Bill waved me over, the technician nodding as I passed him.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I thought it was an abandoned automobile.”
“So did I. Turns out the vehicle wasn’t abandoned.”
Ralph drove up in another police cruiser, his siren blaring.
“Cut the sound,” Bill shouted.
“Copy that, Chief.” Ralph alighted from the car. “Heard over the scanner that you had an 11-83.”
Bill shot a look at Ralph. “Don’t you have an 11-66 over on Belvidere?”
Ralph jammed his hands in his pockets. “They’re about done repairing the street light. Need help here?”
“Make yourself useful and get on the horn to Timothy’s. We’ll need a tow truck to get this thing off the shoulder.”
“10-4.”
Ralph was a cop in search of an incident, though he was usually assigned crowd control whenever there was an incident. “Is he or she…?” I asked carefully.
“Yes. Had to jimmy the lock to open the door.”
The emergency technicians were in the process of moving the body from the car to a gurney.
“Oh no,” I murmured. Something wasn’t right. The blue car, the size and shape of the deceased…
Bill’s walkie-talkie squawked. “Yeah Suki?” He had a brief conversation with his second-in- command, and then pivoted to me. “The car’s registered to a Passonata, first name—”
“—Ruby!” I cried. My heart pounded. Dead. Wait until the theaters found out—
“You know the vic?” Bill asked.
“It’s Ruby. Don’t you recognize her?”
“No. Why should I?”
“The rehearsal accompanist for Bye, Bye, Birdie?” Then I remembered that Bill had come to only a couple of rehearsals, begging off with the excuse that he had to work most other nights.
Suddenly, I could identify the Toyota—dented rear bumper and all. Ruby often parked in front of the Etonville Little Theatre, sometimes illegally, and complained bitterly when she got a ticket from the town meter maid. What was Ruby’s car doing out here on the access road? Had she been on her way home to Creston? The last time I saw her was in the lobby of the theater, before the start of Act Two. I peered into the front seat of Ruby’s car. Her bag was open, some of its contents strewn around the seat and the floor: her wallet, empty cigarette packages, a comb, vitamin bottles, Kleenex, assorted pens, a small notepad, antacid tablets, a Styrofoam take-out container with the remains of a hamburger and French fries, etc. The rest of the car was empty.
“Where’s her flask?”
“What?” Bill glanced up from a pad where he’d been making notes.
“The silver flask?”
“Was she known to…?”
“Yeah. She was never without that little guy.”
Bill poked carefully around Ruby’s purse. “No flask. No apparent signs of trauma. Locked doors, windows shut tight, ignition on—like the engine ran out of gas. She might have had a heart attack or a stroke. Or maybe she was too intoxicated to drive so she pulled over and fell asleep.”
“What she was doing out here, anyway,” I mumbled. My good mood evaporated as the EMTs covered her body. The medical examiner arrived.
“Who knows? We’ll have to wait for the ME to determine cause of death. And don’t go getting any wild ideas,” he cautioned me, running a hand through his blond hair, which was glinting in the summer sun. “I’ll take that coffee now.”
I handed him the paper cup. My investigative instincts often had been on target in helping to solve recent murders in Etonville, but this was a tragic accident and I did not intend to investigate Ruby’s death. My imagination was on hiatus. “I have more than enough to keep me busy these days,” I said pointedly.
Bill gazed at me over the rim of his coffee container. “Dodie, I’m on duty,” he whispered.
“Yes, sir, chief.” I saluted. “See you tonight?”
“If I get all of the paperwork done on this.”
It was difficult to banter back and forth when Ruby lay dead on a gurney, twenty feet away from us.
Ralph marched over from his cruiser. “Chief, Timothy’s tow truck’ll be here in a minute. Where do you want it to go?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of Ruby’s car.
“Timothy’s for now,” Bill said patiently.
“Copy that.”
“Guess I’ll head out. Got a date with Snippets,” I said.
