“So she is one of your patients?”
He hesitated. “Professional ethics prevent me from giving you specifics, but yes, I was seeing her for a month or so. Until she stopped coming several weeks ago.”
“Probably about the time she showed up in Etonville,” I said.
“Did she tell you about herself? That she’s a member of one of Boston’s old money families? She didn’t need to be working at a car wash. She’s worth millions.”
“You’re kidding! Sally never let on. She told me she came to Etonville because she was looking to get a fresh start,” I said.
Andy paused. “I’m not telling you anything that wasn’t in the Boston Globe or local scandal sheets, but her mother passed six months ago. Sara had a tough time with her death. They were very close.”
“Did she have other family? She said I was lucky to have a brother.”
“No siblings. I got the impression she and her father didn’t get on very well. Look, Dodie, I don’t know what’s going on with Sara, but this murder thing…steer clear of it. Anyway, she’s probably back in Boston by now getting lawyered up. That would be the smart thing to do, and Sara, though she can appear a little helpless, is brilliant. She dropped out of MIT last semester. She was a physics major.”
We said our good-byes, me promising to let him know if and when I heard anything else about Sally. He promising to call our parents this weekend since they bugged me when they hadn’t heard from him.
I sat in my back booth with a cup of coffee fortified by a shot of Jim Beam. So Sally-aka-Sara Oldfield was a Boston Brahmin with a penchant for playing fast and loose with the truth. There was definitely more to her story than she was letting on. And I had better be prepared when we meet. I downed the end of my drink.
I turned out the lights and locked up, pausing at the entrance of the Windjammer to study the sky: inky black with pinpoints of light. I felt warm inside from the Irish coffee and warm outside from my winter wear. Henry had distributed fistfuls of rock salt on the pavement adjacent to the restaurant before he’d left, but there was still a film of ice that made movement treacherous. My cell rang from the confines of my bag and, with gloves on, I rummaged around clumsily to retrieve my phone. I checked the caller ID and tapped the green button.
“Hi,” I said as sexily as I could, considering that my face was starting to freeze. It wasn’t that late and maybe we could rendezvous at Bill’s place…a crackling fire, another hot toddy, the roads so bad I had to spend the night—
“Why didn’t you tell me someone burglarized your car?” Bill demanded.
Or not.
“Guess you were talking to Archibald.”
“We’re sharing an office! Of course, I talked with Archibald. He told me your window was broken. Was anything stolen? Why didn’t you come down and fill out a report? Where are you?” He sounded put out and exhausted.
“Slow down. Chill. Nothing was taken. At least not that I could tell. My cash and credit cards were still in my wallet. I’m not sure what they were after. Maybe they wanted to hot wire my Metro. Good luck with that.”
“Dodie! We’ve got a murderer on the loose. You need to be careful.”
I stamped my feet to keep the circulation going. “Speaking of which…?”
“It’s been a long night on the telephone and in front of the computer. Nothing new on Gordon Weeks. Sally Oldfield still unaccounted for. Archibald is pursuing some angles with a detective friend in Boston.”
Uh-oh. I needed to find her. It was only a matter of days, maybe hours, before Archibald discovered Sally’s connection to Gordon Weeks. Whatever it was.
“So I guess you aren’t in the mood for a little company tonight?” I asked. “I’m just leaving the Windjammer.” The cold was beginning to penetrate my winter weather clothing.
“I have about another hour of work and then I need to get some sleep. I have an early meeting with the medical examiner tomorrow morning,” he said, weary.
“On a Sunday?” I asked.
“Crime never sleeps.”
“You need a ride?” I offered.
“Thanks but Archie is dropping me off on his way home later.”
I wondered if he’d heard that his private investigator buddy had rented a room in Etonville. “Take it easy tonight. Stay off the black ice and your broken ankle.”
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” Bill said and clicked off.
