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  Penny appeared at my elbow. “Some roles are already cast.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Walter is Capulet, and Lola,” Penny said dryly with a big wink, “is Lady Capulet.”

  “I know.”

  At that moment, Jerome walked in the door. We had gotten behind and now were auditioning the eight-thirty group at nine o’clock.

  “Hi, Jerome. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He observed Penny yukking it up loudly with two young guys, then shushing everyone else in the lobby, and grinned. “I guess you’re running things?”

  “Just assisting.”

  “That’s a good thing.” He jammed his Cindy Collins paperback into his coat pocket and bounced up and down on his sneakers like a pogo stick. He seemed anxious.

  “Is everything okay with . . . you know.”

  “Dodie, forget what I said about Walter and the missing money, okay? It really doesn’t matter much anymore.”

  I handed him a scene with the Prince of Verona—the most logical choice for him. “You seemed pretty upset the other night.” I studied his face. Jerome was clearly elated about something.

  “Things have changed.” He leaned in to me and I could smell liquor on his breath. “In fact, I wanted to tell you—”

  Walter burst out the lobby door. “Penny! Where is the next Juliet?”

  Everyone froze and Penny looked stricken. She glanced at her clipboard, then at me, then at Walter. “Uh . . . okay . . . uh . . . Abby?”

  Walter gestured to me. “Dodie, can you stand inside the door and monitor the flow?” he asked quietly.

  “Sure.” I gave Jerome a pat on the shoulder. “We can talk later if you want.”

  He nodded and walked off to the other side of the lobby.

  A chastened Penny handed me copies of the scene between Juliet and Lady Capulet, and I trailed Walter into the house. I leaned against the heavy wooden door and watched Abby take the stage next to Lola, who was getting quite the workout tonight. Walter offered some pointers to the two women. Lady Capulet was alerting Juliet that she would be marrying Paris on the “morrow” and she’d better stop her sniveling. It reminded me of many adolescent scenes in my own household, without the marriage.

  Lola and Abby faced each other and began to read. Lola looked especially attractive this evening—hair piled on top of her head, dark crimson sweater gliding over her curvy hips. Though I’d seen her in several ELT plays, I was amazed at Lola’s facility with the language. She spoke the lines naturally, peering into Abby’s face to glean some reaction. Abby, unfortunately, was baffled, the verse beyond her. Her only recourse was to carry on. She screamed her displeasure with her mother and broke down in fake sobs, falling to her knees. Shakespeare was, no doubt, cringing and regretting the day he’d set pen to paper.

  Walter sat stone-faced, not pleased.

  “He’s in trouble,” Penny said at my side.

  “What are you doing in here? You’re supposed to be in the lobby handing out scenes,” I said.

  Penny shrugged the world-weary shrug of the stage manager at the Etonville Little Theatre. “I need those blank sign-up forms.” She grabbed my stack of papers. “He’s got a few really hot Romeos, but he’s sucking wind when it comes to Juliet.”

  “Next Juliet, please,” Walter called out.

  Abby looked distraught as she wiped her tears—real this time—and moved off the stage.

  Penny scrambled to the lobby and I followed, looking for Abby’s replacement.

  As the next victim climbed the steps to the stage, Lola whispered encouragingly, “Just speak as honestly as you can. Try not to get too caught up in the rhythm.”

  God bless Lola. If this all came off, it would be due in no small part to her talent and good sense. Walter was fortunate to have her in the ELT, in more ways than one. The next Juliet, a petite blond beauty whom I’d seen in Dames at Sea, started the scene with Lola, tripping over every other word. But Lola looked her in the eye and took her arm, answering as any mother would. They were having a mother-daughter argument—in poetry, of course, but the lines began to sound like real-life dialogue and I could feel Walter relax.

  He might have found at least one star-crossed lover.

  By 11 PM, we had auditioned nearly sixty people, most of whom had some tie to the ELT. Walter was breathing easier since he had some options for most roles, and my feet were killing me so I collapsed on a lobby bench. Penny and I had collected discarded scenes and stacked folding chairs. She’d gotten over Walter’s reprimand and was the old Penny: a little full of herself, trying to take charge while tripping over her own feet and making notes on her clipboard.

