Like me. This was going nowhere, so I nodded my thanks and left. I imagined the woman watched me cross the street, climb into my Metro, and start the engine. The heater crackled and cold air spit out of the vent. I dialed it back and pulled away from the curb, frustrated, chilled to my bones, and worried. The sun had set while I was in the store and now the streets were dark, dull light leaking from curtained windows in unfriendly looking houses. Where was Sally and why had she led me on a goose chase?
10
I texted Sally to see where she was, reminding myself to check her Facebook page later for any clue to her hiding place, and Benny to let him know I was running late but was on my way. Benny texted back: Call me.
On the outskirts of Creston I drove into the parking lot of a convenience store and tapped on Benny’s number. “What’s up? I’ll be there in a few minutes and then you can leave.”
“You’re not going to believe it, but we just got a reservation for thirteen for seven o’clock tonight,” Benny said, wheezing.
“Great. You okay?”
“Yeah, I hauled three cases of wine from storage. I think I’d better stick around tonight,” he said.
“Why? A Henry problem?” I asked.
“It’s good news, bad news.”
“Give me the good first. I need to fortify myself,” I said.
“Henry is excited and panicked, and we had to postpone your Mardi Gras theme night. So no jambalaya and shrimp boil,” Benny said.
I knew Henry was a little iffy on my Mardi Gras menu ideas. “What’s the bad?”
“Henry is excited and panicked and going over-the-top with tonight’s specials. He’s been experimenting with roasted parsnip soup, coq au vin, and baked polenta.”
“What?”
“Yeah, right?” Benny said.
“We talked about putting all three on the menu next month. Why the hurry tonight? Who is this group?”
“Are you ready? They had a reservation at La Famiglia, but it cancelled on them because the owner’s father passed away suddenly and they closed down for the night,” Benny said.
OMG. La Famiglia patrons.
“It’s Mayor Bennet and a crowd from the Chamber of Commerce,” Benny added.
The closest thing Etonville had to royalty. “I’m on my way.”
I stepped on the gas pedal and my Metro, in total sympathy with the culinary emergency, leapt forward. Twenty minutes later I parked illegally by a fire plug two doors down from the Windjammer—no way the fire department would be making a run here tonight, right? I grasped my jacket around my midsection and picked my way carefully around patches of refreezing slush on the sidewalk.
The Windjammer was in a frenzy. Carmen and Gillian had already prepped the dining room and rearranged a few tables to form a longer banquet table in the middle of the room. Benny had the glossy wooden bar sparkling, the beer and soda taps shiny. I waved to them and headed straight for the kitchen. Henry was hunched over the soup pot, taste testing his latest creation.
“Henry, great news!” I said.
He straightened quickly, pulling his ladle out of the pot and flipping a few roasted parsnips onto the surface of the stove. His eyes bugged out, his face was shiny from the heat of the kitchen. Yep, excited and panicked. He had stars in his eyes—as in four stars from the Etonville Standard.
“You heard?” he asked.
“Sure did.” The coq was resting on the center island surrounded by the vin and assorted ingredients. Enrico was focused on the rest of tonight’s menu.
“Are you okay in here?” I asked him softly.
“Carmen will join us and I called my cousin,” he said in a whisper.
“Quick thinking, Enrico.” I gave him a thumbs-up.
“Maybe we get a review tonight?” Enrico stole a quick look at Henry who had his eyes closed as he inhaled the savory aroma of his soup.
I smiled. “Maybe.” I fervently pleaded with the kitchen gods to prevent any possibility of the food critic from the Etonville Standard darkening the threshold of the Windjammer tonight.
At six thirty a faction from the theater—Abby, her husband Jim, Edna, Mildred minus Vernon, and Penny—arrived. I hustled them to a booth as far away from the Chamber of Commerce as possible. Might as well keep their craziness and ongoing theories on the murder victim contained. The potential for chaos was high.
