Just in Time Page 6

  * * * *

  I held my breath during the dinner rush, as patrons sampled the contest winner supplied by the minister from the Episcopal Church. How adventurous were the town’s appetites this evening? Henry and I had already sampled the entrée and it was scrumptious. It was also pretty. Curry paste topped the crispy rings of squash that outlined the baked eggs. The tomato/cucumber/shallot salad was a perfect compliment. I circulated around the dining room, calculating when I’d need to leave the restaurant to get to the park.

  “Dodie, this is unusual,” said a customer, spearing a chunk of squash.

  Uh-oh.

  “But absolutely yummy.”

  “Thanks,” I said, my spirits lifting.

  From a table off to my left, someone gave me the ok sign, and I could see a handful of customers at a booth smiling affirmatively. This contest had been another of my “big ideas” according to Henry, and if it bombed, I wouldn’t hear the end of it. So far, we were batting a thousand with the potato skins and squash; two down and two entrées to go.

  “This isn’t bad,” said Abby, who was catching dinner before the tech rehearsal. “I’m used to having my eggs for breakfast, but what the hay. When in Rome…”

  What put Abby in such a good mood? “Nice to hear. All set for this evening?” I asked.

  “Yep.” She tilted her upper body toward me, confidentially. “No one’s supposed to know, but I’ll probably win the best featured actress award,” she whispered.

  “Lola mentioned that the ELT was having a year-end banquet and giving out acting honors.”

  “Think I’ve got this one sewed up.” She scowled. “Closest competition is Edna, but she’s pretty green and the ELT likes to reward veterans.”

  Abby and Edna had been in competition for over a year now.

  “Good luck with the opening.”

  “Normally I’d say ‘we need it’ but I’m feeling confident about this one.” She swiped at her mouth and pulled out her wallet.

  Wait until the news about Ruby’s killing erupted.

  I manned the cash register—graciously accepting kudos for the curried squash—and made a brief stop in the kitchen before heading to the park.

  “Looks like we have a winner again tonight,” I said to Henry. He grunted his pleasure, never one to wallow in his own success. “This contest might get us to four stars in the Etonville Standard.” The town’s local newspaper prided itself on its gastronomic sophistication.

  “Do-dee, I am so happy about ze squash I make Haitian voodoo sticks tomorrow,” Wilson said.

  I squinted at Henry. “Voodoo sticks?”

  Wilson let out a cackle. “I fooled you! It’s beef on a skewer.”

  Henry grunted again. Time to take off.

  I grabbed my bag from the back booth and waved good-bye to Benny. “Thanks for holding down the fort tonight.”

  “It was either this or paint the bathroom.”

  “Definitely the better choice,” I said.

  “Hey, tell them all I said to break their legs with the show,” Benny said. “I hear they’re killing it.”

  Right.

  5

  The night was going to be warm. The Etonville Public Works Department, as well as the Etonville Little Theatre and the Creston Players, had done a terrific job of transforming the park into an outdoor performance venue. The town crew set up ten rows of folding chairs that ran from the base of the stage to the beginning of a grassy slope, where the audience could picnic and then remain to watch the show. Or they could settle into one of the folding chairs. Behind the seating area, a table served as a temporary box office. Tickets were twenty dollars for adults and fifteen dollars for senior citizens, students, and folks who were willing to subscribe to the entire ELT season.

  A portable refreshment stand was off to the side—the town trotted it out for other events in the park: movie night, softball games, and Sunday soccer tournaments. Meanwhile, JC erected portable dressing rooms offstage, and—with the addition of curtains and black flats—the crew created wing space for actors’ entrances and exits.

  “Yep, looks like a real theater,” Penny said, knocking her clipboard against her leg.

  In my head again. “I can’t believe this co-production is really happening without too many glitches.” I walked to the inside of the compact concession booth to check out the shelves and bar space.

  Penny shrugged. “If you don’t count Ruby. You gotta know what you’re doing when it comes to carbon dioxide, O’Dell,” Penny said importantly.

  “You mean carbon monoxide?”

