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“I'm calling an emergency meeting at the ELT,” she said dramatically. “Me, Elliot, Penny, you, I hope, and Walter, of course. Elliot said he could make it by four o'clock.”

“I'll be there. And calm down, okay?”

“Oh, how did your meeting go? Did you find out anything about Jerome?” she asked.

I switched my phone to the other ear and leaned down over my eggs. “Nothing much.”

I clicked off as Jocelyn sidled up. “More coffee, hon?”

I smiled my thanks. I thought about all the problems at the ELT. Then Jerome's murder. In my mind, I was an official unofficial part of the investigation. Maybe something would develop from my meeting with Forensic Document Services. And then there was Bill. . . .

I picked up my check—minus the cost of the coffee—and slipped a tip under my plate. I was headed for the cash register when my cell rang again. It was Bill.

“Hi,” I said cautiously.

“Dodie, can you stop by the station this afternoon?” He sounded weary.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Not much.”

“Sure. I'm leaving Coffee Heaven now.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

The Municipal Building was hopping. Two crime scene techs I recognized from last night passed me on the way to Edna's dispatch window.

“Dodie, you're the toast of the town today,” Edna said as she answered a 911 call and held up her hand for me to wait.

“Mrs. Parker, you're going to have to get that husband of yours to find Missy. Did you check up in the tree? We're just too busy today. We have more important things to do. Good luck.” She cut Mrs. Parker off. “Dodie, I'm worried about the play. If Walter is . . . incapacitated, who's going to direct us?” she asked plaintively.

“I don't know, Edna,” I said honestly.

“It's my first real role. I've been tweeting my relatives from Pennsylvania about rehearsals.”

“You're on Twitter?”

“I'd hate to have to uninvite them.”

She looked sad and I felt sad for her. Closing down
Romeo and Juliet
would be a shame. “Let's just see what happens, okay?”

Edna nodded as her switchboard lit up again. “Go right in,” she said and went back to her calls.

I knocked on Bill's door, and when I heard “Enter,” I did.

He was on his walkie-talkie. “Suki?” He waited. “Come in. This is base to squad one.” He waited some more.

“Chief, Suki here.”

“Did you find Ralph?”

“Eating lunch.”

“Get him on the road. They're filling potholes over on Anderson and he's on traffic duty.”

“Copy that.”

“He can take his lunch with him,” Bill said.

“10-4.”

I sat down then. “Have you seen the paper?”

Bill nodded and exhaled heavily. “Sorry you were targeted. I don't know where they get their information. I spoke with someone early this morning, but all I gave them were the absolute facts. No theories.”

“If you're not talking and neither is Suki . . .”

Bill shook his head.

“That leaves the crime scene unit—”

“They're on loan from the state police and don't have a dog in this hunt.”

“And Ralph?” I asked.

Bill looked surprised, then stern, and finally resigned. “I'll have a word with him.”

“So what are the facts?”

Bill leaned back in his chair. “Traces of blood on the floor and table in the prop room matched Jerome's type, and the resin on his trousers was similar to what we found in there.”

“So it gives us the location of the murder. Isn't that good news?”

“Yes, but finding that bottle of booze complicates matters. I spoke with Walter this morning.”

“What did he tell you?” I asked, almost afraid to hear Bill continue.

“Apparently shortly after Lola left the night Jerome died, Walter went into the lobby to turn out the lights and he heard a noise in the box office. When he knocked on the door, Jerome opened it.”

“Jerome—? So he hadn't left the theater?”

“He was drinking from the bottle, somewhat inebriated and clearly agitated, according to Walter. When Walter questioned him about being in the box office at that hour, Jerome said he had a meeting in the theater and that Walter should mind his own business. That's when things got testy.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh, yeah. Jerome confronted Walter about the missing money and threatened to go to the board. Walter came clean with me about his borrowing from the till.”

“I think there was a little shoving and pushing, and Walter took the liquor as evidence of Jerome's irresponsibility. Maybe get him kicked out of the ELT.”

“It's true there was no love lost between them these last months. But why didn't Walter come forward?”

Bill shrugged his shoulders. “He doesn't know why. Didn't have any reason.”

“And the bottle?”

“He
says
he forgot about it the first time we questioned him.”

That's hard to believe
.

I sat in stunned silence. “At least we know Jerome was planning on meeting someone in the theater. What does this mean for Walter?”

