he were butchering a side of beef rather than mincing b
roccoli florets. I left him to his own devices and stepped into the dining room. Benny still had his jacket on. He nodded toward the front entrance. “It’s attracting attention.”

  A collection of Etonville citizens had begun to form on the sidewalk, peering in the window and exchanging whatever gossip they could invent.

  Bill’s black-and-white squad car pulled up next to the CSI van. I could see him gesturing to the crowd, as if asking them to be patient. It would be a few minutes before we opened. But his attempt to appease them was pointless. And when the arsenic rumor hit the mill, people would be running for the hills, in this case Creston or Bernridge, or, heaven forbid, La Famiglia. I wanted to bury my head in a hoodie, crawl into my back booth, and drown my sorrows in broccoli bisque.

  * * *

  “Hey, Dot!”

  As if things couldn’t get more irritating. “Hi, Honey.”

  “Like, I’m doing the reservations,” Honey said. She had a notebook computer open on the bar near the cash register. One of her daily tasks was to take reservations from the online service. We’d only had half a dozen since it was activated late spring, and none since the food festival. But it was Honey’s responsibility, so she dutifully checked and generally made a snarky comment. “This is like . . . wow.”

  Benny stood behind her. “Yowza!”

  I walked to the bar and Honey flipped the notebook to face me. There were five reservations for tonight, tomorrow, and Saturday. “What the . . . ?”

  The phone rang and Benny picked up. “Windjammer.” He did a double take, shrugged at me, and picked up a pen and pad. A takeout order. What in the world was going on?

  By noon the CSI techs were gone—having found no traces of arsenic in the restaurant—and the lunch rush really was a rush. Go figure. No one was bothered by the notion that there might have been a fatal dose of arsenic deliberately delivered on the premises. As long as there were no errant bacteria floating around in Henry’s food, the town was good to go.

  It took all hands on deck to keep the horde of customers content. Benny was pouring and delivering drinks, Carmen and Honey ran nonstop from kitchen to dining room, Gillian bussed tables, and I pitched in wherever needed, including managing the waiting line. A waiting line!

  “Dodie, we’re regulars, don’t you know. Maybe we could cut ahead in line?” one of the Banger sisters said. The man ahead of them turned and glared.

  “Uh, sorry. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “We even came when Antonio died of food poisoning. But now that it’s only arsenic, well . . .” the other one huffed.

  “We appreciate your loyalty,” I said, as I had been saying for the last hour.

  “I still think one of the actors used the arsenic from the play and tampered with Antonio’s wine,” the first sister said.

  I laughed. “It’s a play. Nothing’s real. There’s no arsenic.”

  They both eyed me as if they knew something I didn’t.

  Honey raised her hand and motioned for the next party in line. I escorted them to a table, handed out menus, and slipped behind the bar. “Whew,” I said to Benny, and drew myself a seltzer. “Be careful what you wish for.” Bill had said those same words to me only days ago.

  “Who knew? All it took was a dose of arsenic,” Benny cracked.

  “I’m just glad the monkey is off Henry’s back.”

  Edna stopped in for a takeout order for the police department. “Business is booming!” she said with a grin. “Hope you didn’t run out of burgers. The chief loves them.”

  “Never.” I put the order in. “Guess you’ll be happy when the show is over?”

  Edna blinked. “Happy? Oh no, Dodie. I’m going to miss it terribly.”

  “You must be the only one. Seems like the rest of the cast is eager to have it done with.” I poured her an iced tea.

  Her brow puckered. “Lately Walter says, ‘The course of true theater never does run smooth.’”

  OMG. Walter’s mashup of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and his own philosophy.

  “Edna’s cell rang. “Yes, Chief? Uh-huh. 11-84. Got it. 10-4.” She ended the call. “He’s looking for Ralph. Officer Ostrowski’s supposed to be on duty near the highway where they’re repaving the road.”

  “Oops. Guess he’s MIA?”

  “More like 11-99. Officer in trouble,” she said knowingly.

  Secret burgers and the grilled cheese special were big hits, and the broccoli bisque ran out by two thirty. I slipped into the back booth and grunted in delight. A corner had been turned and the Windjammer was bouncing back.

  “Here you go,” Benny said and set a tuna salad platter and coffee in front of me. “Sure this is all you want?”

  “This and a week off.”

  “Good one,” he said. “Especially since it looks like we’re going to be swamped from now on.”

  “Guess Etonville got tired of cooking for itself.”

  My cell rang. “Hi, Lola.”

  “You’ve been trying to reach me?” she asked. “I saw a voicemail and two texts. By the way, I heard about the arsenic. Good news for the Windjammer.”

  “Right. Can you talk?” I asked.

