Running Out of Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  I swallowed a mouthful of wine to cover my worry. If Archibald found Sally, then it was my fault. “Uh, excuse me. Need to use the powder room.”

  “Sure. I’ll freshen up our glasses,” he said.

  “Great.” I sent Bill a bogus grin and dashed to the bathroom. I had to warn Sally. Whatever her reason for concealing herself in Bernridge, it had to be her decision to meet with Bill. Not mine. And definitely not Archibald’s. I snatched my cell from the depths of my bag and tapped on her number: Detective has found you. Could be watching u now. He’s smart. Text me later.

  I peeked in the mirror. My cheek was still red and my upper lip looked raggedy—partly from scraping the ground when I took a header on the ice and partly from smudged lipstick. Which reminded me that Bill was still waiting on the couch. I smoothed my blouse and repaired my lips.

  He was texting when I returned, tossing his cell on an end table when he caught sight of me. He touched his face. “Looks painful.”

  I smiled weakly.

  “Would you like some coffee and dessert?”

  I was sobering up quickly and felt frazzled. It was going to be impossible to focus on Bill’s chiseled face and blue eyes, as well as other parts of his anatomy, while I was simultaneously irritated with Archibald and stewing about Sally. “Fine.”

  Bill laid out cream and sugar, even though he knew I didn’t use either—and neither did he. No doubt about it: He was as distracted as I was. Our minds separately on Sally Oldfield and Gordon Weeks. Garth Brooks had replaced Norah Jones, the mood had shifted substantially.

  “Great dinner,” I said.

  “Thanks.” He sipped coffee. “Hope the ELT gets rehearsals straightened out.”

  “Me too.”

  “Getting the Metro back soon?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Enough of the small talk. I needed to get home and think through my next steps. Bill must have felt the same.

  “Early day for me too,” he said.

  We stood at the center island awkwardly. “Okay, well, I should be going,” I said.

  He kissed me sweetly on the good cheek. “I’d suggest turning the other one but under the circumstances…”

  “Right.” He followed me to the foyer where I got into my coat and wrapped my scarf around my neck. “Let me know when Sally is picked up?”

  “Will do. I’ve got to get back to Archibald.”

  I nodded and proceeded out into the piercingly cold night, my thoughts as scattered as the patches of snow on Bill’s driveway.

  18

  It was midnight when I crept up Fairfield and turned onto Ames. Though it was chilly in the Hyundai once I shut off the engine, I remained seated behind the wheel. I needed to drill down on Sally’s background, her relationship with Gordon Weeks, and the identity of the “sugar daddy.” I hadn’t heard back from her yet.

  I took the plunge and opened the car door, picking my way gingerly across icy areas of the front walk, wary of unwanted visitors creeping around my yard. I unlocked and relocked the door, undressed, and climbed into bed, my laptop by my side. I’d had a notion to go back to Sally’s Facebook page and google Gordon Weeks again. Maybe there were things I’d missed.

  I was asleep in minutes.

  * * *

  The wind whistled around the eaves of the roof while bright, buttery sunshine blasted through the window panes. It was almost seven a.m. I’d only slept a few hours, but I was wide awake. Must have been that dream about traipsing through a jungle chased by a team of doctors in white coats trying to get me to stop and be examined. I tentatively patted my lip—still sore, but with good memories from last night—and my cheek, crusty where the skin had been rubbed raw. My plan had been to pick up the Metro as soon as Timothy’s Timely Service opened at eight thirty, swing by Lola’s to see if she wanted to get a bite of breakfast, and mull over yesterday’s events. But sleep was impossible and I was too early for Timothy’s. I could do some Internet sleuthing, or…

  I hopped out of bed, determined to face my face, jump in the shower, and be out of the house by seven thirty. The bruise on my cheek had transitioned to a light shade of blue. Some makeup would help, but the scratch would be visible. My mouth was in better shape; lip gloss would cover up the cut and the swelling had gone down. I luxuriated in the hot steamy water for a full five minutes, washing off the soreness from last night’s encounter with the black ice. I dressed quickly, leaving coffee until later. There would be plenty of time to caffeinate myself after I’d collected my Metro. But at the moment I was a woman on a mission.

