Running Out of Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “He has.” I shifted in my chair to meet her eyes. “Xanax.”

  “Poor Lola. She has her hands full with him,” Carol said.

  “And the play.” Carol worked in silence for a moment. “Did you know Sally Oldfield?” I asked.

  Carol frowned. “Sally…?”

  “She was in the show. New to Etonville. Only been here since January.”

  “Sally! Sure. Chrystal had a fit because she had the wrong costume for the dress rehearsal,” Carol said.

  “She seems to have disappeared.”

  So far, except for Lola, Walter, and the Etonville Police Department, the connection between Sally and Gordon Weeks had been kept under wraps.

  “Really? Wait a minute.” Carol walked to the front desk, scanned her appointment calendar, and came back. “She had an appointment here the morning of the opening.”

  Hours before the murder?

  “She wanted to clean up her length,” Carol said, blowing and brushing my mane that was now shorter and bouncier.

  “How did she seem? Was she okay? Or, like, disturbed?”

  “Disturbed? I don’t think so. In fact she was talking about a cruise she was taking in April.”

  Something was wrong with this picture. Sally was upset seeing Gordon Weeks and another man earlier in the week and yet here she was, chatting up Carol about a vacation after the show closed.

  “Did she mention anything about having visitors from home? From Boston?”

  “Boston? Is that where she’s from? Oooh talk about cold! Weather Channel said it’s ten degrees there today.”

  “Sally?” I nudged Carol back to the subject.

  “She never mentioned anyone visiting her. Except for her father. She said he might be coming in town for the play.”

  * * *

  Carol had divulged all the information she had on Sally, so I viewed myself approvingly in the mirror, paid my bill, and coaxed the Hyundai to travel the mile or so to Coffee Heaven.

  Lola was waiting for me, her eyes widening when she saw my new ’do. “Very nice. Maybe you should pop next door and see if the invalid needs anything.”

  I giggled. “Bill’s not an invalid but maybe you’re right. I should check up on him.”

  “The regular, Dodie?” asked Jocelyn.

  “Sure. No, wait! Make that black coffee and two eggs over easy.” Out with the old, in with the new. My hair, my breakfast…

  Jocelyn shrugged and filled a coffee cup at the booth next to ours.

  “I picked up some scuttlebutt at Snippets,” I said quietly.

  “From the staff?” Lola asked.

  They’d been a great source of chitchat in the past. “From Carol.”

  “Share!”

  As we ate, I brought Lola up-to-date. “It seems odd. She has this stormy week with two different men, one of whom ends up dead, and she’s planning a cruise?”

  “But she didn’t know Gordon Weeks was going to die later that day when she was at Snippets.”

  We munched in silence.

  Jocelyn refilled our cups. “Lola, you think the show is ever going to go on?”

  “I hope so. We’re looking into alternate venues,” Lola said.

  “Because the word is, maybe you could do half of it now and the other half next month. Kind of like a series. Part one and part two,” Jocelyn said, trying to be helpful.

  “That’s an idea,” Lola said weakly.

  “That would handle the three-hour problem.” Jocelyn left our checks.

  “See what I mean about the town not coming out?” Lola was frantic.

  I patted her hand. “Don’t panic yet. Leave that to Walter. Things might work out.” I gave her an encouraging smile and took her advice. I strolled next door to the Municipal Building.

  16

  Edna was on dispatch. “Ralph, you better get a move on. There’s a 10-14 at the library. That’s right. Citizen with a suspect. They caught a kid throwing snowballs into the basement windows.” She paused. “You’re going to have to put the fear of God in him even if he is only ten years old. And don’t forget there’s an 11-26 in the parking lot at Lacy’s Market.”

  I was betting that was a vehicle issue.

  Edna lowered her voice. “Don’t let the chief know you stopped at the Donut Hole. You’re supposed to be patrolling the south end of town and he’s in a snit. Yeah. 10-4.”

  “Busy morning?”

