Just in Time Page 7

  “You? Why?” He asked.

  “I spoke with Ruby during rehearsal the night she died.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Bill said, his voice suddenly abrupt.

  “Well, it wasn’t important until you discovered she was murdered,” I said, possibly a trifle defensive.

  “Sorry. I’d like to know what you talked about,” Bill said softly.

  “Like now? Or later tonight—”

  “Tomorrow morning will be fine.”

  Oh. “You obviously didn’t make it to the tech rehearsal.” More a statement than a question.

  Bill sighed. “Dodie, I have more important things—”

  “I got it,” I said in a rush. Then paused. “Ruby’s death was bad enough for the Bye, Bye, Birdie company. When word gets out that it was murder…”

  “The Etonville Standard has been sniffing around ever since her corpse was loaded into the ambulance.”

  “You know you can’t keep secrets in this town,” I said.

  “I know, but I’ve been thinking. Having the details of her death announced publicly might be a bonus.”

  “Really? I thought it drove you crazy when the Standard jumped the gun and published leaks,” I said.

  “It does, normally. Having the facts out in the open might jog someone’s memory—something someone saw or heard. At a time like this, it’s good to have a town full of nosey people. In fact, we’re going to plaster both Etonville and Creston with flyers about Ruby’s death. We’re asking anyone who has information to come forward,” Bill said.

  “I hope you get a response.”

  “Me too. I’m wiped out. Let’s talk in the morning?” he asked.

  “Sure. I’ll stop by the department before work. Oh, just remembered something. Penny said Ruby had her car serviced in Creston.”

  “Penny said that? How did she know?” Bill asked.

  “She said they talked. They had things in common.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out.” Bill told me to have a good night and clicked off.

  I debated. I needed to get to sleep, but curiosity was gnawing at me. I decided to page through the rest of Ruby’s clippings. I picked up where I’d left off, and skimmed articles that summarized her grade school and high school years: contests, competitions, festivals…all won by Ruby. Prizes and awards had accumulated prodigiously by the time she was seventeen. The clippings hailed Ruby as a wunderkind, phenom, and a sensation!

  There were blank pages in the scrapbook, and then the clipping that blew me away. Ruby received a full scholarship to the Maynard Institute in Manhattan. The article described the prestigious institute and the stingy acceptance rate, the town of Greenburg’s pride in her accomplishment, and the various pieces she’d played during her audition. Finally, there was a quote from the young Ruby. “I am so excited to be studying at the Maynard Institute. It’s a dream come true.”

  The Maynard Institute. Even I—who had little knowledge of the music world—knew about Maynard in New York City. If Ruby were a product of that school, she would have had a career waiting for her. Concerts, tours, and big paydays. I shifted my attention back to the scrapbook and, sure enough, there were clippings, articles, and programs from 1963 to 1969. Ruby had toured the world, giving performances in every major capital. There were photos of her with prime ministers, royalty, and celebrities. She was toasted internationally. I studied the pictures in the newspapers. Ruby, in her twenties, was a beautiful young woman, glowing with success, with the rewards of her efforts, and the adulation of important fans. The scrapbook was probably the product of proud parents living in Indiana—while their daughter Ruby crisscrossed continents.

  I sat back against the sofa pillows and sipped my wine, perplexed. The image conjured up by the clippings didn’t fit the picture of the woman I’d met during the rehearsal process. The two women didn’t appear to be cut from the same cloth. Except for the musical talent. What had happened to that young artist from Indiana who’d blown every competitor out of the water and then created a short-lived career that would be the envy of any musician? Because the career was short-lived. In 1969, the clippings ended. Ruby was about twenty-eight when she stopped playing the piano publicly and dropped out of sight. I found no further mention of touring, concerts, or international recognition of her amazing talent. There was one last clipping. A story dated 1986 about a man, also from Greenburg, Indiana, who had died by his own hand. It didn’t seem to have any connection to Ruby’s stellar career.

