Running Out of Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  * * *

  Within fifteen minutes, I was in sweats, a bowl of Henry’s chicken noodle soup thawing in the microwave. Perfect for a night like this. I settled in at the kitchen table, ran through my email—mostly junk plus a couple of messages from my father wanting to know if I’d heard from my brother lately and an online university encouraging me to register for a distance learning master’s degree. Advanced education…maybe I should consider going back to school.

  The microwave signaled my dinner was ready. I dipped a spoon into the bowl. The soup needed another minute so I plopped into a chair and turned my attention back to the laptop. I began to scroll through messages and, for no apparent reason, the nape of my neck tingled. Goose bumps formed on my shoulders and ran down my arms. My radar system was warning me about something…but what? I glanced up at the curtainless window across from the kitchen table and gasped. There was a flash of white with dark features staring into the kitchen. I sat still, glued to the chair, my heart pounding. Was it my feverish imagination, simply a reflection of my own face in the glass? I ignored the microwave binging a second time and forced myself to stand and step closer to the window. I peered outside. I saw only the silhouette of my neighbor’s house illuminated by the moon. I retrieved my soup, and settled in once more. I guessed I was jittery these days, what with my car being broken into and a potential murderer on the loose, as Bill had reminded me.

  I shifted from my email to my Facebook page. I was interrupted by the muted ringing of my cell phone, which I’d left in my purse in the living room. I thought about avoiding a conversation—there were only so many crises I could handle at one time—but then reconsidered. It might be Bill. I leapt to my feet and bounded to the living room, stubbing my shoeless toe on the corner of the sofa. “Ouch!” I yelled out loud and then felt a breeze on my neck and my little hairs quivered. Again. What was going on?

  I scrounged around for my phone. “Hello?” I said quickly.

  “Hi. How are you?” asked Bill.

  “Fine.” My mind raced.

  “I meant to call earlier, but then I got a text from Suki who heard from Edna that the ELT was holding a rehearsal at the Windjammer today.” He chuckled. “That must have been an event. Seriously, though, I hope it all went well. I do feel bad about the theater being off-limits for the time being.”

  Something was wrong. A streak of movement blew by the living room window, which was only partially covered by sheer drapes. There was no mistaking a face this time. Someone was watching me.

  “Dodie?”

  “Yeah,” I sputtered out.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m not sure. I think I have a Peeping Tom,” I whispered.

  “What?” The question exploded out of my cell. “Where are you?”

  “In the living room. But—”

  “Lock the doors. I’m sending someone over,” he shouted.

  “Okay, but—”

  “Now.” He clicked off.

  I stuffed my cell in the pocket of my sweatpants and clicked off the living room lights. Both my snoop and myself being in the dark created a level playing field. I wondered if someone had been spying on me at other times as well.

  An Etonville police vehicle, lights flashing without a siren, sped down Ames and came to an abrupt stop at my curb. Probably Ralph. It wouldn’t be the most efficient interview, but at least I could file a report. The car door opened and a figure alighted. Across the street a couple of neighbors stuck their heads out. I opened the front door and waved to them.

  Archibald appeared at my side. “What’s going on here?”

  “Not Ralph?” I said.

  “Nope.” That smile creased his face.

  “So you think you saw a face at the kitchen window—”

  “—and in here,” I said.

  “That’s it?”

  Of course, my hairs were jumping, but that I could not disclose to Archibald Alvarez, who sat on my sofa, boot-clad feet crossed over one another. He stroked his stubble of a beard and focused his dark, brooding eyes on me. “Yes.”

  Archibald swept his hair off his forehead. “Any reason to suspect neighbors? People from town? Someone who’s a little bit too curious?”

  Hard to explain the close-knit Etonville community to a former city cop. “None.”

  “Maybe someone playing a trick on you?” he said.

  A trick? Really? “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll file a report and update Bill. Meanwhile, keep your doors and windows locked.”

  “I always do.”

  He smiled lazily, his eyes dropping to my feet and moving slowly to my face again. “Bill says you’re one smart cookie.”

  Whoa. I blinked.

  “He said that?” I asked, my voice skittish.

  Archibald laughed. “Not in so many words. I think he appreciates your initiative.”

  Bill’s word? “I guess I am a little proactive…”

  Archibald leaned forward, his eyes fastened on mine. “You two are a couple, yes?”

  Startled, I coughed on a sip of my tea. No one in Etonville had ever put it so bluntly.

  “Didn’t mean to surprise you. Just checking out the territory,” he said evenly.

  I felt a warm flush spread from my face to my neck. What did that mean?

  He handed me his mug. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Sure.” I needed to shift this awkward conversation. “Have you made any progress locating Sally Oldfield?”

  “She’s a friend of yours, yes?” he asked.

  “I’m concerned about her,” I answered.

  “Have you heard from her?”

  “No.” Technically I hadn’t heard from her. Texts were silent.

  “I’m sure Bill will keep you posted on any progress. Have a good night,” he added charmingly and left.