  Edna stuffed a pencil behind one ear. “The usual. Suki’s in Creston on department business, Archibald is running some errands for the chief, and Ralph is supposed to be on duty in town.”

  “So…a snit?”

  Edna removed her headset. “He threw kind of a hissy fit this morning over some missing paperwork. I think he’s had it up to here with the broken ankle, if you know what I mean.”

  “Wow. Poor guy.”

  “Maybe you can get him to snap out of it,” she said with a grin and a wink. “Nice haircut.”

  I hated to think to what degree Etonville discussed Bill’s and my relationship on a regular basis.

  “I’ll try.” I turned away from the dispatch window.

  “Sorry about the rehearsal at the Windjammer yesterday. We got carried away,” she said awkwardly.

  “Hate to tell you, but the play didn’t make much sense,” I added.

  Edna stiffened her spine. “Abby brings out the competitor in me. We have a history.”

  I’d say. They nearly came to blows during Arsenic and Old Lace.

  “What’s the lunch special? Henry have something fun up his sleeve?” Edna asked hopefully. Her appetite was legendary in Etonville, though how she maintained her rail-thin physique was beyond the town.

  “We’re going with the Mardi Gras theme. Seafood po’boys,” I said.

  “What’s in them?”

  “Shrimp, oysters, and crabmeat—”

  A familiar clunking as Bill stepped out of his office and smashed a crutch on the doorframe. “Edna!” he yelled.

  “—on a French baguette. Gumbo for dinner.”

  “Save me some.” Edna stuck her head out of the dispatch window. “Yes, Chief?”

  Bill thumped down the hall. “Get Ralph. The library is calling my private line about that kid and the snowballs.”

  “Copy that, Chief.” She went back to work.

  Yep, it was a snit all right. “Do you have a minute?” I asked.

  Bill nodded and made his way back to his office. He waited for me to enter and settle into a chair opposite his desk before he bumped his way from the door, around the desk, and into his seat. He practically threw his crutches onto the floor. Whew. I decided to pretend I didn’t notice. The injury was wearing on him. Circles under his eyes attested to little sleep, and the spikes of his brush cut were pointed every which way. Had he been tugging on his hair?

  “Tough day?” I asked gently.

  “Everybody is out and about but me,” Bill complained, pouting like a kid forced to stay inside and do his homework.

  “You’re supposed to take it easy for a few weeks, right? Besides, you’ve got Archibald leading the murder investigation.”

  Bill looked up at me. “Have you been talking with him?”

  “No,” I said hastily. “Not since last night. I assumed…” I let the thought that Archibald was doing the legwork dangle in the ether. “Gives you more time in the office.”

  “To shuffle paperwork. And some of it is missing,” he grumbled.

  “Yes?”

  “A report from the CSI team on the evidence at the crime scene. There were three sheets and one of them is gone. I guess I misplaced it somehow. And that’s not like me.” He frowned.

  “I picked up some information on Sally Oldfield.” I wanted to be helpful but didn’t intend to share anything that would incriminate Sa
lly any further than her behavior already had. And I definitely did not plan to violate Andy’s confidence. I also knew that anything I told Bill would end up with Archibald.

  His face brightened. “Yeah? Nothing’s come in from the APBs we put out in Creston and Bernridge.”

  “You know about her background? The Boston Brahmin thing?”

  “I heard.” He whistled softly. “An inheritance worth millions after her mother died.”

  “Odd that she was living in a rooming house and working at a car wash. Of course, she told me she wanted a change in her life,” I said.

  “Archibald has made inquiries at both locations. Nothing much to go on.”

  “Sally and I are Facebook friends. I checked her timeline.”

  Bill sat forward. I had his interest now. “Oh?”

  “She mostly posted pictures of ELT rehearsals on her personal page, which she created in January when she moved to Etonville. And a quote on loneliness posted the day before the murder.”

  “Poor little rich girl?” he asked.

