No More Time Read online

  “Ignore it.” Bill scooted his chair closer to mine. “For one night, we’re going to forget about Jackson…”

  He kissed me sweetly on one cheek.

  “Vinnie…” He grazed the other with his lips.

  “The theater festival…” He pecked my nose.

  “And my BMW.” He made a beeline for my lips.

  I came up for air. “What’s left?”

  Bill opened the patio door and held it ajar. “Come on in and see.”

  Yowza.

  * * * *

  I heard a thump and opened my eyes. Was I dreaming or did something go bump in the night? My digital alarm said 1 a.m. Next to me Bill was conked out, totally oblivious. I debated: get up and investigate or stay put, snuggled up with Bill. It could wait until morning, unless I heard a repeat noise. The house was a cocoon of silence disturbed only by the whirring of the room air conditioner. I tugged the sheet up to my chin and tried to go back to sleep.

  Another thump, louder this time. Was it Jackson sneaking in the unlocked back door again? Ready to scare the pants off me? Bill slept on, but I had to satisfy my curiosity. I got out of bed as quietly as I could and picked up my robe and cell phone. The house was dark, save for a night-light in the hallway, a lamp in the living room, and the porch light. I grasped the handle of the front door and hesitated. I should have awakened Bill… I slowly opened the door an inch, then several more inches. I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath. Jackson was tucked into his sleeping bag, the porch chairs rearranged to give him more room. Was that what I’d heard? If so, he’d passed out quickly. It had only been minutes since the second thump. No sense in waking him. At least he’d stayed away most of the night.

  I closed the front door, glancing at my cell. It was a bad habit of mine, checking my messages at all hours. I was wide awake now, so no harm in seeing who was trying to reach me during dinner. Lola: are u up for breakfast tmr? It depended on Bill’s plans. I knew she’d be anxious about the opening night performance and might require some support. Pauli: found some stuff. Interesting. Grody: tuna was a smash success. remembered something else. Very interesting. Too late to respond to any of them, but first thing in the morning…

  I slept on and off until seven o’clock, then gave up and padded softly to the kitchen. I put on the coffee. I set out three mugs, trying to be hospitable and include Jackson. I’d give my textees another hour and then reply. I poured my coffee and carefully opened the front door. I felt sorry for Jackson, caught in the middle of Vinnie’s murder, and decided last night before dropping off to sleep that he and I could go to the police station and confront the “person of interest” issue. He could tell them the story that he’d told me about Vinnie’s debt and lack of repayment—the truth would set him free.

  I peeked at the west end of the porch where Jackson had set up camp. It was empty. He was gone this early? Had I been dreaming last night?

  “Morning, sunshine.” Bill draped his arms around my middle and kissed my ear. Then abruptly moved to the kitchen to retrieve his coffee.

  “Did you hear anything last night? Around one a.m.?” I asked.

  “Anything? Like what? You snoring?” he taunted me.

  “I don’t snore,” I said.

  “Well…hate to inform you, but…”

  “Not my snoring. More like a thump,” I said.

  Bill scratched his head. “No. Why?”

  “I did and it woke me up. I looked out here and found Jackson asleep.”

  Bill joined me on the porch. “Where is he?”

  “Beats me. If he got in late, he didn’t get much sleep,” I said.

  Bill gazed at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “Are you keeping tabs on his snoozing? Time to let go, Dodie,” he said gently.

  I agreed.

  Bill fixed breakfast for himself—he had to revisit the Candle Beach Police Department to sign a statement—and then proceed to rent a car for the coming week. We agreed to meet up for lunch. I texted Lola that I would join her in an hour; texted Pauli to join me at 11 a.m. at the tiki bar; and left a message for Grody that I would see him at noon, with Bill in tow, for lunch. I figured that whatever he had remembered about Vinnie could be shared with Bill, right?

  I’d left myself a window of time to connect with Vinnie’s fiancée, Maxine, and texted to see if I could stop by this morning. She agreed and gave me her address, at the other end of Candle Beach. Hiking there would be energizing, so I offered Bill the keys to my MINI Cooper. One thing I loved about this town: Most everything was in walking distance. Bill declined the use of my MC, deciding to go by foot to the CBPD to get some exercise, and said he’d get a lift to the rental lot from there. We parted.

