“Can someone get this wood out of here?” Lola yelled from the lobby.
A muffled voice responded.
“I don’t care if the door falls off its hinges and the stairs collapse. I have a PR session with the Etonville Standard in one hour and I need the lobby emptied!”
Lola came in the door, shook her head. I’d never seen her quite so disheartened, not even when Walter was a person of interest in the murder of Jerome Angleton. Her blond hair was yanked into a frizzled ponytail and her cotton blouse looked slept-in. “I am at my wit’s end.” Her face crumpled.
“Can I help?”
“Can you drag a dozen two-by-fours to the stage?” she said.
“Unusual place to deliver lumber,” I said.
“The loading dock is covered with drying window frames and the stage floor has furniture stacked all over it, so Penny had them dumped out here.” She blew a strand of stray hair off her forehead. “JC insists the staircase needs to be reinforced and the front door is too flimsy.”
“Sounds like Romeo and Juliet, when he wanted to go a little overboard on the balcony.” JC was used to building the real thing, not simulated scenery.
“If it wasn’t for this interview, I’d head next door for a drink,” she said. “I’m sorry to be such a grouch.”
“Hey, I get it.” I placed the program on its pile.
“They look nice, yes?” Lola asked.
“They look super. I was reading Antonio’s bio. Doesn’t seem to be anything from his younger days. You know, where he went to school, acting gigs . . .”
Lola picked up a playbill and turned to the back page. “I didn’t notice. I had one of the business crew summarize his résumé.” She frowned. “You’re right. These are all shows from the last fifteen years or so.”
The last thing Lola needed now was to be distracted by my digging into Antonio’s background. “Maybe he didn’t have a career before that. A late bloomer.” Of course, Brianna had said he was in Los Angeles doing the things all young directors do on their way up the ladder of artistic success.
Lola’s cell jingled. I stood up to go.
“Hello? Oh, yes. Earlier? You want to come in half an hour?” There was a note of alarm in her voice. “Fine,” she said. “No problem.”
Lola ended the call and let out a massive scream. Penny came running in from the street, just off work at the post office, still in uniform. “What’s the matter? Who’s hurt? I’ve got it.” She stood in the doorway, legs spread, hands on hips, ready for battle.
“Empty the lobby, please,” Lola pleaded, pulling her hair out of its elastic band and tucking in her blouse.
“Go get pretty,” I said. “I’ll help Penny.”
Lola nodded gratefully and ran out of the office.
“Thanks, O’Dell, but I have actors on crew today.”
I followed Penny into the lobby and watched as she ordered two cast members—the policemen I identified from the food festival—to haul the lumber into the theater.
Penny checked off their names on her ever-present clipboard. “See you, O’Dell.”
“Penny, I have a question . . .”
“Yeah?” She pushed a pencil behind one ear.
“You pretty much notice everything that goes on around here?”
She crowed. “Nothing gets by me, O’Dell.”
“I didn’t think so. You being the stage manager and all. Do you remember seeing a stranger in the theater Saturday night? Lola mentioned a guy with a scruffy beard in a ball cap.”
Penny smirked. “Like I would miss seeing some guy who wasn’t a member of the ELT?”
“So you did see him?” I asked.
“Duh.”
“Did you happen to talk with him?”
Penny shoved her glasses up her nose. “Uh-huh.”
“Who was he?” I asked eagerly.
“Friend of Antonio’s. Actor from his New York days.”
“Why did he come to the theater?” I asked.
“O’Dell, there’s some things about theater you don’t get,” she said assertively.
“Like what?” I already knew about theater time versus real time from Penny’s previous lectures on protocol.
“Theater people stick together. When something happens to one of them, they don’t abandon ship.” She nodded wisely.
Huh? “So the stranger . . .”
“Ed.”
“Ed . . . he came to . . . express his sympathy for the Etonville Little Theatre ‘ship’ because his friend, the director, had passed away?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Nice of Ed. Maybe he’ll come to see Arsenic and Old Lace,” I said.
Penny snickered. “O’Dell, you’re funny. He’s a pro. Doesn’t have time for community theater.”
“Probably in a show in New York.”
“Yep. Gotta go.”
I tucked the information about Ed into my mental file folder on Antonio’s death. Maybe they were theater friends from the beginning of Antonio’s career, before he met Lola and Brianna.
Carol and Pauli were sitting at the bar when I walked into the Windjammer, Pauli sucking down a soda and texting, Carol glancing at her watch.
“Hey. Sorry I’m late. Lola was in a dither next door and I . . .” I paused. “What is it?”
Carol grinned like the cat who ate the canary. “I have to get back to Snippets, but I wanted to deliver the news in person.”
I looked to Pauli. He just shrugged and brought up the Windjammer website on his laptop.
“I’ve solved your problem, at least for one night,” Carol said.
“Yeah?” Exactly which problem was she referring to? There was the Windjammer, Antonio’s death, Bill—
“My shampoo girl—”
“Imogen?” I asked.
“The other one. Rita.”
