Running Out of Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  Archibald rose and stretched. “I’m going out for coffee.”

  I was shocked; Bill looked surprised. Why would the primary investigator walk out of a meeting where his primary suspect’s motivations were being explored with the only person the suspect really talked to? I didn’t get it.

  “Anybody else?” Archibald asked.

  Bill shook his head. Archibald left.

  “What is with that guy?” I fumed. “He has Sally tried and convicted.”

  Bill slowly turned to me. “Okay let’s get to the bottom of this.”

  “Fine.”

  “We’ve been through this before and I presumed we had an understanding. Your investigative instincts are sharp and I appreciate them. But you have to communicate with me. I have to know what you’re doing,” Bill said.

  “I felt Sally wasn’t going to get a fair shake from Archibald. I wanted to get her side of things and—”

  Bill exploded. “That’s not your job. That’s my job!”

  “I understand but since you aren’t able to get around…”

  “That’s why I have Archibald,” Bill said evenly.

  I had an unexpected impulse. “Did you call Archibald or did he contact you about helping out?”

  “What? Why?”

  A knock on the door interrupted us.

  “Enter,” Bill barked.

  Suki opened the door and crossed to Bill’s desk, extending a file. Bill took it, Suki nodded—without even acknowledging my presence—and left.

  “Guess I’d better go.” I stood.

  Bill focused on a sheet of paper in the file. “It’s not good news for Sally Oldfield.”

  I sat back down.

  “The medical examiner’s final autopsy report. Depth of the knife wound is consistent with the upper body strength of a female. Angle of the wound is consistent with someone five foot four to five foot six.” Bill dropped the file on his desk.

  About Sally’s height. “Or maybe someone was off-balance, you know, struggling, bending over. Maybe Gordon Weeks was hit on the head first and then stabbed while he was on the ground.”

  Bill inclined his head skeptically. “I didn’t say he’d been hit on the head. Only that there was blunt force trauma—”

  “Everything you have on Sally is circumstantial. Sure, she was in the theater about the time Gordon Weeks was killed. Yes, she had blood on her hands. Okay, so she ran off and hid for almost a week. None of it proves anything. No hard physical evidence,” I said.

  “Can you hear yourself? A prosecutor would have a picnic with that much circumstantial evidence,” Bill said, frustrated. “Anyway, if your theory is correct, Sally could have knocked him out and stabbed him.”

  Bill was right. “But what’s her motivation? Why would she want Gordon Weeks dead?” Every suspect in the mysteries I read had to have both motive and opportunity. Bill had only established the latter.

  “I don’t know. She’s not saying much,” he admitted.

  “There were no witnesses and she didn’t confess to anything.” I paused. “Are you holding her as a person of interest?”

  “Not yet. But I don’t want her doing a disappearing act again. Archibald is going to keep an eye on her.”

  Maybe I should keep an eye on Archibald. “Have you spoken with her father?”

  Bill regarded me warily. “Charles Oldfield? Why do you ask?”

  “Sally said he was coming in town for the show.”

  “Archibald’s been in touch with her father,” Bill said.

  “About your friend…I know you have a lot of faith in him, but on a couple of occasions, he did some strange things and—”

  “Enough, Dodie! No more digging around on your own.” He drummed fingers on his desk. “There are aspects of any investigation that can’t be shared with civilians. You’ve got to let us do our jobs.”

  I stood. “I know you might not agree with me, but for what it’s worth, I truly believe she’s innocent,” I said quietly.

  He looked up, studied me, an overnight stubble covering his face. Had he even slept last night?

  “I hope you’re right. For both your sakes.” He shifted in his chair, swinging his bad foot out from under the desk, and plopping his cast on the top of the low stool.

  I wanted to say more, ask after his broken ankle, offer a little encouragement on the investigation but his expression was like a crossing guard’s paddle: Stop!

