Sally pulled on the recliner’s lever and the seat back popped upright. Her face fell as she tightened the robe’s ties as if protecting herself from that possibility, looking suddenly dispirited.
“If you tell me everything I might be able to help you. The police chief is a good friend.” I deliberately avoided mentioning Archibald at this point.
Sally nodded. “What do you want to know?” she asked innocently.
Could she be that naïve? I had to work quickly, but I knew from my last experience questioning Sally that the indirect route might be the most effective. “So you’ve been staying at a rooming house in Bernridge?”
Sally swallowed a sip of her soda. “It was cheap. I had to share a bathroom and there was practically no heat. That’s why I looked like a street person. I was afraid to take a shower.”
“And the clothes?”
Lola had crept to the entrance of the family room and perched on the arm of a matching recliner.
“There was a Salvation Army down the street from the house.”
I tiptoed into the topic. “Sally, I have to ask…your family…the money? You didn’t need to stay in a place like that.”
“I was hiding. I figured people would be looking for me to spend money,” she said.
“So let’s start at the beginning. You’re here in Etonville and everything is going well and suddenly on the Sunday before Eton Town opens, you see Gordon Weeks on the street across from the theater. And he scares you.” It wasn’t a question this time.
On the periphery of my vision, I could see Lola’s disbelief. I’d have a lot to fill her in on eventually.
Sally nodded reluctantly. “That’s right.”
“And then he appears at the rooming house and you two have a discussion on the porch that Angela happens to overhear.”
Lola dropped into the recliner, making no attempt to hide her surprise. Her face was half shock, half you-go-girl.
“Uh-huh,” Sally said.
“Now I know you said you didn’t know Gordon Weeks. So what were you frightened of?”
“I didn’t know him. But I’d seen him before,” Sally said.
I felt like a dentist extracting teeth. “In Etonville?”
She shook her head. “In Boston.”
I felt a twinge of elation. Now we were getting somewhere!
“I saw him on a street outside our home in December,” Sally said.
“Beacon Hill. What was he doing there?” I asked.
“I don’t know. And then I saw him again hanging around a week later,” she said. She scrolled through photos on her cell. “I took a picture of him in case he showed up again.”
I stared at the face on her phone. Gordon Weeks in the same camo jacket minus the trapper hat. His face was barely visible with the full beard, his squinting eyes merely slits in the folds of flesh.
“And then he shows up in Etonville. You think he followed you here?”
“Maybe.”
“Why? What did he want?” I asked.
“When he came by the rooming house, he was talking about my mother, and he scared me so I started to cry. He told me he needed to talk to me in private and I said okay let’s meet at the theater.” She looked at Lola. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Lola nodded sympathetically. This was sounding more and more bizarre. What would Archibald make of it? Or Bill for that matter?
I’d been here fifteen minutes. Archibald could be on his way.
“So what time did you agree to meet him at the theater?” I asked.
She tipped her head upward and examined the crown molding on Lola’s ceiling as if the answer were engraved there. “About three o’clock. I’d heard you say…” she glanced again at Lola “…that the theater would be empty for a couple of hours before the evening call. The door’s always unlocked lately. But I was running late so it might have been closer to four when I got there. He wasn’t in the lobby so I went into the theater. I called out and no one answered so I walked up to the stage and then I saw him…”
My thoughts rebounded from one fact to another. I’d arrived at four thirty; by that time the murder had been committed and Sally had stumbled on Gordon Weeks’s body.
Sally closed her eyes, her lips quivered. “He stared at me and his mouth was moving. I saw the knife and touched his coat and it was all bloody…I wanted to call the police but then he opened his hand and it had the photo in it.” She broke down. “Then he went all…quiet.”
Lola jumped up and put her arm around Sally’s shoulders. “It’s okay. Things will be fine.”
“I took the picture and then I heard someone come in, and I was afraid so I stayed onstage behind the turntable. But then I saw it was you.” Sally looked at me.
Lola scanned my face. Now what? she seemed to be asking.
I was at a loss. Far from confirming Sally’s innocence, our conversation only raised more questions and, frankly, didn’t position her in a very positive light. Sally had agreed to meet with Gordon Weeks at the theater, she’d conveniently arrived late, she’d found him dead. And there was no evidence anyone else was in the theater.
A loud knocking at the door, followed by an insistent ringing of the bell, startled all three of us. “Sally, do you know someone named Archibald Alvarez?” I asked quickly.
“No.”
She’d know him before too long. “I’ll go,” I said, before either Lola or Sally had a chance to rise. “Text me the picture of Gordon Weeks?”
Sally nodded.
I could see red and blue flashing lights through the glass panes in the door. It wasn’t only Archibald who’d come to call. I opened the door to see Bill leaning on his crutches. Archibald was a step behind him while Ralph was waiting by the squad car for crowd control, since house lights were popping on up and down the street. Lola’s neighborhood would rival Snippets by morning.
“May we come in?” Bill asked politely but firmly, all business, no trace of his quirky smile.
“I can explain—” I said.
