Killing Time Read online

  I smoothed my beige sweater, dabbed at my lipstick. My eyes fell on the medicine cabinet. Habit stopped me in my tracks. Ever since I’d begun my investigative journey, I’d paid special attention to personal choices. Bathrooms were a prime information-gathering location. For example, what kinds of prescriptions did they have, what toiletries did they use, what did they stash away behind the bottles and jars? This was a guest bathroom, I presumed, so its contents might be less enlightening. I flipped open the mirror and examined the shelves. Sure enough, very little of interest. A tube of toothpaste, minty, with whitening added. A bottle of generic aspirin. A package of throat lozenges. I shut the cabinet and went into the hall. To my right was the staircase leading to the foyer. To my left, the hallway extended for a bit. One door on this side, two doors on the opposite one. One of them was ajar.

  I hesitated. I’d offered to speak with Carlos to find out what I could about his background. Something that would explain his behavior Halloween night, his exchange with the Grim Reaper. So far, I was batting zero. I glanced up and down the hallway. Laughter and yakking from below drifted up the stairs.

  Three doors. I was tempted to stick my head in each room, determine which one belonged to Carlos, do a quick inspection, and beat it back down to the party. As Pauli would say, piece of cake, though that felt like trespassing. However, if a door was already open…

  I tiptoed across the hall. Penny had said the bathroom was at the top of the stairs. She’d neglected to mention which side of the hall. I could just as easily have thought this room was the loo and walked in. Besides, the door was partially open.

  Satisfied with my rationale, I peeked into the room. Ambient light from the hall sconces threw a shaft of illumination onto a dark carpet. From what I could see without switching on a light—no way was I going to warn anyone outside the house that I was roaming around—the room was simply furnished. A four-poster bed, nightstands, a bureau with a mirror and antique washbasin, an easy chair by a floor lamp next to the window. Nothing in the bedroom that indicated it was occupied by a member of the household. It had to be a guest room.

  I eased back into the hallway, leaving the door ajar again. I wavered. Should I check the other rooms? Was I pushing my luck? I tiptoed to the door on my right. It was locked. Lots of reasons hosts would lock doors when a group of almost-strangers traipsed through their home. Two doors done, one to go. I padded quickly across the hallway to the third room. It was unlocked, the door shut. Might as well complete the job. After another glance down the hallway I twisted the handle, nudged it open, and stepped in. A glow of rosy light from a table lamp was warm and welcoming. Larger than the guest room, it held a king-size bed, a clothes closet in addition to a large chest of drawers, a desk and chair in one corner, and a chaise longue in another. A plaid quilt in earth tones with brown throw pillows on the bed, a hairbrush and pins on the bureau, a shawl laying casually on the chaise next to an open book, and a desk with a few papers on it. Though the guest bedroom felt somewhat sterile, this bedroom suggested personality, a human touch. People actually slept here.

  Everything was normal, not paranormal. I quickly examined the desktop—issues of the Etonville Standard, a Dracula rehearsal schedule, and a Chinese takeout menu from Bernridge. Quite a distance for delivery… That was it. Curiously, there was no mail, nothing with the Villariases’ address on it. Still, I had a squirrelly feeling. There must be something in this room that provided a clue to their lives. I noticed a wastebasket half hidden by the desk. It held a circular advertising appliances from a Creston department store and a flyer publicizing Etonville’s Halloween party. On the carpet next to it was a crumpled piece of paper. Someone had missed the wastebasket. I picked it up.

  Footsteps moved down the hallway. I panicked. There was nowhere to hide. I jammed the paper into my bag and sprinted across the room to a spot behind the door. Maybe the person was looking for the bathroom? What if it was Carlos or Bella? My mind went on overdrive, rummaging around for an explanation for my presence here. Somebody paused outside the bedroom, I closed my eyes, as if that would prevent whoever from seeing me. The door slowly opened, light from the hallway leaking in.

  “Dodie?”

  I recoiled. “Arrgh!”

  “Ssh!” Lola hissed.

  “Ssh!” I hissed back, and pulled her into the room, shutting the door.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Looking for something about Carlos. What are you doing here?”

