Bill grunted and pulled his cap lower on his head.
* * *
“Don’t worry about it,” Bill said to Zach, whose mouth was full of French fries. “We’ll work on the play action and pitching drills next week.”
The kid grinned, cheeks bulging. “Can we do the shotgun?”
“Sure.” He tousled Zach’s hair.
Bill was good with them. Leading his team onto the field after a solid drubbing to shake hands in a display of good sportsmanship, giving them a post-game pep talk about how they were like a family, one for all and all for one, reminding them about Monday’s practice, and guiding them to the picnic area, where they tore into the burgers and fries.
“Nice of you to treat them to this,” I said.
“They’re great kids.”
“It must be tough fitting football practice into your schedule,” I said.
“Yeah. It is. Especially since I’m helping out with the Creston thing.”
“How’s that going?” I asked lightly.
“Coming along,” he said.
His expression became guarded, police chief–style.
Jimmy joined us. “Mrs. O’Dell, can we have seconds on the fries?”
“I think there’s enough extras.” I punched in the number to the Windjammer. It was time for Enrico to return.
“Thanks, Mrs. O’Dell,” he shouted, and ran to spread the good news.
“Yeah, thanks, Mrs. O’Dell,” Bill said, his lip curving.
My heart melted, almost erasing the image of him kissing the brunette in Creston. I forced my attention away from his laser-like eyes in order to concentrate on Antonio’s death.
I bit into my burger. “You missed the funeral yesterday.”
“I heard that it was a rather sedate affair for Etonville.” He laughed.
I liked his laugh. “That’s right. No costumes, no bizarre eulogy, although Walter did lead us in singing ‘There’s No Business—’”
“ ‘—Like Show Business.’ Yeah. Edna filled me in.” Bill cleaned a bit of ketchup from his mouth. “So other than that, the service was uneventful?”
“Are you asking as the police chief or just an interested citizen?”
Bill looked puzzled. “Why would I need to ask as the PC?”
I knew I should tread carefully. Everyone considered the death a closed case and Bill hadn’t shown any inclination to pursue Antonio’s odd behavior.
“I just thought you might want to check out a few . . . loose ends,” I said, hoping to pique his curiosity.
He leaned into me. “What do you mean, ‘loose ends’? Antonio’s late-night wandering?” He shook his finger gently in my face. “You have to keep your imagination in check, Mrs. O’Dell,” he teased.
He was kissing-close. My face was hot. “Well . . . there are a few things I didn’t imagine.”
He stepped back. “Such as?”
“There was a strange woman at the funeral. I didn’t recognize her. She came to the cemetery, and after everyone had laid a flower on Antonio’s coffin, she kind of threw hers down. And then laughed as though she was taunting Antonio. Don’t you think that’s weird?” Before he could answer, I snatched a piece of paper from my bag. “I followed her into the parking lot and memorized her license plate number. Do you think you might check her out?”
Bill looked at the paper, then at me. “Let me get this straight. You want me to run a plate because a woman laughed?”
I could see he was incredulous. Of course, when you put it like that...
“Okay, that’s not all.” I took a breath. “One of the shampoo girls at Snippets has a neighbor whose cousin—”
“Oh no, not the Etonville rumor mill. Didn’t we have enough of all that last time?”
“Maybe, but that rumor mill helped us answer some questions that led to an arrest.”
Enrico appeared with his hand truck and started to pick up leftovers and trash.
“Look, Dodie, I know Antonio’s death has been hard on the Windjammer. But you just have to give people space. They’ll come back.”
“But that’s not everything.” I dug into my bag to remove the note telling me to leave Antonio alone.
A crack of lightning zigzagged in the sky off to the west of Etonville. Heavy drops of water fell. “Dodie, sorry, I have to get the kids.” Bill took off and herded the team out of the stadium and into the shelter of the locker room.