“Technically, he's now a person of interest.”

“Meaning?”

“He's not a suspect, but he had information that might impact the investigation,” Bill said.

My mind played through a catalogue of investigative themes gleaned from my mystery novel fixation. Opportunity and motivation were at the top of the list. Walter certainly had the former. “What was his motivation?”

“Money? He admitted he was deeply in the red because of his alimony. Jerome was the only one who suspected him of embezzling from the theater.”

“And his alibi?”

“Questionable. He said he watched Jerome leave the theater and then he stashed the bottle in his desk. But he can't prove he left the theater when he said he did. There are no witnesses. When I thought the murder took place elsewhere, that wasn't an issue. But now that we know it occurred in the prop room. . . .” He drummed his fingers on the desk.

“So now what? Do you arrest him?” I asked tentatively.

“No, but we'll be bringing him back for more questioning. I want to interview the cast and anyone else who was at the theater the night Jerome died. It's possible someone saw or heard something at the auditions.”

“Guess those sheets Penny gave you will turn out to be helpful after all.” I slouched in my chair. It was depressing news for Walter and Lola and the ELT. I wanted to climb back into bed and pull a blanket over my head. “Thanks for the update.”

“Thanks for the interest you've taken in the case.” He hesitated. “Let's keep each other posted on any developments.”

“Will do.” I turned to leave. “And thanks for trusting me.”

“No problem . . . partner.”

B
ill called me his “partner.” I was feeling guilt as well as indecision. Still, I could not tell him about my meeting this morning without raising the issue of my hacking Jerome's email. Would he continue to think of me as a partner if he found out I was investigating on my own?

I forced my attention back to Lola.

“Cancelling the show is not on the table,” Lola said firmly, her posture diva-like and imperious. “I've thought it through and discussed it with the board. We agreed that it just is not in the best interests of the theater.”

We'd sat ourselves on stage around a large banquet table, hemming and hawing for twenty minutes, ignoring the elephant in the room—Walter—and throwing out thoughts about
Romeo and Juliet's
progress.

“We've only got three weeks,” Elliot said carefully.

“You've done it before, right, Walter? Remember
Dames at Sea
and the kid who broke his leg and had to dance with a crutch?” Penny punched Walter lightly on the upper arm, but he didn't respond.

Since we'd arrived, Walter had sat glumly, silently, picking at his beard and propping up his head with a closed fist. If it was possible, he looked even worse than last night. The usually meticulous artistic director wore wrinkled clothes and sported tousled hair.

“Why ask me anything? Just go ahead and make all of my decisions for me!” he groused.

“Walter, we all sympathize with your . . . situation, but we have to think of the company. We're all in this together.” Lola's color heightened, and two red splotches formed on her cheeks.

The tension felt like a shroud that enveloped all of us. Penny pushed her glasses up her nose and tapped a pencil on her clipboard. Elliot concentrated on a crease in his trousers, and Lola studied her nails. I had been silent so far. Partly because I was distracted by last night's events and partly because Walter knew who had discovered the liquor bottle in his desk drawer. He'd been staring daggers at me.

I cleared my throat. “We need a plan of action.”

“Yes, Dodie, good thinking,” Lola nodded. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, you've basically staged everything, right, Walter?” I said.

Walter nodded forlornly.

“What needs the most work?” I asked.

“Tonight we're working with Romeo, Juliet, and the Nurse,” Penny said. “But everybody needs help with lines.”

“Since most of the cast will be available, maybe we can put some of them to work catching up with the set and costumes. Chrystal needs help in the shop so, Lola, why don't you gather a few folks and get them to work there tonight?”

“That is an excellent idea, Dodie,” Lola said with relief.

“Walter, if you can rehearse someplace else part of the night . . .”

“You can run lines in the dressing room,” Lola said.

“Penny, you might want to get a crew in here to paint the Verona backdrop. JC was complaining about having time on the stage last week,” I added.

Penny bobbed her head.

“I'll text other actors and see if I can get them to come in and run lines for a few hours. When they're not working with me, they can help with costumes or painting,” Elliot said.

“Thank you, Elliot,” Lola murmured. “Walter?”

“Fine,” he said grudgingly.