  The Hyundai gave me no trouble, no doubt ready to rejoin Timothy Jr.’s assemblage of used cars waiting to be trotted out for desperate customers. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find, but my “good nose for detection,” as Bill had referred to it last spring, was leading me back to 417 Belvidere Street. I drove past the house where Sally had rented a room. I spotted Archibald’s black Ford adjacent to a snow pile, along with several other cars stashed at odd angles against the curb. Good. I hadn’t been certain he’d be at the rooming house this morning. But what was I going to do if I saw him come out and jump in his car? Follow him? To where? I had no answers, I just knew my stubborn intuition wanted to know what he was up to.

  I pulled into the Etonville Public Library parking lot, across the road and several houses away from 417 Belvidere, and came to a stop in a corner of the lot, tucked between a sizeable embankment of snow on one side and a dumpster on the other. But still within viewing distance of the house. At this hour the neighborhood was noiseless, the only traffic besides my Hyundai being a fruit-and-vegetable delivery truck probably rumbling by on its way to the Shop N Go. Which reminded me I needed to call Cheney Brothers about missing items on yesterday’s order. I clicked off the motor, leaned back in my seat, my vision clearing the dashboard, and waited.

  Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. The door to 417 opened and I snapped to attention. The house was waking up. A woman walked out of the rooming house with Angela. They got into a car and backed out of the driveway. A few minutes later a man exited the front door and walked down the street past the library. Nothing there. Even with my microfleece gloves my fingers were becoming chilled. Maybe this was a silly waste of time. Maybe Archibald slept in, after a night of surveillance. Had he found Sally and brought her to the station? It was eight fifteen; I could text Lola, drop off the Hyundai—

  The door opened again. It was Archibald. Leather collar up around his ears, hands jammed in his pockets, he hurried down the porch steps to his Ford. Instinctively, I scooted down in my seat; but I needn’t have bothered. Archibald was also a person on a mission. He looked neither right nor left but climbed into his car, started the engine, and maneuvered off the pile of frozen snow and drove down Belvidere. I waited a couple of seconds, then eased out of my parking space, and headed in the same direction. A school bus moved in front of me and I hit the brakes. Irritated, I craned my neck to see around the bus, but there was no point. I had lost Archibald. Or so I thought. The bus trundled on, making a right on Anderson, revealing Archibald’s car ahead, his blinker indicating he was turning left. He was heading toward Route 53…to Bernridge? He picked up speed and entered the highway. Off to my right I could see Timothy’s service station with Timothy unlocking the door. I pressed the accelerator and moved into a line of traffic on Route 53. Bernridge was only a couple of exits up the road. I passed an SUV and a pickup truck and slid into a spot two car lengths behind Archibald’s Ford. We were a quarter of a mile from the Bernridge turnoff. I waited for Archibald to move to the right lane to exit. But he passed the exit and drove on. Fully committed by now, I kept pace and stayed with him for another two miles. Past the U-turn to Route 3 and New York City. Where was he going?

  Archibald suddenly decreased his speed and moved to the slow lane, exiting at a roadside diner. I slowed up, allowing several cars to pass me before I pu
lled onto the shoulder of the road, flicking on my emergency blinkers. I waited. Archibald’s Ford moved into a parking space next to a dark-colored sedan. A man alighted and met Archibald, who had jumped out of his car. Though I could only see his profile, there was something about the man that felt familiar. I snapped a picture on my cell phone. The two shook hands and went inside.

  Unless I intended to wait here until they’d finished their breakfast, the only sensible course of action was to return to Etonville. I took the next exit, did a U-turn and drove home. Was he on Etonville police business…or something else?

  * * *

  I’d picked up my Metro, new window working perfectly, left the Hyundai to the care of Timothy Jr., after warning him about the car’s obstinacy, and texted Lola to meet me at Coffee Heaven. We sat in a booth waiting for Jocelyn to take our orders.