Bill raised his hand to silence me. I stepped aside and he thumped his way into the house trailed by Archibald. I couldn’t meet his eyes. In the family room, Sally was on her feet, Lola’s arm still offering protection. Bill, speaking softly, explained that he had some questions for her and that she’d need to come down to the station to answer them. Sally stared wild-eyed and nodded. Lola walked her upstairs to get dressed and Bill and Archibald left, wordless, to wait on the porch. I was definitely persona non grata.
Within minutes, Sally emerged in borrowed jeans and a sweater, both a little baggy on the thin young woman.
“Can I call anyone for you?” I asked. “Your family?” She needed a lawyer.
Sally shook her head vigorously, smiled gratefully at Lola and took the winter jacket she provided. “Thanks.”
“The police chief’s a fair man. Tell him the truth.” Whatever that turned out to be.
“I will,” Sally said simply, then mumbled. “Please find the photo.”
I watched her open the door and join the Etonville police on the front porch. The squad car drove off with Sally in the back seat, perp-like, followed by Archibald’s black Ford. House lights snapped off and the neighborhood reverted to darkness once again.
Lola closed the front door. “I don’t know what to think.”
“I agree. Something’s not right. I’d go to the station, but somehow I don’t think I’m welcome there tonight,” I said.
Lola clasped her hands. “Please let there be a resolution to this whole thing! We have got to make a decision about the play by tomorrow.”
“Don’t do anything drastic yet, okay? Give me a day?” I requested.
Lola nodded. “I’ll do my best to hold off the board.”
I texted Pauli as I left Lola’s at nine thirty. I’d resisted her offer
of a glass of wine in favor of going home. But first I wanted to confirm a date with my tech guru. Pauli had mentioned deep searches on the Internet before, using lesser known search engines to dig into the backgrounds of folks. I had decided I needed to find out exactly who Gordon Weeks was. Pauli texted back: 4:30 good at Windjammer. Before I turned in I decided to check my Facebook page. I’d been so busy I hadn’t had time to like or post anything—from my laptop or cell phone.
I brought my computer to bed with me, set a mug of hot chocolate on the bedside table, and burrowed into my down comforter. I clicked on home to see what my friends had posted—pictures from Eton Town rehearsals that looked a little more civilized than the Etonville Standard ad, Andy and Cory playing in the snow, my parents at a restaurant on the beach. Then I typed in Sally Oldfield—she hadn’t posted anything in recent days either. Understandable. But something I’d seen on Facebook when I’d initially searched for her earlier was nipping at the back of my mind, tickling my imagination. What had I missed?
I erased Sally and replaced it with Sara and visited her timeline again. I remembered the photos of what appeared to be a family grouping with several generations. In one picture, an elderly white-haired woman was surrounded by a group of kids, with a handful of teens or twenty-somethings. In another, Sally was flanked by a man and a woman. Probably her parents. I clicked on the image and held the screen closer to my face. There was the woman who Sally resembled. I shifted my attention to the man. I hadn’t really noticed him before. Extremely handsome, a bronzed face, a full head of hair…
My little hairs danced wildly. I knew that man. He’d been the fellow in the silver Lincoln with the Massachusetts license plate that I nearly plowed into the day of the baking class. If the woman was Sally’s mother, he had to be her father. If he’d followed her to Etonville, why hadn’t Sally mentioned him? From the far corners of my memory I heard the cashier at the car wash: …dude looked filthy rich…maybe he was her sugar daddy…I asked Sally if there were more like him…she looked at me like she was going to cry…
He was her daddy all right. But not the kind the cashier had thought. What had Andy said? …no siblings…only a father and I got the impression they didn’t get on very well. My mind was leapfrogging over the events of the past days, springing from one fact to another: Sally seeing Gordon Weeks in Boston; talking with him in Etonville; Gordon Weeks dead; Sally, bloody, in the theater, supposedly to meet with him; her father in town the week before the murder. So Gordon Weeks wasn’t the only one following Sally to Etonville.
20
I flung myself back and forth in bed, tangling the comforter, dreaming, then waking, then dreaming again. I was locked away in jail when I awoke for the last time, shaking the bars and yelling at my captor. A good-looking man with hair combed off his forehead—Sally’s father—and a ruddy face that sported a quirky grin—Bill. The combination character laughed and laughed at me. I blinked and he disappeared, but the after effects were obvious: I had to breathe slowly to calm down.
I was the victim of too much information. But revealing all to Bill included confessing my DIY investigation, trying to meet with Sally while Archibald was hunting her down. I’d also have to admit to witnessing Archibald in the theater and tracking him to the diner. Things Bill would definitely not appreciate. After all, they were colleagues from way back and Bill had confidence in Archibald.
I shivered, partly because, as usual, the temperature in my bedroom was hovering in the mid-sixties, and partly because I was anticipating Bill’s reaction. He was becoming more accustomed to my investigative instincts, but did I go too far this time? I shivered again and convinced myself to fling back the cover. I had to face the day.
The hot shower revived my spirit, the water splashing down on my head and streaming over my shoulders was invigorating. I toweled off and ran a brush through my snarled locks. I inspected my face in the mirror. My cheek was healing nicely, only the barest discoloration now, and my mouth was almost back to normal. Which reminded me of Bill…our lips locked gently while the fire glowed and Norah Jones sang “Come Away with Me.”
