“And I’m not running around the dining room to talk to people while they’re eating!” he said defiantly, and tromped back into the kitchen.
Oops. Someone had snitched on Wilson.
* * * *
I parked my Metro two blocks away from the park next to an empty lot that had once been home to a two-story apartment building. When the owners put it up for sale, the city fathers purchased the property to build tennis courts on the land. Not everyone in Etonville was delighted about it. Nevertheless, now the lot was home to a backhoe, construction paraphernalia, and the remains of the apartment building. I applied a coat of lipstick, ran a comb through my tangled mane, and double-checked the interior dome light. I had no desire to come back to a dead battery again.
Even a block away, I could hear the combo beating out “Lot of Livin’ to Do”. As I rounded a corner at the edge of the park, Romeo, Janice, and the teenagers came into view. They bounced and romped around the stage. The audience was sizeable tonight, filling the seats, the grassy slope, and overflowing onto the cement pathways that lined the audience areas. I walked across the soccer field and crept up to the concession stand. Georgette was on duty.
“Good night?” I asked.
“Ran out of everything,” she whispered.
The Windjammer was making a nice piece of cash during the run of Bye, Bye, Birdie. I took the receipts and relieved Georgette, who scurried to find a seat. I craned my neck to get a better view of the proceedings, and hooted and applauded with the rest of the onlookers when Vernon and Edna sang “Kids,” shuffling their way around the stage. Wilson was due on soon.
“Hey.” It was Bill, panting and sweating. “Where are we?”
“Midway through the act. You’d better sneak backstage.” There was an entrance for the cast behind a maze of curtains opposite from where we were standing. “How is everything?”
“All right.” He was cautious, assuming his police chief armor.
“Did you find Dale yet?”
Bill wavered. “Can’t talk now. I’d better go.”
“See you after. Break a leg.” He groaned and dashed off. It was only this morning that I’d whipped up fried eggs for us, but now that seemed like days ago.
Wilson’s rich baritone cut a swath through my mental debris. He is on the telephone begging Rosie/Lola to come back to him, but Lola, wanting no part of her former fiancé, is partying with a group of Shriners. Wilson rescues her in the nick of time! It was fun to observe our sous chef “stand up” to Abby, his stage mother, and though the ages and races of Lola, Wilson, and Abby didn’t quite compute, the actors took their cue from the patrons, who were having a blast, and enjoyed themselves. Yes! I was feeling vindicated. Now it was time for the Sweet Apple police to make an entrance and wrap up the mayhem. Sure enough there was Bill, looking a bit less awkward in his costume, swinging a billy club, and working to bring things under control. His concentration was impressive given all that must have been on his mind.
By the time Wilson and Lola finished their duet, the audience was on its feet, roaring its approval! The bows were orderly—unlike last weekend—and Lola graciously urged Wilson to step forward and be acknowledged for taking on the role. He shyly did so. It was a wonderful moment and, frankly, I felt like the smartest person in the room though I’d never say that out loud.
Alex and the combo took off and the crew went to work, clearing the scenery and preparing to lock up for the night. The cast was giddy with excitement, running onto the stage, and then off again, yakking with parents, friends, and guests. Chrystal chased them down to seize their costumes. It was typical theater bedlam. Bill, already out of his costume, talked on his cell at the other end of the grassy slope. I grabbed my bag and the cash box and made it halfway to him.
“Do-dee!” Wilson picked me up, as usual, and swung me around, but this time I didn’t mind. I laughed with him, celebrating his tremendous victory. “It is ze best night of my life.” He set me down gently and I looked up at him. He’d been crying.
“You were terrific! You might be as good an actor as you are a chef,” I said.
“Impossible! But for now…” he shrugged.
“Do you want a ride home? We can put your bike in my trunk.”
“Thank you Do-dee. I will ride home and think about tonight. It is like a dream.” He trotted off.
It might be difficult to nail Wilson’s feet to the Windjammer floor after this.