Bill arched an eyebrow. “Can’t envision what the gossip crowd will make of Ruby’s death.”
I could.
* * * *
The hair salon was buzzing with activity by the time I walked in the door. Imogen was shampooing the two Banger sisters at the back sinks, and assistant manager Rita snipped and styled Mildred’s shoulder-length locks. Two customers sat in the waiting area. Meanwhile, Carol juggled the appointment calendar and the phone. Snippets was the beating heart of Etonville.
“Things are hopping in here,” I said.
“It’s always like this near an ELT opening. Everyone insists on getting their hair done, even when they’re wearing wigs in the show,” Carol said sotto voce.
“Thanks for squeezing me in.” I followed her to a cutting station and she flapped a cape around my neck.
“Why don’t you get Bill to take you away for your birthday weekend?” Carol asked as she waggled a pair of scissors and studied my wavy mane. “Maybe an inch off. The ends are splitting.”
“Fine,” I said. Carol went to work.
“Dodie, it’s your birthday?” The Banger sisters had settled themselves into chairs on my left.
“In a couple of weeks—”
“You’re a Gemini?” Mildred said from my right.
“Yeah.” I laughed. “That’s me. The twins.”
“My first boyfriend was a Gemini. Very moody, unreliable, and dishonest,” she said.
“Really?” I asked. “I was under the impression that Geminis are open-minded, fun-loving, and great multi-taskers with good instincts.” I scanned the group. Both the Bangers and Mildred eyed me skeptically.
Imogen waltzed over to join the conversation, newspaper in hand. “Have you read your horoscope for today?”
“Not yet,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Says here you’re ‘going to meet the love of your life—a quiet, intellectual, book worm.’”
They stared at me expectantly. That certainly didn’t describe Bill.
“And ‘that if you come upon a puzzle today, don’t be afraid to solve it,’” Imogen added.
“Not sure what that means,” I said, aiming for light and noncommittal.
“Good thing nobody has died this morning,” one of the Banger sisters said solemnly.
Uh-oh. Wait until the news about Ruby arrived.
As if on cue, the front door opened and Edna rushed in. “Have you heard?” she screeched and flapped her arms frenetically.
All eyes swiveled to face her. “What?” Mildred asked.
“It’s Ruby. She’s gone!” Edna exclaimed, strands of gray-brown hair popping willy-nilly out of the bun on the top of her head.
“Gone? Where?” asked Carol. “I hope she’s back in time for the tech rehearsal tonight. I know she can be difficult but she’s a whiz on the piano and nobody knows the score as well as—”
“The chief was called out for an 11-24—and maybe an 11-54—on the highway, but when he got there it was an 11-41 and…” She gulped. “And then an 11-44. Of course, we all know Ruby liked to take a sip now and then…” She mimed a bottle to her lips and her audience nodded in unison. “So it might be a 23152.”
Drunk driving?
Edna wrung her hands. “What are we going to do?”
“Edna! For Pete’s sake, stop!” Mildred put up a hand like a traffic cop. �
��What do all of those numbers mean?”
I tiptoed into the discussion. “There was an incident this morning. Ruby—”
“She’s dead!” Edna hollered.
Stunned silence. We were off to the races…
* * * *
By the time I reached the Windjammer, word must have ricocheted around Etonville like a billiard ball off the rail of a pool table. I had barely entered the restaurant when Lola texted: Have you heard? I texted back with words of support, and suggested she stop by so that we could talk. Though Ruby’s loss of life was of utmost importance, I hoped that her death didn’t delay the opening and Henry’s creation of the contest winning recipes.
“Some news about that piano player.” Benny cleaned the soda taps and prepped the bar. “They’re saying she was probably drunk…”
Possibly.
“…and that the chief had to smash her window to get in.”
“He didn’t actually smash the window—”
“And that a witness saw a man running away from the scene.”
What? “Who said that?” I asked.
Benny gestured. “You know Etonville.”