Check in! Check in? That sounded like I was running a hotel or an airline. Not very personal. I wasn’t cold any more. Irritation tended to warm one up significantly. Warming up reminded me that I’d still not rescued my favorite fleece pullover from the women’s dressing room backstage. Strictly speaking, the theater was off-limits as per Bill’s directive. But feeling rebuffed by him and discouraged in my efforts to connect with Sally left me flirting with defiance. I still had a master key to the front door. I could slip in, grab my clothes, and slip out. A five-minute job. No one would be the wiser.
I shuffled across the surface of the slick sidewalk and paused outside the ELT. I wasn’t thrilled to be visiting the place, given recent events, and seeing the scene of the crime would be unsettling. But I ignored any misgivings and entered the theater, careful to lock the door behind me. I scrambled across the lobby, flicking on my cell flashlight. The house was pitch black except for the illuminated Exit lights, and I picked my way down a side aisle to the stage. I waved my flashlight back and forth, the onstage tumble of furniture forming a kind of skyline: chairs, tables, and a ten-foot ladder all cast eerie shadows. I climbed the set of stairs leading to the stage and stepped over the yellow crime scene tape.
I should have given this area a wide berth; Gordon Weeks died here. I stared at the dark circle of dried blood where his body had lain. I crouched down and scrutinized the stage floor. The CSI unit had gone over everything with a fine-tooth comb. Did they miss any miniscule piece of evidence? As I stood up, the back of my neck tingled—my little hairs were at it again. I was creeped out and hurried through the green room to the dressing room. I pushed open the door, spied my fleece pullover and stretchy slacks. I grabbed them, closed the dressing room door, and, guided by my flashlight, fairly sprinted through the green room.
With my hand on the door to the stage, I stopped. A sliver of light was visible at the bottom edge of the doorframe. Someone was onstage and if I could see remnants of their light, they could also see mine. I clicked off my flashlight, slipped behind a sofa that usually accommodated lounging actors waiting for Penny to blast her whistle and call them to work. The footsteps outside pounded against the wooden floor of the stage…snow boots? Work boots? Clomp, clomp, clomp, then silence. A pause of five seconds. Then clomp, clomp, clomp again, growing louder. He or she was moving around the stage, back and forth, away from the spot where Gordon Weeks was murdered?
The pacing ended and the light at the periphery of the door disappeared. I screwed up my courage and tiptoed to the center of the green room. I stopped. The silence was weighty, dense. I hugged my clothes to my chest and eased the door open. Whoever had been examining the stage was gone. I scrunched down by the main drape and waited five minutes to give whomever time to exit. And then I lit out of there, bumping my way from the stage to the house to the lobby, forgoing my flashlight for fear of detection.
I stepped outside the theater into a freezing puddle of slush at the border of the ELT welcome mat. Main Street was empty. Adjacent to the mat was a strip of virgin snow, untouched by salt or shovel. In the arc of light thrown by an exterior lamp on the façade of the theater I could make out a partial, pointy print of a boot or shoe. A cowboy boot? There was only one person I knew in Etonville who traipsed around in cowboy boots. Why was he sneaking around the theater after hours? He had every right to be there. Something tickled the recesses of my mind and the thought surfaced: Did Archibald have another agenda other than aiding Bill in solving the mu
rder of Gordon Weeks?
13
I awoke to the sound of pelting sleet rattling my bedroom window. I shivered involuntarily and buried my face in my down comforter. Sunday! The Windjammer was closed. No need to rise this early, I told myself and closed my eyes firmly. After twenty minutes, the last bits of sleep eased away, and I found myself staring at a crack in the ceiling which I’d been reminding my landlord needed repairing for months. I surrendered to the day and threw on my terry cloth robe and Giants slippers.
It was going to be a dreary, gray day, I decided, after sticking my hand out the front door for my Sunday New York Times and scanning the sky. In another lifetime, I’d thought of persuading Bill to join me at Etonville’s town park for a bout of sledding today. That was last weekend…before the broken ankle, before the murder, before the cancellation of Eton Town. I fixed a cup of coffee and toast, and hunkered down at my kitchen table.
