Bill stopped pouring wine.
“I knew it was him because the jacket and hat were the same,” I said.
“You’re telling me the victim was on the streets of Etonville days before he was found murdered?” Bill asked.
“Some coincidence, right?” No need to mention that Sally was with me. Yet.
Bill exhaled heavily. “The Craft Shoppe called in a complaint about a vagrant and Ralph responded. He told me the guy seemed nice, wandering down the street, and he paused to look in the shop window.”
That’s not all he paused to do.
“Ralph brought him in to the station?”
Bill shook his head. “He dropped him off at the library parking lot. The guy said he was meeting someone there.”
The library?
We ate and drank, and I could feel myself melting—relaxed and satisfied—even though Bill now seemed a little preoccupied. “Well, this makes up for last Saturday night,” I said.
He blinked. “You’re still holding a grudge?”
I laughed. “Of course not.”
I was too full for dessert, but a third course came with our dinners so we settled on crème brûlée and chocolate mousse. It had been a perfect night so far. Now, if Bill invited me back to his place for a nightcap—
“Do you?” he asked.
I had gotten lost in my fantasy. “Sorry?”
“Want to find someplace for an after-dinner drink?” He placed his credit card on the check.
“Sure.”
We put on our coats, Bill held the door, and I slipped out into the night. It felt like the temperature had dropped a few degrees and I shivered involuntarily.
Bill took my arm. “Let’s walk to the corner. There’s got to be a spot down Seventh Avenue.”
He shifted places with me, moving to the outside of the sidewalk as a couple bounced down the walk, laughing and nudging each other. They were probably high on something besides love. We shuffled aside to let them pass and Bill stepped off the curb. When he attempted to get back on the sidewalk, his foot caught the edge of a wrought iron tree guard throwing him off balance. He grasped a branch as his other foot hit a patch of black ice, whisking his legs out from under him, sending him onto the pavement with a thud and smashing his right foot into the tree guard.
I lunged for his arm, but the whole thing happened so quickly that he was on the ground before I could help. “Bill!” I stooped down.
The couple disappeared around a corner. Totally oblivious.
“Are you all right?” I asked, suddenly in disaster-mode. I knew it would be impossible for me to try to lift him.
He brushed me off. “I’m fine. Just bruised my backside a little.”
And his ego.
Bill moved into a kneeling position, then he struggled to stand, putting weight on his right leg. “Ow,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Did you bruise your foot too?” I asked.
“I think I might have sprained my ankle.”
I helped get him to an upright position.
“Sorry about the drink,” he said.
“I’ll take a raincheck,” I said as we hobbled down the street. I wanted to take a taxi to the parking lot, but Bill, being stoic, insisted he could walk. I didn’t argue, but by the time we got to the lot, he was flinching badly with every step.
“I don’t think I can drive,” he said apologetically.
I sobered up immediately. “I can handle your car.” Normally I would have been thrilled to test drive his BMW. I inspected the instrument panel: It was like facing an airplane cockpit.
I drove slowly, so as not to send Bill into vehicular panic, and crawled up Eighth Avenue, through the Lincoln Tunnel, and onto Route 3. At the turnoff to Etonville, I broached the subject carefully. “Maybe we should go to St. Anthony’s.” It was the area hospital in Creston and I was intimately familiar with the emergency room having spent the wee hours of a morning there last fall. I’d been conked on the noggin while doing investigative surveillance. But that’s another story.
“I’ll wrap it up when I get home. I had a handful of ankle sprains when I was in the NFL. I’ll be fine.” He adjusted his position and cringed. I wasn’t so sure.
“Bill, I think I need to make an executive decision here. Remember when you forced me to go to the hospital to get checked out last fall?”
“That was different. You might have had a concussion.”
“And you might have more than a sprain,” I said gently.
He put a face on. Before he could protest further, I exited Route 3, cut through the north end of Etonville, and hopped on State Route 53. By the time we pulled up to the emergency entrance of St. Anthony’s Hospital, his face was contorted with pain.
