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“You heard Mildred. Jerome spent time in the special collections. I think he was interested in more than the books.”

Bill shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Jerome read popular mysteries and thrillers. We liked the same authors. Not the kind of books you find in the special collections.”

“Even if it were true, what's the connection with the murder?”

“That's what I haven't figured out yet,” I said, breaking off a piece of crusty Italian bread. “I did find out that Mary's nephew lived in Poughkeepsie.”

Bill opened his mouth, then closed it. “How did you—?”

“Snippets.” I grinned. “Don't underestimate the power of the hair salon. Gossip central.”

“Well, I'll be. . . .”

“I've been searching for Robinsons in the Poughkeepsie area. Nothing yet, but—”

He shook his head and laughed. “Great work, but keep me—”

“Posted. I know.”

We chewed over the rest of the case along with the last of our meals. I hated to see my scallops disappear.

“By the way, the lab guys identified some stuff on Jerome's pants. It was a synthetic substance, a type of polymer.”

The synthetic latex I'd overheard Suki mention outside Bill's office. “Really?”

“Yeah. An acrylic casting resin used to create rubber objects. Like tires. ”

“That sounds like a factory material. Maybe the resin had been on his pants for a while.”

Bill shook his head. “They said it was fresh. Hardened, but fresh. Recent.”

“All of this evidence is like having nothing but consonants in a Scrabble game,” I said.

“Meaning?”

“Each of the tiles is valuable, but—”

Bill cut me off. “Taken together, they don't add up if there are no—”

“Vowels,” I finished.

Bill insisted on ordering dessert: tiramisu for him and peach gelato for me. We emptied our coffee cups in companionable silence; I was feeling really relaxed, stuffed, but definitely wound down. Before I could think too much about the advisability of potentially ruining a lovely evening, I decided to tiptoe into deeper waters. “I've been meaning to tell you something all night.”

His body shifted slowly from tranquil to tense, shoulders hunching forward, hands interlaced in front of his jaw to form an inverted V. After all, I could be introducing any one of a number of matters: personal, theatrical, criminal.

“And what's that?” he asked.

Suddenly I wasn't as confident of the reception I might receive when Bill knew about Jerome's email. But it was too late. The wine had loosened my tongue, and my body felt rubbery and vulnerable.

“Remember when I said it would be a good idea to see who Jerome might be communicating with because if it was an MR, or somebody else, then maybe we could find out what led to his murder?”

“Go on.”

“So I got Jerome's email address from his audition sheet—”

“The audition sheets. Yes. Penny delivered them to me.”

“Right, well, I was able to get into his account and discovered something interesting. It looks like—”

The waiter set the bill on the table discreetly and we both fell silent. Bill inserted a credit card into the pocket of the folder, barely glancing at the total, and handed it back to the young man. He lowered his voice.

“How did you get access to his email?”

“I had the address and then got the password—”

The waiter returned the sales slip and credit card, and Bill scratched out a tip and total. “You mean you hacked his private account?”

“I guess you could say that. After all, he's not around to complain about his privacy.”

“That's not the point.”

“But isn't it more important to know what I found? Jerome was corresponding with a company called Forensic Document Services. They deal in rare documents. It's got to have something to do with—”

“Hacking into someone's email is a serious offense.”

“I know. But it won't interfere with the investigation. It's just a lead.”

Bill scoffed. “You have absolutely no respect for my office, do you?”

“I have respect for you. But I don't get it. You're not curious about what I found?”

“I can't use evidence obtained illegally, Dodie,” he said firmly.

“It's not evidence. It's just some information. Do you want to solve Jerome's murder or don't you? Simple as that.”

“Nothing's simple where you're concerned,” he said.

We sat in a tense silence for a moment.

“Look, I'm sorry.” He rubbed his hand across the top of his head, placing the spikes of his brush cut at various angles to his scalp. “But it's frustrating. Trying to play by the book when someone is thwarting your every move.”

“I'm thwarting your every move?”