“Can you believe it? A star is born!” Edna said. “That kid can sing—and did you see those dance moves? I told Walter we should consider doing West Side Story next year. He could play Tony.”
Another piece of non-traditional casting? “Well, Wilson might have other plans.”
“I think he has a future on the stage. Good night Dodie. Good work saving the show.” Edna winked and walked away.
“By the way, what’s a 10-36?” I called out.
“Oooh. Forgot!” She came back. “Confidential information.”
“That’s right. Now I remember. So what’s the information?” I asked sotto voce though there was no one near enough to overhear our conversation.
“Dale was spotted at Newark airport this afternoon,” Edna said.
Yikes. “Attempting a getaway?”
“Looks like it.”
“Was he arrested?” I asked.
“Not when I came to rehearsal. But the chief and Suki were in conference with the Port Authority cops.” Edna paused. “I always thought Dale was too handsome for his own good. See you tomorrow. Cheers!”
No wonder Bill was preoccupied. I scanned the area, but he was gone. Oh well…I’ll catch up with him later. My cell binged. Bill: see you at my place? I texted a confirmation and made a last effort to find Lola. I saw her earlier consulting with Walter and then I lost track of them. The park was almost empty. I headed for my car humming “Put on a Happy Face.” This show really was hummable.
The streets surrounding the park were deserted. Trees swayed in the summer breeze—casting oddly shaped shadows on the ground. It was eerie. Houses had dim light seeping out of upstairs windows, but for the most part Etonville had gone to sleep. The only sound was the slap of my sandals against the pavement. I picked up my pace. Normally, I had no fear treading the streets of Etonville alone at night, but tonight the darkness and silence pricked the hairs on the nape of my neck. I could see my Metro fifty yards ahead. I breathed out my angst with relief. Nerves.
I was ten feet away from the rear bumper when I inhaled the odor of gasoline. Oh no. Not another leak. What was happening to my beloved Metro? I instinctively glanced around. The houses on either end of the empty property were dark—one had a “For Sale” sign in the front yard and the other looked as though the occupants were away. I shivered again. A lone streetlight, two doors down, provided limited illumination. The construction equipment loomed larger and creepier. I forced myself to walk swiftly but calmly to the car. Gas had leaked onto the ground and the sweet-smelling stench was so strong it sent a wave of nausea coursing through me. I kept telling myself it was only a gas leak. I might have enough left in the tank to make it to Bill’s or I might need to call for a ride. But either way I needed to get in the car and check to see if there was any fuel left.
I yanked the door handle, bounded onto the front seat and inserted the key in the ignition, my hand shaking. I turned it to ACC and sure enough, there was a quarter of a tank. Okay, I told myself, I could make it to Bill’s. I turned the key further and the engine leapt to life. As I shifted out of Park and into Drive, I smelled smoke. Bile rose in my throat. What was I thinking—igniting the engine with gas leaking out of the car? I could hear two voices in my head. Bill and Timothy both warning me about the condition of the Metro, that it was time to find another car, and was I crazy turning on the ignition with gas flowing around? Blah, blah, blah. I jammed the car into Park again and shut off the engine. The odor of the ga
s and wisps of smoke leaked into the interior. I gasped for air, terrified. I had to get out of here! I gripped the door handle. It fell off into my hand. What was going on? My breathing became labored. I grasped the window handle to get some air and it rotated, spinning in place. What the…? I leaned across the seat to check the passenger door handle. It was gone and the window crank was equally useless. I scrambled into the back seat and had no luck with those windows, either.
My hands shook as I punched 911 into my cell. One ring, then two.
“Etonville Police Department.” Ralph yawned. I’d woken him up.
“Ralph! I’m stuck inside my car and it’s on fire! There’s smoke and—”
“Who is this? Where are you?” he asked.
“It’s Dodie and I’m on the south side of the park by the empty lot. Get help here now! Before my car explodes!”
“10-4!”
I clicked off. I didn’t think I could wait for Ralph to rouse the fire department and send reinforcements. I had to help myself. I found a blanket that I’d thrown in the back seat last winter when the temperature hit record lows and a hammer I kept in the glove compartment…just in case.
