Running Out of Time Read online

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I…uh…” she stuttered.

  I glanced back to see what had disturbed her. To the left of the shop, a man stood under the street light. Big, burly, filling out a camouflage coat, he wore a trapper hat with the ear flaps flipped up. A full beard sprouted out of a face that stared back at Sally.

  “Do you know him?”

  Then he opened his mouth as if about to shout something at us. Before he could say a word, an Etonville police cruiser, lights flashing, came to an abrupt stop in front of Barbie’s Craft Shoppe. Officer Ralph Ostrowski, an agreeable, semi-capable Etonville cop, who was usually assigned crowd control, jumped out. They talked briefly, then Ralph escorted him into the back seat of his squad car. They drove off, but not before the man twisted in his seat and pressed his face against the window, still gazing intently at Sally.

  She stuffed her hands in her pockets and backed up, looking around and checking our side of the street. Then she pulled the hood of her coat over her head. “I have to go,” she mumbled and ran off.

  “Sally?” I watched her leave. Despite the fact that I was warm inside my down jacket and scarf, I shivered. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood upright. My radar system giving me a warning: Something wasn’t right.

  Falling snow had sprinkled a light layer of powdery white stuff on all surfaces. I stuck out my tongue to catch the moisture. Reminded me of afternoons I shared with my little brother, Andy, on those rare occasions when it snowed down the shore. I cranked the engine of my red Metro, ninety thousand miles and counting, flipped on the windshield wipers to clear a patch of window, and set off down Main Street. Slowly. Carefully.

  My cell binged again. I pulled over to the shoulder and checked the text. It was Henry, owner/chef of the Windjammer reminding me that I had to do a freezer inventory first thing in the morning. He intended to add a few new cold-weather items to the menu, like roasted parsnip soup and a pasta-and-veggies dish.

  I eased back onto the roadway. Between the ice and wind chill—which could last anywhere from three months to five months in New Jersey—I was ready to flee to Florida where my parents resided. I could have moved there two years ago after Hurricane Sandy hit my Jersey Shore community and destroyed the restaurant where I worked, as well as my rented home. But I opted to go north across the Driscoll Bridge and ended up in Etonville, a stone’s throw from New York City, managing the Windjammer restaurant, soothing Henry’s feathers on a daily basis, riding shotgun on the staff, and providing support for Lola’s theater ventures. After all, she was my BFF and the leading diva of the ELT. And Bill was in Etonville…

  By the time I pulled into my driveway in the south end of town, a fresh coating of white covered tree branches, my small patch of front yard, and the walkway leading to my door. I stamped the snow off my boots, flung my jacket over a kitchen chair, and debated. Should I call Bill and listen to him apologize? He’d had a work conflict last night…I got it. But it was the third time in the last few weeks that he’d had to bow out of a dinner date. I sneezed, plucked a Kleenex from a box on the kitchen table, and blew my nose. When my high school boyfriend dumped me for my best friend two weeks before the prom, my great-aunt Maureen said: Dorothy dear, life is messy but love is messier. As usual she’d nailed it. Tonight I had to be content with the mystery novel and the hot buttered rum. I’d leave the mess for tomorrow.

  2

  I stuck my nose out from under my down comforter. The air was chilled and I peeked at my alarm: seven thirty a.m. Sun just risen. I had hours before I needed to be on duty at the Windjammer and snuggling under the covers for another thirty minutes felt good. My nasal passages were still slightly stuffed, but my throat was clear. I closed my eyes. The last bits of a dream played around the edges of my mind…something about the American Revolution. I was tramping through several feet of snow while eating burnt applesauce cake. Lola, Georgette, and Mildred stood on a rotating platform laughing at me. And someone else? Was it Sally? I closed my eyes and the image that popped up was not the wayward turntable but the heavily built outdoorsman who spooked Sally on Main Street last night. What was that about?

  A draft of cold air hit the house, startling me fully awake and rattling the window panes. I needed my landlord to re-caulk the glass. My bungalow wasn’t as large as my house down the shore, but its five, cheerfully painted rooms suited my lifestyle. Small enough to be cleaned on the fly; large enough to entertain a few friends, like Lola and my other my BFF, Carol Palmieri. Owner of Snippets Salon.

