“Yeah, so unfortunate,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what’s unfortunate. Having that man killed by the turntable. I warned Walter but no one listens to us.” The other sister nodded.
For good reason. “It wasn’t the turntable. It was a knife.” I smiled through gritted teeth. “Enjoy your lunch.” I was getting accustomed to the quirky ways of Etonville, but every town crisis tended to release its inner-daffy.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” Benny muttered from a table behind me as he set down a tray of drinks.
I nudged waitress Gillian to get off Instagram and checked the entrance. It was Walter looking morose and bedraggled, a muffler wound around his neck, his cheeks above his brown-gray beard cherry red. He stomped his feet. Was he removing ice from his boots or having a temper tantrum? Customers eyed him surreptitiously, no one wanting to stare too long, everyone a little uncomfortable witnessing Walter in his miserable state. I crossed the distance between us.
“Walter. Let’s get you a seat.” Despite my general uneasiness with the former artistic director, I was the Windjammer’s manager and had to suck it up. I took his elbow and steered him to a booth. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you in here.” Truth be told, I couldn’t remember the last time Walter Zeitzman had darkened the doorway of the Windjammer.
He twisted his head and glared at me. “Coffee Heaven was full and La Famiglia is closed for lunch today.”
“Right. So…I’ll get a server.”
“You don’t like me, do you?” he asked.
He caught me off guard. It wasn’t a question, more an assertion of fact. “Well…I…uh…”
“You think I’ve mismanaged the theater.”
I couldn’t agree more. “Not exactly.” I tried to sidestep his allegation and held out a menu. “Today’s special is a tasty BLT with—”
“You and everyone else around Etonville will be sorry when they don’t have Walter to kick around anymore.” He plucked the menu from my hand.
Not what did that mean? Could Penny have been right about his tri-polar manic-depression?
I lowered my voice. “Look, we all know you and Lola are under a ton of pressure with the show not opening and the theater’s future up in the air. But I’m sure everything will—”
“—not work out,” he grumped and studied the menu insert.
I debated, then decided no guts no glory. “Walter, can I give you a piece of advice?” Before he could answer and refuse, I dove into the breach between us. “If you were a little bit…” Nicer? Less of a jackass? “…more sensitive to people, maybe they wouldn’t want to ‘kick you around.’”
“Is that right? That’s rich coming from you,” he said.
“And that means?” I asked.
“You’ve been a pain in the ELT butt since you came to town. Sticking your nose in theater business, pretending you know something about police procedures…offering ‘advice’ where it is neither wanted nor helpful!”
Metaphorical steam billowed out of my nostrils and my voice might have inched up a few degrees. “Lola appreciates my advice.” Ears pricked up all around us, Benny’s eyes growing larger at the bar. “And as for sticking my nose—”
Saved by a booming crash from the kitchen. Heads swiveled from me to the swinging door into Henry’s inner sanctum. I turned on my heel and walked—when I wanted to run—to the kitchen, smiling reassuringly at customers on the way.
“What’s going on in here?” I asked, looking first at Henry, then at Enrico. Both were frozen, staring dumbfounded at our largest pot upside down on the tile floor. The contents were splashed in a four-foot radius and pieces of chicken and noodles had plopped on both Henry’s and Enrico’s feet. “Never mind. Henry, let’s just keep the lunch service going. Enrico, could you let Gillian know we’re out of soup? I’ll get a mop.”
Geez.
Forty-five minutes later, the kitchen was presentable, lunch was winding down, and Walter had departed the restaurant. I breathed a momentary sigh of relief. Because although the skirmish had ended, the next time I came face-to-face with him, it might turn into an all-out war. I must have been still fuming when Benny handed me a seltzer in my back booth.
“Tough day,” he said.
“Walter gets under my skin.”
“I’d say.” He glinted at me.
I couldn’t help it. I glinted back.
* * *
By three I was antsy to leave, first to stop by the Municipal Building, and then to get on the road and head to Creston for my meeting with Sally. I checked my watch. “Benny, I’ll be back in a couple of hours, okay? You can take off then.”
“Sure thing. And stay away from Walter,” he added.
I had no intention of running into Walter, purposely or accidentally. I huddled inside my down jacket, breathing into my scarf, and hurried to my Metro. It balked at having to wake up and warm up, and the engine rattled for a good minute before I could shift into Drive and cruise down Main Street.
I found the last empty parking spot in front of the police station next to the space reserved for the chief. It was occupied. I peeked in my rearview mirror, ran my fingers through my waves, and dabbed on a touch of lipstick. Maybe I’d have a moment alone with Bill.
A rap on the window interrupted my reverie. Archibald Alvarez blew on his gloveless hands before he stuffed them in his pockets. The wind propelled a length of his dark hair over his face. He motioned for me to wind down the window.
“Hello, Mr. Alvarez,” I said politely.
“Archibald.”
For a brief moment his image in the “Hottest Male Models” article flashed on my mental monitor: his shirt open to his waist, his abs a six-pack that rippled their way through the laptop screen.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” he said.
“Of course not.” I opened the car door and he stepped aside.
