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  “—before Georgette. Right.”

  “Uh-huh. Did you know he played for the Buffalo Bills? Until he tore his whatchamacallit?” She rolled her shoulders.

  “Rotator cuff.”

  “That’s it. He’s a welcome change from Chief Bull in more ways than one.” Carol looked to Benny and lifted her empty wineglass.

  I had the feeling there might be as much information flowing in and out of Snippets as there was at the Etonville Police Department.

  “Could you ask Rita if I could speak with her cousin? I need a few more details before going to Chief Thompson.”

  “Sure. She’s a customer. I think she’s due for a color and cut. I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “You can count on me.”

  * * *

  It was nearly nine by the time Carol left. I spent the next hour filling out inventory sheets and thinking about our conversation. Who was Jerome’s visitor? What was their relationship? Why had he never mentioned her?

  “’Night, Benny,” I said as he disappeared out the door. Henry was long gone, and I needed a few more minutes to finish closing up: prepare today’s deposit, turn out the lights, and lock the doors. I was justifiably pleased with the progress we were making at the Windjammer. Profits were up, empty tables were down, and Henry appeared satisfied, though he’d never admit it.

  I drove around the block to drop the cash bag in the night depository at the Valley Savings Bank. Driving around town with a thousand dollars in cash and credit card receipts could be a little nerve-wracking since Jerome’s death. But I didn’t think Jerome’s murder was a random killing, despite what the newspaper implied. Benny offered to make the deposit for me, but as manager it was part of the job so I declined. I pulled out of the drive-thru lane at the bank and retraced my path down Amber and onto Main.

  Cruising around town the week I arrived in Etonville, I’d noticed that the north end was slightly more upscale. Houses were either brick buildings still standing from the early 1800s or gingerbread Victorians in bright colors that dated from the late nineteenth century. They sat in dignified repose on well-manicured lawns. The south end, with homes constructed in the nineteen-thirties and forties, was middle-class and practical. Houses looked lived in, autos looked used, and folks mowed their own grass. The ambience at both ends of town seemed cheerful and friendly. All of which had been attractive after the chaos and devastation of Hurricane Sandy.

  When the light changed at Fairfield Street, I could have turned right and crawled a few blocks to my place on Ames in the south end of Etonville. Instead, I headed in the direction of Ellison. I had driven Jerome home once after a post-show party—he had broken his one-drink rule and I hadn’t thought he should be behind the wheel—so I was generally familiar with the neighborhood. I passed the Episcopal church, next door to a card and gift shop, both dark, as were most of the houses on the street.

  Homes were as modest as those on my end of Fairfield. Some were cottage-sized residences built for a family of no more than four. Some were shotgun houses with small patches of grass for front yards and the occasional early spring flower bed outlining a porch. A handful of parked cars lined the street on both sides. I wondered which house belonged to Rita’s cousin.

  I crept down Ellison until a large, two-story house came into view—the place where Jerome had lived. It was the only one with a light on, in an upper room that faced the street. A car was parked in the driveway next to a sign: ROOM FOR RENT. The landlord hadn’t lost any time looking for a tenant. Pretty ghoulish considering Jerome wasn’t even buried yet.

  I inched forward and switched off my headlights so that I could turn around in someone’s driveway and not disturb the inhabitants. I was about to swing my Metro in a wide arc when the rumble of an engine behind me caused me to check the rearview mirror. I saw a dark SUV—an Escalade, from the look of it—stop directly across the street from Jerome’s place. It switched off its headlights, too. I felt little shivers run down my spine. What were the odds that another car just happened to be driving down Ellison this time of night? Checking out Jerome’s residence? I completed the turn, and drove home.

  Chapter 6

  “Look okay?” the delivery kid said and thrust a clipboard at me.

  I checked off the cartons of food that had been stacked inside the walk-in refrigerator. Enrico was assisting Henry as he concocted his secret-recipe herb-crusted pork loin—I knew about the paprika, basil, and parsley, but there was something else in the coating I could only guess at. Henry was tight-lipped about most of his specials—La Famiglia had definitely made him paranoid.

