No More Time Read online

  Lola was a dutiful artistic director and maneuvered herself away from Jackson, who took it upon himself to be social director and engage two of the actors in conversation: Abby, manager of the Valley View Shooting Range in Etonville, and Romeo, who played the former lover of Juliet in Romeo and Juliet. The name stuck. As irritated as I was with Jackson, I had to admit that getting those two to chitchat was a minor miracle. They could compete for first place in a moody/surly contest.

  “Dodie, I read in the paper that Candle Beach had a 10-32 today,” Edna said confidentially and raised an eyebrow. She was the dispatcher for the Etonville Police Department and loved her police codes. I could only assume a 10-32 was a drowning.

  “Yes. Really unfortunate. The police think he might have fallen overboard.”

  Edna whispered knowingly. “That’s what they all say until they end up with a 10-55.”

  What?

  “Coroner case,” she added.

  “I hope not.” I meant it.

  “Copy that.” She shoved a pencil into the bun atop her gray-brown head and swept up a handful of baby carrots.

  Jackson sidled up to me. “These theater people are crazy, man.” He bit into a piece of celery. “I coulda been an actor.”

  Given his encounter with the Candle Beach police today, he already was.

  “We’re not done talking, Jackson. I want some answers,” I said.

  He smiled ingratiatingly. “Yes, Mother.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  Walter started the rehearsal with a warm-up, which I knew was his modus operandi for most rehearsals. Some of them were outlandish and involved blindfolds, twirling like balloons, and flying into one another. Luckily, tonight the cast was only required to sit silently and focus on their scene. There was a mixed response: Abby and Edna, playing the elderly Brewster sisters, central characters of Arsenic and Old Lace, obeyed Walter’s request, though Abby was less enthusiastic about it. Lola, out of unwavering loyalty, joined in, and Romeo, her younger romantic partner in the scenes, sneered his way through the exercise. He was still playing Conrad Birdie from the spring musical.

  Jackson sat cross-legged on the floor and closed his eyes. Who knew what he was focused on.

  After fifteen minutes, Walter called the rehearsal to order, and the actors ran the scenes entered in the festival.

  I intended to decamp to the bedroom, where I had fifty pages of my thriller Murder Most Cordial left to read. Jackson cleaned up some plates and glasses and I intercepted him in the kitchen. “Hang around here tonight. Keep a low profile.”

  Jackson inclined his head as if to get a better angle on me. “You’re worried about me,” he said solemnly. Then burst out laughing.

  “Shhh! They’re trying to work out there,” I rasped.

  Penny stuck her head in the kitchen and plastered a finger crossways on her lips.

  Jackson murmured, “Don’t wait up for me.” He lifted a strand of curly hair and placed it behind my ear. “Mom!”

  Jackson was maddening. Had he always been this frustrating?

  * * * *

  By nine thirty the ELT had run through its scenes five times, Walter had delivered his to-be-expected lecture on festival performance and its many pitfalls—biased audience members, competition with various theaters, placement in the evening’s schedule—and the actors were yawning. Also planning trips to the beach tomorrow.

  “Don’t forget. Call is five o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Sharp. At the theater. You’re going to wear makeup and costumes, so no sunburn,” Penny announced as the cast put my living room back in order.

  “As if,” Romeo said under his breath.

  As the actors trooped out the door, Penny yelled, “We go on after The Sound of Music and before King Lear.”

  The ELT was sandwiched between singing kids and nuns and the Shakespearean ranting of an old man facing the end of his life. Which play had been cut?

  “Harvey’s out,” Penny said.

  I jumped. “What?” I had almost gotten used to Penny reading my mind.

  She cackled. “Who needs a play about an invisible rabbit?”

  “Right. Better to have one about two old ladies poisoning poor old gentlemen with elderberry wine,” I said.

  Penny eyed me. “O’Dell, you crack me up.”

  “Dodie, thanks for letting us use your house. We needed this tonight,” Lola said. “Do I look too old?”

  “Not a bit.”