The meeting ended with Penny going into high gear on her set assignment, and Lola and Elliot working on rehearsal details with their heads together. Walter watched, offering a suggestion periodically. I signaled my exit and left. Since I was next door to the Windjammer, I elected to stick my head in, though it was still my day off. The dinner service was in full swing, the dining room loud, Gillian bouncing from customer to customer, and Carmen bussing tables.

Benny, frazzled, bounded past me, five plates balanced on his tray. “Great day to be off,” he muttered and practically dove onto a table.

Copies of the
Etonville Standard
were on many tables, and a few people saw me and poked dinner companions. I rushed to the kitchen and hid behind the swinging door. Henry looked up and shook his head.

“Don't say it,” I said.

Benny crashed into the door. “Those Banger sisters are bonkers. Know what they said?” He grabbed three burgers and fries and two bowls of chicken soup.

“I'm afraid to hear.”

“They heard Jerome was dating Walter's ex-wife. That's why he shot him.”

“Now that at least would make sense,” I said.

* * *

By six-thirty, the cast and crews were sorted out: Walter had the use of the stage for two hours, after which JC and a few actors would be painting; Lola and Chrystal had gathered a costume crew and were noses to the grindstone with seam rippers and sewing machines. I much preferred to pretend to use a needle sitting down, than paint a backdrop of Verona on my hands and knees. So I offered to join them for a while.

After several hours, we had altered a stack of rented bodices, nipped and tucked to fit the ELT cast, and worked our way through the Ladies' skirts, hemming each with a hot glue gun—more efficient said Chrystal. Though most of the crew had gone by ten-thirty, Lola struggled with pleated strips of starched muslin, trying to create the folds of a fan, for the Elizabethan ruff Walter insisted on wearing. Carol dug through the theater's stock of boots to see if there was anything of use. I had pricked my finger for the fifth time.

“Has anyone seen my bag?” I asked. I was sure I had brought it with me from the house to the basement shop.

Carol pulled her head out of a cardboard box and wiped dust off her hands. “I don't think anyone has been in these shoes since
Little Mary Sunshine
.”

“Two years ago? Really?” Lola looked under her bolt of muslin. “I don't see it, Dodie.”

“Guess I left it upstairs.” I slipped off a stool, stretched my back, and headed for the door.

“While you're up there, would you ask Walter for some petty cash? Chrystal needs about fifty dollars,” Lola said.

I stopped. “Are you sure we should disturb him?”

“Of course. Chrystal needs to do some thrift shopping tomorrow.” Lola was taking no prisoners this evening.

I climbed the stairs that led from the underground costume shop to the backstage. I opened the fire door expecting a bustle of activity, but I was met with silence. The house lights were off and the only illumination was provided by the security light stage right. Apparently the scene crew had decided to call it a night. I bent over to check out a half-painted pastoral vista of Verona, spread out across the upstage floor. Good work, I thought.

I stepped carefully around the backdrop and into the house, found my bag in Row D where I had left it, and, relieved, walked up the aisle. In the lobby my eyes adjusted to the darkness broken only by the light that outlined the edges of Walter's office door. I knocked gently.

“Walter?” I heard a creak and a slam.

“Who is it?” he asked abruptly.

“Dodie.”

After a moment's hesitation, Walter's shoes clomped as he moved to the door and unlocked it.

“Yes?” he said through a two-inch crack.

“Chrystal needs some petty cash. Fifty dollars.”

He stared balefully at me and, for the first time, I actually felt sorry for him.

“I'll get the money. Wait here.” He shut the door in my face.

I put my ear to the wood and could hear nothing. Then the whoosh of the door and his hand inserted into the opening, clutching a fistful of dollars. “Remind Chrystal I need receipts.”

“Will do. Walter—?”

The door shut once more.

Clearly there would be no communicating with him tonight. I walked back through the dimly lit theater and my foot hit the edge of the first seat in row A, house right.

“Damn,” I said aloud and massaged my ankle.

I climbed onto the stage just as a silhouette moved off to my left behind the security light. Fear surged up my throat and into my mouth. I choked, then called out.

“Lola? Carol?”

The silence was earsplitting. I could go back to find Walter or run to the stairs leading to the costume shop. In that instant, the security light went black. A crash echoed through the empty space, followed by running thumps as someone closed the distance between us. Instinctively, I shoved my arm into the void in front of my face and backed up. I heard heavy breathing, a soft grunt, and then I was roughly thrown aside. As the footsteps retreated, I tried to see who it was, but it was too dark.

