Just in Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “Penny! Get the cast out of the house!” shouted Walter.

  “I’m on it. Performance conditions!” she cried shrilly, blasting her whistle. But the actors were either too excited to pay attention, or so used to the whistle they ignored it.

  Chrystal ran past us. “Get those pants off, Romeo! I need to sew the seam.”

  Lola waved from the stage, giving me a thumb’s-up. I gave her one back.

  Bill gawked. “What the…?”

  “Another night in ELT land,” I said. “Organized chaos. Actually, it’s pretty much theater in general from what I can tell.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bill said, unconvinced.

  “You’d better head backstage and check in with Penny. Don’t want to make the stage manager crazy.” Any crazier than she already was…

  Bill heaved himself up, and stood awkwardly by my seat. “Do I look okay? This outfit is tight.” He yanked on the collar of his shirt.

  I was a sucker for a tight uniform—especially one that emphasized Bill’s former football physique. “What do you mean okay?”

  “You know, like a cop?” he asked.

  “Sure. But you look like a cop all the time so…”

  “Here goes nothing,” he said.

  “Go get ’em, Stanislavsky.”

  “Who?” Bill asked.

  “A Russian actor Walter’s always quoting.”

  “I’d like to see him in this cop suit,” he grumbled.

  “Too late. He’s dead.”

  “Lucky guy.” Bill marched off as if to his doom.

  I stood and stretched, mentally ticking off tomorrow morning’s to do list.

  Wilson approached. “Do-dee, c’est fantastique! Formidable!”

  My French was minimal, but I got the gist. Wilson was more than impressed. “I agree. Can’t wait for Act Two. I’ll be right back.”

  Post-show notes required the entire company’s attention, so any chance to speak with Alex one-on-one would have to happen now. He bent his head over the score. “Alex? Sorry to disturb you.”

  He looked up, took a moment to register my presence. “Hi Dodie. How’s the show looking out there?”

  “Great. Very nice.”

  He turned back to the score. “Can I do something for you?”

  “I know your mind is on other things, but I wanted to ask you something about Ruby.”

  “What about Ruby?” He continued to examine the score.

  “When Lola and I were searching for the cue sheet, I found a scrapbook. It had a lot of family photos of Ruby and her parents and a bunch of clippings. Did she ever mention her past to you?”

  “Her past?” His face was a question mark.

  “The fact that she was a concert pianist who’d won a ton of prizes and awards when she was young,” I said. “She graduated from the Maynard Institute.”

  Alex grew quiet. “She did?”

  “Yes, but it all ended in her late twenties. I wondered why. What happened that she suddenly stopped playing and touring?”

  Penny tramped over. “Places in five,” she said with as much authority as she could muster. “Hey O’Dell.”

  “The show’s going well, Penny. Good luck with Act Two,” I said.

  “You know what they say: The show’s over whenever the fat lady sings. No names.” She cackled and moved on.

  Geez.

  “Sorry, I have to get back to work,” Alex said apologetically.

  “Right. I didn’t mean to distract you.”

  “By the way, Ruby never talked about her career. I’m as surprised as you are,” he said. “Of course, she kept to herself a lot. You seem very interested in her. Were you friends?”

  “No. I’m just curious about her background. Studying at Maynard then giving it all up? I’d like to know more about her.” I made my way back to my seat. Wilson was texting and beaming as I passed him. Yep, he was in a good mood, all right.

  8

  By ten thirty, I was slapping mosquitoes as quietly as I could. Lola and the ELT better put the word out to the public that bug spray was de rigeur, especially if it rained before or between performances. I intended to hang on. Bill’s big scene was approaching rapidly. At the climactic moment, frantic parents, accompanied by Policeman Bill and a couple of ELT actors, rescued the wayward kids, arrested Conrad Birdie, and generally restored peace to Sweet Apple, Ohio. Lola and Dale sang the “Rosie” number they rehearsed last night, and the company took its final bow. We gave Bye, Bye, Birdie a standing ovation, which thrilled the cast who broke ranks and delivered a series of war whoops, much to Walter’s chagrin.