  I left without a word. As I moved down the hallway, I could hear Edna on dispatch. “Ralph, you better hightail it over to the cemetery. We have a 594. That’s right. A gang of kids are playing hooky.” She adjusted her headset and lowered her voice. “The chief is in no mood to talk about your pay raise. 10-4.”

  “I recognize 594. Malicious mischief.” I was getting used to Edna’s codes.

  Edna removed her headset. “A snowball fight on the graves of Etonville’s forefathers.” Edna shook her head in disbelief.

  “Edna, were you here when Sally left last night?”

  Edna frowned. “Nope. Poor kid. I don’t think she could murder anyone.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Especially not on opening night. I mean, she was in the cast, for goodness’ sake,” Edna said sadly.

  Right. I rested my arm on the counter. “So does Archibald check in periodically during the day? You know, where he’s going, who he has appointments with, that sort of thing,” I asked casually.

  Edna smiled slyly. “You’d like to keep tabs on him?”

  “Well…”

  She leaned up to the window. “I don’t blame you. If I was twenty years younger…” She batted her eyelashes.

  “I’m not interested that way—” I said quickly. That’s all I needed—another rumor about my love life spiraling out of control.

  “Your secret’s safe with me. Of course, the chief might feel differently,” she said archly, observing me over the rim of her glasses.

  I forced a laugh. If I wanted information, I might have to take one for the team. “Just wondering where I might find him later in the day. You know…when I’m on my break.”

  “You youngsters! I’ll text you if he calls in,” Edna whispered, delighted to be a potential romantic conspirator.

  “Thanks,” I whispered back. “But it’s between you and me.”

  Edna winked. “Copy that.”

  I prayed that Edna’s offer to play Cupid didn’t spread to the ears or mouths of the Snippets crowd. I texted Sally: Where r u? OK?

  * * *

  Lunch was crazy. Gillian called in distraught over breaking up with her boyfriend again, so I took her place, running from kitchen to table to cash register. It had started to flurry with three to five inches expected before nightfall, but the weather didn’t seem to deter Etonville from venturing out. The opportunity to natter on about Sally Oldfield and the murder of Gordon Weeks was worth a trek through the cold and snow. Of course, the town was engaging in unbridled speculation after seeing the headline in the Etonville Standard: ELT ACTRESS INTERROGATED FOR MURDER.

  “Sally Oldfield was from Boston. A stranger in town…” said Vernon.

  “One of those rich outsiders.” JC tsked.

  “I heard she was related to the man,” said Jocelyn. “Guess this means Eton Town is cancelled.”

  “Probably a good thing…heard it ran over three hours…I’ll see the real play in Creston in April.” The nail in the coffin.

  Geez.

  The article was brief, not much to tell. Background on Sally and her Boston life, the death of her mother, her father’s business ventures, and her recent arrival in Etonville. And being picked up at the home of the ELT artistic director. Lola would hate that; Walter, too, but for a different reason. He still considered himself the artistic director.

  Below the fold was ETON TOWN ON HOLD
INDEFINITELY, an interview with Lola, where she tap-danced around the show’s opening, and a quote from Penny: “Doesn’t matter if it’s a tragedy or comedy, the show always goes on. Unless it can’t. Even though the ELT would like to be up a stream with extra paddles, this is a no win-win situation. But we’re team players. Trying to think inside the box.”

  Huh?

  Henry’s specials for lunch included a popular beer-battered-fried-shrimp-and-curly-fries option, tasty comfort food that Etonville scarfed up in between spinning motivations for Sally’s supposed crime. His other special—French onion soup in a bread bowl—received a decidedly mixed review.

  “You eat the bowl too?” asked Abby.

  “I kind of like my soup in a regular bowl,” said Vernon.

  “Don’t you think Henry is getting a little too New Yorkish for Etonville?” One of the Banger sisters.

  Too bad the town didn’t have any strong opinions. I smiled through its culinary assessment, as I usually did, and escaped to the kitchen to check on a few orders. Henry and Enrico were whirling dervishes, churning out plate after plate.