  “Dodie, could you give the sign-up forms to Walter? We need to keep track of who came out tonight.” She scooted her glasses up her nose.

  “Sure.” I dragged my tired body to a standing position, grabbed the forms and my bag, and walked into the theater.

  Walter and Lola had their heads close together. Lola was really an assistant artistic director without the title. She’d been anointed its reigning diva whenever a play called for a statuesque blonde, which was usually every one. She sat on a rotating board of directors, which at the present time also included the mayor, the proprietress of Coffee Heaven, Walter, and JC from JC’s Hardware. She even sewed a costume or two. Without Lola, the ELT might have to close up its proscenium and go home. It was Lola who had greased the wheels that made the dinner-then-theater happen. She had a way of making events materialize where the ELT was concerned.

  I handed the forms to Walter.

  “Oh, Dodie, thanks for coming tonight. We needed you, didn’t we, Walter?” Lola gently poked him and he looked up from his script.

  “Huh? Yes, right. Thanks.”

  Walter would never receive a prize for courtesy and gratitude.

  “Happy to help.” I hesitated. “I’m great with numbers, just in case you’d like someone to help out with the books, too.”

  Walter studied me carefully. “I’m perfectly capable of managing the finances of this company. Thank you very much.”

  I wondered about that. I felt sorry for Jerome, and it didn’t seem as though he would have the chutzpah to confront Walter himself.

  “Just a thought. I know you and Jerome have your hands full.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement.” He put a somewhat possessive hand on Lola’s arm.

  Chapter 4

  I slept fitfully, waking every hour until I finally passed out around 2 AM. Then I awoke with a start. My landline was ringing and the digital alarm read seven o’clock. I closed my eyes and pulled the pillow over my head, hoping the caller would go away, and waited for the voice mail to kick in.

  “Dodie? It’s Lola.” Her voice cracked as if she’d been crying.

  I was wide awake now. My hand searched for the receiver and I lifted it off the base. “Lola? Are you okay?” I said, an octave lower than I would speak in an hour.

  “I’m sorry to call this early. There’s been some . . . trouble at the theater.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The police are here.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, Dodie, I don’t know how to tell you. . . .”

  “Just say it quickly.”

  “Jerome is dead.”

  “Oh my God. How? Where?”

  She started to cry. “I went home at midnight, but Walter stayed to finish casting the play, you know. . . .”

  “And so?” I desperately wanted to believe that her story was a nightmare that I would awaken from.

  “He said he left at one.”

  “When did they . . . ?”

  “It was horrible. The garbage men came to empty the Dumpster on the loading dock this morning . . . and found him.”

  I could hear her breathing deeply and I felt my eyes tear up. Jerome was only a Windjammer acquaintance, but I felt like I’d gotten to know him. Besides, he was such a nice guy.

  “What was Jerome doing on the loadin
g dock? Was it a heart attack or something?”

  “Dodie, Jerome was murdered.”

  * * *

  I elicited a bit more information from Lola before she broke down completely. According to Walter, who had gotten it from the garbage guys, Jerome had been lying face down on the cement. They’d thought he had fallen asleep out there at first, but when they’d seen a patch of dried blood on the left side of his torso, they’d called the police, who had notified Walter, who had called Lola for moral support.

  I pulled on a pair of jeans and my Irish knit sweater, grabbed a hoodie and car keys, and sped out the door. A glimmer of sunlight peeked tentatively from a layer of clouds, as if asking permission to shine. I drove to the theater and considered my last conversation with Jerome. Who in the world would want to hurt him? Jerome was a real gentleman, in the old-fashioned sense.

  I stopped my Metro a few doors down from the theater as the spaces in front were occupied: two Etonville black-and-white police vehicles, a police van, and an ambulance. A small group of townspeople had gathered to check out the excitement. I made my way through the crowd and approached an officer who was working security.

