Time Out

by Suzanne Trauth

  “So you discovered his secret.” Brianna smiled, guarded. “He was such a romantic, with a touch of flamboyance. ‘Antonio’ was way more theatrical than ‘Tony.’ He thought people might be attracted by a foreign-sounding name.”

  “And less likely to discover his criminal record.” My words landed with a thud.

  Brianna paused, then spoke in measured sentences. “That was after my time. Antonio had been running a scam with a friend of his for a number of years. It started out legitimately enough, but when the two of them saw the potential profit in pretending to sell a product instead of actually selling it . . .” She shrugged. “Obviously he regretted his past and wanted to reestablish his directing career.” She examined my face. “You’re a smart woman. I knew that the first time we met. I have the feeling you’re investigating Antonio’s death.”

  “I’m not a private investigator. I’ve just been asking a few questions,” I said.

  “You don’t believe it was a simple heart attack, do you?”

  Once again I could see that Brianna was nobody’s fool. She eyed me calmly. How much to tell her? I squirmed in my seat. Like the time I got sent to the principal’s office for bringing a lizard to show-and-tell. It escaped and caused a mad stampede of seven-year-olds to the playground. “I’d like a definitive explanation for his death.”

  She frowned. “Antonio had complained of chest pain recently. I begged him to see a doctor.”

  “I think he had been seeing a Dr. Xiu in Bernridge. She uses traditional Chinese medicine.”

  “For his heart?” she asked carefully.

  “For his stomach.”

  Brianna looked at me quizzically.

  My cell rang. “Excuse me.” I tapped Answer.

  “Uh, hey. It’s me.”

  “Hi, Pauli. Are the website changes finished? Send me an invoice and I’ll have Henry pay you.”

  “Okay. Uh, thanks.” He hesitated.

  “Something up?” I asked.

  “Well . . . uh . . . remember, like, when you said you wanted to find that other person who knew Antonio? Regan Digenza . . . ?”

  “Hang on, okay?”

  I buried my cell in my lap and turned to Brianna. “I’m sorry, but I should take this call.”

  She nodded. “No problem. I have to get back to the shop. But I’d like to know what you find out,” Brianna said. “I cared about Antonio, you know. And like I said, old habits . . .”

  I stood when she did and, on a whim, I gave her a hug. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  I watched her walk out the door. “So Pauli, what were you saying?”

  “Well, uh, in class last night we worked on facial recognition software.” His tempo picked up. “And, uh, like I ran that picture of Regan Digenza from LinkedIn and found out some stuff.”

  I stacked our dessert plates and smiled my thanks to Carmen as she wiped the table and cleared the dishes. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Her name was, like, Regan Rottinger before she married that director. Like, she was a nurse and worked in a hospital and then she, like, worked for this doctor and then there was this problem and she got fired—”

  My cell buzzed. “Great work, Pauli. I have another call coming in. I’ll get back to you, okay?”

  Pauli clicked off.

  I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Dodie?”

  It was Tiffany. She sounded upset; of course given past, present, and future events, there were many good reasons for her to be distressed. “Did you call Chief Thompson?”

  “I left him a message with the other officer. And I’ll tell Edna at rehearsal tonight.”

  “You’re doing the right thing,” I said.

  “Yeah. Well.” She paused.

  I could hear I needed to coax her into revealing her motivation for phoning me. “Is there something else?”

  “You know, after our meeting this morning I got to thinking. About Antonio and other things, and you mentioned a Regan Digenza.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How do you know her?” she asked.

  “She was at the funeral service and I got her license plate number. Chief Thompson got her name.” I fervently hoped I wasn’t violating Bill’s trust by divulging his role in this. “You didn’t know her, right?”

  “Not exactly. I mean I didn’t know someone named Regan.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “There was this woman Antonio met with this year. I saw them together a few times and when I asked him about her, he said she was an actress that he’d worked with in the past.”

  That part wasn’t a lie. “Would you recognize her if you saw her picture?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” she said.