“With the tattoo . . . ?” I asked.
“That’s right. She’s getting married next weekend and, ta-da! She’s having her rehearsal dinner at the Windjammer,” Carol said triumphantly.
“She is?” I was flabbergasted.
Carol spoke sotto voce. “She was going to have it at La Famiglia, but I convinced her to come here.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I gave her a raise.” Carol laughed heartily.
“A payoff?”
“Basically. But it’s for a good cause!”
I gave her a kiss and a hug. “You’re a doll. Wait till I tell Henry.”
“He already knows. I had her call him this afternoon. I have to run. Pauli, I’ll see you at home, okay?” She eased off the stool, mussed his hair affectionately, and left.
Pauli dipped his head and began scrolling through the Windjammer links.
“So we’re going to add a staff photo and blurbs on last year’s theme-food events and Saturday’s football picnic.” I pulled a sheet of paper out of my bag. “I scribbled a few things here.”
Pauli read the paper. “Awesome.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for a blog. But I like the gallery of pictures idea.”
While Pauli went to work, I gave Benny a thumbs-up sign and headed for the kitchen. I figured Henry had to be happy about Saturday night, but I had no idea how happy. He was slicing beef for his classic Stroganoff while Enrico browned mushrooms and onions in butter. And he was humming. Henry was actually humming! I hadn’t seen him in this kind of a mood since . . . well, since a while.
“Great news about the rehearsal dinner,” I said. I stuck my face close to the pan. “Mmmm.”
Henry nodded. Enrico grinned.
“Dottie, I can’t find the carrots and celery.” Honey, in charge of tonight’s garden salad, held a kitchen knife and cutting board. She’d taken to lengthening my name lately from Dot to Dottie, another version I disliked. But I was too giddy about the impending rehearsal dinner to give it much attention. I crooked my index finger and led her to the vegetable bins in the refrigerator. All she had to do was look under the asparagus.
“I give. Who?”
He motioned for me to join him. I glanced out. The Banger sisters were seated at the table in the corner, from which vantage point they could keep an eye on the whole restaurant.
“Things are looking up.” I sauntered past him into the dining room. “Evening, ladies,” I said to the sisters. “It’s nice to see you in here again.”
“Hello, Dodie,” one said.
“We are adventurous, don’t you know,” said the other.
“Aha. Well, I’m sure you’ll find something you like on tonight’s menu.”
“What’s safe?” one asked innocently.
“Everything,” I answered politely.
“Oh, don’t worry,” said her sister. “We’ve taken precautions.”
They both bobbed their heads.
I was afraid to ask. “Precautions . . . ?”
One of them pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Our last wills and testaments.” They smiled and picked up their menus.
Geez.
13
It was comforting to have a few regulars back in the Windjammer. Even if they were the Banger sisters, cautiously picking through their beef Stroganoff.
Pauli was gobbling up an order of French fries, adding my new text, and editing the gallery of photos. I browsed the staff pictures, looking for the warmest, friendliest grouping. One or two fit the bill.
“I think this one is best. Everybody is sort of smiling. And the delivery guy is gone from the background. The magic of technology,” I said. “How’s your class going?”
“I’m into the second one. Databases and Internet searches.”
My fingers beat a tattoo on the table between us. “Remember when you said everybody could be found on the Internet?”
“Yeah. We’re like doing some cool things with missing persons sites and stuff.”
“What if someone doesn’t pop up?” I asked quietly.
He stopped typing on the keyboard and looked up at me. “Totally not possible. Now, anyway.” He leaned in. “Is this, like, about that . . . other thing . . . you were kinda asking about . . . like back then?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“The first rule of digital forensics—”
“Confidentiality. Got it. So I’m interested in finding out about the director. The one who died at the food festival.”
His eyes lit up. “Awesome.” Then narrowed. “What’d he do?”
“Nothing like that,” I said hastily. “I’m just curious. I found some things about him from recent years but nothing much from the last decade or before the late 1990s. No mention of shows he directed, or classes or workshops or anything.”
Pauli shrugged. “Maybe he wasn’t working then.”
“Maybe. But he would have been in his thirties and forties. Too old not to have some kind of a track record.”
He thought. “Are you spelling his name right?”
“Antonio D-i-g-e-n-z-a. I found other Digenzas but they’re not our Antonio.”
Pauli snapped his laptop shut. “Maybe he changed his name.” He jammed it into his backpack.
Of course. Writers did it. Actors did it. Why not directors?
I bent over the tabletop and kissed Pauli on the top of his hank of brown hair. “You’re a genius!”
He blushed and whipped his hoodie over his head.
I planned to take my scheduled day off tomorrow. Benny wanted the extra shifts and the restaurant traffic was still sluggish. “Want to do a little Internet sleuthing at my house?” I asked. “What are you doing after school tomorrow?”
“I have my online class from three thirty to five. I could come after.”
“Great. Tell your mom you’ll have dinner with me, okay?”
“Sweet.”
“We’ll keep this just between us for now?” I said.