I parked the car and settled myself in the waiting room. The television was turned to late-night entertainment: Stephen Colbert interviewing an actress I’d never seen before. Was it after eleven thirty already? The night had been perfect—the food, the wine, the almost-after-dinner-drink that could have led to who-knows-what… I checked texts. A reminder from Henry to order shrimp for the weekend, a shout-out from Pauli to see how I liked the website updates, and three SOSs from Lola wondering what she was going to do about the show. I texted Henry that I might be late opening up in the morning.
Only five minutes had passed since I’d sat down in the waiting room. I closed my eyes.
A door opened. Bill appeared in a wheelchair, his right foot and ankle in a cast, accompanied by a male nurse in wrinkled scrubs who seemed even more worn out than me.
“Okay, Mr. Thompson. Don’t forget your prescriptions.” The young man set the brakes on the chair. “Are you alone?”
Bill looked to be beside himself. He stuffed the prescriptions in a pocket, flipped up a footrest, and stood up, nearly losing his balance. “No.”
“Whoa there. Take it easy.” He resettled Bill in the chair.
I got up.
The nurse shifted his attention to me. “Are you Mr. Thompson’s wife?”
“No,” Bill and I said simultaneously.
The nurse squinted at us. “He needs to take it easy the next few days.”
I ran to get the car and drove up to the emergency entrance again.
“Stay off that foot,” the young man said as we pulled away.
Bill was so still I assumed he’d fallen asleep.
“You were right. Fractured talus. A clean break but I’m going to have this thing on…” he tapped his cast, “…four to five weeks.”
“Any pain?” I asked softly.
“Just in my neck,” he said. Then snorted.
It was the beginning of a laugh. “Sense of humor still intact, I see.”
“How about that nightcap at my place?” he asked.
“Terrific.” Of course, it would not be as interesting as I had envisioned…
With the aid of crutches, he managed to get to the guest bedroom on the first floor of his center hall colonial. He texted Suki, alerting her to the situation. Good thing he was delegating. I removed the shoe off his good foot, and he shrugged out of his suit jacket and shirt and insisted he could take it from there. He was in the middle of thanking me and apologizing at the same time—forget the nightcap—when his eyes closed and he passed out. Turns out the pain meds were a little bit more potent than Bill had counted on.
It was two a.m. I scrounged up a blanket and pillow out of his linen closet and collapsed on his sofa. It was a disappointing end to a wonderful evening for both of us. Of course, I was the only one conscious enough to realize that. Soft snoring drifted out of the guest room since I’d left the door open in case he needed something. I probably wouldn’t have any trouble falling asleep…
My cell binged at eight a.m. from my purse where I’d left it last night, or rather this morning. It was a text from Lola,
wondering if I was awake. I rose and tiptoed to the door of the guest room. Bill had shifted positions in the night but was still dozing. I tapped Lola’s number and listened to the phone ring several times before she picked up.
“Dodie! Finally. I expected you to call me when you got home last night. I was up ‘til all hours. Worrying, of course. Did I wake you?”
I mumbled, “Not really.”
“Why are you whispering? Did you lose your voice? Carol’s herb tea—”
“I didn’t lose my voice. I don’t want to wake Bill.”
I could hear her smile. “Aha… So that’s why I didn’t get a call back.”
“It’s not what you think. He broke a bone in his ankle last night, and we didn’t get out of the emergency room until almost two and then he passed out from the pain meds and I ended up on the sofa—”
“He broke his ankle? How?”
“Dodie?” Bill stood in the doorway of the guest room, his trousers rumpled, his brush cut tousled, and pale blond stubble shadowing his face.
“Gotta go, Lola.”
“Call later!” she begged as I clicked off.
After a civil but heated discussion, I helped Bill up the staircase, clunking step after step with the crutches, to the second floor where he insisted he could bathe and dress himself. He maintained, again, that he’d played through worse injuries on the gridiron. I reminded him, again, that he was supposed to stay off the leg.