* * *
Of course, I was wrong. Henry’s specials were a big success and the mayor called him out of the kitchen to compliment his coq au vin. The Windjammer had bolstered its reputation this evening, I thought, as the group clothed themselves in winter weather togs, preparing to exit. The mayor, the last to leave, turned to nod at me as Bill appeared in the doorway. They exchanged a few clipped words before the town’s chief administrator disappeared and Bill, after waving off his chauffeured squad car, clumped his way into the dining room.
I placed a menu on a table by the front window, but Bill indicated he’d prefer my back booth.
He deposited his crutches on the bench, wriggled out of his coat, and rubbed his hands together. “I’ll have Henry’s special.”
“That’s coq au vin and—”
“Whatever.” He massaged his temples, eyes closed.
I put in his order and brought him a glass of cabernet. Bill was edgy, unusual for him. Among other character traits, he’d brought a levelheadedness to the chief of police position in Etonville. He’d maintained his composure, most of the time, regardless of the tough situations he’d encountered since his arrival a year ago. But his broken ankle wasn’t helping.
“Rough one?” I asked.
“Mayor Bennet again. Every time there’s a…predicament…”
“You mean a…murder?” I asked carefully.
“It’s like the whole thing is my fault. I’m to blame the ELT had to cancel its show. I guess I’m responsible for Etonville missing a mention in the Star-Ledger,” he grumbled.
“Having Archibald around should help move things along,” I said.
Bill paused, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. “What do you think of him?”
“He seems…capable,” I said, playing the diplomat.
“Ralph’s capable,” he said wryly.
Gillian brought a place setting and Bill’s dinner. He thanked her and dug his fork into the chicken. “What do you really think?”
I decided to keep my discovery of his modelling days to myself. “Smart guy, but I’m not sure he trusts me. He’s a friend of yours?”
“We were in the police academy together. Afterwards I went to Philly to work and Archibald went back to Texas. Then I heard he worked in Trenton and Pittsburgh. He ran into some trouble there and left the force. Took up private investigation. We’ve been in touch off and on over the years.” The left side of Bill’s mouth curved upward. “He’s good looking.”
You should see him shirtless. “In a way. I don’t think he wants to let me in on the details of the murder even though he described the knife to me. Which has now made it onto the front page.” I withdrew a copy of this morning’s Etonville Standard from my bag and set it on the table.
Bill chewed thoughtfully. “I read it. The only thing not there is the ID.”
I creased the paper. “Do you have it?” I sipped my coffee, attempting to tamp down my curiosity.
“The victim’s name is Gordon Weeks. No major priors, only a single run-in with the law years ago, but his fingerprints were in the federal database. Keep that to yourself,” he warned. “We haven’t found any connection to Etonville yet.”
My heart did a little flip-flop. “Did he have a cell phone? Probably tell you a lot.” I needed to know if he’d called Sally recently, but I didn’t want to seem to be prying too much.
Bill shrugged. “No. Could have used a burner phone. Prepaid, disposable, no trace.” His eyes narrowed. “Wh
y do you ask? What’s whirling in that brain of yours?”
“Nothing. Just wondering,” I said.
“Speaking of cell phones, have any members of the ELT heard from Sally Oldfield?”
Strictly speaking, I was only an honorary member. “I don’t know. Have you spoken with the cast?”
“Penny dropped off a contact sheet. Archibald is working his way through it.”
“I understand you’re interested in finding Sally, but it’s hard to believe she’s guilty of anything,” I said.
“Running away from a murder scene covered in blood is one sure way to arouse suspicion. Archibald may be right,” Bill said.
“Sally’s the prime suspect?”
He nodded. “We’ve put out a picture and description to local departments in Creston and Bernridge. I’ll be sending out an APB in the morning.”
So soon? “Not for nothing but Sally’s about five three, four at the most. Gordon Weeks was a big guy,” I said earnestly.
“Maybe it was a crime of passion. Passion can make a person capable of unbelievable stuff.” Bill watched me over the rim of his wine glass.
Wasn’t that the truth.
