Читать книгу Just in Time - Suzanne Trauth - Страница 10

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“If the Etonville Little Theatre was doing Carousel instead of Bye, Bye, Birdie, I could sing ‘June Is Bustin’ Out All Over!’” Lola Tripper said, humming and sipping a cup of coffee in a back booth of the Windjammer restaurant, which also functioned as my office. “I love June. Such a gorgeous time of year.”

“You’re in a pretty chipper mood. Guess it might have something to do with the Creston Players?” I signed off on the inventory sheets for the week’s menus. Windjammer’s chef/owner Henry was experimenting with some new specials, and I had to order an unusual amount of avocadoes, cilantro, acorn squash, and curry paste.

“Should I speak to Walter?” Lola asked, a mesh of worry lines creasing her forehead.

“Why? What’s he done now?” Walter Zeitzman, the on-again-off-again ELT director and Lola’s former love interest was in a snit most days now. Professional and personal jealousy if you asked me, Dodie O’Dell, manager of the Windjammer restaurant in Etonville, New Jersey, a stone’s throw from New York City.

“You know how he feels about Dale.”

I knew. Lola scored a trifecta last month: She met Dale Undershot via an online dating website; Dale turned out to be a member of a theater company in Creston, the town next door to Etonville; they concocted a co-production between the Etonville Little Theatre and the Creston Players. Lola and Dale were the romantic leads in Bye, Bye, Birdie. Walter was chewing nails these days, as the designated director of the production.

“Last night when he was setting light cues, Walter made a snide comment about Dale that, according to Penny, had everyone screaming their heads off. Very unprofessional behavior.” She frowned.

Lola, actor, director, and ELT diva, had been my BFF since my arrival in Etonville from the Jersey Shore following the destruction of my home and place of employment during Hurricane Sandy. Henry’s cousin owned the restaurant I had managed down the shore before the hurricane and had recommended me for my current job. I thought about moving to New York as I’d headed north across the Driscoll Bridge from the shore. I got as far as Etonville and settled in—managing the Windjammer, Henry’s moods, and the staff. I’d also become an honorary member of the Etonville Little Theatre, celebrating its successes, commiserating with Lola when productions went off the rails.

I was sensitive to the fact that Lola had been actively boyfriend hunting for the past year. Dale was a good fit: charming, handsome, and unattached—definitely a keeper. “What did Walter say?” I asked gingerly.

“Something about Dale’s hair piece.”

“That’s dangerous territory.” Everybody knew about Dale’s explosive temper and great head of hair, but no one mentioned it—until now. “I guess Walter’s feeling neglected.”

Lola wiped her mouth on a napkin. “I can’t keep playing his nursemaid. He has to get over me and grow up.”

“Easier said than done.” I paused. “What exactly did Walter say?”

“Oh…something about if they didn’t get the cues straight for Dale’s ‘Put on a Happy Face’ number there’d be hell ‘toupee.’”

I tucked an inventory sheet onto a clipboard. “Actually, that’s kind of clever—for Walter.”

“I guess so,” Lola conceded.

We both giggled.

“Hey you two,” Benny, bartender and Windjammer assistant manager, sidled up to the booth. “You gotta cheer up.”

“Wise guy,” I said.

Things definitely felt more relaxed at the restaurant these days. Henry’s specials were attracting more traffic than at any time in the last year. He was almost on a par with his crosstown nemesis La Famiglia—since he’d gotten an extra half star from the Etonville Standard’s restaurant reviewer this spring. The Windjammer came in with three and a half stars to La Famiglia’s four. We were gaining on them.

“Henry wants to know if you’re going to announce the contest winners tomorrow night?” Benny asked.