  She brushed her hair off one shoulder and looked around. “Where’s Jackson?”

  “Who knows? I hope he stays out of trouble.”

  I closed the screen door on the last of the ELT and agreed to meet Lola for breakfast at the Candle Diner. I did a final clean-up in the kitchen and settled into a thickly padded rocking chair on the porch. The night was balmy, with only a trace of the humidity that had made the day sticky and hot, and the sky was overcast. No trace of those constellations Bill was so excited about. What was he up to…doing paperwork in the office, hanging out at home, sleeping… I felt restless and not yet ready to hit the sack. I plucked a lightweight jacket from a hook near the door and locked up, leaving the porch open in case Jackson planned to spend the night here, which I was sure he did.

  Atlantic Street was peaceful, the houses dimly lit. But a block away the boardwalk was bright as day and full of life with music resounding up and down the shoreline and people of all ages strolling in and out of shops and restaurants. The ambience was pleasant and inviting. I ambled past the tiki bar, Grody’s Sandbar, the shop dispensing frozen yogurt, and the mini-golf course. The tide was coming in, and half a dozen hardy souls who were willing to brave the cold water at night dove in and out of the waves. I sat on a bench adjacent to the beach. Why was I so fidgety? I missed Bill, but it was more than that. Jackson had me on edge. Though I wanted to believe that he knew nothing about Vinnie’s death, in my heart of hearts I knew better. Something was fishy. I could not get the image of Vinnie and Jackson’s fight out of my mind.

  On a whim I jumped to my feet and race-walked to the south end of the boardwalk until, slightly out of breath, I stopped opposite the marina where Vinnie’s boat was moored. This end of the boardwalk was deserted. The Surf Shack was closed for the day. The police must have had The Bounty towed in. Out of curiosity I stepped off the boardwalk and slowly headed down the dock. I passed three boats—Miss Betty, Three G’s, and Sea Witch—that bobbed gently in the wash resulting from the incoming tide. Given the time, it made sense that all interior lights were off in the boats. But when I approached The Bounty, a dim glow emanated from the cabin below the deck. A bell on one of the boats clanged. The slap of the water striking the hulls accompanied creaking as the boats pulled on their tie lines like impatient kids trying to break away from diligent parents. I inhaled the odors of pine tar and diesel fuel.

  With Vinnie gone, who or what created the glimmer of light that leaked from the cabin? I leaned against a piling, ten yards from The Bounty, and observed the silhouette of a figure as it shifted back and forth behind a curtained window on the lower deck.

  A large shadow rushed to my left stopping inches from me. My heart lurched in my chest.

  “Whadya doin’ here?” The male voice was unfamiliar, harsh, and hostile. He towered over me and stood close enough that I got a whiff of cigarette smoke and sour breath. He wore a beat-up nautical captain’s cap.

  “I-I’m going for a walk.”

  He trained a utility flashlight on me, so bright my hand immediately shot up to shield my eyes. I couldn’t see his face. “This area’s off-limits.”

  “I didn’t realize—”

  “Walk somewhere else,” he grunted.

  “Sure. Sorry.” I backed up, tripping over a loose board on the dock.

  “Keep moving. Go on.” He flicked the light off and vanished in the dark.

  What was th
at about? As I edged away, the light in The Bounty went off, leaving Vinnie’s boat completely in the dark. I jogged up the dock and didn’t stop moving until I set foot on the boardwalk. When I turned around, all I could see were the outlines of the watercraft peacefully rolling and dipping. No signs remained of the frightening incident.

  I darted down the boardwalk to the well-lit areas by the bars and restaurants. I needed a friend.

  * * * *

  Grody plunked down on a bar stool next to me, patting my back. “Calm down yet, Irish?”

  “It’s like I imagined the whole thing,” I said and guzzled my seltzer.

  “Did you?”

  “No!”

  “Vinnie’s death has spooked lots of Candle Beach regulars. The guy could have been a fisherman protecting his territory.” Grody had one eye on our conversation and the other on the dining room. He shifted in his seat and gestured to a waiter to check on a table across the restaurant. I appreciated his taking a moment to listen to my tale, given that the Sandbar was full this evening.

