Running Out of Time

by Suzanne Trauth

Fifteen minutes later I exited the highway, followed my Genie to Creston where cars were bumper-to-bumper crawling through town. I rapped on the steering wheel, even blew the horn—which I never did—to urge the car ahead of me to beat it through a yellow light. My GPS indicated a turn ahead. I put on the blinker and turned right, passing through the intersection, and continued for half a mile.

  “Destination is ahead on the left,” said Genie.

  I pulled into the parking lot of a high-end chain hotel. I ran into the lobby, glancing around for the elevator. Sally had given me her room number on the third floor. The receptionist flicked her eyes in my direction. I smiled and moved on. No time to be friendly.

  I knocked on 314, my heart in my throat, sweating beneath layers of clothing. The door cracked open an inch, the safety lock still in place. “Sally? It’s me.” The door opened wide and I stepped in. I hugged her spontaneously; the circumstances seemed to call for affection and support. “How are you?”

  She looked as though she’d been crying, but her hair was shiny and clean and she wore a gold thigh-length cashmere sweater, black leggings, and ankle boots with spiked heels. “Thanks for coming.” She didn’t move. Sally wrapped her arms around her body. “The judge said I’m not supposed to leave the state until the court order comes through. But I have to get out of here. Can I have the picture?”

  “Sally, I know who Gordon Weeks is. Was.”

  She turned her pale face up to meet mine. Her eyes glistened and her lip quivered. “My…”

  Could she even say the words? “Your father,” I whispered.

  “I think so.”

  “And the photograph? That’s him with your mother?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Do you have it?”

  I was now hazarding a guess. “Was it their wedding day?”

  She whispered, “Yes.”

  “The police have the photo,” I said slowly.

  Sally was crestfallen, disappointment like a shroud around her body.

  “I had no choice. Someone wants it badly and was willing to kidnap and threaten me. Do you know why?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “I have no idea… Can you take me back to Etonville with you?”

  Charles Oldfield would probably not be pleased to have Sally out and about. But what could it hurt? As long as she didn’t leave the state. “Let’s go,” I said.

  Sally slipped off the bed. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried into the bathroom.

  I studied the room. Green-and-blue-striped wallpaper, patterned green carpeting, and the standard furnishings: two queen-sized beds, night stands, a flat screen television, a chest of drawers, and a desk. A stuffed chair and ottoman occupied one corner. Sally had a suitcase open on one bed and clothing spilled out of it. Slacks, blouses, underwear. On the desk she had a notebook open to her Facebook page. I leaned in and scanned the screen. It was Sara Oldfield’s site.

  “I use that page for my family,” she said, watching me. “The other page is for me.”

  “Sally Oldfield, right?”

  She smiled for the first time. “I told him you were smart.”

  “Who?” I asked, an eerie sensation creeping down my spine.

  “My father. Stepfather,” she corrected herself.

  I shifted my focus back to the Facebook page and pointed to a picture of a middle-aged man, dressed in an overcoat, his body turned away from the camera, his face in profile. “Is that him?”

  “Yeah. That’s him.”

  Goose bumps rose on my shoulders and arms. “Do you mind if I…?” I gestured to the notebook.

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  I held the device close to my face. I knew he was the stranger I nearly hit two weeks ago when I slid through an intersection on my way to the Windjammer’s baking class. But something else gnawed at my memory….and then my little hairs bopped. I found my cell and tapped on photos. The picture I took of Archibald and the man he met in the parking lot of the diner on Route 53 appeared. I held my photo next to the photo on Sally’s Facebook page. Both shots were taken from the same angle with the man’s face in profile. No wonder he seemed familiar. It was Sally’s father. I felt like I’d been punched in my midsection. “Come on. We need to get out of here.” I took Sally’s arm and ushered her to the door. The hallway was clear and I insisted we take the stairs. I had no idea what connected Archibald and Charles Oldfield and no desire to collide with either of them in an elevator.