  Archibald Alvarez was one slick dude. A real hottie…no denying it. His attention was flattering, but it also put me on edge. What was it about him that made me suspicious? Not for the first time, I considered the contrast between by-the-book Bill and shoot-from-the-hip Archibald. Maybe opposites really did attract.

  I’d never been afraid alone in my home. Tonight was a different story. I rechecked all the doors and windows.

  15

  By the time Archibald left, my soup was cold, my seltzer was warm, and I was out of the investigation mood. No matter. I opened my Facebook page. I hadn’t posted anything since the beginning of February when I’d added pictures of the baking class creating colonial desserts. I’d gotten quite a few “likes” from some of my 856 Facebook friends. I scrolled through my home page and laughed out loud at Andy’s latest post of Cory singing “Rubber Duckie” in the bathtub, skimmed a few other posts of friends’ travel pictures, and then went in search of Sally’s page.

  On her timeline, she’d posted some shots of ELT auditions and rehearsals from late January with cute captions including the Bangers, Mildred, Vernon, and one of Penny and her whistle. She’d also posted a beautiful picture of a snowy Etonville morning on February 9. Funny, if she wanted to remove herself from her past and all its complications, why post pictures of the town where she was now staying? Maybe someone in Boston was monitoring her Facebook page. Maybe Archibald as well? There was no other personal information on her page, no mention of Boston.

  Sally’s winter morning photo had generated “likes” from Etonville folks and a few comments: “beautiful”; “winter in NJ!”; “no wonder I’m in Florida.” I scrolled farther down her timeline and saw a picture of the two of us. I sat back in my chair. I didn’t remember it being taken. We were standing outside the entrance to the Windjammer and Sally was threatening to throw a snowball at me.

  I flipped back to the top of her timeline where she’d posted, most recently, the day before Gordon Weeks was murdered. It was an unattri
buted quote: “I like to be alone…but I hate to be lonely.” What was she saying here? Then it struck me. Sally’s Facebook page began when she moved to Etonville. There was nothing before January.

  I went back to the search bar and typed in Sarah Oldfield. There were six or seven listings, but not one that matched Sally’s profile. Then I retyped Sara without the H. Bingo! Sara Oldfield attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and lived in Boston. No mention of a job or work experience. I scrolled through her timeline. There were pictures of Sally with groupings of various generations. Probably extended family. Sally with a woman who had to be her mother given the startling resemblance; Sally sitting in a leafy green setting backed by academic buildings; Sally with a nice-looking guy. Wonder what happened to him?

  Nothing on either Facebook page suggested the recent turbulent life Andy had hinted at, other than the lonely quote. And certainly nothing that told me anything about her current situation. I was stumped.

  My cell rang and I checked the caller ID. “Hi.”

  “Everything okay? Archibald called in,” Bill said.

  “What did he tell you?” I was curious.

  “What you told him, I assume. You thought you saw a face in your kitchen and living room windows.” Bill sounded distracted. “I’m going to have Ralph swing by your place later to keep an eye on things. Between your car break-in and tonight’s unwelcome visitor, looks like someone is interested in you.”

  “How well do you know Archibald?” I asked on a whim.

  “Why?” He sounded weary.

  “Just wondered. You two seem so…different.”

  Bill chuckled, suddenly more relaxed. “We are different. He was an ace detective, always closed his cases. A little unorthodox in the way he approached investigations, though.”

  Also in the way he competed as hottest male model. “Did he ever get in trouble?”

  “Sometimes. So why the questions? Something you don’t like?” Bill asked.

  Was now the time to tell Bill about Archibald’s late-night visit to the theater? Of course, I was trespassing there myself… “No, no. Like I said, just curious about you two. I don’t think he took my peeper all that seriously.”

  “Look, Dodie, Archie doesn’t know you. I do. And if your instincts are telling you something is wrong, I’m listening.”

  Wow…he believes me!

  “…because there’s a murderer on the loose.”

  Right.

  “Well, guess I’ll get going,” he said slowly. “Be careful, okay? Keep your doors and—”

  “—windows locked. Right. By the way, what did the medical examiner have to say?”

  “Not much. The preliminary finding was pretty predictable. He confirmed the wound was made by a five-inch-blade that severed arteries and nicked the victim’s aorta.”

  Which everyone knew.

  “There was one other thing. Of course, I shouldn’t be divulging this information…”

  “But…” I said quickly.

  “I’m telling you only because I know it will eventually leak to the Etonville Standard anyway.”

  “Is that the only reason?” I asked teasingly.

  He dropped his voice into his sexy zone. “What do you think?”

  “What do you think I think?” I countered.

  “Dodie!”

  “Okay. What else did you learn?” I asked.

  “Gordon Weeks suffered head trauma possibly from a blunt object.”

  “What kind of trauma?”

  “Subdural hematoma. There was a swelling and deep bruise on the back of his head.”

  “Maybe he was knocked out before he was stabbed?”

  “Let’s don’t jump to conclusions. His head could have hit the floor in the course of the attack. He was a big guy and would have gone down with a bang,” Bill said.

