* * *
I had the coffee brewing, dining room furniture organized to accommodate the large cast, director, and stage manager, and the bar open—in case someone needed something stronger. Like Lola or me. Lola was the first to arrive, closely followed by Penny and a semi-grateful Walter. He had trouble meeting my stare, and, with a cup of coffee, busied himself with the script in a corner of the dining room.
I wondered who would take Sally’s place, if anyone.
“Hey, O’Dell, you want to fill in for her?” Penny cracked, slapping her clipboard against her pink ski pants–covered leg.
I still had no idea how she managed to infiltrate my brain.
“No thanks. Besides, assuming the show goes on, someone has to run the refreshment stand.” Assuming there would be any early American pies left after today.
“The show always goes on, haven’t you learned that yet? As soon as they clean up the blood,” she said, sliding her eyes in Walter’s direction to make sure he was otherwise engaged. “But too bad about the Creston Players,” she muttered.
I refilled my mug of coffee. “What about the Creston Players?” I asked absentmindedly as I calculated how many apple pies I’d need to thaw out to offer a snack to the probably-a-little-disgruntled cast. After all, they were giving up their Sunday too.
“Our Town? The real play?” she said. “You haven’t heard?”
“Penny, enough with the twenty questions. What are you saying?” I asked.
She hooted softly. “The Players decided to do Our Town in April. You think anybody in Etonville is going to want to see Eton Town when they can see the real thing next door?”
“Does Walter know?”
“O’Dell, you don’t ask a drowning man for a glass of water,” she said.
Huh?
“Especially one who is—”
“Tri-polar. I know. Maybe we should get this rehearsal going before word gets out.” I spotted Lola talking with Vernon by the bar and Pauli fiddling with his digital camera.
“Got it.” The sound of Penny’s whistle bounced off the walls of the Windjammer and hung in the air.
Actors held their ears, cringed, and moved to the circle of chairs. Walter rose from his corner and solemnly made his way to the seat reserved for him—between Edna, who played his wife, and Narrator Vernon.
“Let us sit quietly and meditate,” Walter said.
Romeo and several younger cast members snickered, the Banger sisters nodded and closed their eyes, probably headed for slumberland.
“What?” Vernon asked.
“Quiet!” Penny yelled.
“Turn up your hearing aids,” Mildred whispered to him.
Lola joined the cast. “Okay, everyone, let’s focus before we begin,” she said firmly, avoiding Walter’s gaze.
“Uh, like, you want a picture of this?” Pauli asked me sotto voce, snapping away.
“I think we can bypass the meditation and get a few shots of the actors running lines. Make them look good,” I said.
Pauli grinned and nodded, a hank of brown hair flopping over his forehead.
Without warning, in the silence, a low rumble worked its way to the center of the room. Eyes popped open, a few people squirmed in their seats. It was Walter. Softly chanting a mantra that sounded to me a lot like “end this show.” Penny shushed the actors and most of them swallowed their giggles, respecting Walter’s position as the theater’s former head honcho.
Lola rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Oh brother.”
By the time Walter had meditated the cast into submission, I was jitsy, ready to get the show on the road. In my back booth I nudged Pauli, who was playing a video game on his phone. “I think we’re about to get started.”
Pauli sucked on a straw jammed into his Slurpee. “Sweet.”
The actors woke up, stretched, went to the rest rooms, fidgeted in their seats, and prepared for the line-through.
“I had to browbeat people to show up for this rehearsal,” Lola said, glancing wistfully at a bottle of red wine I’d placed on the bar. “But Walter’s right, they need to brush up on their lines if we’re going to open later this week.” She paused, studying my face as if trying to decipher a code. “Do you think that’s a possibility? Because we’ve got a very narrow window with the Star Ledger reviewer.”
I couldn’t confide in Lola about my unauthorized visit to the theater and near run-in with Archibald now. It would have to wait until after the cast had thrashed the life out of Eton Town. “Let’s talk later,” I murmured.
