Читать книгу Running Out of Time - Suzanne Trauth - Страница 12

5

Georgette, who’d come to see the show, helped Carol distribute Swamp Yankee applesauce cake and pumpkin bread to a morose and frustrated cast and crew. Under the circumstances, they deserved a little free food to keep their spirits up. Not to mention the mulled wine. It disappeared like hotcakes. Lola had explained the situation and that they were free to go, but they were an ensemble, after all, and hanging around the theater was something they just did. Maybe they were hoping that Bill might walk through the lobby doors and announce a stay of execution for the production: There hadn’t been a murder after all and the show would go on. That was a fantasy. Besides, Penny was stationed by the entrance to the theater and had been announcing the cancellation, clipboard in hand. Word would no doubt go viral through Etonville, setting the gossip machine working overtime.

“Dodie, did you see the dead man?” one of the Banger sisters asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Tell me,” the other one lowered her voice. “Did it have something to do with the turntable?” They looked at me eagerly.

“I’m pretty sure the turntable was not responsible for his death.”

“Because we think it’s a deathtrap. Dangerous.” They nodded their heads in unison.

“Excuse me,” I said. Never mind sipping mulled wine from a paper cup, I wanted to dunk my entire head in the punch bowl.

Lola detached herself from Walter, who was sitting in the theater office, scribbling on his script of Eton Town as if he was getting ready to rehearse. He looked as lost as the actors, who huddled in small clusters, whispering.

“This is a nightmare,” Lola said.

“How’s Walter taking it?” I asked, brushing crumbs from the pumpkin bread off my early American blouse. I was on my third slice, eating to remain calm.

“I think he’s in denial.”

“That’s the first stage. Wait until he gets to stages two, three, and four. And forget about acceptance,” I said.

“I don’t understand. What was that man doing in the theater anyway?”

I pulled her aside. “I think Sally knew him.”

“Our Sally?” A light bulb went off. “Do you think that’s why she was in the theater? I wondered about that. Her call wasn’t until five thirty. But if she knew him, why was she running away?” A second bulb. “Unless… Oh no… Do you think she had something to do with his death?”

“I don’t know. But she must have been with him. Her palm was all bloody.”

Her eyes widening, Lola clapped one hand over her mouth as if to keep her shock from escaping.

Penny sauntered over, the only member of the ELT taking the catastrophe in stride. She consulted her clipboard. “Got to most of the audience. Good thing we only had half a house tonight.”

Which was a mixed blessing. Most things were where Penny was concerned.

She checked her watch. “Woulda been show time.” Then she pushed her glasses up a notch. “We got to keep an eye on Walter. He might schiz out. You know he can be a little manic, kind of tri-polar.”

Penny had managed to mashup three psychological disorders and still not get Walter right. “It’s bi-polar. And I don’t think he’s either manic or schizoid.” Personally, I’d have gone with narcissistic.

“Whatever. He could be…you know.” She put her hands on her hips.

“What? Suicidal? Over this show?” If the night wasn’t so tragic, I might have laughed.

Lola closed down the discussion. “Penny, Chief Thompson wants Sally Oldfield’s contact information. And he might want to speak with cast members. Can you take care of it?”

I could see Penny mentally calculating her role in this disaster. “I’m on it. What do you want me to tell the actors about tomorrow night?”

“The truth. The show’s cancelled for this weekend. The chief said no one is to go onstage until further notice,” Lola said.

Penny tapped her clipboard and cackled. Tact and discretion were not in her wheelhouse. “Well, that’s show—”

Lola lost it. “If you say ‘that’s show biz,’ I’m going to scream. And then I’m going to fire you.”

Penny gulped, looked aghast at Lola, and considered the threat. She slowly backtracked, turned on her heel, and toddled across the lobby.

“Getting to you?” I asked softly.

“I need a drink. And not mulled wine.”

“Me too. I’ll clear up the food, you clear out the lobby, and let’s get out of here. I’ll tell Carol.”

“What if the chief…?” she asked.

“I’ll check with him. He can find you if he needs you. Or he can consult with Walter.”

We both leaned sideways to get a better look inside the theater office. Walter was doing a face-plant on the sofa, a pillow over his head, with Penny bent over him, talking in his ear. Not for the first time it occurred to me that they deserved each other.

“Maybe he is tri-polar,” I said solemnly.

