Time Out

by Suzanne Trauth

  “Could put a damper on the rehearsal dinner. No pun intended,” Benny said, and grimaced.

  Just when things were moving along so nicely. “Maybe we’d better plan for the worst. There’s extra doormats and some umbrella holders in the pantry, and let’s get another coatrack for rain gear.”

  Carmen and Gillian appeared and began to set the tables. A trickle of patrons scooted in the door, windblown from gusts that had dropped the temperature and scudded clouds across a darkening sky.

  To take my mind off the impending weather, I tapped Brianna’s cell phone number and waited for her to answer. The phone rang. One, two, three, four . . . and then her voicemail clicked on. Brianna’s not available. Blah blah blah.

  I hesitated for a second. “Hi, Brianna. This is Dodie. I said I’d let you know if there was any new information on Antonio’s death. I’m not sure if you heard, but the medical examiner found arsenic in his bloodstream.” I waited a beat. “I know this must be startling news.” I waited another beat. “I’ll be in touch. Bye now.”

  * * *

  Last night I’d set two alarms to guarantee that I would be up and dressed by seven thirty. I threw on a hoodie and worn jeans since I would be crawling in and around furniture on the stage; I had plenty of time to change later for the evening’s event. I fixed a cup of coffee, transferred it to my travel container, and stepped onto my front porch. The sky threatened to pummel the town with rain. Well, nothing I could do about it; I resolutely climbed into my Metro.

  I drove to the ELT and unlocked the front door. The theater was eerily quiet as I felt for the wall switch that flooded the house with light and spilled onto the stage, where the security lamp provided shadowy illumination. It would have to do, since I was not about to tackle the dimmers on the light board that controlled the Fresnel and ellipsoidal lights. I’d gotten familiar with theater lighting this past summer when I volunteered a few hours to help prep the stage for a guest gig by a dance company. Mostly, I held lighting instruments until the designer was ready to hang them on battens.

  No matter. I was ready. I’d brought my camping lantern that shot out a substantial circle of light. I faced the stage and decided on a plan of action. To my left was the front door of the set, with small, lace-curtained windows and sconces on the wall. To my right was the infamous window seat—from which dead bodies would presumably be removed—adjacent to a large window through which actors could crawl. It was curtained in deep red brocade to complement the wallpaper. There was a door upstage-left that led to the interior of the house, specifically the kitchen, and a door upstage-right that led to the basement. Between the two doors were shelves chock-full of tchotchkes: books, china ornaments, dishes. Behind the shelving was a staircase that led to a hallway for the upper floor. Scattered around the set were a table and chairs, a sofa and side table, and a stuffed chair and ottoman. I lifted my lantern in a wide arc. Framed pictures and light fixtures dotted the walls and an aged Oriental rug covered the floor in the center of the room. The scenery was topped off with a period chandelier. Wow, JC had gone all out for this show. Must have broken the ELT budget; of course if the show sold out, that would be a moot point. If it sold out.

  By the end of the first hour I had explored the exits—both on- and offstage—drapery, staircase, and furniture, feeling around door frames, curtain rods, sofa cushions, and the inside of the window seat. I came up empty. Next, I confronted the shelves, scrutinizing every book and prop. Nothing. It was ten o’clock. I had about thirty minutes left. I stood at the edge of the stage and scanned the entire setting. Where would I hide jewelry, likely in a bag of some sort? The door to the kitchen opened onto a fake hallway; the door to the basement likewise revealed a wall that provided offstage cover. I glanced upward. That left only the staircase to the second story.

  I climbed each step carefully, checking for a loose board or an opening in the carpet tread. At the top, JC had built a hallway that ran six or seven feet and emptied onto an escape stairs. I was halfway down the escape when a wash of light flooded the scenery.

  “Who’s there?” an anxious voice rang out. Carlyle.

  I was caught. I had no choice but to reveal myself. I scrambled down the rest of the stairs and stuck my head through the kitchen door. “Hi,” I said with my brightest smile.

  Carlyle glowered. “What are you doing here? You can’t be backstage.”

  I ignored his reprimand. “JC did a spectacular job, didn’t he?”

  “Are you looking for something?” He was suddenly all suspicion.