“I didn't mean it that way,” he said.

“I'm just trying to help solve a murder.” I could feel my mouth clamped shut, tight across my face.

“And I get that, but there is protocol that needs to be followed.” His voice softened. “I've been through this before. I left a department that was full of corruption and had never heard the words ‘by the book.' I don't want any part of that.”

So what I'd surmised from the Internet article was right. A scandal in Philadelphia law enforcement had sent Bill running straight to Etonville.

“I understand protocol. But I want to find out who murdered Jerome.” I took a pen and a scrap of paper out of my purse, and wrote,
Forensic Document Services. fdsnj@gmail
. “Jerome was corresponding with a Marshall Wendover.” I pushed it across the table. Bill pushed it back.

He stood up peremptorily. “Let's go.”

The mood had changed drastically, and I was mentally kicking myself for launching into Jerome's email.

He walked me to my Metro, which was parked next to his BMW, his mouth a straight line with no hint of the playful curve. I got in the car, started the engine, then opened the window. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Be careful, Dodie. You're on thin ice.”

I put the Metro in gear and pulled out of the lot.

Geez
, I thought,
that didn't end well
. The evening was a shambles. Now, Bill felt he couldn't trust me. There was nothing to do but limp home, lick my wounds, and climb into bed with a good book.

I drove the half mile back into Etonville center. When the light at the corner of Islip and Gates turned yellow, I stepped on the gas, calculating how long it would take me to make it through the intersection. I sped through and the light turned red. I glanced in the rearview mirror. I was surprised to see that the vehicle behind me had sped through the light, too. When Islip dead-ended at Anderson Road, I paused at the stop sign and slowly turned left. It was the black SUV. I sat up straighter in my seat and began to pay attention.

My chest thumped. I could see the intersection of Anderson and Main up ahead where the light changed from red to green. I knew I'd be safe if I could beat the SUV through the light and speed down Main to the Etonville Police Department on Amber.

I checked my rearview mirror again. Only the two of us on the street at this hour. I stepped on the gas, and my Metro jerked forward obediently as if it knew I needed help; the SUV kept pace. I tapped on the brakes, slowing down a bit, and the black hulk followed suit. I leaned into the steering wheel, tightening my grasp on the rim, and took deep breaths. My heart and stomach were a trampoline act.

I ignored the traffic light. I pressed the gas pedal and began to turn the wheel hard to the left so I could tear down Main. The angry growl of the SUV's engine erupted into the night. It swerved around me, barely missing my front bumper. We were like two graceful athletes, two vehicles making a synchronized turn in tandem. I was on the right, avoiding parked cars and negotiating the correct side of the white line in the middle of the road. The SUV was on the left—in the lane of oncoming traffic. We straddled the center line for two blocks. I had no choice but to keep going, fast. We passed the Windjammer and the theater, and I could see the dimmed lights of Coffee Heaven ahead.

The SUV roared again. It shot past me and veered abruptly into my lane, directly in my path. I jammed on the brakes, and I could feel the car going into a skid that brought me a few feet from the passenger door of the SUV.
This is it
, I thought. It would all end here. I held my breath, half expecting an armed assailant to emerge and make short work of me. The silence lasted seconds but seemed like hours.

Out of nowhere a pickup truck—minus a muffler—rattled down Main behind me. By the time it was within ten yards, the SUV had backed up, then swung around in a wide arc and headed the other way down Main Street. The truck passed me, oblivious.

I forced myself to breathe through my mouth until the blood moved back into my clenched hands. I was shaking and my mind raced. Images, thoughts, what-ifs tumbled helter-skelter, bouncing off each other. What if my Metro had not stopped in time? What if the driver in the other vehicle had jumped out and taken a baseball bat to my windshield? What if he/she had a gun? What if the pickup had not appeared when it had?

I wound down the window and stuck my head out into the night. The temperature had dropped, and an evening breeze blew wisps of damp hair off my neck. This time, the stillness was peaceful, nonthreatening.