Lola and I traded looks, both of us borderline hysterical from the evening’s events. I anticipated the prospect of storing pies and cakes in the Windjammer refrigerator for who-knew-how long and having to listen to Henry’s complaining about it. Lola had to face the prospect of no audience and its effect on the ELT budget. The turntable might turn out to be a boondoggle after all.

* * *

I called Enrico and had him haul what was left of the concession cakes back to the Windjammer. Bill was still observing the CSI unit onstage when I told him that Lola and I were moving next door. He nodded and said he’d be in touch, whatever that meant. I was back in the lobby when I realized I’d left my clothes in the dressing room. I groaned. I would have to spend the rest of the evening dressed like a refugee from Betsy Ross’s sewing circle. In sneakers. Without the mob cap. I ran a brush through my wild waves, chucked the apron behind the concession stand, and donned my down jacket.

A fine mist was descending on us as we slogged through the cold and damp, past a waiting ambulance, to the Windjammer. The brisk air was like a shot of adrenaline. We discarded outerwear on the coat tree inside the restaurant, and Lola and Carol deposited themselves at the bar.

Benny scanned my costume.

“Don’t say it, I know. Betsy Ross,” I said.

“I was going to say Dolly Madison. Without the—”

“Sneakers. Yeah.”

Dinner had wound down but the bar area was packed. Talk about refugees: The ELT’s loss was the Windjammer’s gain. Gillian was helping out behind the bar and Enrico’s wife Carmen was picking up the last few tables.

“Set us up, Benny,” Lola said.

“Tough night. Sorry about the play,” he said as he poured red wine for all three of us.

I never drank on the job, but technically Benny was closing tonight and I was in the restaurant in a purely advisory capacity. Like advising Benny when to refill our glasses. “That’s the first homeless guy in Etonville in a long time,” he said.

“Homeless?”

“That’s what I heard. A homeless guy wandered into the theater and got himself killed,” Benny said.

Now who was spreading that piece of information? “I don’t think they confirmed that he was homeless.”

“What else would he be doing in the ELT?” Carol took a drink of her wine. “Strange that he chose opening night to come in. Of course, with the weather we’ve been having, I’m not surprised someone wanted out of the cold. But too bad he had to die on the set. Now if it had happened in the lobby…”

I eyeballed Lola over the rim of my glass: Mum’s the word on Sally. She responded with a faint nod.

“How did Henry take the news that we’d be housing what’s left of the concession desserts?” I asked Benny, to change the subject.

“You know Henry. Grumble. Groan. Then it blows over.”

“I hope we can put the show up next weekend,” Lola said and twirled her wine glass. “We need an audience. And we had the Star-Ledger reviewer coming Saturday!”

It was quite the coup. After years of sweet-talking and downright begging, the Etonville Little Theatre had finally gotten the attention of north Jersey’s primary newspaper. With the caveat that the reviewer be able to see Eton Town before he went on vacation.

“I suppose it depends on how long it takes the Etonville PD to solve the murder,” I said.

“Once they identify the guy, we should be good to go. I mean, he had no connection to the theater,” Carol said.

“He was murdered in the theater. There was a knife sticking out of his chest!” Lola said, a trifle too dramatically.

Carol paused, glass halfway to her mouth. “What?”

I swallowed a mouthful of wine, choking lightly. That bit of data was not known to the theater at large. Only Walter, Lola, and I knew the details of the man’s death. Bill wanted to keep a lid on things for a few hours until he could identify the deceased. As if.

“That’s privileged information, Carol. You can’t repeat it,” I said in a hurry.

Carol’s salt-and-pepper curly head bobbed. “Sure,” she said, her voice a little shaky.

Lola mouthed “sorry” and I shrugged. It was only a matter of time—hours rather than days—before the whole story ricocheted around Etonville like the eight ball on a pool table. One, Sally’s distress, how she ran off with blood spattered on her hand, two, how the dead man had the knife protruding from his body, three, how—

“Another murder at the theater,” Carol said, sotto voce.

We sat in glum silence for a moment.

Lola stirred. “I’m going home. Dead on my feet. Oh, bad choice of words.” She stood up. “Call me?”

“Sure,” I said.

They left and I finished the last dregs of my wine. I was done in, weighed down by the night’s events. I couldn’t begin to think what would happen next with the investigation, the show, Sally… My usually overactive imagination was on furlough. “’Night, Benny.”