  “I have to run now, but I’ll text it. Let me know if it’s Regan,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “Tiffany, did Antonio ever complain of gastrointestinal problems?”

  “Gastro what?” she asked.

  “Stomach issues. Was he seeing a doctor?”

  Tiffany barked a laugh. “He hated doctors.”

  * * *

  Etonville’s Youth Football Tigers were relegated to the town’s soccer field since the high school was holding its own practice on the football field. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a real gridiron and there were no goalposts; Bill’s players were running drills and getting their confidence up for Saturday’s game against a youth league in Bernridge. At least the rain had stopped and the sun was tussling with the clouds to make an appearance.

  Bill schooled his quarterback and receiver to get on the same page—Zach backpedaling and throwing between defenders to a boy I didn’t know. “Extend your arms,” Bill yelled to the receiver. “Keep your feet moving.”

  Zach heaved the ball and it went wildly off course. Bill clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s try this again.”

  Across the field, one of the dads was running defensive drills, as in tackling techniques and wrapping up ball carriers on contact. Mostly the players just fell on top of each other and rolled around on the wet turf.

  The temperature was dropping gently and a light wind had picked up. I wrapped my windbreaker more tightly around my midsection and tucked my legs up on the metal bleacher bench.

  “Almost finished here,” Bill shouted.

  “No problem. I have Benny covering. So no hurry,” I shouted back.

  He smiled. “Good.”

  My cell binged. A text from Tiffany: IT’S HER.

  The message was cryptic but clear: Antonio had been seen with Regan in the year before he died. I felt thrilled at the information but more confused than ever. That made two ex-wives he was seeing. No wonder the marriage was on shaky ground . . . Chalk up another loose end.

  I watched Bill motion for the team to gather. He gave me a quick wave. “Let me finish up with the kids and then we can talk.”

  “Sure.”

  Bill summarized the afternoon’s practice drills, first with the offense and then the defense, scrawling on his whiteboard for clarity, while the kids, with mud-streaked uniforms, flushed faces, and a few runny noses, watched him in awe. It was fun to see their reverence for him.

  He clapped his hands. “Let’s do two laps and call it a day.”

  “Okay, Coach,” they said in unison and took off.

  Bill had a brief conference with his assistant dad, took off his ball cap, and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. “Jimmy’s father is closing up. Let’s go talk.”

  “Fine. Where?”

  He squinted as he watched the kids trudge around the perimeter of the soccer field. “How about dinner at my place?”

  My pulse quickened. His place . . . I instinctively glanced down at my wardrobe. My top and pants were functional if not striking. They would have to do. “Well, okay.”

  “I have to drop off some equipment at the high school first. Let me have your phone.”

  Immediately I was vigilant: Was he looking for something? “Uh . . .” I withdrew my cell fr
om my bag.

  He held out his hand. “Here’s my address.” He opened up my Notes app and typed in 74 Gracie Ave. “I should be there in about forty minutes.”

  I didn’t let on that I already knew his address. Not far from Carol’s house. Not really time enough for me to go home and change, but long enough to buy a bottle of wine.

  “By the way, Suki said I had a message to call Tiffany Digenza. Know what it’s about?”

  “Coach?” Zach tugged on Bill’s arm. “Are we still going to do the shotgun on Saturday?”

  Bill nodded. “We sure are!”

  Zach grinned and jogged away.

  “Now where were we?” Bill asked.

  “I’ll see you in a few.” I backed away, car keys jingling.

  He turned his attention to the team.

  * * *

  Bill’s place was on the other end of town from mine. I drove my Metro to the wine shop next door to Georgette’s Bakery and wandered the aisles, examining the shelf that held the expensive Cabernets. I recalled from our last meal that he was partial to reds. Of course that dinner was a disaster, and anyway, was he cooking or ordering in? I chose a bottle generally out of my price range, pulled out a credit card and paid. Once back in my car, I had a few minutes to kill, so I brushed my hair, swiped a lipstick across my lips, and called Lola.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Dodie, where are you? Want to come by for a bite before I have to go off to rehearsal?” Lola asked.