I leaned back into the headrest, realizing I had been too rattled to get a license number, again. But I also grasped another fact: someone wanted to scare me off the investigation. And they were doing a damn good job, too. I started the engine and drove slowly back home. I could not go to Bill about the SUV again without a license plate number.

I parked on Ames Street near a streetlight instead of in my dark driveway. I checked the neighborhood before I alighted and hurried up the sidewalk to the front door. I tested all door and window locks—dead bolts and chains—and drew the curtains. I lay down on top of the bed just to rest my eyes. In two minutes, I was fast asleep.

I'
d come in early to the Windjammer to work last night out of my system. If I focused firmly on taking inventory and ordering supplies, I might be able to ignore my regret over the spoiled dinner and my terror at being stalked by the SUV.

A half hour after I arrived, Henry trudged in, glanced at me silently, and tied an apron around his middle. I noticed he'd been adding a few extra pounds these last months. Was he eating out of frustration?

“What?” I said.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” he asked glumly.

Uh-oh. I decided to bite the bullet. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.” Which was only partly true.

Henry grumbled and started to unload vegetables from the refrigerator.

“Look, Henry, La Famiglia is just another restaurant. Okay, so they have a . . . different kind of menu. But the Windjammer has its own special character.”

Henry wasn't buying it. “Their food was better?”

I could still taste last night's caponata. Henry's specials were tasty and sometimes a trifle experimental, but for pure culinary sophistication, one couldn't beat La Famiglia. And that was bad news for the Windjammer.

“Of course not. This is silly.” I remembered Bill's defense. “People can dine in two restaurants. You have regulars who I'll bet have never eaten at La Famiglia.”

“What did you have?”

“Uh, just . . . a scallop dish. With squash.”

Henry stopped slicing eggplant and looked up with interest. “Scallops and squash?”

“Butternut squash.” I said carefully, and filled in a requisition. “I've got shrimp on the order. Didn't you talk about some Asian fusion dish ... ?”

“With spicy fruit salsa.”

“Let's put it on the menu for the weekend.”

He nodded, not completely over my treason, but at least he had a battle plan that included a new experiment with seafood.

Gillian had the dining room under control so I planted myself by the cash register to handle take-out orders. At noon, Edna bounded in, a frown replacing her usual cheerful demeanor.

“Hi, Edna, let me get your order.”

“Dodie, I wish you had stayed for the entire rehearsal last night,” she said without preamble.

“How did it go?” I said.

“Okay for the first hour. But then all hell broke loose.”

I stopped in my tracks. “What?”

“Walter kept stopping the run through and giving notes which frustrated just about everyone, especially Lola, and Elliot just up and confronted Walter.”

“Polite Elliot?” After Jerome, he seemed the next most gracious member of the ELT.

“Yep. The two of them got into it.” She gave me the eyeball.

“What about?”

“Elliot said Walter left something to be desired as a director of Shakespeare—”

“Oh no.”

“And then Walter said Elliot only came back because he had no place else to go and was a bust in Pittsburgh and if it hadn't been for Jerome, Elliot would never have been a member of the ELT.”

“What does that mean?”

Edna dropped her voice. “Walter never liked Elliot. I think he was a little, you know ...”

“Competitive?”

“Uh-huh. And word was, Jerome persuaded Walter to cast Elliot time after time.”

“Jerome persuaded ... ?” I thought it would have been Lola who had pushed to have Walter include Elliot.

“And then people wanted Elliot to direct and Walter got his ego bent out of shape and then suddenly Elliot up and left,” she whispered. “He says he had a business opportunity two years ago, but I think it was Walter who drove him away.”

“Wow. I'm surprised he agreed to do
Romeo and Juliet
after all that.”

“Well, I guess it was a tribute to Jerome,” she said.

“I suppose.”

I'd have to call Lola and get more details. I could only guess what would happen tonight. I rang up Edna's order and made change; she said good-bye and left.

Benny dunked glasses in soapy water. “I heard Henry's beside himself.”