Vernon adjusted his hearing aids and the rehearsal began. “Ladies and gentlemen, the play you are here to see this evening is about the founding of our village, Etonville, named after the American Revolutionary war hero Thomas Eton.” Vernon looked to Romeo, who smirked and gave a quick salute to the “audience.” Vernon continued, describing Etonville’s location, vis-à-vis New York City, the Jersey Shore, and the Pennsylvania border, and the shops on Main Street—the general store, the blacksmith, the hotel where the ELT now stood. He pointed out the newspaper office of the Eton Town Press, the precursor to the Etonville Standard. And the clinic where Doc—aka Walter—served the community.
I stifled a yawn. Pauli crept around the periphery of the acting circle to shoot the cast at work—Abby slumped down in her chair, Edna doodling on her script, Romeo texting, and the Banger sisters not even pretending to be alert.
Vernon paused and Lola stepped in. “Let’s pick up the pace, everyone.”
Abby and Edna started their scene, talking about the home front during the Revolutionary War, exchanging domestic tidbits and general worrying about when the fighting would end and the soldiers return home. Abby started to speak faster than normal and Edna, still feeling competitive from Arsenic and Old Lace, kept up, matching her tempo, cutting her off in the process. Abby fought back. The lines flew!
“I declare, is that Doc I see coming up the—”
“Have you seen Doc? He’s been out all night—”
“He delivered twins, did he? I can’t imagine—”
“You’re right. That family at the other end of town—”
The rest of the cast began to watch the proceedings eagerly. Finally something interesting was going on. Pauli skipped around the room, seizing the opportunity as other actors got into it. Eton Town was a racehorse heading down the home stretch. The play made less sense, but at least it was moving faster than it ever had during rehearsals in the theater.
Lola’s jaw dropped, and Walter—when he realized what was happening—jumped up. “Enough! Enough!” he shouted, striking a theatrical pose. “Penny!”
“On it!” She tooted her whistle. “Take ten.”
The actors collapsed in fits of laughter and Walter stomped off to the men’s room.
He was fast losing control of the Etonville Little Theatre. I watched Lola work the room, attempting to settle things down. I put on another urn of coffee.
“O’Dell, better make that decaf.” Penny looked over her shoulder. “They’re already on speed.”
“Guess they took Lola at her word. Keep the show moving.”
Penny snorted. “As if that would help.”
“Have you heard from Sally, being the stage manager and all?” I asked. I already knew the answer, but it didn’t hurt to confirm my suspicions.
“Nada.”
“Is Walter planning on replacing her?”
Penny tapped her clipboard. “She didn’t have many lines. Just a Townsperson.” Penny pushed her glasses a notch up her nose. “She’ll probably show up. ’Course Walter doesn’t like to reward unprofessionalism. Nobody misses curtain call and rehearsal, even if it is a line-through.” She surveyed the dining room. “Yep. Walter is losing control.”
Penny was in my head again.
A scream from one of the actors brought the ro
om to a silent standstill. A young woman pointed to a ghostly pale Walter who had sagged against the doorframe of the men’s room, clutching his chest.
Was he having a heart attack?
Edna plowed through the knot of stunned actors, both business-like and alarmed. “Call 911,” she yelled, and people whisked out phones and tapped the numbers. “Let me in. Back away. What do we have here?” she said and helped Walter to a sitting position on the floor. She looked around, mumbling to no one in particular. “Looks like a 10-43 to me. Need a doctor. Not sure about 10-45…serious or critical…” Then she shouted suddenly, “Walter, can you hear me? Are you in pain?”
“Walter…Walter? Speak to me!” Lola pleaded on her knees next to him.
Walter groaned and raised his head, grasping Lola’s hands gratefully, his lips curving in a desperate smile.
Penny directed traffic. “Move to the other side of the room,” she commanded the actors. Then turned to me. “He should have been on a watch list.”
“Penny, it looks like a heart issue. He didn’t try to off himself,” I said sternly.
“O’Dell, duh, how many times do I have to tell you? Theater people take their work seriously. Life’s more than a bowl of rotten cherries,” she said knowingly.