  I ran through my plan of attack with Maxine. I wasn’t sure what I expected, or even wanted, her to say. I had a sense that if I introduced the topic of Vinnie’s and Jackson’s days aboard the JV, maybe she would open up about Vinnie from the past year. And inadvertently offer material that might help solve the mystery of Jackson’s former partner. I sailed down the boardwalk to the Candle Diner and arrived early in time to scan today’s Courier for updated news on the murder investigation. Nothing. Either the police were stymied or were playing their cards close to the chest. Except for one young cop.

  I flipped through page after page and read articles on the city council voting on new parking regulations and a bunch of letters to the editor complaining about noise on the boardwalk at night and traffic clogging the streets. Small town life. It reminded me of Etonville.

  “Whew. Getting warm out there.” Lola slid onto the bench of the booth.

  “You’re looking pretty cool,” I said admiring Lola’s crisp cotton blouse and matching pale green shorts. “The weather app says we’ll hit ninety today.”

  “Ugh.”

  We ordered breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast for Lola, pancakes and a hot cinnamon roll for me.

  “I hope it cools off by tonight. Grody’s serving hors d’oeuvres outside for the reception,” I said.

  “I hope we don’t embarrass ourselves any worse than we did yesterday,” Lola moaned.

  “It was…a challenging situation without Romeo,” I said delicately.

  “It was a train wreck!”

  “Having Jackson up there didn’t help.”

  Lola softened. “It wasn’t his fault. He was trying to help out. We needed a body.”

  I experienced a flicker of guilt. I could have volunteered. Our meal arrived. Lola picked at her eggs; I dove into my short stack. I’d learned from my mother that hot weather—contrary to received wisdom—gave one a voracious appetite. Yep! “Where was Romeo, anyway?” I asked.

  Lola grimaced. “He claims he had a touch of sunstroke from the day before. Nausea, dizziness, and he slept through the dress rehearsal. But Abby spotted him last night at the tiki bar, and he was red as a beet. It was a case of sunburn not sunstroke.”

  “Walter throw a tantrum?”

  “He was surprisingly unruffled. Must have been the Xanax,” Lola said.

  Walter’s chill pill of choice.

  “Sorry I had to run out. Chef Bill prepared one of Grody’s recipes, and we had an intimate dinner for two,” I said.

  “Ooh la la!” Lola chuckled.

  “A lovely night…”

  Lola arched an eyebrow. “Vacation’s good for you two. And speaking of twosomes…Jackson and I went out for drinks after the dress rehearsal.” Lola peeked at my expression.

  OMG! Lola was boyfriend hunting. “Oh…well…that’s…nice.” Now I knew where he was for part of the night—

  “You don’t mind, do you? Him being an old flame of yours,” Lola said.

  “Absolutely not.” I smiled my fake smile that I saved for those occasions when I was in over my head or at a loss for words. It was the latter this time.

  “Because we di
scovered we have a lot in common.” Lola flipped her hair.

  The sophisticated, beautifully dressed diva of the Etonville Little Theatre and the former surfer dude in torn tees and ragged shorts. Their vocabularies alone set them worlds apart. But I was hooked. “Like what?” I asked honestly.

  “Italian white wines, water sports, theater.” Lola drained her coffee.

  I bought the wine and water part, but theater? Jackson hadn’t seen a play in all the time we spent together. Truth be told, I hadn’t seen much theater either until I moved to Etonville. We left the Candle Diner; I gave Lola a hug and encouraged her to hit the beach and chill out until tonight. Then I exited the boardwalk and headed toward Maxine’s address. Within twenty minutes I was at Land’s End facing a house that sat on a spit of property fronting the ocean.