  I closed the scrapbook. Something was off. The nape of my neck tingled.

  6

  A loud ringing yanked me out of a weird dream. I’d been wearing a tiara and holding a dozen roses, parading up and down a runway. Was I Miss America? I sat down at a piano to play the talent portion of a competition…it had to be Ruby’s scrapbook invading my unconscious. I grabbed for my alarm, slamming my hand on the snooze button—but the insistent clanging didn’t stop. It was seven thirty. Who needed to speak with me at this hour? I threw back the sheet and crossed to my bureau where I’d plugged my cell into the charger.

  “Hello?” I barked, my voice coming to life.

  “Dodie? You sound funny. Have you seen the Standard?” Lola cried.

  “I’m not awake yet, and no I haven’t.” I already knew what was in it.

  “How did this happen?” she wailed. “Are we ever going to get a production up without there being a murder involved? I am so over all of these deaths.”

  Me too.

  “I got off the phone with Walter a second ago. You know how he gets this close to an opening. The pressure is greater with the Creston Players involved. I hope he manages to hold it together.”

  “Walter needs one of his chill pills,” I said.

  “That’s what I told him. Take a Xanax.”

  “Let’s have coffee. I need to stop by the police department to give them a statement, but we could meet at Coffee Heaven first,” I said.

  “By the way, Chief Thompson left me a voicemail. He needs Penny to set up interviews with the cast and crew,” Lola said.

  “Right. Someone might have spoken with Ruby or heard or seen something. Bill wants to cover all bases,” I said.

  “And everything was going so smoothly,” Lola lamented.

  “Lola, there’s no need to panic. Bill will speak to everyone over the next few days but Bye, Bye, Birdie will go on as scheduled,” I said soothingly, mental fingers crossed.

  Lola said good-bye and agreed to meet in an hour at Coffee Heaven.

  * * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, I sat in a booth at the rear of the diner, hiding behind a copy of the Etonville Standard. The town was, understandably, abuzz. Customers stared at me as if I had something to do with Ruby’s death, either that or they were simply gauging my reaction to her murder, and assuming I would be a part of the investigation. I had to admit I was garnering a local reputation as an amateur sleuth and—

  “Dodie, why’re you buried in the paper?” Jocelyn asked, extending her coffee pot. She refilled my cup.

  “I’m reading about Ruby,” I said.

  “Such a shame.” She squinted at me. “Carbon monoxide. It’s good for plants though.”

  “Uh…no…that’s carbon dioxide,” I corrected her.

  “Are you sure? Because my mother used to keep a pot of English ivy in the front seat of her car. In the event...”

  Huh? Lola slipped into the booth across from me. “I’ll have coffee, too. Thanks.”

  Jocelyn filled an empty cup at Lola’s place setting. “I guess the show will go on?”

  “Of course, it’s what Ruby would have wanted,” Lola said serenely, her inner diva surfacing.

  “Tell Walter I’m gunning for him!” Jocelyn moved off.

  Geez.

  Lola moaned. “I don’t know who I feel worse for: Ruby
…but since she’s passed and we don’t have any family to console that feels a little empty; then there’s the Creston Players, losing one of their company. Alex has to do double duty, but he’s competent and seems to have it all under control; and then there’s our theater and you know how sidetracked they can get. Walter is always on edge lately, or at least ever since Eton Town. Thankfully, Dale is there to support me but—”

  “Lola, pump the brakes! Ease up on yourself. It’s really sad about Ruby. Bill’s probably up to his eyeballs trying to sort out potential suspects and motives. There’s nothing you can do except give Etonville and Creston the show to beat all shows.”

  I fervently hoped that was true.

  Lola smiled slowly. “Thanks, Dodie. I needed some TLC today.” She took a swallow of her coffee. “Did you see what the medical examiner said?”

  “You mean about Ruby’s alcohol level? Yeah. She liked her flask, all right, but it wasn’t over the legal limit. I don’t think she would have passed out from drinking.”