  “I was walking up the stairs to the ladies’ room when I saw you come in here. Did you find anything?” she asked, breathless.

  “Only a piece of paper on the floor. Let’s go.” We stepped to the door, listening, then opening it carefully and checking the hallway. We hurried down the stairs. I tried to look composed.

  “There you are,” said Carlos as he spied us descending the staircase. He regarded us quizzically. “I thought maybe you’d left.” He addressed both of us, but his eyes were fixed on me.

  “In the bathroom. Then Lola came up and we got to gabbing.” I smiled at Lola, silently requesting confirmation.

  “That’s us. Gabbing, gabbing.” She laughed and glanced behind her. “The fun has moved into the dining room.”

  Carlos followed her gaze. “Bella is doing tarot. I think you’d like to have a go at it,” he said to me.

  I would? “I’ve got to get home.”

  He persuasively wound an arm around my shoulders. “A quick look. Come.”

  He was smooth as a baby’s bottom, my great-aunt Maureen might have said.

  “Okay,” I said weakly, sliding my eyes in Lola’s direction. She shrugged helplessly.

  I joined the group gathered around the table where Bella and Walter were seated, food having been transferred to the sideboard, squeezing in next to Pauli and Janice.

  “Hi, Dodie,” said Janice, her eyes wide. “Walter is having his fortune told.”

  Pauli snorted lightly. “Like yeah.”

  Bella shuffled a deck of cards, explaining that there were four suits, much like playing cards: wands, swords, cups, and pentacles. She added in a little history, how the tarot originated as a gaming deck and only later came to be used for divination. She asked Walter to shuffle the cards, think about a subject or issue, and divide the cards into three piles. Which she designated as past, present, and future.

  Abby looked skeptical, Romeo smirked, and Edna eyed the proceedings eagerly. Vernon fingered his hearing aids. As Bella turned cards over and remarked on his love life, noting relationship problems in the past, movement toward new romantic endeavors in the present—possibly Jocelyn?—she warned him about a future card that hinted at a less-than-sincere interest in a new partner. Meaning he was out to take advantage of someone, Bella added. Walter appeared dismayed, the rest of the cast snickering.

  I’d had enough of the Hanratty house and the Villariases’ gathering. I said a quick goodbye to Carlos, who stood off to the side, taking in both Bella’s reading and the reactions of the ELT members. Then stole to the front door. As I pulled it open from the inside, someone pushed it from the outside.

  It was Gabriel. “Sorry! You okay?”

  “No problem. You’re in time for the tarot reading.”

  “Not what I need. Someone telling me about my future.” He laughed good-naturedly. “I’ve got enough trouble with my present.”

  I zeroed in on his argument with Carlos the night of the dress rehearsal. What was the nature of their relationship now? “I know what you mean.”

  “I hope there’s some food left,” he said.

  “A bit.”

  “Have a good night.”

  “You too. By the way, Penny told me you found the missing stake.”

  “Good thing. It would have been a pain to replace it this late.” Gabriel took off his jacket.

  “How did it get stuck under those cables
?” I asked.

  Gabriel shrugged. “Not a clue. I had to poke around and dig it out.”

  “Like it got shoved in there?”

  “I guess.”

  “You must be a little psychic. Knowing where to search,” I said lightly.

  He studied me coolly. “Not really. I scoured the entire backstage area. Along with everyone else.”

  Penny hadn’t mentioned that. “You’re doing a nice job with the role.”

  He brightened. “Thanks. Renfield’s a challenge.”

  “The ELT’s lucky to have you in the show. Congratulations on the opening.”

  He walked to the dining room, where Walter poured himself a glass of whiskey, a consolation prize, while the skeptical Abby sat down to the hoots and hollers of the cast.

  I stood on the front porch. The night air was bracing, clearing my head, filling my lungs. Without streetlights on this patch of road, the slice of moon provided the only illumination. The branches of the trees scattered throughout the yard pointed every which way like bony fingers, reaching out. A breeze whipped up a pile of dead leaves sending them spiraling into the air. November had arrived.