I sat at his kitchen counter with a cup of coffee and waited for him to reappear, mentally ticking off my errands this morning.
“Got any more of that?” Bill hobbled his way to the counter.
He’d been right…he was able to clean up pretty well, shave off yesterday’s stubble and get himself into a clean uniform. Despite the hour of the day, his freshly scrubbed look and muscular torso were able to raise my heart rate. But work? “You’re not intending to report for duty, are you? I don’t think that’s what they had in mind when they said ‘take it easy.’”
Bill dismissed my point with a wave of his hand and sipped from the mug I filled. “I have a murder to solve.” He strapped on a shoulder holster.
“Okay. Let’s go. I’ll leave your car—”
“No need. Ralph will be here soon to pick me up and he’ll drop you off.” Bill set his mug down. “Thanks for last night. I mean it. I really appreciate your help.”
He sounded so touched I could feel some heat creeping up my neck. “It was no big deal. You’d have done the same for me, right?”
He adjusted his crutches and clomped over to pick up his jacket.
“Right?” I asked again.
He turned to me, his eyes twinkling. “You even have to ask?”
My heart was aflutter.
7
I’d never been on an Etonville Police Department ride-along. Surprising, considering my participation in recent homicide investigations. I snuggled into my wool coat—not as warm as my down jacket—but dressier. It had been fifteen hours since I’d donned my sexy, silk pantsuit and I was feeling rumpled, grimy, and worn out.
Ralph had arrived at Bill’s, lights flashing, siren blaring. Bill nipped the “emergency” thing in the bud so now Ralph drove slowly while the walkie-talkie in the front seat squawked and Bill spoke with Suki. Ralph was due a personal conversation with the chief as well, regarding the supposed vagrant who was now lying dead in the morgue.
The day was sunny, the temperature hitting mid-thirties, promising the possibility of melting snow. Ralph stopped for a red light, and I watched a German Shepard harnessed to a sled pull a little boy through a front yard. They hit a snow embankment, toppled over, and the kid jumped up and hugged the dog. To be that resilient…and energetic. I yawned.
“…and call the mayor’s office. Ask them about salting roads in the north end of town. We got complaints this weekend.” Bill paused and listened as Suki talked. “Copy that. 10-4.”
“Chief, would you like me to stop at Coffee Heaven?” Ralph asked hopefully.
Bill cut his eyes in Ralph’s direction. “Coffee can wait. Let’s get Dodie home.”
Ralph swung right on Fairfield and left on Ames and pulled into my driveway. I hopped out and waited as Bill lowered his window. I could see he hesitated saying anything with Ralph all eagle eyes and ears two feet away. “So…uh…thanks. I’ll…uh…”
“Yep. Copy that,” I quipped. I picked my way cautiously through the sloppy ice and snow that covered my walkway.
As the cruiser backed out of my driveway, I let myself into the house, unzipped my boots, stripped off the pant suit, and flung myself into the shower. The steam and hot water streamed off my shoulders and back, soothing every muscle while flushing away the night’s grunge. I would have killed for a quick nap, but the day was moving fast and I wanted to get to the Windjammer to manage the lunch crowd. I blew my hair dry, noticing that I was due for a trim at Snippets—my bangs were into my eyes. My Irish knit sweater and skinny black jeans would have to do today; my schedule called for functional.
With the streets mostly cleared of snow and ice, the population of Etonville was out in droves, cars creeping along, braking when someone made an unexpected left turn, beeping at each other. Etonville was impatient and feeling its oats. I popped into Lacy’s Market to pick up some cayenne pepper for Henry’s soup today.
I was perusing the shelves when I heard a grouchy, reproachful voice behind me. “So the chief broke his leg last night.”
