Killing Time
Killing Time
Books by Suzanne Trauth
SHOW TIME
TIME OUT
RUNNING OUT OF TIME
JUST IN TIME
NO MORE TIME
KILLING TIME
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Table of Contents
Books by Suzanne Trauth
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Killing Time
Suzanne Trauth
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Suzanne Trauth
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: June 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0725-4 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0725-X (ebook)
First Print Edition: June 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0726-1
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0726-8
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For all of my faithful readers…you kept me on my toes!
1
“Boo!” A horrifying zombie mask popped over my shoulder.
“Arrgh!” I flinched, one hand swiping my coffee cup sideways, spilling liquid down the bar. My other hand flew out toward the grisly Halloween face, blood trickling from its brain to the cavernous mouth full of rotting teeth. I smacked the wearer on the arm. “Benny!”
“Oof,” Benny said and whipped the rubber monstrosity off his head. “Sorry! Did I scare you?” The Windjammer restaurant’s bartender and my assistant manager grabbed a towel.
“I hope you’re not wearing that thing when you take the princess trick-or-treating.” The princess was Benny’s doted-on six-year-old daughter.
“Nah. My wife had the same reaction as you.” He studied the mask. “I kinda like it.”
I gawked at him. “You can’t wear that in here. The customers will freak out. Probably toss their lunch. Literally.”
Benny grinned. “No problem. I got a pirate outfit that’s pretty safe. What about you?”
Me? I’m Dodie O’Dell, manager of the Windjammer for the past four years, ever since the devastation of Hurricane Sandy down the Jersey Shore sent me north to Etonville, a stone’s throw from New York City. It’s my responsibility to keep the patrons happy and ride shotgun on the staff. This year I’d decided to add a little fun to their workday on Halloween by having everyone show up in costume. When I came up with this idea last month, Benny was enthusiastic, sous chef and recent Culinary Institute graduate Enrico consented to be a good sport, though he was rarely in the dining room, and waitress Gillian rolled her eyes, then spent two hours surfing online for a Beyoncé costume. Owner/chef Henry harrumphed and shook his head emphatically. No. Eventually, he came around and agreed to wear a half mask and a chef’s hat and apron. Minus the mask, I reminded him that that was his daily costume. He only glared at me.
“Wonder Woman,” I said flippantly.
“Hubba-hubba.” Benny tossed the bar towel into the sink. “Can’t wait to see you strutting around the dining room.”
I tried on the getup for Bill last night and watched as my fiancé’s eyeballs bugged out of his head—red, sparkly bodice with a dash of cleavage, blue miniskirt, white, knee-high boots. I looked like a tricked-out version of the American flag. As police chief of Etonville, New Jersey, Bill threatened to arrest me for disturbing the peace. I smiled serenely and shimmied my superhero self to the bedroom.
I glanced at the clock on the restaurant wall. We opened for lunch in thirty minutes. Besides the normal midday traffic, I had a lot to oversee today if I was going to be ready for tomorrow’s Halloween festivities. The Windjammer was supplying homemade doughnuts and spiced apple cider for the kiddie costume parade down Main Street, and theme food to coincide with the opening of the Etonville Little Theatre’s production of—what else?—Dracula! Not to mention helping set up the town costume party in the Episcopal Church basement. I had been persuaded to join the planning committee; my civic duty, everyone said, though it felt like collaborating with the enemy. Henry’s crosstown nemesis, La Famiglia, was catering the event. To avoid being politically incorrect, I steered clear of any decisions regarding refreshments; I offered to work on entertainment. Dracula reminded me that both the theater and I had most likely bitten off more than we could chew. “Ready to open?” I asked.
Benny rinsed his soapy hands in the bar sink. “Let ’er rip.”
I unlocked the front door and came face-to-face with Lola Tripper, artistic director of the ELT and my BFF. “Hi! Not running light cues in the theater this morning?”
Lola brushed past me and marched to the back booth near the kitchen door. My unofficial office. Her blond hair in a tangled knot atop her head, her raincoat covered a sweatshirt. “Is it too early for a drink?”
Whoa. Something was up with preparations for tonight’s technical rehearsal of Dracula. I seated a dozen Etonville citizens, then released their tables to Gillian, who was Instagramming the inside of the Windjammer to her new boyfriend. To impress him. Go figure.
“Trouble in theater paradise?” I plunked onto the bench.
Benny delivered a set-up and a glass of chardonnay for Lola, then slid his eyes my way, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m scared. Really scared this time,” Lola said, and took a big gulp of her wine.
I surreptitiously stole a glimpse at my watch. Yep. It was only eleven forty-five. Things must be more chaotic than normal at the Etonville Little Theatre. “So…?”