  “Except for the missing twenty pounds of flounder.” I frowned and signed the sheet. The seafood order was shorted again; I needed to find another wholesaler. Couldn’t be that hard in this part of the state and—

  Benny stuck his head in the kitchen. “Dodie. Got a visitor.”

  I walked out the swinging doors. Pauli sat at the bar drinking a Big Gulp Slurpee and texting. Pauli! I’d been so busy today I’d forgotten we had a meeting. “Hi.”

  “Hey, Mrs. O’Dell.”

  A polite kid, even if he did have my marital status screwed up. “Dodie. You can call me Dodie.”

  “Okay.” It came out a croak: Pauli’s voice deciding whether or not to change.

  “So your mom says you are quite the entrepreneur?”

  Pauli slid his eyes in my direction to see if I was making a joke.

  “Your business is growing?” I poured myself a seltzer and sat down next to him.

  “I guess,” he said and jabbed his straw into the Slurpee.

  “So how do we start?” I studied a thatch of brown hair falling into his eyes, the spatter pattern of acne across his cheeks, the gangly arms poking out of his hoodie sleeves. “I don’t have a website. I don’t know much about putting one together.”

  “Piece of cake,” he said and opened his laptop. “First, we have to get a domain name . . . like from GoDaddy or something.” He sat up straighter on his bar stool. “Like windjammer.com?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Yeah and then get a Web host and figure out like what you want on each page.” His face was a question mark. “You know what you want on each page?”

  “I’m sure I can figure it out. I’ll check out some other restaurant websites and put some copy together.”

  “Uh-huh and you’ll need, like, some pictures. Like of the inside here.” He looked around, appraising the Web-worthiness of the Windjammer’s dining room.

  The restaurant dated from eighteen-ninety-eight, when a sea captain had given up his fishing business and settled in Etonville, naming the eatery after his whaling vessel. According to town lore, the poor guy had lost his ship in a poker game and been forced to resort to the life of a landlubber by his furious wife. Maybe to spite her, or because he was still in love with the fishing business, the captain had constructed the interior to remind him of his life upon the sea: two beams in the middle of the room resembled the masts on a whaler, the floor was laid with planking, and a figurehead of a woman’s bust soared majestically over the entrance. Henry had kept the nautical theme when he’d purchased the restaurant in 2002. So now there were life preservers on the walls, linked by ropes and knots, and photographs of sailing ships from the seventeen and eighteen hundreds.

  “Maybe we need to have some photos of dishes.”

  “Yeah, and people eating,” he added enthusiastically. “And a menu and maybe, like, the times you’re open.” He stopped to inhale. “And the address and phone number for reservations.”

  “You really know what you’re doing, Pauli.”

  He grinned bashfully. “I guess.”

  He was cute in a seventeen-year-old nerdy fashion; but he’d need some work if he was going to find a date for the prom, which was Carol’s primary mission.

  Pauli pulled up various restaurant websites while I kept one eye on the dining room and made notes of things I thought we
could use for the Windjammer website.

  “Uh . . . Mrs. . . . uh . . . Dodie, what do you think of this one?” He’d located the site for a very high-end New York restaurant, all muted lighting, intimate booths, and exotic flowers.

  We both inspected the interior of the Windjammer. “Well, maybe,” I said trying to be encouraging. “But it seems a bit too fancy.”

  Pauli nodded wisely and clicked a few keys. “Here’s something more local.” Up popped La Famiglia.

  Pretty perceptive kid, I thought. I studied the home page. I’d stood at the cash register once, waiting for my take-out garlic knots. But it had been late afternoon and the place had been mostly empty. The website featured a photo that showed stucco and brick walls, an open wine rack, a central oven and cooking area, and a parquet tile floor. The dozen café tables were full.

  “Dodie,” Henry bellowed, halfway out the kitchen door. “What happened to the flounder?”