I certainly did, and it took very little to trigger the rumor mill grinding. Ruby would be this week’s grist. “Walter will need to replace her if Bye, Bye, Birdie is going to open on time.”
“Henry’s already working himself into a lather over the food contest. Hope this doesn’t throw a monkey wrench into the process.”
I needed to calm Henry’s frazzled nerves. I pushed on the swinging doors into the kitchen.
“Do-dee,” Wilson sang out, accent on the second syllable, and, grabbing me in a bear hug, swung me around, “I am so hap-py!”
I bounced against his mid-section. “Wilson, you can put me down.” My feet touched the ground, my knees flexing, my legs wobbling. “What’s up?”
A grin creased his brown face. “Henry iz beautiful! You are beautiful! And me? I am making my blanquette de veau!” He kissed his fingers and released the smooches to the air.
Tonight was the rollout of the winning appetizer—stuffed potato skins with avocado and cilantro—backed up by a simple dinner special of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes. Why in the world was Henry relinquishing the kitchen to Wilson and his white veal stew? “Where is Henry?” I asked.
Wilson smiled broadly and enveloped himself in a chef’s apron. “In ze back.”
I walked outside. Behind the restaurant, Henry cultivated a garden that produced an abundance of basil, rosemary, thyme, oregano, parsley, and dill—and kept the kitchen stocked with fresh herbs. They were his secret bullets. He tended his plants like an over-protective parent.
“Things are awfully green out here,” I said, as he pinched leaves and cut bits of stems here and there.
Henry grunted.
“Wilson tells me he’s doing the veal dish tonight. Thought that was next week. You know, introduce the palates of Etonville to his French-Haitian recipes gradually.”
Henry sighed.
“What’s going on?” I asked gently.
“I miss Enrico.”
“I do too, but give Wilson time and he’ll be—”
“And my daughter got engaged to a nincompoop,” he finished darkly.
“Oh.” Henry rarely talked about his home life. His wife worked in the city at a Wall Street investment firm, and his daughter graduated from college two years ago. This was the first I’d heard about a match gone wrong. I flashed on a picture of my father’s reaction to one of my high school boyfriends. Also a nincompoop. “When’s the wedding?” I asked carefully.
“When hell freezes over if I have anything to say about it. Which I don’t.” He tossed a spray of rosemary into a basket. “I said ‘yes’ to Wilson in a moment of frustration.”
“Right. Is it too late to walk it back?”
Henry ducked his head forlornly.
* * * *
Ruby’s passing was all anyone talked about during the mid-day rush. Henry’s potato leek soup garnered limited attention—which was too bad because it was one of his best recipes. As Benny poured drinks and Gillian hurried from table to booth, I topped off coffee cups, rang up bills, and eavesdropped on conversations.
“Here we go again. Another ELT production, another death.” Unfortunately, true.
“At least she wasn’t murdered.” Also true.
“Good thing she’s not from Etonville.” A member of the Etonville Little Theatre.
“What will happen with the show?” The question on everyone’s lips.
At two o’clock, just as the steady stream of hungry townsfolk dwindled, Lola swept into the Windjammer. She didn’t bother looking right or left, but headed straight to my back booth by the kitchen door. She slumped onto the bench and I signaled Benny to bring us coffee.
“Are we never going to get a show up without a crisis?” she cried.
Crisis was Lola’s euphemism for sudden death. “Sorry Lola. I know this is the last thing any of you need.”
“I feel terrible about Ruby, of course. She wasn’t the most agreeable accompanist I’ve ever worked with, but Dale said the Creston Players couldn’t have gotten along without her.” Lola twisted a length of blond hair around her index finger. It was a nervous tic I’d seen before.
“She certainly knew music. I mean, scanning a score and then putting it away? That’s a rare talent,” I said.
“Dale said they were lucky she showed up some years ago. He actually brought her into the Players. She was an accompanist for his voice teacher,” she said.
“Where did she come from? Does she have family in the area?”
“According to Dale, she lived alone,” Lola said.
“So now what?”