I skimmed the front page of the paper, reading about the Greek economic crisis and a regional story about two New Jersey teens stopped by local police because they were shoveling snow without a permit. Reminded me that my driveway required some attention. I saw a recipe in the Living pages for spur-of-the-moment risotto. Basically an upscale mac and cheese with rice, butternut squash, onion, saffron, three cheeses, and bread crumbs. Even at nine in the morning, it sounded delicious. Maybe Henry would be interested. I was tearing out the recipe, ready to tackle the Arts and Leisure section, when my eye caught the Society page. Announcements of engagements and weddings filled several columns. Glancing at them forced me to evaluate my own matrimonial status. Never mind matrimony; someone to curl up with on a winter night instead of a book would be sufficient. Could Bill be that someone? I looked down at the paper again. A young couple was getting married on Long Island. He was from Manhattan, she was from Boston…blah blah blah. Boston!
I put the Times aside and powered up my laptop. I started with Sally’s given name and typed in Sara Oldfield Boston. Up popped a series of links: the recent death of her mother, Olivia Holmes Oldfield; the family history, dating from the Mayflower; and one article on the wealth produced by generations of Holmes via shipping, banking, and shrewd investing. Lots of Harvard alums. Old money indeed on Sally’s mother’s side. No wonder Andy was surprised she had part-time employment at a car wash. Exactly what was Sally doing in Etonville? Who did she know besides myself and the ELT bunch? What did she do with her time away from rehearsal and the car wash?
I sat back and stared at my computer screen. Sally had not yet returned my text about a possible second meeting, and Archibald Alvarez was hot on Sally’s trail and her connection to Gordon Weeks. What did I know about Weeks? Sally’s conversation on the porch of the rooming house with a man the day Gordon Weeks died; Sally freaking out when she spotted Weeks, dressed in the hunting cap and coat, on the street earlier in the week; Gordon Weeks found dead—hunting knife protruding from his chest—on opening night. A hefty, scruffy, outdoorsman. Polar opposite of the petite, quiet, fragile-appearing Sally, especially now that I knew her Boston upper-class pedigree. I typed Gordon Weeks into the search engine and watched as links appeared: there was a banker in Texas, a software engineer in Silicon Valley, and a magazine editor in New York.
I felt drowsy. I needed either another jolt of caffeine or fresh air. Despite the overcast sky and frigid temperature, I slipped into my down jacket and pulled on my waterproof boots. The sleet had stopped, leaving a sloppy residue on the ground. No matter, my body was aching for physical exercise, and since fooling around in the snow was off the table, a brisk stroll was the next best thing. I tucked my hair into a knit hat and locked my door.
I moved down Ames, waving at my neighbor across the street who was shoveling his driveway, and tramped onto Fairfield. Within five minutes I’d worked up some heat and was actually warm, my leg muscles enjoying the bounce in my stride. I allowed my mind to wander, reviewing everything I’d learned from my brother, Andy, and my Internet digging in the last twenty-four hours.
Twenty minutes later I turned onto Main Street, my mind still occupied, my body headed straight to Coffee Heaven. I pushed open the door to the tinkling of the welcome bells and was hit with a wave of hot air—some from the heater, some from the animated conversations drifting out of the booths. It was Sunday brunch in Etonville.
I sidled up to the counter. Since I’d already eaten breakfast, I was thinking a light snack.
“Hi, Jocelyn,” I said as I slid onto a stool.
“Hey there, Dodie. The regular?”
“Sure and throw in a—”
“Hot cinnamon bun. Got it.” She scribbled on a pad, then stuck her pencil in the pile of hair on top of her head. “Anything new on the murder of that homeless man?”
There was no use explaining that Gordon Weeks was not a homeless man.
“Because I heard at Snippets that he might have been a friend of one of the actors,” she said knowingly.
“Whose friend?” I asked.
“Abby.”
Abby had had a checkered career at the ELT lately. A disappointed Lady-in-Waiting in Romeo and Juliet, but one of the murderous Brewster sisters in Arsenic and Old Lace, and now a village matriarch in Eton Town. Things were looking up for her. She could replace Lola as the next ELT prima donna. Though she’d be a pudgy, moody one.
