Archibald glided past us, muttering, “Surrender and deputize her.”
I could feel the heat rising from my neck onto my face. “You could have told me Archibald was working for the Feds.”
Bill’s eyes followed his colleague settling into the black Ford. “It was all very hush-hush. Once the will was read, leaving the bulk of Olivia Oldfield’s millions to Sally and Sally’s biological father, Charles panicked. He needed the money. That meant eliminating Weeks. So he lit out for Etonville—”
“—to eliminate his competition. Sally’s lucky he didn’t go after her too,” I said.
“Charles probably thought he could control Sally…and her money. Gordon Weeks was another matter,” Bill said.
“He came to Etonville to find his daughter, Sally.”
Bill nodded. “And Archibald—”
“Followed Charles,” I added.
“Just Archibald’s luck that his quarry ended up in a small New Jersey town with a police chief he knew from his past. Who needed help solving a murder.” Bill pulled his collar up around his ears. “Kind of a tightrope act for Archibald, getting Charles Oldfield’s help with the murder investigation because his daughter was the prime suspect.”
“And the photograph was—”
“Proof of paternity. Two different eye colors—”
“I knew it! Heterochromium iridium!” I crowed. “Like Sally’s eyes!”
Bill grinned slowly. “Yeah.”
“The time stamp proved the wedding was May 1994 and Sally was born six months later.”
“In between, Sally’s mother and Gordon Weeks divorced, and her family forced her to marry Charles Oldfield. It wasn’t a happy union,” he said ruefully.
“Poor Archibald. He thought he could come to Etonville, track Charles Oldfield, and get on with his investigation,” I said.
“But he didn’t count on Sally or Gordon Weeks. Or you,” he said wryly. His tone shifted to admiration. “Your instincts were on target with Sally. Good job.” He tucked some stray strands of hair into my hood. “I have to wrap this up down at the station. I’ll call you later.”
Later? As in tonight, tomorrow, next week…? “I’ll be here.”
“I know you will. I’m glad,” he said and smiled.
Yowza.
28
If Einstein and my great-aunt Maureen were correct, coincidences were merely God’s way of remaining anonymous. An unseen hand at work. I tended to agree with them. After all, who was I to dispute the opinions of a genius and my favorite aunt: Gordon Weeks setting the events in motion by confronting Charles Oldfield in Boston about the will and his photographic proof of paternity; Archibald, hired by the FBI, keeping an eye on Charles Oldfield, a suspect in a white-collar criminal investigation; Sally, needing a break from her life, deciding to decamp for Etonville; Bill, breaking an ankle bone; Bill and Archie, old police academy chums, uniting in an effort to solve a murder; and Gordon Weeks’s determination to find the daughter he’d never met. Everybody following everybody else and all roads leading to Etonville. It was a perfect storm of freaky flukes.
A hard-packed ball of snow whacked me on the back.
“Gotcha!” Romeo called out and grinned, scooping up another hunk of the white stuff while trying to duck my return throw. Which smartly hit its mark. Yes!
I had to smile. A late spring snowstorm had coaxed much of Etonville outside into the crisp air and bright sun today, causing the town park to hum with life. Mildred and Vernon were cross-country skiing on the now-snowy softball diamond. Getting in shape for summer, Mildred said. Better exercise than treading the boards, according to Vernon. Benny whizzed by waving and pulling his six-year-old princess on a sled until they crashed into a snowbank, toppling daughter and father onto the ground. They immediately segued into making snow angels, both of them giggling gleefully. Nice that the Windjammer was closed on Sundays.
Which reminded me that I had to text Henry about next week’s menus. We’d decided to end the winter season with a bang. Southern comfort foods that hinted at warmer weather and long, lazy days in the sun: shrimp and grits, fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, blackened catfish, and fried green tomatoes. Cholesterol be damned. Henry was in a better frame of mind these days. Despite the roof repairs. As a result of his success with the Chamber of Commerce dinner, the town mothers and fathers diplomatically planned to eat every other month at the Windjammer…an equal culinary opportunity. Not to mention the fact that the Etonville Standard had awarded the restaurant another half star.