  In minutes we were in the lobby, then out the door and into my Metro. I wasn’t sure what was going on with Bill and the kidnappers. But I knew in my gut I had to get Sally to some place safe. Some place full of people, well-lit, where she would be protected by a crowd. Where people would provide a convenient cover. I could think of only one location.

  “Did you know Eton Town is opening tomorrow night?” I asked brightly and cranked the engine. The Metro jumped to life.

  Sally’s face lit up. “It is? I’m so glad!” She clapped her hands like a little girl.

  “How would you like to see the dress rehearsal?”

  Halfway back to Etonville I had the distinct feeling that we were being followed. When I speeded up, a car two lengths back hustled closer. When I changed lanes, it followed suit. Call me paranoid, but I squinted into the rearview mirror to get a look at the license plate. The setting sun had cast slanting shadows across the highway and all I could see was a dark vehicle. Meanwhile, I kept up a steady patter with Sally. How was the arraignment, who was her lawyer, how had she been occupying herself?

  After ten minutes, we grew silent. She cleared her throat. “How do you know about Gordon…my father?”

  I tiptoed into my discoveries based on the facial recognition software and the age regression, comparing the shot she’d taken of Gordon Weeks in Boston and her photo I found in the theater.

  Sally stared at me in admiration. “Awesome.”

  “When Gordon Weeks showed up at the rooming house, did he claim to be your father?”

  Sally stared out the window. Lights were popping on in houses as the day darkened. She nodded. “Yes, but I didn’t believe him. I was so freaked out…I couldn’t believe my mother would have lied to me all those years. We told each other everything.” She paused. “I didn’t want to talk to him. But he insisted we meet again and that’s when I told him to come to the theater. He said he would give me something that would prove he was my father.” She seemed to shrink into the passenger seat, her voice weakened. “I guess it was the picture.”

  “Sally, why didn’t you go to the police with the whole story?”

  “Gordon Weeks made me swear to keep quiet. He said it would be dangerous for me if anyone knew we had met. I was scared and didn’t know what to do,” she said.

  Dangerous for Gordon Weeks as well. “Did you tell your father about Gordon or the photo?”

  “My stepfather?” she said, her face hard. “He’d be the last person I’d share this with. I tried to play it cool. I knew he was coming to Etonville for the play. I thought somehow I could keep him out of all of this.” She crossed her arms. “Besides, Gordon, my real father, said there was something about my mother’s will that I didn’t know.”

  “And Charles did?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you have any idea what it was?”

  “No. He said to remember that he was my biological father.”

  Now what did that mean?

  “And you didn’t tell any of this to the police?”

  “No. Just that I’d seen Gordon Weeks on the street in Boston, that he came to the boarding house and wanted to meet with me, and when I went to the theater, I discovered he was dead. It was the truth. Except for that last part. He lived long enough to open his hand with the photo.” She smiled sadly. “I didn’t think they’d figure out who he was. He told me he’d been out of the country for over fifteen years and o
nly came back six months ago when he found out my mother had passed away. He said he still loved her.”

  “So your parents married…and your mother got pregnant. Did Gordon tell you why they split up?” I asked.

  “They were young and my grandparents disapproved of him and forced him to go away.”

  “And the photo? What’s so important about it?”

  Sally shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s their wedding picture. I lost it before I had a chance to really look at it.”

  I entered Etonville and the dark sedan retreated a dozen yards behind me. The dashboard clock read six fifty. Time for Bill to meet the kidnappers. I whizzed through yellow lights and steamed up Main Street, coming to an abrupt stop in front of the Etonville Little Theatre. I bounced the Metro into a curb and threw the car into Park. “Let’s get you into the theater.”

  As I escorted Sally into the lobby, the dark sedan cruised past the ELT and continued on down Main.

  26

  Penny stood in the center of the lobby and blocked our progress. “So you came back to the scene of the crime?” she said to Sally and pushed her glasses up her nose while slapping her clipboard against her leg. “We had to replace you.”