He swiped his hair to one side and saluted me impishly. It made me think of my old friend Jerome . . .
* * *
At nine o’clock I helped Carmen reset tables. At the bar, a couple was eating burgers, and three solos were drinking alone. It would be at least another hour before the Etonville Little Theatre crowd might stop in for a drink. Depended on how badly rehearsal had gone.
I sat down in my back booth with a seltzer and next week’s menu and inventories. I reminded myself to remind Henry to call Rita from Snippets to confirm the menu for the rehearsal dinner. It was only one night, but a group reservation at this point was manna from heaven. I pulled my hair back and secured it into a ponytail. I felt sticky from the day’s efforts and fantasized about a warm bubble bath. I closed my eyes and smiled.
“Hope it’s a good one,” Bill said.
My eyes fluttered open. He was a sight for sore eyes—out of uniform in crisp chinos, a white dress shirt, smelling great. I felt grimy and sweaty and self-conscious.
“H-hi,” I stuttered.
“Looked like you were having a terrific daydream.” His eyes crinkled and his mouth curved up on the left side.
“Not really.” I casually eased the elastic band from my ponytail and ran several fingers through my tousled locks. “Just planning my day off tomorrow.”
“Lucky you. May I?” He gestured to the bench opposite me.
“Sure.”
I collected my papers and placed them in a pile on the seat.
“Is the kitchen still open?”
“Absolutely.” His blue eyes had hypnotized me. I sat there paralyzed.
Fortunately, Benny had watched Bill enter and now appeared with a menu. “Hi, Chief. What can I get you?”
Bill decided on a glass of red wine and the Stroganoff. “Business picked up yet?”
“Not really. But we do have a rehearsal dinner coming up,” I said.
“For the theater?”
“For a wedding party.”
“Oh.” He folded his hands on the table and leaned back.
“How’s the case in Creston?” I asked.
“Coming along,” he said. “I can’t say any more, you understand.”
“I guess the police department over there is happy to have you on board.”
“Chief Harmon’s a good guy. I’m happy to help out.”
The brunette with whom he shared a PDA moment appeared before my eyes. “I guess they have a large staff?”
“Larger than Etonville. Nice guys. And women.”
I’ll bet.
Benny brought his wine and dinner and Bill began to eat immediately, as if it was his first meal all day. “I spoke with Suki.”
Now that I finally had his attention, I wasn’t sure how to respond. “She told you I dropped by?”
“Yep.” He took a bite of beef. “Why didn’t you show me that note earlier?”
“I intended to Saturday, but with the storm and the kids and the picnic . . . I thought it might be a joke.”
“You did?” he said skeptically, his stare captivating enough to raise my heart rate.
“Well . . . maybe someone knows I have questions about Antonio’s death.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What do you think?” I asked politely.
“Look, Dodie, I don’t know if it was someone fooling around or whatever. I do know you don’t think it was a joke. I’ll have it checked out.”
“That’s good.”
“And what’s this about a car following you on the parkway?”
“On the access road. It followed me for a while, tapped me, so I speeded up. Then I got on the parkway.”
He frowned, looking concerned. “You do have a way of attracting. . . trouble.”
I could feel myself bristling. “It’s my fault a car was stalking me?”
“Stalking? Of course not. If that’s what happened.”
“What would you call it?” I asked, a trifle too energetically. I saw Benny look up from his crossword puzzle.
“Did the car actually hit you or
was it just travelling too fast too closely? Maybe you put on the brakes and it had no choice—”
“You don’t believe me, do you? This feels like Jerome’s death all over again.” Last time it had taken Bill a while before he was willing to trust my instincts and my evidence.
Bill placed his fork on his plate. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I plunged in. “I think someone followed me. And I think Antonio’s disappearing act was very weird. And I don’t think the note was a prank.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but you know you have an—”
“—overactive imagination.”
We sat in silence. After a moment Bill pulled out his wallet. “Time for me to go home.”
“For what it’s worth, I think the woman in green at the funeral was very suspicious. And why would a complete stranger who claimed to know Antonio show up at the theater just to take a look around?” I was on a roll and probably saying too much.
“What are you talking about?” He looked genuinely perplexed.
“Never mind.” I took his check and cash and stood up.
“I’ll let you know about the note. If there are any useable prints, the lab guys will find them.”
“Thanks.” I studied his money as though I’d never seen two twenty-dollar bills before.
“Oh. I forgot this.” He withdrew a pleated piece of paper from his pocket and laid it on the table. “The lady in green.”
I blinked. “You traced the license plate number?”
“I do listen to what you say, you know. Contrary to what you think,” he said softly.
I stared at the name on the paper: Regan Digenza. “What?”
“A sister, a cousin. Someone in the family who did not take kindly to his life or death maybe. You see, given her name, there’s a logical explanation for her behavior.”
I was stunned. I knew nothing about Antonio’s family other than the fact that Lola had said she thought they—whoever they were—lived on the West Coast. Neither Bill nor I had any idea what was logical.
Time Out Page 11