  “Decorum! Decorum!” he bellowed.

  Penny picked up her whistle, and then threw it down. The stage manager had given up. I supposed the cast deserved to celebrate. It had been a grim week what with Ruby’s death and police interviews. Lola and Dale attempted to reestablish order, while Chrystal flew here and there begging actors to hang their costumes on rolling racks before the notes session began.

  Bill, still in his costume, ran off the stage. “What did you think?” He was sweating and panting.

  “Bravo!”

  He grinned. “Another day on the job.”

  “Told you it would be exactly like policing Etonville. Same bedlam.”

  “Yeah. Hey, those lights are bright. And hot,” he said.

  “You gotta suffer for your art,” I said.

  Bill inclined his head. “Coming over later?”

  “I don’t know, you being a big star and all,” I teased.

  “I have to get a note from Walter and get out of this thing.” Bill pulled the sticky shirt away from his chest, loosened his tie, and darted backstage.

  I smiled at the confusion. While I had no greasepaint in my blood, I was learning to appreciate what it took to create such pandemonium.

  “Do-dee!” Wilson’s cheeks were wet. “It is beautiful. I must cry.”

  “Come on. You’ll have a lot of chances to cry again this weekend and next.” I touched his arm and he followed me to my car.

  I dropped Wilson off at the Windjammer so that he could retrieve his bike. Most days he pedaled from a room he rented in the south end of Etonville on Ellison Street. I offered to load his bike into my trunk and tie it down with bungee cords, but Wilson was firm. He preferred to ride it home. He cycled off.

  I peeked in the front window of the Windjammer. Benny was wiping down the bar. Gillian and Carmen were cleaning tables. I left well enough alone and backed my Metro out of its parking space. I was feeling restless, and knew I had twenty minutes or so before Bill would be home. As if it had a mind of its own, the Metro turned right on Anderson, past Georgette’s Bakery and Snippets salon, toward the highway instead of left down Bennington toward Bill’s. I found myself crawling past Timothy’s Timely Service on the access road to State Route 53. The spot where they’d found Ruby’s car was just ahead. I slowed down.

  Was someone else restless tonight? A car had pulled onto the shoulder, headlights and taillights visible. The driver’s side door opened and a person, dressed in dark clothing with a baseball cap on, stepped out. I was too far away to determine gender, but I eased my Metro to the shoulder and switched off the engine. I slinked down in the seat, barely able to see above my dashboard. The figure walked around the exact place where Ruby had parked her Toyota, stopped, looked down, and moved again. Then, suddenly, the figure looked in my direction, jumped in the car, and took off.

  What was there to see at the location? The person definitely appeared to be searching for something. I waited five minutes, then cranked my engine and rolled to the same spot. I flicked on my cell phone flashlight and swept it over the area. Nothing but gravel on the edge of the road that crunched as I walked back and forth. I retraced my steps several yards in each direction. Again, nothing that might pique someone’s interest. Bes
ides, I told myself, Bill or his CSI techs had no doubt combed through this area as soon as they realized Ruby had been murdered. If there were anything unusual, anything that might be evidence, they’d find it.

  I froze. Or would they? I stooped down and flicked my flashlight off. A tiny piece of something was illuminated. I scraped away small pebbles and unearthed a speck of tape, a quarter inch by a half inch. Seemingly insignificant, except that it wasn’t. I’d heard Penny harangue the crew time and again that they were wasting the expensive tape used to mark placement of props and furniture on the various sets of the Etonville Little Theatre: tape that would glow in the dark. She said they only needed to use a bit of it. When the lights were out, the actors would have no issues navigating the set. Someone had left a fragment of the glow tape in the gravel—probably attached to the bottom of a shoe. Possibly the murderer—or the individual who had driven away from the crime scene?