  “Whatever. You can’t fool around when it comes to maintaining a car. I should know. I change my own oil and spark plugs,” she said.

  “I’m impressed but I can’t imagine Ruby working on her car, can you?”

  Penny smirked. “Didn’t need to. She had a garage she went to in Creston.”

  My cardio drumbeat picked up its pace. “She did? How do you know?”

  Penny pushed her glasses a notch up her nose. “She told me. I was about the only person from Etonville she talked to. We had stuff in common.”

  I hated to go there. “Like what?”

  “We never slept.”

  “Ruby was an insomniac?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Did she talk about recent work on her car?”

  “O’Dell, what are you getting at?” Penny squinched up her face. “Some mechanic screwed up and…” The thought astounded Penny and her eyes grew round. “That’s why I do my own tune-ups,” she muttered.

  Walter waved to her from the stage. He was demonstrating a dance step to Vernon and Abby, who good-naturedly listened and then repeated his instructions. Penny tooted two sharp blasts on her whistle. The sound echoed around this end of the park before it drifted off into the summer night air.

  “About time to start the tech?” I asked, checking my watch. It was scheduled to begin thirty minutes ago.

  “O’Dell, I thought you had it straight. Tech time in the theater is—”

  “Always later than life time. So in real time it’s eight but in tech time it’s seven thirty,” I said. “Got it.”

  Penny pulled herself up to her full five foot two inches. “O’Dell, are you putting me on?”

  “Who me? Never!”

  Penny strode authoritatively to the platform stage where actors were gathering while Walter gesticulated wildly at JC, pointing at the light poles. In front of the stage, Lola and Dale stood by the makeshift orchestra pit, conferring. When she spotted me behind the portable refreshment stand, she hurried over.

  “Hey girlfriend. All set?” I asked more casually than I felt. Keeping Ruby’s murder a secret, especially from Lola, felt like having my mouth muzzled.

  “Alex has been so great about stepping in for Ruby—and having her gone has forced everyone else to step up a bit too. Any word on the cue sheet?” Lola asked.

  “It wasn’t in the car or in her purse.”

  Walter and Penny lined up the high school kids to rehearse the telephone number.

  “At least Walter’s in a better mood. He seems to be accepting the fact that Dale and I are a couple on and off the stage.” Lola dashed off.

  I was happy for her. Lola deserved a healthy relationship, but I wasn’t so sure Walter felt the same way. I’d observed him during rehearsals sneaking peeks at Lola when Dale occupied her attention. Too bad we couldn’t get Jocelyn out here to divert his attention—

  “Hey, Dodie.”

  “Hi, Pauli,” I said. “No camera tonight?”

  “Like, it’s too crazy to get good shots during tech.” Pauli was also getting down with theater lingo. “They don’t have costumes tonight.”

  In the makeshift pit where the band was warming up, Janice and Alex apparently conferred about one of her numbers.

&nbs
p; Pauli watched the young woman. “So any word on the Janice front?” I asked carefully. I figured Pauli’s teenage ego was rather fragile.

  “Nah,” he said and jammed his fists into his jeans pockets. “She doesn’t know I exist.”

  “You know, you could make a point of taking photos of her tomorrow night. Say they’re for the Etonville Standard. Some solo pictures? She’d have to notice you then.”

  “Like, that’s a good idea.” Pauli perked up, but only for a moment. The athlete actor from Creston bounded off the stage and sidled up to Janice, draping a friendly arm around her shoulders. Oops…

  Pauli slouched into a folding chair, arms dangling by his sides, until his spine was nearly parallel to the ground, his mop of brown hair flopping over his forehead. “Major fail.”

  Time to change the subject. I found the Windjammer website on my cell phone. “Henry would like some website updates: a photo of Wilson and a blurb about him, announcement of the food contest winners, possibly some shots of our summer menu.” Pauli had been efficient about keeping the restaurant’s Internet presence up-to-date. He’d done a nice job with interior shots of the dining room that featured the nautical-themed décor, based on a nineteenth-century whaling vessel complete with central beams, floor planking, and figurehead of a woman’s bust above the entrance.