  Candle Beach boasted a wide variety of homes—shore cottages no bigger than an efficiency apartment; bungalows like the one Bill and I rented with a handful of rooms and a pleasant deck or patio; two-story family homes that were year-round residences and could have belonged in any Jersey town. And then there were the luxury homes that reeked of shore money. Maxine’s belonged in that category. Hers was a bright yellow Victorian with pristine white trim, a lovely front porch with rocking chairs, a second-floor wraparound balcony, and a third-floor widow’s walk. It sat on a generous plot of land that was landscaped with dune grasses, palm trees, and sandy patches. The view from the front porch was magnificent, the property so new I assumed it had been rehabbed after Hurricane Sandy.

  I knocked on the screen door. Footsteps slapped on tile and Maxine came into view, dressed vastly different than yesterday: She was barefoot, in shorts, a tank top, and an off-the-shoulder beach cover-up. Her hair was gathered simply at the nape of her neck. She appeared even more youthful and delicate than she had yesterday.

  “Hi. Thanks for coming,” she whispered, then hesitated. “We can talk out here… Vincent and I loved to sit in these rockers. Like an old married couple.” She teared up.

  “Fine. Unless it’s too upsetting?”

  She swiped at her eyes. “Would you like something? Coffee, tea, soda?” She smiled. “I’m having a Bloody Mary.”

  Actually, a Bloody Mary sounded like a fantastic suggestion, but I needed to stay sober and alert. “Ice water would be great.”

  Maxine withdrew into the house and I sat, gazing at the ocean. This end of Candle Beach was somewhat unknown to me. I had questions for Maxine but I barely knew where to begin. I needn’t have fretted. She reappeared with our drinks and plunged into the conversation.

  “Vincent was crazy about this view,” she said.

  “I can see why. It’s fantastic. Have you lived here long?”

  “Since 2014. It was completely demolished by the storm so the owners rebuilt it. My father bought it as a summer home, but I live here year-round.” She rocked silently. Then as if she needed to explain their whereabouts, “My father lives in New York. My mother’s in Florida.”

  “My parents are in Florida too. Naples.”

  “My mother’s in Naples.”

  We smiled at the coincidence.

  “Were they at the memorial service?” I asked cautiously.

  Maxine sipped her Bloody Mary, her voice dropping to a murmur. “They hated Vincent. My father threatened to disown me if I went through with the wedding. They thought I was too young…he was too old for me.” Her chin trembled. “Nothing to worry about now.”

  I felt for her, so young and vulnerable to be handling Vinnie’s death alone.

  “Vincent never talked about the JV and his partnership with Jackson?” I asked tentatively, swinging the conversation into new, less emotional territory. I hoped.

  “Never. I thought The Bounty was the first boat he owned. He was crazy about it. This spring and summer Vincent was busy all week and I rarely saw him, but on the weekends if he didn’t have a charter we’d pack up a picnic and take off. Sometimes we’d go crabbing in the bay. Or fishing in the inlet. At least Vincent fished. I hung out on the deck with a mai tai.” She smiled sadly.

  Odd, I thought. Vinnie was busier during the week than on weekends? With a charter boat?

  “Sometimes we cruised down to Atlantic City,” she said.

  “You like to gamble?”

  “Not me but Vincent could shoot craps twenty-four hours a day.” She laughed gently.

  So Grody was right.

  “Your days on The Bounty remind me of some days on the JV.”

  Maxine leaned forward eagerly. “Yeah?”

  “Of course, Jackson, Vincent, and I were all younger then. And less serious. The JV had summers when business was thriving and summers when they had to scrimp to get by.”

  Maxine bit into a piece of celery. “So last year was nothing new, I guess.”

  My interest quickened. “Meaning…?”

  “I had to lend Vincent money when he bought the boat. He was so cute”—she smiled at the memory—“so afraid to ask for help. As if I wouldn’t give him however much he wanted.” Maxine stopped rocking, sat up straighter. “I never told my father. It came out of my trust fund,” she asserted defensively, as if I would question her judgment.

  Aha. Vinnie had a source of funds in Maxine. Not to be too cynical, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if that had been one of her main attractions.

  “But then things must have picked up.” She shrugged. “After about six months he had all the financing he needed. I offered to lend him more, but he refused. Said he came into money he inherited from a distant relative.”