“Just wondering if you knew anything about Sally Oldfield’s background. Where she’s from, what she does outside the Etonville Little Theatre. Something you might have forgotten to mention.”
I shrugged. “I told you and Chief Thompson everything I know. She came to Etonville from Boston about a month ago.”
He squinted at me as if seeing right through my white lie. Something about the tone of Sally’s texts prevented me from saying any more until I saw her.
We walked into the Municipal Building, Archibald pausing at the town’s ego wall to study Etonville’s triumphs on the playing fields and in the law enforcement arena. His gaze finally came to rest on the photo of Bill from the Etonville Standard. He was a hero for solving the murder of Jerome Angleton. “Small town life.”
I bristled in defense of Etonville. As a home it had its eccentricities, but it was my eccentric home. “It grows on you.” I moved away and immediately headed down the right hallway to the police department where Edna was on dispatch. Archibald followed, nodded at us, and continued on to Bill’s office.
Edna murmured, “He reminds me of one of those TV cops. Too handsome for their own good.”
I agreed.
Her switchboard lit up and the headset crackled. Edna raised a finger, telling me to hold on. “Ralph, the chief’s been looking for you.” She paused. “Well, you better get a move on. There’s a 586 by the Shop N Go and a 10-60 at the Parkers’. That’s right. Mrs. Parker has been calling here every five minutes, and the chief doesn’t have time to unlock her door.”
I snickered softly. Mrs. Parker had become the bane of Bill’s existence.
“10-4.” Edna signed off and removed her headset. “Illegal parking and Mrs. Parker lost her keys.” She leaned out the dispatch window. “Ralph’s got his nose out of joint. He thought with the chief on crutches, he’d be second-in-command after Suki. But then Archibald came on board.” She gave me a knowing look. “A little professional jealousy if you ask
me,” she whispered, then asked hopefully, “Any word on whether the show might open next week? Everybody’s pretty tight-lipped around here.”
“Nothing yet,” I said and crossed my fingers.
Her switchboard lit up again and I waved good-bye. I moved on, stopping at Suki Shung’s desk in the outer office. “The chief’s expecting me. Need to sign my statement.”
Suki buzzed Bill’s inner sanctum. “You can go in.”
I smiled my thanks, and Suki tilted her head and nodded. It was the closest she’d probably ever come to acknowledging our shared near-death experience last fall at the hands of a couple of ruthless killers.
I could hear muffled voices in Bill’s office and knocked gently.
“Enter.”
I stood in the doorway, taking in the scene: Bill sat at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his broken ankle propped up on a short stool. Archibald slouched in the chair opposite the desk, his tailbone about to slip off the seat, legs stretched out in front of him. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said they were two buddies comparing fantasy football scores.
“Hi,” Bill said and lifted his foot off the stool.
Archibald stood up, offered his chair to me, and folded his tall frame into a small settee in the corner.
“We were discussing the security at the theater. How easy it might be for someone to wander in,” Bill said.
Walter had had the whole theater rekeyed last October when it became apparent that uninvited guests could enter and roam around at will. “Most of the time everyone’s pretty careful about locking up. But when the ELT gets close to an opening, there’s last-minute work and rehearsals, people in and out at all hours.” I shrugged. “I don’t think the lobby door was locked that afternoon. The victim could have wandered in.”
Archibald squinted at me. “What time were you here again?”
“I came about four thirty and prepared the concessions in the lobby, then I went backstage to change about five or so.”
“And the theater was empty when you arrived?” Bill asked.
“Yes. I think it was empty most of the afternoon,” I answered.
Archibald crossed his arms and allowed his head to slump forward on his chest. Had he fallen asleep? Finally, he spoke. “So…there were a few free hours when someone could have slipped in there and committed the crime.”
“I guess so.”
Bill was watching Archibald. “That fits with the medical examiner’s preliminary report. Time of death within a couple of hours of being discovered.”
Archibald’s head snapped up. He shot a look at Bill, then at me. I’d been around the theater long enough to earn the right to indulge in lingo. Walter harped on subtext constantly and Archibald’s subtext was plainly written on his face: Why are you revealing facts of a homicide investigation to a civilian? What’s the story?
Bill must have read Archibald’s face too. “Dodie has worked with me previously. She has good instincts.”
Yahoo! Bill was finally recognizing my ability to—
“Really?” Archibald wasn’t buying it.
“Yeah,” Bill said dryly, pulling a sheet of paper out of a file and pushing it across his desk to me. “Read this over and then I’ll need your signature.”
I took the paper, scanned the statement, and nodded. “Looks fine.” As I scribbled my name, I could feel Archibald’s eyes perforate the back of my neck. I opened my mouth. “What kind of knife was it?” I might have been pushing my luck.
Bill raised a hand. “We can’t talk about—”
“A hunting knife,” Archibald said, eyeing me dispassionately. “Foldable. Five-inch blade. Well-worn handle with the initials GW. Unidentifiable prints.”
Bill sat up, bouncing his cast onto the stool again. “I don’t think you need to go into specifics.”
“You said you trusted her.” Archibald smiled.
Bill squirmed uncomfortably like a worm on a fish hook.
I pressed my advantage. “That would fit the victim.”