  “Maybe. But I never got the feeling Sally was a loner. I mean, she meshed with the ELT, fit right in,” I said.

  Bill laughed. “Not sure that was such a good thing.”

  I laughed too. It was nice feeling comfortable around each other.

  “I also heard at Snippets…”

  Bill groaned.

  “Still a great source of information,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Carol said Sally said she was planning on taking a cruise after the show closed. That doesn’t sound like someone in a crisis,” I said.

  “Who said she was in a crisis?” Bill asked.

  Uh-oh. Was I helping or hurting her case?

  “I mean, that sounds pretty chill for someone…who might be…involved in a murder…” I finished lamely.

  Bill studied my face, those magnetic eyes searing right through me. “Is there something you’re keeping to yourself?”

  “What makes you think that?” I asked.

  “History. One of these days, you’re going to learn you can trust me.”

  Ditto.

  “Anything new on Gordon Weeks?” I wanted to change the subject.

  “Nothing. What he was doing in the Etonville Little Theatre is beyond me and Archibald.” He paused and looked me in the eye. “What about you?”

  “Me? I have no idea what he was doing there.”

  Edna’s voice shot out of his intercom. “Chief, Ralph’s on the line. He responded to the 10-14 and wants to know what to do with the suspect?”

  “The ten-year-old? Take him home and turn him over to his parents. He’s truant anyway. It’s a school day,” Bill said.

  “Copy that.”

  I was thinking fast. I had an appointment with Sally at seven in Bernridge. Depending on how that went, it could last five minutes or an hour. I had no idea what would happen after our meet-up. But either way, I would probably be back in Etonville by nine. “How about that nightcap you owe me? I’ll be off work by nine tonight. I could swing by and give you a lift home?”

  Bill smiled slowly. “Maybe I’ll take Archibald up on his offer to man the office this evening.” He nodded. “Sure, why not?”

  I checked his wall clock. I had to scoot. “It’s a date.”

  I needed the hustle and bustle of the Windjammer to keep my mind off tonight—both the meeting with Sally and the prospect of a late-night rendezvous with Bill. I was wound-up about both events.

  The Mardi Gras theme lent a carnival atmosphere to the restaurant. Enrico had hauled in a carton of beads that I’d ordered from a party store in New York and now Carmen and Gillian were distributing the green, purple, and gold strings, as well as lunch, to customers.

  “So pretty, don’t you know,” said one of the Banger sisters.

  “It matches my ensemble,” said the other, who wore a purple sweater over a green blouse.

  “It sure does,” I agreed. “More coffee?”

  They both nodded. The po’ boys were a hit.

  “Dodie, the sandwiches are delicious, but what does pobboy mean?”

  “It’s not pobboy, it’s po’ boy. Like ‘poor boy,’” I said.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. What happened to him?” one asked.

  “Nothing. It wasn’t a real boy,” I said slowly.

  The sisters squinted at me as if I were responsible for the fate of the child.

  “The name came from a New Orleans sandwich that was invented during the Depression and given out to striking workers who were considered ‘poor boys’ so…” I looked from one to the other and gave up. “The boy ate the sandwich and lived to a ripe old age.”

  “Oh, that’s such a nice story. We’re so happy for him.” They clapped their hands in appreciation.

  Geez. “You ladies have a good day.” I rang up their bill at the cash register.

  “Those two are a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic,” Benny said.

  “Tell me about it. Sure you’re okay closing tonight?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah. Got a hot date?” he teased.

  “I think I’ll probably spend a nice, quiet evening at home.” No sense in stirring up anybody’s imagination.