I’d been promoting the Windjammer/Etonville Little Theatre connection for several years now by producing some pretty hot theme-food ideas: a seafood buffet for Dames At Sea, Italian night for Romeo and Juliet, a 1940s food festival for Arsenic and Old Lace, and early American concession treats for Eton Town. Each event had its own hiccups, but those are other stories…

Bye, Bye, Birdie had me stumped. What to do with a 1960s musical about a hip-thrusting rock star drafted by Uncle Sam? Inspired by Elvis Presley’s actual army induction, Bye, Bye, Birdie had a good run on Broadway and in the movies, but my usually peppy creativity was snoozing and I was ready to say bye-bye to the entire theme food project.

Then it hit me! In the musical, there’s a fan club competition to choose a young woman on whom Conrad Birdie would bestow one last kiss before he’s inducted into the service. Why not an Etonville contest to choose dishes to serve during the run of the show? When Etonville got wind of the contest, there was a deluge of entries. Who knew the town was so competitive? Appetizers, salads, entrees—the whole enchilada. Henry chose the winners, since he’d be responsible for actually creating the meals. As usual, he grumbled his way through the process, but, secretly, he was pleased to have so many people interested in his menus. We ended up with three entrees and an appetizer.

“Announcing the winners is a good idea.”

A loud crash from the kitchen yanked our attention toward the swinging doors that led into Henry’s inner sanctum.

Benny and I locked eyeballs. “Wilson!” we both said in tandem.

“How’s Henry’s new assistant coming along?” Lola asked tentatively.

“I miss Enrico,” Benny answered and headed back to the bar.

“Me too, but he has bigger fish to fry now.” Enrico, Henry’s second-in-kitchen-command, returned to cooking school to up his future prospects. He now worked part-time, mostly on weekends. In his place, Henry had taken the suggestion of his restauranteur cousin and hired newly minted sous chef Wilson. I was the last person Henry’s cousin recommended for hire. That worked out. Wilson was a young Haitian—a new culinary institute grad. Cheerful, full of laughter, always smiling—

Another clatter. “Wilson!” Henry bellowed, his voice audible in the dining room.

—and sort of gravity challenged. He dropped things.

Lola winced. “It was good of Henry to hire Wilson. Being a mentor—giving him a chance to kick off his career.”

Henry poked his head into the dining room. “Dodie,” he hissed, and motioned for me to join him in the kitchen.

Customers were trickling in for lunch. I jumped up. “Gotta soothe some ruffled feathers.”

Lola finished her coffee. “I have to run too. Don’t forget you’re coming by rehearsal tonight. Last run-through in the theater before we move to the park. I’d like you to see Act One—some new choreography for Dale and me.”

“Benny’s closing so I can sneak over after seven.”

* * * *

Dinner was well under way. Regulars stopped in to eat before rehearsal next door. Henry, though cautious, let Wilson try his hand with some items this week and the result was definitely multi-cultural. Sole meunière—complemented by rice and beans and fried plantains—were served on Saturday. Tonight’s feature was moules frites. I tried explaining to customers that it was simply mussels and fries. I’d eaten variations on the dish down the Jersey Shore many times.

“We know Wilson is very continental,” said one of the elderly Banger sisters—Etonville’s gossip mavens who kept their arthritic fingers on the pulse of the town’s affairs.

“Very French, don’t you know,” said the other. They bobbed their curly gray perms in unison.

“But we’d be happy with the other type of French food,” said the first one.

I refilled their coffee cups. “What other type?”

“French fries, French toast—”

“French onion soup—”

Geez. “Nice to see you ladies. Have a good rehearsal,” I said and scooted away. Walter was no particular friend of mine, but I had to sympathize with him on this one. Directing the Banger sisters in Bye, Bye, Birdie had to be an act of self-flagellation. Of course they were only in the chorus, like a number of other Etonville citizens, but—

“I hear we’re going French tonight?”

I looked up from the cash register. My heart did a flip-flop whenever I heard Bill’s husky voice, the corner of his mouth inching upward in that quirky smile, and glimpsed his former NFL running back-physique. “Hey handsome. Leaving work early?” I leaned over the counter exposing a bit of cleavage.

Bill’s ruddy face turned a shade deeper. “Shh! You want the whole town to know our business?”