  “I need to go in,” I said.

  “Sorry. This is a crime scene,” Officer Suki Shung said, putting up one hand to prevent me from entering the theater. I knew Suki was new, the first woman to join the force.

  “I spoke with him last night. I saw him a few days ago.” I gulped fresh air. “I was a friend of his. I’m part of the theater group.”

  She studied me some more, asked me my name, then spoke into a walkie-talkie. Within seconds, Lola burst out the front door and threw her arms around my neck. We hugged tightly.

  “Dodie knew Jerome. She needs to speak to the chief.”

  Officer Shung’s walkie-talkie crackled, and she turned her back on us. She listened, then nodded. “Go ahead.”

  We scuttled past her, opened the door to the theater, and had barely taken a step into the building when we were accosted by Penny. “Can you believe it? Jerome? “I’ll be in the theater if anybody needs me.”

  “How did Penny get here so soon?” I asked as she scooted away. Penny had a way of always being where the action was, like a GPS system that tracked trouble.

  “Walter must have called her.”

  I knocked on Walter’s office door, and we slowly pushed it open.

  Two desks, piled high with papers, scripts, assorted props, and a few costumes, sat facing each other like boxers squaring off for a match. One was Walter’s; the other was generally occupied by Penny or Lola. A fax machine hummed, then spat out a sheet of paper. Birds’ nattering floated in through an open window, but otherwise, stillness.

  Lola joined Walter on the sofa, next to a box of Kleenex. His head was in his hands as he faced an officer, apparently answering questions.

  “Excuse me. Officer Shung told me it was okay—”

  The officer pulled out a desk chair and offered me a seat. “Chief Thompson,” he said abruptly.

  Chief Bill Thompson was new to Etonville, having arrived only three months ago. I’d met him briefly when he’d stopped by the Windjammer a few times for lunch. His predecessor, Chief Angus “Bull” Bennett, had died with his boots on—literally. At sixty-eight, he had dropped over dead while fishing, knee deep in waders, in the old Ridgewood Reservoir. Bull had been well-loved. Of course, the worst things he’d had to handle were wrangling a few rowdy kids from the high school on Saturday night as they trolled through town looking for fun or keeping Etonville’s two meter maids from killing each other over territorial disputes or investigating the odd accident down on the highway.

  “She said you knew the victim, Ms. O’Donnell, right?”

  “O’Dell. Yes, I did.”

  I sized up the new chief: a ruddy complexion with a golden brush cut and tight-fitting uniform. He was attractive and built like a running back. In fact, I’d heard that he had had a short-lived career as a professional football player before he entered law enforcement in Philadelphia.

  “We all did.” Lola nodded. Walter was now resting his head on the back of the sofa, eyes closed.

  “I understand he was here last night at auditions. Can you tell me what time he came and when he left?” His deep blue eyes looked right through me. I had to blink a few times.

  Penny’s explanation of theater time versus life time sprang into my head. “He arrived a little late, about eight-thirty. I didn’t see him leave.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “Briefly. I gave him a scene to take a look at. He read for the Prince of Verona. . . .”

  “Uh-huh,” he said and jotted a note in a pad he was holding. Was it significant that Jerome would have probably been cast as the aristocratic head of the Italian state? “How did he seem? Was he disturbed? Agitated?” Chief Thompson asked.

  “Not really. Well, maybe a little.” I glanced at Lola, who was holding Walter’s hand, and shrugged. “Jerome was . . . pleasant. Gentle.” I paused and remembered our conversation that night at the Windjammer. “We both liked mysteries and thrillers. We traded books back and forth. In fact, he brought me the latest—”

  “Agitated how?” the chief asked, getting back to last night.

  I had to tell the truth. I related as many details as I could recollect from that night before at the Windjammer. Walter looked guilty and nervous. Chief Thompson fixed his steely eyes on him and stated firmly that he should have filed a police report if he hadn’t found the money within twenty-four hours.

  Walter shifted from guilty to sheepish. “I understand. We have these kinds of bookkeeping issues periodically. I’ll search one final time and come by the station if I don’t find anything today.” He smiled weakly.