  I hurried to my car, slightly creeped out by the shadows and silence. My cell pinged. I jumped into my MC, slapped the door locks, and read Bill’s text: where are you? coming home?

  You bet.

  7

  Tossing and turning at night should be considered exercise, given how little I’d slept during the past eight hours. Exercise reminded me that I needed to think about fitting into a wedding dress. My great-aunt Maureen’s retort, whenever the subject of exercise reared its ugly head, came to mind: rabbits jump and they live eight years, dogs run and they live fifteen years, turtles do nothing and they live one hundred fifty years. I rest my case, she’d say.

  Sitting at the island in Bill’s kitchen, I toyed with my tomato, asparagus, and goat cheese omelet. Usually I loved Bill’s epicurean breakfast delights. He loved experimenting with ingredients, sauces, and spices.

  “You’re not hungry?” he asked and swallowed another forkful of his egg concoction. “Or you don’t like the omelet?”

  I took a sip of coffee. “Love the omelet. Delicious.” I scooped up a mouthful. “Ummm.”

  Bill was not easily misled. “What’s up? Sorry we didn’t talk last night. I was exhausted. Could barely get words out of my mouth by the time I got home.”

  “You had to be worn out.”

  “You got that right.” He finished his eggs.

  I knew I had to tread lightly this morning. “Making progress?”

  “Not much. Haven’t ID’d the victim yet. Waiting for the prelim from the coroner.”

  “Any witnesses other than the kids?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Penny told me they found the missing stake from the Dracula production,” I said nonchalantly. “It was backstage, hidden under cables.”

  “Missing stake?” Bill asked, perplexed.

  “You know, the one they ram through Dracula’s heart to kill him once and for all?”

  “Oh, right.”

  Bill hadn’t seen the show yet, but surely he knew the mythology surrounding the life and death of vampires. Come to think of it, he hadn’t eaten a garlic-themed dinner at the Windjammer yet either… “I thought maybe the stake from the show was the same one the killer used to murder the man in the cemetery,” I said a little more energetically than I’d intended. I focused on my English muffin.

  “Dodie, what’s going on in that mind of yours? Your imagination running wild again?” he teased, though his words were tinged with a sober edge. “I thought you weren’t going to get mixed up in any more investigations.”

  “I’m not. I figured you should know, that’s all. I don’t suppose you have any persons of interest?”

  Bill rose from his stool and put his arms around my waist. “Here’s what you’d like to know. No witnesses, no ID, no persons of interest. Time of death between eleven p.m. and one a.m.”

  Which I already knew, thanks to Edna’s indiscretion.

  “And no stake from the show. It was a metal spike about a foot long. But…and here’s the weird part, and the thing you need to keep under your hat. ’Course, the Standard will get wind of this in the next twenty-four hours and plaster it all over town,” he grumbled.

  “Yeah?”

  “The vic didn’t die from the stake. It was shoved into his chest, but there was only a superficial scratch. The point never broke the skin. The guy’s costume protected him.”

  “He wasn’t stabbed to death?”

  “Nope.”

  “How did he die?” I asked.

  “To be determined after the autopsy is completed.”

  I speared a piece of tomato. “The stake was…for what…show?”

  “Possibly.” Bill planted a kiss on the top of my head and carried his plate to the dishwasher.

  “Why would someone do that?” I asked, incredulous.

  Bill shook his head. “Why would someone kill a man in a Grim Reaper costume in the cemetery on Halloween night?”

  Good point. “Could the kids have planted the stake? You know, a Dracula thing?”

  “Possibly. We’ll see.”

  We agreed to meet up for dinner at the Windjammer, where Henry was featuring garlic-roasted prime rib. I knew it would be scrumptious, a crowd-pleaser. That is, if the crowd hadn’t tired of garlic. Afterward, I planned to take a night off from Dracula and kick back at home with my own idea of entertainment…Yowza!

  My cell pinged: a text from Lola suggesting we meet at Coffee Heaven before I went to work. It was strangely cryptic. I showered and slipped into my skinny black jeans and a red sweater—my power color. I required a jolt of energy to get into the day.