I was afraid that ship had sailed for the present.
Never mind. Bill would come around once the Sally/Gordon Weeks situation was sorted out and the killer caught. I was feeling optimistic so a visit to Coffee Heaven was in order. I slipped into my black jeans and a stretchy red knit top. Red was my power color and—
My cell phone binged and then rang. Wow. I was popular this morning. The ringtone was insistent so it earned my attention first. The text would have to wait. I checked the caller ID. Yikes. I hadn’t expected to hear from Bill this soon.
“Hello?” I said, my tone neutral as though I had no idea who was on the other end.
“Dodie.” His voice was leaden.
“Hi, Bill.” Had he gotten a confession out of Sally?
“I need to speak with you. Today.” So maybe no confession…
“Okay. Well, I can stop by during my break at three—”
“This morning.” He expelled air, releasing his gruff attitude with it. “Things are not good here,” he said quietly. “Sally didn’t have much to say but did tell us you’d been in contact with her.”
Whoops.
“Can you get here at nine?”
I gulped. “Sure.”
He rang off. Now I definitely required a visit to Coffee Heaven for courage. I checked the text; it was Lola.
* * *
The clamor at Coffee Heaven was to be expected. A cast member of the Etonville Little Theatre being picked up at the artistic director’s house in connection with a murder was big news. I had planned to steal into a booth at the back of the restaurant, hoping no one would pay any particular attention to me.
Wrong. Heads swiveled as I slinked to my haven, a few nodded, a few looked about to ask questions.
“That must have been some night at Lola’s,” Jocelyn said and placed my drink in front of me. She lowered her voice. “Hard to believe that sweet Sally was related to the homeless man.”
“Sally’s not related to the dead guy.”
Jocelyn lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
She left me hunkered down in the booth uncertain. That was one possibility I hadn’t considered. I visualized Gordon Weeks—cap, jacket, bearded face. It didn’t seem likely in addition to the fact that Sally claimed she didn’t know him.
The restaurant was suddenly deathly still. I looked up to see Lola standing in the entrance like a deer caught in headlights. I motioned to her and she ducked her head, scrambling to my booth. The minute she sat down, the place exploded in chatter.
“I can’t believe how fast the word got out,” Lola whispered.
A couple in the booth next to us were craning their necks to hear what we had to say so I whispered back. “I can.” Been there, seen that. “Bill wants to meet me at nine.” The wall clock said eight forty-five.
“What did Sally tell them?” Lola asked.
“Apparently not much. Listen, I’ve got to come clean about my communicating with her,” I said.
“Bill won’t be pleased.”
“I know. But I’ve got a bigger problem.” I proceeded to share my near run-in with Archibald at the theater and following him to the diner.
Lola listened wide-eyed, speechless.
“Should I share all of this with Bill?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Lola wound a lock of blond hair around her index finger. A nervous habit I’d seen before.
“Maybe Andy can shed some more light—”
My cell binged. It was Bill: Are you on the way?
I downed the rest of my coffee. “Wish me luck,” I said to Lola and picked up my bag.
She crossed her fingers. Heads rotated again as I walked to the door. I didn’t envy Lola on her own in Coffee Heaven.
* * *
“So let
me get this straight. You texted Sally Oldfield and asked to meet,” Bill said sternly.
“Yes.” I could feel his laser-like eyes piercing my protective armor.
“More than once,” he confirmed.
“She gave me an address in Creston. Turns out it was a bodega and she never showed. I was late and I guess she got scared.”
“And then Bernridge,” he said.
“Right. We met at a diner.” I eyed Archibald who was leaning back in a chair, legs stretched out in front of him. Eyes hooded. The diner reference failed to elicit a reaction. “And then we sat in her car for a few minutes.”
“What did she have to say?” he asked.
“Not much. Just that she was not guilty of murdering Gordon Weeks and was afraid no one would believe her,” I answered.
“For good reason.”
They were the first words Archibald had uttered since I walked into Bill’s office. I stared at him, deciding immediately that I would keep my evidence about his questionable behavior to myself. “That attitude is exactly why she wouldn’t come in. Why she eventually came to the ELT. She felt she couldn’t trust anyone in this office.” I knew I was tarring Bill along with Archibald, but a good offense was the best defense in this case.
“Let’s get back to Sally and you,” Bill cut in. “She showed up at the theater and you still felt you shouldn’t phone it in to us?”
“She needed a bath, food, and some clothes. She was in no shape to be interrogated.”
“Sally was not interrogated last night. Only questioned. We need to know if she played any part in Gordon Weeks’s murder.” Bill’s voice rose a few decibels.
“Did you find out?” I asked.
“Did you?” Archibald’s chair tipped forward and landed with a clatter.
“I have to admit her story sounds bizarre. Seeing Gordon Weeks in Boston, him showing up here and wanting to meet with her. Then discovering he’d been stabbed to death.” Had Sally mentioned the photo in the dying victim’s hand?
Running Out of Time Page 18