Lola gestured from across the park and shouted, “Come help us.”
Wonder of wonders, she’d gotten Walter out of his pajamas and into the fresh air. And even more amazing she’d gotten him to join some ELT folks making a giant snowman with the remnants of an Eton Town costume. Chrystal had no idea they’d filched an old wig, tricorn hat, and ratty period coat. Everyone was more relaxed these days now that the Creston Players were no longer a threat to the future of the Etonville Little Theatre—they’d cancelled their plans for a production of Our Town—thanks to the brave Star-Ledger reviewer who wrote that “he’d never seen anything like Eton Town” in his thirty-year career. That “he’d never laughed so hard in his life.” Walter claimed that he’d meant it to be a comedy all along. He and Lola took out another full-page ad in the Standard, touting the show’s success. Without pictures this time.
They had another reason to feel pretty good. Sally had graciously made a substantial donation to the theater, guaranteeing its next production, taking the burden off the box office. Though she could easily afford to be generous, it was an unexpected gesture that made the young woman from Boston an honorary member of the Etonville community, with all the rights and privileges pertaining thereto. Eton Town had brought the village together. Folks not only came out in droves to fill seats, but after word went out that the intermission refreshments had disappeared during the murder investigation, they brought potluck concession goodies to replace the colonial cakes and pies.
I scanned the park landscape and only one word came to mind. Home. It felt warm and fuzzy to be part of a community. This community in particular.
“Hey, ready for a little nip?” Bill crept up behind me, thermos in hand. “Irish coffee.”
I checked out his new cast. “Should you be moving around on that?”
“It’s a walking cast. Meant to be walked on. Doc says maybe two more weeks with this thing.” His mouth ticked upward on one end. “Besides, I can’t keep up with you on crutches.”
I took the thermos and poured some coffee into the lid. “What does an English boy know about Irish coffee?” I took a sip.
“I’m only English on my father’s side. I’m full Italian on my mother’s.” Bill took the lid out of my hand and drank, smiling at me over the rim of the cup.
“Really? With your blond hair?”
He shrugged. “Strong northern European genes.”
I stared at him. Bill had a backstory that I knew little about. I’d gotten obsessed with the past these last weeks—Eton Town and the American Revolution, Sally’s history—and now I was curious to know more about Bill’s origins. “Hmmm. Explains your fixation on chianti.”
He dipped his head awkwardly. “Well, that comes from my last…girlfriend. She was into Italian reds.”
Italian men, too, apparently. He’d never mentioned a previous girlfriend. “Oh,” I said. Yikes, I thought. “So we’re getting personal here.”
“Thought you should know some of my history…and vice versa.”
I took the lid of the thermos, filled it to the brim, and chugged it down. “Okay. Let’s see. Jackson and I had a five-year relationship before Hurricane Sandy destroyed his charter fishing boat and he moved to Iowa—”
Bill put up a hand. “Is this going to take long? I mean, will you finish before dark?”
The days were
staying lighter longer, but still, by late in the afternoon, the sun was setting and dusk approaching. “Probably not.”
He snapped his Buffalo Bills’ ball cap against his thigh. “How about I fix a Thai stir-fry, crack open a California pinot noir.” He stifled a grin. “And we check out Netflix.”
I was hot under my thermal underwear and it wasn’t just the down jacket and cashmere scarf. It was now or never. I was running out of time. “Only if you let me fix breakfast…”
Lingering light played around the planes of Bill’s face, his smile meandering from one side of his mouth to the other. He leaned in and kissed me sweetly. Right there in the middle of the Etonville town park. Yahoo!
“I like my eggs over easy and my bacon crispy,” he said.
OMG.
About the Author
Suzanne Trauth is a novelist, playwright, screenwriter, and a former university theater professor. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and the Dramatists Guild. When she is not writing, Suzanne coaches actors and serves as a celebrant performing wedding ceremonies. She lives in Woodland Park, New Jersey. Readers can visit her website at www.suzannetrauth.com.
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