  “Can’t. I’m having dinner with Bill.”

  I could hear Lola’s eyes open wider. “Well, well . . .”

  “Nothing like that. At least I don’t think it is. This is more a business meeting.”

  “Call me after, okay? No matter how late,” she said.

  “FYI, Tiffany told me Antonio met with Regan last year. And Brianna stopped by and said Antonio had been in touch with her.”

  Lola gasped. “No! This plot really does thicken.”

  * * *

  I parked in front of 74 Gracie and checked out Bill’s residence: a redbrick, center-hall Colonial with white pillars and black shutters. Low shrubs outlined the front of the house and a lone weeping willow, whose leaves had already begun to turn yellow, swayed gently on the front lawn. Bill’s BMW was parked in the driveway. The neighborhood was authentic early American, with the types of homes that gave Etonville its historical bona fides.

  I grabbed my wine and purse and walked to the front door. I used the brass knocker to beat out a short, staccato rhythm against the plate. Bill appeared—he’d changed into a tan cashmere sweater that clung to his biceps, and khakis. His sandy brush cut was neatly arranged, his musky aftershave intoxicating. I felt a little shiver. How had he found the time to do this Superman act?

  “Come on in,” he said and stepped back from the door.

  “Thanks. Lovely house.”

  “I’ve been doing some work on it. Got a ways to go yet.”

  “Really?” I gazed around the front hallway. It was all polished hardwood floors, a gleaming handrail that ran up the staircase, and fresh flowers in a vase on a small table. House beautiful! Bill’s home made mine seem like a shanty.

  “Let’s go into the kitchen. I’m just finishing up.”

  I handed him the bottle of wine. “I hope this works.”

  Bill glanced at the label and let out a low whistle. “Nice.”

  “Something smells terrific.” I followed him through the hallway and into a modern, fully loaded kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a center island. I had caught him chopping veggies for a salad. “Can I help?”

  He gave me a corkscrew, two glasses, and an aerator. “Have at it,” he said and smiled.

  My heart melted. I nodded at the Crock-Pot on the counter. “What’s cooking?”

  “White chicken chili.” He sprayed a handful of red peppers into the salad bowl. “Ever have it?”

  “Years ago,” I said. “My mom gave me a slow cooker as a setting-up-my-own-household gift when I graduated from college. I tried just about every recipe in the cookbook.”

  “It’s easy to prepare dinner ahead of time.”

  Maybe he’d been planning our “date” as early as this morning? The thought made me a little giddy.

  “I like to have a hot meal ready when I get home from work.”

  Nope. “Cheers.” I tasted the wine.

  “Let’s sit in the living room. I have about forty-five minutes to go on the chili.”

  Bill led the way through a dining room scene right out of an American Revolution museum, from Windsor chairs around an oak table and a Chippendale block chest, to a comfy living room where a fire was ready. He lit the logs and a pungent, smoky aroma filled the room.

  “I love the smell of wood burning,” I said.

  “I promised myself the first house I owned would have a working fireplace.”

  “Oh. Is this the . . . ?” I hoped I wasn’t prying.

  “First house? Yep. I’ve always been a renter.”

  I wanted to ask if he rented alone. “I guess you like early American.”

  He laughed. “I got a good deal on the house and thought I should furnish it accordingly.”

  “You should be on the historical landmarks tour.” I relaxed into one of his cushiony loungers.

  We chatted amiably about his football team and its limited prospects, the upcoming opening of Arsenic and Old Lace and its potential perils, and Rita’s rehearsal dinner at the Windjammer. We avoided any mention of Antonio.

  The timer in the kitchen rang and Bill excused himself to get dinner on the table. He declined my help, so I took it easy and inhaled the comforting, autumn fragrance of the fire. I glanced at the mantel. Wineglass in hand, I moved to the fireplace and faced a series of photographs: an elderly couple, probably his parents, flanking a younger Bill in uniform; a large family grouping of several generations; and a more recent shot of Bill and an attractive woman. I picked up the picture and stared. It was the brunette from Creston. My heart sank.