  Pauli mumbled something. I think it was “ok.” It was going to be tough getting him to snap out of it.

  I settled into a folding chair too. As Penny called the first cues, the lights dimmed and actors moved into place. Penny called “Hold” every couple of minutes as Walter, JC, and the lighting designer conferred, made changes, and then soldiered on. Alex played musical cues over and over. I guessed the process would have been easier with Ruby’s cue sheet on hand, but I had to say Alex was very efficient. He knew the show well. I sat through ELT tech rehearsals before. It was a slog, a herky-jerky stop-and-go, as the technical staff adjusted light levels and coverage. At least this time, the crew did not have to contend with a stubborn turntable—but that was another story…

  I swatted away a pesky mosquito, berating myself for having left the bug spray at home. Though the Etonville Public Works Department had sprayed the stage and seating areas, the nighttime critters were persistent. I hoped the audience would come prepared. Maybe we should sell some at the concession stand? JC, thoughtfully, hung a bug zapper near the stage to keep the mosquitoes out of the mouths of the singing actors. As I mulled over stocking refreshments, my mind hopscotched from one idea to another: Ruby was murdered; the Bye, Bye, Birdie cast and crew might be persons of interest; she had her car serviced at a station in Creston; her apartment was a puzzle. I wanted to look at her scrapbook before I handed it over to Bill.

  Penny yelled “Hold.” The actors were getting antsy—talking, checking cell phones, dancing around. The crew relaxed on the stage floor. I scanned the group of actors. I recognized the ELT bunch: Lola, Abby, Romeo, the Banger sisters, Vernon, Mildred, Edna, Imogen, Bill of course, who might not appear until the end of Act Two, if he came at all, and a few others in the chorus. I was getting to know the Creston folks as well: Dale, Janice, the athlete actor, some of the kids from Creston High. What about the crew? Walter? JC? Alex? Who among them would have a reason for killing off the musical’s piano accompanist? Opportunity was one thing, but motive? I was enough of a mystery novel aficionado to understand that the perp didn’t commit a crime out of thin air. There had to be cause. This particular murder wasn’t a crime of passion, executed spur of the moment: This one required planning. Forethought. True to my promise to Bill, I would keep my eyes open, ear to the ground, for any scuttlebutt about Ruby’s life, conflicts with Creston Players—

  “Penny!” Walter shouted. “I need the ensemble for ‘We Love You Conrad.’ Where are they?”

  Everything stopped on the stage as Walter ran from Alex to JC and back to Alex, waving his arms in a frenzy.

  “I’m on it!” Penny roared, “Ensemble on stage for ‘We Love You Conrad’.”

  “I can do that, Penny!” Walter bellowed. “I need you to round them up. Some of those kids were hanging around the trees.” He pointed offstage—right to a stand of red oak trees where the teenage cast of Bye, Bye, Birdie had gathered between scenes.

  Penny hauled herself out of the makeshift lighting booth and trucked backstage, clipboard in hand, her whistle preceding her. Soon, a trickle of kids emerged from the wings, laughing, mugging, and improvising dance steps. I noticed Janice and her partner arm-in-arm. Pauli must have noticed too. He pulled himself erect, grabbed his backpack, and marched off without a word.

  Romeo strutted up the stairs to the stage, decked out in his gold lamé pants. Was he never going to take them off?

  “Alex, JC, let’s take it from the top,” Walter said, outwardly calm. Inside, he was probably a hot mess.

  “Hold!” Penny shouted as she scrambled to her stage manager’s desk. “Take it from the top of the scene.”

  “Lola, dear, could I speak with you?”

  Walter and I had our differences over the last months, mostly because I found myself entangled with more than one ELT murder mystery, which didn’t always put him in the best light. While I had to acknowledge his talent, his ego needed trimming from time to time. He put a possessive hand on Lola’s arm to ask her opinion on some matter or other. I could tell she had her “Oh brother” expression ready.