  Or he could have been hit from behind by someone not capable of overcoming him with a knife. Someone smaller than Gordon Weeks. Someone like Sally. If this line of reasoning occurred to me, chances are it had occurred to either Bill or Archibald. Or both.

  “Would you like a ride home? I can be there in ten—”

  “Suki’s here and she’ll drop me off,” he said.

  “If there’s anything you need…?”

  His voice slipped back into sexy mode. “Once this cast is off, a little company would be nice.”

  Yikes.

  * * *

  Still no return text from Sally about meeting in Bernridge. So before I went to bed, I returned to Sally’s Facebook page and commented on her loneliness quote: “So touching…hate to be lonely too.” Maybe she’d see it.

  I awoke on my own at seven a.m. I was happy that all signs of my cold had dissipated during the last twenty-four hours and now, finally, I was sniffle-free. I vaulted out of bed, energized by a good night’s sleep, despite my worry about the peeper, and benign dreams. I indulged in a warm lavender bubble bath while I sorted out my day. First, a call to Lola to check on Walter—he wasn’t my favorite person, but he’d had his attack in the Windjammer so I felt I needed to rise above petty feelings. His and mine. Then I needed to stop by Snippets for a trim and to catch up on Etonville gossip. Maybe someone there had heard something about Sally. I submerged my shoulders, the bathwater up to my chin, and weighed my options with regard to her: She wasn’t at home or work. Had she gone back to Boston? What about the older “sugar daddy” at the car wash? Maybe I needed to stop back there and get a better description—

  My cell binged. I reluctantly rose and stepped out of the tub, swaddling myself in a large Turkish towel. I padded to my bedroom and seized the phone. Lola: Are you up? I texted back that I’d call soon and tossed the phone onto my unmade bed. I rifled through my closet. These days I dressed for comfort—corduroy trousers and a cable-knit sweater. I slipped on alpaca socks my mother had sent as a reminder that the weather was in the 70s in Florida, and headed downstairs. I had taken my first sip of coffee when another text came in. Lola was impatient this morning. Fingers crossed there was no more bad news about Walter. I snatched my phone off the kitchen counter and tapped Messages. It wasn’t Lola. It was Sally and Andy was wrong; she hadn’t left New Jersey to “lawyer up”: OK to meet in Bernridge.

  She supplied another address that I wasn’t familiar with so I texted back: OK but no repeat of Creston.

  I had no desire to waste time at another backstreet bodega. I suggested a meeting at seven tonight. I was due for an evening off after last week and Benny had agreed to pick up some nights this week.

  I texted Carol to see if I could pop in for a trim at eight thirty—I could—and then called Lola.

  “Hey what’s up? Walter okay?”

  “I think the Xanax is going to make a new man out of him. He was so pleasant and agreeable when I picked him up. Of course, he was also woozy. I was tempted to steal a few pills,” Lola said.

  “That bad?”

  “Still trying to figure out what to do about the show. The Creston Players are out of the picture now that they’re doing the same show in a few months,” Lola said huffily.

  “Well…it’s not exactly the same show,” I said carefully.

  “You know what I mean. Small town, same theme, similar characters,” she said.

  “Different time period, dialogue, and setting,” I countered.

  “True. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Walter gave himself an attack so he wouldn’t have to deal with all of this,” she said.

  “What you need is a good hot meal. I’m headed to Snippets for a quick cut and then how about breakfast at Coffee Heaven?”

  “You’re on. I’ll meet you there at nine thirty.”

  * * *

  I bundled up in my down jacket even though the temperature had risen to a balmy thirty-five. The roadway slush was melting and rivulets of mucky water ran down the gut
ters to the storm drains. My Hyundai was balky, jerking when I stepped on the gas, shuddering when I stepped on the brakes. I couldn’t get my Metro out of the shop soon enough; Timothy had promised tomorrow at the latest. Parking on a side street half a block from Snippets forced me to walk in the bracing air. It felt good.

  The hair salon was just opening. Carol was on the phone, her employees, Rita and Imogen, setting up the color and cutting stations, and two customers paging through the latest issues of People and Cosmopolitan. Carol motioned for me to head to the sinks in the rear of the shop where Imogen shampooed my hair, applied conditioner, and did a final rinse, sending a layer of suds down the drain.

  “Heard you had a rehearsal of that play at the Windjammer yesterday,” Imogen said, tilting her half-shaven head, this month’s style, to get a better look at my face.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Then Walter had a heart attack,” she said.

  “Not a heart attack. A panic attack.”

  Imogen squinted at me. “Probably his cholesterol or blood pressure.”

  “Since it wasn’t a heart attack, I don’t think—”

  “My uncle had a heart attack and they put him on a ton of drugs.” She wrapped my head in a towel.

  “Really.” No sense fighting City Hall.

  “Walter should take it easy. Heart attacks are serious stuff.” She texted her way to the front of the salon.

  Carol led me to a chair in her cutting station and eyeballed my head. “How about an inch and a half?”

  That was more than usual, but I was in a frisky mood. “Go for it.”

  She cut away, pruning my waves and bangs and thinning the clutch of hair at the nape of my neck. “Heard about Walter. That man should take a vacation.”