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I
overslept, unusual for me, and awoke groggy, one eye slit open sufficiently to read my alarm: eight-thirty. My sinuses felt stuffed and my throat scratchy. I burrowed back under the covers and refused to face the day. I was feeling emotionally hungover after the library break-in—thrilled to discover MR, but disheartened about the missing pieces in the whole investigation. I couldn't shake the idea that Mary Robinson held the key to it all. I sneezed.

On days like this, I tended to force my way upright with the promise of a caramel macchiato, or maybe fresh pastries from Georgette's Bakery. But neither was enticing me to hit the shower this morning. I stared at the ceiling and noticed the thread of a crack that ran diagonally from one corner of the room to another.
I need to contact my landlord
, I thought and—

The audible vibration of my cell phone, still plugged into its charger on the bureau, got me up and I grabbed it.

“Hello?” I rasped.

“Dodie, are you all right?” Carol, at least, was hard at work, given the racket in the background.

“I might be getting a cold.”

“From last night? We heard about the library break-in. You must have been terrified.”

“Well, Lola and I weren't really in danger—”

“You saw his face, right?”

“I—what? No, I—”

“Annie Walsh said he was over six feet tall—”

“She what?”

“—and had a bushy beard—”

“Carol, stop!”

“What's wrong?”

I closed my eyes. I could not face Etonville today. Not Snippets, not the Windjammer, and certainly not the Etonville Little Theatre where
Romeo and Juliet
was being thrashed into life.

“Nothing. It's all rumors. It was too dark to see anything. No one knows anything at this point.”

“I should have known. Annie does have a tendency to exaggerate.”

“I'm just going to take it easy today. Maybe I'll call in sick,” I said.

“That sounds like a good idea. Drink some orange juice and pop a few echinacea tabs. Do you need some?”

“No, thanks.”

“I'll let you go then.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling.” I was grouchy but also grateful. I had good friends who checked in on me. “By the way, did you know Mary Robinson? She used to work at the library.”

“Sure. Quiet, reserved, a bit old-fashioned. I remember cutting her hair on occasion. Always the same cut. No color. But the last time she came in she said she wanted a new look. Something younger. She never came back. I hope she finds another good salon in Poughkeepsie.”

My dancing hairs started to tingle. “Poughkeepsie?”

“That's where her nephew lived.”

“How do you know?”

“One of my customers played bridge with her. But that was a while ago. In recent years, I think she mostly kept to herself.”

I was coming to life, blood rushing through my veins, the top of my head quivering, back in business.

“I'd like to find Mary and ask about Jerome. I understand they were friends.”

“You can find anyone on the Internet,” Carol said.

“True,” I said. “Gotta' go.”

I hummed as I showered and planned my strategy for the day. First, a call to Henry to tell him I wouldn't be in today. Then, a call to Lola to see how she was doing and let her down easy: I would not be wrangling Penny, actors, or Walter tonight. They were on their own. Then, I'd visit Bill.

Best laid plans.

Benny was out with a sick kid but would be in for the dinner rush. I sucked it up and told Henry I'd cover the bar and register during lunch, fuming at fate that interrupted my well-conceived schemes. Lola panicked when I called and begged me to see a part of rehearsal. At least Cheney Brothers' delivery showed up on time and complete; they'd been good as gold since my gentle reprimand.

I had an hour to hit the Etonville Police Department before I had to be at the Windjammer. I walked past the lobby display in the Municipal Building and turned down the hallway to Bill's office. I hurried past Edna's dispatch window, thinking I might escape detection. No such luck.

“Dodie, that was real brave of you last night,” Edna said efficiently.

“It was really just an accident that Lola and I were even at the library.”

“Still, you called it in. A 459.”

“I'll bet that's a break-in.”

“Yep. Burglary. Don't know if it's a 10-29F or 10-29M. Felony or misdemeanor. Depends on the damages.”

“Is the chief in?”