“How so?” Archibald asked.
“You know, the camouflage hunting jacket and trapper hat,” I said.
“Very observant.” Archibald stared right through me.
Of course, I’d had the advantage of seeing him earlier this week dressed in the same clothing. “Have you identified him?”
“Okay, that’s enough for now.” Bill replaced my statement in the file. “We’ll talk later if there’s more we need to ask you.”
Rather a hasty dismissal from the man who, only recently, was snoring in his bedroom while I dozed on his couch after sitting two hours in the emergency room.
Archibald stood, ran a hand through his longish hair, and stretched, straining the seams of his leather jacket. “Do you know where we can find this Sally Oldfield? She seems to be our prime suspect at the moment.”
Prime suspect? Not a person of interest? This was moving quickly and not in Sally’s favor. “She has a room in town. Has Penny delivered contact information on the cast?” I asked.
“On its way,” Bill said.
“Me too. Got to get on my way.” I grabbed my bag, smiled innocently at the two of them, and beat it out of the Municipal Building, waving to Edna as I sprinted past.
* * *
I put the address Sally had texted me into my cell phone GPS and glanced nervously at my watch. I had agreed to meet her at three thirty. It was already three forty-five and I still had a twenty-minute trip to Creston. I prayed she hadn’t given up on me. I texted her that I was running late and zoomed onto State Route 53, one eye on the road, one on my clock, my mind sorting through a clutter of issues. What exactly did Sally know about the hunter’s death? She’d looked terrified when she’d darted out of the theater; understandable given the circumstances. One thing was certain. Sally knew that man, which only made her guilt more possible. But what would she have been doing in the theater that afternoon? Earlier in the week she’d agreed to help me prepare the hot drinks for the opening. But when she’d disappeared after the dress rehearsal without any explanation, I thought that she’d abandoned me.
Then there was Archibald Alvarez, buff-model-turned-PI, in an awful hurry to convict Sally of a crime for which there were too many loose ends. And what about Bill? Did he have an opinion on Sally’s guilt or innocence? He was excellent at keeping his cards close to his chest.
Traffic was light—the rush hour getting underway—and I reached the Creston exit at five minutes after four, when I immediately slowed down to the town speed limit. Genie, my GPS, led me down the main drag until I passed the Creston Police Department and then had me turn right on South Central Street for a couple of miles. It was new territory for me. Not the high end of the town that had fallen victim to a series of burglaries last fall, or the bustling shopping district, which I had occasion to frequent now and then, but a residential area that was dingy and discolored. Dull gray houses with peeling paint, patches of dirt for front yards, worn-out rusted autos parked in gravel driveways. Altogether a little depressing.
“Destination is ahead on the left,” said Genie.
29 South Central. A corner bodega. I eased my Metro to the curb, sliding up and over a small mound of ice, and turned off the engine. What was Sally doing in this neighborhood? Did she know someone living on the street? I checked my watch: four twenty. I was almost an hour late. Still, she had texted me, urgently pleading for me to come.
I studied the shop, a brown brick building with a colorful awning and a yellow facing that advertised sandwiches, coffee, frozen desserts, and sodas. In a corner of the front window, an ATM sign was prominently displayed. Beneath the sign, gaffer’s tape formed an X, probably covering a crack in the window. A bicycle rested against a newspaper stand.
Just then an elderly man exited the store, pausing on the sidewalk to turn his collar up and check a piece of pa
per in his hand. Maybe a lottery ticket. Two boys pushed past him and bounded into the grocery. Other than that, the area was deserted.
I locked my Metro and slowly crossed the street. I opened the front door and bells jingled, announcing my entrance. The two boys were now at the counter, jostling each other and counting out change for sodas. The clerk, a fortyish woman, stood at the cash register, one hand on her hip, blowing out air between pouty lips.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I don’t have all day.”
The boys ignored her and continued to search the contents of their pockets. She shifted her gaze from the kids, sizing me up and down, waiting for me to talk first.
“Excuse me. I’m wondering if you know a Sally Oldfield?”
“Who?”
“Sally—”
“Now look what you did!” she yelled.
The boys had knocked over a display of Slim Jims and the meat sticks tumbled into the lottery machine.
“Get out of here,” she said, scooping up their coins and thrusting the soda cans at them.
The boys screamed with laughter, gathered their drinks, and fled out the door. Meanwhile, I had picked up a Snickers bar and Peanut M&Ms. I withdrew a five-dollar bill from my wallet and lay the candy and money on the counter. The clerk eyed me suspiciously—was it the candy or my unfamiliar face in the grocery?—and made change.
“So I was asking about a friend of mine. Sally Oldfield? I was supposed to meet her here.”
“Don’t know anybody by that name.”
She turned her attention back to the newspaper she no doubt had been reading before the boys rudely interrupted her.
“That’s so strange because she gave me this address. Brown hair, thin, pretty…”
“You a cop or something?” the clerk asked.
“Me? No! I’m looking for my friend. I was supposed to—”
“—meet her here. So you said.” She took off her glasses. “We don’t get many strangers in this neighborhood. I own this place and I know everybody who comes in here. I’d remember if a stranger walked in.”
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