No More Time Page 13

  So “Mrs. Sam” was sharing the pants in the family. And keeping a low profile. “Great work, Pauli.”

  “Uh…that’s not all,” he said and took a swig of his soda. “Baldwin General Contractors filed for bankruptcy in 2009. It reorganized a year later.”

  “That year, 2009, was three years before the storm hit. If they were having money problems at that time, the hurricane provided a boost to their company,” I mused aloud.

  “You think they got something to do with the murder?” Pauli asked, excited.

  “Sh.” I took a swift glimpse around. The bar was only half full. No one was paying us any attention. The bartender was waiting on customers at the other end. “This is on the Q.T.”

  “Got it. But in case you think they do…I cross-checked Sam Baldwin and Vincent Carcherelli.”

  “I love how you’re taking the initiative. If you keep this up, I’m going to have to put you on the payroll,” I said teasingly.

  “Yeah.” He smirked.

  “Anything come up?”

  “Recent stuff like the memorial service.” Pauli lifted his head from the laptop. “Sorry I couldn’t come. He was a friend of yours, right?”

  “In a way. A friend from my past. I didn’t expect any Etonville folks to come.”

  Pauli nodded. “They love funerals. Anyway, on a police database, I found a DUI for Vincent in a car owned by Sam.”

  “Probably partying too much. They were partners. When was this? Sometime in the past year?” I asked.

  “Nope. In 2012.”

  2012. “So they were acquaintances back then.” When Vinnie and Jackson were working on the JV. But Jackson didn’t have a connection to Sam Baldwin at that time. At least no connection he shared with me. “Let me see that.”

  Pauli obliged by rotating his laptop to face me. The report included a brief account of Vinnie’s arrest, an eyewitness statement, and mention of the automobile owned by Sam Baldwin, who also bailed him out. Sam was noted as “Vincent Carcherelli’s business partner.” I slumped into the back of my stool. Jackson knew Vinnie had taken on a silent, third partner without telling him who it was. Had he any suspicion the silent partner was Sam? So, Vinnie and Sam were partners on two different charter boat ventures. Did it have any bearing on Vinnie’s death?

  “Like, okay stuff?” asked Pauli and swallowed the last of his Coke.

  I’d say. “Confusing stuff. If you find anything else…”

  “Easy peasy.” He packed up his laptop. “See you tonight.”

  I knew I didn’t need to remind him, but… “And Pauli?”

  “I know. Confidentiality,” he said and winked.

  Right. The first rule of digital forensics.

  10

  Grody flew from the dining room to the kitchen. The Sandbar was having one of those days, he said. A large group showed up for lunch without a reservation, a server was out sick, and the kitchen ran out of clam chowder because someone muffed the inventory order. I could sympathize.

  I sat at the bar and nursed a glass of seltzer waiting for Bill, who was late and hadn’t texted. Unusual for him, normally. I doodled on a napkin, usual for me: Sam and Vinnie partners twice; Jackson in the dark; Sam bankrupt in 2009; Maxine lent money to Vinnie; Vinnie inheritance for the rest; big guy named Tiny almost throws Vinnie overboard; possibly the guy who chased me off the dock. I checked my cell. Still no word from Bill. While I was in Messages, I texted Jackson again. I hadn’t heard from him, either.

  “Hey, Red, if I have another day like this, just shoot me,” Grody grunted and collapsed on a bar stool.

  “Been there, done that.”

  “Want a table? Something should open up soon.” He scanned the dining room.

  “I’m comfortable here ’til Bill comes.”

  “How’s he handling the missing BMW?” Grody asked.

  I’d filled Grody in on the details of the auto theft. “Surprisingly well. He’s very calm about it all. That wouldn’t be me.”

  “Me neither. I got a scratch on my SUV last year and went ballistic. Couldn’t help it.” He laughed at himself, his belly shaking at the memory.

  “I hear ya. The hors d’oeuvres coming along?”

  “We’ll be ready,” Grody said grimly. “Wasn’t counting on a day like this.”

  “I can help you set up,” I said.