  I arrived at Coffee Heaven before Lola and headed straight to a booth in the back, pretending to concentrate on today’s Etonville Standard, avoiding eye contact with other patrons. On days like this, when Etonville was humming with murder innuendo and everyone assumed I had an inside track on the investigation—which I did—the only safe course was to play dumb.

  “Hi, Dodie!” A woman fluttered her fingers at me. “Any news?”

  Heads swiveled to face me.

  “Morning,” I said pleasantly and shook my head.

  “Too bad.”

  Jocelyn appeared at my side with a coffeepot. “Now you all let Dodie alone. Go on. Back to your own business.” She motioned to the woman, who was a trifle put out, then ducked her head until we were nose to nose. “Any news?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Heard the cast had a party at the Hanratty place.” Jocelyn arched an eyebrow. “Fortune-telling.”

  “Bella brought out the tarot cards. It’s only a parlor game,” I said.

  “Also heard that Walter might be involved in a new ‘romantic endeavor’ in his present,” she said archly. “I could have told him that without those funny cards.”

  Poor Walter.

  “Hi, Jocelyn.” Lola huffed as she plopped into the seat opposite me. “I’ll have two eggs over easy, dry wheat toast, black coffee.” She intended to get down to business.

  “I ate breakfast already,” I said. “So—”

  “Cinnamon bun and caramel macchiato.” Jocelyn wrote up our order. “Extra icing.”

  I had to seriously think about getting into a wedding dress one of these days. Maybe I should consider Penny’s diet—

  “I am at my wit’s end,” Lola moaned.

  “What now? The show’s a hit, the house was full, the review is terrific.” I pointed to the newspaper. I’d read the first and last paragraphs. Enough to know that the Standard critic had generally given the show a positive evaluation.

  “It’s not Dracula. Or at least not completely. Walter was so distraught after Bella’s tarot card rea
ding…”

  “I saw him down a glass of booze as I left.” I chuckled.

  “That was last night. This morning he called me at seven a.m. obsessing about his future.”

  “You mean him taking advantage of a new love interest?”

  “Yes! He’s afraid he’s going to offend someone…”

  That particular horse was out of the barn.

  “So he’s decided he has to resign from the theater.”

  “What!” I exclaimed.

  “As soon as Dracula closes,” Lola said.

  “The Etonville Little Theatre has been his life for over twenty-five years.” Walter was a real estate agent in Creston, but he spent most of his time in Etonville. “What’s he bothered about? His real love interest is the ELT.”

  “I agree. This reading really has him spooked.” Lola twisted a strand of hair. “I had a funny feeling about those tarot cards.”

  “Lola, first it was Carlos, then the theater was haunted, and now it’s tarot cards. I think you might be the one getting spooked,” I said gently.

  Jocelyn delivered our food and we dove in.

  “I got so distracted by Walter that I forgot to ask if you got any information out of Carlos last night.” Lola bit into her toast. “Anything about his background or the Grim Reaper?”

  “No. I tried a few different angles. Carlos sidestepped every question about work, his previous theater experience, even the Grim Reaper. He said he hadn’t seen anyone dressed like that.”

  Which I knew wasn’t true—I’d witnessed the Reaper and the Phantom exchanging stares.

  “He said that?” Lola’s brow puckered. “Could it have been so dark that night that he didn’t notice the costume?”

  I savored the last of my cinnamon bun, licking icing off my thumb. “You were farther away and you noticed the costume. Anyway, the skull mask was a dead giveaway. No pun intended.”

  Lola nodded. “What was the piece of paper you took from the Villariases’?”

  I gawked at her dumbly. I’d stuffed the sheet in my bag and totally forgotten about it until now, other concerns jostling one another for my attention. “No idea.” I dug it out and smoothed the crumpled paper on the table between us. It was a page from a newspaper—the Daily Herald. Dated July 23. A little over three months ago. Lola and I scanned the news, which focused on local issues, articles about a parks and recreation scandal in a nearby town, a police action against a drunk driver and a purse snatcher, and a story on a shooting victim who had been identified.