  Lola crossed her arms and watched an early spring fly that was zooming around the office looking for a way out. Probably how Walter felt.

  “I’ll need you to stop by anyway to go over a few details,” the chief said.

  “I could get together a list of people who were here to audition,” I offered. “We have sheets on—”

  “Thanks, but I’ll have one of my officers follow up with Walter.” He frowned at his notebook. “I guess that’s it for now.”

  * * *

  I let myself into the Windjammer, put on the coffee, and plunked down into my “office,” the back booth by the kitchen door. It was 9 AM. The restaurant wouldn’t be open for two hours yet; the staff wouldn’t even show up for another half hour or so. I was grateful for the quiet time alone. Jerome. My eyes welled up. It was the first time since Lola’s call woke me that I could actually sit and contemplate the enormity of the morning’s events. It was all so shocking.

  I sipped from the scalding mug and closed my eyes. I could see Jerome’s face, strangely lit up, as he confided that he was not all that concerned about the missing money.

  My cell clanged and I jumped. I checked the caller ID. “Hi, Carol.”

  “Oh, Dodie, it’s just terrible. Poor man,” she said.

  Word traveled faster than the speed of light in Etonville. “I guess you heard from Lola?”

  “Lola? No. Snippets is buzzing with the news. I heard Bill Thompson interrogated you.”

  I could hear the hum of hair dryers in the background. “Well, he asked me a few questions.”

  Carol lowered her voice. “Do they have any suspects? You know there hasn’t been a murder in Etonville since . . .” She paused to think. “Maybe 1980, ’81?”

  I’d heard about that one. A hold-up gone awry and the owner of the gas station on the edge of town bludgeoned to death. A pretty grisly affair. “I know. It’s just hard to imagine who would want to hurt Jerome.”

  Silence on the line for a moment.

  “I didn’t know him. According to the gals in Snippets, no one really knew much about him. He never married. He had a great reputation as a teacher.”

  “He always wore sneakers. Weird for a man his age,” I said.

  “Okay . . .”

&n
bsp; “That’s not much background. He liked Chivas Regal . . . and mysteries,” I said.

  Was that all I knew about him? We’d spent hours talking about books and writers, but nothing else.

  “Is Lola okay? She must be devastated.”

  “She’s pretty upset. Walter is too.”

  The front door opened. “Carol, Henry’s here. Got to run.”

  She paused. “Did you get a chance to ask Henry about the website? Pauli’s ready when you are.”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s really terrific on this website stuff. It forces him to talk to people.”

  Not the nerd herd he usually runs with, I thought.

  “I’ll have to get back to you. Bye.” I clicked off and I took a breath before easing out of the booth.

  Henry stood by the bar and took a ball cap off his bald head. “Heard about Jerome. Bad business,” he said.

  That was as demonstrative as Henry was going to get. Unlike Etonville.

  * * *

  Jerome’s murder was all anyone in the Windjammer could talk about. Benny hopped from the bar to tables to back up our server Gillian, and I rode shotgun on the kitchen to keep the crowd from getting testy. In between, I picked up strands of conversation:

  “... he was shot three times ...”

  “... he was robbed of hundreds of dollars ...”

  “... he was found lying on top of the Dumpster ...”

  The rumors were bouncing off the walls like bumper cars at the state fair. So many rumors it was impossible to take them all in. I gave up even thinking of trying and focused on today’s specials: grilled Caesar salad, meatloaf, and mashed potatoes. I hated to admit it, but Jerome’s murder was good for business: everyone was out and about and, apparently, hungry.

  “Dodie, we heard you were the first person Chief Thompson interrogated,” a lady said and speared a chunk of meat loaf. I recognized her as one half of the elderly Banger sisters duo. I knew their reputation for being a little dotty and Etonville’s most enthusiastic gossipmongers.

  “Well, I wasn’t really the first—”

  “I heard Jerome was drunk,” her sister whispered.

  Who in the world was spreading that bit of gossip?