  “Death by asphyxiation.” Lola shivered. “Do you suppose she realized what was happening?”

  “I doubt it. She might have simply fallen asleep.”

  “Who would want to harm an elderly woman who pretty much kept to herself? At least according to Dale,” Lola said.

  “Get this.” I relayed the information from Ruby’s scrapbook and Lola’s reaction mirrored mine.

  “Our Ruby? A world-famous concert pianist?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Yep. Same one.”

  “Hard to visualize her playing for royalty. With that mouth!” Lola said.

  “Ditto,” I said.

  Tucking my jacket around my midsection, I urged Lola to hang in there, finished my coffee, and headed next door to the municipal building. June weather in Jersey—humid and hot one day, cool the next. I stopped in the foyer and checked out the latest additions to Etonville’s ego wall of mementoes and trophies. There was a new photo of the mayor receiving a certificate from the Chamber of Commerce for who knows what.

  Edna trundled down the hall towards me. “Have you heard? Oh my. I can’t imagine…”

  “Hi, Edna. Yes. Very sad. I’m glad Lola is putting something in the program to acknowledge Ruby’s contribution to the show, and her passing.”

  Edna’s face crumpled. “I figured someone was out to get her.”

  That’s what murder meant. “But why? Who?”

  “Well, this is a 10-36…” Edna whispered.

  “A 10—?”

  “Confidential information.” She hesitated. “I was on my headset and I overheard the medical examiner say ‘10-50.’”

  “Edna, you’re going to have to be more specific with your codes.”

  “Influence of drugs.” She walked past me. “Gotta make a coffee run. What’s Henry’s special today?”

  “Gazpacho!”

  “10-4.”

  Drugs? There were drugs in Ruby’s system? Someone was definitely out to get her.

  I’d been so pre-occupied when I entered the building, I hadn’t noticed Bill’s missing police cruiser. Officer Shung greeted me in the outer office, indicating she’d take my statement. Suki was unique—a Buddhist cop—serene, solemn, and usually silent. We’d bonded while pursuing bad guys during the ELT production of Arsenic and Old Lace.

  “The chief said you spoke to the victim the night she died?” Suki tilted her head. Her straight, black hair swished to one side.

  “That’s right. Ruby and I talked a bit before the run-through.”

  “What about?” Suki’s pen was poised above a notepad.

  “Let’s see…how Walter was a ‘horse’s patoot’ and how she thought the co-production was a recipe for disaster, and how she hated the food at the Windjammer. Said it made her sick.”

  Suki coughed and tried to hide a smile. “Anything else? Did she mention anyone connected to the theater?”

  “No.” I paused. “But she did give me relationship advice. About how you can’t trust anyone because you don’t really know them.” I left out her vehement recommendation that I stay single. Suki scrutinized my face. Was she thinking I was thinking about Bill? “Ruby said they’d only get you in the end.”

  “Who would get you?” Suki asked.

  “I have no idea, but she emphasized she spoke from experience.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “She went over to her piano and rehearsal began,” I said.

  “Was that the last time you spoke with her?”

  “Yes, but I did see her leave the stage at intermission,” I added.

  “Oh?”

  “I assumed she was heading to the loading dock. She tended to take smoke breaks back there. She also took drink breaks with the flask she carried,” I said.

  “Yes, the flask.” Suki made notes on her pad, and I waited. “Anything else you can remember?”

  “She said an odd thing as she walked away. ‘It’s not what you know about them. It’s what you don’t know.’ What do you think that means?”

  Suki closed her pad. “It’s hard to tell. Some painful event in her past?”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said.

  Suki’s mouth twitched as if she was holding something back, but all she said was, “Great minds…”

  We locked eyes and laughed.

  “Thanks for coming in, Dodie. I’ll pass this on to the chief. If you remember anything else…”

  “Right.” I reached for my bag. “Oh! I nearly forgot!”

  “What?” Her cop face all business.