“Someone fooled with the light board and the cues are all mixed up. Carol said costume pieces are missing.” Carol was my other BFF and owner of Snippets salon, Etonville’s rumor central. She handled makeup and hair for the ELT. “Penny can’t fin
d the stake that Van Helsing stabs into Dracula’s heart, and last night JC had trouble with the latch on the coffin.” Lola took another swallow. “It’s like someone is coming into the theater and messing around with the show.” She narrowed her eyes. “Everyone says the theater is haunted. What are we going to do? I don’t think I can take much more of this. Dracula was a terrible idea!” She wrung her hands.
“Lola, pump the brakes! Haunted? You mean like there’s a ghost running loose?” I chuckled.
She sat up straighter. “You can laugh, Dodie, but I’m telling you, something isn’t right.”
“I know how nerve-racking this time is for you.” I had an image of previous productions’ tech rehearsals—director Walter tugging on his hair, stage manager Penny blasting her whistle to keep the cast in line, who invariably chatted away in the house when they were not onstage. I sympathized with Lola.
“Ever since Carlos stepped into the theater to audition, I’ve felt sort of…” Lola twisted a loose strand of her hair. A nervous tic, and not a good sign.
Carlos Villarias played Dracula. “Yeah?” I said encouragingly.
Lola shuddered. “Like an ill wind blew through the house doing no one any good.”
She might be overreacting a bit, yet I understood where she was coming from. Though I didn’t agree with her, I knew a number of Etonville folks felt the same way. The “ill wind” began about six weeks ago, when Walter, proud as a peacock, announced that the Etonville Little Theatre needed a splashy fall production to continue the momentum from its astonishing first-place award at the New Jersey Community Theater Festival. Lola had argued for a simple, small comedy. However, once the membership of the theater got wind of his verdict, vampire fever hit the town. The auditions spawned a surge of potential actors from the tri-city area—Etonville and its neighbors, Creston and Bernridge—and Walter had a deep acting bench for all roles. Except for Dracula. He wasn’t satisfied with his options.
At the same time, a new couple rented the old Hanratty place on the south end of Etonville. It was dilapidated, the previous tenants having done minimal maintenance, and local kids referred to it as haunted. Unoccupied for a year when the Villariases toured the house with a rental agent, the newcomers decided to move in. Lola and the welcome wagon paid a social call with assorted gift baskets and proceeded to enlighten the twosome about the regular goings-on in Etonville. The fall pumpkin festival, the Etonville Youth Football games, the Episcopal Church jumble sale.
When Lola introduced the topic of the ELT, and discovered that Carlos had acted in the past, she took a good, hard look at him: tall, suavely handsome, deep-set brown eyes, jet-black hair, and a speech pattern that hinted at something vaguely foreign. When Lola walked into the final day of casting with Carlos in tow, the theater was astonished. Who was he and where did he and his wife Bella come from? He also sported a widow’s peak. My great-aunt Maureen said never trust a man with a widow’s peak… Still, he was Dracula!
“So…you blame Carlos for the problems with the show?”
“I don’t blame him. After all, he’s doing a super job as Dracula, and he seemed like a fantastic find at the time, but…I don’t know. He’s a little creepy.”
“I admit that they’re unusual,” I said.
“Renting the Hanratty place…”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Where does he work? No one ever sees him during the day. Only at night. At rehearsals,” Lola murmured.
“Now you sound like the Banger sisters.” Two dotty senior citizens who never met a rumor they didn’t like. “Yesterday they told me Mrs. Parker saw a bat flying around the Etonville park.” I hooted. “They swore it was a vampire.”
Lola was silent.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you believe in vampires?”
“No,” I said firmly.
“Did you know Bella is a psychic?” Lola asked.
“Yes. In fact, she’s going to read palms at the costume party tomorrow night. The entertainment committee was iffy, but I thought it would be fun.”
“Is that wise?” Lola frowned.
“Lola, get a grip. You’re confusing life and art. Dracula is a play, Carlos is an actor, and vampires don’t exist. Of course, if Bella Villarias reads my palm tomorrow and tells me I’m going to win the lottery, it’s goodbye Windjammer, hello Paris.” I relaxed into my seat.
She wasn’t having any of my carefree banter. Lola downed the rest of her wine, refused to consider today’s lunch specials—Henry’s broccoli cheddar soup and his tasty BLTs—and stood. “I have to get back to the theater.”
This was so unlike Lola. She routinely wanted to pull out her hair, or Walter’s, during the theater’s tech rehearsals, and was known to have tiptoed into happy hour before noon. But this time Lola was downright spooked about the current show. Worry lines creased her forehead. “How about some food to go?”