  I created my mental to-do list. Besides doing the inventory at the Windjammer this morning I had to order the supplies for the hot cider punch and—for those needing a touch of alcohol to make it through Walter’s reinvention of Our Town—the mulled wine. Which reminded me I needed to work out the staff schedule for the weekend. Benny, the Windjammer bartender and assistant manager, would be sharing closing duties with me on the nights of the show, while waitstaff Gillian and Carmen covered the dining room. Carmen’s husband, Enrico, was Henry’s sous-chef, and rarely stepped foot outside the kitchen.

  A beeping demanded my attention. My cell was sitting across the room on my dresser where I’d dropped it last night before tumbling into bed. Checking out the text meant I had to surrender the warmth of my cocoon. But curiosity got the better of me and I threw the cover aside and plopped my feet on the icy floor. I needed another throw rug in here. I whipped on my terry cloth robe and shoved my feet into my New York Giants slippers—a Christmas gift from Bill. The text was from him suggesting we have a do-over dinner this week: call me.

  I would, but first, a hot shower, coffee, vitamin C, and aspirin: marching orders for my cold. I turned up the heat and stepped into the shower, the water pinging off my body and warming my skin. I shampooed my hair, letting the sudsy residue run down my face and shoulders. I toweled off and slipped on a sweat suit. I shivered and had a dream flashback. Snow and ice and…Massachusetts! I was trekking in Massachusetts during the American Revolution. Made no sense but it did remind me of Sally’s saying New Jersey’s freezing temperatures would be nothing more than a nip in the air compared to Boston. She was a nice addition to the Etonville Little Theatre—sane! My cell beeped once more. Bill was eager to talk this morning… But it was Lola asking if I was up. I tapped on her name in my contacts.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “How’s the cold? Did you take some Echinacea? Carol swears by—”

  “I know. She dropped some off Saturday.” I was a little iffy on an herb cure. Especially after last fall’s run-in with a Chinese herbalist and a prescription of tree bark, wet leaves, and clods of dirt for back pain which I didn’t have anyway. But that’s another story. “I think I’m getting better.” I sneezed.

  “Good. Look, I hate to ask you, I know how busy you are with the restaurant and concessions. If you have a break, could you come to tech rehearsal for a while tonight? I need to know if this show is working. I’m having second thoughts,” she said.

  “Lola, it’s a little late for second thoughts.”

  I could hear Lola’s hesitation. “I need an honest opinion.”

  It was a little late for an honest opinion too. But I couldn’t refuse; I’d cover dinner and then slip out for an hour. Benny could keep an eye on the dining room. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Dodie. I really appreciate this one.”

  I called Bill’s cell but no answer. I would have to wait for his second round of apologies. By ten o’clock I was well fortified by two cups of coffee, whole wheat toast, and the New York Times. I wrapped myself in layers to win the battle with the cold. The air was crisp, the temperature hovering around thirty, and the snow underfoot crunched as I scraped an inch off the windshield. I shivered inside my Chevy Metro. My sturdy little car was sluggish on winter mornings and the heat trickled out of the vent at its own slow pace.

  I eased out of my dr
iveway, my tires leaving parallel tracks lined with mini mounds of snow. I was hoping for a rise in temperature to melt the fresh blanket of white as well as the residual ice packed underneath. The salt trucks had been out in force already and most of Main Street was clear. I slipped into a space in front of the Windjammer and noticed the parking meters had paper bags covering their faces. An Etonville signal that parking was free due to the weather.

  Inside the Windjammer, I put on the coffee and turned up the heat.

  “Brrr. I love wintertime,” Benny said, rubbing his hands together, his knit hat pulled low over his forehead.

  “Wise guy. You’re here early,” I said.

  “Not early. Just not late. Which is early for me, I guess.”

  “Right.”

  Benny hung up his scarf and coat, placing them on a hook next to mine, and popped behind the bar. “How was the baking class yesterday?” He sniffed the air. “Is that eau de burnt cake I smell?”