  “Looking for something? No.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I’m . . . meeting Lola. We have a meeting.” I paused. Best defense was always a good offense. “What are you doing here so early?”

  His face closed down. “I have some work to do before the tech.” He tapped his foot impatiently.

  “How’s Tiffany taking the news?”

  “Huh?” he asked.

  “The medical examiner’s report that there were traces of arsenic in Antonio’s blood.”

  Carlyle’s bravado took a nosedive. “How do you think? She’s upset. We’re all upset.”

  Who was the “all”? “I’m sure. It seems clear someone intended to murder Antonio.”

  Carlyle threw back his shoulders. “Walter told me about you.”

  “He did? Well, that’s—”

  “That you consider yourself an amateur detective. Poking your nose in other’s people’s business.”

  I felt my face redden. “I don’t consider myself an amateur anything. In fact, last spring, if it wasn’t for me ‘poking my nose’ into the death of an ELT member, Walter might have—”

  “Dodie?” Lola took a few tentative strides down the center aisle. “Hi, Carlyle.”

  We both swung our heads in her direction.

  He nodded. Barely.

  “I told Carlyle that we had a meeting.”

  Carol walked into the theater behind Lola. “Dodie, did you find anything?”

  I gritted my teeth. Geez.

  Lola took Carol’s arm to head off any further indiscretions as they moved down the aisle. “Let’s go to the dressing room.”

  Carlyle remained in the house, watching the three of us trek across the stage.

  “I don’t trust him,” I whispered, after we’d shut ourselves in the women’s dressing room and closed the door. “He said he had work to do before the tech, but I don’t know.”

  “Did you find anything?” Lola asked.

  “Like jewelry?” Carol added, breathless.

  “No. But you two have to keep that to yourselves,” I said firmly.

  “Oops. Sorry.” Carol’s curly locks shook to and fro.

  “I covered every square inch of the set and there was nothing.” I felt stressed and frustrated. Not to mention annoyed at Carlyle’s characterization of me as an amateur. But I am, aren’t I?

  “I’m sorry, Dodie. You’ve searched everywhere. I think we have to accept that if he did have stolen property, Antonio hid it someplace else.”

  Carol nodded.

  “I have to get to the Windjammer. Good luck with the tech tonight,” I said, dejected.

  Lola crossed her fingers. “Good luck with the dinner.”

  * * *

  I wore my little black dress. It hadn’t been out of the dry cleaner’s bag for a year, but back when the rehearsal dinner was the only good news on the Windjammer’s horizon, I’d decided that the staff needed to dress for the occasion. Honey and Carmen in black skirts and white blouses; Benny and Enrico’s cousin—on board to help out tonight—in black slacks and white shirts. All of them wore black bow ties. And me in my Jimmy Choo knockoffs, looking pretty hot, I’d say.

  I’d scrounged up some painted screens from the ELT scenery stock and we’d arranged them artfully around the long table accommodating Rita’s party. It gave them the feel of a private room. The place settings were gleaming, and fresh flowers in Rita’s colors of purple and
pink adorned Honey’s boxy centerpiece, which she spent a half hour photographing for her packaging portfolio. Her favors were a pleasant surprise for Rita’s party, even if the appearance of rice at the rehearsal dinner was confusing.

  We even piped in some music, gentle classical stuff that wouldn’t clash with Rita’s tattooed persona but would compete vigorously with the sounds of the other patrons. All in all, the Windjammer had risen to the occasion. If only the weather had cooperated. It had started drizzling about noon, and by midafternoon had developed into showers. Still manageable. But the weather reports—delivered every five minutes by Benny—were growing dire. Downpours and squalls expected.

  I smiled and ignored the consequences. The party had arrived at six thirty, on time, damp but game to have a good time. Rita was startlingly striking in a sedate purple dress, hair in an updo, compliments of Carol. I fervently hoped the storm would be gone by the wedding tomorrow.

  The baby greens with walnuts and goat cheese went over well, and Henry began to relax. Benny kept the group lubricated, and I flitted back and forth from the party to the dining room. Carmen had just begun to serve the entrées when two actors hurried into the restaurant accompanied by a draft of wet air. Bringing the storm inside was enough to stifle the crowd for a moment. But I secured the door, turned up the music a smidgen, and smiled. And smiled some more.