He dipped glasses in soapy water and rinsed them in the bar sink. “Something about that guy next door. Do you think the chief has any evidence?”

I had no clue. But now that Eton Town was indefinitely on hold, I was available to work evening closings and give Benny some time off this weekend. “No idea. I can cover for you this weekend.” I knew he also worked shifts at UPS.

Benny gave me a thumbs-up. “Appreciate it. But take your day off tomorrow. You look like you could use it.”

The icy drizzle had ended by the time I’d hit the street and walked down the block to my red Metro. I was numb and didn’t even mind the drop in temperature in the last two hours. I turned the engine over along with ideas on Sally’s whereabouts. I drove slowly through the slick streets; the mist had frozen into a thin layer of ice, coating trees and sidewalks and roadways. I pulled into my driveway as my cell binged. I desperately hoped it wasn’t anyone with a problem. I’d had my fill of crises for one night. I checked the screen. I couldn’t identify the number but the message was loud and clear: Need to talk. S.

I stuffed the cell in my bag and walked into the house. I stripped off my colonial clothing, pulled on my favorite sweats, and flopped down on the bed. I stared at my cell, a part of me hoping the message had somehow disappeared. No such luck. I contemplated my options. If I texted back, I might be abetting a possible murderer. If I pretended I hadn’t seen the message, I might be leaving an innocent acquaintance stranded. I closed my eyes and saw her face—the terror, the tear-stained cheeks. I made a decision. Acquaintance trumped murderer. Besides, in my heart of hearts I knew the Sally Oldfield in the cast of Eton Town could not have killed anyone. At least not on purpose. Maybe in self-defense?

I tentatively tapped out a message: Where are u? What’s going on? Then I added: Did u know that man? Of course she did. Maybe if we talked, I could convince her to visit the Etonville Police Department. After all, at the moment she could only be considered a person of interest. Until I told Bill that she’d seen the man days ago. Though my body had conceded defeat to the sheets, my mind got a reprieve and started whirring. I closed my eyes to think and was dozing in minutes.

* * *

I woke early—strange dreams of a spinning turntable that no one could stop—but intended to take it easy today. Time for me to contemplate my potential outfits for dinner tonight. I had a couple of dresses and a cream-colored silk suit with a V-neck jacket and slim slacks. It had been a Christmas gift from my parents and hugged me in all the right places. Given the predicted temperature tonight, low twenties, I opted for the suit. It was sophisticated and sexy; neither of which I was feeling at the moment. I squinted into the bathroom mirror. I was past the sore throat, sneezing, and stuffy nose, but my eyes were rimmed in red.

* * *

I’d spent the day checking for Sally’s return text, pampering myself with a bubble bath, and snatching an afternoon nap. By the time Bill picked me up, I was relaxed and excited about the evening.

“So…you’re okay going out with the murder hanging over your head?” I asked as he backed out of my driveway.

“Been doing a lot of grunt work today and Suki is following up. We’re trying to ID the man,” he said.

“Still not telling me where we’re going?” I asked, teasing.

Bill smiled and ran a hand over his blond brush cut. His aftershave—a minty, woodsy aroma that I was used to—wafted across the front seat as he turned away. “Sorry, it’s a—”

“—secret. I know.” I smiled back. We passed a young woman bundled up against the cold, head tucked into her scarf. I inhaled abruptly.

“Something wrong?” Bill asked.

Could it have been Sally? “No. All good.” Why hadn’t she texted me back?

He glanced at me sharply, then veered onto Route 3 East, diving into traffic, crossing lanes to avoid the back-up of cars. I had assumed we were eating at a restaurant in Creston, four miles away from Etonville. A city of twenty thousand with a range of shops and services and socioeconomic areas, from high end to low income. It had a variety of eating establishments, several of which could be described as “special.” But Creston lay in the opposite direction off Route 53.

“Mmm…so not Creston,” I said. “How about a hint?”

“Nope. Curiosity killed the cat.”

Bill maneuvered his car this way and that, navigating the stop-and-go of New Jersey congestion until I realized where we were headed. “That was the last exit in Jersey.”

We threaded our way into the Lincoln Tunnel, evening commuters bumper-to-bumper. New York City. He turned sideways, the light from the streets casting shadows on his chiseled profile. “Yep. Something special.”