  “Sure. I’m on my way to the theater. I was running lines with Tiffany—”

  “How’s she doing?”

  Lola hesitated. “A little better. Any news from last night?”

  “I talked with Bill this morning. He’s going to question Regan Digenza. But meanwhile, I’ve had a thought. What’s happening in the theater tomorrow morning?”

  26

  I slipped onto the bench across from Lola—who was checking email on her phone and nibbling on a meat loaf sandwich—in my back booth.

  “Sorry I missed the broccoli bisque,” she said.

  “Had a run on it.” I accepted a refill of coffee. “Thanks, Benny.” I needed all the caffeine I could swallow if dinner was going to be anything like lunch.

  Lola dropped her voice. “Good news that the chief’s meeting with Regan Digenza.”

  “Right. The sooner we know who’s been searching the theater, the sooner we’ll find out who killed Antonio.”

  I knew I had put two and two together and come up with fifty. I was hoping my arithmetic wasn’t too far off base. “One of these times someone is going to tear the theater apart looking for the jewelry. And expose himself as the killer.”

  “Jewelry?” Lola gawked at me.

  Ooops. “You have to keep that piece of information to yourself,” I said quickly.

  Lola looked over her shoulder. “So Antonio had jewelry from the robberies that he hid in the theater?”

  “Possibly,” I said carefully. “So here’s what I’m thinking. We rummaged through all of the theater spaces and found nothing.”

  “True.”

  “But we didn’t check the stage. That’s the one place we didn’t search. And I’ll bet no one else has either.”

  Lola’s voice rose shrilly. “You think Antonio hid the jewelry—?”

  “Shhh!”

  Lola made a locking motion on the surface of her lips. “. . . somewhere in the scenery onstage?”

  “I’d like to find out. We could meet tomorrow morning and go over the set with a fine-tooth comb.”

  Lola’s brow wrinkled. “I have a color and cut in the morning. For opening night. Carol is squeezing me in at eight. Then Carol and I have a hair and makeup meeting with Chrystal at eleven thirty.”

  I had to be at the Windjammer by eleven o’clock. It was the day of the rehearsal dinner and I was determined that everything would run smoothly. “Lola, can I borrow your keys and search by myself? You could join me between the Snippets appointment and the meeting with Chrystal if you have time. The theater will be empty, right?”

  “Absolutely. JC is finishing up the painting tonight, Chrystal’s not coming in until eleven, Carlyle is busy . . . with Tiffany, and Walter. . . well, the less said the better. He’s moodier than usual lately. Carlyle wanted to rearrange some props onstage and he had a
fit.”

  “Uh-huh.” If I got to the ELT by 8:00 a.m., that would give me a good two hours alone.

  Lola wiped her mouth on a napkin, studying me. “This is important to you, isn’t it?”

  “At first I wanted to know how Antonio died, to get the Windjammer off the hook. But the deeper I dig, the more I need to know why he died.”

  Lola patted my hand. “You’re doing a good thing, Dodie, even if certain people don’t acknowledge it.”

  Who? Walter? Tiffany? Bill . . . ?

  Lola glanced at her watch. “I have to get next door. Final run-through tonight before the tech rehearsal tomorrow.” She took a key off her key ring. “Here’s a master. Just keep it for now.” It unlocked the front door as well as most interior doors. “We’re keeping track of these ever since Penny’s assault.”

  “Thanks.” Of course, someone else had a master key and was using it to scour the theater.

  * * *

  In the kitchen, Henry had already prepped for the evening’s special—chicken and dumplings—and was up to his elbows in flour and seasonings, shaping dumplings into medium-sized balls, his face covered in a fine veneer of moisture.

  “Have you taken a break today?” I made sure everyone took a lunch hour at some point, but Henry set his own schedule.

  He grinned . . . Henry actually grinned and shook his head. He was as happy as a pig in manure. Enrico stirred the large pots of chicken boiling in broth and twirled his ladle at me. It was a very jovial kitchen. I stepped back into the dining room.

  “See the weather report?” Benny asked as he polished the soda taps.

  “Not really,” I said, scanning inventory sheets—the final delivery for the rehearsal dinner had been made an hour ago. I usually made a point of watching the Weather Channel in the morning, but lately I’d been a little preoccupied.

  “A tropical storm is due to hit the Outer Banks this afternoon. It might turn and move north tomorrow morning. Could end up being a nor’easter.”

  I looked up. Hurricane Sandy’s anniversary was coming up soon. I got nervous whenever there was a hint of stormy weather this time of year. Luckily, New Jersey had been spared a full-blown hurricane since Sandy, but a robust tropical storm could do a ton of damage as well. “You’re kidding. I hadn’t heard.”