  Huh. “Maxine, I know this must be painful, but do you have any inkling why anyone would want to kill Vinnie?”

  She swallowed hard and shook her head vehemently. “The police asked me the same thing. Vincent had no enemies.”

  I took a chance. I had no idea what the police had communicated to Maxine, but I had to ask. “I understand that he didn’t die on the beach. That his body was…put there later.”

  Maxine shrunk into herself, dwarfed by the wicker rocker. “Is that true?” she whispered. “I knew about no water in his lungs so he didn’t exactly drown in the ocean. But what you’re saying…nobody told me.”

  The young cop was divulging information that hadn’t been made public. Even to Maxine. “I’m sure the police department will sort it all out,” I said in a rush. “It’s been nice speaking with you. Maybe we can do it again.” I set my water on an end table.

  “I’d like that. Maybe Jackson can come too.”

  Jackson? Not sure that was a good idea. I stood. “Well…”

  “Everybody liked Vincent,” Maxine said quickly, defending him.

  Not everybody.

  “I mean, like, sometimes he drank too much and got into arguments, but they were never anything serious. Nothing worth killing him over. Sure, one time Tiny almost threw him overboard for cheating during a card game—”

  “Tiny?”

  “He’s a big guy but everyone calls him Tiny. Go figure. He works for Sam sometimes.”

  Foreboding rippled down the back of my skull. “Sam Baldwin?”

  “Sure. Sam’s been so sweet to me. Coming over to visit, seeing if he could do anything…”

  “I understand he’s ‘Mr. Candle Beach.’ The town godfather,” I said.

  “I suppose so,” Maxine admitted.

  “He does a lot of thoughtful things for people down here. Including you,” I said.

  Maxine regarded me quizzically. “Why wouldn’t he? He was Vincent’s partner.”

  * * * *

  My mind was in a jumble as I retraced my trek from Maxine’s house to the boardwalk and the tiki bar where I had an appointment with Pauli. On the way I texted Jackson: Where are you? We need to talk. Urgent. What to make of Vinnie’s partnership with Sam? It made sense in a way. Sam was an entrepreneur with many interests in
the shore area, and Vinnie’s charter boat could have been one of his “irons” in the Candle Beach “fire.” Also logical if Sam was the figure I saw on the lower deck of The Bounty that night. He had every right to be on the boat if he owned part of it. But why keep it a secret? Why not acknowledge the relationship at the memorial? Was there something Sam was hiding? Had he revealed his partnership with Vinnie to Jackson? I intended to find out today.

  I had worked up a sweat by the time I plopped onto a bar stool at the Bottom Feeder. The tiki music wafted onto the beach, the palms swaying gently in a light breeze. Hopefully, the humidity that had left my skin damp and clammy would plummet by tonight, and the theater’s air conditioning would be working to eliminate the possibility that perspiration would impact both costumes and makeup, as well as the audience. I ordered a lemonade for me, Coke for Pauli, and a glass of ice water, rolling the latter back and forth across my forehead to cool off.

  “Hey.” Pauli claimed a seat at the bar, his thumbs at work on his cell phone. He looked up. “Janice.”

  “How’s she doing?” I asked.

  “Like, having a miserable time in Boston. It’s cold and rainy and she’s stuck inside.” He grinned.

  “That’s good news?”

  “She misses me even more.” He stabbed a straw into his drink and bobbed his head. “That’s the good news.”

  Nothing made the heart grow fonder than boredom. “So you did a bit of digging around?”

  “I searched for the New Jersey business registration for Vincent Carcherelli. If he had a New Jersey license it had to be registered with the State Department of the Treasury. His charter boat is an LLC and was registered in April 2015.”

  “Little more than a year ago,” I said.

  “Co-owners—”

  “—Sam Baldwin—” I added.

  “—and Arlene Baldwin.”

  His wife? There were three owners…

  “I did a search on Baldwin General Contractors, while I was in the business directory.”

  “Way to be proactive.”

  Pauli dipped his head. He wasn’t completely comfortable with compliments. “Owner also Arlene Baldwin.”