14
The EMS team had determined that Walter’s vital signs were excellent and that he had probably suffered a panic attack, but trundled him off to the emergency room anyway. What there had been of the creative balloon had deflated. Lola and Penny debated calling it an afternoon versus trying to finish the rehearsal, while Mildred suggested an acapella run through of “Blest Be the Tie That Binds,” and blew into her pitch pipe. The actors gathered around, more sober now after Walter’s incident—even Romeo and his onstage love interest were on their best behavior—and followed Mildred’s lead. Her soprano wobbled a bit, then headed straight into the hymn. The momentum picked up and voices slipped into the two-part harmony that had been rehearsed for weeks.
I sat at the bar quietly examining meat inventory sheets for next week, trying to get a little work done while I was captive in the Windjammer, but when the cast hit their musical stride on “…fellowship of kindred minds…,” I shifted my attention to the singers. Not bad. In fact the hymn was downright inspirational. When they sang “…share each other other’s woes…” and “…mutual burdens bear…” I was actually touched. I felt my eyes fill and glanced across the room at Lola, who brushed her hand across her face. Even Pauli had stopped taking photos in deference to the hushed mood of the song. By mutually supporting each other in the hymn, the cast of Eton Town had accomplished something on their own that Walter had been harping about for weeks: They’d formed a true ensemble with a common goal.
Apparently deciding to end things on an upbeat note, Lola dismissed the cast after a few directives about reviewing lines and watching their email and Facebook for updates on rehearsals later in the week. They wrapped up against the cold and wind and trudged out the door.
“Good rehearsal, Lola, even if we didn’t get to finish the play,” Mildred said.
“Maybe we should end it with Act One and the hymn,” Vernon added helpfully.
Mildred elbowed Vernon gently. “Sorry about Walter, though.”
Lola nodded gratefully and closed the door after them, the last of the cast to leave. Pauli, Penny, and I reset the tables and chairs, swept the floor, and cleaned up coffee spills on the bar.
“Penny, you’d better check on the Episcopal church. Maybe the furnace will be in working order in the next few days,” Lola said.
“What do we do about the Creston Players?” Penny asked.
Lola shrugged. “Nothing. Everyone will find out about their Our Town sooner or later.”
“It’s probably already on Facebook,” Penny said.
“Let’s keep it secret as long as possible.”
“Mum’s my word,” Penny promised, tying the flaps of her winter cap under her chin. “Secrets are safe with me.”
The cap reminded me of Gordon Weeks’s trapper hat.
Lola collapsed on a stool at the bar, while I poured us a couple of glasses of red wine. Pauli declined a soda, content to sit in my back booth and flip through his afternoon of work while he waited for Carol to pick him up. He’d only recently gotten his driver’s license and coping with winter streets in the dark was not on his mother’s agenda yet.
“Lot on your plate, girlfriend,” I said softly to Lola.
She took off her boots and massaged her feet. “Every show is a potential catastrophe, but this…we’ve never had to work without a theater. And now Walter.”
“He’ll be fine. At least he hasn’t resigned yet, has he?” I asked.
“No. But he’s been threatening nonstop since the body was found.”
“Speaking about the murder, I had a chat with Andy last night and—”
“Oh! That’s nice. How are they liking Boston? Talk about the cold! One winter, I travelled up there three times because—”
“Lola, wait until you hear this,” I said, dropping my voice and glancing at my back booth. Pauli was still occupied with his digital camera. “Sally is worth a fortune.”
“What? She works at a car wash.”
“And guess who’s her therapist?” I asked.
Lola stopped kneading the soles of her stockinged feet. “No! Andy?” she cried.
“Shh. Yes!” Pauli looked up and I waved. “I agreed to keep that little bit of information under wraps. Guess I’ll need to tell Bill or Archibald sooner or later.”
“Details,” Lola begged, forgetting her feet and the Eton Town disaster for the moment.
I described my phone conversation with my brother: Sally’s family history and the death of her mother, the moneyed background, her visiting Andy for therapy, and then the sudden departure.