Flames licked the edges of the hood. I climbed back into the driver’s seat, coughing, and ducked into the blanket to avoid potential flying shards of glass. I attacked the window with the hammer, swinging the thing as if my life depended on it. One, two, three, blows and the safety glass shattered, creating a spider web pattern. One more good thwack and the glass burst out of the car, allowing a gust of fresh air into the Metro. The smoke was thick now, black and oily. The flames sent heat into the interior. I pushed bits of glass out of the way with the blanket and plunged head first through the empty window, landing on the grassy strip next to the curb, banging my shoulder and scraping my head against a tree root. As I crawled away on all fours to a safe distance from my burning car, the alarm of a fire engine cut through the quiet of the evening. Sets of flashing lights meant that Ralph had galvanized all of the emergency vehicles in Etonville. A giant bang overshadowed a series of loud cracks from under the hood as flames completely engulfed the Metro.
* * * *
The street had become a circus. The ambulance arrived with the EMS technicians, who checked me out and provided ice for my aching shoulder, a bandage for a cut on my forehead, and oxygen to clear my lungs. The firefighters cleaned up their equipment after they hosed down the Metro. Timothy was there with his tow truck. He scratched his head as he examined the heap of burnt-out metal and plastic. Once again, Ralph handled crowd control—since the neighborhood that seemed deserted thirty minutes ago was now teeming with life. People gathered in curious knots on the sidewalk and porches. Bill was there, in jeans and a tee shirt. He’d been in the shower—rinsing off the sweat and make-up of his performance—when Ralph reached him.
Bill conferred for a moment with the fire brigade, then shook hands and headed my way. Though the night was still warm in the seventies, I trembled under a mylar blanket that an EMT draped over me. I could not wrap my mind around the fact that my Metro was no more. I was in the first stage of grieving: denial.
“How are you doing?” Bill asked kindly.
“Someone is out to get me,” I said, angry. I moved on to the second stage.
“Slow down. What exactly happened?”
“My Metro was destroyed!” I said dramatically, and sipped water to get the taste of burning out of my mouth.
“I know, but I need more information if I’m going to figure this out.” Bill was speaking patiently as if I were a kid or an old person.
“I’ve already figured it out. Gas leaking, a fire under the hood, the door and window handles not working. What does that sound like to you? Duh.” I didn’t care that I was doing a variation on shooting the messenger. Bill was trying to do his job, but I was right. Someone who knew a lot about cars, my Metro in particular, had targeted me. First, there was the brake fluid, then the battery, and now the leaking fuel from my car with no way out. The thought of my possible demise sent me into a spasm of shivers.
“Do you want to go to the hospital? The EMTs—”
“No!” I said brusquely.
“Let’s get you home and cleaned up.” He wiped away a smudge of black soot on my cheek.
Bill helped me settle into the front seat of his BMW, and I sank gratefully into the soft leather. Through the windshield, I watched him consult with Timothy, who nodded and gestured to his tow truck driver. It was like being at a funeral, seeing my red Chevy carted off so ingloriously. Spontaneously, tears trickled down my cheeks.
Bill slid into the driver’s seat and stared at me. “You’ve had quite a shock.”
I sniffed. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance my Metro can be repaired?”
Bill’s eyes opened as if I was asking to borrow a million dollars. Yep. I was into stage three: bargaining.
* * * *
I stood in Bill’s shower. The steaming water nearly scalded the skin of my shoulders and back. I scrubbed at the grime on my face and hands. In addition to my sore joints and scraped forehead, my knees were rubbed raw. I shampooed my hair three times to remove the sooty stink. I scoured myself to a new level of clean.
Bill was waiting with one of his robes outside the shower door. He swaddled me, then held me a moment. “Feeling any better?”
“Yeah. Sorry about jumping on you…” He handed me a face towel, and I wrapped it around my head.
“Not a problem. After the jolt you had.”