  * * * *

  The cast and crew persisted for another hour, stopping, starting, goofing around, Walter reprimanding them, Penny yelling directions, Lola frazzled, Dale solicitous. Through it all, Alex and JC were patient, even-tempered, and focused. I intended to stay until the end of Act One; by then, I’d be bored to tears. I had the information I needed on the refreshment stand, and my butt was weary. I contemplated a glass of chardonnay and Ruby’s scrapbook. Never mind that Bill might or might not show up for the end of Act Two…his mind would be elsewhere—definitely not on me tonight. The tech rehearsal had been in process for two hours and they were only two thirds of the way through Act One. I eased my way to the front of the folding chairs where Lola sat with Dale.

  I knelt by her side. “Lola,” I murmured. She was biting a lip and picking nervously at a fingernail. Every ELT production that I’d witnessed had been a source of angst for Lola; why should the musical be any different? Even if it was a co-pro?

  “Hi Dodie. We’re moving along…slowly.” She grimaced.

  “Not too bad,” I said. They had hours to go. I motioned that I was cutting out, gave her a good luck sign, and stole away.

  * * * *

  As I drove away from the Etonville Park, past the municipal building where lights burned and Bill worked, I wondered about Ruby’s route from the theater to the road where they found her car. She’d parked it on the eastbound access road, facing the opposite direction from Creston. Why was she heading east instead of west? Of course, her killer might have moved the car. Was it possible the murder occurred elsewhere, and then the killer drove her car to the location? I wound down the window to get a full blast of the evening air. It was ten thirty when I pulled into my driveway. I hated to think how much longer the cast and crew of Bye, Bye, Birdie would be held captive at the technical rehearsal. As Penny has said often enough…that’s show biz.

  At home, I exchanged jeans for sweats, fortified myself with a glass of wine and some leftover couscous I liberated from the Windjammer freezer, and hunkered down on the sofa with Ruby’s scrapbook. I lifted the book and inhaled the musty scent of old paper. On the flyleaf, besides Ruby’s name centered prominently, was an address in the lower right-hand corner—written in tiny, cramped letters and numbers. Greenburg, Indiana—that explained the outdated phone book in her apartment. I flipped open to the first page, and immediately realized this was no typical scrapbook. There were clippings, but it was a photo album as well. The first pages were full of black and white snapshots of a
young couple, probably from the nineteen forties, holding hands on a porch swing, sitting on the steps of a modest brick house, playing croquet in a backyard. There was a wedding photo dated 1941. The young man in the photo was wearing a uniform: World War II. I judged Ruby to be mid-seventies, so a picture of the twosome with an infant that had 1942 written beneath it made sense.

  I turned pages until I reached the first clippings. HOME FROM THE WAR was the headline of a yellowed newspaper article. A group of uniformed men stood casually in front of a military vehicle, smoking, and shading their eyes as if squinting into the sun. Under the picture, the article listed one of the men as Edward Passonata—Ruby’s father. Next to that clipping was another featuring the contestants of the 1948 Marion County fair bake-off. One contestant was April Passonata—Ruby’s mother. I skimmed a handful of other clippings that focused on town news and then I saw what I was looking for—information on Ruby’s life. The last clipping on the page showed Ruby Passonata, aged six, seated at a piano. The headline was CHILD PRODIGY PLAYS WINNING CONCERTO. Little Ruby had won a contest at a music school in Indianapolis. She was a musical genius.

  A ping from my cell phone interrupted my reverie. It was Bill: Are you home? I texted back that I was and, seconds later, my phone rang.

  “Hi,” I said. “Working late?”

  “Trying to get caught up with paperwork. And coordinating with the Creston PD.”

  Of course they would be involved in Ruby’s murder investigation; she was a citizen of their city.

  “Any news?” I asked casually.

  “Not yet. How did the rehearsal go this evening?”

  “Still in progress when I left,” I said.

  “I hate to throw a curve ball into the production, but we’re going to need to question the cast and crew. They were probably the last ones to see her alive.”

  “Except for the killer,” I said.

  “True. I’ll contact Walter and have Penny organize it,” Bill said.

  Penny helped coordinate previous interviews for murder investigations. She fancied herself the ELT production maven and loved strutting around acting important. “I suppose that will include me.”