“Someone must have seen me in La Famiglia last night with Chief Thompson,” I said.

“No private life in this town.” Benny gestured for me to come closer. “How was it? The food, I mean.”

“I had sautéed scallops with butternut squash caponata.” I closed my eyes. “It was to die for.”

“Awesome.” Benny sighed. “The specialty here was pot roast. Good pot roast but still . . .”

“I know what you mean.” My cell phone rang and I hit A
NSWER
.

“Dodie?”

“Hi, Lola.”

“Did you hear?” she asked.

“From Edna, yeah. Whatever possessed the two of them to slug it out in the middle of rehearsal?”

“I don't know. Walter
was
over the top with notes this early on. Romeo said he was treating the cast like puppets and everybody was getting frustrated.”

“But Elliot? He seems so easygoing. Above the fray.”

“I thought so, too. I guess Walter just pushed one too many buttons with him.” She paused. “To tell you the truth, Elliot only said what others were thinking. But Walter is under a ton of stress and calling out the director of a show like that, well, it's just not done. Not at the ELT. Not anywhere.”

“Then Walter fired back, right?”

“Oh, I think he really hurt Elliot's feelings. You should have seen his face. Like all of the air went out of a balloon.”

“So where does that leave the show?” I had images of Walter and Elliot dueling it out with the
R and J
swords.

“Walter cancelled rehearsal for tonight but we're supposed to start staging Act III tomorrow.”

“I'll drop in.”

* * *

At three, I was ready for my break and some heavy thinking. I opted for fresh air instead of Henry's homemade soup. I took my jacket off the hook by the door and walked briskly down the street. After fifteen minutes, I passed Betty's Boutique, Coffee Heaven—avoiding the temptation to settle into a booth with a caramel macchiato—and the Unitarian church. I went another couple of blocks before I stopped to lean on a picket fence that outlined the property of one of Etonville's quaint, eighteenth-century houses. Early spring rituals were under way as landscapers cut grass and trimmed bushes despite the rumble of thunder off somewhere north of Etonville. Normally, the pungent smell of fresh-cut grass made me feel happy. Summer was definitely on its way. But today I was distracted and needed to focus my mind.

I sat down on the curb. Bill was right. He was the police chief; I had no business one-upping him as he tried to do his job. But I felt I owed something to Jerome, regardless of how illogical that seemed. One thing was clear: I could not call his office until I had something tangible to bring to him. Like information on Forensic Document Services. It was a cinch Bill would not pursue this angle if he thought information was obtained illegally. But I had so such qualms.

* * *

I turned out the lights and locked up. The Windjammer had been fairly empty the last couple of hours; a few ELT regulars showed up, tight-lipped and weary-looking. At home, I changed into comfortable sweats and fuzzy slippers, poured myself a glass of chardonnay, and hunkered down with my laptop. There had to be a way to locate Forensic Document Services. I began with the assumption that it was a New Jersey business, and if it had a New Jersey business license it had to be registered with the State Department of the Treasury.

I scanned state websites for information on registering a corporation.

After twenty minutes, I found the “New Jersey corporation and business entity database.” I could do a name search! I followed the steps outlined and entered Forensic Document Services on the line indicated. Seconds later I had my answer: a business registered in that name had a filing date of September 2010 and a location in Piscataway, New Jersey. I stared at the screen. I couldn't believe it. I called information and received a phone number. Tomorrow, I planned on calling it and requesting a meeting with Marshall Wendover.

I felt giddy. The little hairs danced and my heart pounded. Needless to say, I was awake for hours.

* * *

Just when I thought things had calmed down with Henry, I had to hold his hand, figuratively, in the kitchen. He was peeved at a review for La Famiglia in the
Etonville Standard
. The food and service had received four stars, and the chef's specialties—roasted red bell pepper pasta and, my favorite, scallops with butternut squash caponata—were described as “superb.” I had to agree.

To make matters worse, La Famiglia had taken out a half-page ad touting its stars and quoting the review. Last year, the Windjammer earned three stars. The rivalry was taking a toll on Henry's mood.