  “Soup’s on!” Bill called from the dining room.

  I hurriedly replaced the photo. “Coming.”

  * * *

  “This is delicious.” I scooped up another mouthful of the white chicken chili. “I can taste the chili powder and paprika. But something else . . . ?”

  “Cumin. And a bottle of beer.” He chuckled.

  “I like the avocado garnish,” I said. “You’re quite the cook!”

  “Well, it’s not like a meal at La Famiglia.”

  Four-star La Famiglia. Home of our last formal dinner date, when Bill and I clashed over investigative techniques—basically my illegal email hacking—and I ended up apologizing to Henry for cheating on the Windjammer. It was the evening from hell.

  “Might be good to put on the Windjammer menu,” I said lightly.

  “Not a bad idea.” He paused to spear a plum tomato. “Is business picking up?”

  “A little,” I said. “But once Antonio’s death is finally sorted out, I think everyone will come around.”

  Bill’s tomato had just reached his lips. “Sorted out?”

  I took a drink of wine and watched him over the rim of my glass. “Well, you know how I feel about unfinished business.”

  He put his fork down. “I know how you feel about digging into crime scenes. Which his death is not. At least as far as the medical examiner is concerned.”

  The alcohol was going to my head and sending my thought process into slow motion. I was struggling both for a comeback and to remember which pieces of evidence I had already shared with Bill, which ones I wanted to lay on him now, and which ones I should keep to myself for the present.

  His cell phone rang. “Excuse me. I need to get that,” he said politely and crossed into the kitchen.

  I heard him answer the phone, then pause and listen. “She did?” he said. His voice grew louder and I could feel his eyes on the back of my head. “That’s fine. Can you stop by my office tomorrow morning?”
Pause. “Sure. I’ll see you then.”

  He clicked off, laid his cell on the sideboard, and sat down. “That was Tiffany.”

  There was no point in playing dumb. “I figured as much.”

  “She is requesting that I expedite the lab tests on Antonio. To rule out toxic substances.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She said you told her to call me?” Bill said.

  I placed my napkin on the table. “I couldn’t ignore the mounting evidence anymore.”

  “Are you suggesting I am?”

  It was déjà vu all over again: this night was dangerously close to resembling last spring’s dinner fiasco. “Of course not. You’ve been in Creston and I just happened to . . . notice a few things. Come across some facts that can’t be . . .”

  “Ignored.”

  “Right.

  “Such as?” he asked.

  “Regan Digenza was at the food festival, even though I didn’t see her there at the time. What was she doing creeping around Etonville?”

  “Creeping? Just because she attended a local—”

  “And why did Antonio visit a Chinese doctor for gastrointestinal problems?”

  “He what? With whom?” Bill looked completely lost.

  Once I started, things tripped off my tongue. “And why did he change his name from Tony Dickson to Antonio Digenza?”

  “Change his name?” he asked sternly.

  “It probably had something to do with his criminal background that was connected to at least one of the burglars arrested for the Creston robberies—”

  “Wait a minute,” he said louder than he needed to.

  “And the fact that Kenneth Amberlin was a friend of Antonio’s and actually visited the theater a week ago. I’ll bet he was looking around for something.”

  He leaned forward. “How do you know all that?”

  “Lola met Amberlin at the ELT and spoke with him. Penny, too. Although her account might be a little skewed,” I added, remembering how impressed she was with his being a New York actor. “Lola recognized his picture in the paper. Maybe he was connected with the two people who mugged me outside the theater.”

  “And Antonio was a friend of his?” he asked sharply, more police chief and less dinner host.

  “They had a history together.” I revealed Antonio’s check fraud misdemeanor and his more significant arrest in Las Vegas. I thought that was enough “evidence” for the moment, and certainly enough to complement Tiffany’s request to see a tox screen of Antonio’s blood.