He dove back into his entrée. “But why a seemingly nice young woman would be involved with a scruffy guy like Gordon Weeks is beyond me.”
Me too.
* * *
I was the last person standing at the Windjammer. I’d mopped the floor after Gillian and Carmen had cleaned tables, did an inventory check after Henry and Enrico had wiped down the kitchen, high-fiving each other on a successful evening, and tallied the deposit slip. The restaurant had done well tonight, thanks in part to the misfortunes of La Famiglia’s owner.
I turned out the lights, locked the front door, and pulled my jacket hood over my head. It was ten degrees colder leaving the Windjammer than it had been on my return from Creston seven hours ago. The sky was clear, thankfully, which meant no snow tomorrow. I slipped into my Metro, grateful that I hadn’t gotten a ticket for parking by the fire plug, and noticed that the interior was freezing. Had I left the passenger side window open?
I turned on the overhead dome light and inhaled sharply. The glass was shattered, with a hole the size of a fist at the bottom of the pane. A few shards covered the passenger seat and the floor. Where I’d left my bag. Had someone stolen my wallet? My address book? Luckily, my cell phone and keys were in my coat pocket. My heart boomeranged in my chest as I searched for my credit cards and cash. All there. Why break into my car and then leave fifty-six dollars and credit cards in my wallet? My little hairs trembled. It wasn’t only the wind blowing through my front seat that set them off.
A tap on my driver’s side window made me jump out of my skin. It was Archibald Alvarez. “You scared me!” I yelped.
“Sorry,” he said apologetically. “I was working late at the department and on my way home when I saw a car parked by the fire hydrant. Not a safe thing in this weather. Thought I should investigate.” He shuddered and swiped his hair off his face. “Freezing out here.” He bent down and looked into my Metro. “Is that a broken window?”
Before I could say 911, Archibald had gotten my story, collected the broken glass, and insisted on following me home.
“I’m really fine,” I said as he shut my door.
“No sense taking any chances. Be sure to report this in the morning.” He touched my shoulder. “And don’t leave your purse in the car.”
Yowza. Despite the fact that I was freaked out, I couldn’t help noticing that his voice could melt rock. I had to admit it: He was easy on the eyes and ears.
I pulled out of my illegal space and his automobile—a black, late model Ford—trailed me down Main and over Fairfield until I turned into my driveway on Ames. He stopped long enough to see me enter my house and then he drove off.
The clock on my kitchen wall said twelve thirty; time for me to be in bed since I had a big day planned for tomorrow: First a trip to my service station to see about a window repair; and then a little snooping that included visits to Sally’s residence, her place of work, and a call to my brother, Andy, to see what he knew about Sally.
I should have been wiped out but my eyes were wide open, my mind racing, the image of my broken car window popping up. What was the break-in all about? What did the intruder want? I wasn’t in the mood for Cindy Collins’s latest mystery novel—Murder Came Calling—and there was nothing on late-night television that held my interest. I pulled the Etonville Standard out of my bag and skimmed the article on the ELT murder. If there truly was no such thing as bad publicity, Walter should have been ecstatic to see the theater mentioned. A statement by Police Chief William Thompson indicated that his office was working on the identity of the victim. But there was no reference to Sally or Archibald Alvarez joining the force temporarily. The Standard would be sniffing around the Municipal Building until it had Weeks’s name.
I was about to toss the paper into my recycling pile when a small article on the bottom half of page one caught my eye. The Etonville public works department had towed a vehicle with a Massachusetts license plate that had skidded off the access road by State Route 53, hit a phone pole, and wasn’t drivable. Why did that trigger a déjà vu? Sally had lived in Boston…could it have been her car?
My cell binged. I checked the text. It was Sally: Did you come? Meet me there tmr?
No way was I going to traipse back to the bodega in Creston only to be stood up again and reminded by the owner that she knew everyone who frequented her store and blah blah blah. I typed in: Sorry I was late. Ok tmr. But not there. Bernridge?