  Perfect timing. “Henry, I want you to meet Pauli. He’s the son of a friend and a real computer whiz.”

  “Hi,” he said grudgingly. “We really need to finalize the menu. . . .”

  “Take a look at this,” I said and turned the laptop around.

  Henry’s eyes widened. “La Famiglia?”

  “Pauli’s got plans for a Windjammer website that will knock your socks off.”

  Henry seemed interested. “Okay, but right now we’ve got work to do.”

  “I can put some stuff together and get back to you,” Pauli said quickly.

  “Sounds like a plan. How about it Henry?”

  He nodded. “Make sure you give me an idea of what it will cost.”

  “Yes, sir. Thanks.” He shut his laptop, jammed it into his backpack, and slid off the stool. “I’d better be getting home.”

  I had a sudden urge to brush his forehead clear of that brown hank of hair. “Say hello to your mom for me,” I said, and followed Henry into the kitchen.

  * * *

  Gillian had finished the set up for dinner, Benny had restocked the bar, and a few customers had begun to trickle in as I settled into my back booth. I was fantasizing about letting Benny close up and heading home for a glass of wine, a hot bath, and a Cindy Collins mystery. But Cindy Collins reminded me that Jerome had offered to lend me her latest book. I kept replaying last night’s drive by his house, wondering who might have been in that SUV.

  I had just shifted my focus back to the stack of bills in front of me when I heard a familiar voice. “Dodie, hi,” Lola said. She sounded upset.

  “Hi. What’s up?”

  Lola scooted into the booth. “Dodie, we’re in trouble.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “You know how Walter told Chief Thompson he’d report the missing money if he hadn’t found it in twenty-four hours?”

  I remembered. “Did he find the money?”

  “No.” Lola flipped her blond locks behind her shoulder. “I was in the box office straightening up. No one has cleaned up in there since Jerome died. There were food wrappers and Xeroxes of scenes from Romeo and Juliet . . . probably Penny hanging out.”

  “And . . .”

  Lola hesitated. “I threw out the trash and opened the top drawer under the counter by the ticket window. Just to see if it needed to be cleaned out, too. Jerome spent so much time in front of house that he just thought of the box office as his personal space. He kept some things in the drawers. Like a tie he wore opening nights and paperback novels and . . . things.”

  “Lola?”

  “I found a small ledger in the drawer that had an accounting of ELT income and expenses for the last six months. Most of it was pretty straightforward. Costume and scenery purchases. But every so often, Jerome made a notation. WZ. And next to the initials were amounts of money.” She withdrew a black, five-by-seven notebook from her bag.

  “Walter was borrowing from the box office?”

  “And Jerome was keeping track of it.”

  I opened the book and scanned the pages. The last notation was made the fourteenth. The day before auditions. After he and I had had our conversation in the Windjammer.

  “Oh, Dodie, if the board hears about this . . . Walter has a real problem.”

  “Especially since, according to Jerome’s notes, it adds up to a thousand dollars. That’s grand theft.”

  Lola put her elbows on the table, her head in her hands. “I know Walter isn’t always the most considerate person, but I thought he was honest. The divorce has changed him.”

  I didn’t agree. I’d always thought he was a pain in the neck. I thumbed through the ledger again. Walter’s initials first appeared the previous December, just about the time he was in the throes of his chaotic divorce. Jerome’s accounting ended half-way through the book. The rest of the pages were blank, but on the last page, someone, presumably Jerome, had written MR and a date: 4/16.

  “Did you see this?” I pushed the book across the table.

  Lola stared at the writing and shook her head. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. The sixteenth was the morning Jerome was found. This looks like a planned meeting. I wonder why Jerome made a note in the ledger in the box office? Is there someone with these initials connected to the theater?”

  She thought a minute. “I don’t think so. What should we do with it?” “Let’s save it for now. Maybe we could find out who or what MR is?”

  “How would we do that?” She handed me the ledger as if for safekeeping.