“What parallel universe are you living in? We’re already the topic of steady conversation.” The occupants of most tables in the dining room had swiveled their attention in our direction. “See what I mean?” I murmured.

Bill ducked his head and walked to my back booth. I followed with a menu and a table set-up. “Must be a slow gossip day.”

“What happened to privacy?” Bill grumbled.

“That ship has sailed in Etonville.”

Bill settled on the moules frites and a glass of cabernet, digging into the mussels with relish. “Wilson is a good addition to the staff.”

A racket in the kitchen made us both flinch. “Agreed. Are you going to rehearsal tonight? I’m dropping in later and maybe I can catch a ride home…” I let the image dangle before his imagination. Bill and I cemented our growing relationship two months ago when we’d begun sharing living accommodations: most weekends at his place because it’s larger, tidier, and he loves to cook, and occasional weeknights at my bungalow, which I scramble to make presentable.

“Your Metro out of commission?” he asked innocently.

There was nothing wrong with my red Chevy and its one-hundred-thousand-plus miles. “No, but after you tread the boards tonight you might need a little rest and recreation,” I said provocatively.

Bill shook his head vigorously. “I told Walter I can’t rehearse tonight. I have a stack of paperwork. I don’t know why I let you talk me into acting in this musical anyway.”

I straightened up. “First of all, you’re not really acting. You play a cop. Second, all you do in the scene is blow a whistle and interrupt the onstage chaos—like you do in Etonville. Third, it’s your civic duty to support the town and its citizens. The mayor is certain this will bring positive PR to the municipal building.”

“My civic duty is preventing crime and keeping the town safe,” he argued and drank his wine.

“Chrystal told me today she needs you to try on your costume,” I said.

“Why can’t I wear my Etonville PD uniform?”

“Because it’s a show and you’re an actor.”

“You said I wasn’t acting.” He wiped his hands on the napkin and pushed his plate away.

Bill was being ornery. “This will be fun. You’ll see,” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt. Maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea to have Bill play a police officer in Bye, Bye, Birdie. Even if his onstage presence lasted seconds. It seemed like a nice gimmick at the time. Lola bought into it. Walter was skeptical.

“Any more opinions on vacation?” Bill asked.

We’d been discussing summer plans for weeks now. I wanted to spend some time down the shore in August and he was itching to travel to the great outdoors in upstate New York. Camping, fishing, rafting, and generally, according to Bill, communing with nature. I would be communing with bug spray and a bottle of wine. We had yet to come to an agreement.

“I have to make reservations at the campground,” he said.

I hated to throw shade on his plans but…“Maybe we should think about this some more.” I moved out of the booth. “Gotta get to the rehearsal. Talk later.”

“But Dodie—”

“I’ll have your costume delivered to the municipal building tomorrow.”

* * * *

“O’Dell, this is going to put us on the map—doing a show all frisky,” Penny said and slapped her clipboard against her stocky body. Penny Ossining, stage manager, was Walter’s most loyal minion, a trusted sidekick for many years, a longtime veteran of the Etonville Little Theatre, and part-time worker at the Etonville post office. She saw herself as the cornerstone of the community theater, and loved to dole out theatrical wisdom. Her whistle was legend among theater folks.

“You mean…al fresco? It’s Italian for outside.”

Penny squinted at me. “Whatever. It’s in the park. First time for the ELT.”

“Lola said it’s the first time for the Creston Players too.”

“Yeah.” Penny jerked her head over her shoulder and watched Walter in the center of Etonville and Creston high school students who were playing Conrad Birdie’s fan club. They were rehearsing their fainting spell for the moment when Birdie propelled his pelvis at them. They practiced standing, then falling, then standing again, then falling again—until they were laughing hysterically and Walter threw up his hands in frustration. “You are squealing when you should be swooning!”

The kids gawked at their director, shrugged, and remained on the floor.