  Suddenly, I was anxious. I jumped into my Metro and locked the doors. I examined the glow tape. If it came from the set of Bye, Bye, Birdie, it had to be someone connected to the theater. In the far reaches of my mind, I’d been holding out hope that Ruby’s death was somehow unrelated to the Etonville Little Theatre and the Creston Players. The tiny object in my hand dashed that optimistic perspective. I had to hand it over to Bill.

  I stomped on the gas, made a wide U-turn, and drove to the north end of town. I’d barely reached Bill’s neighborhood when I had the spooky feeling that a car had been tracking me for several blocks. I turned onto Bennington, and it kept a safe distance. My hands clutched the steering wheel tightly as I caught a glimpse of it in my rearview mirror. When I hung a right onto his street, the car continued down the road. Bill would chalk up my uneasiness to my overactive imagination.

  * * * *

  “Glow tape?”

  “Right. They use tiny pieces of it to mark the set so the actors don’t kill themselves in the dark. Makes sense that this is so small.” The bit of tape was now nestled inside a plastic baggie, on the coffee table in Bill’s living room.

  He uncorked an expensive cabernet and poured two glasses and set them beside a tray with white cheese and artisanal crackers. I’d been too busy to eat much today, what with the steak and ale pie, the news of Ruby’s drugging, accompanying Wilson to the park, and the dress rehearsal of Bye, Bye, Birdie. I bit into the creamy stilton, which was pungent enough to tickle my taste buds. Nothing like the contents of the snack boxes that the Windjammer would be delivering to the park tomorrow. The audience would be eating cheddar, Ritz crackers, salted cashews, and assorted candies. I picked up the bottle of wine.

  “What are we celebrating?” I was not the red wine connoisseur that Bill was, but I was developing a more discerning palate. This one was definitely out of my financial league.

  “Thought it would be nice to treat us.” He took a sip.

  “We deserve it because this has been some kind of a—”

  “What were you doing at the crime scene? You didn’t mention that,” Bill asked carefully.

  I took a swallow of wine. In the past, questions like that would have required a sustained tap dancing effort on my part to dodge the truth. Been there, done that. At least I hoped so.

  “I dropped Wilson off at the Windjammer to get his bike, and then I was coming straight here. I knew it would be a while before you got home, so I took the long way.”

  “Past the crime scene on the access road?” The corner of his mouth ticked upward in a familiar crooked grin.

  “Well…yes. My Metro has a mind of its own. Anyway, I thought you’d want to see this. It confirms that the murderer is a theater person.”

  “Let’s don’t jump to conclusions,” he said and held up a hand.

  “But it seems likely, right?”

  “We’ll see. Based on the interviews, there might be persons of interest—people who were not too fond of Ruby. She got on a lot of nerves, even if she was talented,” Bill added.

  “Did you have a chance to read her scrapbook? Talk about talent.”

  “Not yet. We have to finish questioning the cast and crew. According to them, Ruby kept to herself, unless she was insulting someone or badmouthing their work. The only people who were at all positive about her were the musical director and Penny.” He bit into a cracker. “We’ll have to continue the meetings after the musical opens.”

  “What about her laptop?”

  “The Creston PD picked it up. With a search warrant, they can access her email and Internet searches without her passwords. Digital forensics,” Bill said dryly, “but I guess you already know that.”

  I certainly did thanks to Pauli. Hacking email accounts, specialty search engines on the Internet, and facial recognition software had all played a part in my previous investigative adventures. Playing noncommittal was my best defense at the moment.

  “That’s good.” I skated over his implied accusation.

  He leaned in, brushing a stray hair off my face. My pulse pounded, as it always did when Bill got playful.

  I melted into his new, plush, off-white sofa. An excellent addition to the early American theme of his home furnishings. “This is comfy. Cushier than the last one.”

  “Yeah. Makes for a nicer place to relax.” He made a beeline for my lips.

  Yowza.