She waved me off, assuring me that she wasn’t hungry. I offered to stop by the theater tonight during the tech rehearsal for some handholding. She headed out the door.
“She’s freaked out about Dracula,” I said to Benny as I drew myself a seltzer.
“Dracula or Dracula?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
Benny muttered, “Half of Etonville’s a little twitchy about that actor. Lola’s no different.”
“I don’t get it. I know he certainly looks the part of Dracula—”
“I’ll say.”
“And his wife is sort of unconventional…” I saw what Benny meant. “They’re ordinary people. Trying to fit in,” I asserted.
Benny eyed me skeptically as Henry burst out of the kitchen, a skim of sweat on his bald head. “Dodie!” he hissed and startled a customer who sat at a table near the swinging door. She winced and juggled her soup spoon, sending a spray of broccoli cheddar into the air. “I ordered fresh yeast and they delivered active dry yeast. How can I make doughnuts with this?” He brandished a package.
Cheney Brothers, our food delivery service, had blundered again. For the umpteenth time. I wanted to replace them, but Henry was loyal…he hated change. I apologized to the young woman wiping bits of green and yellow off the front of her blouse, motioned to Benny to “take care of her”—which meant a complimentary drink or dessert—and escorted a fuming Henry back into the kitchen.
It was going to be one of those days.
* * * *
At three o’clock I retired to my booth for an afternoon break, a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee in hand. I settled in with inventory sheets for next week, glad of a short reprieve from the lunch rush.
“Hey, O’Dell.”
Penny Ossining, the Etonville Little Theatre’s production manager and Walter’s loyal sidekick. “Hi, Penny. You here for lunch? We’re out of the soup.”
“Just coffee. I’m on a diet.”
Since when? I wondered.
“Since the end of the summer.”
Penny had a habit of worming her way into my head and reading my mind.
“All that shore food packed on the pounds.” Penny slapped her rounded midsection, pushing her glasses a notch up her nose. She’d been the production manager for the ELT during the community theater festival down the shore the last week of summer. I’d personally seen her inhale sloppy Joes and Italian hot dogs during the long Labor Day weekend.
“How’s it going?” I couldn’t see any difference in her five-foot-two, stocky physique.
“You know what they say…”
I could only imagine.
“Nothing ventured, no weight gain.” Penny cackled. “I’m on the Mediterranean diet. You know, eat what the Mediterraneans eat.”
I decided to play along. “For example?”
“Fruit cocktail, veggie burgers, red wine.”
Sheesh.
&nbs
p; Penny waved goodbye and headed for the counter to place her order. I followed. “Lola’s upset about strange things happening in the theater.”
Penny grimaced, suspicious. If something was going on in the theater, it was her job to suss it out. “What kind of things?”
“Costumes missing. Mixed-up light cues. As if the theater was…” Haunted? Did Lola really believe that?
Penny chuckled. “Yep, the theater’s haunted. All theaters are haunted. That’s why we put a ghost light on stage at the end of the show every night. To keep out the ghosts.”
“Also to keep people from running into scenery and tripping over cables. The theater’s a pretty dangerous place,” I said.
“O’Dell, when are you going to learn there’s theater stuff that you can explain and theater stuff you can’t explain? Like never whistling backstage, never saying ‘good luck,’ never saying Macbeth—”
Oops!
Penny clasped a hand over her mouth, her eyes bulging. “You’re bad luck, O’Dell. I gotta go.” She picked up her container of coffee.
“See you at tech rehearsal tonight,” I said as she scuttled away.
So Penny thought the theater was haunted too. Penny also thought Mediterraneans ate veggie burgers. Which reminded me of tonight’s special: an Italian casserole that featured Italian sausage, pasta, and plenty of oregano and basil. Perfect for a chilly fall night when the restaurant’s chef was overcommitted for the next few days. Henry had prepared the dinner last week and now entrees were stacked in the freezer.
I gathered my inventory sheets and mulled over Lola’s reaction to Carlos. She was definitely spooked, but every mishap she mentioned could easily be rationalized by the normal bedlam of the community theater. I’d seen worse tech days. I know she’d seen worse…
* * * *
At seven o’clock I left the restaurant and stepped into the evening air. Benny was closing the dining room early tonight—traffic was light, no doubt due to all the Halloween planning occurring throughout Etonville—so that Henry and Enrico could fry doughnuts and prep my theme food meals for the first weekend of the Dracula performances. In the past we’d served Italian fare for Romeo and Juliet, a seafood buffet for Dames at Sea, and 1940s Brooklyn specialties for an Arsenic and Old Lace food festival. For Dracula? I was taking a chance this time.