Enrico had packed up the coolers and paper goods and the two of us hurried to clear the field just as the deluge hit. By the time Enrico and I had flung ourselves into the front seat of the restaurant van, we were soaked, raindrops dripping off our faces. My boots were wet through to my socks, and water trickled down the front of my blouse.
We limped back to the Windjammer, unloaded the van, and I went home to dry out. Benny had offered to take my place in the evening, with Honey waiting tables. Though restaurant customers had dwindled in number, it was a Saturday night and the bar would still be busy. I accepted his offer.
* * *
I was still slightly chilled from the afternoon’s dousing, so I lay on the sofa wrapped in a blanket; a towel, turban-like, swaddled my hair. I clutched the latest Cindy Collins mystery in one hand, a glass of chardonnay in the other. I sneezed. Uh-oh, I didn’t have time for a cold.
I exchanged the wine for hot tea and sucked on a zinc tablet. I tried to distract myself with television, but nothing interested me. I logged into my computer and played a few games of solitaire. But beating myself was no fun. I’d have called Lola, but I knew she was at rehearsal. Carol had mentioned a family wedding in Morristown. I was restless.
The list of questions that I had scribbled down yesterday at the Windjammer begged to be investigated. I fished the scrap of paper out of my bag and ran through them. Any activity that directly involved Lola, Brianna, Imogen’s neighbor’s cousin, and the mystery woman were out of the question tonight. That left the Internet.
I opened my laptop and re-Googled Antonio Digenza, then added “+New York” as before. I was hoping for some miraculous intercession, that different links with new information would materialize. But no, the same links appeared. I clicked on a few, but I knew I was spinning my wheels.
My mind meandered . . . I wondered how Lola was doing at rehearsal, who knew their lines, were Carlyle and Walter speaking, was Tiffany still in the show, what silly theater games was Walter inflicting on the cast tonight; many of them started with “what if” and went downhill from there. What if your character was an animal? What if your character lived on a deserted island? What if your character found buried treasure?
I felt my neck tingle, goose bumps rose on my arms, and a “what if” thought popped up on my mental screen. What if Antonio did not die from a heart attack? What symptoms would mimic a heart attack? I Googled Web MD and found a Heart Disease Health Center that provided descriptions of the symptoms of coronary artery disease, a heart attack, heart valve disease, and heart arrhythmias. Basic indicators might be shortness of breath; dizziness; a choking feeling; sweating; nausea; discomfort in the chest, back, throat, and jaw areas; and weakness.
As I remembered, Antonio had been short of breath, then grabbed his throat, choked, turned red. As for the rest of the symptoms, I wasn’t sure. They seemed awfully generic. I could think of a number of things that might cause dizziness, sweating, nausea, and discomfort. Thinking about the future of the Windjammer for one; sitting through an ELT rehearsal for another. By the time I finished the heart-issues websites, I was ready to walk out the door and get my cholesterol tested.
Antonio’s heart certainly stopped, but did he have signs of heart disease that would have triggered an attack that led to the cardiac arrest? His doctor would know, but Brianna indicated he avoided doctors; Imogen’s neighbor’s cousin said he’d visited one recently.
My mind was racing: What if Antonio had died from something he ate or drank, but not something that originated in the Windjammer’s kitchen or bar? If he died of somethi
ng else, surely it would be discovered by the lab running the tests. Bill was correct: My powers of invention could get out of hand.
I was worn out from what-ifs and jumping to conclusions. A hot bath was in order, so I filled the tub, poured in a generous amount of lavender bubble bath, and settled in for a nice, fragrant soak. I was drifting off when my cell jangled and I jumped. I’d left it on the vanity out of reach, and now I debated. Should I spoil my nirvana just to hear someone try to sell me a new roof or a Life Alert system? My curiosity got the better of me. I stood up, flinging suds onto the bath mat, and grasped a bath towel. By the time I picked up the phone, the caller had hung up. I checked the voicemail and tapped the number.