  At three o’clock I collapsed into my back booth with a plate of pasta and a side serving of curly fries. I needed carbs for moral support.

  Benny handed me a cup of coffee and whistled. “Sally was friendly and kind. She even offered to babysit one time.” He hesitated. “Probably good that never worked out. You okay? Seem a little preoccupied,” he said.

  “Just worried.”

  “Hey, one good thing. If she’s arrested, she can afford the best legal defense money can buy,” Benny said.

  “Right.” I nibbled on a fry.

  “Wonder if her father will show up.”

  He already has.

  Those little hairs again…Andy said Sally inherited her mother’s fortune. Where did that leave her father? And more importantly, how did he feel about it? I was mulling over possibilities when my cell phone binged. I fished it out of my pocket, hoping for a return message from Sally. It was Lola: Any news? I texted back that there was nothing to report; Sally was released from the police department with the warning to stay in town. And I was spinning my wheels waiting to hear from her.

  “Mmmph.”

  I looked up. It was Pauli outfitted in a hooded down jacket with a muffler wrapped around the lower half of his face, stifling his speech.

  “Hi. Have a seat.”

  He scooted onto the bench opposite me, slung his backpack off his shoulder, and removed his scarf and coat. “It’s, like, zero out there.”

  I smiled at his exaggeration—I knew it was in the high twenties—and asked if he’d eaten.

  “Only lunch and a snack.”

  That meant he was ready for some pre-dinner nosh. I set him up with a Coke, fries, and whatever dessert was left over from lunch. Today it was chocolate cream pie. I checked in with Henry, where the kitchen was busy prepping for scalloped potatoes and a roasted corn casserole. I poured myself a seltzer.

  Pauli was already at work on his laptop.

  “So deep searches,” I said.

  “Okay, like, what are you looking for? Like, there’s this database we learned about for public records. Really sweet. You can even download an app for it.”

  “What kind of records?”

  “Email, phone numbers, addresses…” He took a big bite of pie.

  That information wouldn’t be much help in digging into Gordon Weeks’s background. Bill said he probably had a burner phone and no known home address. “What else?”

  He shrugged. “Traffic tickets or, like, if you went bankrupt.”

  “Okay, let’s check him out.”

  Pauli logged into his special database and typed in Gordon Weeks. We were confronted with two dozen names—among them a college professor, an IT engineer, a magazine editor, and several with no profession listed. We eliminated some by birthdate. The medical examiner estimated Gordon Weeks’s age as late forties. But we skimmed through them all, none seeming like the scruffy outdoorsman who died on the ELT stage. Without knowing anything about his background, this was going to be impossible.

  Leave it to my tech guru. “So, like, this is the dead guy,” Pauli said cautiously.

  No point in not confirming what was already in the Etonville Standard. “Yes.”

  “At Snippets they’re saying he’s probably a homeless man—”

  “I don’t think he’s—”

  “—with a police record.”

  I paused. Bill said a search of law enforcement databases revealed a minor run-in with the law years ago.

  “Pauli, what are you suggesting?”

  “Let’s check to see who’s been in trouble with the police. Like who’s been arrested. Maybe something will pop.”

  Pauli went to work. We waded through the list of names, stopping to investigate backgrounds and shady pasts of anyone in the forties, early fifties age range. Nothing looked promising until we hit on a Gordon Weeks with no known background information. As if he was off the grid. No bankruptcies, no reported traffic tickets. But he did have an arrest for burglary in 1997 in Beacon Hill. The part of Boston where Sally lived. Was there a connection? If so, it was tenuous…but tenuous was better than nothing. I made note of our finding and checked my watch. “Guess it’s time for you to be shoving off.”

  “Mom’s coming by.” He screwed up his face.

  “Spring will be here soon and then you can tear around Etonville with your own wheels,” I said.