The accuser was Mrs. Everly who worked frozen foods. Our paths had crossed briefly last year when her tenant, my good friend Jerome, was murdered and I needed to do a little snooping around her upstairs. “Hello.” I tried to smile. “Not his leg, his ankle.”
“Huhn. He still can’t walk on it.” She waited for me to prove her wrong.
I guessed I was to blame. I nodded and scooted off. The rumor mill in Etonville had already begun to grind and it looked like I was going to be today’s grist. I had enough time to buy a caramel macchiato from Coffee Heaven before reporting to the Windjammer.
The diner was bursting at its seams. At the carry-out line, folks on their way to work jostled regulars who usually sat at the counter. There were three topics of conversation: the crime wave in Etonville, Bill’s broken ankle, and the crime wave in Etonville. As I joined the carry-out line, I heard:
“…he died from inhaling paint fumes. The set was still wet, you know.”
It sounded like a Banger sisters’ theory.
“Really? I heard he was robbing the box office.”
Again, not true.
“…three murders in one year.”
Sadly true.
“Hi, Dodie,” waitress Jocelyn said.
“Wow, lot of traffic in here today.”
“The Donut Hole down on the highway closed. The pipes froze overnight and flooded the place. We’re getting their business. Everybody wants to talk about that man on the ELT stage. Did you see him?” she asked and leaned over the cash register, eager for any tidbit of information.
“Well, I did. Kind of. I mean, he was hidden by the turntable divider.” All of which was also true.
Jocelyn tsked. “Edna told me that turntable was nothing but trouble.”
While I waited at the counter for my takeout container, I scanned the front page of the Etonville Standard. The headline for a follow-up story cleverly blared: STRANGER DIES IN ETON TOWN. They’d included a quote from the Medical Examiner: “…victim stabbed in aorta and bled out…” Below the fold was a brief mention of Bill’s misadventures in New York.
Jocelyn prepped my drink, peering at me over the espresso machine. “So I hear the chief got pushed into the street. You gotta be careful in the city.”
I looked up. “What? No! He stepped off the sidewalk and—”
“The last time I was in New York someone pushed me. The street w
as real crowded because of a parade and they’d closed the block off,” she said.
“Well, no one touched him except me.” Jocelyn smiled. I realized how that sounded. “What I mean is—”
“Next time you two need to go to some place safer.” She handed me a full cup and a lid.
I gave up, took my drink, and smiled my thanks.
“Got to run.” Jocelyn waved and moved on to the rest of her impatient crowd.
* * *
Benny was already wiping down the bar and restocking the red wine when I let myself into the Windjammer. “Hey, it’s Nurse Nancy,” he cackled.
“Not you too! Etonville must be over-the-top this morning.”
“Well, you did rescue its chief of police. Or else you stomped on his foot and broke it,” he said slyly. “Depending on who you talk to.”
“So there’s two sets of rumors swirling.” I hung up my coat. “Henry here?”
Benny pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “He’s agonizing over his pizza special for today.”
I had convinced Henry a month ago that a nice wintertime lunch special would be piping hot pizza. And to seal the deal, we’d serve several different varieties during our pizza week: stuffed pizza with mozzarella, tomato, and basil; taco pizza with refried beans, salsa, and seasoned beef; and veggie pizza with tons of olives, roasted red peppers, and arugula. In theory it was a great idea. In practice the palates of Etonville needed more diversity during the week. So Henry was offering his homemade soups as an alternative. Today’s specials were vegetarian pizza and cream of mushroom soup.
Since pizza week was my idea, I’d probably never hear the end of it.
The dining room was humming by noon as the town crowded into the Windjammer, more eager for gossip than the pizza and soup. Bill was on everyone’s mind.
Edna, picking up lunch for the police department, waited by the cash register for her takeout order. “We had an 11-24 down on the highway this morning.”
As dispatcher for the department, Edna knew her police codes backwards and forwards and loved to trot them out for us civilians. “Yeah?” I said and rang up her food.
Running Out of Time Page 6