“Squealing is an exhale.” Walter let loose a high-pitched whine that brought the entire theater to a standstill. “Swooning is an inhale! It’s a moment of awe! Of astonishment! You are overcome by the presence of Birdie!” He took a deep breath in, fluttered his arms, and plunged to the floor. The kids guffawed. “On your feet,” Walter ordered.

He wasn’t too keen on this co-production enterprise.

“You’re right. Walter hates this co-pro stuff.”

Penny was still in my head. How did she do that? “Maybe next year you’ll do Shakespeare in the park. You know, like Central Park in New York,” I said.

“O’Dell, you crack me up.” She checked her watch. “Time to round up the troops.”

“10-4.”

She blasted her whistle, and the sound waves reverberated off the walls of the Etonville Little Theatre. The cast and crew were holding their ears. Lola and Dale, sitting in the back of the theatre, their heads together, were oblivious. Yowza. She had it bad. Penny prodded and threatened and, gradually, the cast gathered in the first rows of seats. Walter lectured them on the challenges of performing outside—gnawing mosquitos and humidity doing a number on their make-up. The ELT crowd was used to Walter’s eccentric tutorials, but the Creston actors displayed a collective “Huh?”

“Lola? Lola, could you come up here?” Walter called out plaintively, eyeing the two leads in the midst of their cozy tête-à-tête. “I need your opinion.”

Lola and Dale moved down a side aisle of the theater. Lola was smashing in a snug, black, knit top, her blond hair flowing gently around her face. You’d never know she had a daughter in college. Dale was dressed in a blue knit shirt that accentuated his muscular physique. Lola squeezed her leading man’s hand as he joined some actors in the first row, and she made her way to Walter’s side. I couldn’t help but notice Dale’s straight jet-black hair—a toupee all right. Looking at Dale’s hair reminded me that my own auburn waves were due for a trim. I needed to call Snippets in the morning.

A hacking cough interrupted my train of thought. It was Ruby, the rehearsal accompanist. She was one of Creston’s contributions to the co-production. Word was she’d been working with the Players for a number of years. Mid-seventies, wizened, with close-cropped gray hair, Ruby was an inveterate smoker who had to decamp to the loading dock for a cigarette during breaks. Always in the same uniform—sneakers, rumpled trousers, and an over-sized button down shirt— she was also something of a musical savant. She could scan a score and then play it by heart. “Hi Ruby. How did it go in the park last night?” Lola mentioned that Ruby, Walter, and some crew set musical cues in preparation for the “all frisky” tech tomorrow.

She coughed. “That Walter’s a horse’s patoot.”

She’d hit the nail decisively on the head. “Hard to take sometimes?”

She hacked again, letting out puffs of breath smelling of alcohol. Ruby carried a hip flask in her bag and usually had a few nips during her smoke breaks. “I’ve worked with the best of ’em and the worst of ’em,” she said, her voice raspy. “Him? They broke the mold.”

“Well…as long as the show gets up.” I was channeling Penny.

“Hah. I told the Players this two-theater thing would be a disaster. Bunch of amateurs and no-talents.”

Was she referring to Etonville or Creston actors—or both? Might as well shift to more pleasant territory. “Lola said you’re a terrific accompanist.”

Ruby studied me. “What’s your name?”

“Dodie. I manage the Windjammer next door,” I said, nudging her memory.

Ruby’s watery eyes glimmered. Then narrowed. “Oh. That crummy restaurant. Tried to eat the food. Made me sick.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said politely.

“Well. At my age lotta stuff makes you sick,” Ruby said. “Getting older’s not for sissies.”

Out of nowhere, I felt for her. Maybe her life wasn’t so easy. “I guess not.”

“You’re young but some day you’ll see it.”

See what? Walter motioned to Ruby to join the musical combo sitting in the pit below the stage. “It was nice to talk—”

“You married?” Ruby asked.

“Me? No! Not yet.” I said awkwardly.

“Good. Lemme give you some advice.”

Over her shoulder, Walter was anxious to get the rehearsal underway. Penny signaled the actors, and Lola gazed into Dale’s rugged face.