“So he had no idea she was coming to Etonville?” Lola asked.
“Nope. She just disappeared from Boston,” I said.
“Andy thinks she’s back home?”
“I guess so. ‘Lawyering up’ in case she needs a criminal defense.”
Lola studied my expression. “But you don’t agree.”
“She texted me twice to meet her. I don’t think she’d do that if she was four or five hours away by car.”
We sipped our wine in silence. It felt much later than five o’clock.
Lola’s cell beeped. A text from Walter. She pulled on her boots. “Guess I need to pick him up from the hospital.”
“He’s okay?”
“Yes. They’re releasing him with a prescription for Xanax.” Lola’s loyalty to Walter was touching; of course, he was an ELT partner and a former romantic interest.
“At least nothing’s wrong with his heart,” I said.
“Nothing that a personality makeover won’t cure,” she said.
She caught my eye and we exchanged smiles.
Lola left and I rinsed our glasses in the bar sink. “Pauli? You still awake?”
“Huh?” he asked groggily.
I slid onto the bench of the booth next to him. “Got any useable pictures? I know it didn’t last long, but hopefully there’s something we can put in the ad and on the website.”
“Like, yeah.” Pauli started to swipe through photos of actors sitting in the circle, eyes closed meditating, speaking to one another before the rehearsal collapsed into chaos, then laughing hysterically as Abby and Edna tried to top each other in the pace department. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Eton Town was a hilarious farce. Which wasn’t such a bad thing, come to think of it…
“Send me the best ones and I’ll pick a few we can use. Also send me an invoice for your time,” I said, ruffling his hair.
He blushed and whipped the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. “Okay,” he croaked, his voice still in the process of changing. “You
know what you need?”
Many things: Sally’s location, the identity of the murderer, a savings account, a night out with Bill—
“A Facebook page and Twitter account for the Windjammer,” Pauli said. “Like, yeah, most businesses have them. You could post stuff about the restaurant and people could follow you,” Pauli said eagerly.
I admired his enthusiasm. Most of the time he was an average teenager, a nice, respectful kid, his face buried in his cell phone, probably with the same raging hormones as most boys his age. But mention anything digital and Pauli came alive, a virtual encyclopedia on how to manipulate the Internet. Digital forensics, deep searches, even email hacking.
“You know, that’s a great idea. Everybody’s on social media these days.” Even my parents got with the program to see pictures of Andy, Amanda, and Cory. Of me? Not so much. “I’ll talk it over with Henry.” The Windjammer’s website was only a year old; Henry was a technophobe.
“Yeah, because, like, even the Windjammer could use a few more friends,” he said sincerely.
So true. “Great. Let’s set one up.”
Outside Carol’s horn honked and Pauli stowed his camera in his backpack. “Gotta bounce.”
“Right. Say hi to your mom and I’ll text about a time to meet on the Facebook thing.”
He shuffled out the door and I stood alone in the middle of the dining room. Facebook…I needed to get home, commune with my laptop, and do a little online surfing.
I switched off the lights, surveyed the dining room to make sure it was shipshape and ready for the morning, and stepped outside to face the weather. I pulled the hood of my parka over my head, treading carefully on the sidewalk that ran adjacent to the restaurant. There were still patches of black ice despite Henry’s continuous salting of the cement. Black ice reminded me that Bill hadn’t called to “check in” all day. Had he been that busy with the medical examiner? My borrowed Hyundai was cranky, gasping and coughing for a few moments before coming alive. Much the way I was feeling…frustrated, tired, and not thrilled being out on this unusually cold February night.
I swung the car into my driveway, picked my way across the snowy porch, and unlocked the front door. I stared into the darkness of the interior, flipped on the overhead living room light, and shut the front door, stamping winter sludge off my boots. I shivered and popped my jacket onto a coat tree by the door. Then I switched on the table lamp. It had belonged to my great-aunt Maureen. A simple ceramic stem with a now-faded lampshade, it held sentimental value and brought a halo of warmth into the room. I needed something hot to warm up.
Running Out of Time Page 12