“Hi, Dodie. Sorry I had to run off today. I had to take care of my team.” Bill took a pause. “I know you’re worried about the restaurant. Believe me, I understand. But law enforcement has taught me a few things, and one of them is that sometimes it’s hard to accept the obvious. Even if we think there appear to be”—I could hear him struggle to avoid the word evidence—“things that can’t be explained.” He stopped. “By the way, the kids loved the picnic and wanted to know when we’re having another one. Tell Henry his cheeseburgers were a hit with the nine- to eleven-year-old crowd.”
He laughed and I could hear his eyes crinkle.
“Well, hope you’re having a good night. I’ll stop by the Windjammer this week just to prove that the food is safe. Bye now.”
That was it? He’ll stop by the Windjammer? The cell rang again and my mind was so full of spring and our almost-budding romance, that I answered, “Hi. Thanks for the voicemail!”
“What voicemail?” Lola asked.
“Oh. Sorry,” I said, disappointed.
“Are you okay? What are you doing?”
“Taking a bubble bath until my phone . . . never mind. What’s up? Are Carlyle and Walter on speaking terms?”
There was a loud crash in the background. “. . . you’d want to know.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“Rehearsal’s over. Are you up for some company?”
I sat on the edge of the tub and closed my eyes. Any hope of coasting into a gentle sleep was probably over. “Sure. I’ve got some chardonnay in the fridge.”
* * *
Lola had kicked off her shoes and was stretched out on the sofa. I was in my recliner bundled up in my terry cloth robe, a gift from my great aunt Maureen. It came with some sage advice: Darling, after a warm body, a terry cloth robe is the next best thing to cuddle up with on a cold night. How right she’d been.
Lola and I were polishing off the remainder of the white wine with some semi-stale crackers and a half block of cheddar. I was patiently waiting for her to get to the reason for dropping by, but first she had to wade through the evening’s saga.
“I had the entire rehearsal schedule laid out for the week, and then Walter decided that we needed to have a dress parade Friday—”
“At least it won’t be a speed-through,” I said, remembering that disaster.
Lola giggled. Then I giggled. Soon we were both snorting and whooping. “Could you even believe that night?”
“Abby in Romeo’s lap and Carlyle stealing Penny’s whistle.” I hooted.
Lola frowned. “The actors are good sports up to a point. But I think everyone is just fed up and ready to have the play open.” She took a drink of her wine. “It’s such a shame. I had high hopes for this production.”
“Hey, Lola, I’ve seen real disasters at the ELT turn into hits.”
She eyed me over the rim of her glass. “I’m thinking of resigning as artistic director once the show’s up.”
She threatened to resign at least once a week. “Wait and see how things end up,” I said. “So what were you trying to tell me on the phone?”
Lola bolted upright. “I almost forgot! Penny had just announced a break, and Carlyle and Walter were fighting over the hinges on the window seat so that the bodies, which are not going to be real bodies, of course, but dummies—”
“Lola, focus!”
She nibbled on a cracker. “I went to the office to pay some bills because you remember the accounting problems on the last show . . .”
Which was Lola’s euphemism for Walter “borrowing” from the box office till.
“Okay, and . . . ?”
“I went to open the door, but could sense someone standing behind me. I kind of jerked around and dropped my file folder with papers. There was this man.” Lola paused.
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. No one I’d ever seen at the theater,” she said.
“What did he look like?”
“Average height with a stubbly beard and glasses and a baseball cap. I was startled at first, but he smiled and picked up my folder.”
“Then what?”
“He asked me if I knew Antonio. And I said ‘yes, of course.’ That it was such a shame about his death. That we were so happy to have him as a guest director. Oh, I don’t know, I think I just kind of rambled on.”
“And what did he do while you were talking?” I asked.
“He just stood there and listened to me politely. Then I asked him if there was something I could do for him and he just smiled again and said no, that Antonio had been a friend and had mentioned the ELT.” Lola finished off her wine.
“Did he leave?”