“Yes.” Edna's line buzzed and she waved good-bye. I continued down the hallway and paused by Suki Shung's cubicle. “Is the chief busy?” I asked.

“I'll see.” Suki looked up from her console and studied me coolly, her expression solemn as always.

“Thanks.”

She pressed a button. “Chief, Dodie's here.”

“Okay. Send her in.”

I walked into his office. Bill looked like he needed sleep, too; he had dark rings under his eyes, the lids heavy.

“So far no usable prints from the special collections room,” he said before I even asked.

“The perp probably used gloves,” I said.

He cocked an eyebrow at my vocabulary. “Probably.”

“So I've got new information,” I said.

Bill's mouth curved up a little and he inclined his head. “Is this going to take a while?”

“Well, I have to be at work . . .” I glanced at my watch. “In half an hour.”

He rapped a pencil against the top of his desk. “How about we talk later?”

“When later? I'm at the Windjammer 'til three and then I have some things to do at home.... And then at rehearsal for part of the night.”

Bill nodded and leaned back in his chair, hands atop his head. His shirt tightened, considerably highlighting his pecs. “Let me take you out to dinner. Kind of a thank-you. We could talk then.”

Was this what I thought it was? “Well, I ...”

“I have to work late. How's eight-thirty? That give you time to get all of Shakespeare's ducks in a row?”

“Make it nine. Just to be sure.”

“Done. What about La Famiglia? Ever eat there?”

Uh-oh. I'd be eating with the enemy.

“I like Italian. What about you?” he asked.

I'd only done take-out once from La Famiglia. “Fine.”

“Good. Meet you there at nine.”

* * *

I settled in at my kitchen table to find Robinsons in Poughkeepsie, New York. I was banking on one of her nieces or nephews having the same last name. I started with the White Pages and then progressed to a few social media websites.

As I worked, my mind was on dinner. I took a break, stretched, then crossed to the front door and stared out at my lush, green lawn, the result of a rainy spring. What was I going to wear tonight? This would be the first time Bill and I had even attempted anything remotely resembling a social activity. It wasn't
really
a date. Still, I wanted to look my best. Maybe my white dress with the kitten heels?

I went back to work and focused on Mary. I got a couple of names in Poughkeepsie itself. But also a bunch in other towns, too, like New Paltz, Red Hook, and Garrison. I spent the next hour calling every Robinson I could find in a twenty-mile radius of Poughkeepsie. No one answered at ten of the residences, so I left messages, seven or eight had never heard of a Mary Robinson, and one lonely soul tried to keep me on the line and convince me to buy Girl Scout cookies.

There had to be some way to find her, but it was not going to happen today. I had to get ready for my “meeting” with Bill after the theater, anyway.

* * *

I took a sip of my wine—an expensive bottle of an Italian cabernet that Bill chose from an extensive wine list. “You seem to know your way around reds,” I said.

“I'm an Italian foodie and I read the
Wine Spectator
.”

It was hard to concentrate on the menu once I laid eyes on Bill. He had replaced his uniform with a black shirt, open at the throat, gray slacks, and a pale gray mohair blazer. The aftershave was a scent I didn't recognize, something woodsy and minty at the same time. His face had a fresh-scrubbed shine, the brush cut of his straw-colored hair neatly combed.

“You look nice,” he said, assessing my appearance.

“Thanks.” My auburn hair hung loosely to my shoulders, and I wore my white, sleeveless knit sheath, cut respectably low in front, that fell softly from waist to hem. I'd bought it for a wedding last year that I'd never attended because the engagement was called off, and I had been dying to take it for a spin.

From our corner table, I looked around the candlelit dining room of La Famiglia, a dozen tables, most full, occupied with folks I didn't recognize. This was not the Windjammer crowd; maybe out-of-town patrons. Still, a good gathering for a Wednesday night. The atmosphere was warm, inviting, and altogether cozy.