  In the kitchen, Henry was stirring up a pot of gumbo, his arms moving rhythmically in a full circle. He was in a particularly good mood: True to Lola’s word, she’d bought a full-page ad in the Etonville Standard promoting the Windjammer’s community spirit. It would be published tomorrow. The editor called to get a quote from Henry and he laid it on thick, how he was thrilled to help the theater in its time of need, that businesses in town had to think about more than their own success—a dig at La Famiglia—when disasters hit. The newspaper claimed they had to bump a story on the mayor’s plans to change the street-cleaning schedule. Not that they weren’t happy to have the ad revenue. Given the finances at the theater, I had the feeling that some of the revenue came out of Lola’s pocket. I couldn’t wait to see the ad.

  I spent part of the afternoon doing general inventory for the week—vegetables, fruit, and seafood. And then I counted the frozen apple pies for the concession stand. There had been two dozen, but what with the giveaway the night of the murder and yesterday’s rehearsal, we were down to six. Of course, if the show never opened, intermission desserts were a moot point. I made a mental note to mention this to Lola; theme food seemed a little less critical at this moment.

  17

  I shouldn’t have been surprised at the address Sally gave me for our meeting: the diner across the street from the E-Z Clean Car Wash in Bernridge. Pretty smart of Sally. If anyone was looking for her, they would have already scoped out her place of employment and moved on to other territory. I was learning new things about Sally Oldfield every day.

  I drove through the working-class neighborhood until I saw the neon sign ahead that advertised the now-closed car wash. I slowed down and pulled next to the curb at a spot where I could see into the Primrose Diner. Interior lights were bright, illuminating the entire front section of the restaurant. Booths lined the wall that faced the street and I could see heads, arms, occasionally a body as someone leaned forward on the bench. But no sign of anyone who resembled Sally.

  I locked my Hyundai—who would want to snatch it, but still—and walked briskly across the street, easing my parka up around my ears. I pushed open the glass doors, and from the waiting area, scanned rooms on either side of me. No Sally. I checked my watch: 7:05.

  “How many?” asked the waiter, a Mediterranean type with a bushy mustache and a full head of slick black hair.

  “Two. I’m supposed to meet someone here. Mind if I take a look around?” I asked.

  He shrugged, returned menus to a holder by the cashier, and resumed watching a reality talent show on the television. I stepped to the edge of the room on my l
eft. Six tables of family groups—adults and children discussing the menus, spilling water, and sharing plates of food. In the recesses of the booths I could see a couple arguing quietly but vehemently and an elderly twosome, silent, staring at the remains of their dinners. I turned around and headed to the other dining area. Less crowded, there were singles having dinner alone at the counter and a scattering of twos and threes at the tables. Everyone was engrossed in eating, minding their own business, reading the newspaper, generally unwinding at the end of the day.

  Was this the bodega all over again? Annoyance was rearing its tired head. My shoulders slumped and I shifted my focus back to the entrance. No latecomers walking into the diner. I checked my cell; no texts apologizing for being late. That’s it, I was done playing “meet-up” games with Sally. I’d head back to Etonville and kill an hour until I picked up Bill. Maybe I had time to stop home and change…something a little sexier, a little less Nanook-of-the-North.

  “Dodie,” a soft voice said at my back.

  I whirled around. It was Sally. I blinked and stared: a knit cap pulled low over her forehead, a black, scruffy coat, and work boots. She looked girlish, homeless, and frightened. “Sally!”

  Her eyes darted around the diner. “We can’t talk here. Come on.”

  I tailed her out the door and down the street. She cut through an alley and ended up on a block that looked deserted. No lights in the houses and hulking shadows of trucks and autos in driveways.

  “Where are we going?” I called out.

  No answer from Sally, who shot down a sidewalk. I ran faster than she was speed-walking and stepped in front of her, putting out an arm to halt her progress. “Sally! Stop! What are we doing here?”

  She was breathing raggedly and pointed to a car ten yards away. It was a nondescript, fairly new Chevy. She’d obviously ditched her sporty Jeep Cherokee. Sally climbed into the front seat, but not before she scanned the street—it was deathly still. We sat in silence for a moment as she cranked the engine to generate some heat.

  “Talk to me,” I said quietly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you at the bodega.”