  “So the good news is you found Sally,” Lola said. “But sorry about your face.”

  “Thanks. At least she actually showed up. But the bad news is she won’t talk. She says she’s innocent, doesn’t deny she knows Gordon Weeks, but definitely won’t go to the Etonville police station.” I didn’t mention the fact that Archibald also knew she was in Bernridge or my surveillance of him this morning. I needed to keep that information secret until I knew what he was up to. Because I felt certain he was up to something.

  “You gals ready to order?” Jocelyn asked, then stopped and stared. “Whew, Dodie, what’d you run into?”

  “A patch of ice. It was dark and I was hurrying and didn’t notice. Did an ass-over-teakettle as my great-aunt Maureen used to say.”

  Jocelyn tittered. “You gotta start staying home at night where it’s safe.”

  Right. And worry about a voyeur.

  Lola requested her standard scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast. My resolve to change my eating habits went by the wayside. “The usual for me,” I said.

  Jocelyn looked up from her pad. “Back to the cinnamon bun?”

  “With extra icing.”

  “You got it. Hey, nice ad in the Standard. Those are some funny pictures!” She hooted and moved off.

  Something about her laugh was unsettling.

  “Does Sally’s family know she’s in New Jersey?” Lola asked.

  I shrugged. “According to Bill, the department contacted them, and Archibald’s doing a little digging around.”

  “I’d like to know his backstory,” Lola said dreamily. “Now he’s what I call a stone-cold fox.”

  “I guess,” I said skeptically. “If you go for that type.” I hadn’t shared his modeling days with anyone.

  “You mean the tall, dark, mysterious type?” Lola asked all atwitter.

  “You’ve given up on Walter for good? No more romance?” I asked.

  “Ugh. I’m not sure what I ever saw in him,” she said dismissively.

  “He’s attractive. You had the theater in common…you worked together,” I said.

  “When Eton Town is over, the board needs to rethink the staffing of the Etonville Little Theatre,” Lola said a tad haughtily, her inner diva rearing its royal head.

  “You mean as in replacing Walter? Talk about something that will make him tri-polar. Any decisions about the opening?”

  Lola shook her head. “I’ve made calls to a few possible venues but nothing definite. Time is running out. The reviewer leaves for his vacation soon.”

  “If I could only convince Sally to come in, maybe she could offer something that would explain Gordon Weeks and his being in the theater, and maybe it would be enough to convince Bill to allow the show to open.” I knew my logic might be flawed.

  “Whatever you can do, Dodie,” Lola said desperately.

  Jocelyn dropped off our food and placed a copy of the Etonville Standard on the table. “In case you haven’t seen it.”

  I usually read Benny’s copy at the Windjammer, but I needed to see the ad. I took a bite of my cinnamon bun and skipped the front page. I went straight to the advertisements in the back of the paper. There it was. Page 15. The ad. OMG. It’s not that the full-page public acknowledgment of the Windjammer wasn’t complimentary. A picture of the restaurant and a caption below it announced that community spirit was alive and well. But under the caption was a quote from Henry that must have gotten garbled in the transition from his mouth to the copy editor. “WELCOME TO THE FUNHOUSE!” it read.

  Scattered around the quote were the pictures Pauli had taken. Actors goofing around, laughing and making faces, Walter waving his arms at the cast to quiet them down, Penny tapping her clipboard, Lola with her head in her hands, and finally, Edna and Abby face-to-face, mouths open, apparently talking simultaneously. Making the ELT look like a cartoon.

  How did they end up with these? Now I remembered…Pauli was supposed to send me the best pictures and I was going to pick a few, but I’d gotten waylaid that night by a Peeping Tom and Sally’s Facebook account. I’d told Pauli to go ahead and choose what he thought would work. I groaned. And to add insult to injury, La Famiglia had taken out a half-page ad opposite the Windjammer ad touting its winter specials in a sophisticated and serene layout. Henry would not be pleased.

  I shoved the paper across the table and watched Lola’s optimistic expression evolve into the-second-shoe-had-fallen.