I felt the urge to slip out of my Jimmy Choo knock-offs.

“So how is everything in
Romeo and Juliet
land?” he asked, his lip curve in action.

“Well, let's see. Walter is in a frenzy because the ELT can't afford a full-blown second-story balcony, and when he tried to substitute a ten-foot ladder, Romeo threw a hissy fit because he's angoraphobic—”

“Don't you mean—?”

“Acrophobic. Sorry. It's a Penny-ism. If Walter's in turmoil, so is Lola, and Penny just stands around with her clipboard. Oh, and the Nurse quit because her granddaughter had a baby so Edna is stepping in.”

“Yeah, she informed me,” he said. “The department won't be the same until this show is over.” He speared a piece of radicchio in his green salad.

“At least she's sane and happy. She and Elliot and a few others. It's the grumblers who are driving Walter crazy.” I poured buttermilk dressing on my own leafy greens.

The waiter arrived with our entrees—Bill went with a traditional eggplant parmigiana and I chose sautéed scallops with a butternut squash caponata. They melted in my mouth; Henry would die to have this on our menu. I wondered who supplied their seafood.

“There's something in here that's just . . . wonderful,” I said.

“I'll bet it's the rosemary, raisins, caper combination. Mixture of the sweet and tart,” Bill said.

“I'm impressed.”

“I've had it here before,” he said.

“You're a loyal customer?”

“Hey, a guy can eat in two restaurants, you know?” His eyes crinkled as he dunked a bit of Italian bread in herb-infused olive oil. “So. How did you get from business management to the Windjammer?”

“By way of a lovely beach restaurant whose owner was a laid-back old surfer bum. We specialized in ocean breezes and barefoot dining. It was rated a top pick on the Jersey Shore.”

“Sounds like a great job.”

“The days and nights were grueling during the summer season, but the patrons were fun and you couldn't beat the location.”

“How long were you there?” he asked.

“The shore? All my life. Bigelow's . . . five years.”

“Until . . . ?”

“A fifteen-foot elm landed on the roof of my house. Hurricane Sandy,” I said.

“Sorry to hear that. No family?” he asked.

“My parents live in Florida and my younger brother Andy's in California. I miss them.”

“I know what you mean.” Bill smiled regretfully.

I wondered who he was missing.

“You traded fundamentals of accounting . . .”

“And finance and blah blah blah for a career managing restaurants from burger joints to seafood shops to Bigelow's. After my internship at a restaurant in Philadelphia. Of course I'd spent my summers waitressing down the shore so I was already food-friendly.”

“And now Etonville,” he said.

“It beats being a desk jockey with my nose to a computer screen surrounded by Excel spreadsheets.”

Bill frowned. “That sounds like my job some days.”

“But not every day, right? I mean, look, it's exciting about Mary Robinson, yes?”

“Well . . .”

“Now that it's confirmed she and Jerome were friends, or at least acquaintances, it makes sense they might have had a meeting planned for four-sixteen.”

“Confirmed? Makes sense?” Bill set his fork down and took a sip of his wine.

“There's the sheet of paper and the envelope I found in the box office, both with the initials MR. It appears as if Jerome had a get-together of some kind on the calendar for the day after he died.”

“So you think they were involved.”

“He bought a diamond ring and a gold bracelet. I'd say that's pretty serious.” The wine was going to my head. It made me courageous. “Did you find anything interesting in Jerome's checking account?”

The vino must have had the same effect on Bill because he answered without a beat. “Nothing much in his checking account, a couple thousand in savings.”

“Oh.”

“But his credit card was another matter. He'd racked up about three thousand in bills over the last two months. A pattern that was significantly different than the previous twelve months.”

I let loose a low whistle. “So something was going on. What else was he buying?”

“Women's accessories. Jewelry. Sadlers and elsewhere.”

“Aha!” I said.

“We can't jump to conclusions,” he warned me. “But . . . it does look as though something in his life changed.”