“Not right away. He asked me if he could stick his head in the theater and look around, and without thinking I said ‘sure, go ahead.’ I went into the office and did some work. By the time I went back into the theater he was walking out the door and saying good-bye. What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know. By the way, I meant to tell you about the woman at the grave site,” I said.
Lola listened to my description of the cemetery visitor, her jaw dropping when she heard about the flower on the coffin. “She actually laughed?”
“Yep,” I said. “You know, if we counted Brianna and the mystery woman at the funeral, the guy at the theater was the third stranger with a connection to Antonio to just show up.”
“Brianna was his ex-wife and it sounds like they still had a good relationship.”
Brianna. I’d already made up my mind to pay her a visit. I planned to give her a call in the morning and see if I could meet with her. I also decided to keep my Internet trolling on the subject of cardiac arrest to myself for the moment; no sense in alarming Lola unnecessarily if all of my digging came to nothing.
“Maybe you could nose around and see if anyone else talked with the mystery man,” I said.
“Penny might have noticed him,” Lola said. “I wonder how he and Antonio knew each other.” She bit her lip. “I wonder what else we don’t know about Antonio.”
11
Sunday afternoon I backed my Metro out of my driveway and noticed the gas tank was only a quarter full. I’d need to stop at some point. I cruised down State Route 53 and entered the Garden State Parkway. All signs of yesterday’s gray gloom had disappeared and left behind sunny skies and a light breeze, temps in the low seventies.
Rumson was about fifty miles away, courtesy of MapQuest. My old stomping grounds. I was happy to have any excuse to visit. I reached Brianna on her cell phone, and was deliberately cagey. “I’m planning to be in the area this afternoon and wondered if you’d mind speaking to me for a few minutes.”
She was gracious, agreed to meet me at five. “Stop by my shop. I’m in the office catching up on orders today.” If she was surprised by my request, it was well hidden.
My heart lifted as I crossed the Driscoll Bridge. The shore! The air was saltier, with seagulls wheeling back and forth against the blue sky. I could feel myself unwind. I left the parkway and followed my Genie’s directions, driving up and down various streets in the borough. Rumson was located on a picturesque peninsula, bordered on two sides by the Navesink and Shrewsbury Rivers and a stone’s throw to the ocean. Homes were worth millions in this picture-postcard of a town.
I arrived at 27 River Road and pulled into a metered space. Brianna had told me the door would be locked but to knock and she’d hear me. I glanced down the street. An outdoor café, upscale boutiques, a bookstore, and, at the end of the block, a boat dock. Downtown Rumson was hopping today.
The storefront was inscribed with Flowers by Kincaid in an art deco font. I rapped lightly. Brianna appeared at an entryway in the back of the store and briskly walked to the door. She was dressed fashionably in black trousers and a pink blouse, and wore a diamond pendant on a chain around her neck.
“Hello,” she said. “Please come in.”
“Thanks for seeing me.” I entered and inhaled the fragrance of cut flowers and plants in containers spread throughout the shop. “It smells wonderful in here.”
“Autumn flowers are just coming into their own.” She pointed to a few pots. “Roses and mums. Of course, carnations and some leftover peonies.”
“They’re all beautiful.”
She pinched a dead leaf off a mum, moved a vase of roses to the counter. “It’s nice in here on Sunday. All of the beauty and none of the traffic.”
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I hope I’m not keeping you from your work.”
“I’m due for a break. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.”
I followed her to the office in back—a bright, airy room with windows on two sides that allowed for both light and cross-ventilation. She poured two cups of coffee from a pot that was half-full, and gestured to a chair opposite her desk. “Please.”
I accepted the coffee gratefully. I was feeling drowsy in the warm sunlight and needed a jolt of caffeine. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to speak with you at Antonio’s funeral.”
“I was first in and first out, I’m afraid,” she said. “It was a hectic day here and one of my staff was out sick.”
“I can appreciate staff issues. I manage the Windjammer restaurant.”
“Where the food festival took place,” she said over the rim of her cup.
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