“Thanks.” I felt warm despite the dropping temperature.
“Anyway, Creston PD was relieved,” he said.
“I could see that. The officer and the woman . . . ?”
Bill coughed and ducked his head, smiling. “Pia.”
“Is that her name?” I asked as indifferently as I could manage.
“My old Philly partner. She works Special Crimes for the state police.”
“Your . . . police . . . partner?”
“Her husband and I went to school together.” Bill scratched his chin.
“Her husband?”
Bill turned his head forty-five degrees to avoid my face—which was one part chagrin and two parts “yippee”—and to hide his grin. “I’ve got to go do some paperwork.”
“Have fun,” I said.
Bill pulled a strand of hair off my face and tucked it behind one ear. “I still owe you an after-dinner drink.”
Yikes! “Anytime.”
28
The referee blew his whistle and eleven Tigers from Etonville’s Youth Football League adjusted their helmets, tied their shoes, wiped their noses, and trotted onto the field for the final five minutes of the game. Etonville was losing by only ten points. I tilted my head back to let the morning sun beat down on my face. The temperature hovered around sixty, not a cloud on the horizon. It was a great day for football.
Bill tugged on the visor of his Buffalo Bills ball cap and clapped his hands. “Okay, Tigers, let’s go. Let’s see some tackling!”
The boys nodded, their helmets slipping forward and backward.
“Come on Tigers!” I yelled from my front-row seat on the metal bleachers.
The stands were full for this last home game, parents, grandparents, and siblings in orange clothing, cheering. The Banger sisters had organized a contingent from the Senior Citizens Center, who fluttered homemade signs and pennants. The Tigers hadn’t won a game all season, but hope sprang eternal in this town’s heart.
I was just happy to have the morning off. Henry had Honey covering lunch—it would be packed with the post-game crowd—because she was assuming more responsibility before her grand exit from restaurant management to return to the hallowed halls of packaging. Ever since Antonio’s murder had been resolved, the Windjammer had regained its status as Etonville’s only three-star eating establishment; as opposed to La Famiglia, its four-star rival. Commerce was thriving. The Banger sisters critiqued Henry’s homemade soups, Edna made daily runs for the Etonville Police Department, and the ELT crowd stopped in for dinner before the show. Which went on. On time.
Lola had been right. The Etonville Little Theatre had pulled an all-nighter. Everyone pitched in and repaired the set of Arsenic and Old Lace. Unless you walked on the stage and touched the wet paint on the walls and tacky varnish on the staircase, no one could tell that, hours before, Johnny Bilboe had used a sledgehammer to hunt for the stolen jewelry. Which was now in a property lock-up in Creston.
The loose ends had been tied up. Brianna and Regan ratted on each other. Two ex-wives eager to rekindle a relationship with Antonio, even joining his den of thieves. But when he greedily double-crossed them, they had agreed to take him down. Former nurse Regan had managed to get access to succinylcholine: a quick end to Antonio’s life. But Brianna didn’t trust Regan and had formulated her own plan: slow death via the arsenic. Hell hath no fury like women scorned. Brianna and Regan admitted Antonio had come to town expressly to set up the burglaries in Creston; directing at the ELT provided a convenient cover. When the police searched Brianna’s home, they discovered additional stolen property as well as plans for a getaway, complete with a chartered plane waiting for them at the Atlantic City airport.
As for Tiffany and Carlyle, they skipped town as soon as the show closed, and didn’t bother to send a postcard. They’d both been deceived by Antonio.
Arsenic and Old Lace was a hit and sold out its run—as much because folks wanted to see where the thieves had been captured as they were eager to watch the dysfunctional family goings-on: death by elderberry wine, romantic high jinks, psychotic siblings.
Dysfunctional families reminded me of Walter’s insistence that the theater was a family and Bill’s speech to his team about the football family. Even the Windjammer felt like a family on Henry’s good days. I’d been displaced from the Jersey Shore and my beloved beach, but I’d found a family in Etonville. It wasn’t just the sun that could make me feel warm all over.
Mildred touched me on the shoulder and pointed. “Dodie, that’s my nephew Zach,” she said, as the Tigers’ offense took the field and ran two plays.
I smiled. “I think he has promise.”
“Do you?” she asked.
“Well, he’s young yet . . .” Only ten years old. “But someday . . .”
Lola appeared on the sideline. “Scoot over,” she said, and sat down. “What’s the score?”
“Thirteen to three. Three minutes left to go.”
“I guess we’re past intermission?” she asked.
Lola would never get the lingo straight. “Halftime. Yeah.”
Bill hurriedly gestured to the official. “Time out!”
He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, collected his players, and directed their next moves before he sent them back on the field. He took his job seriously.
“Bill’s looking good,” Lola said, and poked me in the ribs.
“I don’t know. Maybe I should take a time-out. Refocus my romantic life. I met a nice guy last summer at the shore, and if I—”
Everyone rose to their feet and the bleachers erupted in noise. Lola and I jumped up to see what had happened.
“That’s my nephew. That’s Zach!” Mildred screamed.
I stood on the bleacher and watched the kid run fifty yards for a touchdown. It didn’t matter that the Tigers would probably lose this game, too. They had actually scored a touchdown!
“That’s good, right?” Lola asked breathlessly.
“That’s great!”
Bill ran to me, his eyes shining. “Did you see that?” He slapped his cap against his leg and threw his arms into the air. Then he grabbed me in a bear hug and planted a kiss on my lips, his bristly beard scraping my cheek.
Lola stared openmouthed and I gasped. “Yay!” I yelled.
He plunked his Buffalo Bills cap on my head and draped his arm over my shoulder.
OMG.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Suzanne Trauth is a novelist, playwright, screenwriter, and a former university theater professor. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and the Dramatists Guild. When she is not writing, Suzanne coaches actors and serves as a celebrant performing wedding ceremonies. She lives in Woodland Park, New Jersey. Readers can visit her website at www.suzannetrauth.com.
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