  Technically she wasn’t replaced; Lola had said her character was cut from the ensemble and the Banger sisters were picking up some of Sally’s lines. God help us. “Penny, Sally wanted to see the run through.”

  Sally nodded. Penny eyed her up and down. “This is a closed rehearsal. Anyway, you disappeared after the first final dress rehearsal. Actors do not leave the theater before curtain call and notes,” she said importantly. “Even O’Dell knows that.”

  Penny looked at me for reinforcement.

  “I had to meet my…father,” Sally murmured. “He was in town for the opening of the show.”

  Maybe Charles Oldfield was the person on the other end of Sally’s phone call in Snippets overheard by Carol. “Where’s Lola?” I asked.

  “Inside arguing with Walter about his cuts for Act Two. He’s having second thoughts and Lola threatened to cut the entire second act if he didn’t shape up.” She cackled. “This won’t help his tri-polar manic-depression. But that’s show—”

  “Penny!” Lola stuck her head into the lobby and shouted. “What are you doing out here?” Then she saw me. And Sally. She gasped. “Sally…?”

  “We’ve come to watch the rehearsal. Good for Sally to get out of the hotel for the evening,” I said with my lips while my body language transmitted “she’s in trouble.” Good thing Lola read subtext.

  “Of course. Why don’t you find a seat in the house,” Lola said to Sally. Then she confronted Penny. “Please get the cast onstage for Walter’s warm-up.”

  Penny left with Sally in tow.

  “What’s going on?” Lola muttered.

  “I think she’s in danger.”

  “From whom?” Lola asked.

  “I’m not sure, but she called me, wanting the photo. Bill’s supposed to be meeting the kidnappers with the photo about now, and I think someone followed Sally and me from the hotel,” I said.

  “You think the theater is safe?” Lola asked, skeptical.

  “Safer than the hotel. At least here there are people all around her. Look, I have to call Bill. Can you keep an eye on her until the run starts?”

  “Sure. Mildred’s rehearsing with the choir and then Walter’s doing his warm-up.”

  Despite the gravity of the current situation, I had to laugh. “What’s he have planned?”

  “He says he has a new one.” Lola rolled her eyes.

  “Hang in there. You just have to make it the opening tomorrow. And the Star-Ledger reviewer.”

  Lola groaned and crossed her fingers.

  I stepped outside and called Bill’s cell this time. Maybe he hadn’t seen or heard his texts. When the phone went to voice mail, I left a message: Call me ASAP.

  I darted next door; Henry and Enrico were wrapping up the afternoon’s cooking and confirmed that the roofer gave the go-ahead for lunch tomorrow. The dining room was all ready and the inventory set. I reassured Henry that I would get in touch with Benny and Gillian and come in early to double-check all of the leaks. There was nothing left to do so I said good night and reminded them to turn out the lights.

  I headed back next door; if nothing else, I could keep Sally company and support Lola by watching some of the final dress rehearsal until I heard from Bill. The lobby was empty, the overhead security lights providing the only illumination.

  Inside the theater, the cast was assembling on the stage and Penny was blasting her whistle, trying to maintain order. Chrystal handed out tricorn hats to the men and watched as they manipulated their wigs, sticking hat pins in their fake hair. Mildred’s singers were gathered to one side of the stage working their way through “Blest Be the Tie That Binds”; Edna waved, getting a reprimand from Walter to “focus,” which she cheerfully ignored, while Vernon searched his pockets and a backpack.

  “Hi, Dodie,” he said loudly.

  “Lose something?” I asked. His hearing aids.

  Penny bounced up the aisle. “Vernon, Lola has some notes for you. She wants to see you onstage.”

  “Huh?”

  Penny took him by the arm. “Let’s go.” She mouthed, “Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

  Sally had taken a seat in the middle of a row at the back of the theater, her coat wrapped around her shoulders as if she had come incognito. I had no idea if any of the cast saw her. I eased into a seat next to her. “It’s got to feel strange watching the show from out here,” I said softly.