“I don't care what ratings La Famiglia earned, no one can beat your homemade soups,” I said encouragingly.

“I never get four stars,” he griped.

“It's the
Etonville Standard
, for Pete's sake. Who cares what they think?” I didn't have to wait for an answer. Henry cared. “Look, let's get that Asian fusion dish on the menu, and what about the gourmet stew you were thinking about?”

Henry shrugged. “Maybe I need to throw out the entire menu and start over,” he said dramatically.

I still had half an hour until the lunch crowd would appear. I slipped outside and sat in my Metro to get a little privacy as I tapped out the number for Forensic Document Services. The phone rang five times before a gravelly voice spoke.

“Hello?”

“Is this Forensic Document Services?” I asked.

“Who's calling?”

“Mr. Wendover . . . ?”

“That's me.”

“My name is Dodie O'Dell, and I'm calling because my uncle, Jerome Angleton, passed away recently and I'm trying to tie up some of his . . . business affairs.” I waited for some response.

“Okay,” he said.

“I understand he was in touch with you about a document that he wanted authenticated?”

“I'd, uh, have to check my records,” he said.

“Would I be able to meet with you? I have a few questions—” I said.

Another phone rang in the background. “I'm not sure what I could tell you,” he said reluctantly.

“I'd appreciate just a few minutes of your time,” I said as vulnerably as I could.

“Well, I got a busy schedule. . . .”

“How is the day after tomorrow? In the morning?”

If he refused to see me, what was plan B?

“Okay. Eleven.”

Marshall Wendover gave me his address and made it clear that he could squeeze me in for only a few minutes.

Back in the Windjammer, I confirmed the week's menus, checked the meat locker, took an accounting of fresh vegetables, and inventoried the bar. Lunch was well under way so I retreated to my back booth and studied the spreadsheet with staff schedules while I scooped up a spoonful of Henry's crab bisque.

“What do you recommend?”

I looked up into Elliot's tanned, handsome face. “Sloppy Joes with parmesan-cheese chips are the special. I hear they're going fast. And of course the crab bisque,” I said, smiling.

“May I join you?” he asked, glancing at the array of paper in front of me.

“Sure.” I folded the printout and set it aside.

“I hope I'm not interrupting important work.”

“Staff schedules. I spend my life arranging other people's time. Here, next door . . .”

“Ah yes. Well, the theater needs your organizational skills.”

I cocked my head as though weighing my judgment of his appearance. “You don't look half bad for someone who barely escaped a fistfight.”

Elliot's sense of humor was still intact. “I could have taken Walter in two rounds.”

“Lola said what you did just ‘isn't done.' Criticizing the director in front of the cast,” I said.

Elliot shrugged. “Someone needed to say it.”

“What's going to happen now? The show must go on, right?”

“We'll all traipse in tonight, pick up our scripts, hit our marks, and pretend the other night never happened.”

Gillian came over and took Elliot's order. He settled on the bisque.

“How is the murder investigation proceeding? I hear the town gossip at rehearsal, and it sounds like you've been busy.”

“You know the rumor mill.”

“Yes, but the burglary at the library was real.”

Gillian brought Elliot's lunch and a table setting wrapped in a black cloth napkin. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

I thought about Mary Robinson and Forensic Document Services. “I think there should be a break in the case soon,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

“Really?” Elliot paused, his soup spoon half way to his mouth.

“There are some leads.”

“Oh? So the chief is on top of things?” Elliot continued to eat.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, that is good news,” Elliot said. “You asked about Jerome's love life the other day . . . ?” He smiled mischievously.

“Did you remember something?”

“It's not much, but I think that Jerome might have been seeing someone.”

“How do you know? Did he mention anyone?”

“Not directly. You know Jerome . . . little cagey about himself. But he referred to a ‘friend' the last time we spoke. I got the feeling he wasn't talking about a guy he shared a beer with. If you know what I mean.” He laughed.