  “Only the first batch.” I laughed. “Poor Georgette. She had her hands full.”

  “I was going to come by. But I had to babysit.”

  Benny’s wife had gotten a new job at a toy store in the Bernridge Mall, in the next town over. It was a good deal for the family: She got a twenty-percent discount on products and Benny’s six-year-old daughter was thrilled with the results.

  “People were out shopping in that weather yesterday?”

  Benny shrugged. “Kids and toys.”

  “How’s the princess doing?” I asked.

  “Another earache. I’m taking her to the doctor later, okay? I’ll be back for dinner.”

  “Sure.”

  “You sound better,” he said as he scrubbed down the bar and cleaned the soda taps. “Good enough to have celebrated Valentine’s Day.” He grinned and winked.

  Benny had closed for me Saturday night and still assumed I’d had my romantic dinner with Bill. “Uh-huh.”

  I made for the kitchen, snatching the clipboard off the wall. I was still getting used to the fact that as police chief, Bill was on duty 24-7. Which meant last-second cancellations and reshuffled plans. Why was I so hesitant to admit that I’d spent Valentine’s Day alone nursing my cold and my ego? I attacked the freezer with a vengeance, noting what meats and seafood needed to be restocked this week.

  “Dodie!” Henry boomed at the entrance to the storeroom.

  I jumped, caught gathering wool. I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t heard him come in. “Henry, you want to give me a heart attack?”

  Henry ran a mittened hand over his bald head and eyed me warily. “Who burnt what in my kitchen?”

  “A few cakes. No big deal.”

  “There is cake batter on the oven,” he said, peeved.

  Henry was fussy about his domain. “I’ll check the vegetable bins. You’re good to go for the broccoli cheddar soup for lunch.” I slammed the freezer shut. Henry’s soups were legendary in Etonville and often ran out during the lunch service.

  “I’m glad no more baking on Sundays,” he harrumphed and stomped off, his damp boots leaving a puddle by the storeroom entrance.

  There was no doubting Henry’s skill in the kitchen. It was his personality that sometimes needed a transplant. He was still cautious about my theme food ideas for the Etonville Little Theatre as a marketing tool. It started with dinners that reflected the subject matter of the plays—seafood for Dames At Sea, Italian fare for Romeo and Juliet, beef bourguignon for the French farce.

  But last fall I upped the ante with the 1940s food festival for Arsenic and Old Lace, and when the director died during the event, poison was suspected and the Windjammer suffered a setback. Henry was still smarting from the loss of customers, even though business came roaring back when the Windjammer was exonerated. And now here I was, taking over his territory on Sundays and messing up his immaculate equipment. For what? ELT concessions. Even I had to admit that the theme food idea might be growing old. Maybe the concept had outlived its usefulness. After all, both the theater and the restaurant were thriving and who needed the publicity? Thanks to the Windjammer’s website, we were creating an online presence. Maybe it was time to come up with another gimmick to promote—

  Benny appeared in the pantry. “Gillian called in sick, and Enrico and Carmen had a fender bender on the way here. They’re going to be late.”

  “Better tell Henry we’ll be short-staffed for lunch. I’ll call Enrico’s cousin.” One of our part-time waiters.

  “Okay. I’ll set up the dining room,” Benny said.

  “Maybe everyone will stay home,” I added hopefully.

  “In your dreams.” Benny hurried off to warn Henry.

  It felt as if much of Etonville opted not to stay home today and descended on the Windjammer for lunch. I’d done the prep for Henry’s soup and his special burgers while he chopped and sautéed onions and garlic for his pot of chili. Fish tacos were scratched from the menu and grilled three-cheese sandwiches substituted. I ran from the kitchen to the dining room, Benny ran from the bar to tables, and Enrico’s cousin bussed dishes double-time. By one thirty the broccoli cheddar soup was gone, the crowd had thinned; Enrico and Carmen had finally shown up; the dining room was well in hand and I felt comfortable collapsing in the back booth near the kitchen that served as my “office.” I pulled my hair into a ponytail and leaned my head against the back of the booth. I couldn’t help it: my eyes closed.