“Stay single. You can’t trust anyone. They only get you in the end. I know from experience,” she said emphatically, easing the flask out of her bag to take a sip.

“I guess that’s true sometimes. You think you know a person…”

Ruby brought her face close to mine. “It’s not what you know about ’em. It’s what you don’t know.”

Yikes. Some history there. Ruby toddled off.

* * * *

The first act of Bye, Bye, Birdie was in progress. Lola and Dale were the starry-eyed couple Rosie and Albert, all cooing and cuddly, with Rosie lamenting Albert’s songwriting career and Albert promising to give up the music business. The ELT hotshot, we all called him “Romeo,” swaggered around the stage as the rock-and-roll superstar Conrad Birdie. He pretty much played himself. Janice, a lovely young girl from Creston High played the ingénue Kim, a member of Conrad’s fan club in Sweet Apple, Ohio. Vernon, the narrator from Eton Town, and Edna, the Etonville police department dispatcher, were Kim’s parents. Abby, manager of the Valley View Shooting Range, was Albert’s overbearing, aggravating mother—typecasting according to some. The actor playing Hugo was a tall athlete from Creston, cute but gawky…I figured basketball. He flirted with Janice, which annoyed Pauli, my teenage tech guru, who hung around the theater as the ELT photographer and had designs on Janice himself. He was crushing on her badly. Finally, there were the Etonville citizens in the chorus—Vernon’s wife Mildred, a church choir director; the stars-in-their-aging-eyes Banger sisters; and Imogen, the shampoo girl from Snippets, making her first appearance on the stage. Bill, who didn’t have an entrance until the end of Act Two, would be missing the run-through.

Things moved smoothly through the first half, the high school kids having fun with “The Telephone Hour,” sashaying in and around old-fashioned telephones on pedestals while Romeo strutted across the stage in way-too-tight gold lamé pants and greasy hair.

“I thought there were no costumes until later this week,” I whispered to Carol, who sat next to me. She was the owner of Snippets salon, the moderator of rumor central, and Pauli’s mother. Carol was my other BFF. She did hair and make-up for the theater.

Carol sighed. “We tried to keep those pants off Romeo, but he stuck out his crotch and said ‘Hand ’em over.’ Said he needed to do some method acting tonight. Chrystal gave in.”

He wiggled and jiggled the lower half of his body, his arms around the teenagers from Sweet Apple. Romeo was in his element…method acting, all right. “Hey, can you have Edna take Bill’s costume to the municipal building tomorrow? He doesn’t understand why he can’t wear his own uniform.”

Carol chuckled, her salt-and-pepper curly hair springing around her face. “That’s cute. I’ll tell Chrystal. Hey, have you made arrangements for your birthday?” She raised an expectant eyebrow. “It’ll be here before you know it.”

“Nothing definite yet.”

Conrad Birdie sang “One Last Kiss,” at the end of Act One. Carol dragged herself out of the theater seat. “I’ve got to get backstage to give notes on hair and make-up.”

“Can I pop into the shop in the morning? I need a trim,” I said. Carol was good about accommodating my last-minute appointments.

“Sure.” She scurried off.

The curtain fell on the last notes of the Act One finale, with the company reprising “A Normal, American Boy.” The theater lights rose along with the noise of the usual backstage hubbub. The crew set the scene for Act Two. Actors dashed around. Some of them wandered into the house, and Walter admonished Penny about taking charge of the production. She blew her whistle to get everyone’s attention. “Take fifteen for intermission. Performance conditions!”

Alex Milken, the musical director, and other members of the Creston Players, winced at the detonation of Penny’s whistle from their seats. I’d met Alex when he stopped by the Windjammer for a meal. He was a recent addition to the Players staff. Ruby stole out of the orchestra pit, bag in hand, and made a beeline backstage—no doubt for a rendezvous with the loading dock.