  “Thanks. I imagined catering was a productive PR decision, get in tight with Candle Beach, make a friend of Sam, etc., etc.”

  Speaking of Sam… “Hey, you said you remembered something else about Vinnie?”

  Grody eyed a table that attempted to flag down a server. “Where’s my waiter? Hold on.” He took off to appease customers.

  Been there too.

  I tapped my pen on the bar and debated. Should I wait for Bill? He was almost an hour late. I hoped he wasn’t having a hassle renting a car…

  Grody grabbed an iPad and scanned the reservation list. “This place is going to be nuts tonight. We’re already overbooked. I’m taking you up on your offer to set up for the reception.”

  “No problem.”

  “Can you be at the park by five o’clock? The tables and linens will be there by then. The food by five thirty.” Grody sat beside me. “I’ll send over a few servers and stop by before the show goes up at seven thirty.”

  “Fine. What about Vinnie?”

  Grody stared at me blankly. “Huh?”

  “Your text?”

  “Oh, that.” He frowned. “Yeah. It was the night Sandy hit. Remember?”

  Who could forget?

  “We closed up early…” he said.

  “I closed out and you battened down the hatches. For all the good it did us,” I said.

  “You got that right,” Grody said ruefully.

  “Then we went home. I spent the next ten hours listening to the storm wail, the wind really fierce. Terrifying, no power. Then the elm tree crashed through my roof.” I trembled involuntarily.

  Grody put an arm around my shoulder. “Hey, Irish, at least we lived through it.”

  We had. Grody’s restaurant hadn’t.

  “Where was Jackson that night?” he asked suddenly.

  “Jackson?” As the storm was strengthening, Jackson had left me a message that he and Vinnie intended to moor the JV in the next town over, where the marina was more sheltered. I recalled being petrified, then angry that he’d waited so long to dock the boat and left me to weather the hurricane alone. “He and Vinnie took the JV to Ocean Port. Better protection there. The boat was wrecked anyway.” I paused. “Jackson never made it home that night.”

  “Well…the week after Sandy, everyone was really crazed, remember? The destruction, the insurance, FEMA, people losing everything.”

  “Yes.”

  Grody hesitated. “There was some buzz that Vinnie…and not sure, but might have included Jackson…”

  My little hairs stood on end. “What?”

  “…they scuttled the JV for the insurance money.”

  My heart sank. I knew Jackson could be irresponsible, but I couldn’t believe he’d be a part of something so blatantly illegal. At a time when so many others were scrambling to get insurance help legitimately. I must have turned pale, because Grody poured me a white wine.

  “You could use this,” he said kindly. “This business with Vinnie…it’s triggering a lot of memories. Some not so positive.”

  “I know what you mean.” I downed the wine in three gulps. “I’m going to bail on lunch. I’ll text Bill and be at the park to set up at five.”

  Out on the boardwalk, I messaged Bill that I’d left the Sandbar and would catch up with him at the show tonight. Then I stashed my cell in my bag and marched. I had no destination in mind; I simply needed to let off steam and convince myself that Grody had it wrong. That the rumors were unfounded. That
Jackson wasn’t involved in Vinnie’s scheme.

  I power walked to the end of the boardwalk, caught my breath, and treated myself to a double scoop of chocolate fudge ice cream. Sugar had a way of soothing my nerves. I tried to process all I’d learned today about Vinnie, Jackson, and Sam Baldwin. Some of it was predictable enough, some of it downright disturbing. Seagulls swung overhead, diving occasionally onto the boardwalk, which was rapidly filling with beachgoers, then soaring into the sky. Since the warm sand looked inviting, I elected to head back to the bungalow to change. I was so preoccupied that I failed to spot the couple who’d stopped abruptly in front of me.

  “Oof,” I cried as I banged into a tall, thin man’s back.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t help it.”

  Beyond him, a collection of people obstructed the right-of-way on the boardwalk. In the middle of them was a young boy breakdancing to hip-hop music pouring out of a boom box. Some of the shore towns had banned saggy pants, smoking, and bathing suits on the boardwalk. Candle Beach was laissez-faire about what it allowed on its walkway, including boom boxes and breakdancing. As the crowd swelled, blocking more of the pathway, I tried to maneuver around the group in front of me. In the throng on the opposite side of the circle, a blotch of red stood out. There he was. “Jackson!” I yelled.