“Why would anyone think that? Has Abby said something?”
Jocelyn set a caramel macchiato and warm roll in front of me. “Well…word is, the man was seen with her at the Valley View Shooting Range.” Which Abby managed.
“Are they sure?” I asked. “I mean—”
“Eye witness. Abby was flirting with a big, burly guy in a one of those hunting jackets.”
“That could also describe Jim. Her husband,” I reminded Jocelyn. Jim was a patient, genial, bear of a man, usually with a smile on his face. And it was challenging to envision Abby—with the perpetual scowl—flirting with anyone.
“You know what they say,” Jocelyn said.
I couldn’t imagine. “What?”
Jocelyn leaned in. “Love may be blind, but jealousy has twenty-twenty vision.”
“So people think Abby’s Jim murdered Gord—uh, the stranger, because Abby was flirting with someone who was dressed like him at the shooting range?”
“Love makes strange bedfellas! Gotta run.” Jocelyn waltzed away to pour coffee for another customer.
I sipped my drink and nibbled on my roll. Crazy rarely took a day off in this town. I knew, by now, that it took practically nothing to stir up the gossip machine—one spontaneous comment, a feverish fancy, and Snippets was off to the races. But this one was a stretch even for the Etonville rumor mill. Still, as nutty as this latest theory was, it appeared to make as much sense as Sally killing Gordon Weeks.
My cell phone binged. It was Lola: Call me. I finished my bun, left money for the check, climbed back into my jacket, scarf, and gloves, and headed outside. “Hi, Lola. What’s up?”
“Hi, Dodie. Well…Walter thought we should have some kind of rehearsal because the actors get disassociated from the play if they are away from it for too long so I scheduled a line-through, you know, we could sit and have everyone in a circle doing lines to whomever they share a scene with, and thought the basement of the Episcopal church would be ideal because it has plenty of room and folding chairs and no one is using it this afternoon once the Sunday service is over but then the minister called me—”
“Lola!”
She gulped, then picked up more slowly. “The furnace broke. There’s no heat in the church.”
“Oh no. That’s too bad. Do you have a plan B?”
She paused. “I was wondering…well, since the Windjammer is closed today…I know this is a lot to ask, but the restaurant has heat, right?”
I closed my eyes, envisioning Henry’s face as I approached him about the Etonville Little Theatre holding a
n afternoon rehearsal in the restaurant. He’d barely gotten over my Sunday baking classes for the colonial intermission desserts.
“I’ll call Henry.”
“Thank you,” Lola said appreciatively.
“But I might need a favor.”
“Anything!”
I knew I could manipulate Henry, grousing nonstop, into permitting the rehearsal, but it would be soooo much better if he was enthusiastic about the venture. I tapped Pauli’s number. After two rings he picked up.
“Hey.”
“Hey, Pauli. What’s up today?” I asked.
He cleared his throat and did a verbal shrug. “Zip.”
“No digital forensics homework?” I asked.
“Done.” He lowered his voice. “You got a job for me? We’re studying these search engines and tracking devices in my digital forensics class. Like really awesome stuff.”
“No, Pauli, nothing like that,” I said hastily. “But I was wondering if you’d like to take some photos this afternoon at the Windjammer. Something we can put on the website and maybe use for promotion.”
“Awesome. What time?”
I told both Lola and Pauli I’d get back to them, hurried home, and jumped in my loaner car. Within the hour I had turned up the heat in the Windjammer and phoned Henry. Predictably, I’d gotten him in a less than cheerful mood—his mother-in-law was in town from Delaware and Henry’s wife had forced him to go to the Museum of Modern Art in the city this afternoon. When all he really wanted to do was chill on the sofa and surf ESPN for some sporting event. I plunged into the ELT’s predicament and, before he could cut me off, I dangled a hook with tempting bait. I’d gotten Lola to agree to take a full-page ad in the Etonville Standard, touting the community spirit of the Windjammer in providing the restaurant for the rehearsal. With pictures of the restaurant and the cast in action. I assured him this was something La Famiglia would never do.
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