  “I saw her for about ten seconds at the end of intermission too. I was in the lobby getting ready to leave and she popped in looking for her bag. It wasn’t in the lobby, so she went back into the theater.” I stopped.

  Suki studied me. “What? Something else?”

  “Well…I remember thinking: How could she have lost her purse that fast?”

  * * * *

  Georgette from Georgette’s Bakery—supplier of the Windjammer’s desserts—was hosting her cousin Rebecca from England last month when the food contest got underway. Georgette insisted on entering Rebecca’s favorite recipe, and I insisted that we needed to be good citizens by supporting her entry. Henry reluctantly agreed. The result: steak and ale pie was on the menu tonight. I’d never had it, and neither had Henry, but the Windjammer could always do with a dose of international cuisine.

  “Hey, Benny,” I said as I hung my jacket on a coat hook by the restaurant’s entrance. I placed my bag on a barstool.

  “The excitement never ends,” he said, and pointed to a copy of the Etonville Standard.

  “I know.”

  “Sounds pretty mysterious. Older woman dying in her car by the side of the road—no clues or witnesses. The chief has his work cut out for him.”

  “The Creston police are also involved,” I said.

  “Oh yeah. I keep forgetting you have the inside track when it comes to the Etonville PD,” Benny said.

  I swatted him playfully with the newspaper. “Wise guy.” I could feel heat creeping up my cheeks.

  “Cheney Brothers called to say they’re delivering the snack boxes in the morning. Should be a wine delivery then also.”

  “I ordered extra cases of white and red, and I’m taking Wilson to the park tonight so he can get the lay of the land and check out the concession stand.” I glanced at the kitchen doors. “Kind of quiet in there.”

  “When I got here, Henry and Wilson were already wrestling with the steak and ale pie. It was the pastry part they were…discussing,” Benny said. I could hear the air quotes.

  “Morning guys,” I said as I entered the kitchen. “What’s cooking?” Wilson and Henry, bent over a scrap of paper, looked up. Wilson broke out in a grin and Henry, per usual, glared. What now? “Smelling good in here.”
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  “Do-dee, we are having our heads together over ze steak pie.” He looked at Henry.

  “And ale. Don’t forget the ale,” I said cheerfully.

  Henry regarded the case of Guinness on the center island as if there weren’t enough bottles in the universe to compensate for his having to create the winning dish with Wilson as sous chef. “Maybe you should work on the gazpacho,” he said to Wilson who immediately waltzed to the side counter where he blended chopped parsley and basil to add to the pot of tomatoes, cucumbers, bell peppers, and onions.

  Wilson hummed as he worked.

  “I don’t get it,” Henry mumbled. “What’s with that guy?”

  “It’s called a good mood, Henry. You should try it some time,” I said sweetly and headed to the freezer to do a seafood inventory for the weekend. We would serve our last winning entrée Saturday night.

  I felt arms around my waist and a familiar tug as Wilson lifted me up, catching me off guard. “Do-dee, I am so happy to go to ze park for ze show tonight!”

  He swung me in a semi-circle, my flexed feet clipping the shelf that held the herbs and spices. Jars and containers tumbled to the floor followed by a piece of the wooden shelving. The crash no doubt sounded catastrophic. Henry and Benny were at the door of the pantry.

  “Wilson, down!” I landed on the floor, kneeling, while Wilson ended up in the midst of the condiments.

  “What the—” Henry’s eyes popped.

  “All good, here. Not to worry!” I said.

  Benny stifled a grin. I’d speak to him later.

  Wilson apologized, and I assured him there was no real harm done. I suggested that he return to the gazpacho while I cleaned up the messy pantry. There had to be a way to channel Wilson’s passion for life.

  * * * *

  The gazpacho was a hit even though I had to explain to the Banger sisters that cold soup was a staple of a Mediterranean diet. “It’s a Spanish dish—”

  “Andalusian, to be specific,” said Vernon, as he and Mildred sat down at a table next to the sisters.