  “I’ll think of something,” I said and patted her hand. I had no idea how I was going to get this information.

  Lola leaned in closer. “Dodie, we need help at the ELT. Things are in an uproar. With Jerome gone, there’s no one to run the box office, and Penny is more disorganized than ever with the murder investigation and the press. I don’t know how she’s going to get us through rehearsals. And Walter is so preoccupied. You have to help us,” she pleaded.

  “Me? I have a restaurant to manage.”

  “You did such a great job at auditions. It would only be a few nights a week just to make sure everything is running smoothly. To keep an eye on rehearsals, check the box office on nights of the show. And if there is an emergency, you’ll be right next door.” She paused. “As a favor to me? Just to get through Romeo and Juliet,” she added sadly.

  I did want to find out more about Jerome’s death. Having access to the theater and its members might be helpful.

  “Let me speak with Henry. You know he likes me to be available even on my days off.”

  “It’s just for a few weeks. Walter has delayed the first rehearsal until after Jerome’s funeral. And I’ll help in any way I can,” Lola said.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Benny might like to take on a few extra night shifts,” I said.

  “Thanks. By the way, did you hear about Jerome’s funeral?”

  I shook my head.

  “Apparently Jerome has . . . uh, had a sister-in-law someplace in the Midwest. She called Walter today and offered to pay for everything, but she can’t make it out here for the service. She asked if we could take care of the details.”

  “He never mentioned any family.”

  “I know. Walter is so overwhelmed with everything he can’t really take on one more responsibility. So I offered to help.”

  * * *

  The dinner special was a huge success: patrons gobbled up the pork loin—which made Henry ecstatic. I made a mental note to speak to him in the morning about my dropping in at the ELT a few nights a week in addition to my days off. Once dinner was nearly concluded, unless there was a crisis, I could slip out and leave Benny in charge. But I’d have to have Carmen in place for those nights as well. I was making my to-do list for tomorrow and watching Gillian clear the last of the tables when my cell clanged.

  “Hello?”

  “Dodie? It’s Carol.”

  “Hi. What’s happening?”

  “When I got home tonight, I had an email from Mo
nica Jenkins.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Rita’s cousin. The shampoo girl.”

  I sat up straighter. “What did she want?”

  “An appointment to get her hair colored and trimmed. I talked her into coming by tomorrow morning. I figured the sooner, the better, and maybe you could stop by to see her before the Windjammer opened.”

  “Carol, that’s great. When?”

  “How’s nine?”

  “Perfect. That’ll give me plenty of time. Good work.” I could hear her smile through the phone line.

  Chapter 7

  The salon was a cacophony of sound, as usual: telephone ringing, dryers whirring, laughter rising and falling, and Carol, talking over it all to a customer getting her hair colored. She motioned to me to join her.

  “Dodie, this is Monica Jenkins. Rita’s cousin.” Carol daubed a brownish mixture on Monica’s roots and around her hairline. She must be graying early. She couldn’t be more than late thirties.

  “Hello,” I said politely.

  “She lives on Ellison,” Carol said.

  “So you’re Jerome Angleton’s neighbor?”

  Monica squinted and held her glasses to her face, careful to avoid the hair dye on her forehead as she stared at me through the mirror. “Was.” Her voice was raspy. A current or former smoker.

  “Right. He was a friend of mine.” I paused. “Did you know him well?”

  “I only lived on Ellison for the last year. But I saw him come and go.” She shifted her attention to Carol. “Don’t forget that spot on the top of my head.”

  Carol nodded patiently.

  “I miss him.”

  “I didn’t know him well enough to miss him. Said hi now and then.” Monica dropped her glasses into her lap.

  “Carol mentioned that your cousin”—we all turned to see Rita massaging the scalp of a customer, lather up her arms—“said you’d seen a woman visiting Jerome last month.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were on your porch?” I asked.

  “That’s right. I get home from work about five. This was probably... five-thirty or six. I like to have a beer and sit in my swing at the end of the day.”