  People close by turned and stared at me. I didn’t care. I flapped my arm to get his attention, but the music was too loud and Jackson was clearly absorbed by the performance, enjoying himself, bobbing his head and, along with other onlookers, clapping to the beat of the music. I gently elbowed my way to the outer edge of the audience. Jackson was no more than thirty feet away when he spun away from the entertainment, melting into the mob behind him. I increased my pace and determination and pushed through the crush of bodies until I was free of the mob of people. I searched frantically up and down the boardwalk. Which way to go?

  I jogged in the direction of the Bottom Feeder and the Sandbar. I prayed he would duck into one of those places. Suddenly an unruly mane of brown hair atop a bright red T-shirt appeared up ahead. I ran toward him. Jackson ducked into an arcade. The game center mostly attracted young children and families. Years ago, we’d sometimes wander in to play skeeball. I shadowed him as he zigged and zagged through the swarm of video gamers, pinball players, and air hockey competitors. A mass of kids hovered around the bank of crane games and vied for stuffed animals. He cut through a line of youngsters waiting to redeem strips of tickets for trinkets.

  “Hey, watch what you’re doing!” a young father said.

  Jackson signaled an apology and kept moving. He made a right and headed for the skeeball machines along the back wall of the arcade. I was confused. We were rapidly running out of real estate. Where could he be going? Never mind. I was within spitting distance, and this time I would not let him out of sight even if I had to—

  A man stepped in front of me. “Don’t I know you?” I recognized the gruff voice that had growled at me on the pier. It was the brute from the dock. This had to be Tiny.

  “Wh-what?” I tried to squeeze around him, but he towered over me, blocking my way. I craned my neck to see where Jackson had gone—a flash of red departed out a back door of the game center.

  Tiny squinted at me. “You’re the lady who got curious on the dock the other night.”

  Yikes! Even in the busy arcade, this guy was frightening.

  I took a step away from him. “Sorry, but I have to meet someone—”

  “Lemme give you some advice. Bein’ alone on the dock at night can be dangerous.” His lips smiled, but his eyes delivered a warning.

  “Thanks. Now I have to—”

  Tiny stooped and retrieved a dollar bill. “Did you drop this?”

  “Me? No.”

  Tiny waved the bill in my face. “Take it anyway.” He handed me the five. “You have a nice day,” he said and sauntered away as though we were two friends who’d accidentally bumped into each other.

  What was that about?

  Frustrated and distressed, I retraced my steps through the arcade, stopping by the entrance to offer Tiny’s five-dollar bill to a couple of kids trying to outwit the crane and grab a prize. They were ecstatic to receive the money.

  I’d lost my quarry. Jackson was long gone. A twinge of unease made me pause. Could Tiny have been deliberately preventing me from tracking Jackson?

  * * * *

  The Candle Beach park was a lovely setting for the opening night reception. In the gazebo, white linen tablecloths covered serving tables that held platters of food. Café tables and chairs dotted the grounds. A jazz combo played under a banner that advertised the New Jersey Community Theater Festival, while spectators wandered about, sampling Grody’s hors d’oeuvres, a different one for each play. He’d used my ideas for some of them—the Cinderella crabmeat canapés, the King Lear scallops in bacon, and the Mousetrap spring rolls—but had supplemented them with The Sound of Music shrimp cocktail, the Noises Off prosciutto crostini, the Death of a Salesman smoked salmon and cream cheese rolls, and, last but not least, the Arsenic and Old Lace spicy beef empanadas, plus an assortment of cheeses and crackers.

  I’d arrived in time to help Grody’s crew arrange the food and set up the beverage counter. All refreshments were compliments of Sam Baldwin, patron of the festival. He was shelling out the bucks big-time. I guessed he could afford it. Or at least he wanted to give the appearance that he could afford it. I was thinking about his bankruptcy, which Pauli had unearthed.