  “How’s the tech going?” I asked one of the actors, in his period suit. Chrystal would have a fit if she knew he’d left the theater in a costume.

  “Still in Act One. Slow, boring, and wet,” he said, and paid for the coffees that Benny had prepared and rung up.

  “Wet?”

  “There’s a leak in the roof over the stage. Walter put a bucket in the center of the room, but it’s in the way and Abby kicked it over.” He tucked the bag of coffees into the crook of his arm. “The tech could take all night. If we don’t get flooded out first.”

  Poor Lola, poor Walter . . . forget Walter. He called me an amateur.

  “Want the latest update?” Benny asked.

  “Don’t tell me . . . rain?” I said.

  “Smarty pants. Actually, it might be letting up. Depends on which way the wind blows.”

  Doesn’t everything? I glanced behind the screen. Carmen had the table in hand. Across the way, Honey was chatting up Mildred and her husband, advising them on the most effective way to package their leftovers.

  I sat down at the bar to check the weather. Maybe we should shut down as soon as the rehearsal dinner ended. The door opened and a gust of wind blew in, rifling a stack of menus. Again, silence for a moment, and then everyone reengaged with their dinner. Bill strode across the restaurant, his eyes clouded over, disturbed. His police slicker was shiny black and rain dripped off his cap and ran down one cheek. I stood up and handed him a napkin. “Wet one, right?”

  He opened his mouth to answer and then seemed to really see me. He took in me and my dress, head to toe. “Very nice.”

  “This? Just something I had hanging around—”

  “I need to speak with you. Can you . . . ?” He scanned the dining room.

  I nodded. “Benny, cover for me?”

  “Will do,” he said.

  I led Bill through the kitchen, where Henry and Enrico were congratulating themselves on the successful evening, and into the pantry. The only quiet and semiprivate place at this hour.

  “Okay?”

  He shook his head. “I received the rest of the ME’s report. The substance that he couldn’t identify? He ran a more sophisticated tox screen and, well . . .” He took a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “Succinylcholine.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a deadly chemical that, with an overdose, can kill in minutes. Usually delivered by syringe. The ME said he hadn’t run across the drug outside the operating room. It’s an anesthetic.”

  My stomach flip-flopped. I swallowed. “Someone delivered a dose of this stuff to Antonio at the food festival?”

  “It looks that way. Whoever was responsible wanted a quick, tidy death that could be mistaken for a heart attack.”

  “Have you found Regan Digenza?”

  “Not yet. I have an APB out on her and her place staked out. I’m posting a squad car at the theater. Suki will be on duty there all night. Once this storm passes tomorrow, I’m calling in some support from the Creston PD. Meanwhile, watch out and call me if you see anything unusual next door.”

  It was the Etonville Little Theatre. Everything was unusual.

  “Where will you be?” I asked.

  “There’s flooding down by the highway. We might need to close off the road.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  He leaned into me and I smelled his aftershave mingled with coffee. “Someone’s not messing around. This is serious. I’ll be in touch later tonight.”

  “Can I have that?”

  He handed me the fragment of paper and left.

  I returned to the dining room. I’d only been away five minutes, but in that time, the world had tilted on its axis. Traces of arsenic somehow seemed possibly accidental, more familiar. But this other drug was a different matter altogether.

  27

  Everything was calm, so I picked up the notebook computer and headed to my back booth. I had just settled into the seat when the lights went out. A collective “Ah” from patrons, followed by a babble of concern. I hopped to my feet and made my way to the center of the room. “Please remain calm,” I called out. “The emergency generator will kick in.” Truth be told, the candles on the tables created a warm, romantic halo in the restaurant. I wouldn’t have been unhappy if the lights had remained off.

  Enrico emerged from the kitchen. “Miss Dodie, Henry is—”

  The electricity flashed back on, the lights glowing. I nodded to Enrico and moved around the room, reassuring customers that all was well. I knew that Henry had installed a backup generator after Hurricane Sandy, but this was the first time we’d had to use it.

  “Close one,” Benny said, and checked his cell.