* * * *
In the living room, Bill laid out wine, glasses, and an array of snacks—cheeses and crackers, some veggies, and ranch dip. It all looked beautiful, but I was too upset and jumpy to eat much. I nibbled on a celery stick and skipped the wine in favor of a glass of water.
“Why would someone want to demolish my Metro?” I asked.
“If that’s what happened,” he said kindly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look, Dodie, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve been skating on thin ice with that car since I met you. It has well over a hundred thousand miles.”
“But it runs fine.” I paused. “Ran fine.”
“Until this year. With the brake issue and the battery and now the fuel leak.”
“And I still say someone deliberately sabotaged my car,” I said.
“I’ll have the arson squad give it a onceover, but in its present condition, it might be difficult to find evidence of tampering,” he said.
Bill was right, of course. My Metro was a burnt-out shell of its former self. Finding that someone had tampered with the interior handles on the doors and windows was a long shot. “I understand what you’re saying, but isn’t it strange that Ruby was murdered in a car and I’ve had a series of ‘accidents’ in my car?”
Bill placed his wine glass on a coffee table coaster. “So you think the issues with your Metro are related to Ruby’s death? How?”
I had no idea. I simply thought it was a coincidence that parallel car events were taking place. “Someone knows I’ve been looking into Ruby’s life while you’ve been looking into her death.”
“Someone? Like Dale?” Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. Tired, frustrated too. “But why would that someone, presumably Dale, want to go after you? Unless something you found would explain her death?” he asked.
“No.” I guzzled another eight ounces of water. “How am I going to get around without a car?”
“I have a solution.” His quirky grin emerged. “You can use my car until you figure out what you want to do.”
I interrupted my hydration to blink and cough. “Your BMW?”
“Why not? It sits in the driveway. I spend most of my life in my cruiser. Unless you have a problem driving a BMW?”
Yowza! I supposed I could get used to it. “Well…if you really th
ink that’s the best solution…”
“I do.” He put an arm around me. “Let’s get some sleep and we can work things out in the morning. This has been a stressful night. The gas leak made you frantic. People in those kinds of situations often lose the ability to accomplish normal tasks.”
I eased away from him. “Normal tasks? Like opening a car door or cranking a window?”
“You’re taking this the wrong way—”
“If I was so frantic and out of control, how did I manage to have the presence of mind to pound the window to pieces and throw myself out of the car?” I fumed.
“I’m trying to explain that—”
“It’s fine. I get it.” I stood and tightened Bill’s robe around me. “I’m going upstairs,” I said politely.
“I have some work to finish. I’ll be up later.”
I stomped off. Bill had his rational way of justifying events, but my instincts were reliable and my neck hairs were a dependable radar system. Tonight both were off the I-got-a-hunch meter. I had to figure this out by myself.
18
I awoke early…before Bill. He was snoring softly when I crept from bed, pulled on yesterday’s clothes, and padded downstairs. The smell of brewing coffee—thanks to Bill’s automatic timer—was tempting, but I was a woman with an agenda. I found my bag where I’d dropped it last night and checked messages. It was seven a.m. and already I was bombarded by Etonville’s rumor mill. Carol: Are you alive??? Lola: OMG!! Edna: Heard you had a 10-33 and an 11-85. Glad no 11-80. Huh? Penny: O’Dell…you gotta learn to stay out of trouble.
Empathy was not a tool on her belt.
I stole out the door, shutting it softly behind me, as I rummaged through my purse for my car keys. Then I stood stock-still on Bill’s driveway, gobsmacked. I didn’t have my Metro to climb into anymore. I felt helpless and overwhelmed.
“Forget these?”
I pivoted and saw Bill, mouth creeping up at one end, tousled hair, in a tee shirt and shorts, the BMW remote key fob dangling from his index finger.
I hesitated, caught between a boulder and the toughest place I’d been in since last night. Of course, I forgot that Bill offered his BMW since I now had no car of my own. My pride suffered and I was looking for a graceful way to accept.
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