  “I like this ham on toast,” Vernon said and plunked two of them onto a napkin.

  “They’re prosciutto crostini,” Mildred corrected him.

  “Don’t care what you call them. Or which play it is, I’m hungry.” He ambled off.

  “I’ll bet this was your idea, Dodie. Very clever.” Mildred chased after him.

  “We loved The Sound of Music, didn’t we?” one Banger sister asked the other, who bounced her head in agreement. “But I don’t think they served shrimp cocktail in the movie.”

  “I don’t either.” I smiled. “The hors d’oeuvres are simply fun ways to acknowledge each play in the show tonight,” I explained.

  “We should eat one of each. That way we’re not being partial to any one theater.” They wanted confirmation.

  “Makes sense to me.” Little of what they said ever made sense to me.

  Sam made an entrance, Arlene on his arm, both of them in dashing, white linen ensembles. They did a royal promenade around the park, shaking hands, smiling, accepting accolades. Sam definitely was the king of Candle Beach. Which would make Arlene the queen. On the other side of the gazebo, John Bannister, in casual slacks and shirt, was in earnest conversation with a group of theatergoers. He leaned on his cane, his expression attentive. As though he felt me staring, he glanced up and waved.

  “They shoulda called it Cinderella’s crabby meat canopies,” Penny chuckled and scooped up three beef empanadas off a tray.

  “Canapés. It’s French,” I said.

  “Whatever.”

  “The fairy princess is acting up?”

  Penny chewed thoughtfully. “It’s the glass slippers. They don’t fit right and they’re making her grouchy. But you know what Walter always says…”

  I could imagine.

  “You gotta suffer for your art. That’s the only way to keep your finger on the prize and see failure as success and vice versa.”

  Huh? “Walter says all that?”

  “Most of it.”

  “How’s Romeo doing?”

  Penny smirked. “He had to put on two layers of makeup to cover the sunburn. Not in the best of moods.”

  “Ouch. He is suffering for his art.”

  “You slay me, O’Dell. Later.” She took one last empanada before she sashayed to the bar.

  Despite my anxiety over losing Jackson and running into Tin
y in the arcade, the reception was a soothing tonic. The weather was perfect: sunny, breezy, in the low eighties. People were chatting and enjoying themselves, and the hors d’oeuvres were a big hit. I popped a salmon roll into my mouth, then sipped my white wine.

  I had convinced myself that the sooner I spoke with Jackson and got answers to my questions—about the insurance scheme, Sam Baldwin, and the money I found in his jacket—the sooner I could wash my hands of our shared past and get back to my vacation with Bill. Who had sent me a cryptic text agreeing to join me here. Where had he been all day?

  The problem with my plan was finding Jackson. Did he realize Tiny had run interference for him? There had to be a way to get us in the same location.

  “Hi.” Lola sneaked up behind me.

  “What are you doing out here? The reception’s off-limits for actors as per Maddy’s orders,” I said.

  “I didn’t have time to eat this afternoon, and I’m starved.” She scanned the crowd cautiously. “You haven’t seen her, have you?”

  “Nope. Coast is clear.”

  “These scallops look yummy. I’ll take two or three. And some of these spring rolls. Is that smoked salmon?” Lola speedily made a plate of appetizers. “Have you seen Jackson this afternoon? Think he’ll make an appearance tonight?”

  “Funny you should ask.” I shared my arcade escapade—leaving out Tiny—and Lola was appropriately perplexed.

  “What’s behind the arcade?” she asked, her mouth full of salmon and cream cheese.

  “An entrance to the rides. The Ferris wheel, the carousel—”

  “I’d better scram. If Maddy takes attendance, I’m in deep doodoo.” She snatched a napkin from the table.

  “Break a leg.” I had an impulse. “Could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure,” Lola said and washed down her food with a swallow of my wine.

  * * * *

  The sun tumbled beneath the horizon, the hors d’oeuvres platters nearly empty, and folks filtered into the house to get seated. It was showtime.

  “Sorry I’m late. Couldn’t get away from the dinner service until now.” Grody huffed and puffed.