  “Everyone okay at home?”

  “Yep.” He glanced out the window. “Only the businesses on this side of the street are without light. The wind might have knocked out a transformer.”

  Yikes. That meant the ELT was dark.

  “Let’s close the kitchen,” I said to Benny. “But keep the bar open. I wouldn’t be surprised if actors show up any minute.” The door whooshed open and half of the cast of Arsenic and Old Lace trooped in. “See what I mean?”

  Abby, Romeo, Penny, Edna, and a few others stripped off wet outer clothing and plunked them on the hooks on the coat tree, jostling each other to get a place at the bar. The drinks—hot and cold—soon flowed and soothed the frustration level of the cast.

  “Why doesn’t Walter get an emergency generator?” Edna.

  “Too expensive. We can barely afford the sets.” One of the policemen characters.

  “He’s going to have to cough up some bucks for the roof.” Edna.

  “Are we going to tech the rest of the show?” Romeo.

  “Maybe he’ll cancel the opening tomorrow.” Abby.

  And finally from Penny: “Duh. If you can’t stand the heat, get off the stage.”

  The cast shook their heads. Edna’s cell binged with a text. “We got a problem by the highway. The chief needs Ralph down there. I’m going to have to go on dispatch.” She lowered her voice. “Suki’s still on patrol at the theater. I was going to bring her some coffee.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I offered.

  Edna hurried away. Meanwhile, behind the decorative screens, Carmen served pastries and Enrico’s cousin poured coffee. Only a half hour to go. I slipped off my shoes, massaged my feet, and returned to the notebook. I typed in “succinylcholine” and waited. A list of links appeared: The drug is a muscle relaxant used during surgery or when a patient is placed on a ventilator. It can cause paralysis of facial or breathing muscles, especially if the patient is given t
oo much. It is administered through injection by a health care provider, and, with the right dose, is fast acting. I rested against the seat back. I still couldn’t get over it. Someone had injected Antonio during the festival.

  I continued to read about safety information, side effects, and overdoses. Then it stared me in the face: “. . . severe reactions . . . tightness in the chest, irregular heartbeat, difficulty breathing, flushing. . . has been associated with cardiac arrest.” Why would the murderer use two separate poisons to kill Antonio?

  I felt a tingling on the back of my neck. Bill had said succinylcholine was usually delivered by syringe, and the medical examiner hadn’t run across the drug outside the operating room. I racked my brain. What had Pauli told me? She was a nurse and worked in a hospital. . . and for this doctor, and then there was this problem . . . fired.

  I texted Pauli: WHAT DID REGAN DIGENZA DO TO GET FIRED?

  The ELT crew wrapped themselves in outerwear in preparation for combating the wind and rain, Rita’s fiancé paid the bill for the rehearsal dinner, and Carmen and Honey cleared tables. We’d made it through the night. Sort of. I knew I had at least another hour before I could take off my Jimmy Choos for good.

  With the restaurant nearly empty, I poured myself a cup of coffee and set to work. Coffee! I’d promised to get some to Suki. A steaming hot liquid would go down easy on a night like this. I found a thermos in the pantry, filled it to the brim, changed out of my dress and back into a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers and slipped on my raincoat.

  “Leaving already?” Benny asked.

  “I’ll just be a minute. I want to run this next door. Then you can go.”

  Benny stretched. “It’s a deal.”

  The staff had worked hard and well tonight. Even Honey. I was proud of them!

  On the sidewalk by the ELT, wind gusts whipped my coat open and a blast of rain soaked the front of my sweatshirt. I had a flashback to Hurricane Sandy, the storm that changed my life and sent me north. I still had occasional nightmares about that time. Ferocious winds, churning water, and crashing waves destroying the boardwalk and Bigelow’s, the beach restaurant I managed, as well as all of the other businesses nearby. Once Bigelow’s closed there was little to keep me down the shore. My parents had already moved to Florida, my then-boyfriend Jackson had exchanged his charter fishing boat for a job selling farm equipment in Iowa, and a fifteen-foot elm had landed on the roof of the house I rented. I packed my Metro and headed north across the Driscoll Bridge. I never looked back. Well, maybe only once or twice a week.