  “You know what they say…any publicity is good publicity.”

  “Whoever said that didn’t live in Etonville.” Red blotches formed on Lola’s cheeks.

  “I should have been more specific with Pauli,” I said.

  “The ELT looks like a bunch of clowns. Who is going to take this play seriously?” she wailed and pushed her breakfast away.

  “It’s not that bad.” It was and worse. “I’d better get to the Windjammer and soothe Henry’s no-doubt ruffled feathers.”

  We paid the check and left the uneaten remains of our food on the table. I gazed at my half-eaten bun wistfully.

  * * *

  Henry moped his way through lunch. Not even glowing reviews for his tomato cheddar soup and lobster rolls could cheer him up. I’d wanted to experiment with kale chips, but his constitution couldn’t handle anything outside the box today.

  “What I said was…welcome to the Windjammer, the ELT’s home away from home.” Henry slapped the newspaper and continued chopping the tomato and onion salad for the dinner special.

  It was a good thing he didn’t venture into the dining room as he sometimes did during lunch. The ad was a source of great amusement for Etonville. The spectacle of actors horsing around, with Walter and Lola in despair, generated giggles throughout the noon hour.

  “…that play must be a farce…”

  Well, almost.

  “No wonder Walter had a heart attack!”

  The rumor mill.

  “…Henry said that? Oh my…”

  Geez.

  It would take a while before the ELT and the Windjammer lived this one down.

  “Dodie, we like our photo in the Standard,” said one of the Banger sisters.

  “You do?” I took a twenty-dollar bill from them. As I recalled, their picture featured the two of them with closed eyes nodding off. Probably what many citizens were prepared for if Eton Town ever saw the light of day.

  “We were doing Walter’s exercise, don’t you know. Meditating. It’s good for our brains,” the other sister said.

  I smiled.

  “Cheney Brothers at the back door,” Benny said behind me.

  “Thanks. I’ll see you ladies later.” I turned the twenty over to Benny and headed for the kitchen.

  I checked delivery items off the inventory from the food distributor. “Yesterday we were missing the red cabbage and eggplant and fifteen pounds short on the fish.”

  The driver—a kid in a Yankees cap and bomber jacket who blew on his fists as he unloaded the crates—glared at me. “I don’t lo
ad the truck. I drive it.”

  “Pass the word on. I’ll be calling your boss,” I said seriously.

  “Yeah. Yeah.” He waited for my signature, then took the form and stuffed it in his pocket. “He’s on vacation. Aruba.”

  I walked back to the dining room, thinking I could use a vacation. Hot sun, crystal clear water, powdery sand…

  “Hey, haven’t seen him in here before,” Benny said. It was Archibald. Bareheaded, unwinding a length of green crocheted material from around his neck, stamping his cowboy boots on the welcome doormat, and warming his hands. “Wonder where he eats?”

  “Who knows?” I said and grabbed a menu. I knew one place he ate breakfast. I motioned to Gillian. “I’ll take care of him.”

  Archibald sat in a booth near the front door.

  “Hi. First timer!”

  He looked up at me from under his shaggy hair. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

  Was he referring to the food or the ad?

  “Henry’s famous for his soup. Today it’s—”

  “I’ll have one of those special burgers Bill raves about,” he said.

  “Great. Anything to drink?”

  “Beer on tap?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I rattled off three brands and Archibald made his choice. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

  “No hurry. I’ve got lots of time,” he said lazily, as though he planned to spend the afternoon.

  Did that mean he had Sally in custody? I was dying to ask, but my little hairs had been on alert since Archibald’s arrival and I needed to play it cool.

  I put the order in while Archibald checked his cell phone. Which reminded me I hadn’t heard from Sally yet. Of course, if she was in the police department being grilled, texting me might be the last thing on her mind. And if she was in the Municipal Building, what was Archibald doing in the Windjammer guzzling a beer and a burger? I texted Bill: Any word on Sally? I texted Sally: Where are you?

  Edna stopped in for her takeout order. “Two soups, a lobster roll, and a BLT. Hold the avocado.”