I could understand why Sally would want to avoid Etonville; Bernridge was a safer place and close by. There was no return text from her so I went to bed, my brain still whirling. What if someone had been lying in wait to attack me? Still in the area watching me? What if Archibald had not appeared when he did…?
* * *
I sat in my Metro, a steady, chill wind hurling my hair to and fro. I thrust my arm through the shattered passenger window, scraping my jacket sleeve, and Archibald twisted my hand. He started to pull me closer. “Wait!” I screamed, “I can’t fit through that hole!” He laughed charmingly, my face smacking the glass, and I continued to yell, “No!” Archibald disappeared, and I dissolved into thin air. My eyes shot open, my chest pounding. Another one of my alarming dreams…
I dressed for warmth in a wool sweater and slacks since the weather app on my cell flashed twenty degrees. I yanked on my boots, avoided my coffee machine, and tramped outside, ready to take on the morning’s icy air. Planting myself on the plastic seat cover of my Metro was like sitting in an icebox. The engine ground, sluggish, as if resentful that it had to be working in this weather. “Sorry,” I mumbled and guided the car out of my driveway.
I stopped at Timothy’s Timely Service, a longtime Etonville landmark on the periphery of town and a stone’s throw away from Route 53. They prided themselves on quick turnaround.
Timothy inspected the hole in my window and let out a low whistle. “Looks like someone took a crowbar to this.” He scratched a straggly gray beard and tugged on his ball cap.
“How long to replace the window?” I asked, mentally calculating the difference between my deductible and the cost of replacement.
Timothy stuck his hands in his down vest pockets. “Got to check with Junior, but it’ll likely take a coupla days. Got to remove the door panel and clear out the remainder of the window. Then insert a new one and test the mechanism.” He looked off toward the garage. “I’d say the beginning of next week.”
Not very timely. “I didn’t expect to be without the car that long.”
“Not to worry. Junior can take care of you. We got a coupla loaners for times like this.”
I negotiated with Timothy Jr. for a used Hyundai that had a “coupla” dents in the front bumper, crickets in the motor when I crank
ed the engine, and the lingering odor of cigarette smoke. But it had heat and cloth seat covers so I was satisfied. Driving away felt like depositing my first-born child at summer camp without a cell phone. I missed my Metro already.
11
The Hyundai sputtered as I drove out of the service station and down the access road that ran parallel to Route 53. I gunned the motor and wound my way back into the north end of Etonville. I knew Sally had rented a room on Belvidere, a few doors down from the Etonville Public Library. I eased my car next to the curb, or where the curb would have been if there hadn’t been a snowbank blocking the parking lane. I stared at 417 Belvedere. A modest olive-green Victorian with a gray slate roof that featured third-floor dormers. A wraparound porch could accommodate a number of guests on summer nights. Hanging out on a front porch in warm weather was the next best thing to squishing my toes in the sand at a Jersey Shore beach. Oh well…
I tramped to the front door, grateful for the recently shoveled walkway, and pushed the bell. A curtain on the front door fluttered and a youthful face appeared.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine. Sally Oldfield.”
The eyes in the face grew round. “Sally? She’s not here.”
“Could I speak with you for a minute?”
The face hesitated, then stepped away from the window and the door opened a few inches. “I’m not supposed to open the door when I’m alone, but Mr. Peterson is upstairs so I guess it’s all right.”
I slipped inside and the door shut with a whoosh, the frigid air replaced with a blast of hot air. The temperature in the house had to be nearly eighty degrees. Never mind. Better eighty than twenty. “Thanks. Cold out there.”
The young girl was maybe ten, eleven with short-cropped blond hair, a baggy sweater, and blue jeans. She looked at me quizzically. “You’re a friend of Sally’s?”
“Yes, I am. I helped her find this room.” In a way.
“She’s not here.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
The kid tilted her head upward searching for the answer. “Tuesday. That was the night of my birthday party.”
Running Out of Time Page 9