“Penny is contacting the cast. We’re going to have rehearsal at the theater tonight and cancel the tech for one day. Our new accompanist needs to get up to speed with the piano,” she said.
“You have a replacement already?”
“The only possible person at this late date,” Lola said. “Alex. The musical director. He knows the show. He’s not as talented on the keyboard as Ruby, but…”
Beggars can’t be choosers, she left unsaid. I didn’t have much contact with Alex, but he seemed like a decent guy—polite, soft-spoken, and patient with Walter. That in itself made him an asset to the production. “So he’ll direct the combo and play the piano?”
“It’s done a lot. He’s done it before, he says.” She bit her lip. “I had such high hopes for Bye, Bye, Birdie.”
“It’s too soon to get depressed. There’s time to pull it all together,” I said.
I left Lola with a bowl of Henry’s potato soup and replaced Gillian at the cash register so that she could take a break.
Other than seeing Ruby at rehearsal and when she ate at the Windjammer, I didn’t know her well. I felt down about her dying and wondered who would miss the older woman? Who knew her well enough to miss her? What was it she’d said to me last night? “You can’t trust anyone…they only get you in the end…I know…from experience.” Sounded like a bitter memory, if you asked me. Of course, no one was asking my opinion of Ruby’s life or death—and it was just as well. I wanted no part of this latest catastrophe. I had enough on my culinary plate.
Gillian waltzed through the swinging doors and into the dining room. A crash and a loud exclamation followed her.
Wilson again.
3
I flicked off the lights and locked the front door of the Windjammer. It was almost midnight; I’d sent everyone else home over an hour ago. Sometimes, being the last person standing felt like a good way to wind down from the day. The afternoon had been hectic, preventing my normal three o’clock break. Instead, I prepped the inventory sheets for the winning entrees, assuring Henry that, though he was iffy on the contest dishes, patrons woul
d love them as much as they did tonight’s winner. The potato skins earned raves—this kind of an appetizer was definitely in Etonville’s wheelhouse. I was not sure about upcoming specials.
Wilson’s blanquette de veau was another matter. I’d say it was a fifty-fifty response. Some patrons thought the veal stew was fine, though a trifle too chichi. The other half of the crowd speculated on why it had to be so white. Where was the color? Wilson insisted on the classic version prepared by his Haitian grandmother, and was adamant about no carrots or peas. He and Henry sparred for three rounds until Henry yielded, still dejected by his daughter’s impending marriage. Wilson gave him a bear hug as a consolation prize.
I stopped on the sidewalk outside the restaurant and gazed upward. The sky was inky black and clear, promising a sunny day tomorrow and hinting that the weather might cooperate throughout the week. The last thing the theater needed was to be rained out on opening night. I sank into the driver’s seat of my Metro and cranked the engine. My mind skipped to this morning and witnessing the EMTs placing Ruby’s lifeless body on the gurney. I took the leisurely way home. All was serene, quiet. I drove through the empty streets of Etonville to the north end of town, though I lived in the south end. I was in Lola’s neighborhood which made me speculate about rehearsal, the musical director’s handling of the accompaniment, Walter’s pre-show exercises, and Penny’s antics…
As if on autopilot, my Metro headed to the access road leading to State Route 53. Timothy’s Timely Service station was up ahead, and I slowed down. As I drove by, I located Ruby’s Toyota parked prominently among the cluster of cars awaiting service. I had personal experience with Timothy’s earlier in the year, and “timely” might have been a slight exaggeration. I gazed in my rearview mirror. A pinpoint of light flicked on inside Ruby’s car. The service station was closed. I tapped my breaks and when I looked up into the mirror again, the light had disappeared. Was it my imagination?
I brushed off a spooky sensation and pressed the gas pedal, beating it back to Ames and my home in minutes. I climbed out of the car, scooting to my front porch. Inside the house, I yawned, looking forward to hunkering down in bed, maybe reading a chapter or two—
Just in Time Page 3