  * * * *

  I juggled my caramel macchiato, keys, and New York Times as I ducked under awning after awning, making my way down Main Street. Of all days, I had to park a block away and was trying to avoid the light mist that had been falling for the past three hours. Opening night and the weather gods were having a good time at the expense of the ELT. The rain would mean soggy grass in the picnic area, and the possibility of delaying or postponing the production. I should have expected a messy day. I’d taken to reading my daily horoscope in the run up to my birthday. Today’s horoscope warned that it was not a good time to be out and about, and advised to stay indoors and commune with a good book or a good friend. Too little, too late.

  I unlocked the front door of the Windjammer and my cell phone chirped. I deposited my bag, drink, and newspaper on the table in my back booth and checked the text message. It was Lola: Freaking out with the rain. Call me. I checked the weather app on my cell and then tapped her number.

  “Dodie!”

  “Hi, Lo—

  “I can’t believe it. Walter called me four times, Penny keeps texting, and I can’t reach Dale. What are we going to do if this keeps up?”

  “Slow down, girlfriend. First of all, it’s barely drizzling and second, the weather app says the precipitation will end by two this afternoon.” I didn’t have the heart to add that it also looked as though the rainfall might start again about nine or ten tonight. “You’ll be good to go.”

  “We’ve invested so much in this show. Time, energy, our budget…Walter and I are counting on a huge box office. The Creston Players, too, of course.” Lola paused. “I wish I could locate Dale. I want to run some things by him before tonight.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked. I didn’t want to pry into Lola’s love life, but she’d said enough in the past weeks to confirm a romance that was steadily growing.

  “He was in a grumpy mood last night after the run-through, so I said good-bye and went home. I needed a good night’s sleep.”

  “Why was he upset?” I asked.

  “Dale’s very fussy about timing and cues. Walter has him doing a dance routine during the second act that he hates, and last night Alex was a mite late with the downbeat of several numbers. Anyway, he was not a happy camper.”

  Camper…the word sent my mind spiraling down the rabbit hole of our summer vacation. Bill was already fantasizing about a camping stove he’d seen advertised in RV Living.

  “What do you think?” Lola asked.

  “Uh…sorry, I got sidetracked.”

  “I
was saying I saw a different side of Dale this last week. Moody, angry, on the attack.”

  “Pre-show jitters?”

  “He’s a stage veteran. He’s done professional work in the city, and has performed with the Creston Players for years. I don’t think this is stage anxiety.”

  “Speaking of anxiety. How is Walter holding up?” I asked.

  “Oh brother. I told him directing and choreographing were too much for one person, but he insisted. I hope he has enough Xanax to last through the weekend,” Lola moaned.

  The bell at the back door rang, signaling a delivery from Cheney Brothers. “Lola, gotta run. Fingers crossed, kiddo. I’ll check in later with you.”

  As I double-counted the cartons of snack boxes and signed the requisition sheet from the food distributor, I mused over Dale’s behavior. He was so romantic during the past several weeks—taking Lola to the theater, bringing her to the Windjammer after rehearsal, going to dinner on the weekends…maybe there was something in his private life that was forcing a personality transplant.

  “Guess that’s it. Tell the Brothers I’ll be calling with next week’s order,” I said to the delivery guy. I was used to him by now—Yankees cap, chewing gum, pencil behind one ear.

  He gave me his yada, yada, yada expression and stuffed the signed sheet into his shirt pocket. “Whatever.”

  Where did they find this kid?

  Henry walked into the restaurant, brushed off a windbreaker, and jerked his thumb in the direction of the front window.

  “I know. Don’t say it. If the show is cancelled this weekend, we’ll be stuck with four hundred snack boxes.” I stopped. “They could be tomorrow night’s special?”

  Henry grunted and put on the coffee.

  I settled into my back booth with inventory sheets and went to work. My cell clanged.

  “Hey there,” I said in my sexy voice. “You ran off early this morning—didn’t put on the caffeine. I had to make a run to Coffee Heaven—”