I crawled to the stairs leading into the house. I sprinted up the aisle, rebounding off rows of seats, and burst into the lobby. “Walter!” I screamed.

All was quiet. Walter's office was dark and there was no sign of an intruder.

The door into the lobby flew open. I scrambled to assume a fighter's stance. “Arggh!” I shrieked.

The lobby was flooded with light. “Dodie, are you okay? We got worried when you didn't return to the shop. Who turned out the security light?”

“I'm fine.” I told them about what happened. “He appeared so quickly.”

“What do you think he was after?” Lola asked.

“He was snooping around backstage,” I said.

“Where's Walter?” Lola asked.

“He must have left.”

Walter's office was secure and the painted backdrop was untouched. Break-ins were becoming too frequent: first Jerome's, then the library, and now the theater. Whoever was prowling around wasn't looking for box-office receipts. He had bigger fish to fry.

“The theater is getting to be a dangerous place,” said Lola.

Carol and I nodded.

“Should we call the chief?” Carol asked.

I had my cell phone out. “I'm already on it.”

* * *

The following morning, I ducked into the theater and saw Bill on stage. He stepped gingerly around the edges of Verona, spread out before him on the stage floor. “Not bad,” he said.

“Yes, they do a good job here. But what do I know? I have trouble with paint-by-numbers.”

He laughed, then got serious. “So show me where you were,” he said.

I walked Bill through my attack, from the shadow on stage smashing the emergency light to pushing me to the ground.

“There doesn't appear to be a forced entry. Someone might have had a key.”

“He could have slipped into the theater through the loading dock door after the crew left and Walter was still in his office.”

Bill nodded thoughtfully. “They're checking back here, upstairs in the storage and prop rooms again, and downstairs in the scene and costume shops. I doubt the guys will find any prints. The costume shop was ransacked.”

“After Lola and Carol came looking for me. It'll take Chrystal a day to straighten up. I wonder where he's going to strike next,” I said. “Each place has had a connection to Jerome.”

“And since Jerome died in the theater, this seems like the most significant venue,” Bill said.

“That's good because I think we've run out of places.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Come on. We need to write this up and I'll need your statement.”

“Did you interview the cast and crew yet?”

“Oh, yeah. I've seen about half the cast so far,” he said.

“Anybody notice anything important?”

“If you don't count Benvolio in a snit because Romeo read twice while he only got to read once, and a Lady-in-Waiting angry because Walter precast the show before auditions—”

“That would be Abby.”

“No, nothing significant,” he said.

* * *

I finished giving my statement and waved good-bye to Edna as I left the Municipal Building. I hoped for her sake, for all of the ELT actors, that the show would, indeed, go on. Lola called to say she'd met with board members and they wanted to support Walter and have him continue as director, but only if he agreed to have Elliot as assistant director, in case of an “emergency.” Like if he had to give notes from a jail cell.

I managed to get through lunch at the Windjammer without having to tell my attack story; I had no desire to be front-page news in the
Etonville Standard
again or to fend off Maggie Hemplemeyer's attempt at a human-interest article.

I settled into my booth with coffee and yesterday's chicken pot pie, a copy of Henry's menus for the weekend in hand. I ran down the bill of fare. “Uh-oh.”

Benny leaned on the back of my booth. “I'd like to switch some hours with Gillian next week, okay?”

I nodded, distracted.

“What?” he asked.

“I think we're in trouble. Here's what Henry has planned for Friday: caramelized fennel salad and roasted mackerel with dill and lemon. And Saturday is spaghetti with anchovies and hot peppers.”

“You don't think he's reacting to . . . ?”

“La Famiglia? Yes, that's exactly what I think. A little bit of innovation is fine, but this is the Windjammer.”

Benny raised an eyebrow. “Game on.”

I slumped against the seat. I felt like taking a nap.

Henry burst out of the kitchen sputtering, cell phone in hand, ranting. I heard “website,” “sabotage,” and “revenge.”

“Slow down, Henry,” I said and glanced at Benny. “What's this about the website and a La Famiglia link?”

“They called ‘to thank me for putting a link to their place on our website.' People are visiting our site and calling them for a reservation!” His face was fire engine red, his forehead damp.