  “Sorry to distract you. I can see how busy you are.”

  “No problem. Hey, friends, right?” He hugged me like a big brother.

  Grody was right…about both friendship and the possibility that someone was acting territorial on the dock. Yet, why was there a light on in Vinnie’s boat when its captain was out of the picture?

  “I wish Jackson was more open about his and Vinnie’s relationship. He claims there’s nothing to tell me, but I swear I know different.”

  “Why’re you suspicious? Maybe he’s telling you the truth.”

  “I can read Jackson like a book.” In the past anyway.

  “It could be he’s changed. Everybody should have the chance to change their life, kiddo,” Grody said softly.

  I’d changed enough since I split with Jackson: Etonville, Bill, the Windjammer, helping solve murders. “True. I should trust him.”

  Grody burst out laughing. “I didn’t say trust him. Just allow for the possibility that this Jackson is different from the one you knew years ago.” He bounced off his bar stool. “Sorry. Got to take care of a customer.”

  “Go. You have a restaurant to run.”

  I drained my seltzer, said so long to Grody with the promise of a theater theme first thing in the morning. I tramped back to my rental property, aware of the dark once I left the boardwalk for the street. I didn’t need any more threatening run-ins. The moon passed behind cloud cover; rain tomorrow. I hurried into the house and locked the door behind me. No sign of Jackson on the porch. I had no desire to press him for information he resisted sharing. Grody was correct. I had to give Jackson the benefit of the doubt where Vinnie and his death were concerned. Maybe he had changed…

  * * * *

  A wave curled over my head, and I dove into the green foam, the crash of water on the sandy beach familiar music to my ears. I floated, buoyant in the ocean, swept along by the incoming tide. I was in heaven. Next thing I knew, I was up to my neck in seafood—shrimp, scallops, calamari, lobsters—I opened my mouth to scream, and a giant prawn floated in, choking me. I awoke with a start, gurgling, panting. Some nightmare.

  My last thought as I fell asleep was Grody’s menu for the theater reception. I’d run through possible theme food ideas with no success. And this was how my subconscious reacted? Different types of seafood attacking me? When I closed my eyes again, the giant prawn latched on to my head. Was it trying to tell me something? Seven plays, I mused…different seafood…hmmm…I had it! I bounded out of bed and snatched my cell phone out of its charger. It was eight o’clock. Not too soon to text Grody: problem solved re. theme food. call me.

  I had no sooner finished the text than my phone rang. I checked the caller ID and tapped on Answer. “Hey there, handsome. Miss me?”

  “What do you think?” Bill yawned in my ear.

  “You just wake up?” I asked.

  “Nah. Been at work for an hour. Trying to tie up this court case.”

  “Too bad it had to interfere with your vacation,” I said in my sexy voice.

  “That’s what I told the judge. So what’s happening on the Jackson front?” he asked. “Am I still sharing my vacation rental?”

  I hesitated. How much to disclose? “He’s working on his cash flow problem.”

  “That means he’s still occupying the front porch?”

  “I’m sorry, Bill. I can’t believe he showed up in Candle Beach needing a place to stay,” I said ruefully.

  “It’s not your fault. I’m thinking of offering to pay for a motel room for the next couple of nights. Maybe he’ll get the hint and skip town.” Bill chuckled.

  Jackson was not going to be skipping town any time soon. “When are you coming back?”

  “What time is happy hour this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Whenever you get here…dude.”

  Bill clicked off with the promise to see me suck down a Creamsicle Crush at the tiki bar by four o’clock. I had to have a down-and-dirty talk with Jackson by then. My cell rang.

  “So what’s the solution to the food theme?” Grody asked.