  Pauli grinned. “Yeah. Cool.” He packed up his laptop. “So if you want to do any more searches…”

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know. Pretty amazing what you can find out there on someone.”

  “Yeah. Like, on yourself too,” Pauli said.

  “I guess so. But at least I don’t have any bankruptcies or arrest records. Yet.”

  Pauli nodded his head wisely. “Data fusion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a company that combines public records with purchasing and behavioral data. Like, what you bought at the Shop N Go last week and who your neighbors are. Like, when was the last time you did Chinese takeout.”

  “Wow. Really?”

  “Yeah like profiles can even have pictures of cars using automated license plate readers tagged with GPS coordinates and time stamps,” he said, excited.

  “Time stamps. Pauli, this is some heavy-duty stuff. I’m impressed.”

  He ducked his head. “Like, yeah.”

  Carol’s SUV pulled up in front of the Windjammer. “Your ride’s here.”

  Pauli wrapped up and marched to the entrance, with me close behind. I opened the door to a blast of cold air and Carol waved to me. She wound down the passenger side window and yelled, “Stop by Snippets in the morning. Got something to share.”

  “Sure.” I waved back.

  21

  Dinner was well underway when Edna texted: Arch. checked in… off for the night…appt. in NYC. Then she inserted a row of hearts. PS. Chief is in…?!

  Edna was taking the Cupid thing seriously. If I didn’t have Gordon Weeks’s murder on the brain, I might have tried to make plans with Bill. I shook myself back to the present. Edna’s text gave me an idea.

  “Benny, interested in trading closings? Swap tonight for tomorrow night?” I asked.

  “Sure. Might be a light evening.” He inclined his head in the direction of the front window where the snow was coming down gently but steadily. “Maybe Henry will close early again.”

  “Maybe.” I texted Lola: Can u talk?

  Within a minute, she’d called me. “My home is like a prison. I’m afraid to leave. Everywhere I go, I get buttonholed about Sally. ‘What did I know? Why was I sheltering her? Did she really do it?’”

  “Look, I think it’s time to take this investigation to the next level.”
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  “What does that mean?” Lola asked eagerly.

  “A couple of things. First I’d like to get into the theater tonight. Are you up for joining me?” I said.

  “I guess so. What are you going to do there?”

  “A little reconnoitering. But in case someone stops by, I’d like some cover.”

  “I’m your alibi!” she said.

  “Yes. No chance of Walter coming in?” I asked.

  “I think he’s having another panic attack. I told him to take a pill and go to bed.”

  “Have you eaten? I can bring dinner for you. Meet me in front of the theater at eight?” I asked.

  Lola agreed.

  I juggled a cup of coffee, my bag, and a takeout container of scalloped potatoes, roasted corn casserole, and honey-baked ham for Lola. Her Lexus glided into a parking space as I exited the Windjammer. The wind had picked up, but the snow had stopped; I stepped gingerly on the pavement in front of the theater, still wary of black ice everywhere. Lola unlocked the door of the ELT, flicked on lights, and we sat down in the office. As Lola ate, I filled her in on my meeting with Bill and then reminded her about my almost-run-in with Archibald at the theater.

  “So you think he was here looking for something?”

  “I assume. I couldn’t see him since I was hiding in the green room. But it sure sounded like someone was pacing back and forth, searching or inspecting,” I said.

  “He has a key, you know. The chief requested one so that Archibald could come and go during the investigation,” Lola said, scooping up the last of the potatoes. “These are so yummy.”

  “One of Henry’s favorite dishes,” I said.

  “So where do we start?” Lola asked.

  “Onstage.”

  Of course, there was also Sally’s insistence that I find a photo she’d dropped the day of the murder. Maybe I could kill two birds…

  “What about the crime scene tape? The chief said we needed to stay out of that area,” Lola warned me.

  “I’ll be careful. If we’re going to get anywhere, we need to start with the scene of the crime. I feel as if something is missing.”

  Lola stood and smoothed her white cashmere sweater and designer jeans.