  “It is,” Sally said, wistful. “I wish I could have gone on with them.”

  Penny finally had the entire cast gathered onstage, several actors stepping around the spot where Gordon Weeks had died. Walter was demonstrating his latest pre-show warm-up: another trust exercise with one actor leading a second actor—blind—around the setting. He handed out blindfolds to half the cast, paired them off—one of the Bangers with Edna, one with Vernon, Romeo with Abby, until all cast members were accounted for. I could see Lola twisting a strand of hair, her go-to nervous tic whenever ELT rehearsals turned a little looney. I was worried someone was going to fall off the stage, but I suppose that was the point of the exercise: Your partner should keep you safe.

  Sally was absorbed in the process and watched intently as the twosomes moved carefully around the stage, giggling, and occasionally bumping into a piece of furniture. I wondered whom she relied on now that her mother had passed away. Besides Andy.

  “Trust! Trust!” Walter exclaimed as one of the Banger sisters slipped the blindfold off one eye. “Your partner will protect you.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Her partner was Vernon so it might prove to be a case of the deaf leading the blind.

  “Watch this,” Penny chuckled at my back.

  I jumped. “You have to stop doing that!”

  She ignored my plea and tapped my shoulder. “Romeo’s leading Abby into the green room!”

  Penny was right; Walter was occupied, floating through the couples stage right while Romeo had propped open the exit from the stage and was leading Abby into the interior of the offstage actors’ lounge.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be monitoring them or something? So nobody gets hurt?” I asked.

  Penny nudged her glasses. “Nah. Unless somebody trips and lands on their backside.”

  “Penny,” Lola hissed. She pointed to the set of stairs that led from the stage into the house. “Stay on duty there in case someone gets too close to the edge.”

  “Later, O’Dell,” Penny said and bounded down an aisle.

  A sudden screech from the green room stopped everyone in their tracks. Blindfolds were raised, Lola flew onstage, and Walter looked around bewildered. “Someone betrayed the trust!”

  I had h
ad personal experience with betraying the trust and I did land on my backside last spring. Penny sorted out the mishap—Romeo and Abby had had a set-to with a closed door and Abby threw a fit when she saw where Romeo was leading her. Once Abby had been pacified, Romeo reprimanded for unprofessional behavior, Vernon and a Banger sister rescued from the storage closet offstage where they’d gotten lost, Lola insisted on starting the run through. Costumes were adjusted and the lights dimmed.

  Act One of Eton Town started uneventfully, not necessarily a good thing for a play, with Vernon’s opening monologue, the appearance of the two Eton Town families, and the slow steady rotation of the turntable. So far so good. Sally was engrossed in the evolving drama, but I’d seen this part of the play before and it hadn’t appeared as though Walter had cut anything from Act One. Unfortunately.

  I was feeling restless. My cell phone binged and Penny looked over from her stage manager’s box at the back of the theater. She plastered a finger on her lips and drew the other hand across her neck in the universal gesture for a “quick death.”

  I nodded and hurried to the lobby. I couldn’t afford to turn my phone off since Bill should be calling any moment now. I checked the text. It wasn’t a number I recognized, but the message was clear: Is Sally with you? A. Archibald.

  I started to shake. Speaking of trust…I had no idea what Archibald knew. Still, he was looking for Sally. Did that mean both he and Bill were looking for her? Or Archibald alone…or with the kidnappers. If he knew that Sally was with me and the vehicle that followed us from Creston saw us enter the theater, we weren’t safe here. My mind galloped: Where could we go until I heard from Bill?

  Lights shone through the glass of the entrance doors. The same dark sedan cruised by the theater again. Archibald had keys to the theater. Locked front doors would not deter him. I had to move fast. I heard the strains of the fiddle that accompanied the wedding scene at the end of Act One. I ran back into the house as the curtain closed and the house lights rose. I motioned to Sally to follow me and sprinted down the aisle to the front row where Lola had her head bent over her script.