  “Any food left?”

  I lurched upright. I could sense rather than see the corner of his lip tick upward. A quirk I was used to by now. Bill was swathed in his official bomber jacket and winter cap. A muffler was wrapped around his head, partially concealing his mouth. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. Can I join you?”

  “Have a seat.” I tried to play it cool. But there was no way I could avoid my pulse rising in the presence of his ruddy face. I nonchalantly flipped off the scrunchie that held my hair in place.

  Benny set a cup of coffee in front of me and handed Bill a menu. “Hi, Chief.”

  “Benny.”

  “How’s it going out there?” Benny asked.

  “Let’s see… I had three minor collisions, two dead batteries, and the Banger sisters got locked out of their car.” He removed his cap and monitored me over the edge of his menu. “Winter in the northeast.” His cheeks were redder than usual and his spiky hair was matted to the surface of his head.

  “The soup’s gone,” I said apologetically.

  “That’s okay. I’ll have the chili.”

  “Good choice. It’s extra hot today.” Benny grinned and ambled off.

  “Maybe the Banger sisters shouldn’t be driving in this weather,” I said.

  “You want to be the one to tell them?” he groused. “So…sorry again about—”

  “Saturday night. Yeah. Me too.”

  He unzipped his jacket and threw it onto the bench of the booth. “Look, Dodie, it comes with the territory. Job conflicts.”

  “Seems like a lot of job conflicts lately,” I said, pretending to study an inventory sheet.

  Benny set a bowl of chili and crackers in front of Bill. “Take it easy. I think Henry said it’s three-alarm.”

  “Good. Just what I need.” Bill picked up his spoon, and Benny gave me the eyeball before backing off.

  “I’d like to make it up to you. How about dinner Thursday night? Maybe Benny can cover? Something fun.”

  I’d have to work out the concessions at the ELT, but once we got through the opening Wednesday, the front-of-house crew should be comfortable with the cakes, pies, and mulled wine. “Sure. It won’t involve seat warmers, will it?” In December Bill had suggested we do “something fun.” Our date consisted of sitting in the freezing rain for three hours watching the New York Giants battle the Washington Redskins. It took all night to thaw out.

  Bill relaxed a
gainst the seat and grinned. “I have something special in mind.” He seemed pleased with himself.

  “Okay…how special? Dressy?” I stopped. “Not La Famiglia special? Because the last time we ate there, Henry sulked for two days. It was like me eating with the enemy.” La Famiglia was the Windjammer’s primary competition and nemesis. Mainly due to its receiving four stars from the Etonville Standard compared to the Windjammer’s three. Of course, it was only the local rag, but still…

  Bill held up his hand. “It’s not La Famiglia. In fact it’s not even in town.” He smiled sphynx-like.

  “You’re being very mysterious.”

  “Pick you up at six thirty.” He dug back into the chili. “Kind of dressy.” His lip curved again.

  Usually I took a break at three o’clock for an hour or so and did some paperwork, ran errands, or, lately, held Lola’s hand. Eton Town was taking its toll on her. But today I stayed in and worked from my back booth. I made a list: cider, cinnamon sticks, orange and pineapple juices, honey, cloves, nutmeg, anise seed. And of course red wine. That should do it for the concession drinks. I scribbled in the margin of the order form. “Kind of dressy…” Bill had said. What exactly did that mean? I had my little black dress…and my Jimmy Choo knockoffs. Both of which Bill had seen before. That particular night, a nor’easter was threatening Etonville, the Windjammer had lost electricity, the ELT had to cancel its tech rehearsal, and two criminals were at large. But that was last October…

  Still, it was a killer outfit.

  My cell pinged. It was Snippet’s ID. “Hi, Carol.”

  “Uh…hey. It’s me. Pauli.”

  My eighteen-year-old Internet-and-all-things-computer guru. And Carol’s son. “Pauli! What’s up?”

  He cleared his throat. “Like, I did the website updates. You know with the photos from the baking class.”