Dale intercepted Ruby. He drew her into an alcove on the left side of the stage. With the usual intermission turmoil in the house, no one paid attention to the two of them. He snatched Ruby’s arm and bent down, talking rapidly. She flung her head back, yanking herself away from him. Dale glanced around the theater, smoothed his hair, and said one final thing to her before she traipsed away. Some squabble. More than likely, Dale was giving Ruby a tongue-lashing about a musical cue. He certainly was a stickler when it came to his performance.

“Hey.”

“Hi Pauli. Getting some good rehearsal shots?” His digital camera hung on a cord around his neck. Since enrolling in a photography class at Etonville High, Pauli had served as the ELT production photographer—a role he accepted with great pride.

“I dunno.” He fiddled with the camera.

This was not the eager, upbeat kid who’d cheerfully assisted me on a couple of murder investigations—email hacking, digital forensics, and deep Internet searches. “Something wrong?” I asked gently.

“Like, Janice,” he mumbled, brushing a hank of brown hair off his forehead.

Aha. Girl trouble. It was a year ago that Carol was fretting he’d never get a date for the junior prom, and here he was, twelve months later, mooning over a female. “The actress playing Kim. Pretty awesome. What’s the problem?”

“It’s that guy who plays her boyfriend,” he said.

“The tall kid from Creston High.”

“That’s the dude.”

He was feeling the competition. “Pauli, they’re acting. You know, it’s the…method.” I flashed on Romeo parading around in his gold pants. “They have to be convincing.”

“That dude is too convincing.”

“Why don’t you ask Janice out after rehearsal?” Pauli was now officially driving the family car. “Maybe you could take her home?”

His eyes lit up for a moment, then went dull. “That means, like, I’d have to talk to her.”

I proceeded carefully. “You haven’t spoken to her yet?”

“Nah. Like she doesn’t know I exist. This love thing…it’s bogus,” Pauli said solemnly.

I got it.

* * * *

I told Lola the show was in great shape, begged off Act Two because I was exhausted and had an early day tomorrow, and moved to the lobby. The door whooshed open behind me. It was Ruby. She stared, blinked, and scanned the expanse of space—empty except for a banquet table and folding chairs stacked in a corner.

“You seen my bag?” she rasped.

“Your bag? No,” I said. “Did you leave it somewhere?”

“Duh. That’s why I’m out here,” Ruby said sarcastically.

The trill of Penny’s whistle leaked into the lobby. “Guess it’s time for Act Two.”

Ruby coughed. “They can’t do it without me.” She stomped back into the house.

What was that about? She left with her bag—which contained the flask—at the end of Act One. How did she have time to misplace it?

It was nine-fifteen, but felt like midnight. I’d gotten only six hours of sleep last night thanks to a chaotic camping nightmare featuring me being chased by a black bear into dense woods while Bill climbed a tree and hung out with his fishing rod. I had to win the summer vacation argument. I hadn’t been camping since my Girl Scout troop spent a weekend by the Delaware River when I was ten years old. It rained so hard the tents filled with water, all of our clothes got soaked, mold blossomed on our hot dog buns, and no one could get the campfire lit. Wet, cold, and hungry. Some outdoor fun!

I stepped into the June night air, inhaling deeply. The temperature had risen to eighty today. The summer humidity was like a wet blanket. Walter was right: The outdoor production might dictate that the actors deal with drippy make-up. A light breeze kicked up and it felt good on my face and neck.

I climbed into my sturdy Metro, flicked the ignition switch, and backed out of my space in front of the Windjammer. Through the window I could see Benny at the bar and Gillian, our twenty-something waitress, serving the last of the dinner customers. I was over the moon to have an early night. A glass of chardonnay, the latest thriller by my favorite mystery author, a speedy check of my Facebook page, and a date with my bed.

Then I recalled Carol’s reminder. My birthday was creeping up, and though I’d casually mentioned the date and a possible celebration, Bill had not picked up on my hint. Without warning, the hairs on the nape of my neck quivered and I shuddered—my radar whenever something was bothering me. Was it the wind blowing in the driver’s side window? My birthday? Or something else?