  “Did my text wake you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sorry. Listen to this.” I related my dream with the seafood, which Grody considered too bizarre for words, and explained my solution. Seven plays, seven types of hors d’oeuvres, each one named for an entry, like Cinderella crabmeat canapés, King Lear scallops in bacon, Mousetrap spring rolls, The Sound of Music calamari… Grody got the drift. It wasn’t my most creative brainstorm—and Grody wasn’t a hundred percent convinced—but the food was all in his wheelhouse, easy enough to prepare in the days remaining before the festival opening.

  “I’ll have the kitchen get on it today.”

  “You’d better let Sam Baldwin review the menu, although he didn’t seem to care what you did one way or the other.”

  “I’ll give him a call. Thanks, Red,” Grody said.

  “See you later. We’ll drop in for dinner. The crew from Etonville has hit Candle Beach and I’m not sure what their rehearsal schedule is, but—” My cell buzzed. “Sorry. I have a call coming in.”

  “Hey, I picked up some scuttlebutt after you left the Sandbar last night,” Grody said.

  “Yeah?”

  “The Candle Beach cops are bringing in the state police to investigate Vinnie’s death,” he said.

  “The state police for a simple drowning? Isn’t that unusual?”

  Grody paused. “Might not be a simple drowning.”

  I shivered. “What?”

  “A buddy of mine works in the county prosecutor’s office. Word through the grapevine is that there’s some physical evidence suggesting his death could be more than an accident.”

  I knew Grody had connections around Ocean County. I figured his information was reliable. “Are you saying…?”

  “Yep. Murder.”

  I clicked off and accepted the new call. “Yo, Dodie. What took you so long?” Jackson asked, irritated.

  “Jackson? I heard some unsettling news—”

  “I need a ride.”

  I had a bad feeling. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the CBPD,” he said and barked a laugh.

  “The what…?” Then I got it. “The police station? Are you being arrested?”

  “What they’re calling a ‘person of interest.’ They’re interested in me.” He chuckled.

  “I know what a person of interest is. Have they interrogated you?” I asked, alarmed.

  “Nah. They’re cool. We’re shooting the breeze.”

  His attitude was giving me a headache. “These cops are not shooting the breeze. They are—”

  “Anyway, can you pick me up?”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Had a run-in with a fire plug. Gon
na be out of commission for a while.”

  Would it never end with Jackson? I agreed to pick him up and deliver him to my place to shower and change. Then I had to get together with Lola at the Candle Diner.

  Forty-five minutes later I cruised through the town of Candle Beach on my way to Varick Street, where the police station was located. I pulled into a parking lot that fronted a single-story, neatly landscaped, light brick building with “Candle Beach Police Department” signage prominently displayed. I left the engine of my red MINI Cooper running as I rapped on the steering wheel impatiently. The front door to the building opened, and I sat up alertly. A young woman exited, crying, clearly distraught. Next, an elderly duo, arm in arm, got out of a car and entered the station. Where was he? I was about to call Jackson’s cell number when he strolled out the door as if he were completely stress-free. I was beginning to think something was drastically wrong with him.

  “Yo, Dodie,” he said and climbed into the passenger seat. “Groovy ride. What happened to the Metro?”

  My Chevy Metro that had been my constant companion for over a hundred thousand miles had died a catastrophic death months ago. But that was another story… My used MC wasn’t my Metro, it hadn’t become a cherished friend yet, but it was comfortable. In a nod to my departed automotive companion, I’d bought another red car.

  I glared at Jackson. “You’re a mess. Where did you spend the night? Not on my front porch.” I put the MC in Reverse and backed out of my space.

  “I crashed at a friend’s pad.”

  “Where?” I asked, suspicious. Why didn’t you crash there the past few nights instead of sleeping on my porch?

  “He’s from years ago.”

  “From your days with Vinnie on the charter?” I veered down Ocean Avenue, gliding to the curb. I shifted into Park.

  “Yep.”

  “I think there are some things I didn’t know about that time. About you and Vinnie,” I said.

  Jackson peered at me. “Why d’ya say that?” He tugged on his earlobe.

  “A hunch. The way you’ve been acting, Vinnie’s death, your grilling by police.”